by Ricky Fry
The villagers fell silent—so silent one could hear the logs spark and crackle on the communal fire they’d built to warm the cool night. The only sound, save for the fire, was a baby crying somewhere in the distance.
“Have you not witnessed a true miracle?” Her blue eyes burned brightly in the light of the flames. “Is it not as the priest has said?”
Those who had spoken on his behalf nodded their heads in agreement.
A single voice of dissent rose from the back of the crowd. “But what of the spirit, good woman?”
“He has come,” she said. “My husband has denied him.”
“It’s true,” said another voice. “Bogdan has beaten the spirit who has plagued our people for centuries.”
Their voices soon formed a chorus, men and women and even some of the children sounding his name, sending it up into the starry sky on the sparks of the fire. “Bogdan! Bogdan! Bogdan!”
Still more voices joined in, until the entire village called his name in steady unison.
Yekaterina raised her arms high above her head and dropped them with a sudden violence. “Return now to your homes. Tend to your fields and your families, and trouble yourselves with the evil spirit no more, for he has been vanquished from our lands by Bogdan—Bogdan the Great!”
And so Bogdan and Yekaterina found themselves alone in the bed which had been prepared for the consummation of their sacred marriage. She traced his skin with loving hands, tended to the burns upon his wrists and pledged to restore him.
“Kiss me, husband.”
He did as she said, until they were joined together for a second time in both body and spirit. When it was over, they laid side-by-side, listening to the sounds of the night. A light rain had fallen over everything. Gentle drops pattered against the wooden planks of the roof.
“Tell me,” she said, “what happened to you at the edge of the forest?” She spoke plainly, without the boldness she’d exhibited earlier in the night when she’d addressed the crowd.
“I don’t know.”
“Surely, you must remember something.”
“I remember a shadow, and the smell of death. There were eyes—red as fire. And I remember invisible hands, wrapping themselves tightly around my throat until I couldn’t breathe.”
They’d called it a miracle, the priest and the villagers, but in truth there was little he could remember about what had happened. Everything had gone dark, and when he’d opened his eyes it was morning.
“And how did you save yourself?”
He thought about what she’d asked, struggling to recall something, anything, he might have done. But there was nothing. He shrugged his shoulders.
“No matter, husband.” This time it was she who kissed him. “Maybe it was our love. Not even the darkest of spirits could come between us. Take me again, Bogdan the Great.”
They made love once more on the heavy animal skins of the bed. And when they finished and he’d rested they did it again, continuing this way late into the night. It was true, what she’d said. He’d gone to die as a boy and returned a man, the only one among them who’d ever survived the evil spirit. His name would not be inscribed upon the rock with the others. A new monument would be erected—new tales would be told and new songs would be sung. And they’d remember him, Bogdan the Great, for all of eternity.
FIVE
The Hardaway’s third nanny departed even faster than Ingrid had left. The poor girl had been so terrified she didn’t even bother to collect her paycheck. She’d only mumbled incoherent words about ghosts and the Devil as she gathered her things and made a beeline for the front door—Nancy pleading with her all the while to stay.
Nancy was convinced they were cursed. Even Inez, who stayed with her family on the other side of the city and rode the train to work, had taken to burning candles imbued with images of saints and singing Christian hymnals as she worked around the house. The faithful woman had offered to bring a crucifix from her family’s home to hang in the Hardaway’s townhouse, but Nancy had politely declined. She wouldn’t have any of her friends thinking she had become a Catholic.
That afternoon, after Inez had reluctantly agreed to keep an eye on Nora, she attended afternoon tea service in the elegant Reserve Lounge of the Langham Hotel with a particularly wealthy and well-connected social acquaintance. She wore one of her favorite dresses, light blue, with a strand of white, freshwater pearls that framed her slender collarbones. But even her impeccably polished appearance, immaculate as it was, and for which she received numerous compliments from her companion, wasn’t enough to lift her heavy spirits.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “We pay them quite well. Good help is just so hard to find these days.”
“Don’t be cliché, dear.” Her friend, one Mrs. Johnson, was born into a family which had long come from money, and whose position at the upper echelon of Boston society was undisputed. As such, she enjoyed the luxury of speaking rather frankly. “We’ve all heard the rumors about the nightmares.”
Nancy tried not to show her dismay. The high society families formed a tight circle, and if word had already circulated among the other nannies about their troubled home, it would make finding a suitable replacement next to impossible.
Mrs. Johnson leaned forward and whispered across the table. “What you need, Nancy, is to cleanse your home from whatever evil has taken up residence within your walls.”
She knew, like everyone in Boston knew, that her friend had a penchant for the occult. Women with such extravagant means sometimes took an interest in rather bizarre things. It was to be expected—the product of an idle lifestyle. But Nancy had never been the type for religion, or superstition of any kind, though she dutifully attended St. Peter’s Episcopal Church with her husband whenever social conventions required.
“I know a man,” said her friend. “He’s something of an exorcist. Perhaps he can help you.”
“An exorcist?” It was absurd, of course, but she was reluctant to offend Mrs. Johnson. “Good heavens. Do you really think we need an exorcist?”
“Oh, he’s just wonderful—cleans up all the messy energy that finds its way into the corners and attics of these dreary old homes. I’m certain he could help you. Do let me make arrangements for a session.”
Under normal circumstances, Nancy would have politely declined the offer. But she was desperate for a stroke of good luck, and if playing along with the exorcist would endear her further to Mrs. Johnson, then perhaps it was worth inviting a little foolishness into her home.
She returned from her rendezvous buoyed by an unexpected streak of optimism, and made plans to share the idea with Mr. Hardaway that evening.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I’ll not allow a stranger into my house to perform some kind of ritual. Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s harmless,” she said, as she poured them each a glass of scotch. “Mrs. Johnson was quite enthusiastic. Think of it as an opportunity to bring our two families closer.”
It was the last thing she’d said which gave him pause. The Johnson’s were positively loaded. Mr. Hardaway, never one to shirk a potential investor, found himself agreeing to the insane scheme if only for a chance to crack the Johnson family fortune.
“What a charming home you have, dear.” Mrs. Johnson had arrived wearing head-to-toe white for the special occasion. “You simply must invite me over more often.”
Charming. Nancy smiled. She knew quite well that what Mrs. Johnson had really meant was small, and while the Hardaway’s historic townhouse was quite large compared to the average home, it must have seemed like a cottage in contrast to the Johnson’s palatial estate. The high society ladies were always doing that—disguising an insult as a compliment. It was their way. But Nancy couldn’t help but wonder why such wealthy women felt so insecure as to trade insults. “Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Hardaway and I will be sure to invite you and your generous husband to our next event.”
“Splendid.” The woman fussed abou
t while they waited for the man she’d said was an exorcist. “Might I trouble your housekeeper for a cup of coffee?”
“It’s no trouble,” said Nancy. She’d have to prepare the coffee herself. When Inez, with all her talk of superstitious old wives’ tales and Jesus, had learned what sort of pseudo-witchcraft the two women were planning, she’d insisted on taking the afternoon off. Nancy could hardly blame her. It did seem rather strange to be hosting an exorcism with one of the wealthiest and most well-regarded women in Boston.
She’d just brought them each a coffee, along with an assortment of fine biscotti, when there was a heavy knock at the front door. Mrs. Johnson sprung from her seat. The woman seemed positively delighted. “That’s him,” she said. “He’s a very busy man, dear. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Nancy was surprised by the appearance of her honored guest. He was shorter than she had imagined, with a bald head shaved clean—so well-polished polished it resembled a bowling ball. He wore a lopsided bow-tie, which gave him a frumpy appearance despite his perfectly pressed velvet suit. She invited him in at once, but the man insisted she inspect his business card.
It read: ALOICIOUS RUPERT THORNEWOOD, ESQUIRE. PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR AND EXORCIST AT LARGE.
“Everything appears to be in order,” she said. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Thornewood?”
Convinced the proper formalities had been completed, he took one giant step across the threshold, and the three of them took up positions around the table in the breakfast room. Nancy brought another cup of coffee, to which he added three heaping spoons of sugar and stirred vigorously before taking the first sip.
“My dear Aloicious, how are you?” Mrs. Johnson addressed him with the sort of gushing manner with which one might address a celebrity.
“I’m quite well, thank you.” His voice was thin and drawn, with a strange accent that sounded as though it was forced. “But I must say these are troubling times for Boston. Business has been rather brisk.”
“Oh, good heavens,” said Mrs. Johnson. “I hope we haven’t imposed too much on your busy schedule.”
The corners of his pursed lips turned up into something resembling a smile. “I’m never too busy for my favorite client.”
The wealthy socialite blushed and busied herself with the coffee.
“Of course,” he said, “there is the small matter of the payment.”
Mrs. Johnson’s knee bumped Nancy’s leg beneath the table—a less-than-subtle reminder not to keep Mr. Thornewood waiting. Nancy took an envelope from her purse and slid it in front of the odd little man. “As you requested. Cash payment.”
He thumbed through the notes and nodded with satisfaction. “Then it’s settled. Why don’t you tell me about what’s been occurring?”
She recounted the story of losing three nannies in less than a month to what could only be described as the same terrible nightmare. He listened intently and took notes on a lined pad, which he’d produced from an old-fashioned leather bag of the sort doctors used to carry on house-calls.
When she’d finished, he was still scribbling notes in his little pad. “Yes, this is very concerning. It appears to be a classic case of haunting, Mrs. Hardaway.”
“Haunting?”
“Indeed.” The small man rubbed his smooth chin. “Fortunately, I’ve seen many of these cases before.”
“He’s been featured on GhostFinders,” said Mrs. Johnson.
Aloicious Thornewood, if that was in fact his real name, smiled wide. “Nothing a simple exorcism won’t clear up. Now if you’d be so kind as to show me the nanny’s room.”
Nancy led them both up the stairs and along the corridor, until they reached the simple room where all three nannies had slept. Baby Nora was taking her afternoon nap in the nursery just across the hall. She hoped the exorcism wouldn’t be so loud as to wake her.
“Do you feel that?” Mr. Thornewood’s deep-set eyes darted back and forth around the room. “I’m sensing a truly malevolent presence. Under normal circumstances, the fee I quoted would be insufficient to extract such evil. But since you’re a friend of Mrs. Johnson, I’m prepared to make accommodations.”
Nancy had the feeling he was putting on something of a show. “That’s very generous.”
The man in the velvet suit got to work at once, removing all manner of peculiar items from his leather bag and placing each one neatly on the bed. “A vial of salt from the Dead Sea,” he explained, holding up a thin tube of glass. “A pressed thistle from the Scottish Highlands.”
Mrs. Johnson seemed positively enthralled. Her enthusiasm climaxed when he produced a pentagram on a long silver chain and hung it around his neck. “What, might I ask, is that?”
“A gift,” he said, “from the Sacred Order of the Gnostics of Byzantium—to guarantee the safety of my soul as I work to battle the evil spirits.”
“Oh my, you really have come quite prepared, Mr. Thornewood.”
“One can never be too prepared when battling evil, my dear Mrs. Johnson. Now if you’d both excuse me, I must be left alone to complete my task. I’m afraid what happens next isn’t safe for the uninitiated.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Johnson.
They returned to the breakfast room, and Nancy poured them each another cup of coffee while they waited. “How long have you known Mr. Thornewood?”
“Good heavens, it’s been years. He’s such a wonderful man. I’ve consulted with him on a number of distressing matters.”
Nancy could only imagine how much money Mrs. Johnson had given the odd little man over the years. She reconsidered leaving him alone so close to Nora’s nursery.
An hour passed and they had just switched to tea—it was far too late in the day for any proper lady to be drinking coffee—when they heard Mr. Thornewood scream. It was a ghastly wail for such a small man, as if he’d actually seen a ghost. Nancy went to the staircase and was about to ascend when he came rushing down in a terrible fright—a genuine look of horror upon his weaselly little face.
“Get out,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to be here. This place—it’s home to something truly evil. Pack your things and leave this house at once!”
Mrs. Johnson offered to fetch him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he went straight for the door. Like the Hardaway’s previous nanny, he hadn’t even bothered to gather his things.
Nancy wondered what he could have possibly seen that would have sent him into such a panic. “I thought you could help us.”
“There’s no helping you,” he said. “Whatever evil lurks in this house is beyond even my most capable abilities.” He took her by the arm and squeezed.
“Stop,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”
“Get out! Get out while you still have a chance!” He released his grip and paused at the door only long enough to throw the envelope of money to the floor. Bills scattered and spread themselves on the black and white tiles.
Mrs. Johnson followed him out in a hurry, waving her arms about in every direction. “Mr. Thornewood! Oh, dear Mr. Thornewood, do come back!”
Upstairs in the nursery, Baby Nora was crying.
SIX
Fire burned all around him. The village he’d known his whole life was engulfed in flames. Wooden roofs sent ribbons of thick smoke up into the black night sky. Men raced in every direction with heavy buckets of water, a vain effort to contain the wild blaze. And the screams—everywhere there were screams.
“Can you help me?” It was a woman who’d cared for him as a child. Her face was badly burned. In her arms she carried the ashen corpse of a baby. “Please, he won’t move. Can you help me?”
It was too late. He tried to make her understand, but the woman wouldn’t listen. She clutched at his shirt with fingers blackened by flames. He broke free and wiped sooty sweat from his brow. Where was Yekaterina?
He raced from one burning house to another, the screams of the dying filling his ears as he went. He went to the house where her family lived and tried th
e door. The heat had left it warped and twisted. When he finally managed to yank it open, a cloud of smoke billowed out, followed by a young boy whose nightgown was entirely up in flames. The boy screamed and flailed about, clawing at his peeling skin in torturous agony.
“Yekaterina!” His heart beat in his chest. His eyes burned. He could never live without her. “Where are you, Yekaterina?”
“I’m here.” Her voice cut through the violent cacophony of noise to reach his ears. “I’m here, my love.”
But he couldn’t see her. There was only the fire and the smoke and the sounds of the dying.
“I’m here,” she said. “Open your eyes, Bogdan. Open your eyes.”
He did as he was told, and he found himself beside her in their bed. His body was covered in sweat. The cool night air sent a shiver across his skin. “I’ve had the most terrible dream.”
“Yes,” she said. “You thrashed about wildly in your sleep.”
He pulled her close and kissed her gently on the forehead. She looked so beautiful, smiling back it him now. She was his magic, and he swore to himself he would never lose her.
“Sleep, my love.” She ran her fingers through his thick blonde hair and traced the shape of his neck. “When you wake again you’ll find me still beside you.”
He laid still for a long time, his mind filled with images of flames. The old ones said that every dream has a meaning, and he wondered what such a dream could possibly mean for him, for her, for the people of their village. It was only the sound of her gentle breath—in and out, in and out—that lulled him back to sleep. But peace is a fragile thing, and he was woken again by a heavy knock on the door.
“Stay here,” he told her, as he slipped on his woven shirt and tucked a large hunting knife into his waistband.
It was one of the men of the village. “Please, Bogdan. You must come and help.”
