by J. D. Barker
“Where’s my mommy?” Ashley said, refusing to cry.
The old woman knelt down at her side, her hand sinking into the dirt left behind by the minion. “Your mother is safe, my dear. No need to worry. She is among friends, as are you.” She ran her fingers through Ashley’s thick golden hair. “Do you know why we’re here?”
Ashley tried to pull away from her, but her back was against the wall.
“It’s okay, child. Do you know why we’re here?” she asked again.
“You want my little sister,” she said, looking to the floor.
The old woman smiled. “So you do know it’s a girl.”
Ashley nodded.
“And how do you suppose that is?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You know what I think?” the old woman asked. “I think you can see her. Not only now, as she rests in your mother’s belly, but years from now—you can see her playing as a child, you can see her as a teenager, and even an adult. You know all about her, don’t you, Ashley?”
Ashley wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Somehow, she did know all those things. At first she wondered if Zeke had told her, but it seemed more likely it came to her in dreams. That wasn’t right either, though, because she just knew. These thoughts, these memories of things which hadn’t happened yet, appeared in her head like a movie.
“It’s in your mind’s eye, Ashley, your very thoughts,” the old woman told her. “It is nothing to be ashamed of, not at all. This proves how special you are; you and your little sister.” The woman reached out and touched Ashley’s hand, a series of flashes filling her mind.
Olden time.
Witches.
Fire.
The Book.
A large tree.
A beautiful girl.
Death.
Ashley pulled away and held her one hand in the other. “Who is she?”
At first the old woman appeared surprised; then she looked down at her own hand and understood. “Your sight is strong!” she exclaimed. “More so than I dared hope. Your sister’s will be stronger still. It’s in your blood, your family. That’s why She picked your family. That’s why She needs her.”
“She wants to keep my sister?” Ashley questioned, more to herself than anyone. The old woman didn’t have to nod; the truth lived in her dark eyes. Beside her, Buster whined; she reached over and stroked his head.
Eleanor smiled for the first time, her yellowed, rotten teeth causing Ashley to turn away. “Your sister belongs to Her. Through her, She will be reborn.”
“You can’t take her; she’s my mommy’s baby, not yours!”
“Keep your voice down,” the woman sneered.
But Ashley no longer needed her voice. As the woman leaned close, her thoughts poured out of her mind into Ashley’s. Thoughts of her mother, father, and soon-to-be-born sister as well as thoughts of herself…many thoughts of herself. Ashley shivered and took it all in, as much as she could remember.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
THE MOON WAS HIGH into the night when we came upon a small clearing with a weathered cabin at its center.
It was much as I remembered from my dream.
Large bougainvillea rambled along the ground and up its walls on all sides, surrounding the structure in a bath of bright colors—pinks, purples, and reds, entwined and flourishing, spreading from the cabin through the open field until they found the forest, then climbed the trees, reaching for the heavens. The night air was scented heavily with the blooms.
A single candle burned in the window.
A trickle of smoke escaped the flue and scratched the night sky, tendrils of white.
I took up behind a massive oak, an arm’s breadth from the edge of the clearing. Hobbs, Tauber, and two others were to my left. The Stranger stood alone, his long coat fluttering behind him on a thick wind.
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small burlap sack tied with a leather band. Unlashing it, he tipped it to the ground and began walking around the cabin, spreading a chalky substance on the earth at his feet. Within moments, he had lapped the structure, completing a circle.
The sack disappeared within the folds of his jacket.
“Sea salt,” the magistrate informed. “Evil is unable to cross such a boundary.”
I nodded and quickly added this observation to my writings.
“Come out! I command of you!” the Stranger shouted. His voice echoed off the trees, booming through the clearing. He had produced a small wooden box. It was carved ornately with a large metal clasp at the front. He gently placed it on the ground at his feet.
I heard the clatter of a musket and turned to see Tauber nervously clutching at the weapon.
I thought I saw movement at the window, but I couldn’t be sure.
Clickity, click, click.
The odd sound rode in on the wind, approaching from all sides.
My heart pained within my chest at the anticipation. I had heard this before.
Clickity, click.
Behind us, others began to emerge from the trees—Herrick, Groton, Hobbs, Lawson.
“Hobbs,” Tauber said, turning to the man. “She is familiar to you; go to the door. Draw her out.”
Hobbs grew pale, his eyes wide. “I will do no such thing!” he replied.
Tauber frowned. “You have an obligation. You are facing charges. This is your opportunity to redeem yourself in the face of the Lord. Prove you are not in league with the witch.”
Hobbs shook his head.
Tauber looked around, his face a mix of fear and disgust. “Jacobs, then. You testified that you signed her book. She will bring no ill to you.”
George Jacobs was to my left. I heard the breath fill his chest as he gasped. His eyes grew wide.
I still felt his testimony was fraught with lies, but I knew he would never admit to this. To do so would subject him to the magistrate’s wrath and the anger of the township. Why he had lied, I held no knowledge, but I knew he would continue the lie even before he stood and faced the cabin. His skin grew a pale white.
“Leave your weapon,” the magistrate barked.
Jacobs considered this for a moment, then set his musket down at his feet.
He looked to me, but I couldn’t meet his gaze. I turned back to my writing.
The cabin door was no more than fifty paces from where we crouched in the trees, but his journey was slow going. He shuffled his feet, covering less distance with each step. I couldn’t help but wonder if this, too, was some manner of spell cast by the witch and her siblings—some unforeseen force holding him back.
His breathing grew labored too, ragged.
“He will not make it,” The Stranger told them. “She will not allow it.”
He came to a stop just five paces from the door, mere inches within the salt boundary.
“Jacobs!” the magistrate shouted. “You have nothing to fear. God is with you!”
Jacobs began to shake uncontrollably. He stiffened, then fell to the ground. We watched in horror as he seized, then went limp, then seized again and again—the cycle repeating, growing with intensity. Not a sound escaped his lips. He twitched like a fish caught upon the shore, then finally stilled.
“Mercy, my lord,” someone blurted at my back.
Clickity, click, click.
I was not alone in hearing this. Puzzlement filled each face I found in the darkness.
Was I alone in knowing its source?
It was then that Jacobs burst into flames, a pyre nearly to the canopy of trees.
Someone screamed.
We watched helplessly as this man grew black, then turned to ash. A gust of wind picked him up and he was gone. Nothing remained but scorched earth where he had lain. A moment later, the bougainvillea took this too, somehow growing over the space in mere seconds.
Three or possibly four people left our group for the trees, fleeing back to the town in utter panic. I would have gone
too were it not for the Stranger; he had somehow made it to my side in silence.
“You are familiar to her?” His voice was rough but steady. He had not been deterred by Jacobs’s death.
I did not respond; I knew not what to say.
“I know she has visited you, scribe,” he continued. “On more than one night, I imagine. That other man, he lied of this, but you...”
I shook my head.
“Boy, I have followed her to the ends of this earth. I am inside her head as she is inside mine. There are no secrets between us; we moved beyond that game long ago.”
He raised my head to meet his. “Your eyes tell the truth, even if you do not. She has revealed herself to you, has she not?”
It was then that I looked down at my paper, at my writings of the past hour. Gone were the words I had committed to paper, the sentences I had formed and scribed. There was only a single phrase; I found it repeated down every page, every inch of paper.
Come to me
Come to me
Come to me
The Stranger saw it too, but he did not appear surprised.
“If you do not go, scribe, more men will die,” he told me. “Do you want this blood on your hands?”
Again, I shook my head.
“Then you know what you must do.”
The crushing within my chest that was my heart harshened, my stomach twisted.
Come to me
This time, I heard the words too. I watched in amazement as my hand scribbled them across the paper, the movement not my own.
It was then I knew I had no other choice.
I rose from concealment and approached the small cabin.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Day 3 – 07:45 a.m.
RACHAEL AWOKE ON THE bed. Someone, the large man, was busy tying her feet and hands to the frame. She tried to struggle but was simply too weak.
“No, please…,” she breathed.
“We’re going to need water,” he mumbled. Rachael couldn’t see whom he spoke to, but she sensed others in the room. The air smelled of dust and dirt and the foul scent of feces. The walls were covered in it, no doubt the work of the little minions running about the house. The windows had been blocked out entirely, denying whatever light tried to find its way into the room. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain tapped against the roof and windows with a steady fury.
God, where was Thad?
These people came into their lives, into their home… Where was he to stop them? Where was he to protect his family?
The baby kicked and tears began to well up in her eyes. She felt so helpless. They had Ashley downstairs. What did they have planned for her little girl? Her baby?
The large man finished tying her last wrist, then took a step back to admire his work, licking at his lips with a fat tongue. “It’s true what they say about pregnant women, you know. The glow and everything. You look absolutely stunning lying there. You should try and relax. This will go so much easier for everyone if you’re relaxed.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
He stepped closer. Rachael heard the mud at his feet squishing into the carpet. “Something wonderful.” He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket before sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes drifting over her.
“You can’t hurt my baby,” she pleaded.
“It’s coming, you know.”
“Promise me you won’t hurt my baby or my little girl.”
Running his large, rough hands over her dress, he paused at her belly. “She’ll want to come out soon, no doubt about that. And when she’s ready, ain’t nothing gonna stop her. Her destiny is so much more special than mine or yours—anyone’s, for that matter. I’m honored to see this in my lifetime—we’ve waited so long.”
“Waited? Waited for what?” Rachael pleaded. “What’s going to happen? What are you going to do with my baby?”
“Luther? What are you doing?”
Rachael and the large man turned together. Eleanor was standing in the doorway, her frame a mere shadow against the murky light coming from the candlelit hallway. “Go downstairs and help the others prepare.”
“You shouldn’t use our names…”
Eleanor scowled. “Now, Luther!”
He leaned to Rachael’s ear. “We’ll finish our little chat later,” he said, winking. Luther rose and left the room, unwilling to make eye contact with the woman planted firmly in the doorway.
“You can’t keep me here like this!” Rachael shouted at her. “Where’s my daughter? I want to see my daughter!”
Eleanor offered her a cold smile. “You must calm down, Rachael, for the baby’s sake. If necessary, we’ll give you something to help you relax, but I’d rather not do that.” She stepped into the room and stood at the foot of the bed, her dark eyes staring down at her. “Your daughter is safe; Ms. Perez is looking out for her. As long as you cooperate, you have my word: No harm will come to her.”
Another contraction wracked her, and Rachael fought back the urge to scream. She held her breath until the pain passed. A defeated breath escaped her lips.
“Oh dear. They are getting close now, aren’t they?”
Rachael nodded.
Eleanor reached for a tissue from the nightstand and blotted the sweat from her brow. “I know you think you’re losing your baby and I understand how painful that must be for you, but you need to understand that she is about to become part of something larger than all of us—greater than you could possibly imagine.”
“Would you give up your own child to this madness?”
Eleanor nodded. “Without hesitation. Madness indeed—such a statement could not be further from the truth. You should be honored.”
“You keep saying she. What makes you think it’s a girl?”
Eleanor smiled down upon her. “Rest, child. The next contraction will be on you soon. You’ll need all your strength for what is to come.”
“Dormious,” she said, placing her hand on Rachael’s forehead.
As Eleanor said the word, Rachael felt a veil of sleep drift over her. If only for a few minutes, she lost focus on the terror around her.
“We’ll need to move her soon,” Luther said from the doorway.
I know, Eleanor thought. I’ll prepare her.
Luther nodded his head and started down the stairs, her words still echoing in his mind.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
THE GROUND CRINKLED UNDERFOOT as I crossed the clearing. I watched bougainvillea thick with thorns twist and turn all around me with the elasticity of a snake. The brush parted as I approached, then weaved together at my back, growing taller with each moment. It wasn’t long before the Stranger and the others disappeared from my view and I from theirs.
I crossed the salt line without incident and stepped to the door; I found it ajar.
With a deep breath, I pushed past the threshold and went inside.
The darkness nearly choked me.
The air was still and silent, yet smelled of the blooms outside.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust.
I found her alone. Crouched in the corner near the stove, she was draped in a wool blanket.
“You know what they have done to me,” she breathed. “The torture, the rape... Yet you stand with them tonight, part of the mob that wishes nothing but death for me.”
“I am only here to document the events,” I countered.
“We helped these people. We cured their sick, protected them, and now they wish us dead. From fear, from lack of understanding, they wish us dead rather than to comprehend.”
“You just killed a man before my eyes!”
“It was not me.”
“Then who?”
She glanced around the small room worriedly, then pulled the blanket tight. “You know who it was.”
I went to her and knelt at her side.
; “That man out there, the one in the black cloak, he told us you are one and the same—that the old woman and you are the same being—nothing more than witchcraft creating this illusion,” I said, gesturing to her.
She shook her head in defiance. “I am not Her.”
“Then where is she? A man just died simply for approaching this place. I see no one here but you. How am I to believe anyone else responsible?”
Taking my hand, she gently stroked my fingers. “Do you believe I could do such a thing? Does your heart tell you this?”
“I believe what I see.”
“Yet you believe I am an old woman, even though you see otherwise,” she countered. “You believe I am capable of murder and deceit—that I would just as soon take a life rather than let him through my door.”
“You have offered me no other explanation.”
She wiped a tear from her eye, then prodded the flames at the stove’s hearth. The dry wood crackled as the fire chewed it hungrily. “Then why have I not killed you?”
My stomach tightened at this thought, for I had wondered it myself. I did not know why she entrusted me. Nor did I understand the purpose I served to her. I felt I had to tread carefully.
Was anger her catalyst?
Self preservation?
“Why is that man pursuing you?” I found myself asking. “The man in the black cloak. He says you know him, that he knows you.”
She motioned for me to approach, to sit at her side. I did not want to but found myself beside her anyway, the warmth of the stove flushing my face. I sat upon the floor; there were no chairs in the cabin. There was very little in the way of possessions. It occurred to me that this did not appear to be a home; it held no signs of life, no belongings. There was just the stove, the girl, and the blanket in which she was draped. This could not be where she lived, could it? In such beggary?
Outside, rain had begun to fall. With it came an angry thunder. I thought of the men huddled in the trees and bushes watching this place.
How long had I been in here?
I did not know.
I had no sense of time.
Lightning flashed, and for a moment the cabin flooded with light.
