Forsaken

by J. D. Barker

  Got your text yesterday with proposed cover art. Did you draw those? Didn’t know you could draw. The old woman might be a little too creepy for the cover—you want people to pick up the book when they walk past, not run and hide. I like the ones of the girl, though. Maybe go with something like that? We can talk when you get back from NY. Give the manuscript to Del like we discussed. I’ll get the book from him. Can’t wait to read it!

  Safe trip!

  Ryan D

  Thad couldn’t draw, he never could. And since when did he text? He had an iPhone, but only because the flip phone he had carried for years died after taking a header off the kitchen table a few months back. At last check, he hadn’t installed a single app.

  She, however, used hers religiously, and as an avid member of the Cult of Apple, she was well versed in all the various intricacies of their ecosystem—in particular, iMessage’s ability to sync across platforms. Most people don’t realize this, but if you own an iPhone and a Mac both systems will stay in constant sync. If you bought a song or movie on your MacBook, the purchase immediately appeared on your iPhone. If you took a picture with your phone, you can go to the photo stream on your Mac and the image is there. Users can seamlessly jump from one device to the other and pick up right where they left off. The same holds true of iMessage, the iPhone’s built-in texting application. Conversations on one instantly appear on the other. The system has a quirky side effect, though—if you delete a text conversation on one device, the messages remain on the other until the system needs the space. Text messages rarely got lost.

  Rachael clicked on LaunchPad, bringing up a list of Thad’s available programs. She located iMessage and opened the program.

  Only one conversation in the queue: two days ago, with Ryan and his publisher.

  Thad: Ryan? Are you there?

  Ryan: Thad? When did you join the 21st century?

  Thad: Ha

  Thad: Smart ass

  Ryan: What’s up?

  Thad: Heading to NY to meet up with Del. Want me to give him the manuscript? He said he’s meeting with you too.

  Ryan: Can’t you email it?

  Thad: Um. Some of it’s in longhand. Also has some sketches and drawings. Not sure how to get them into my Mac. Best to give you a printout with photocopies.

  Ryan: Seriously? You haven’t gone old school with longhand since your second one.

  Thad: Hopefully this one will do as well.

  Ryan: K. Give the manuscript to Del then

  Thad: I’ve got some ideas for the cover, I’ll send them to you in a second.

  Ryan: No problem

  Thad: Ok, bye.

  Ryan: People don’t say ‘bye’ in texts, Thad. You’re not hanging up. You crack me up :)

  Thad: Ok. Signing off.

  Thad: Bye.

  Thad: Seems weird to not say bye.

  Ryan: Ok. Bye, Thad.

  He followed the conversation with two photographs of sketches. Rachael’s eyes widened as she double-clicked on the first image, enlarging it to see a profile of an old woman in tattered clothing. The hood of the woman’s cloak pulled over her head cast a shadow across worn, wrinkled skin. Her eyes stared out from the page and bore into Rachael. The woman’s hand was raised, her twisted fingers ending in long fingernails scratching at the air.

  The woman from her nightmare. The one who claimed rights to her child.

  Rachael knew the image had been drawn in Thad’s journal; she could see the metal binding gripping the paper’s edge.

  How?

  A single word scribbled beneath the woman.

  Her.

  Rachael scrolled down to the second image and opened it.

  A young girl. The most beautiful girl she had ever seen. Radiant dark hair, flowing past her shoulders. Flawless skin. And her eyes…although the sketch was black and white, Thad shaded the eyes with blue, the only color to appear on the page.

  Four words scrawled below the image, this stunning girl.

  Her?

  Then beneath that—

  Anything for Her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  THICK AND COLD, THE air caused me to wake suddenly. A fog of chilly night lit by the moon inched across the floor, chasing the shadows. I glanced around in search of her, but she was gone—for how long, I could not be sure. My throat was dry and my bones ached. I wiped my weary eyes and slid my feet to the cold, wooden planks.

  It was then that I saw the footprints.

  Muddy tracks leading to the door.

  I will not attempt to explain my reasoning. I do not understand myself. My actions were not sound, not that of a God-fearing man.

  I reached for my coat and boots, and followed the tracks into the night.

  —Thad McAlister,

  Rise of the Witch

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Day 2 – 9:45 a.m.

  DEL THOMAS STEPPED INTO his apartment and quickly went to his desk. Carefully, he opened his briefcase, removed the manuscript, and set the pages down before him, his fingertips feeling the warmth rising from the stack.

  He had finished the manuscript on the plane and didn’t have the words to describe what he read. The story both disturbed him and inspired him, it brought fear and excitement—more so than anything else he had ever read. Her life brought chills to his tired bones.

  He couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  Outside, lightning filled the morning sky followed by a thick roll of thunder, which shook his building like the angry hands of a giant on a toy.

  Del didn’t waste any time.

  Running to his kitchen, he tore open the cabinets and began gathering all the bowls he could find—large and small, plastic and glass. As a bachelor, he quickly realized more of the objects he sought were in the sink rather than the cabinets, freeing three more from a mess of unwashed dishes. He found eight in all and stacked them in his arms, then went to his balcony.

  Again, lightning filled the sky. He grew anxious. The balcony wasn’t large, but it would do. Carefully, he began placing the bowls on the floor before him, setting down the last as the first drops of rain fell.

  Del stood and admired his work.

  Within moments, the heavens opened up and rain began to fall in thick sheets. He watched as the bowls began catching drop after drop.

  Del knew he had much more to do today. The book was very specific.

  Her needs were very specific.

  Grabbing his coat and an umbrella, Del headed out into the dismal morning. The next item on his list might prove to be more elusive.

  Thad retrieved his cell phone from the corner of the room.

  He had thrown the iPhone hard enough to shut it down, but at least he didn’t crack the display. He pressed the power button, hoping he hadn’t damaged it. When the Apple logo appeared, he breathed.

  When the main menu filled the screen, Thad clicked through to the call log.

  Blank.

  E-mails and texts were gone as well.

  Why did he have to throw the phone?

  Part of him needed to find her call in the log—something to confirm last night had really happened.

  But if she’s real, then what she’s asking is real. You have to find the Rumina Box.

  Better that she’s not real. Better that he imagined everything—the park, the call this morning. That would mean his family was safe, not held by…by whom? This group? Followers of the witch in his book? How was that even possible? Maybe some cult would pop up after publication. The world was filled with crazies. But how could such a group exist before the book’s publication?

  She told the truth, Thad. You know she did. The witch is real. She planted the book in your head. She made you write it. She made you put the entire story on paper for them. For Her.

  She wants to come back.

  And you’re going to help.

  Thad stared down at the pill bottle still in his hand.

  When he took
them, he couldn’t write. They shut down the creativity, the desire. They silenced the voices of his characters. Would they silence her?

  Not if she’s real.

  Thad showered and dressed, then went downstairs.

  At this early hour, the bar was closed but he spotted the bartender from last night taking inventory, preparing for the night ahead. The young man looked up when Thad approached. “Sleeping Beauty lives!”

  Thad offered a weak smile. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. We were celebrating and things got out of hand. I should have stopped when my agent left.”

  The bartender heaved a case of Coors Light onto the counter and began filling the well. “No worries, Mr. McAlister. If we don’t celebrate life’s little moments, what else have we got? You most definitely looked like you had a good time. That’s for sure.”

  “Speaking of that, any idea what happened to the girl I was talking to?”

  The bartender laughed. “You’re going to need to be more specific; you had quite the crowd around you.”

  Crowd? Thad didn’t remember a crowd—only her.

  “Long dark hair, blue eyes, dark skirt, white blouse…I…I may have left with her.”

  He frowned. “Sorry, last night was busy.”

  “She said she came back and asked you and a friend to help me up to my room.”

  “I think someone’s playing you. I went out for a smoke and found you standing outside, covered in mud. Smelled like you recycled a meal or two. Didn’t see a girl. I got your room number from the front desk. Billy and me took you up to thirty-one in the elevator and dropped you at your suite so you’d sleep it off,” he said.

  Thad tried to recall what had happened, but nothing came back.

  “Hey, we’ve all been there. That’s how I got this tattoo.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a dolphin with an angry smirk. “One too many tequila shots. Next thing you know, I’ve got this and some girl I’d never met going through my wallet at three in the morning. Alcohol can lead to many a bad night. You’ve got to shake it off. Forget. Start the day anew.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Best to turn a blind eye than try to sort out what happened.”

  “Exactly.”

  Thad’s phone vibrated and he glanced down at the screen.

  A single text—

  Unknown: You have three days, Thad. You need to get started.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Day 2 – 9:55 a.m.

  FROM THE SAFETY OF Fort Buster—an overstuffed recliner positioned in the far corner of the living room, surrounded by strategically stacked pillows—Ashley and Buster monitored the couch with attentive eyes. Ashley had ordered Buster to take the first guard-duty shift while she had scoured the house in search of weapons and supplies. He obeyed, laying low to the ground, his worried gaze fixed on the couch.

  When Ashley returned fifteen minutes later, he had whimpered a soft hello before turning back to the couch, his tail thumping on the hardwood at his back.

  “Shhh,” Ashley ordered, holding his tail still with her free hand. “I got us lots of good stuff,” she told him. “I got my slingshot, Daddy’s fishing net, some cheese—hey!”

  Buster had found the cheese and made quick work of the morsel. His muzzle was now searching the ground for crumbs while his large brown eyes begged forgiveness from his superior officer.

  “That was the last of our bait,” Ashley frowned. “How are we going to catch anything without bait?”

  Buster cocked his head and whimpered.

  “It’s okay, boy. We’ll find something else.”

  When Buster’s ears stood at attention and he fell silent, Ashley knew she was coming back.

  The enemy.

  She ushered Buster deeper into their alcove and held her breath as Ms. Perez stepped back into the room with an armload of supplies of her own. She dropped them at her feet and said something in Spanish that Ashley could only assume was naughty. She was always saying naughty things.

  Lying on her stomach, Ashley peered under the recliner at the housekeeper. Beside her, Buster licked her face and then turned his attention back to Ms. Perez and the strange items she had brought into the room.

  She struggled with the couch, wrestling it further away from the wall.

  Reaching into her supplies, she pulled out a small piece of drywall, rounded the edges to fit the hole, and forced the patch into place. She then applied tape and drywall mud, sealing the small space.

  Ashley and Buster remained still as the housekeeper set a number of mousetraps (without cheese), then spread a black powder on the floor at the baseboard.

  Finished, Ms. Perez stood and inspected her handiwork. With a satisfied grunt, she gathered her supplies and left the room.

  Ashley and Buster waited a moment before leaving the safety of Fort Buster and making their way to the newly patched hole, remaining clear of the smelly couch. Buster guarded the door as Ashley knelt down to get a better look at the hole, avoiding the traps and dark powder.

  She could hear them on the other side.

  At first, the slight scratching was barely audible, but the sound grew louder.

  Ashley imagined not two tiny hands clawing at the new plaster but four, then six, then eight, their numbers growing as they attempted to break through before the patch dried. Buster was standing beside her now, also eyeing the hole, a subtle whimper growing in his throat.

  When a little fist poked through, Ashley tried to scream but her voice had left her.

  Thad watched the driver load his luggage into the back of the cab, then climbed inside.

  “Where to, buddy?”

  “JFK Airport, please.”

  With a blast of the horn, they wedged out into traffic.

  Thad pulled out his phone and glanced down at the screen.

  As before, everything had reset. All the logs were empty, including text messages.

  He must have broken the phone when he threw it.

  Or she never really texted you; you imagined it.

  He dialed home, unsure of what he would get. The line rang several times, then went to a fast busy signal.

  No voice mail.

  Thad hung up and felt another surge of guilt.

  You didn’t cheat on your wife, he told himself. You wouldn’t do that. In your drunken haze, you dreamt the whole mess. Had to be a dream.

  It was natural to dream of a sexual encounter with a stranger, particularly when you’re away from the woman you love.

  But she’s not a stranger, is she?

  His phone rang and he quickly pressed the ANSWER button. “Rachael?”

  “I thought I set the rules, Thad. Wasn’t I clear? You are to have no contact with your family until this is over.”

  Christina.

  “I need to know they’re all right,” he told her.

  “Your only concern should be the box,” she said.

  “I have to speak to them,” he insisted.

  “You need to keep them alive,” she replied, “long enough to find the box.”

  “How do I know you won’t hurt them?”

  “You will not be permitted to speak to them. You will not be permitted to see them. You will not be permitted to return home until you have the box,” she said. “Those are the rules. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” Thad replied, disconnecting the call.

  He checked the call log.

  UNKNOWN – 5 seconds ago

  She was real.

  She had to be real. This proved it, didn’t it?

  This girl had his family. He had no idea how many other people were involved, but he assumed she wasn’t working alone. In fact, something told him she had eyes and ears everywhere, possibly even here.

  He looked up at the driver, then turned away when their gazes met in the rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  A THICK FOG WRAPPED around me as I found myself deep within the forest, t
he town lost behind me, now sleeping at this late hour. I had considered turning around a number of times. I had no business in these woods, of this I was certain. My curiosity led me forward, though; it would be the death of me someday, I thought. Always silencing my better judgement, tempting the fate laid out for me by my Lord.

  I had been to this place only once prior, long ago as a child on the dare of Jude Olsen. For even then our parents had told us it was an unholy place, one to which we were never to go. On that night, I hadn’t traveled as far as I had tonight. Instead, I had turned back with the first hoot of an owl—an owl that became a bear when I retold the story. I hadn’t found the witch’s house on that night, but like the others in our town, I knew where it was.

  Tonight I heard many animals, most of which watched me cautiously from behind a blanket of shadows as I pressed deeper into the woods.

  When the cabin came into view my heart raced within my chest, my breath caught before me in a misty haze. I crouched low among the brush and peered across the clearing.

  A single candle burned at the window, the only light on this darkest of nights, the moon and stars cast out by a thick veil of clouds.

  I recalled the stories of childhood.

  The witch of the woods. The old woman clad in rags with fingernails long and sharp, clicking and clacking as she anxiously awaited the souls of children to venture within her realm.

  Childhood tales and nothing more. Bumps in the night spun by our parents, meant to raise the gooseflesh and keep us from wandering alone in this vast forest, away from our homes, away from the safety of the town.

  Yet there was something about this place.

  Something…wrong.

  Within the cabin, a shadow stirred.

  A cry filled the night.

  The mournful wail pierced the silence, sending birds fluttering from the trees as they found flight.

  I turned to flee only to find an old woman standing mere inches behind me, her eyes wide, her lips peeled back over yellowed teeth in an unholy smile. “I knew your father, Clayton of Stone,” she hissed. “Will your blood be as sweet as his?”