Llandudno, South Africa, was wild and untamed until the Witwatersand Gold Rush in 1886 brought immigrants to South Africa. A path beyond the Table Mountain was then cleared for the automobile. The British named the path Victoria Road.
The soon-to-be suburb of Cape Town reminded its founders of Llandudno, Wales. Therefore, they christened the new area with the same name. The valley remained un-commercialized with no street lights or shops. If privacy and security were of concern to anyone, then the valley would be the perfect choice as it could only be accessed by Victoria Road.
The idea had seemed preposterous to him when Jeffrey had first accused Eva of being the anti-Christ. Father Charles spent many, many nights studying Revelations. He had come to learn “man” could be interpreted as “human,” meaning either man or woman. The Bible says the anti-Christ will be of Middle Eastern descent. She was certainly Middle Eastern if you counted her origins, and her claim that she was created before Eve in the garden of Eden, believed to be modern day Iraq.
And to think she’d live in such a beautiful, remote location. Why Llandudno, he had asked himself over and over. He had even asked his brother, Jeffrey’s father, the same thing when he decided to leave England for Llandudno.
“Minted clients and low taxes,” his brother had answered. “All good for the legal business.”
Privacy and security were definitely a concern to Eva. The South African laws favoured her and the corruption played into her hands. If she were to come out into the public light, as she seemed to be doing with her book, then the supernatural culture would certainly embrace her. Uber wealth abounded in the country, and her fortune could go unnoticed. The impoverished and ignorant were easy to impress, influence, and buy.
Charles remembered being told by Jeffrey that Lilith, the first woman before Eve, had been created in the Garden of Eden. Lilith was expelled from the Garden for using God’s name in spells. She followed a divide in the river. The Euphrates took her to Egypt, and the African Continent is where she was bound to live. She cannot cross the ocean; the water disperses her magik.
Folklore said that when Satan was cast from heaven, he landed in Africa. In Africa’s Egypt, Samiel had not yet been cursed as the crawling serpent, and he appeared to Lilith as a magik man.
There, she and Satan, whom she called Samiel, plotted against Eve out of jealous pride. Lilith was the first wife. Eve was the do-over. But Lilith was not rewarded with settlements and alimony from the failed marriage; all had been handed over to Eve.
The serpent had his revenge against the woman, Eve, and she and Adam were also expelled.
She fell in love with Samiel, and they had a daughter, Lamia, the reincarnated Lilith. Lamia lived in Egypt for fifteen hundred years before coming to South Africa, giving birth to herself, living under the same ruse, the same name. She is the reincarnation of her mother, Lilith, the mythological creature, half serpent, half woman, only she’s no myth. She is Jeffrey’s daughter.
Charles tapped his steering wheel. He pulled back onto the road acknowledging that if it hadn’t been for the pleading letters, he never would have come back to this God-forsaken place.
49
The person who wrote to Charles begged for his help.
He had sat down at his desk in his room and examined the envelope: no return address, but it was stamped from South Africa. The handwriting was neat and in perfect penmanship.
There had been several letters. They arrived in different stationary each time. Each letter was a surprise. He had been compelled to open them, perusing the first few lines before committing to read. He remembered them all word for word.
May 2013
Dear Father Charles,
Eva’s demon, Mr. Granger, turned on Eva. Granger put the idea in my head to kill her and take her place as the anti-Christ.
I used a clawed hammer on the house. Blood spilled from the walls and I was supposed to douse her with poison while giving birth. She would have melted into the floorboards and descend to hell, where she belongs. Instead, I threw the poison on Granger. Granger dissolved under the house. The walls were patched, sealing Granger inside.
But I was lonely. Granger comforted me as a friend, talking to me through the walls. I let Granger out again. Since then, we have become allies. That, Father Charles, is my problem.
Eva has been reborn and is now my teenage daughter. I refused to name her; I refer to her as “the girl.” She is the Lamia—the half serpent, half female spawns of Lilith and Samiel.
Lamia is capable of anything. Those under her spell are like dogs kept in place with the meaty bones she feeds them.
Who am I? I have asked myself that question every time I look in a mirror.
I’ve a constant headache. Migraines come and go. I look like a warped version of my former self. I feel like I am on fire inside my skin. Please, Father Charles. You’re the only one who can help me.
May 2013
Dear Father Charles,
I see things through her, and I am always aware of her. She killed me.
I am so sorry, Father Charles. I don’t want to be what I am. Help me.
June 2013
Dear Father Charles,
When I wakened from death, I filled my chest with an enormous breath. Winged, colourful light filled my mind. Every colour in the rainbow manifested a sensation. Red was confusion, orange was stubborn and sounded like the crack of a whip, yellow made my head hurt. Green was solid, blue slipped through my fingers. Violet was numbers, it was powerful, and it was the only colour that made me weep.
Then, my vision went black, and I was grounded like a fallen plane. My feet and hands tingled, my brain felt like it was filled with popping corn. A current buzzed through my body, fizzling and snapping inside. My hands and feet began to warm, and my muscles ached as they jerked back to life.
I struggled to sit up. I placed a hand on my chest and coughed only once, hacking up a blob of mucus I promptly spat onto the floor.
I scrambled clumsily to my feet, stood, and faced her.
There could be no true YHWH, I told myself, if He would allow another the power to create something out of nothing.
June 2013
Dear Father Charles,
Tell Lindsey her daughter is alive.
Forgive me, Father. You must help me, soon.
How could she bring Caroline back? Charles had been the one to dig Caroline’s body from the public cemetery, dump her into another open grave on hallowed ground, and then set her to fire before reburying her.
Charles hadn’t told Lindsey, Caroline’s mother, about the letters. He didn’t think it necessary to break her heart again. Besides, any of Eva’s wicked cohorts could have authored the letters. Perhaps Jeffrey and Caroline weren’t alive. Perhaps it was all a lie.
July 2013
Dear Father Charles,
There are those who wander about her forest like lost children. Her forest crawls with those she has killed and brought back from the dead.
Necromancy, I believe, is the technical name of raising people from death. She uses them to do her bidding.
Have you ever heard of any witch being able to bring someone to life from ashes? YHWH raised Adam from ashes. Lilith originated in Eden and out of ashes. Would He give the Lamia the same power?
As I write with one hand, the other has to hold my head—it feels like an anvil. I am burning inside. There is nothing to sooth the pain. Please help me.
The last letter was the one to move Charles to action. Something apocalyptic was happening in South Africa; he felt it in his heart.
July 2013
Dear Father Charles,
Do you know what it’s like to die? At death you may be surrounded by those you love, but you die alone. The death process does not discriminate, and it is the same for me as it will be for you.
Scalp and feet cool to the touch.
Charles had rubbed his feet together while reading. The first few words already made him uncomfortable, and he had a hard
time continuing.
Skin colour greys with the decrease in blood circulation. Urine becomes tea-coloured as circulation to the kidneys slows.
Charles’s hands were cold, and his scalp chilled. He wondered if the heat had been turned down. The rectory where he lived was modest, but Father Charles liked to keep his room warm. His stomach rumbled, and he became queasy. A mirror on the wall across from the desk where he sat showed a grey, pale face.
The lungs take on a different breathing pattern indicating a decrease in circulation to the internal organs. Restlessness sets in with the decrease in oxygen to the brain. You become disoriented.
Charles cleared his throat. His feet itched to move, and he had a sudden urge to stand up and walk. He stood and became dizzy with a sudden rush to his head. His legs ached, he realized, as if he had run a marathon. He sat back down, still holding and reading the letter.
The metabolism slows as the body conserves energy needed for the death task, and you no longer desire food or drink. The chest gurgles due to decreased fluids and the inability to cough up secretions. The death rattle begins.
Saliva pooled in the back of Charles’s throat, and he swallowed twice to get it down. His tongue felt heavy with spit, and mucus filled the back of his throat. He took in a deep breath and heard a faint gurgle in his chest. Stop reading, he told himself, but could not.
As the muscles in the body relax, you lose control of you bladder and bowels, excreting foul smells and sounds.
Charles belched. Warmth spread across his crotch and down his thighs. He farted, releasing a slushy, foul mess in his pants.
Chemical changes in the muscles cause them to contract and stiffen, affecting the smallest muscles first.
Charles’s vision started closing in. He barely managed to read the last three lines of the letter when his arms and legs began to jerk; his fingers stiffened. Charles clutched his chest with one hand as his entire body convulsed. He was still holding the letter tight when his eyes closed.
Closed eyes will open slightly. The lower jaw will fall open, and the neck will jut forward as it stiffens. Rigor mortis sets in.
“Father Charles? Father?” from a woman’s voice. When he couldn’t move, his mind panicked, thinking he was dead, bound and wrapped, and this was his viewing. He opened his eyes and let out a startling holler.
He was lying on his bed, the fireplace stoked and hot. He was tucked in tightly under a heavy fleece. Once Charles saw the woman at the foot of his bed and saw he lay in his own room, he quieted.
“Shush, Father. You took a spill.” She came to his side and helped him as he struggled to free himself from the blanket.
“Be still, Father.”
“The letter I was reading?” he asked, looking across the room at his desk and his overturned chair.
“I have it,” she said.
“Give it to me,” he demanded, sitting up. “And the envelope.” She turned away as he adjusted his nightshirt. A basin and washcloth were by the bed. The poor woman had washed him.
She handed him the letter and envelope. Charles took in a deep breath, then another, listening to his chest. He swallowed with ease. He placed one foot on the floor tentatively, then the next.
“Are you alright, Father?” she asked. “You shouldn’t be getting out of bed.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He had saved the previous letters in a neat stack on his desk. “Give me those as well,” he said, gesturing toward the stack on his desk.
She handed them to him.
He stood, took a few steps toward the fireplace, and tossed the papers into the flames. He would finish what he had set out to do thirteen years ago, and do whatever it took to stop Eva, even if it meant dying.
50—Inspector Tseme Dusu
The call came at eight that morning. Captain Thuzien, spokesman and chief officer of the Cape Town Police Department, rang Inspector Dusu at his office and asked to meet with him.
“What about?” Dusu asked.
Dusu knew what Thuzien wanted. Quite understandably, the recent bylines in Die Burger newspaper and online written by Mason Barry, an American, grated on the nerves of the entire department. A picture of Dusu had been printed in one of the articles, along with a prouder one of Thuzien. Citizens from the surrounding towns were ringing on a regular basis, asking if there was any truth in the articles. People wanted answers to their outlandish questions regarding the disappearances, grave robberies, and zombies. “If you can’t protect us, then should we hire a sangoma? Do you have one on your force? Have you arrested any zombies? Should I keep my small pets inside at night?”
The Unit’s involvement did not sit well with Thuzien, and neither did Dusu’s temporary relocation from Pretoria to Cape Town. The most recent article about a missing woman living on the van Hollinsworth estate had made the morning news. Traffic jammed on Victoria Road with people driving painfully slow, trying to find the gates to the house. Helicopters had been seen flying overhead, hovering, searching. Jeffrey Thurmont had made his legal threats, putting intense pressure on the department. Thankfully, according to Thuzien, her gate and mansion were well concealed, and so Thuzien expected the traffic and gossip to fall as quickly as it had risen.
“Typically, I would be the one running this case,” Thuzien said, his deep voice loud and brisk over the receiver, “But it seems to have been assigned to you and the Unit. I thought I would come up and go over a few things with you, fill you in on how things are done around here.” Dusu and Thuzien resided in the same building, different floors.
“When would you like to meet?” Dusu asked, tearing open one of a dozen small boxes of antacids lying inside his desk drawer. He chewed the cheaper brand sold at the chemist’s. It was not the most effective brand, but he patronized the local chemists for good reason; chemists met the old and the young, kept in touch with the traditional and the modern, heard gossip from the shanties, villages, and cities.
“I can meet you in a half hour.”
Dusu glanced at the clock on the wall.
“This must be important,” Dusu said, noting it would be lunch time in a half hour. Not that Thuzien had a reputation, but Dusu knew the man valued his meal times and took extended lunches on a regular basis.
There was a pause.
Thuzien sighed, and said, “It is. Unfortunately. In my professional opinion, there is not much respect for your police branch, Inspector. This Mason Barry could be better handled by my department. I want to throw the trouble maker in jail for a few days for interfering and stirring up unrest. Our jails are not as nice as the American jails. I’m sure the experience would make a lasting impression.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Dusu replied. “I’ll see you in a half hour.” Dusu hung up the phone and grimaced.
Ever since Mason Barry included the van Hollinsworth name in his articles, things had taken a serious turn. Calling the house haunted was one thing. Claiming missing persons wandered the property was another. Information was best gathered quietly, cautiously. Mason’s loud articles were calling attention—no doubt his intent—but he was gaining the wrong attention.
Mason had no idea what he was getting himself into. No one had been able to get inside the van Hollinsworth family, and there was no safety ladder to climb back out. Best case scenario? Mason will be called out as a liar. He will go back home. That being the scenario, Mason would be lucky if he didn’t get slapped with a slander lawsuit; Edward van Hollinsworth was a political figure, and Jeffrey Thurmont was one of South Africa’s most prominent solicitors.
Worst case? Mason disappears, or dies, and not a quick death.
51
“Good afternoon,” Dusu said when the tall and broad Captain Thuzien entered his office.
Thuzien grunted a reply. Dusu had met his fair share of disagreeable officers, upset with him for moving into their land to take over their case.
Before transferring Dusu to Cape Town, the Unit investigated all the officers employed in the building. It behooved th
e Unit to know which ones were suspected of being crooked or ineffective. There was not much on Thuzien, other than territorialism. The man micro-managed, and he liked business done his way. Unless Dusu were to find out Thuzien was on her payroll, he would try to stay on his good side.
“Please, sit down,” Dusu said, gesturing to a fabric-covered folding chair on the other side of his desk.
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