Forsaken

by J. D. Barker

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome. I bet next you’re going to tell me I’m a lousy lay, too, right? What a great way to tie a bow around our little tryst.”

  “This isn’t happening,” Thad sat on the corner of the bed, cradling his head.

  “Poor baby. Feeling a little guilty, are you?”

  Thad remained still, his mind racing. “This can’t be…”

  She giggled. “…happening?” she said. “You already said that. Believe me, it did happen, and you were very much a part of it, my dear Mr. McAlister. Would you like to fill in your wife, or would you rather I made the call?”

  Thad felt his grip on the phone tighten. “So that’s what this is about, some kind of blackmail?”

  “Some kind…”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to call me by my name,” she breathed. “I want you to call me Christina.”

  “Cut the shit. What do you want?”

  “I want you,” she giggled softly, “to help me find Her box.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Day 2 – 5:00 a.m.

  “MOMMY!”

  Ashley stared at her stuffed animals in horror and shouted her mom’s name for the third time. Beside her, Buster rubbed his nose with a front paw. The bleeding had stopped, leaving two small puncture wounds at the tip of his snout.

  Ashley jumped when her bedroom door swung open, then breathed a sigh when she saw her mother standing in the doorway.

  “What happened?” Her mother frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  She pointed at the toys. “There’s something behind them. It bit Buster!”

  Rachael crossed the room, eyeing the stuffed animals. “What kind of something?”

  “A monster with red eyes, Mommy,” she breathed. “Tiny little red eyes and hands!”

  Rachael gently raised Buster’s head and examined the small wounds. He whimpered, then backed up and sneezed, shaking his head.

  “Thanks, Buster,” Rachael wiped her wet face with her sleeve.

  She hoped to God they didn’t have rats. This was an older home and although their exterminator visited every other month, the occasional mouse or rat would get inside—this time of year in particular as the weather began cooling down in anticipation of winter.

  “It might still be back there, Mommy!”

  Rachael pushed the stuffed animals aside one at a time, ready to pull away in an instant if she spotted something looking back at her. The smell hit her a moment later, and nausea crept up her throat.

  Ashley covered her nose. “Pewwy, what is that?”

  When she moved the large teddy bear, she found a number of small dirt piles hidden behind it, a trail leading to a four-inch hole in the drywall.

  “Rats,” Rachael grumbled under her breath.

  Ashley shook her head. “Not a rat, Mommy; it didn’t look like a rat, it wasn’t…it was something else!”

  “Of course it’s a rat, dear. It was dark; your eyes were probably playing tricks on you, that’s all.”

  Again, Ashley shook her head. “It…it stood up. Rats don’t stand up in real life, only in cartoons.”

  Rachael pushed the remaining stuffed animals aside and examined the hole a little more closely. It didn’t have that rough, chewed appearance typically left by mice and rats; instead, its edges were smooth. The four-inch circumference was almost perfect. She found no debris, no dust or chunks of drywall around the hole, as if whatever had cut it out had also taken the time to cart away the resulting waste.

  “Go get me a flashlight, honey.”

  Ashley wandered out of the room with Buster on her heels. She returned a moment later with the emergency flashlight they kept in the hall closet. Rachael switched it on and aimed the beam at the hole.

  The opposite wall and the edge of a 2x4 stud on the right was visible but little else. Lying down on her side, she tried to get a better view but didn’t have enough room. She cursed her oversized belly. Rachael took a deep breath and reached into the hole, cautiously feeling around.

  “Mommy, don’t—the monster is gonna bite you like it did Buster!”

  Ignoring her daughter, she groped around inside, her fingers tracing the drywall to the wood stud on the right, then reversing directions until she found the stud on the left. If something had been in there, it was gone now. But to where? She saw no other holes and with only eighteen inches between the studs, there was little room to maneuver, no place to hide. Then she felt something on the left stud, a groove of some sort. There was another about two inches above the first; another above that—Rachael couldn’t get her hand high enough to look for a fourth, but she suspected one existed.

  Like a ladder. A ladder carved into the wood leading up.

  To the attic?

  Rachael knew they had a small crawlspace between the first and second floors and the attic above. Once they gained access to one or the other, the rats would have the run of the house, able to reach any section undetected.

  If they were indeed rats.

  What else could they be?

  Grabbing a large Dr. Seuss book from the bookcase beside her, Rachael pressed it flat against the hole, then stacked a handful of other books in front, blocking access.

  “Let’s see them get through that,” she said with confidence. “I’ll call the exterminator first thing in the morning, honey. Don’t worry; we’ll send him packing!”

  Ashley frowned. “They won’t hurt him, though, will they? I don’t want them to hurt him, only help him move to a new house.”

  “That is exactly what they’ll do,” Rachael reassured her. “Just like a moving company.”

  “Can I sleep in your bed? I don’t want to be in here,” she pouted. “Buster doesn’t either, and Zeke went away somewhere, so we’re all alone.”

  “Of course you can, honey,” Rachael said, brushing her daughter’s long blonde hair from her damp eyes. “We’ll have ourselves a sleepover, only us girls!”

  Ashley smiled and took her mother’s hand. “When is Daddy coming home? I miss him.”

  I wish I knew, Rachael thought.

  “Soon, honey,” she told her. “Soon.”

  As she led her daughter out of the room, a movement caught the corner of her eye from beyond the window. Even though the night was deathly still, she told herself it was just a shadow from one of the trees outside, unwilling to give her subconscious the satisfaction of a glance back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  “PLEASE PROVIDE YOUR NAME for the record.”

  “Mercy Short,” she said.

  She had been removed from the room, no doubt returned to the small cell at the back of the church.

  I have no firsthand knowledge of Mercy Short, having only met her once some time ago. I believe her to be around twenty-five years of age, a few years older than myself. She has a husband and two children, both of whom were led away by elders from the church moments earlier, sparing them from the testimony of their mother.

  Mercy Short was clearly nervous, her eyes fluttering across those in the gallery before settling on her hands, which were folded in her lap.

  Tauber smiled down at her. “There is no need to fear, child. You are among friends here. You are among those who want to hear your story.”

  Mercy forced a smile and nodded. “It began about a month ago; of the exact night I am not certain. I awoke deep within the night to the sound of a brewing storm. My husband was not at my side; I assumed he went to the barn to tend the horses. This is often the case when lightning is afoot,” she explained. “I reached for the lantern at my side; only then did I realize I could no longer move.”

  “Were you bound?”

  Mercy shook her head.

  Tauber appeared puzzled. “What held you still?”

  She took a deep breath, her eyes gazing briefly across the crowd before returning to her lap. “The grip of unseen hands held me still.”

  Tho
se behind me mumbled softly. The magistrate silenced them with a glare.

  “I felt long fingernails digging into my limbs with even the slightest of movements, but I saw no one.”

  Tauber turned and faced the gallery. “You knew this presence, though, didn’t you?”

  She nodded. “Her scent betrayed her; the fragrance of wild lilacs filled the room. I found it unmistakable. I called her name but no reply came, only her scent. Then there was her warm breath at my ear as she spoke.”

  “What did she say?”

  “You will sign my book,” she said. “By the blood of your children, you will sign.”

  “I tried to protest, but another hand held my mouth.”

  “Did all end with that?”

  Mercy fell silent, her eyes again darting briefly to the elders seated at the high altar.

  “Did it end there, Mrs. Short?” Tauber’s voice echoed through the wooden hall.

  “No,” she breathed. “It did not.”

  “Continue, then; tell us all.”

  With a deep breath, she went on. “The hands, so many yet none at all, they pulled the covers aside and tore at my gown until my legs were bare. The room grew so cold I remember wanting nothing more than to cover myself, but they held me firm. Another hand brushed against my leg and I felt a sharp pain as something pierced my skin. I screamed silently, for they still held my mouth. Then I lost myself to the night, waking only as the morning light crept across the room.”

  “You were alone?” Tauber asked. “When morning came?”

  “My husband slept soundly at my side. I found myself back beneath the covers. I would have believed all to be a dream but not for the cut on my leg.”

  Tauber walked back to his table and glanced down at his notes. “This proved to be the first of many nights, was it not?”

  Mercy Short nodded. “They returned nearly every night thereafter.”

  “And the cuts?”

  Mercy Short’s eyes glistened with tears. “I have many now, one for each night that followed.”

  “What of this book?”

  Mercy fell silent and Tauber grew impatient. “Mrs. Short! What of this book?” he shouted.

  She startled and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Mrs. Short!”

  “I signed it!” she cried. “I signed her damned book, but she didn’t stop! She will never stop!” Standing, she tore up her sleeves, revealing dozens of slash marks. “They will bleed me until I stand at death’s door!”

  Tauber slammed his fist against the desktop. “Who betrayed you, Mrs. Short? Who did this to you? Was it the accused?”

  Mercy Short dropped back into her seat, her eyes welling with tears.

  “Was it the girl on trial?!” he shouted.

  Mercy could only nod her head.

  —Thad McAlister,

  Rise of the Witch

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Day 2 – 5:01 a.m.

  “YOU’RE CRAZY,” THAD SAID before disconnecting the call.

  The phone began to ring almost immediately, but rather than answering, Thad threw his iPhone across the room. A moment later, the hotel phone beside the bed tore through the silence. Thad swore under his breath and scooped up the receiver. “Leave me the fuck alone!” he shouted.

  “You don’t want to break your phone, Thad. Think of that iPhone as your family’s lifeline, your only lifeline to your treasured wife and daughter. They miss you so much. I’d hate to see your family apart any longer than necessary.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Family is such a precious thing, don’t you think? So precious and so fragile, like delicate glass in a thunderstorm.”

  Last night had been a dream, right? Had to be.

  He had been so drunk.

  “You’re so silly, Thad. You and your doubts. After our little adventure, the bartender did bring you upstairs with the help of one of his friends. You did some nasty things to me; I really enjoyed it. But then you passed out. I couldn’t wake you, I simply couldn’t. I asked him to help you get back to your room.”

  Thad sat on the corner of the bed and ran his hand through his hair. “Whatever happened between us, if anything happened at all,” he drew a deep breath, “was a mistake, mine and yours—you don’t have to involve my family.”

  “My dear Thad, they’re already involved. You dragged them in the moment your lips touched mine. I’ve got no doubt you’ll help me find Her. We’ll do this thing together. Your family and mine. Won’t that be fun?”

  Thad felt his face begin to burn with anger. “She’s not real!”

  “Oh, but She is. You’re kidding yourself if you don’t believe it,” Christina said. “And She has so many friends, so many just like me, wanting nothing more than to help her come back. People who are willing to do anything to help bring her back. I do mean anything, Thad. Her family is strong, Thad, much stronger than yours. We’ve waited hundreds of years for this day to come. I honestly can’t wait a moment more. We really need to get started—there is little time left.”

  “This isn’t real,” Thad said. I’m imagining it, all of it, I must be.

  “We have your wife, Thad. We also have your daughter,” she told him. “I’m going to say this next part very clearly, Thad, because I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings. Are you listening, Thad?”

  “Yes,” he nodded, the word barely escaping his lips.

  “They will die if we don’t find Her, if you don’t—”

  Thad nearly let the phone slip from his fingers as his breath caught in his throat. He had no reason to believe her, this voice on the phone, yet he did, he believed every word. “What have you done with them?” he breathed.

  “You need to focus on your task, Thad. I don’t want you to be distracted, so I’m going to tell you they’re fine and they will stay fine as long as you help me, as long as you help us.”

  “Help you find Her…,” Thad pointed out. “A fictional character.”

  “Come on, Thad. Aren’t we beyond your trivial denial by now? The story, Her story came to you so easily for a reason. There are forces at work here much greater than either you or I can possibly understand, forces which compelled you to tell Her story.” She paused for a second, then added, “I know you researched Her, Thad. After you started the book, you went back and pulled every periodical you could get your hands on. Quite the diligent little library patron. Weren’t you surprised to find the legends and tales about Her in those old texts? Stories so close to the ones you thought came out of your sexy little head. She lived long before you stumbled into Her world, lover boy. You get that, don’t you? If I were you, I would try to recall just how you came into possession of the journal. It started there, didn’t it? With that journal?”

  Thad remembered—his wife had found the journal in an antique shop. “The perfect place for an old story to be reborn,” she said.

  “You must wonder, Thad. Did the story come from you, or from the journal? I think you’ve known the answer to that little question for a long time,” Christina pointed out.

  “How?” he heard himself ask.

  “Her world is one of magic, the unexplained. She knew the journal would one day tell Her story. She also understood that story would lead the world back to Her…would lead her back to the world. She has many followers, Thad. We’ve been waiting for Her; we’ve been waiting a very long time. Now it’s up to you to bring Her back to us.”

  Thad lowered his head and ran his hand through his hair. “She’s evil,” he finally said.

  “The clock is ticking, Thad. Your family doesn’t have much time. You must find Her and bring Her home.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Where do you think, Thad? You need to start where your story ends, with a very special box.”

  The box.

  Thad had tried to forget about the box after completing the book. He wanted to forget everything it stood for, but the box never left his thoughts—nor did its resting
place.

  He stood from the bed and went to his suitcase. He found a small pill bottle resting between his socks. Popping the cap, he palmed two. Risperidone. He hadn’t taken them for months, but they had helped with the voices before; they had helped silence them.

  “She won’t let you forget,” Christina said. “Not yet. You’ve got work to do.”

  “I want to speak to my wife and daughter,” Thad told her, staring down at the pills.

  “We’re watching you, Thad. You need to hurry. No calls to anyone.”

  The line went dead.

  Thad found himself sitting in perfect silence, the image of this girl burned in his mind. He swallowed the medication dry, wondering if a couple little pills could keep this girl from coming back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  MY HOUSE SEEMED STRANGELY cold as I arrived there after the long day of trial. I piled wood into the hearth and stoked a fire. I had little for dinner but such things didn’t matter; my appetite had left me.

  The trial had concluded for the day about four hours earlier, as nobody was willing to stay past dusk. Mercy Short was taken home by her husband against the advice of Doctor Groton, who thought she was in too fragile a state to return to the very place in which she had suffered her horrors. Mercy herself had silenced him, convinced the witch would find her tonight regardless of where she slept. Only God offered protection, she said. At her insistence, Father Lawson would keep watch.

  The warmth of the fire called out to me and I went to my favorite chair. Pulling a warm blanket down over me, I watched the flames dance over the logs and lost myself in the steady hiss and rasp of the hearth.

  I woke moments later to a hand on my shoulder and warm breath at my ear.

  “Don’t be startled,” a voice instructed.

  Such warning did little good. I jumped from my chair and turned around.

  Although my eyes were adjusted to the darkness, I found it difficult to perceive the form before me, her face cloaked beneath the shadows of a dark hood.

  “Reveal yourself!” I commanded, doing my best to hide my fear.