by Hazel Holmes
Thankfully, Kegan was covered with a blanket below the waist, but he still wore that vacant expression. He was still under the witch’s control. And Iris had to be the one to break it.
“I’m surprised you wanted to see this,” the witch said, still in bed next to Kegan and smiling. “Have you decided to expend the rest of your energy to watch me defile what’s left of your family?” She cackled and placed her hand on Kegan’s chest.
Iris wiped the sweat still streaming off her face. She wobbled on both legs, the heat penetrating her skin and attacking her bones, muscles, and organs. But she fought the exhaustion and the pain, still holding that covered object that Sarah had given her. It was the only thing left in her possession to draw strength from, and she clung to it for dear life.
“You will leave this house, witch,” Iris said, her voice forceful and angry, but unsteady with its volatility.
But she only laughed, rolling over Kegan on the bed and placing her bare feet on the floor. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her breasts bounced suggestively and matched the lustful nature of her swinging hips.
“You do not command me, hag,” the witch said. “And when my master arrives, he will show you the true meaning of torture. The more you try and resist here, the harder it’s going to be for you when he finally arrives.”
Iris retreated, unraveling the cloth, but her fingers ached.
“What strength do you have to cast me out of this house?” the witch asked, her tone growing louder and bolder. “Your family is lost, your time is done, and your last remaining heir will provide the blood I need to open the portal!”
The joints along Iris’s fingers wanted to explode as she unraveled the cloth from the object, and she slammed up against the wall near the door on her retreat, nowhere else to run.
“You have failed!” The witch lifted her arms. “Fire and blood will reign on this earth, and you are the woman who made it happen!”
The last layer of cloth fell to the floor, and Iris gripped the wooden cross in her hand, shoving it near the witch’s face, a cold look of terror on her face.
“I cast you out of this house!” Strength returned to Iris’s voice and flooded through her body as she held up the small wooden cross.
“NO!” The witch quickly retreated. She screamed and wailed in pain, swatting at the air with her hands and arms as if something was attacking her.
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I cast you back into the hell from which you came!”
Heat and wind and fire swirled in the room, all gathering around the witch as she screamed and howled in the same hastened violence as the rest of the room.
It took all of Iris’s strength and concentration to keep the cross up and not collapse into a pile of ash. The wooden cross burned in her hand as the witch continued to thrash and wail. She inched forward, moving herself and the cross closer toward the witch, which only worsened the witch’s anger.
Iris glanced over to the bed and saw Kegan stir. He twitched like he was having a seizure, and she saw conflict on his face, like he was fighting something off. Finally, he woke, popping up from the bed and gasping for air like he’d been holding his breath.
The pair locked eyes for the briefest moment, and while Kegan was confused and frightened, Iris couldn’t wipe the smile off of her face. He was alive. And if she wanted him to stay that way, then she was going to need to finish this once and for all.
Iris turned to the witch, forcing herself closer until it felt as though the skin was melting off of her face, but she pushed forward until she was only inches away from the witch’s face and the protection of fire that had engulfed her.
The witch dropped to her knees, arms thrust out above her, and the screams were so high-pitched that Iris couldn’t even hear them anymore. Iris pushed the cross a little farther, but then felt it bump against an invisible wall just before the fire. She pushed again but received the same result.
The witch looked up, her eyes on fire with rage. The beauty had faded, and weathered skin, like a snake’s skin, covered her body. Her supple breasts faded and transformed into rocky lumps. The blue in her eyes morphed into a greenish yellow, and her pupils elongated to the eyes of a reptile.
Fangs protruded from her mouth, and she flicked a forked tongue as she lunged for Iris, snatching the old woman’s wrists with her claws that extended from her hands in the forms of her nails.
Iris tried to move but found that her feet and her body were frozen in place. The witch’s snarl worsened as she pulled herself toward closer to Iris. The heat was unbearable now, and Iris screamed as though she had caught fire.
“You will burn for this, woman,” the witch said, her voice dropping an octave and ending each word with a dreadful hiss that lingered in Iris’s ears long after she stopped speaking. “Your sacrifice will mean nothing. It will do nothing. And your family will still burn with the rest of the world.”
The pain grew so intense that it faded and Iris felt as though she were numb to everything. She lowered her face and saw the witch’s wicked smile. From there, she looked back to Kegan, who had finally removed himself from the bed, his expressions fighting between that stoic and apathetic stare to expressions of fear and sympathy.
“You must help her, Kegan,” Iris said, her voice calm, but thick with grief. Tears squeezed from her eyes though she wasn’t even sure how water could survive in an environment so hot. But she felt them run down her face as she continued to look at her grandson, who was fighting for his life. “You must fight the evil that you inherited.” She smiled, and her grip on the cross weakened. “You must destroy what I could not.”
And then, the pain from the flames returned, followed quickly by the stench of burning flesh, and Iris screamed as her skin melted, and her muscles were burned and charred into black pieces of rock and ash. Every fiber that was burned, every square inch of her body that was set aflame was felt. It was her final penance for the lives that she had taken. And as the last of her flesh and bone dissolved into ash, the only thing that remained when she was dead was the cross amongst the ash.
It was like a bad dream. The images returned to Kegan in flashes, most of them foggy and clouded. It was like walking around in a haze so thick he could barely see his own hands in front of his face. But while he struggled with sight, he didn’t have any trouble hearing what was happening outside the world.
The screams penetrated through the fog as if his grandmother was standing right next to him. And anytime he tried calling back, his tongue would turn to lead in his mouth, remaining immovable no matter how hard he tried to speak.
With his vision and his ability to speak stolen, Kegan stumbled through the haze like a drunken mute, groping for anything to hold onto. He did his best to follow the screams, but every time he thought he was close, there was nothing.
The longer Kegan wandered the hazy fields of his mind the more he wanted to scream, and the more his madness grew. He had control over nothing, and a sickness consumed his thoughts, the venom of some creature that had bit him.
And just when he was about to pull his hair out, he stopped, frozen. The fog parted in front of him and Iris stood, glimmering in light and dressed in a perfectly white gown. She was still old and frail, but there was a beauty to her even with the frailty and her advanced age.
“Kegan,” Iris said. “You are the last Bell.” Her voice echoed and projected like she was in a cave, but the grandmother that Kegan had always known had shouted and screamed and was so stern and emotionless. “I will help you as much as I can, but you will have to be my hands.”
“I can’t,” Kegan said, and then jumped in surprise when he heard his own voice. He quickly started to speak, afraid that it would suddenly disappear again before he even had a chance to finish. “Whatever it is you want me to do, I can’t. I’m lost.” His voice caught in his throat. “I’m nothing. Just like my father.”
Iris floated closer to Kegan and then lifted his chin. T
he tip of her hand was so warm, and it helped ease that sickness flooding through his veins, giving him a brief moment of clarity and courage.
“You are not your father,” Iris said, her voice boasting with confidence. “You have the strength and conviction of your mother. You just have to reach out and grab it.” Her voice faded into a whisper, and then suddenly she was floating away.
Kegan tried to follow, sprinting through the fog and haze, but the faster he ran, the quicker her ghost disappeared, until finally there was nothing but clouds.
Kegan skidded to a stop, his heart pounding, suddenly covered with a slick sheen of sweat. He spun around, trying to scream his grandmother’s name, but found that his tongue had transformed back to lead, and he no longer had the strength to work it.
The sickening, poisonous rush also returned, and Kegan felt his mind slipping away. The interaction with his grandmother started to feel like nothing more than a faded memory. He panicked, his skin turning to ice, and he shut his eyes, trying to cement the images and words to memory.
But the harder he tried, the more the images only sifted through his hands. Defeated, he collapsed to his knees. He was weak. And he had no idea how to get out of this place.
89
The sun had plummeted beneath the horizon, and so did the temperature. Sarah stomped through the forest, revolver gripped in an icy hold in her right hand, and the left holding the pillowcase with the orb. She worked her way through the forest and toward Bell.
The orb was born in that place, and it was connected to it. The priest she’d spoken to had mentioned that there would need to be a strong connection between the other world and this one, so she figured that there might need to be a strong connection to try and sever its hold on the souls that it trapped in purgatory.
Sarah periodically checked her pockets on the walk, making sure that she still had the cross and the tubes of holy water. She felt good having them, but she felt even better now that she had the revolver. It was a confidence boost, and it was one that she desperately needed.
Storming back to the Bell mansion, knowing what was there waiting for her, was madness. She still didn’t fully understand what she was facing.
She stuck her hand in her pocket and her fingers nudged the wooden cross that was tucked inside. She stopped and then glanced up. The barren tree branches provided a limited view of the night sky, but it was the first time in a few nights where it was completely clear. No clouds, just stars.
Standing there in the cold, hungry and exhausted, Sarah found herself wondering who, or what, was giving her this sudden surge in strength.
All of her life, Sarah had never believed in heaven or hell, demons or angels. To her, it was nothing more than hocus pocus, a way for adults to get kids to do what they wanted them to do lest they be sent to hell and burn with the devil.
Sarah had seen plenty of what ‘religious’ folks had done during her time at orphanages and foster homes. And she had determined long ago that if there was a God out there, then he wasn’t the kind and forgiving God that she’d heard so many preachers and nuns talk about on the television and in church.
To Sarah, He was mean and spiteful. He was apathetic to the wants and needs of the world. He didn’t care what happened to anyone, so long as people praised His name and tithed their ten percent at the weekly offering.
But the priest that she’d spoken to back in Redford had been different than any other that she’d spoken to before. There was intelligence to his words, and while he talked tough, there was love hidden in his message.
Maybe she didn’t have it all figured out.
After all, with everything that she’d seen, there was proof in what she’d experienced that there were forces at work that stretched beyond the natural world. She had seen a witch, and she had felt the devil, she had seen ghosts and spirits, and she had seen more than she could probably handle.
With no watch, the passing of time was distorted. Instead of minutes or hours, Sarah measured the distance walked and the time passed by the aches that began to form along her body. Her feet were first, and then it traveled to her thighs, then her back, and finally her hips and lastly her shoulders.
And just when Sarah was about to drop the pillowcase and take a break, she saw the mansion through the trees ahead.
It was the west wing spiral that wound high into the sky. She wasn’t sure how close she was to the witching hour, but since there weren’t any demons flying around or fire raining from the sky, she figured she still had some time.
But while the sight of the mansion and her encounters with it had previously brought a feeling of hesitation, now she only felt a sense of urgency. Urgency to get this done, and to finish it quickly. She knew that the longer she dragged it out, the worse it would be for everyone else involved. The only thing that mattered now was ending this curse and stopping the end of the apocalypse.
Like her previous break-in, Sarah hovered near the tree line on the west side of the estate. Darkness had concealed the house in a shroud, with no light penetrating the inside. It was like no one was home.
But something didn’t feel right, and it was evident by Sarah’s instinct to stay put. She couldn’t be sure, but she felt like something was watching her, waiting for her to—
“Hello, Sarah.”
Sarah jumped, springing off the ground and covering her mouth to muffle the gasp. When she landed on her heels, she rocked backward and landed hard on her ass, the orb and the pillowcase sprawling across the frozen dirt.
Iris floated above her, all white and glowing and translucent. Sarah frowned, her breathing fast, as she examined Iris’s floating projection.
“You’re… dead.” Sarah shook her head and then pushed herself off the ground, still in shock at the woman in front of her. “But how did you—”
“There isn’t time,” Iris said, quickly floating closer. “You must destroy the orb before the devil’s hour.”
“I’ve tried,” Sarah walked back and picked the orb off the ground, still using the pillowcase as a cloth between herself and the orb. “I’ve smashed it, I’ve kicked it, I’ve beaten it, and I haven’t even given it a blemish.”
“Only the blood of sacrifice upon the altar of evil can it be destroyed,” Iris said. “When the witching hour approaches, the witch will sacrifice the last Bell to open the portal. But if another offers their blood, then portal will be broken, and the orb destroyed.”
Sarah snorted. “Perfect.”
“You can make it, Sarah.” Iris floated closer, and Sarah noticed a distinct change in the old woman’s appearance. She was still weathered and slightly wrinkly, but she no longer possessed that stern consternation that Sarah was greeted with every morning when she worked at the house. She looked more graceful and relaxed. Sarah felt like she was finally meeting the real Iris Bell.
Sarah reached into her pockets and fished out the cross and holy water. “Think these will help me out?”
Iris smiled, nodding as she examined the holy relics. “Yes, but you must be quick. The witch and her power will only grow stronger the closer time draws toward the devil’s hour.” She floated closer. “Go through the back entrance. She has Kegan watching the east wing. And remember that the orb and the blood sacrifice must be offered on the altar.”
“What is the altar?” Sarah asked as Iris started to fade.
“The bed,” Iris answered. “Allister’s bed.”
Sarah wanted to ask whose blood, but she was beginning to understand whose it would be, and the thought made her tremble and her mouth went dry. She stepped closer to Iris, wanting to reach out and touch her, desperately wanting a hand to hold in her hour of need. “What happens if I fail?”
“You are strong, Sarah,” Iris said, her voice fading along with her physical body. “It was why I wanted you in my house in the first place. You have the ability to change the future.” She smiled. “It’s in your blood.”
With Iris vanished into thin air, Sarah took a deep breath and then
exhaled, her breath jettisoned from her lips in a thick stream.
She had come so far since leaving New York, both physically and emotionally. She wasn’t the same person anymore, and all of the things that she had been running from were over.
Sarah hurried through the trees, keeping to the forest as she circled around to the back of the mansion and toward the rear-kitchen entrance that Iris had suggested she try.
Those skeptical bones that Sarah had relied on for so much of her life to survive rattled a little bit from the fact that Sarah realized the old woman might be leading her into a trap, but the fears quickly disappeared when Sarah opened the back door and found it clear of any foes.
Sarah worked her way through the darkened kitchen and into the hallway. She craned her neck around the door frame before she stepped from the kitchen, and once she determined that it was clear, she made her way to the staircase.
The mansion was dead quiet, even more so than the nights when she had worked here. There was no wind howling across the windows, no groans or creaks from the house settling, and no ghostly cries from the top floor.
It was as if the house itself had died, shedding its leaves and growth for the approaching winter, and had become hollow and barren.
The house was quiet. Even when she ascended the steps, the normally fussy stairs remained silent. The air was different too. While Sarah could breathe, it was hollow, and she had to inhale twice as much to catch the same amount of air as before. And the higher she ascended the staircase, the hotter it became. It was a stark contrast from her previous visits to the fifth floor.
It was always colder up here, like climbing a mountain, where the temperature plummeted. But the opposite was in effect now, and sweat poured off of her in buckets the higher she climbed.
Remembering that Kegan was still somewhere in the house, Sarah looked down and kept her head on a swivel as she scanned the staircase. But so far as she could tell in the darkness, she was alone, and she continued her trek up to the top, hoping it would stay that way.
