by J. Z. Foster
Witch Hunter
Into the Outside
J.Z. Foster
Copyright © 2018 by J.Z. Foster
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.jzfoster.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Witch Hunter: Into the Outside / J.Z. Foster -- 1st ed.
Created with Vellum
Dedicated to
My wife, Hanna.
Without you, I could not have
written this book.
Special Thanks to
Frank Haar
Shelby Hostager
David Sorensen
Jason Talley
Maria Townsley
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
More from J.Z. Foster
Chapter 1
Richard’s heart thumped with a heavy beat that threatened to break through his chest. “I didn’t do it!” He slammed his fists on the table in the cold interrogation room. Two men stared him down from across the room, their faces icy and unflinching.
Richard ran his hands over his scratched, bruised face and into his blood-caked hair, wondering whether he had gone insane. He fought to focus, but desperation crawled its way up his spine and into his bones, making him shake just as his fingers found a wet spot on his scalp. He pulled his hands back to find them red. A tremor in his hands tapped out a rhythmic pattern against the table that left beads of red as he breathed slowly and painfully.
“Listen,” he said, before taking another breath, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t.”
“Really?” The rough voice belonged to a man twice Richard’s size. Despite the chill of the room, the man was dressed in a shirt and tie with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Pulling away from the wall and closing the distance between them, he leaned in close enough for Richard to smell the coffee on his breath. “Because that lunatic about to have an axe party on the poor woman sure looks a hell of a lot like a fat bastard.” Drawing up a nicotine-stained finger, he pointed at the blurry image on the paused TV screen.
The flickering frame held a man with an axe looming over a woman, ready to plunge it down into her skull.
Beth! Oh God no! She has to be okay. I didn’t hurt Beth! This is all a mistake!
His mind shook with fear for her, and he took short, rapid breaths. But the gears in Richard’s brain were turning more slowly than usual; lack of sleep and the confusion of the night had taken its toll. And there was the head wound, wasn’t there? He hadn’t processed quite everything the detective was saying. Not until he recognized the bag.
The walls closed in on him, choking the air from the room. This was a cage of stone and brick built around him. His instincts told him to run, run from this lie that he killed her.
But that was his face on the video. That was his smile.
“I… I don’t know! Oh my God…” With trembling hands, he grabbed fistfuls of hair again. He gripped tightly and pulled hard, hoping that it was all a bad dream. But the pain wouldn’t lie.
“Listen, you piece of shit,” the larger detective said, thumping a fist down on the metal table. “What were you doing here in Bridgedale? Why did you waddle over here to murder someone? How many more have you killed?”
The words choked in Richard’s throat, crawling back to where they came from like insects caught in the light. Before he could mumble something, the seated man, a graying detective, spoke. “Listen Dick, we found all the other shit in your van. The voodoo shit, the candles, the powders. Clearly, this is some kind of weird occult sex thing.”
“Sex…? Wait, what? No! Beth was a reporter traveling with me! She was going to do a story on me,” he protested and then hesitated, before the words squeaked from his mouth: “I’m a Witch Hunter.”
“A what?” the gray-haired detective asked.
“A witch hunter. Listen, she was doing a story on me and there was a lead here in Bridgedale about some kind of witch presence.”
The larger detective spoke again. “Bridgedale has a witch problem? Our small suburban community, which cancelled a fall festival because you axed a woman, has a witch problem? You’re a lunatic. You need to get this night done with. Tell us where her body is, and we can get you the help you need. Give Beth some peace.”
Richard drew in a troubled breath before he bellowed, “Bridgedale has a witch! The witch did this! I was onto him, and... and Beth was going to report on all of it! The witch, he, he… He did all this!” He forced his gaze to the TV, knowing somehow that it would have changed, that it couldn’t possibly have been him—but he was wrong—it hadn’t. His own familiar face still stared back at him, twisted into a madness he didn’t know he possessed.
“There any more of you lunatics? You have a club of Witch Hunters that are going to be coming to Bridgedale and axing pretty girls that won’t put out? We want the names of everyone. Right now.” A notepad was placed on the table in front of Richard and the large detective thumped a fat finger onto it. “Now.”
“Can I just—can I tell you the whole story?” He was boiling on the inside, the words hot in his mouth and wanting to spill out. He knew how insane he looked with his wide eyes and bruised face, and the disgust in their eyes confirmed it.
His head, again too heavy to hold up, slid down to the cold metal table. All the muscles in his body lost the will to move, to do anything but give up. He had challenged the witch, and lost. And now Beth was dead.
Dead.
“Fine. Tell us everything.” The detective reached over and pressed a red button on a recorder. It hummed to life.
Richard drew in another breath and squeezed his hands together. “Okay… So my sensei was—”
“Sensei? You study martial arts?”
“No, we’re just...” Richard didn’t look up from the table. “We’re just really into Asian culture, okay? Feng shui and centering your chi you know? So I call my master sensei.”
The two detectives exchanged a glance. “Okay, go on.”
“So my sensei, through his occult contacts, heard that there was a lot of black energy in Bridgedale. He sent me to investigate, but I didn’t know it was real!” Richard drew his head back up again to meet their eyes. “Oh my God, I didn’t know any of it was real. I don’t believe in witches! I mean, I didn’t believe in witches before tonight. I thought it was just like a role-playing club we were all in! And then someone contacted the news, or the news contacted us, I don’t remember. Next thing I know, there’s a reporter calling me saying she wants to go with me, and, and….”
Beth is dead and it’s my fault.
There was nothing he could do now to change that.
She’s dead.
�
��And what…?” The larger detective crossed his heavy arms. His attention was unwavering, and Richard felt the weight of the man’s gaze piercing him, judging, waiting for him to break. It was all he could do to hold himself together and not completely fall apart. Beth was dead, but this was still important. He needed them to hear. But they wouldn’t believe him. How could they?
I wouldn’t believe me.
“Listen to me,” Richard said, leaning forward in his seat. “This isn’t a game. He killed Beth, he killed Ted, and he almost killed me. But it’s hard to say exactly what happened.” He bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut, trying to pull his memory through the fog. Only bits and pieces came back.
The witch. Sharp black things. Teeth. Fingers with hooks. Blood, so much blood. Death.
The detective scribbled away on a notepad. “Who the hell is Ted?”
“No dammit, you’re not listening to me! Listen! We tried to kill a witch, but we failed. He killed everyone, and he’s still out there. He’s going to come here. He’s going to kill everyone. He’s going to kill everyone!”
“…bring out your jackets, and make sure you bundle up, because we are expecting an unusual cold front to move in with a chance of rain throughout the night. Our meteorologists are saying that temperatures could dip into the low—” Beth clicked the radio off.
She couldn’t believe how the events had unfolded; it was as though the universe were conspiring against her. She had gone to school for journalism to report on news abroad, cover what really mattered. Syria, Iraq, Israel—these were the places she wanted to be. Instead, she was off to some suburban autumn festival to interview and record a “Witch Hunter.”
“Can you believe this, Ted?” Beth asked as she was fixing her hair in the mirror. “Why are we covering this? Why do I always get stuck with the crap stories when some plastic blonde on CNN is on her third trip to Syria?” She had nearly finished fluffing her hair to camera-ready perfection.
“Because you work for WB19 and not CNN? Besides, they’re not hauntings,” Ted said from behind the wheel. “Witches don’t haunt things.”
“That right, genius? Then what do witches do if they don’t haunt places?”
He shrugged without taking his eyes off the road. “Hell if I know. Question number one for the Witch Hunter right?”
She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t long before they were pulling into a Happy Burger to meet with Richard, their supposed expert in witchcraft. Beth knew better though; he sounded like a thirty-something that hadn’t quite grown up yet. Probably moved out of his parent’s house only a year or so ago, likely lives with two or three buddies that play more video games than a reasonable adult should.
Beth stepped out of the van and the cool air breathed onto her. A chill ran down her back that made the hairs on her neck stand on end; she pulled her jacket up around her neck. It was cooling down faster than usual, and the orange fall leaves already filled nearby parking lots. Someone spoke from around the corner of her van, making Beth yelp.
“Witches can drive the seasons faster.”
A man an inch or two shorter than Beth and a few pounds overweight rounded the van. He had stubble across his chin and he was clearly trying to make his voice deeper as he spoke. “You’re here for the witching?” He had a red hat pulled down over his face, casting his eyes into shadow.
Ted snapped his fingers, “See! I told you they don’t haunt! Witches witch things.”
Beth glanced once from Ted to Richard, and pulled on a rehearsed smile. “Yeah, I’m Beth.” A few seconds ticked by before she reached out to shake Richard’s hand.
“Oh good!” His deep voice was gone. He took her hand and shook it, maybe a bit too roughly. “The couple before you almost called the cops on me when I asked them if they were here for the witching. I just wanted to make sure your report said that was what happened when we first met. Figured we’d give the readers something to really chew on, right?” The deep voice returned. “You’re here for the witching?” He smiled and nodded, content. “They like that sort of thing, yeah?”
She was sure he had practiced in the mirror a few times before she got here. “They sure do.” She kept her smile polite.
A few minutes later, they were sitting in the restaurant discussing witch-hunting tactics over Happy Burgers and Happy Fries. Ted had taken his meal to the car to give the reporter space.
Before Beth could ask him a question, Richard went into his rehearsed spiel. “See, it’s my job to restore the balance destroyed by the heinous evil that these things bring upon us. My contacts and I help sniff out these sorts of things and then I bring the fire for a witch burning.” He spoke as if he was reading from a script, and ended with a stiff smile.
Beth took a sip of her drink and suppressed a sigh. “Is it alright if I record this?” When Richard nodded, she turned on her tape recorder and set it between them. “Who are your contacts exactly?”
Richard rubbed his chin. “Well, I mean, this thing is mostly run by a few of my buddies and me. If we hear something spooky, like, you know, some unnatural change in season or some disappearances, we jump on it, right? We don’t want any innocent people getting taken out. This is our vigil to hold, our cross to bear.” He waved a hand in front of him and then ate a fry.
“I see, and what do you mean by bring the fire?”
“Mostly, I just mean my toolkit really.”
Beth smiled politely. “Your toolkit?”
“Yeah! Holy water, grimoire, bell, incense, salt, sanctified jewelry, few vials of this and that.” He opened his jacket to show the braided wire and the metal crucifix that hung on a necklace. The crucifix was tiny, but it had what looked like old writing on it and a blue stone inset. “Oh, and a dagger too. You know, the typical stuff.”
“Hmm. Can I touch it?” After he nodded, she reached out and grasped the necklace. The metal was rough beneath her touch, but the stone was as smooth as water, and cold. “That looks old.”
“Yeah! It’s been passed down from student to master for ages. No telling what it’s worth. It’s supposed to help defend against the psychological attacks of a witch or warlock. I’m probably, like, the hundredth or so guy to wear it, or something.”
She rubbed a thumb over the stone before releasing it. “Interesting.” She smiled and tried to make the best of things. “So, Richard, what exactly do you expect will happen here? Do you think we’ll actually see a witch?”
“Well, you do see a witch.” He smirked and waved a hand down presenting himself. “But you mean evil witches, I’m sure. No. They usually turn tail and run. They know they can’t go toe to toe with a Witch Hunter. Some of the strongest might be able to withstand some things, like the salt or incense, but those guys are few and far between. And frankly,” he said, flooding with pride, “my coven has been hunting dark witches for a pretty long time now. We’re talking centuries here. So, we know a thing or two about what we’re doing.” He gave a loud belly laugh that drew irritated glances from customers nearby. “You might just say we’ve kicked an ass or two, if you get what I mean. No, most likely we’ll just deal with their taint. We’ll burn that out and move on. The spiritual taint that is, not the… Yeah, the spiritual taint.”
Beth’s smile flinched, but she held it on. She was professional after all.
Oh God. How can I possibly survive this?
She looked down at her notes, preparing for her next question, when Richard cut in. She spared only a half-second glance at her watch.
He lowered his voice, as if worried about the next table catching on. “So, honestly, how am I doing? Is this interesting for you? I practiced that ‘bring the fire’ line in the mirror a few times. I just want to make the story interesting for you, you know?”
Richard was certainly kind, but something seemed off. She felt like she could smell the crazy on him.
I really hope this guy isn’t a murderer.
“Yeah Richard, it’s all good stuff, but just be yourself. Don’t worry about trying to i
mpress your audience or anything. I mean, who wouldn’t be impressed with a story like this?”
Richard let out a breath. “That’s a relief. I mean, this stuff is really exciting for most people, but you get a couple goobers out there that keep screaming ‘Photoshop!’ or ‘Fake!’ at everything. I had a picture of a plant with witch’s taint, real ugly thing. All wilted and dying—obviously a witch had something to do with it, right? I put it online, and some guy called me a—” Richard glanced around and then whispered to Beth, “he called me a mouth breathing shithead. And said that it looked like I just forgot to water it. It wasn’t even my plant!”
“Yeah that’s, uh...That’s rude.” Beth cleared her throat and flipped through her blank notepad. “Well, how do you plan to conduct your investigation?”
“Back to business. Well, first we’re going to have to smell out a lead. We’ll have to go someplace that has a lot of energy and let the tools point us in the right direction.”
“Where exactly is the ‘right direction’? It points you toward the witch, or…?”
“No, no, it just points me to the strongest composition of the taint’s dark energies.”
“I see. And then you’ll sanctify the area? Cure it, then it’s done?”
“Well,” Richard said with a laugh under his breath. “It can be a little more complicated than that. I mean, we’re talkin’ ghosts, spirits, demons—those sorts of things are attracted to the area. That’s their source. It strengthens their anchor to the mortal world. You get a bad enough taint?” He whistled and shook his head. “We’re talking a pretty strong ghost there. That type of thing could rip you to shreds! Don’t even get me talking about demons either! Don’t worry though. I know how to deal with ’em.”
