What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  The black-clad figure stiffened. Even from behind, Willa could see the discomfort the words had evoked.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m not capable of tender feelings.”

  A deep chuckle. “That’s true for most psychopaths, but something developed between you and Ray in that warehouse. You know that I know it, too. You felt the transference of your thoughts to me when I held your hand. You don’t yet understand how that process works, but you’ve learned to tamp it down. I see I’ve piqued your interest.”

  “You’ve piqued nothing. I’ve known about my telepathy for some time.”

  “I’m sure that’s true on some level, but you don’t fully understand it. You don’t know how to harness it. To exploit it. I could teach you. If you kill the child or me, those mysteries will be forever lost to you.”

  Instead of answering, the witch reached down to the bottom of the cage and slid the bowl through a narrow opening.

  Telepathy? Mister Fergus sure had a lot of explaining to do when they were alone again.

  The witch twirled, her eerie green eyes resting on Willa. Just like in stories, the fine hairs on the back of Willa’s neck stood up. “I’m going to unlock the chain,” Lizzy said. “You will walk in front of me, up the stairs, then through the door on the right. That’s the bathroom. You’ll have exactly one minute to relieve yourself with the door open.”

  It wasn’t the perfect scenario. Willa had hoped for a couple of private moments for sleuthing, but it was better than nothing. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

  Cold fingers brushed Willa’s skin when the witch removed the chain’s padlock. Willa sprinted toward the door, then dashed up the stairs. As she’d expected, the witch followed behind her. The light was on, revealing a half-bathroom containing a sink and a toilet. Light dust coated all the surfaces except for the toilet seat. Interesting. Perhaps this bathroom was infrequently used, or the witch hadn’t been in residence long. A quick scan of every item in the small room indicated it didn’t often host visitors: a full bottle of antibacterial hand soap, an immaculate white towel, and a large roll of cheap toilet paper.

  “Didn’t want to spring for the Charmin?” Willa said as she pulled down her pajama bottoms and then her underwear. She was too old for Wonder Woman panties, but she couldn’t bear to part with them. Mama didn’t mind; she wanted to get every bit of use out of all the clothing they’d brought from Knoxville.

  “The plush stuff doesn’t break down well in my septic system,” the witch said from the hall.

  “Clever of you to stock up on TP before the apocalypse. I miss it. Shall I flush or are we preserving water?” Willa was fishing, and the use of ‘we’ was intentional. If Lizzy began seeing Willa as a member of her witch club, she might not be so inclined to kill her.

  “Flush, please. Water is not a concern.”

  Interesting.

  “May I wash my face and hands?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  The faucet water only took a few seconds to warm — that must mean the hot water tank had been turned on for a while — and the towel smelled liked bleach. More data that may prove useful.

  “Thank you.”

  She knew better than to try make a run for it. Much smarter to continue gathering information and worming her way into the witch’s good graces. Once Willa was secured again in the basement, Lizzy turned her attention to Mister Fergus. Apparently, she was having a moment of benevolence.

  “I’ll release you from the handcuffs long enough for you to relieve yourself in the bucket and eat your supper. Don’t try anything stupid or I will inject you again.”

  Willa exchanged a meaningful look with her friend. Supper implied evening. Did it matter? Maybe, maybe not.

  “How kind of you,” Mister Fergus replied without a trace of sarcasm.

  Once he had done his business in the bucket (with his back turned to the females in the room), he ate his dinner. Willa waited, watching for any discernable effects of poison. He gave her a tiny wink when the witch wasn’t looking. The wink said: It’s fine.

  Willa dug into her bowl. It had been countless hours since she’d eaten last, and the stew wasn’t half-bad. The meat tasted gamey, a bit like venison, but definitely not venison. What could it be? A horrific thought occurred to her. When she glanced up at Mister Fergus, he seemed to be reading her thoughts; a small shake of the red-haired head said: No, not human flesh.

  She wondered if he was using his telepathy on her.

  “Are you considering my offer?” Mister Fergus asked the witch while she stood watching them eat.

  “I’m considering many things.” The creepy grin was back. It reminded Willa of the Grinch when he decided to steal Christmas. “Supper is finished. The water should last you until I return,” she added, placing a red solo cup next to Willa’s bed and another inside the canary cage. After replacing the handcuffs and locking the metal door, she flipped the light switch off and left without another word.

  Willa blew out a relieved breath. “How are you going to drink without using your hands?”

  “I’m fairly bendy for a middle-aged gentleman. Don’t worry your pretty head about me. Now, why don’t you have another go at whatever is beneath that cabinet?”

  “Not so fast, Gumby. Spill the beans about this telepathy business.”

  Mister Fergus chuckled. “There’s much I can’t tell you, but I can tell you some, and you must accept it at face value with no further explanation.”

  “If I find the handcuff key, all bets are off. I get three questions and you give me three straight answers.”

  “You have my word. But since you haven’t found the key thus far, for now you just need to understand one thing: the people who survived the plague are all special in some way. They have characteristics or talents that separate them from the average human. From before, I mean.”

  “I haven’t noticed that. A few of the folks in the holler aren’t rocket scientists, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, but they’re still special in some way. They still have gifts, even if not easily identifiable ones. The plague was genetic in nature, neither viral nor bacterial. Meaning the people who survived it did so because their DNA was programmed to. You know about DNA?”

  “Of course. The building blocks of life. A complete set of DNA is called a genome, which is like an instruction booklet for the human body.”

  Mister Fergus blinked. “You really are quite remarkable.”

  Willa was used to people being amazed when she let her intellect show, but the genuine wonderment on the face of her teacher made her cheeks redden. It was one thing to dazzle Cricket, quite another to dazzle someone like him. “Who programmed the DNA?” she asked.

  “Excellent question, and one I’m not inclined to answer, assuming I could. But I will tell you that some people — not all — have the ability to transmit and receive thoughts.”

  “You’re one of those people. So is the witch.”

  Mister Fergus nodded. “I don’t know if you have that ability or not, but you certainly possess an remarkable intellect. Did your mother ever have you tested?”

  “She’d planned to. Me and Harlan both. But things got crazy before we could do the tests.”

  “I assume you were in advanced classes at your school?”

  “Yes, but back in third grade three years ago, our options were limited. We got ‘extension activities’ because we were gifted, but they didn’t amount to much. It would have gotten really interesting if we’d made it to sixth grade. We would have been in a separate class with all the other smart kids.”

  “That’s why your mother allowed me into the village knowing that I probably wasn’t the college professor I proclaimed myself to be.”

  “Yep.”

  “She sensed that I posed no threat and that I would be beneficial to her children’s education.”

  “You think she has telepathy too? That would explain a few things.”

  “If so, she may not even be aware of
it. Your grandfather, on the other hand...”

  “Oh, yes. Pops definitely has it and knows it.”

  “Indeed. So do you understand that it’s not some supernatural hocus pocus, but actually a genetic directive?”

  “The magic stuff is more fun. I know science can explain just about everything, but sometimes I don’t want it to.”

  The bird-nest beard split apart in a grin. “Hold onto magic as long as you can, Willadean. Most grownups let fragments of it slip through their fingers with every passing day.”

  Willa nodded. “The witch was blocking her own thoughts so you couldn’t read them?”

  “In a rudimentary way, perhaps. As with any skill or talent, the more you practice, the better you get. She couldn’t block the fact that she was exhausted, nor her blossoming migraine. Because of that exhaustion and discomfort, I was able to access more of her thoughts just now. My primary concern was whether this room is being monitored, either visually or audibly, but I couldn’t extract that information.”

  “Do you think she can read my thoughts?”

  “You would sense it if she could. You’re self-aware and smart enough to identify a foreign entity’s attempts at probing your mind. You may not understand what’s happening, but you’d know something was amiss. You haven’t felt anything like that?”

  Willa shook her head.

  “That’s good. Now, can we focus on escape, please? Between us, I think we’ve bought a bit of time with Lizzy. You seem to captivate her. Possibly she relates to you as the gifted child she herself was at the same age. But we can’t count on that continuing. She could flip at any moment and decide to crucify us in a tree.”

  “Got it,” Willa replied, scrambling off the bed again.

  Perhaps the witch had shackled her differently this time, because her fingertip connected with the metal object under the cabinet. She slid it out, then held it up in the nightlight’s faint glow.

  “Looks like a surgeon’s scalpel,” she said. “Good thing I grabbed it from the handle end.”

  “Well done, child.”

  “Can you pick the lock with it?”

  “Does a bear defecate in the woods?”

  “It sure does. Stand back.” She grinned, then tossed the wicked-looking implement into the canary cage.

  Chapter 17

  Harlan

  Harlan was determined not to let the Witchy Lady see him this time. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Willa went missing from her bed soon after the Witchy Lady had spotted him flying above the Pyramid Logs in the astral plane. He and Willa slept only inches apart. Had he drawn her to their home, inadvertently leaving some kind of mystical breadcrumb trail? When he settled on that explanation for Willa’s abduction, he felt the Shift again, that feeling of being absolutely sure of something. He didn’t know where the Shift came from, but he trusted it. It had never let him down.

  If he didn’t block thoughts of Willa at that moment, he would start crying in his dream, and probably in the real world too. Mama was out hunting for her, but Pops was sitting on her bed with his old shotgun. Nobody was going to snatch Harlan. Seeing his grandfather in the gloom, awake and watchful, was the only reason Harlan had been able to fall asleep.

  None of the village dogs flew with him that night. Disappointing, but maybe a good thing. He needed to concentrate on controlling his movements. The lofty goals he’d set for himself that night included finding Willa, keeping an eye on Mama in the woods, and possibly spotting the Witchy Lady. Any information he could gather may prove useful.

  Since his physical body was home in bed covered by one of Pops’ handmade quilts, the chilly autumn air didn’t penetrate his flapping flannel pajamas. But the astral version of himself registered the temperature, the wind speed, and the scents whooshing past him as he soared: pungent juniper, skunk-from-a-distance, decaying vegetation...all familiar smells he associated with living in the country. It made the skunk aroma oddly pleasant.

  His life in the holler these past three years had been a happy one. In Knoxville, a boy who didn’t speak was a boy shunned. Reviled, even. And not just by other students, but sometimes by the teachers. In hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t just the muteness people found off-putting. Maybe they’d sensed his burgeoning War Chest of Oddities. It had always been easier to let Willa stand in the limelight — where she was quite happy to be — and almost always better to let her make the decisions. Or at least let her think she was making them. A force of nature like Willa could wear a person down. Like water on stone, Pops told him once.

  But she was his other half and the main reason he was undertaking this dangerous mission. He would find her and let Mama know where she was. The twin connection told him she was alive. No question.

  Something registered on his astral-plane eardrums just then. It sounded mechanical in nature, which immediately struck him as unusual. Nobody had access to gasoline or electricity anymore. Yes, their drone-flying candy provider in the warehouse had power, but this noise came from the woods, and it wasn’t the insectile sound of a drone. He closed his eyes and concentrated...willing himself to find the source. There was no way of knowing how much time passed; he’d long ago given up trying to measure minutes or hours during these adventures. So when he opened his eyes to find himself soaring above a man-made structure, he didn’t know how long he’d been flying. He didn’t know where he was, either, which was scary. But he would not panic.

  He concentrated on hovering, instead of forward motion. Beneath his fluttering pajamas lay a cabin, nestled in a small clearing. In the glow of a full moon and a sky full of stars, he identified a narrow dirt road winding away from the structure. The roof of a tiny building, a shed perhaps, lay a football field’s distance from the main house. The cabin appeared neither primitive nor old, likely built with modern tools before the plague. A motorcycle was parked nearby, its rider’s helmet perched on the seat. The mechanical noise emanated from a metal box the size of a small sofa, positioned next to the house.

  A generator?

  The Shift confirmed.

  Okay, then. Now he was getting somewhere, but he would need more detail. He closed his eyes and concentrated on altitude. Some time later (seconds? hours?), he floated just above the cabin’s roof. Definitely a recently built house. The shingles and log walls were in perfect condition. In contrast, the houses in the village had been patched and repaired so many times they looked like children had made them out of cardboard and wooden blocks. An igloo-shaped structure huddled near the foundation. He’d seen those before in Knoxville, usually with a dog inside or nearby.

  The cabin was beautiful. Inviting, even. So appealing that he found himself wanting to see what it looked like on the inside.

  A delectable scent drifted beneath his imagined nose.

  What was it? Something that smelled like Christmas? Yes. Christmas. The next moment he had it.

  Gingerbread.

  The Shift confirmed.

  Oh, I see now, he said to himself and also to the Shift. You’re letting me know this is the Witchy Lady’s house.

  Bingo. His imagined smile stretched from ear-to-ear.

  He didn’t dare hover any lower. The Witchy Lady could come out at any moment and catch him. He closed his eyes again and concentrated on his twin connection. Was Willa in that house?

  There it was. A ping inside his brain. The only person who generated that particular ping was Willa.

  Okay. She’s inside, and she’s alive. Success! Was there anything else he could accomplish here at the moment? No. The pressing issue now was to determine the location of the cabin so Mama and the Scouts could find it.

  His astral-plane stomach flip-flopped as he studied the terrain. He truly had no idea where he was.

  Don’t panic, Harlan.

  It wasn’t the voice of his own brain. It wasn’t the voice of the Shift, either. Icicles blossomed in his dream belly.

  It’s Mister Fergus.

  The icicles melted instantly.

 
; Are you with Willa?

  Yes. We’re both safe. For now. But you must use critical thinking along with your artistic talent to help us. This thing that we’re doing, this telepathy, is called scythen. You’re a natural at it. You must make a mental note of the stars’ positions above you and details of the forest below you. That way, perhaps someone in the village can triangulate the location. Paint a picture in your mind of everything you’re seeing, then remember that picture and draw it on paper immediately upon awakening. Can you do that?

  I think so.

  Excellent. Do the first part now.

  Harlan rolled onto his dream back, noted the placement of the twinkling stars against the black velvet sky, and burned the celestial map into his brain. Then he righted himself, performed an astral-plane pirouette, and absorbed every detail of the surrounding forest. He’d had plenty of practice doing this. It was an artist’s technique.

  I think I’ve got it.

  Very good. Now you need to leave quickly. Lizzy may be awake. She could spot you if she comes outside. I forgot to mention that possibility when we talked about your astral-plane dreaming before.

  That’s okay. The Shift already warned me.

  The Shift? Tell me about that later. Now skedaddle.

  Mister Fergus, I’m not sure how to get home.

  Never fear, boy. There’s a simple technique I learned from others who have mastered astral projection. You’ve seen the Wizard of Oz, yes?

  Of course. What kid hasn’t?

  Right. So you’re Dorothy, repeating over and over: There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. Now imagine yourself back home in your warm bed, safe and sound. Don’t let any other thoughts interfere with that visualization. Do it now. You’ll be home before you know it. I have to sign off now, Harlan. You’ll be fine. Just believe in your abilities. Believe in your War Chest of Oddities and everything will turn out peachy.

  The next moment Mister Fergus’s voice went silent. Harlan no longer sensed the presence in his brain.