by Bill Myers
Becka knew. It was one of two things: either the bruise she’d received from the lamppost or . . .
. . . or Sara Thomas was aware of everything that had been happening to them — the near accidents . . . the near-fatal accidents. If these accidents were really someone’s attempts to scare off Becka and Scott, then they’d failed so far. But would they succeed “the next time”?
The next time you’ll really get hurt.
Becka could feel a chill creep over her body. All morning she had been fighting the fear, trying to keep it at bay. But now it flooded in. She didn’t feel strong enough to stop it. The plane, the thresher, and the bus — these were more than coincidences. Scott was right — something was happening. Something was pursuing them — something more powerful and evil than they had ever encountered before.
And if they didn’t back off, if they didn’t stop now, it could destroy them.
“Beck . . . Beck, you all right?”
She met her brother’s concerned gaze and tried to smile but couldn’t. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered. Sara’s words echoed in her head: The next time you’ll really get hurt. “Let’s get out of here now.”
4
The trip back to Aunt Myrna’s was sad. It was one of the few times Scott and Becka had ever admitted defeat. They knew they’d lost. Not only did Sara not want their help, whatever power she was caught up in was far too powerful for them to battle. Z had overestimated their strength. They could not fight this enemy. And if they tried, they knew they would be seriously injured.
Becka wondered why it was different this time; why they felt so powerless, so overwhelmed. Maybe they were missing something. But when she tried to think it through, Sara’s ominous words mocked her.
The next time you’ll really get hurt.
When they arrived back at the farm, John Garrett waited to take them on the tour he had promised. But things had changed considerably in the last twenty-four hours. Neither Scott nor Becka was particularly thrilled about the idea.
Scott was able to beg off, making some excuse about his ankle. And, as much as Becka wanted to find her own reason not to go, part of her knew the walk would do her good.
Besides, she would no longer be in danger. It was over. They were no longer pursuing Sara. Evil had won. And now as long as they didn’t bother it, it wouldn’t bother them. The war was over. Peace had been declared — a peace that left Sara as its victim.
That thought bothered Becka, but there was nothing she could do now. She pushed it out of her mind as she followed John past the sugarcane and into the woods.
The place was breathtaking. River waters had molded the low, flat swamplands for thousands of years. Vegetation grew wildly, enclosing everything in dim, leafy vaulted chambers. As she followed John Garrett deeper into the foliage, she almost felt as though she had entered an inner sanctum where the sun was an intruder. Plants grew everywhere. Mosses, vines, trees, algae, ferns. Everything had life.
And the flowers smelled richer in here than anywhere else she’d ever been before.
Becka felt as though she were in a holy place, a great cathedral of nature, where speaking was forbidden. She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. “It’s . . . beautiful,” she whispered. “Beyond beautiful.”
John sat on a nearby log. “Always is. Some people get used to it, I suppose, but not me. Every time I come here, I feel like I did the first time I saw it.”
Becka nodded. In the distance she heard a rumbling. “Is that thunder?”
“Could be. Kinda feels like it.” He looked at the trees. The leaves waved in the sudden breeze. “Suppose we better get you back before the storm hits. It doesn’t last long, but in these parts, when it rains, it rains.”
“Oh, not yet!” Becka protested. “It’s so beautiful. Can’t we stay just a few more minutes?”
John shrugged. “If you don’t mind gettin’ wet.”
There was another rumble. Closer this time.
“I don’t mind.”
“Me neither.” John grinned. “Nothing like a good shower to wash away your cares and make you feel alive.”
Becka nodded. She needed that more than he knew. She looked up and breathed in deeply. Everything about this place made her feel free, alive. She couldn’t help grinning.
“What?” John asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s just . . . all this beauty makes me . . . I don’t know . . . more aware of . . . God — of how powerful he is and how much he loves us.”
John broke into an easy smile. “Me too. Guess that’s why I never got too caught up in all that voodoo stuff we were talking about yesterday.”
The word voodoo brought reality crashing back into Becka’s mind. Poor Sara. She would never experience this freedom. She would never taste and enjoy this love. The image of Sara, frightened and alone, fingering the doll around her neck, would not leave Becka’s thoughts.
“John?”
“Yes?”
“What does it mean when someone wears a small cloth doll around their neck?”
There was another rumble. Much closer. She looked up. The branches overhead swayed in the wind.
“Might mean nothing.” John stood up and started down the path. Becka followed. “But round here, that’s what an initiate does.”
“An initiate?”
“Someone newly admitted into the cult.”
Becka’s heart sank.
A gentle tapping began as drops of water struck the leaves overhead and dripped through the canopy in little streams. But it didn’t matter. Becka had volunteered to be soaked, and soaked she would be.
The deeper they went into the woods, the thicker the vegetation became, until at one point, the swamp on each side of them was covered from bank to bank with plants. It reminded Becka of a beautiful, jade green blanket.
“Oh, look!” She pointed to a patch of vivid pink f lowers. Even in the downpour they seemed to shimmer. “What are those called?”
“Got me.” John shrugged. “You can find lots of ’em around back in here.”
“They’re so beautiful.” She took a step or two toward them until John swung out and grabbed her arm. “Be careful.”
She looked to him quizzically until he pointed to the green carpet she was about to step on. He stuck his toe into it to show that it was actually water. “Don’t want to go in there. You’ll find lots of critters you don’t want to tangle with.”
Becka nodded her thanks and looked back over to the flowers. Too bad. They were so beautiful.
John turned and continued leading her down the path.
Once again thoughts of Sara flooded Becka’s mind until a sudden clap of thunder caused her to jump.
The rain came down even harder. Becka tilted her head back and let it pour over her face. It was refreshing.
But still, there was Sara.
“John!” she shouted over the pounding rain. “Do you know a girl named Sara Thomas?”
John shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“I think she might be part of Big Sweet’s — ”
“Shhh!” John cut her off. Before Becka could react, he resumed speaking. “I don’t know anybody named Sara! You shouldn’t be talking about Big Sweet in here!” His voice was barely discernible over the pouring water.
Lightning flashed, followed by an immediate explosion of thunder that caused Becka’s ears to ring.
“You see that over there?” John pointed toward the woods.
Becka peered through the rain, but the downpour was too heavy to make out anything.
But John kept his hand outstretched. She stared at the spot until she finally saw two bald cypress trees rising into the air.
“I see a couple of trees!” she shouted.
“Between them!” he yelled. “Look between them!”
Ever so faintly through the sheets of falling water, Becka caught a glimpse of something. “Is it a cabin?” she shouted.
Becka looked at him. There was no missing the concern in his eyes. She turned back to peer at the trees through the rain. There was another flash of lightning. For the briefest second she saw the cabin.
Suddenly she felt very cold, very wet — and very frightened.
Over at Sorrento the rain was just beginning to come down. But the baseball coach wasn’t about to let a little water stop his boys from practicing.
It must have seemed strange to see Sara Thomas sitting by herself up in the bleachers, no umbrella, the only one sitting in the rain to watch. But Sara had important business to attend to.
Behind the backstop, John Noey swung hard at a pitch and connected. The ball sailed high over the pitcher’s head and deep into center field.
“Nice hit, Noey!” Coach yelled. “Nice hit!”
On the mound the pitcher took another windup and delivered another fastball. This time John sent it into left field, even farther than the last one. At sixteen, John was bigger than most of the guys his age and easily the best hitter on Sorrento High’s team.
In the stands, Sara, who was growing wetter by the second, reached into her purse and pulled out a doll. This one was also made of cloth but was much larger than the one she wore around her neck.
And it was wearing a baseball uniform.
John Noey stepped out of the batter’s box, wiped his bat on a towel, then scuffed his shoes on the ground the way he’d seen the pros do. Noey was cocky, to be sure, but it was more than that. Being a star athlete in high school had given him a brash machismo usually found in much older boys.
Stepping back into the box, he nodded to the pitcher.
Sara held the doll in her left hand while she dug in her purse with the other. For a second she panicked, thinking she’d lost it. But then she felt it and pulled out a large hatpin.
Noey stood confidently as the pitcher wound up to deliver another fastball.
In the stands Sara began quietly chanting something over and over. She placed the doll beside her on the bleacher. The chant grew louder. She raised the hatpin high. Then, at the peak of her chant, she jammed the pin hard into the doll’s head.
The ball had left the pitcher’s hand. It was coming in hard and high.
Water suddenly dribbled from John’s cap. He blinked once, taking his eye off the speeding ball. But that was all it took. He didn’t see it suddenly veer up and inside. He tried to duck, but he was too late. The ball crashed into his forehead at seventy-four miles an hour.
John Noey collapsed into the mud.
Players raced to him. The coaches shoved players aside to get to him. But Noey was going nowhere. He was unconscious. Maybe for good.
Sara Thomas smiled. “Home run,” she whispered, feeling a rush of power sweep over her. Revenge was sweet. But she wasn’t finished.
Not by a long shot.
Becka knew that she would get yelled at for staying out in the rain. Her soaked clothes and the chilly wind from the storm could make anyone sick. In fact, when she sloshed through the family room and up the stairs, even Scott rolled his eyes at her foolishness.
After a hot shower and a change into dry clothes, she joined her brother down at the computer. “Any word from Z?” she asked.
Scott shook his head. “Not a thing.” He reached over, shut off the computer, and let out a long, slow sigh. “We blew it, Beck. It’s over.”
Becka nodded sadly.
“Whatever’s been happening to us is way out of our league. We’ve run into stuff more powerful than we can handle. I mean, it’s one thing to deal with supposed ghosts and Ouija boards. But how do we deal with something that can drop a plane out of the sky or make a bus spin like a top? And now even Z’s flaking out on us.”
“Problems?”
At the quietly spoken question, the two glanced up and found Mom standing in the doorway of the family room. She’d just finished helping Aunt Myrna with the dishes and had come to join her children.
When neither of them answered her question, she sat on the sofa and tried again. “Scotty says this is the toughest case you’ve had.”
“You’ve got that right,” Becka said. “For starters, the girl we’re supposed to be helping — Sara Thomas — doesn’t even want our help.”
Mom nodded. “That’s hard. But not unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lots of times the people who need help are the ones who don’t want it. Like Julie. Or Krissi.”
Becka stared at her mother. She was right! How had she forgotten the resistance they’d met anytime they’d tried to help someone caught up in the occult?
Mom went on. “What did Z say?”
“That’s another thing,” Scott said. “He won’t talk to us. He sends us out here all on our own and then just abandons us.”
“He didn’t give you any advice?”
“Just that we’re suppose to pray, believe, and not give in to our fears.”
“And he mentioned the pastor,” Becka reminded him.
“Oh yeah.” Scott’s tone was filled with scorn. “The pastor. Z said the local pastor would help.”
“And?”
“All he came up with was ‘Pray and believe.’ ” Scott shook his head. “Can you believe that? Just ‘pray and believe.’ ”
Mom frowned slightly. “Sounds like pretty solid advice.”
“Well, yeah . . . I mean . . . I know,” Scott said, blinking. “But we’ve only heard it a million times.”
“So you’ve done it already, then?”
Scott blinked again. “Done it?”
Mom tilted her head. “Prayed.”
Scott and Becka looked at each other, then at their mother.
“Uh, well, no . . . ,” Scott admitted hesitantly.
“Not exactly,” Becka added. “We’ve been . . . busy.” But even as she said it, she knew it was a lame excuse.
Mom nodded. “Well, I’ve got time now, if you’re interested.”
“For what?”
“Well, to pray, of course.”
“Here?” Becka asked. “Now?”
“Can you think of a better time?”
The brother and sister glanced at each other a little sheepishly. Becka laughed softly. She couldn’t believe it. In all their hurry and determination to be the great teen ghostbusters, they had forgotten a couple of very important ingredients: to pray and believe. Pastor Barchett had reminded them about those ingredients. She grinned. Maybe he wasn’t as out of it as they’d thought.
“Sure,” Becka said while Scott nodded. They moved to the couch, bowed their heads, and began to pray with Mom.
In the dream, Sara wore a wedding veil. She looked beautiful all in white. Her face glowed with anticipation as she walked down the aisle toward her future husband. Though the groom’s back was to her, she knew he would be perfect.
Everything in this dream was perfect.
There was her mother in the first pew. She was as healthy and vibrant as she had been before she got sick. And there by her side was her father — handsome and proud like he had been before he started drinking.
Everything was just the way she’d always hoped it would be . . .
Until the groom turned around.
A thick red horn protruded from his forehead, and his face was black and blistered as if it had been charred. But it was the eyes that terrified her most. Huge and black. Staring at them was like looking into deep wells. Wells that had no bottom. Only horror. Deep, dark, everlasting horror.
Sara woke up screaming.
She fell back against the pillow, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, and closed her eyes in an effort to go back to sleep. She couldn’t. The dreams had been coming more and more frequently. And with them came the nausea — the same nausea she had felt when talking with the two kids from California.
There was only one way to take her mind off the nausea. And the monster. To think b
ack to the beautiful woman she had seen in the dream. To remember how things had been when her mother was alive, before she got sick and died, before her father buried his grief in alcohol . . . before her life had been ripped out from under her.
Hot tears sprang to her eyes. Thinking about the past was always like this. But that was okay. Sooner or later the crying would tire her out and she would fall asleep. That’s how it worked most nights. She hoped it would tonight.
5
Sara Thomas knew that Ronnie Fitzgerald would show up at Janet Baylor’s sweet-sixteen party. Janet was the most popular girl in school. Sara was surprised to have even been invited. Apparently Janet had decided to invite the entire sophomore class, even the poor Raggedy Ann whom everyone ignored.
Sara spent most of the evening off by herself, secretly spying on Ronnie and watching for the right moment.
Earlier she had hollowed out a large candle and buried a lock of Ronnie’s hair in the wax along with a slip of paper on which she had written “Worst Luck” and “Ronnie Fitzgerald” seven times. She then dug a small hole in a field near Ronnie’s house in a place where the moonlight would shine on it. She buried the bottom half of the candle in the hole, lit the wick, and went home.
All of this was according to the instructions the hungan had given her. The hardest part had been getting the lock of hair, but even that proved easier than she had expected. All she had done was sit behind him on the bus, and when he leaned his head back, she snipped off a piece.
He never even knew.
Many of the kids at the party had started changing into their swimsuits and jumping into the Baylors’ large pool. Ronnie wasn’t out there yet, but Sara knew he soon would be. He wouldn’t miss a chance to show off his body and his diving skills.
Sara moved closer to the patio doors so she could get a better view of the crowd around the pool. It was then that she heard someone crying. Cautiously she peered around the kitchen door and listened to an older woman talking with Mrs. Baylor.
“They say they don’t know . . . He might never wake up!” the older woman sobbed.
“Try not to worry, Amelia. John’s in good hands,” Mrs. Baylor said. “He’s in the best hospital in the county.”
