by J. D. Barker
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Day 3 – 03:30 a.m.
THUNDER CRACKED WILDLY OUTSIDE as Thad sat at the small table in his room at the Torrington Motel just outside of Boston. His head throbbing and in dire need of rest, he was afraid to close his eyes, afraid She would return if he so much as blinked.
You’re chasing ghosts, he thought.
You’ve abandoned your family to chase a ghost.
Thad rested his head in his hands and sighed. The sooner he completed this, the sooner he would get home to them.
Reaching into his briefcase, he removed the journal and flipped to a page near the center, one that contained a map he had sketched more than a year earlier. At least, he thought he had sketched it; in reality, he didn’t recall drawing the map at all. Like much of the journal, something else seemed to guide him as he created the rolling hills, large forest, and worn roads—the sketch had been completed before he even realized he had started.
Her.
Was it really possible?
Could She have somehow placed the entire story in his head? Could She have somehow driven him to write it?
Thad recalled how he had feverishly worked on the book, drafting page after page in such a short amount of time. The words flowed without effort—as if the story itself was a memory rather than a creative work.
He’d known something was wrong; the words, the phrasing, they weren’t his own.
You knew someone was in your head, Thad. Acknowledgement, though; that’s another story. Hell, you were never that good a writer, were you?
Thad returned his attention to the journal, to the map.
He had always imagined the small town was on the coast about fifty miles south of Boston. Wedged between rocky cliffs on the ocean side and protected by a dense forest to the west, it was more than secluded: The town was forgotten.
Reaching across the table, Thad unfolded the Massachusetts map he had purchased at the airport and spread it out before him. He then began searching the coastline for something, anything, that resembled his drawing.
When his fingers brushed across a thick forest at the far corner of the map, something seemed oddly familiar. He reached for the drawing and placed it beside the map, then placed the thin paper directly over, lining up the forest and the penciled-in roads—they were nearly a perfect match.
“How is this possible?” he said aloud.
Highway 80 was identical with the exception of the far east end. On the printed map, the road ended nearly ten miles from the coastline, but in Thad’s drawing it continued through the forest to the water, to a place that until now had existed only in his mind.
The small town of Shadow Cove.
Her final resting place.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Day 3 – 03:31 a.m.
RACHAEL GRIPPED THE GOLF club with both hands and shoved the driver into the hole with enough force that she thought the club might poke through the drywall of the opposite wall. She expected to feel it squish through the soft flesh of another one of the creatures but had no such luck. She pulled the driver back and shoved again, this time twisting around the inside. If she hit the creature, she couldn’t tell. She assumed they got away, moving through the walls of the home as effortlessly as she moved through its halls.
Are they intelligent?
Are they gathering somewhere right now, plotting revenge for their fallen brother?
What the hell are they?
“El Diablo,” Ms. Perez answered. “Servants of the Devil.”
Rachael pulled the golf club out of the hole. Her torn nightshirt was stuck to it, covered in blood. Blood She had drawn from her in her sleep.
They work for Her, she thought. All of them, they work for Her.
Rachael didn’t want to believe the woman was anything but a creation of her own mind, yet the bloody clothing and sheets told her otherwise; what she had just witnessed told her otherwise.
“We need to get out of this house,” she said.
Ms. Perez nodded in agreement, then stood and glanced toward the hallway. “Where is Ms. Ashley?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
AFTER THE OUTBURST OF George Jacobs, the magistrate ordered that she be brought to us. The gallery had grown eerily quiet. Some had even left, unwilling to risk an association with her—even if that simply meant being in the same room.
I too was worried. After all, I had spent time with her. She had come to me; I had even gone to her. Such an admission would surely put me on trial at her side.
She had not asked me to sign her book, though; that made it different. The reason was unknown to me. Did her book even exist? Also, when she appeared to me it wasn’t the ghoulish fiend described in various testimonies, it was but a scared young girl, a lost soul in need of help, nothing more. In fact, to think her a witch seemed outlandish, a farce. I thought of the pain inflicted upon her by the magistrate and Tobias Longstrum—the indignity, to be imprisoned in such a way. She had no choice but to seek out someone who may be willing to offer help using whatever means were known to her. Most would not hesitate to do the same if given no other choice. What right did I have to persecute her? What right did any of us have? She could be put to death based solely on the testimony of drunkards and lonesome housewives with no one willing to side with her.
I’m no better, writing such thoughts but lacking the courage to act upon them. What kind of man does that make me?
If she dies, her blood will be on my hands no less than the others.
She arrived a moment later, her hands and feet bound in thick chains, led to the pulpit by two members of the congregation, each carrying thick crosses anointed in holy water. She was thin and frail, her tattered gown hung loose. She held her arms close to her chest in an attempt at modesty. He dark hair hung down her back and shoulders, concealing her face. I caught a glimpse of her tear-filled eyes, and my heart tightened in my chest.
When she glanced back at me, I could not help but look away.
Who was I to her?
Who was she to me?
Was there something there at all?
How could I allow it?
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Day 3 – 03:40 A.M.
DEL THOMAS’S HEART POUNDED in his chest as he fumbled with the key to his apartment door with his injured hand while holding the bougainvillea branches in the other. The lock gave and he pushed his way in, kicking the door shut behind him. The air felt damp and musty as the day’s storm reached inside from the open balcony door, fingers of rainwater creeping across the hardwood floor from the body of the storm. The chilly waft of night had also taken up residence, moaning as it drifted through the open door and caressing the pages of the manuscript, still open upon his desk.
All these years, Thad!
Why keep such a story to yourself for all these years?
Her story needed to be told, cried out to be heard, yearning for so much as a whisper from the few that kept her tale captive in the darkest recesses of their minds.
Unforgivable, Thad…you’ve known for so long and didn’t tell your old friend Del?
He would have a long talk with him, a long talk indeed.
Some secrets just shouldn’t be kept.
Del ran his fingers over the pages. He wanted to read the story again, but there simply wasn’t enough time. He had been gone for hours and the gathered rainwater was growing stale. Soon it would be of no use at all. He had marked the appropriate page earlier and he turned there now, carefully reviewing the ritual that had played over and over again in his mind since the first moment he took in the words. He glanced at the clock—
Nearly four in the morning.
There was very little time; light would come soon.
He carefully set the bougainvillea branches down on the desk and began the tedious task of carrying the various bowls and po
ts of rainwater from the balcony to his large master bathroom where he poured them into the bathtub, wary to not waste a single drop along the way. When he was through, he lit a candle and placed it on the floor in the center of the room. He then returned to his desk for the bougainvillea branches and the manuscript. Del was outside the bathroom door when he froze in his tracks.
A knife.
How could I forget a knife?
Silly boy.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Day 3 – 03:41 a.m.
THE STAIRS SEEMED PARTICULARLY dark as Ashley descended to the first floor in search of Buster. She had tried the switch. Broken. Daddy would have to replace the lightbulb when he got home.
Buster lapped up water in the kitchen, still whining softly.
From the bottom of the steps, the blue glow of the kitchen nightlight poured into the hallway from around the corner. She found Buster sitting beside his water bowl, panting. “Poor Buster,” she said, patting him on the head. “You killed the monster, though. That’s a good boy!”
He whined in acknowledgment and stared up at her with sad eyes. His mouth was stained brown and he had small scratches all over his nose. Ashley picked up his bowl and carried it to the sink. Standing on her toes, she pushed back the faucet, rinsed and added cool water, then placed the bowl back on the floor. Buster didn’t seem to want more water, though; instead, he stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the hallway.
“Buster?”
The dog ignored her; he stiffened and a low rumble started in his throat.
Ashley crossed the kitchen to the back door and fumbled with the light switch, flooding the room with florescent light. Buster remained still, tense.
When she first saw it, she thought someone had stood one of her dolls in the doorway. Then it moved.
Eyes of fiery red first glanced at her, then swept to Buster. Ashley spotted another one standing under the end table in the living room. She tried to call out to her mommy, but her voice had escaped her; all she could produce was a faint gasp.
Buster’s whine had turned to a deep growl, and now he let out an angry bark.
The first creature flinched at the noise but otherwise didn’t move. The second came out from under the table and approached the other. There was something in its hand—a sharpened pencil, but thinner. A spear? Together, they started toward her dog.
Buster barked again, this time louder and with more force than the first.
Everything happened so fast.
Ashley heard the rush of footsteps on the stairs as her mother and Ms. Perez came running down; both creatures turned toward the steps. Buster seized the opportunity to lunge at them, his teeth bared in a ferocious scowl. The first creature ran to the left while the other fell to its knees and threw the makeshift weapon with unbelievable force, catching Buster in the leg. He lost his balance and tumbled to the wood floor, scrambling to get back up.
The creature started toward him. Her mother was mid-swing before the little black monster spotted the golf club arching down. The monster ducked, but wasn’t fast enough. The driver hit the creature with such force its tiny frame split in two. Both halves turned into piles of dirt before hitting the ground, leaving a sickly sour odor in their wake.
“Mommy, there’s another one!” Ashley screamed. “Under the table, see?!”
Her mother swung around, ready to hit the other, but the monster was gone, disappearing somewhere in the shadows of the dark room.
Ashley ran to her and wrapped her tiny arms around her mother. “What are they, Mommy? What do they want?”
Rachael tried to respond but words escaped her. All she wanted to do was hold her daughter and get them both to safety.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Day 3 – 03:48 a.m.
THE CANDLE SMELLED LIKE vanilla, but it was all he had. Not that there was anything wrong with scented candles, but somehow, Del thought, they didn’t quit fit the bill for what he was about to do.
He had retrieved a Shun Premier butcher knife from the kitchen. Exceptional craftsmanship, its eight-inch blade had cut through countless meats and other culinary delights over the years without fail. Del wasn’t about to do this with a dull blade or some cheap utensil; no sir, that would be crazy. He placed the blade on the edge of the bathtub, where it would wait patiently until needed.
Although Thad’s manuscript described the ritual in extraordinary detail, the pentagram was another story altogether. Del had made a mental note to ensure the published version would include diagrams whenever necessary so others wouldn’t experience the same difficulties. The manuscript did say the pentagram should be at least three feet in diameter and no more than two feet from the water. That in mind, Del did his best to draw one on the bathroom floor with the thick black marker he had found in the junk drawer of his desk. When finished, he stood and admired his work before returning to the manuscript to read the ritual one last time. When he was sure he had committed every detail to memory, he set down the tome and took in a deep breath.
Time to begin.
Reaching for the candle, Del dripped a small amount of wax on each of the pentagram’s corners, then placed the candle in the center. The flame danced briefly before straightening up, sending a thin ribbon of black smoke to the ceiling, where it spread across the white coffers. Even though the storm raged outside, the room seemed unnaturally still. So quiet, in fact, Del could hear his own heart beating within his chest as he reached for the manuscript and read the first lines of the spell.
“Bagahi laca bachahe. Lamc cahi achabahe,” his voice echoed off the harsh marble of the walls and floor as he repeated the phrase. “Bagahi laca bachahe. Lamc cahi achabahe.”
He had left the bougainvillea branches on the vanity and he reached for them now, careful not to prick himself on the long, sharp thorns. Although hours had passed since he picked them, they seemed to have found life rather than death in their freedom. The red and purple blossoms seemed to glow in the dim candlelight, their sweet aroma drifting through the air. One by one he began picking off the blossoms and dropping them in the rainwater, watching as they floated upon the surface, drifting into one another like tiny skaters on a pond. Strange how they seemed to move; fluttering in the water with life, growing stronger as they absorbed the rain. Their colors became more vibrant, the scent growing more intense with each passing second.
“Karrelyhos. Lamac lamec bachalyos.”
The storm’s wind seemed to seep into the room, drifting around the corner and through the door with a voracious delight. The temperature dropped at least ten degrees within a few short minutes and goose bumps covered his skin.
Del hastened his pace. When he finished the first branch, he set it aside and moved on to the next. Soon the entire surface was awash in red and purple.
“Cabahagi sabalyos, baryolas. Lagozatha cabyolas, baryolas.”
At first, they drifted in no particular pattern. Then the tiny leaves began to turn in unison, carried on the growing current. Del watched in amazement as they began to rotate clockwise around the outer edges of the bathtub, moving even faster at the center. Reaching for the last branch, he stripped away the leaves, watching as they joined the others, dancing atop the water’s surface. The room had grown colder too, the wind rising enough to send his towels fluttering against the walls. Del’s white breath drifted through the air as he spoke the next phrase.
“Lagozatha cabyolas, samahac et famyolas.”
He reached for the bare bougainvillea branches, bunched them together in the palm of his left hand, and closed his fingers. When the thorns tore into his palm, he squeezed even harder. Then Del took a deep breath and squeezed harder still, stifling a scream as blood began to trickle from between his fingers, dripping into the rain water. As the drops hit, they fizzled and popped, smoldering like gasoline to a flame. With his right hand, Del reached for the knife and raised it to his head.
In one swift motion, he cut a tuft of hair and threw the lock into the candle. The flame erupted
into a ball of fire, which burst toward the ceiling and filled the room with odorous sulfur, burning so brightly that Del had to look away. He dropped the branches into the water and felt a rush of cold air. When he uttered the next word, the final word, it escaped his lips with eager anticipation. He spoke the one word Thad’s book cautioned never to speak aloud.
Del spoke her name, Her true name, in a single hushed breath.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
THE STORM HAD RETURNED with the night. It offered me shelter as I cautiously moved through town from my small home to the church. Most had sealed their homes for fear of the evil creeping across the air. I spotted not a single soul as I walked the desolate streets with only a small lantern to light my way.
She was crying when I emerged in the church cellar and approached her cold, dark cell. The single candle left by her guards earlier in the night had long gone out, allowing a shroud of darkness to engulf the small space.
“I know George Jacobs lied today,” I began. “I was with you last night; you couldn’t have gone to him.” I hesitated before going on. “I would have said something if I thought—”
“No!” she shouted between sobs. “You mustn’t say anything! It will do nothing but put you in a cell of your very own. I cannot be responsible for the harm they would bring to you.”
“I must ask you something and you may hate me for it, but I must know the truth,” I blurted out.
She dried her eyes and faced me, embraced in shadows, lit only by my lantern. She nodded and approached the bars.
I cleared my throat, but the lump which had formed there seemed only to grow larger. “Is there a book? One like that of which they speak?”
There was no turning back now—not for me, not for her. If she lied, and I feared she would, I would have my answer. I would understand how to proceed. I hadn’t considered what we would do if the truth was revealed, but we would do it together, of that I was certain.
