The Witch's Ladder

by Dana Donovan

  Akasha’s words read like gospel. As she preached, the unlikely evangelist kept an eye on her peers, continuously searching for validation in their faces and concurrence in their eyes. But her story of Lilith, the she-demon, left only more questions, confounding the matter and confusing the issues. I tried making heads or tails of the sermon, but frankly found it absurd.

  Lilith pushed her chair out from the table and eased her five-foot-eight-inch frame to her feet. She started walking, slipping her hands into her back pockets where her onionskin jeans hugged her butt so tightly, only her fingertips fit. As she continued around the table, passing the window where Travis’ thought-form had just played out his final minutes so vividly, she took her time in contemplating the words she would choose next, giving opportunity for anyone in the room to say something to defuse the situation.

  Nobody did.

  Nobody dared.

  She turned to face the twins.

  “I owe no one an explanation as to why I changed my name,” she said, coldly. “Least not the likes of you two twits.” She swept the bangs from her eyes with a flick of her hand. “For the record, however, I’ll tell you all anyway. I did change my name from Sonya Stewart to Lilith Adams after a right of passage ceremony, in part because of what you say. It’s true. Lilith was of Adam, created by God as his twin, but she was not his equal. And it’s true she refused to lie submissively beneath him, as later the obedient Eve so willingly obliged. Eventually, Lilith left Adam, angry because he continually denied her the equality she so righteously deserved.” Lilith’s brow arched curiously. “You know in a way, I see Lilith as mankind’s first suffragist, fighting for the equality that all women still fight for today. You of all people, Shekina and Akasha, should appreciate that. If not for your father’s wealth, you two would still be home in your backwards little village having babies and serving your men barefoot and bare breasted and speaking only when spoken to.”

  She paused long enough to consider her own words. “Come to think of it,” a sly smile crossed her lips, “maybe that’s why you’re both so outspoken now. Maybe you hate me because I’m everything you wish you could be, but are not.”

  The twins glared but did not speak. Perhaps they expected a denial from Lilith regarding her name change. Instead, Lilith admitted proudly that she had changed her name to pay homage to the infamous fiend. For Lilith, the declaration proved empowering, even liberating. She held her head high. “I do not sleep with Satan,” she continued. “I don’t even believe in him. So of course I have no need to bring him offerings of human sacrifice. However, I do warn everyone here. You should know your foe as you know your friend. You all saw Travis tonight. It appears his foe was his friend, and since I suspect that Detective Marcella is too cautious to say what he’s thinking, I’ll say it for him. In all probability, the so-called Surgeon Stalker is either in this room now or is home avoiding us tonight.”

  “You don’t mean Leona?”

  “Yes, Chris. Leona.”

  “No way. Impossible.”

  “Perhaps, but if not Leona, then you’ll have to agree that somebody here is most likely a cold-blooded murderer. And whoever it is, I’m sure he feels the circle of justice closing in.”

  “Or she,” said Michael.

  “Yes. Or she.”

  Lilith’s words made it abundantly clear that no one was above suspicion. They turned to me, and I’m sure the look on my face spoke of concurrence. I could hardly have said it better. Her message cut straight to the point. In all probability, the killer dwelled among us, a virtual wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  I stood, stepped to the head of the table and said, “Look, before you all go jumping down one another’s throats, let me say this. It’s true I must consider you all suspects by association. I’m sure that comes as no surprise to anyone, at least it shouldn’t. But you should know I’m not limiting my investigation to this group alone. In fact none of you are actually very high on my list. Although some seem eager to point fingers, I see no evidence leading me to believe that any of you know anything about the killings other than what you’ve learned here tonight. Do you all agree?”

  A number of heads nodded. Before saying goodbye, I offered everyone a final word of advice. It was something they heard just moments before, yet somehow I hoped it would carry more weight coming from me. “Folks, as a wise person once said, know your foe as you know your friend. I think that’s good advice.”

  Lilith smiled at me. I glanced back before leaving the room and returned the smile; though admittedly still uncertain which one was she, friend or foe.

  Shortly after I left, Valerie also vacated the building. Gordon and Doctor Lieberman left not long after. Jean, Lilith and the twins followed respectively. I know that because my officer kept a vigil out in the parking lot, dividing his attention between listening to the police radio and watching the fight on his portable TV. As the members left the building, he made notes of their departures and wrote down the license plate numbers of the vehicles as they pulled away.

  Michael and Chris stayed behind, according to Michael, to discuss the evening’s astounding turn of events. Their views differed concerning the possibility that the killer could be one of their own. Michael supported the theory; Chris did not. Their debate grew lively at times, with Michael banging his fist on the table to drive his point home. Chris countered with statistics and probabilities, accompanied by hand gestures and more table thumping. In the end, the only thing both agreed on was that they could agree on nothing at all.

  In the wake of silence, Chris walked to the window, pulled the blinds back and made mention of the patrol car parked outside. “My, God,” he uttered. He turned and checked the wall clock over the door. “Look at that. It’s after midnight. Everyone else is gone. We’re the only ones in the building.”

  “Damn,” said Michael. “I didn’t realize how late it was. This isn’t a good place to be this time of night.”

  “Not unless you have some extra body parts you don’t need. C’mon, let’s go.”

  Michael grabbed his coat, “Don’t need to tell me twice,” he said.

  The two stampeded across the hall and down the steps. Stopping at the door, Chris said, “Man, you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I really need to call home and let my family know I’m on my way. Can I use your phone?”

  “Don’t have it. Where’s yours?”

  “I left it at home on the charger.”

  “So you don’t call.”

  “No, I have to. I’ve got almost an hour drive. They’ll worry themselves sick over me.”

  “There’s a phone in the back lobby. You can use that one.”

  Chris looked past his shoulder into the darkened hall beyond the stairs. “I guess. You gonna wait for me?”

  Michael checked his watch. “I don’t know. It is getting late.”

  “Okay. Forget it. Go on, I’ll be all right.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure, you go.”

  “Okay. Listen. Marcella’s guy is still out there in the cruiser. You should be…I mean you will be fine.”

  “I know,” Chris nodded toward the door. “Now go. I’ll see you at the next workshop.”

  “You got it then. Take care.”

  The two shook hands. Michael turned, pushed the door open, stepped outside and sprinted off. Chris watched his fading silhouette disappear into the night, swallowed by whisks of milky-white fog and echoes of moon-cast shadows. He doubled back and followed the darkened hallway to the far end of the complex. There, in the back lobby on a reception desk, he found a phone. He called his mother and told her he would be home soon; that she shouldn’t wait up. And then he told her he loved her. She asked him to hurry. He said he would—promised, and hung up.

  What happened next is mostly speculation on my part, fueled by information from a source I shall tell you about later.

  Back at the front door, Chris took one last look outside. Fog had rolled in much thicker th
an before, consuming the landscape beyond the parking lot and covering everything in a milky white haze. He pushed the door open, stepped out into the night and allowed the door to lock behind him.

  His long strides shuttled him across the lot in double-time until the toot of a horn stopped him in his tracks. He glanced back over his shoulder. A wave of lights from the patrol car flooded over him in mystic swirls. He could see the officer inside only as a shadow, waving him over. He smiled and waved back. The horn tooted again. Once more, the shadowed silhouette silently beckoned. Chris ran to the car, reaching the driver’s side window short of breath, but glad to be safe in the protection of the law.

  “Hey,” he said, panting. “What’s up? You honk?”

  The officer said nothing.

  “So, how’s it going?”

  Still no answer.

  “What are you watching? Is that the fight?” Chris leaned into the window enough to catch a glimpse of the television. He squinted to make out the details on the screen. Slowly, the images came into focus. He gasped and swallowed with a forceful gulp. It couldn’t have seemed possible, yet somehow the images broadcasted on the television were the same as those he has seen on the window with Travis’ thought-form. Again, the murder of Travis Webber played out before his eyes in vivid detail.

  He pushed away from the window just as the end came for Travis and the picture faded from the screen. He looked at the officer with dismay, but the officer still would not look up.

  “Did you see that?” he said, his voice croaking. “Did you see what just happened there? That was Travis.”

  Something stirred in the corner of his eye. He turned sharply and looked out toward the parking lot. Leona Diaz stood silent, awash in a mist of illumination swirling about her. She appeared dazed, barefoot and naked, but for a shear nightgown, and if he could trust his eyes, she was hovering several inches off the ground.

  “Leona!”

  She did not respond, but motioned with her head from side to side.

  He turned to see if the officer could see her too, and was surprised to find him not looking. He reached out and nudged him on the shoulder. The officer slumped over, and Chris could see then that his throat had been slashed. He stumbled away from the window, horrified. He turned again to Leona. Her tears fell silent, her head shaking no in anguish.

  “What have you done?” he shouted. “Why did you do this?”

  She stood mute. Her mouth moved but no words came out.

  Chris shrugged. “I don’t understand. What are you telling me?”

  She raised a finger and pointed.

  “Me?” he asked, pointing to himself.

  She shook her head no.

  “I don’t get it. You’re not pointing at me?”

  No.

  “You…are you pointing behind me?”

  Yes.

  He wheeled about, his fears and instincts realized too late. He managed only one word: the same word Travis managed before his death. “You!”

  The Surgeon Stalker plunged his blade into Chris’ gut with the force of a charging bull. It tore upward through his chest, cutting meat and scoring bone indiscriminately until reaching the top of his neck. The attack came so quickly that Chris, like Travis Webber, was still alive when he fell to his knees with the Surgeon’s blade propping up his jaw. The shadowed demon smiled wickedly as he pulled the blade out, slicing his chin through to his lower lip. Chris’ body dropped to the ground like a rag doll. A thickening stream of blood beaded in trails and snaked along the pavement in quiet retreat.

  Just feet away, Leona’s apparition faded into the swirling vortex of fog, leaving the Stalker to finish the harvest in the still of a haze-shrouded night.

  Six

  On the other side of town in a small efficiency, Leona awoke, her frail body dripping in sweat, unable to cope with the frightful vision of what she had witnessed. In a debriefing later she told me how she tried desperately to convince herself it was nothing more than a dream, but deep down she knew the truth. It was not a dream, only another wicked night of bilocation. For reasons she did not understand, the forces that brought her to bear witness to bloodshed, also stopped her from changing the course of the events. As a spectator, she could do nothing—the outcome was always inevitable and predestined.

  Leona told me her first thought after waking was to call me, but she decided against it, unsure of what she might say. She knew I suspected her involvement somehow in the Suffolk’s Walk murders. I had been to her apartment twice already to talk about it, but missed her both times. How would she explain her knowledge of the latest murders to me? Bilocation? To the nonbeliever it would seem too fantastic, and knowing more about the killings than even the police could prove enough to persuade a skeptic of bilocation that she was either involved or responsible for the murders herself.

  At daybreak, her telephone rang.

  “Hello, Leona. It’s Val. I’m sorry to call you so early. Did I wake you?”

  “No, you did not wake me, Valerie. I was just about to make de cafe.”

  “Okay. Listen. I’m afraid I have some bad news to tell you. It’s about Chris.”

  “I know. He is dead.”

  “Did you see it on the news this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you hear about it, on the radio?”

  Leona began rambling on about something in Spanish, though much too quickly for Valerie to catch it all.

  “Whoa—whoa, slow down,” said Valerie. “Start from the beginning.”

  Leona took a deep breath and let it out with a quiver. “Valerie, I need to talk to you and the others, but I do not want to see Detective Marcella. I am afraid he will not understand.”

  “Leona. Dear God, what is it? Are you all right?”

  Leona nodded.

  “Are you all right, Leona?”

  Another nod.

  “Geezus, girl. If you’re nodding your head, stop it. I may be clairvoyant, but the phone is still the best medium for cross-town conversations.”

  “Yes, I am fine.” She laughed. “Can we meet tonight?”

  “Sure. I’ll call Doctor Lieberman and the others, tell him we need to meet as a support group.” After a brief silence, she added, “You know Detective Marcella will want to be there, too. You may not be able to avoid him.”

  “Yes, I know. Perhaps that is not so bad. Who knows, maybe….” She sighed. “We will see.”

  Later that night, the group filed somberly across the parking lot, skirting the perimeter of the crime scene masked off in yellow tape. The county medical examiner had removed the bodies, but one could still clearly see where the murders took place. A chalked outline of Chris’ body ringed the ground next to the parking spot where the patrol car sat. Small orange police cones marked the dried blood that trailed downhill through the lot into a drainage grate.

  Across the street, reporters and news crews trained their cameras on the bewildered faces of the arriving workshop members, their lights drawing the attention of both the curious and the morbid. The gathering crowd of onlookers lent a ghoulish sense of disorder to the picture, as the city gobbled up its live-at-five television report on the latest Surgeon Stalker killings.

  Inside the building, the group gathered in the room on the second floor at the top of the stairs, taking their seats around the big oak tables as usual. Down the hall, Doctor Lieberman discussed the future of the workshop with Doctor Lowell in his office. At one point, the group overheard Doctor Lowell demand that the workshop disband. Doctor Lieberman argued vehemently against it.

  “This whole thing is just bad publicity for the Center,” Doctor Lowell complained. “We have people out there that think you’re running some kind of psycho-sorcery playhouse. Some say you’re toying with this Surgeon Stalker by enticing him with live human bait. My God. How else can the Center explain why three people from the same workshop were singled out by this…this madman?”

  Back in the classroom, tears were already mixing with
goodbyes when Doctor Lieberman returned, grinning.

  “Don’t pack your bags yet,” he announced. “I’ve convinced him to let us continue the workshops.”

  “How did you pull that off?” Lilith asked.

  “Never mind. Let’s just say that I offered up a very persuasive argument, but let there be no mistake. Doctor Lowell and I are extremely concerned for your safety. And I must warn you, should we continue, the Center cannot ensure your safety any more than Detective Marcella can. Our vigilance and caution may be our only defense for survival in the days and weeks to come. That is if you all still want to continue.”

  Valerie stood and said, “Before you all answer, I think you may want to hear this.” All eyes turned to her. “I guess it’s clear by now that for whatever reason, somebody wants us dead. I know that Detective Marcella interviewed Michael again this morning and I’m sure he’ll be up here shortly wanting to question the rest of us. Before he does, there’s something you all should know and we need to discuss whether we should tell Detective Marcella or not.”

  She turned to Leona and took her hand. “Last night, as you all know, while the rest of the town slept, something terrible happened, something so shocking and brutal that the devil’s own could not have committed a more hideous act. Something so gruesome and so horrifying that absolutely nobody on Earth should have had to witness it, certainly no one as precious and innocent as this young woman. Unfortunately…” She swept the room with her gaze. “Leona witnessed it. She was there last night through bilocation. She saw Chris and that officer slain by that savage bastard.”

  “You saw it all?” Gordon asked. “You saw the killer? Who is he, someone we know?”

  “Yes, who?” Michael added, feeding the frenzy of questions thrown at Leona from all directions.

  The explosion of voices threatened to send Leona off in retreat until Lilith blurted out, “Is it one of us?”

  Her question silenced the room. Leona shrunk into her chair; her eyes darted nervously from one curious face to the other before settling again on Valerie Spencer. Just the warmth in her eyes seemed to calm Leona. She smiled, stood and made her way slowly to the window. Below, the remaining investigators had begun packing up for the evening. The news people and their bright lights had already gone, pressed to meet the six o’clock news deadline. Leona opened her mouth and her soft-spoken words spilled out effortlessly.