Previous praise for SIREN’S CALL:
“SIREN’S CALL is horror of the human kind. There are no supernatural beings in this serial killer thriller but Serena is the personification of pure evil. She repels readers just as Stephen King’s monsters do because they can’t believe she is capable of such atrocities. The denizens of Silky Femmes are all criminals to one degree or another which is one of the reasons this book is so chilling and mesmerizing.”
—Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine
4 out of 5 stars!
“This is truly an edge of your seat read. I highly recommend Ms. Mitchell’s read.”
—K. Ahlers, Independent Reviewer
4 out of 5 stars!
“I urge my fellow readers this is a book you will find hard to put down as I read it in only 1 day. I look forward to reading more of Ms. Mitchell’s books in the future.”
— TP, Independent Reviewer
“Mary Ann Mitchell’s book is a story about fallible people making the best decisions they can in a dark and dreary world that’s only a short drive away from anywhere we live. It is the dark journey into this reality that makes this book truly worth reading, and heeding. For the demons and drives that plague the protagonists in SIREN’S CALL remind us of their very real presence whenever we flip open a newspaper or turn on the TV.”
—Thor the Barbarian
“Mitchell’s fine prose and characters should keep your interest until the good ending.”
— The Horror Fiction Review
Published 2007 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2007 by Mary Ann Mitchell
Cover Illustration by Adam Mock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Typeset in Caslon 540
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
DEDICATION:
Thank you, John, for all your support.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter-Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter
1
Down a long wooded dirt road there lives a witch in a secluded cottage. No, the cottage is not made of gingerbread. It is made from the bones of animals and humans. Notches are cut into the bones so that each bone fits snugly into the bone next to it. The bones have been carefully prepared and lacquered to give the house a gloss in the afternoon sun. The doors and windows have tiny bones meshed decoratively into each other. Flourishes rise up the sides of the cottage, leading to a widow’s walk of ex-husbands. Some of the husbands were gentle and loving, and those bones she put to the front so she can always be reminded of them. The cruel, uncaring husbands’ bones are used as connective material, out of sight, covered by a putty-like substance that is of her own making. Please do not ask what it is made from.
For a witch, she is a pleasant-looking woman with small, brittle bones surrounded by several layers of fat that give her a grandmotherly look. Her hair is coarse and cut bluntly to her shoulders. The color is a reddish, blondish grey, with dark greasy spots marking where she had laid her head the night before. Her facial features are delicate, with a small pug nose, huge almond eyes, and full lips, the bottom one making her look pouty.
Her clothes are simple and second-hand. No clothes-horse, this witch. She uses the clothes she collects from her visitors who never leave. She can always find room for another set of bones. Currently she is thinking about building an extension to the cottage, although she does worry about losing the well-planned flow of the house.
A garden is situated to the right of the house. Here she grows herbs for her brews and vegetables for her stews. Long stalks of corn have about ripened. Soon she will take her scythe to the plants.
The day we arrive, the stone path that leads to the front door is slick. She has just finished watering the lawn and cleaning off the path. Her home is very tidy. As we walk the path, please look out for the squiggly snakes that like to bask in the sun. Most of the snakes are harmless. One or two are poisonous and quite large,
but they are also lazy, and I’m sure you’ll be able to outrun them.
When you climb the steps to the front door, you’ll see a brass knocker. It is the shape of a twisted braid of garlic. A memento from when she was trying to get rid of her third husband. No, you’ll not find his bones here. Actually, you’ll probably not find him within a million miles of this house. The break-up was not amicable.
Carefully lift the bottom bulb of the knocker and gently rap it against the door. She has sensitive hearing, and you don’t want to irritate her before you even get to meet her. And, by the way, IT will be in view as soon as she opens the door. Very proud she is of IT.
Yes, yes, she’s at home. I can hear her oversized shoes shuffling across the floor. This is the time of day when she usually cleans. She’ll be shaking out her bed covers and dusting the few pieces of furniture. The mirror on the hall wall she always keeps covered. A fine silk scarf dangles from the top edges of the mirror’s frame. Note the frame when you go in. Bone and teeth speckle the frame. She has painted them delightful colors that shine in the dark.
Don’t dawdle! I must insist you rap now before I rush off to hide myself.
“Rap, rap, rap.”
The shuffling feet are coming nearer. I must now depart.
The doorknob turns, and the door slowly opens.
The visitor is wondering what the hell he was thinking when he agreed to come here.
“Hello.” The witch’s voice is charming. There is a
hint of a tinkle, making the visitor feel at ease.
“Hi,” the visitor says.
The witch carefully looks the visitor’s figure over and must like what she sees, because she invites the stranger into her home.
In walks the visitor, eyes darting all around the hall searching for IT.
“Would you like to come into the parlor and sit?”
The witch leads the visitor into the next room, but the visitor hesitates, taking several backward glances.
“Come, sit in this chair.”
The visitor thinks the chair looks curiously like a skeleton waiting to be padded. Looking around the room, the visitor sees something much more comfortable. A pile of plush pillows are strewn across the center of the floor. Immediately the visitor heads for the downy softness.
“Fine, fine. I will sit here myself. You are selling something?” The witch waits patiently; a smile barely lifts the edges of her mouth.
“No, not at all.”
“Fine, fine.” She earnestly stares at the visitor, waiting for conversation to begin.
“I’m here looking for something.”
“And do you see IT?”
The visitor glances around the room and notices only a table with several lit candles upon it.
“No, but then I was told I should see IT immediately upon entering your cottage.”
“Mmmm. Something I would keep on display.” The witch thinks deeply about this. “You must mean the egg. The Russian egg. The bright golden-colored one I used to have.”
“Used to have?”
“So what is your name?”
“Brandy.”
“You mean like the liquor?”
“Yes, Mom was in her cups when I was born. After birthing me, she called out for another brandy, but the doctor mistook it to be my name.”
“Tsk, tsk. I so do feel for you. To be named after an alcoholic beverage cannot be pleasant,” the witch consoles.
“Being born to an abusive parent was much worse than being called Brandy.”
“Such a shame. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“No, I won’t be staying long.”
“Please, please don’t go. I am very much enjoying your company.” She shows her teeth, and not a single one is straight.
“Besides, I wasn’t looking for the egg.”
“No!” She taps her fingers on an arm bone that looks as if it has come from a giant.
“It would have been nice to see the egg, of course, but that was not my main purpose in coming here.” Brandy crosses his right leg over his left.
“Ah, a puzzle you are giving me.” The witch snuggles her rear deeper into the bones of the chair. “I love puzzles. Sure you wouldn’t like something to eat or drink? It may take me a very long time to solve this puzzle.”
“Nonsense. I will tell you what I am looking for. You won’t have to guess.”
“No! No! Much disappointment if you don’t let me play the game. And you wouldn’t want to disappoint a frail, old woman, would you?”
“I don’t really have the time to waste.”
“Waste time? One never wastes time when one is engaged in deep thought. Clues. Perhaps you could give me some clues. That might speed up the time it takes me.” The witch sits forward in her seat and leans her head to one side.
“Okay, if this is important to you.”
“Important? Much is important, but certainly servicing your visit with the appropriate object is most important at this moment.” She claps her hands. “Quick! Quick! Give me a clue, but don’t make it too easy for me to guess what you are looking for.”
“I’ve been sent by a troll.”
“Is that your clue?”
The visitor nods.
“What kind of troll?”
“An ugly one.”
“But they are all ugly. How am I to guess if you won’t play the game seriously?” Frustrated, the witch rubs her nose so hard the visitor believes it will fall off.
“He was a talkative troll.”
“How do you know the troll was a he?”
The visitor shrugs.
“I really don’t know how to determine their sex, madam. And I wouldn’t be interested even if I could.” The visitor thinks all this talk a waste. Why couldn’t the troll have told him exactly where to look?
“Ah, but the sex is important. You see, female trolls always tell the truth, and male trolls never do.”
“He could have lied to me about the—”
“No, no, please don’t give the answer away. We must play this game through. Now, your first clue is that you were sent by a troll of indeterminate sex. This truly gives me pause. You see, I know many trolls both alive and dead.”
“This one is alive, I assure you, for I was just speaking with … er … the troll.” The visitor wonders whether IT could be buried under the pile of pillows on which he sits. Attempting to be inconspicuous, he begins to peel away layer after layer of pillows.
“If you are uncomfortable there, I will change seats with you,” the witch eagerly offers.
The visitor, thinking the skeletal chair looks not only uncomfortable but morbid, stops engaging in his pillow toss.
“No, madam. The chair certainly looks well-made, but I have a bad back, and I don’t think having bones sticking in my back would help.”
“You do have bones sticking in your back. Nice bones, I’d say from the look of your physique. Your little vertebrae are probably a pretty sight.”
“Shall we return to our guessing game, madam?”
“A live troll of indeterminate sex sent you here. And where is this troll now?”
“I presume he is waiting outside for me.”
“And why do you presume that? Did he tell you he would wait?”
“No, but … Why wouldn’t he?”
The witch yawns and stretches her club-like arms.
“Because he would get terribly bored waiting for you.”
“I don’t intend to be long,” answers the visitor.
The witch claps her hands.
“It is time for another clue. Please try to give me a better clue.”
“Better than what I have given you?”
“You’ve hardly gone out of your way to assist me. But that is fine, for we don’t want me to guess too soon and spoil your visit.”
“Arachnid.”
The witch jumps up from her chair screaming. “Where? Where?”
“That was meant to be a clue, madam.”
&
nbsp; “Naughty, naughty.” The witch giggles and reseats herself on the skeleton chair. “I have some in the basement, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I am looking for a particular one.”
“Oh, and does this spider sing or dance? Perhaps he calculates quickly inside his head. Or better still, he may be able to lift weights one hundred times his size.”
“Madam, I am looking for a giant mummified spider.”
“I don’t have him anymore. Used him for a spell, you see. Can I get you some bat wing or toad legs instead?”
“But he or she swore you still had IT in your entrance hall.”
“He lied.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I still have a mummified leg or two, if you’d like to see them.” The witch stands. Suddenly she seems to tower over the visitor.
“But the spider was important to me.”
“Why? Are you related?”
“Hardly, madam. I was going to write my thesis on the spider.”
“Well, I still have a leg or two. You could go ahead and write a thesis about them. The legs are very long and dark, and I’m sure they have all kinds of secrets embedded in them. Come and I’ll show them to you.” The witch reaches out her right hand toward the visitor.
“Where are they?” he asks.
“In the basement.”
“Can you not bring them here?”
“Oh, they are so long and thick. Much thickness for a spider’s leg.”
“How did you get them down to the basement in the first place?”
“A troll helped me.”
“An ugly troll?”
“One of the ugliest,” she says.
“And did he promise to send me to you?”
“Not you per se.”
“Just a live human body?”
“He always does. You see, I need a wart from a human hand.”
“Well, I have none,” Brandy says, raising his hands into the air so the witch can view them.
“Wait! Wait!” The witch prevents him from lowering his hands. “Must see! Yes, must see.” Holding his hands tightly in hers, she scans the flesh. “There, there,” she screams, jumping up and down. “An immature one. It needs time to grow.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Very tiny, the wart. Teensy-tiny wart.”
“Well, the wart probably isn’t big enough for you to use.”
“Mmmmmm. Big enough.”
The Witch Page 1
