Blackwater Lights

by Michael M. Hughes

  “You’re not one of them!” Ray shouted after him.

  Lily laughed some more. If he had a knife, he’d cut her tongue out to make sure she’d never utter that jagged sound again. “He’s not the person you used to know,” she said. “He hasn’t been for years. He’s family now.”

  “Your family can’t just do this.”

  “Oh, no? Maybe the Negro Cub Scouts will save you?”

  “They’ll get you,” he said. “Maybe not before I die, but they’ll get you.”

  “Oh, Ray, please stop scaring me,” she said.

  Now Crawford entered, dressed in his robe. “Bind him,” he said. Billy wrapped the rope around his arms, cinching it until Ray cursed in pain. Not only were his hands bound behind his back, but his entire upper body was immobilized.

  “It’s time,” Crawford said.

  Billy nodded. He yanked Ray up by the back of his shirt and walked him through the house and out the back door in the gallery. Two cops in uniform stood guard. They both glanced at him and turned back to the garden and the woods beyond. They’d witnessed this scene before. Many times, perhaps.

  Ray shivered. It was getting cold, and the mist settled on his skin, threatening to draw out his last bit of strength.

  The rest of the group emerged into the night air. One at a time, all in their red robes with the hoods hanging over their faces.

  “Follow me,” Lily said. She walked slowly into the gardens, followed by Crawford and the rest.

  “Move,” Billy whispered. He pushed, and Ray stumbled forward. He followed the procession through the gardens, along a stony path past the pool, and into a grassy field. His feet sank in the mud. The others followed.

  His foot caught on a rock and he fell on his face in the dirt. He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of mud. Damn. He’d cut his cheek—he could feel a sharp sting and the warmth of blood.

  “Up,” Billy hissed. He lifted Ray to his feet.

  They marched on. Through the field, past two more armed guards, into the woods, and up a hill. Billy held the ropes across Ray’s back to keep him steady. Ray could barely see the robed figure in front of him through the fog, and the path they were walking on was rough. The hill grew steeper.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ray thought he saw an arc of light zipping across the sky. Billy didn’t seem to notice. Then he saw it flash again—just over the treetops.

  He stumbled again, but Billy caught him.

  On they went, deeper into the trees.

  After a long time, an orange glow burned ahead. As they moved closer, the glow danced, illuminating huge, gnarled trees and a very familiar arrangement of rocks.

  Of course.

  The fire from within the Hand had burned away much of the fog. The group stopped and parted in front of one of the jagged rocks, and Ray cried out.

  On a flattened slab in the center of the circle, in a thin white robe, tied up, spread-eagled and blindfolded, was Ellen.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ellen. The sight of her was like a kick in the chest. He was glad to see her alive, but this was too hard to take—the woman he’d dragged into this nightmare, blindfolded and tied like a goat for slaughter on a slab of ancient rock. William was nowhere to be seen. Ray prayed he was okay and hadn’t witnessed whatever had been done to his mother.

  Above Ellen, hanging upside down by her feet, eyes glazed and lifeless, was Sara. She spun slowly, mere feet above Ellen’s blindfolded face, suspended from a rope stretched between two of the gnarled trees—a puppet hung up after a children’s show. Her long gray braid hung like an exclamation point, and her face was bruised and swollen. They’d beaten her savagely.

  They had tied Ellen’s wrists and feet to thick rebar stakes in the ground, spreading her across the central altar. The bonfire behind the rock shadowed her face, but Ray saw enough to understand she had shut down completely. Her head rolled slowly back and forth, her mouth wide. Maybe they had drugged her. He hoped so. If she was drugged, she might not understand what was happening. If she wasn’t drugged, he couldn’t bear to imagine what they had done to drive her nearly catatonic.

  All at once, he felt a cold clarity. He’d need to be alert and take advantage of any opening, any possible slip-up or mistake … or he and Ellen, and William, would die.

  All is not finished. While we live and breathe, there is hope.

  Micah was right, of course. But this sure looked like the end.

  Ray scanned the assembly. At least twelve in red robes. On the outskirts, facing outward, four guards in flak jackets with rifles. A skinny man in a black ninja-like suit, holding a video camera. Crawford was making a movie of it all. Probably another training film for another of his—what had Micah called them?—franchises.

  Something slipped over his neck, and he felt a sharp tug. He coughed, but the air stuck in his chest. Metal bit into his neck. Billy had slipped a dog collar—a choker chain—around his neck, and jerked on the leash. His vision contracted and blurred, until he felt like he might pass out.

  Crawford stepped in front of the slab, obscuring Ellen. The firelight cast an orange aura around him.

  “My family,” he said. His eyes were on fire. Whatever he had drawn out of Ray’s head had changed him. “I welcome you all to this special place on this sacred night, my children, under the canopy of stars.”

  The group of red-robed congregants stood still. A few nodded.

  “The sky is alive tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ray hissed, and Billy lifted the chain just enough to cut off his air. Crawford turned to him. “Our guest of honor has given me a gift of extraordinary significance. And I will, in time, give him a token of my appreciation. But first, we must prepare the offering in the manner of our ancestors.” He nodded. “Mother.”

  Lily moved behind Ellen’s head, silhouetted between the fire and the altar. Her elongated shadow fell across Ellen. She lifted her arms out at her sides, palms up, and the long sleeves of her robe slid down to her elbows.

  “M’shug’um g’zaflghna msuzlk,” she said.

  “G’zaflghna msuzlk,” the others replied. Piggish, guttural, and jarring. More like barking than speech.

  “The Great Mother calls you.” She lowered her arms and put her hands together, palms up, in front of her. “Samael, daaghna uzzül’uüš.”

  Crawford stepped to her. He held a long black-handled knife. Lily took it carefully.

  Ray jerked forward. “No!” he screamed, his voice ragged and harsh.

  Billy yanked the chain again. Ray stumbled and fell to his knees, his face and lungs nearly exploding.

  “Ray?” Ellen cried. Her voice weak and slurred. “Ray?”

  Lily bent and whispered into Ellen’s ear.

  Ray tried to stand, but Billy shoved him back to his knees. He pushed himself backward into Billy with all of his strength, but Billy stepped aside and Ray fell sideways into the wet soil. The chain links bit into his neck.

  Lily’s eyes latched onto his. She held the knife at her side. The blade was long and sharpened on both edges. A dagger, with a handle of polished black stone. She whispered something—a prayer?—and stood, lit by the flames, over Ellen’s head.

  Ellen moaned.

  Lily approached Sara. She pulled the dead woman’s dangling braid, stretching the neck. Sara’s empty eyes were cloudy, and her swollen tongue hung out between her teeth. The entire forest became silent.

  Lily brought the knife forward and sliced Sara’s neck. Quickly. Deeply.

  A gush of blood erupted, splattering on Ellen, then coursed out in a thick stream.

  Lily swung Sara’s corpse, back and forth, side to side, and the blood fell on Ellen’s white robe, turning it bright scarlet. A cameraman swooped in for a close-up, tracking as the body swung. The rope squeaked as Lily swung the corpse.

  Ellen moaned again. She was drenched. Blood ran into her mouth. Steam rose from her skin and the sodden robe.

  It would be so very easy to give up. To retre
at. To disappear into himself, somewhere far away, where it was dark all the time. Just as he’d done long ago. Go back to Grandma’s farm, under the blue starless sky, where nothing bad ever happened and it was never night. Just empty, quiet, and safe.

  It would be so easy.

  But he couldn’t … not while there was still blood in his veins. Not while Ellen lay on that rock, drenched in Sara’s blood. Not while William was still alive.

  Sara’s body swung like a pendulum. The blood had slowed but still ran. Lily let go of the braid, and the nearly severed head drooped at an obscene angle. She placed the knife between Ellen’s breasts, the blade tip pointing downward toward her belly.

  Billy breathed heavily behind him, almost panting. They were all getting off on this.

  Lily dipped two fingers into the pool of blood on the rock and wiped it on her forehead, eyelids, and lips. She dipped her fingers again and moved to Crawford. Wiped his forehead, eyelids, and lips. “Samael, my consort, I anoint you.”

  “My life is yours, Mother,” Crawford said.

  Lily went around to each of the others. Each, in turn, dropped his hood and received her anointing. Men, all of them. White and middle-aged, except for one bearded man with dark skin. He looked Arabic.

  Anzu. Berith. Asael. Sariel. Samyaza. Paimon.

  The last to lower his hood was Kevin.

  “Gaz’alg, I anoint you.”

  They all replaced their hoods. She returned to the altar, joined by Crawford, and held out her arms. “Thus are the children welcomed.”

  “G’zaflghna msuzlk,” they answered. They’d all been charged up by the bloodletting, their faces flushed, their eyes wide and eager. Now he understood what Kevin had meant when he’d described Crawford’s cultists as glowing.

  Crawford stepped in front of the altar and spoke. “Lay the circle, Mother.”

  One of the robed figures retrieved a large bag from behind one of the standing stones and gave it to Lily. She walked around Crawford, pouring white powder from the lip of the bag. It was crystalline, like rock salt, tracing a circle that encompassed Crawford and the altar. When she finished, she put down the bag and walked to Ellen.

  She lifted the dagger from Ellen’s chest.

  Ray tensed, his body ready to spring. One hint of a move—any move that brought that knife closer to Ellen—would set him off.

  She carried the knife to Crawford. He took it and walked slowly and deliberately around the inside of the circle, the point of the blade tracing its edge, chanting under his breath. He returned to the center and held the dagger upward. Its blade flashed the reflection of the flames. It was as if the world revolved around the tip of the blade—all else was frozen. Waiting. Concentrating.

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. One of the uniformed cops walked up to the sea of red robes. He was sweating profusely, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  Crawford turned. His stare was cold as death.

  The cop whispered to Lily. She nodded and smiled. “We have another guest, Samael.”

  Two men with rifles appeared from the darkness, escorting a small, thin man dressed all in white.

  No.

  The side of Micah’s face was swollen and bloodied. A strip of duct tape sealed his mouth shut. His hands were bound behind his back, and he staggered as one of the men shoved him next to Ray.

  Micah fell to his knees. Blood dripped off his face into the dirt. Heat radiated from him, and the sour smell of sweat. He looked up at Sara’s corpse and hung his head. “You’re just in time,” Lily said.

  Crawford handed the dagger to Lily and stepped out of the circle. He grabbed Micah by the neck of his blood-splattered suit and pulled him to his feet. “Preacher man! How nice of you to join us!”

  Laughter from around the circle.

  Lily held the dagger against his chest, the tip resting under his chin. “Let’s see what the old baboon has to say.”

  Crawford ripped the tape from Micah’s mouth. Ray winced. The older man’s lips were swollen and torn—whoever had roughed him up had done a thorough job. Micah coughed, spitting blood. He lifted his head and looked directly at Crawford.

  “End this now,” he said.

  Crawford laughed. “Surely you can do better than that. You’re on camera, old man—let’s have something a bit more melodramatic for the home audience. This is your big moment, after all. Come, come. A soliloquy. Something Shakespearean, perhaps. Or prayers to your silly god.”

  “If you don’t stop this foolishness, you are going to die.”

  Crawford opened his mouth wide, his eyes flitting back and forth. “Me?”

  More laughter. They were eating it up. And hungering for more blood.

  Micah licked his torn lips and spat. “If you do what you’re planning to do, you will surely die. A death far worse than anything you could deal to me.”

  Crawford stuck out his lower lip in mock pity. “I doubt that, my little lawn jockey. As much as I’d love to have you witness the fruits of my work, after all those days you and your silly gang members spent crawling around in the bushes, I’m afraid you’re going to have to miss the invocation. And it’s a shame, because it’s going to be quite the show. The Great Work is yet to be done.”

  “My work is done. Get it over with.” Micah glanced at Ray, then closed his eyes.

  Crawford shook his head. “Oh, well. Pity you won’t give us a proper dramatic finale, but that’s your choice.” He held out his hand to Lily. “Uzzül’uüš, Mother.”

  Ray couldn’t look away.

  Lily handed Crawford the bloodied dagger.

  In movies, this would be the time the good guys arrived. With guns flashing, storming over the hill and crashing through the trees. Helicopters swooping down, raining lead and fire.

  “G’zaflghna msuzlk, g’thalk’atu.” Crawford held the blade above his head, pointing at the sky. “G’thalk’atu, g’züghna k’talzzkü.” Lily stepped back. Crawford held the blade in front of his face, eyes closed, murmuring.

  Micah smiled. Ray never got that out of his mind. He smiled.

  It happened so quickly, Ray’s cry didn’t start until Micah pitched forward. One clean stroke, and the blade slashed through the old man’s neck. His face hit the ground, and his blood spread in a widening pool in the dirt.

  Billy didn’t pull the chain. He let Ray’s hoarse, broken wail rend the night.

  Ellen’s screams joined his. Howling like dogs.

  Micah twitched three times, then stopped moving.

  Ellen’s screams died out. She moaned wordlessly.

  Crawford’s eyes sparkled, his pupils like black holes. “The old beast has whetted your appetite?”

  Nods all around. The Middle Eastern man spoke with a thick accent. “Yes, Samael. But we wait”—he pointed to Ellen—“for her.”

  Another nodded. “Spill her.”

  “The invocation first,” Crawford said. “The first taste of her blood will be our gift to them.” He turned back to the altar, arms outstretched, the dagger in his left hand. Closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and chanted.

  “G’zaflghna msuzlk, g’thalk’atu. G’zaflghna msuzlk, g’thalk’atu g’nazzt ok meg’shkzzagz.”

  Foul syllables, the language before human language, when blood and torn flesh and fear were the only gods. The noises reached an ancient part of Ray, some atavistic memory, and burned in his mind like acid.

  A sound emerged from Crawford’s throat. More insect than human. A familiar sound. Ray had heard it before. Long ago, the same awful cry.

  It was the song from that terrible night, so long ago. A song not made by humans, but coming through the throats and out of the mouths of children. And then his own part came, and he felt his throat and mouth vibrating in unison with Crawford’s foul syllables.

  The earth shook. The air rippled.

  Ray’s face—all of their faces—turned to the brightening sky.

  Ray would never know if what he experienced was the same for the others. In th
e end, it didn’t really matter.

  It started with the orange spheres, moving to the sky directly above them from all over the field of stars, melding into a central, glowing mass above Crawford’s circle. They came from everywhere and joined together, and with each addition the central light grew larger and brighter.

  Was it just getting bigger, or was it coming closer?

  And then, before Ray understood what was happening, it was inside him. Like when Crawford had crawled into his mind, only far worse. The thing was trying him on like an old suit. Stretching itself out inside his head and his skin. Filling up every inch. And it was cold. Icy cold, with the arrogance and detachment of a scientist studying an E. coli bacterium through a microscope.

  It was familiar. It had been inside him before.

  It slipped into his mind like a hand into a puppet and riffled through his memories like the pages of a book. Flip Mommy flip it’s my birthday flip Christmas pageant flip falling off a skateboard flip under the jeweled sky, beneath the trees, among the stones—

  And it remembered him. He felt its shock and recognition. It had been here before, many years ago. It had sung through him, revealing its secrets at the command of the foolish men who called to it.

  And just as quickly, it lost interest.

  The snapping back into his own body and mind was instantaneous and nauseating. It had tossed him aside, like an empty paper sack.

  No one moved. They all were frozen, faces blank. Maybe it had gotten inside them, too. Maybe it was still inside them. Trying them out for size.

  It was then that things happened very quickly.

  Lily was the first to pull back. She stepped away from the circle. The smile disappeared from her face.

  The smell of rot, disease, and rancid flesh filled Ray’s nose. He gagged.

  Crawford was changing. His face, bathed in the fiery light from above, blurred and shifted from the wide-eyed man to something bug-like to the jagged head of a parasitic worm, morphing through visages so rapidly that it seemed he had no real face anymore. He twisted into impossible poses and contortions as the energy worked inside him.