Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

  She watched herself walk toward the highway, away from the trees.

  Then she heard the scream.

  A bright flash, and she saw herself next to Marvin again. He turned toward her. Behind him, the sky was dark, stormy - the clouds looked like old grease in a cast iron skillet.

  She saw another flash, something bloody, dark and twisting. It struck Marvin - a snake, twisting, flailing, thrashing. She watched Marvin’s face bend and warp. The snake-like thing wrapped itself around Marvin and pulsated; blood dripped on her feet.

  She felt the anger, the hatred; it boiled through her blood like acid. Her heart raced, she couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt as though a huge rope had been twisted around her and pulled tight.

  Gasping for air, Tessa moved her hands to her throat. She was choking, dying. Another flash: something dark and slender twisted and curled around Marvin’s face. The black began to pulsate. Bones snapped. The snake-like band continued to wrap itself around and around. One end coiled, then rose and struck Marvin in the back of his skull.

  Another flash, and the snake - was it really as snake? - twisted and slithered and pulsated. Flesh ripped. Pieces of Marvin’s body tore away.

  Tessa felt a rumble. Beneath her, the ground split; more black snakes shot out. They twisted around Marvin and yanked him deep into the earth. The ground flexed and vomited. What was left of Marvin’s naked body was spewed out, tossed like trash onto The Old North Road.

  Tessa stood silently. She saw herself lean down, toward Marvin, then stop. Behind her, she heard the flap of wings; the buzzards were on their way. Then there was darkness.

  Pete stayed at Neal’s office late into the night. Along with the newspapers, Neal had laid out maps, files, and a stack of old, faded photographs.

  Pete read through the old newspapers, working toward the present, making notes about the stories Neal had marked.

  “So there have been several incidents like this?” he said. “Beginning in 1861?”

  Neal nodded. “Yeah, and they’ve been roughly spaced about twenty years apart. There was another incident in 1885, then another in 1906.”

  “But these stories don’t say what the bodies looked like. What makes you think…?”

  Neal handed the sheriff a stack of tan paper tied with a red ribbon. “Those are copies of several coroners’ reports. The top ones are from 1906, the bottom ones from 1936.”

  Pete cocked his head. “Why would you have coroners’ reports?”

  Neal smiled. “I think Frank - you remember Frank Reeding who owned the paper before me - well, he was researching these killings, but stopped. Those were in his files. All this stuff was down in the basement.”

  Pete’s gaze skipped across the pages; his expression changed from curious to sick. “They describe the bodies pretty much like old man Withers and that kid, Jeff Currier,” he said.

  Neal nodded. He took a long drink. “Sounds like the same type of killings have been occurring in Bayside for more than a hundred years.”

  Pete scowled. “Okay, so now we know Bayside’s ugly past. But we’re still not any closer to discovering who - or what - is killing these people, and why.”

  “I know,” Neal said. “I called Homer Wallace, at the historical society. He said they have a file about the killings, supposed to contain some personal letters from some of the families around here. I’m going over there tomorrow, see if there’s anything there that will help.”

  Pete rubbed his face. He yawned. “Good idea, ‘cause tonight, I need some sleep,” he said. “All these late-night investigations are eating my lunch.”

  Neal laughed. “Yeah, you better go. We’re outta whiskey.”

  Two hours after a pair of tourists found Marvin Boyd’s body, Bayside fell apart. The people panicked. Fall festival plans were canceled and, by that afternoon, Highway 1 was pregnant with traffic heading out of town.

  By nightfall, the small antique shops along the sea walk and every business downtown had shut their doors. The bright green sign at Billy’s Diner was turned off. Billy said he didn’t care what he left behind, he was going back to Bangor.

  Across the community, the families that remained had locked themselves in their homes. Churches held round-the-clock prayer vigils; their pastors spoke about the end of the world.

  Bayside, it seemed, had given up and retreated in fear.

  At least, that’s how it felt to Pete Jacobs.

  Only, unlike most of the town, Pete didn’t leave. Instead, he drove back out to Tessa Cosindas’ house and banged on the door.

  “Tessa?” he called. “Tessa, let me in. We need to talk.” He banged on the door until his hand was numb.

  Then he kicked the door open.

  There, next to her spinning wheel, Pete found Tessa spilled across the hardwood floor.

  She opened her eyes, slowly. Her head throbbed. She felt groggy, like she just woke up from a three-day hangover.

  “There you are,” Pete said.

  Tessa tried to sit up. She touched her forehead. Her face felt warm.

  “Careful,” said Pete. “You have a nasty bump there, but I think you’ll be okay.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Don’t know,” Pete said. “But from what I can tell, it wasn’t that long. I just got here a few minutes ago.” His face flashed concern. “Did… did you have another vision?”

  Tessa nodded. “I saw Marvin… Marvin Boyd.” She pulled Pete close. Tears filled her eyes. “I think he’s… I saw…”

  Pete held her hand. “Deputy Jones found Marv, torn to pieces all along The Old North Road.”

  Tessa’s sobs filled the room. “I… I don’t think I can take this anymore. Not after this. It was… was the worst.”

  “How so?”

  “I saw myself there,” she said. “I saw myself standing next to Marvin. And I saw something strike him. I think… I may be the killer.”

  “What do you mean, ‘strike him?’”

  Tessa covered her face. “I saw him being attacked. Something hit him; something that was dark, and slithering, like a snake. I felt what it felt - hatred, and a desire for revenge. It wrapped around Marv and thrashed and whipped. It covered his face and tightened until… Then it stuck Marv on the back of his head.”

  Pete wiped his face. He walked to the kitchen and returned with a small plastic bottle of water. “Here, drink this,” he said. He handed the bottle to Tessa.

  “So this time you saw what killed Marv?”

  “It may have been me, sheriff.”

  Pete smiled. “No, Tessa, it wasn’t you. But I do believe you saw what happened.”

  Tessa gulped the water. “I… I guess,” she said. “It wasn’t human. It was, like a snake, a huge, twisting snake that slashed him to pieces.”

  Pete shook his head. He had seen the fear on Tessa’s face. He’d heard the terror in her voice, but a snake? And her, could she be the killer? Those ideas, he thought, didn’t make sense.

  “Tessa, I’ve been out there. Searched all around. There’s no sign of snakes. Not snakes the size you’re talking about.”

  “All I know is what I saw. It was twisting and slashing, then the ground opened, and the snake pulled Marvin down, into the earth.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I saw the ground open and the snakes pulled Marvin inside.” Pete gulped. He wiped the sweat off his face and reached for his cell phone.

  “She said the ground opened?” Neal O’Bannon wasn’t sure he’d heard the sheriff correctly. “She actually said that?”

  “With God as my witness,” Pete said. “I was sittin’ right there, on her couch.”

  “Amazing,” Neal said. “Pete, you probably should bring her down here. Don’t go to your office. The few folks left in town will see. Bring her here, the back way.”

  “I don’t understand any of this.” Tessa shook her head. “Why are we at your office? I don’t want this in the paper.”

  Neal smiled. “That’s not what we’re tr
ying to do, Tessa. I just thought this would be better, you know, so people wouldn’t talk.”

  “According to Pete, there’s not that many people left in Bayside,” she said.

  “True. But the few still here don’t have anything else to do but watch Pete and gossip. See?”

  Tessa nodded. “So you still haven’t told me why you brought me here.” The sheriff handed her a tan leather portfolio. “Do you know Homer Wallace?”

  “Yes,” Tessa said. “He’s the president of the Bayside Historical Society.”

  “He’s also the world’s biggest pack-rat. Homer doesn’t throw anything way. Ever.” Tessa giggled. “I understand that. I’m kinda that way, too.”

  Pete pointed to the folder. “Lots of folks leave stuff to the historical society when they die. Homer catalogues them under ‘family legends’. That portfolio, there, was left to the Historical Society by one of your relatives.”

  Tessa looked hard at the tan leather. “I… I don’t recognize it,” she said. “I’ve never seen this before.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have,” Neal said. “Homer told us he was under strict orders never to show it to you.

  “Why? Why would someone in my family not want me to see this?”

  Pete reached over and clicked open the small gold lock. “Read it. I think you’ll understand.”

  Tessa unfolded the leather. The portfolio smelled old, dusty. Inside, tucked into the pocket, were several pieces of thick, brown paper.

  The handwriting was delicate, almost feminine and the ink, once dark black, had faded to a thin purple.

  Tessa began to read: “November Twenty-ninth. Eighteen hundred and eleven.

  “To all those whom are descendants and who come after me. I, Thaddeus Ezra Cosindas, do hereby attest to the veracity of this document.

  “As witnesses, I offer the solemn oath of the honorable Judge Edwin Colson, and that of my dear friend and pastor, Moses Ezekiel Procter.

  “We each have sworn our sacred oath that what we are about to set forth is true.”

  Tessa paused. Gently, she laid each thick, brittle page on the desk.

  “Five days prior to the date of this document, we three men, the remaining survivors of the Village of Bayside, Maine, buried our loved ones.

  “Under a dark, fire-scorched sky, we toiled until we had placed our wives, our children, and those so dear to us in the bosom of the earth. Our families and friends rest in the ground where they were slain.

  “We curse Heaven, and we curse God and his Creation for authoring this tragic story. We weep when we remember the day we allowed the Spiritus Sancti into our small village.

  “Had we known then, what we are so surely conscious of now, we would have slain the Seven and Four and the Spiritus Sancti, who claimed to be workers of God.

  “Yet we did not.

  “Instead, we allowed them into our homes, treated them as friends, shared with them our food and, most assuredly, signed ours and our own family’s death warrants.

  “As this was during the hot summer, we welcomed the strong, able men who seemed, at first, so devout, so God-fearing. With their help, our crops were harvested quickly and our new church building finished.

  “But then, not but five days ago, Talbot, the leader of the Spiritus Sancti, urged us to fast, pray, and seek God’s continued blessing for a good harvest. At his bidding, we brought the entire town together at the site of the church.

  “He called it a revival. We now know it was the stage for slaughter.

  “As our families knelt in prayer, the Seven and Four, and the Sancti, those monsters, the spawn of Lucifer, sprung their trap. They burned our church as our little children celebrated inside.

  “The Sancti stood silently while our young screamed and cried in terror, beseeching their families to free them. The Seven and Four stabbed and shot those who tried to enter the flaming building.

  “By some unholy means they brought forth Hell-fire and great explosions and death, most surely from Satan himself.

  “As for myself and my companions, we sequestered ourselves behind a small grove of willows, fearing our own deaths. We watched, unable to save our families. We hid even as our children burned and our wives bled.

  “Upon the rising of the sun, the Seven and Four and the Spiritus Sancti had departed our village, leaving Bayside a desolate ruin.

  “But we shall have our revenge.

  “We shall ride the earth, unending, until we find the Seven and Four and the Sancti and they, like our children and our wives and our friends, will most certainly meet their doom.

  “Further, with the help of the Haitian woman called Gianna, we call upon Satan - for the Almighty has betrayed and forsaken us - to curse this very ground, the ground which now holds the bones of our beloved.

  “We have pledged our souls to Lucifer himself. We will fight his spawn with his own Hell-fire. We have asked the Dark One’s aid to strike down all those who would descend from the Seven and Four and the Spiritus Sancti, from now until the end of days.

  “May they, unto their thousandth generation, know our wrath. May the very ground itself avenge us.

  “To sanctify our pact, we have placed no marker. Instead, we have planted four and twenty trees supplied by the good Reverend Procter. Those trees, for as long as they stand, shall serve as the only monument to our loss.

  “We sign this oath with our own blood, just as surely, as we condemn ourselves to eternal Hell.”

  Tessa folded the leather closed, and stood quietly at the window. She stared out into the night. “Sheriff,” she said, “I think you know what needs to be done.”

  “You want what?”

  Pete leaned forward. “Honestly, Father, I’m not insane.”

  Father Michael Flanagan shook his head. He wasn’t sure he’d heard the sheriff correctly. “You need me to bless a dozen chainsaws?”

  Pete nodded. “And water. I need twenty-five thousand gallons of holy water, father. And… I need it by Thursday.”

  Father Flanagan rubbed his forehead. “And why do you need so much?”

  Pete smiled. “Well, sir, it’s a long story.”

  The priest leaned back in his chair. “Sheriff, for this, I have plenty of time.”

  Pete stood quietly in the middle of the road.

  The November wind felt raw; the cold seemed to seep inside his coat and creep deep into his veins.

  Above him, the sky hung low - a murky gray canvas covering a stark, barren stretch of land. The road was deserted.

  Around him, the trees had grown together. They formed a large, twisted tunnel that stretched for what seemed like miles. Pete saw patches of the gray clouds through the dark, twisted limbs.

  The ground was still. There were no sounds of nature - no bird chirped. The very earth itself seemed to have fallen silent. The whole place, Pete thought, was like a giant, open tomb. Pete walked to the closest tree. Gently, like a mother would a new child, he touched the trunk. The tree felt warm. Its rough bark scraped his hand.