The Witcher Chime

by Amity Green

  The horses didn’t stop eating, but they watched her with huge, curious eyes when she opened each pen and then snagged two of the round gas cans from beside a tractor. They were heavy and full, a good thing, but it made the little walk to the house seem fairly long, especially after stopping to pop open the chicken coop.

  One can was enough to coat most of the downstairs. She stopped long enough to grab a box of matches from the hearth. The last can finished off all the bedrooms and a good amount sloshed onto her clothes, too. Savannah stopped by what was once her parent’s bathroom and rifled through the medicine cabinet.

  “There we go,” she said, rattling some pills around in a mostly empty prescription bottle. “Can’t say Mommy didn’t leave me anything.” She gulped down the remnants of her mother’s sleeping pills and looked at her reflection staring back from over the sink, judging her. Savannah squinted back.

  Her hair was matted and hadn’t been combed for the last two days. Gaunt skin made her eyes huge and dark chestnut, two pools of fear and pain and hate. She wiped a dribble of water from her chin with a fuel-soaked wrist.

  “Goodbye,” the reflection echoed.

  Savannah picked up the can and headed outside.

  The time for the end had come, and it would be a damned fiery one.

  ***

  Chapter 15

  June 6, 1988, 7:10 p.m.

  “Sinner,” he growled. Witcher stood in her doorway, eyeing the damp walls where Savannah hunched on the bed with the matches. “The worst of sins against my Father.”

  She’d accidentally soaked the box in her spill-happy gasoline splashing session. Savannah stuck a new match, the softened head falling away so damp wood tore into the strike pad.

  No spark, no fire.

  She’d expected combustion, really wanted it. The match would explode in her hand, searing away everything she knew in an instant. The fire would speed from her room down the stairs and the house would explode into flames, she and Witcher going up in a huff along with it. She’d burn up so fast her eyes would quit working so she didn’t see the room go up around her. Savannah whimpered and tucked her head when her bedroom door crashed against the wall and Witcher raged toward her. She tried a new match, praying it caught.

  “What have you done?” He batted the matches out of her hands.

  She didn’t try to get past him to pick them up. There was no way the drugs in her system would allow her that kind of movement.

  “You little bitch,” he growled. “I trusted you.”

  “Your mistake,” she answered.

  “That hurts,” he said, anger dissolving. “I am sorry, Savannah. We reap what we sow.” Sadness hung on each syllable. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was heartbroken.

  A fat drop of liquid fell from above, splattering her forehead. She sat still, confused. Another drop plummeted, landing heavily. She swiped at it with limp fingers, fully expecting it to be gas rather than water.

  Witcher snarled, balling a fist. “I loved you.” He stepped forward and hit her bedroom wall, the impact resounding hard, rattling the furniture and rocking her against the headboard. Tears ran down both of his cheeks. Thunder pounded and Savannah wrapped her head with her arms, screaming. A torrent of rain broke out, coming down hard, like her room was moved into a rain forest during monsoon season. Lightning flashed above, the ceiling an open port for an angry storm.

  “Forty days and forty nights, Savannah. You deserve no better.” He retreated, closing the door behind him.

  She peeked through rivulets coating her face, incredulous. He had to be messing with her mind somehow. Thunder clapped, rattling the hardwoods. A stuffed bear soaked up rain at the foot of the bed. Her discarded school bag lay soggy while water pooled against the baseboard by the door. Gasoline-laced rain ran into her mouth. She patted her face with a sleeve but more water coated her skin too fast to keep it dry. Groggily, she rolled off the bed and slogged miserably to her door, through the deluge.

  The slick handle twisted, but the latch didn’t engage or something because it just turned each time she tried, the door didn’t budge. Fuzzy minded, she yanked and jerked as hard as she could, panicking so hard her chest hurt. The effects of the sleeping medicine battled hysterics. Finally, the door knob gave up, sliding loose from a bar that fell through on the other side when the handle came off in her hand. She let it drop into the water, the level suddenly ankle deep.

  “No,” she said, holding soaked, heavy hair out of her face. She twisted as much of her long hair as she could into a knot at her nape, looking around the room. Thunder continued and lightning popped above. She leaned back and drove her shoulder into the door, but the wood didn’t budge, a brick wall beneath a wooden veneer.

  Savannah put an arm overhead to shield her eyes from pouring rain, looking to the far side of her room. She waded to her dresser and grabbed one of the heavy Avon perfume bottles from her dresser, a tall figurine of a lady in a dress. Facing her window, she pitched the bottle hard at the glass. The effort would have been better if she didn’t feel like an over-boiled noodle. The bottle bounced to the floor without breaking through. Needing something more substantial, she went to her doorway, feeling around in the water. She sunk both hands shoulder deep, pulling her pet rock doorstop up from the depths. The round stone was the size of a flat volleyball, but weighed a lot. Huge, rattling, plastic eyes rolled, glued to the rock, as she carted the thing close and tossed it granny style toward the pane. The stone hit the glass dead center, falling off the sill into the rising water. Savannah plodded to the window and turned the latch to unlock it, then yanked as hard as she could, suspecting it would remain sealed, which it did. Witcher made his own rules when he tortured her. If only she’d managed to keep the damn matches dry.

  More rain and thunder pounded down at her. The water level rose in a hurry up to the waist of her chilled, heavy jeans. A multihued puddle of color swirled in the center of the room, raindrops pounding in splotches of pewter, the fuel pulling together again after each drop. Her plastic piggy bank floated and knocked against her dresser, the few coins inside not enough to weigh it down. The storm roared and wood creaked when her dresser rose from the floor, sliding away from the wall.

  She went back to the door.

  “Witcher! Please, I’m sorry,” she yelled. She pounded on wood with the ball of a fist. “Help!” There was no sound on the other side. He’d gone. She turned her face up, holding her hands above her eyes. “Please, God, help me,” she wailed. “I know suicide is a sin. I was trying to kill him.” She sobbed. “I was doing the right thing.” Water lapped at armpit level. The storm raged on, the only sound an occasional clap of thunder and endless hissing as huge rain drops hit the surface. Matches floated by, clinging together like magnets. Water rose to her shoulders. She kicked through and crawled up on her bed to stand on the mattress, then leaned against the wall and pulled her boots and jeans off, letting them sink. A river ran down all four walls, knocking tacks free so her favorite Journey poster sluiced down to the depths. She lost her balance and felt like she’d puke, falling against the wall.

  Icy rain water poured over her shoulders and stacked up to her thighs as she clamored up to stand on the clunky, thick headboard and lean against the wall. The nine-foot ceiling in her room gave her a few more feet out of the water. The level nearly covered the top of the window, sunlight winking out as water lapped at the pane. A thousand faucets gushed above head, blocking her view of the ceiling.

  God didn’t rescue her. Neither did Witcher. A precious minute went by and she panicked. She slid off the headboard and swam to the window, pounding on glass with her fists. Each time a hand made contact it sent her away from the window and she had to paddle over again. She took a breath and submerged, yanking on the top of the sliding pane. It still refused to budge. Her air ran out so she rose to the surface for more. She shoved a hand above her while she treaded, feeling the smooth ceiling. It was actually going to happen, Witcher really was going to dr
own her. “Coward,” she yelled. If he’d stuck around, she’d drag him under with her. He didn’t take the bait. She was alone and would run out of room to breathe when the water reached the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She swam through floating debris to her door, putting the last of her energy into pleading for his forgiveness. “Witcher? I know you can hear me. Please don’t let me die like this.”

  Nothing. Water filled her ears. The ceiling beat against her skull. She turned her face up to gasp at the only remaining oxygen. One last chest full of air. She swam to her window, peering through water at a flash of golden red as the sun came to rest beneath the mountains. Her chest and abdomen burned. She kicked the glass over and over again.

  Exhaustion won out and her lungs gave up their air. Water rushed as her chest pulled in with reflex. She beat on the glass, her ability to swing any limb growing ever weaker. The cold was unbearable and darkness surrounded her. The only sound was the continuous rush of water lulling her away.

  Relief. It was much larger than sorrow.

  Cold waves iced her to the bone and she slammed her eyes shut. Death was death. Fire would have sucked in a lot of air just like the flood. Her body was lost, the feeling the same as it would have been if she’d succeeded at burning herself up. But what it felt like didn’t matter. The last of her awareness dissolved and finally, darkness coupled with sleep and it all stopped.

  * * *

  Water dripped, splattering, landing with an endless echo. Confusion. Ice. She didn’t expect to wake up, but since she had, she’d certainly come to in hell. She blinked fluid out of her eyes. There were no demons wielding pitchforks. No fiery pit. She smelled only watered down gasoline and saw just a small, dancing dot of light shining from a distance. Pain split her head when she tried to lift it so she gave up, wincing.

  Something gleamed on the ground in front of her. She blinked, clearing the fog from her mind. It was a shoe, the limited, yellow light bouncing from the toe. A familiar touch smoothed hair from her face, caressing her temple with soft fingers.

  “Daddy?” she whispered.

  He sighed, but kept comforting her.

  “Where are we?”

  “Inside the mountain,” Witcher replied, softly. “You could say it truly is hell’s honeycomb down here.”

  She sighed. “Are we in hell?” It would figure she’d go there with him. He was a fallen angel. She’d all but committed suicide. They both belonged there and her punishment was to spend eternity in his presence.

  “I would never allow you to endure such a place.”

  All the blinking finally cleared her vision. An old lantern blazed from atop a rock across the room, if it could be called a room. The low ceiling was cut stone, with streaks of glittering pastel hues splitting the rock. Water ran down a jagged, rock wall into a pool. A huge chill ran the length of her body, causing her to tremble so hard her jaw locked.

  “I’m freezing. You’re here, and we’re underground. This is hell.”

  “This is not your hell. I have brought you to mine.”

  “Why? I want to die.” She cringed, robbed of the prospect of oblivion.

  “That infuriates me, Savannah.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He pushed her head up from where it had been resting on his thigh.

  She propped with an elbow. Witcher got to his feet, stalking off. Out of habit, Savannah felt the rocky ground in search of her glasses, feeling little pieces of granite fall through her fingers.

  “Where are my glasses?”

  “You don’t need them,” he replied from the darkness.

  “I can’t see.”

  The little flame in the lantern grew, illuminating more of the cavern. Every detail was clear, down to Witcher’s face. The black pants and an untucked button down shirt showed no signs of wear. His hair was longer, all one length with the ends brushing the collar of his shirt. His eyes shone, huge with his brand of sincerity. He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, in perfect 20/20 focus. Mica glittered, illuminating veins of lavender fluorite like fingers of distant lightning.

  “Do you see, Savannah? I give you your sight back and light your way.”

  “You drowned me.” She wrestled to her feet despite a throbbing head. Gravel and rocks clung to little indentations in her bare arms and legs. She scrubbed at her skin to warm up, shaking her tee shirt loose from where it hung plastered to skin. She balled the front of the shirt and wrung the water out of it, doing the same to her hair. There was no way she would take the shirt off so she could dry out her bra. Body heat would have to dry her underwear. It hurt like hell, but she bent to remove both her socks. After she squeezed the water out of them, she hastily put them back on, stretching them to mid-calf, as far as they would go. The skin of her thighs was blotchy, white and a little blue with gooseflesh rising painfully.

  Witcher watched every move with too much interest.

  She glared. If he stated how he loved her, or that she made him do it, she’d lose it. She was nauseated, dizzy and freezing. “I just want to go home.”

  “Well, I want you to trust in my love for you. I saved you.”

  “How can you expect—I mean, even think I could? And wait, you saved me? From your own tantrum! I can’t trust you. You destroyed my family.”

  “For this reason you would choose to die?”

  “I chose to die so I could take you with me!” She screamed. “I want you dead. I’ll never love you and you don’t love me. You’re a monster. You’re selfish. There’s no room for love in you.”

  “You’re wrong about me,” he started.

  Savannah grabbed a handful of rocks and hurled them at him in a scatter. He vanished. They bounced off the cut granite wall like buckshot off the broadside off a metal barn.

  “Stop, Savannah,” he warned from her right.

  She scraped up two more hands full and let it fly in the direction of his voice, into darkness beyond the lantern’s glow. Staccato tapped ahead as little rocks bounced off the unseen. Rocks fell to the ground. Silence broke the din. He’d vanished from sight and sound. She tried picking up on the smell of him but realized that was a lost cause because of the remnants of gas fumes that hung in her nose. Knowing he was out there in the dark somewhere, watching her, brought on the urge to run. That wasn’t easily done in only socks and underwear.

  “Witcher?” she called. She turned in a slow circle, searching the shadows for him. “Where are you?” She backed toward the lantern and picked it up by a decrepit, creaking handle. The halo of light bounced wickedly so she stilled it with her other hand. The little wheel at the front wouldn’t spin any farther, the flame as large as it would get. She raised the lantern up to spread the light. There was no response.

  “Are you still here?” Her voice shook, shrilling into the dark. Savannah turned, squinting hard into a black tunnel off to the side of the room. The lantern’s flame began to sputter.

  “No.” Nothing sloshed inside the bottom. The blackened shred of canvas wick was burnt to a smoldering taper. Blue flame barely breathed at the tip. The wheel spun once and the light receded to a dying red coal.

  Savannah rattled the lantern, hoping for any sign of life to emerge. When the tiny glow faded she hugged the glass close, absorbing warmth and trying not to completely lose control and start crying again. It worked for a matter of seconds before tears surged and sobs tore into the black silence. Hell had arrived. She would die, sightless and alone in a cold, damp tomb.

  Something brushed the chilled skin of her right thigh. An abrupt yelp escaped before she could bite it back. The next moment, fingers grazed the back of her arm and she jerked away.

  “Stop it!” Her entire body listened for movement, terrified of the next touch.

  The lantern was batted from her grasp. Glass shattered where the globe met granite. With both hands seeking behind her, she stepped backward. A wall had to be near. Pitch blackness was suffocating, but she scanned her surroundings anyway. She stilled h
er gaze. The faintest possible light hung high in the distance.

  Each shaky step toward the thin light brought more of the tight walkway into the faint glow. The soles of her socks made each foothold on jagged rocks a challenge, so she proceeded with her arms outstretched for balance. The floor grew rougher-cut still. The ceiling gleamed above, the only indicator of the enormity of the cavern beyond, the echoes of light bouncing from mica in the granite walls. She kept up a painstaking search for each step, determined to distance herself from darkness where Witcher could easily toy with her senses.

  Light called to her ahead as she continued, unsure of what else she could do at that point. Going was slow. She watched the ceiling and tried to move faster. Water dripped into a shallow pool somewhere, the drops echoing the same note over and over. The smell of old decay grew stronger than the leftover smell of gas. She rounded the last corner into an opening. The ceiling climbed rapidly in a room lit by a pinhole punched through rock, which, for its small size, allowed a crazy amount of light to shine down.

  Her eyes stung. She put a hand above her brow so she could see. The moment she could focus, a scream built in the back of her throat.

  A white ray of light shone straight down onto the face of a giant’s skull that was tilted toward the small opening far above. Bare eye sockets were dark, holding the shape of the tortured. Patches of long hair remained, dangling in knots over a broad collarbone. The huge skeleton hung shackled by its wrists, gilt chains suspending the body from diagonal points in the walls. Gleaming metal links ran from a huge, thick cuff clasped at its waist, and shackles around the knees hung loosely, likely falling away with the shrinking and decaying of muscle. The chain attached to the thing’s neck spanned to a point in the darkness above her head somewhere. Wings with feathers as long as her legs stretched from the thing’s back and across the room, frozen in flight like an eagle that had grown to be ten times the normal size.