“No, bigger than that,” she determined.
Maria, whatever you are thinking, do not do it!
“I’m thinking you’re a dog and you can’t talk, but I hear you. Hear you loud and clear. Except your lips ain’t moving. Neither is your jaw. So something is up. Boy, oh boy, this is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had.”
It’s not a dream—
“Oh, I know! I’ll just go to sleep. What better way to wake up from a really exciting dream than to bore yourself out of it? There’s nothing exciting about sleep. Sure, sleep is beautiful and one of my most favorite things in the world, but it’s pretty bland. Ever watch someone sleep, Sherlock? It’s like watching paint dry.”
Maria—
“Nope, mind has been made up. So sorry.”
If Sherlock could let out a sigh of relief that didn’t sound like panting, he would have. For a second there, he thought Maria was about to seriously hurt herself; from what he’d seen at the putt-putt course, pain leads to anger, and anger leads to a glowing blue fury that explodes clown heads and sends high school enemies into about four feet of cold, scummy water.
Maria went up the steps, and the wood creaked beneath her weight. Sherlock followed. How can I explain what is happening, when I’m not even sure myself? He’d picked up bits of information from Ignatius by sitting at his feet and waiting for food scraps, all the while listening to the ramblings of what a normal Earthling might think was a madman. No, maybe I should wait. Maybe I should let Ignatius do the explaining.
“I could drop the hair dryer into my bathwater. That jolt would be enough to send me out of dreamland, huh, Sherlock?” Maria said.
Now Sherlock didn’t try to converse with her through whatever telepathy the two shared. This time he barked. Barked loud and angry. It felt good to do that. These days, now in the twilight of his dog years, Sherlock hardly ever barked. Mailman? Used to it. UPS guy? Enticing, but used to it, too. Maria’s friends or Ignatius’s weird spells and funny smells? No way, José. So he let it rip. It was like revving a Harley Davidson engine.
“Whoa, cool it,” Maria ordered. She looked startled. Moonlight came in through the upstairs’ hall window, bathing Maria’s face in white. “Or I’m gonna leave you outside all night. And I know you’re scared of the monsters out there.”
Just trying to get your attention.
“Don’t you think a talking dog would get my attention in the first place?”
Technically, I’m not talking. I’m communicating telepathically. You hear my thoughts directed toward you, and then you respond by way of voice. If I try to do what you are doing, all that comes out is a bark.
“Man, I must’ve taken too much Z-Quil before bed. This is really the weirdest dream I’ve ever had!”
It’s not a dream! I don’t know how I can prove—
“Good night,” Maria said. She didn’t even bother going to her bed—she just fell to the floor and closed her eyes.
Yes, it was quite a weird night; one that would only prove to get weirder.
CHAPTER FIVE
Malakai had arrived on Earth a long time ago. His search for Ignatius Mangood had turned up nothing.
Many years had passed since the fall of Dominion, and in that time, Malakai had died.
Died a traitor.
In that time, Malakai had also risen.
But not on his own.
The Widow, after the Arachnids’ reclamation of Dominion, had settled onto the throne. She never ordered the removal of King Roderick’s body; she sat there and watched him rot, salivating as he turned to dust.
The victory hadn’t been complete, though. The Arachnids were missing one crucial item: the music box, the key to the world in between. The wizard Ignatius had taken it and jumped the portal to Earth—a place he knew the Widow would never dare set foot.
But she knew someone who would; someone who could play on the sympathy of Ignatius and win back the box.
Then the Arachnids’ victory would be complete.
Earth was not a big place, in comparison to Oriceran, but there seemed to be so much unknown, and that slowed Malakai down. Metal boxes on wheels that the humans used to get around, poles on the sides of walkways with miles and miles of wire running from them. No one used magic openly, though there had been times when Malakai had sensed it. There were hidden wizards and witches, Elves, and Gnomes.
But no Arachnids. The very earthen soil would burn their eight limbs to ash. It was, to the Arachnids, an unholy place.
If you were alive.
Malakai was not. Not anymore. But he felt like he was getting closer and closer, and that was something.
He had arrived in the state of Ohio three Earth days before, prowling through the back woods along the turnpike, only coming out into the metropolises when the sun went down and the night breathed evil.
Cincinnati—nothing.
Toledo—nothing.
Columbus—nothing.
When he’d headed north toward Cleveland, a vision greeted him in the darkness of night. He fell forward on the leaf-covered forest floor, the smoldering remains of his fire sending remembrances of a life he’d lived long ago into his brain via his nostrils. The urge to vomit came with the remembrance, but was quickly forgotten.
Then the smoke from the fire changed.
A stranger watching this would yell ‘Witchcraft!’ Or perhaps they’d blame Satan.
Malakai knew it was neither. It was worse.
It was the Widow.
“Malakai,” the Widow had said in his vision. Her voice was syrupy, almost drunk. A forked tongue poked through long, yellowed incisors.
“Yes, Master. I am here.”
“You are close.” The image of the Widow tilted her head back. The long black braids attached to her skull hung down, framing her haggard face. “I can smell it.”
Worlds away.
“I sense it, too.”
“You will need to disguise yourself. Reconnaissance will have to extend. No longer can you slink in the woods by day and seek out the box by night.”
Malakai bowed his head to the apparition.
“You will need to use a concealment spell, but you will need a wand.”
“Master, isn’t that risky?”
“Yes, it is, but it’s a risk we will have to take.” A bigger risk, the Widow let on. She didn’t care if Malakai died in pursuit of the box. If he died, then the location would be known, and she could send another one after it—and another, and another. It was the Order of the Silver Griffins she was worried about. They were legion. And they were detectors of unauthorized magic.
“If they show up, you will kill them. It’s simple,” the Widow stated.
And if you die — well, Malakai, you’ve proven to be quite good at that, she thought to herself.
Though she had some faith in him; enough to resurrect him from the grave. But once double-dead, there was no coming back. One could not have a third chance.
“As you wish, Master,” Malakai answered.
“Good. Good. I will contact you soon. Head northeast. The box is there. I can feel it.”
Malakai nodded as the smoke disappeared, leaving a heavy darkness in the clearing. Black trees stretched to the skies.
And so is Ignatius, the Widow thought as she closed communication with Malakai, her undead soldier. Perhaps he shall kill you again and save me the trouble.
***
About half a mile from where Malakai stayed, a father and his son were camping. The father’s name was Sean Stocker, and that weekend was his weekend with his eight-year-old, Tyler.
Tyler was sleeping in his tent. The kid had been out since nine, and Sean didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. He loved the kid, but it was an adjustment, that was for sure. He’d brought a book—a scary one, despite it being summer time—‘Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King. It was one he’d read a few times before, but not for a while. Turned out the vampires of Jerusalem’s Lot were too much for Sean, and he didn’t want to be
scared, in case Tyler woke up. How would that look? My God, terrible. The kid was young, but he’d never forget his old man practically pissing his Jockeys over words on a page.
So what Sean decided to do instead of read was crack open the six-pack of Bud Light he’d brought along. He was trying to quit the booze, but he still had it as a last resort. He’d knock back a couple, and sleep would hit him; he’d wake up with a little hangover, but that was okay because he was with his son. Tyler would want to go fishing down at the lake a couple miles south, and Sean would teach him how to do it just like his old man taught him decades ago. It would be perfect. So perfect, in fact, Tyler would tell his mom that he wanted to start seeing his pops more than every other weekend. And by golly, Nancy would have to honor her little pumpkin’s wishes, lest she lose brownie points.
It was the perfect plan.
Sean just had to get through the night.
So he drank one beer, then another; the next thing he knew, he was on his way to drunkenness, downing the last one and wishing he’d brought more. He watched the fire sway and move, the deadwood crackle, the logs split.
Soon nature called.
Sean got up. He wouldn’t wander far, not with Tyler asleep in the tent. He walked about twenty paces from the campsite and unzipped. As he relieved himself, one arm leaning up against a tree, he saw a figure move in the blackness.
It wasn’t humanoid.
“You’re just drunk, Sean. Pay it no mind,” he mumbled.
He’d been drunk many times before; hallucinations were not part of the deal, not like when he’d done shrooms in college.
Except, this wasn’t a hallucination. It couldn’t be. He could hear sticks break beneath the thing’s feet and its unsteady breathing like a dying engine; he could see its breath fog the cool night air, and he could…he could smell it.
The first thought that blared in his drunken mind wasn’t ‘I gotta get outta here,’ or ‘Where the fuck are my car keys?’ No. It was actually, Tyler. I’ve got to get Tyler the hell out of here, somewhere safe.
Suddenly, the sound of sticks breaking underfoot stopped.
The idea left Sean that this beast would just go on its way. The buzzing in his head from the beer was gone, too. Talk about a quick way to sober up. He wanted nothing more than to run for his dear life, but he couldn’t.
The beast’s head turned. Under the moonlight, its eyes glittered red—there were eight of them. Run, you idiot, run!
Sean turned. That was a start; better than nothing, right?
Wrong.
The sticks and bramble crunched under the beast’s feet.
It was running now.
Sean glanced over his shoulder. He was power walking—it was the best he could do. Six beers and hardly any cardio over the last two decades were not in his favor.
His foot thumped against a tree root, and his hands splayed out in front of him. He fell for what seemed like hours and hit the ground with bone-shattering force.
He felt phantom claws rake at his spine. Sharp, jagged teeth bite into his neck. Warm blood spill down his shirt.
Except—none of that happened. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, too afraid to turn around and look.
Tyler, he thought. Gotta get back to Tyler. You’re just drunk, Sean, that’s all. Seeing shit.
Another part of his mind told him he wasn’t; that the monster he’d seen was already back at the campsite, rooting through the tents for food. Not for the treats he’d packed, either, but for his eight-year-old son, who slept soundly.
Sean pulled himself up. His head throbbed with an oncoming headache; the early warning signs of a bad hangover. So much for fishing, so much for teaching Tyler.
The air was crisp and cool. He used a tree to steady himself. He was already feeling better, his fear now a distant memory, like the last images of a previous night’s nightmare.
He sniffed deeply and almost gagged. His dirty hand came up to his mouth. “What the hell is that smell?” he choked out. It was like wet leaves and rotten roadkill. “The woods fucking suck,” he decided. “And I need more beer.” That was the alcohol talking, good old liquid courage.
As he turned around to head back to the camp, he was greeted by a giant spider. One that stood like a man, had eight red eyes, and six arms hanging from his torso. One that smelled like…like death.
And Sean died.
Malakai tore him to pieces with brute force. He mustn’t let anyone see him; that was what the Widow had said.
He was only following orders.
Now covered in that human man’s blood, Malakai left the forest, heading for the northeastern part of the state called Ohio. He smelled the boy, of course, but he let him be. The boy hadn’t seen him.
When Tyler woke up the following morning, he was lost in the woods, alone, without food, afraid. He stumbled away from the campsite and found a trail of red. Not realizing it was blood, he followed that trail and found the eviscerated remains of his father.
Not knowing it was his father.
Thinking it was some poor animal instead.
CHAPTER SIX
Sherlock’s eyes got big in the dark. A low growling came from the back of his throat. The air upstairs, which was usually hot and stuffy in the summertime, turned ice cold. Goosebumps broke out all over Maria’s skin, though she was sound asleep.
Then Sherlock barked. It was such a menacing bark it burned his throat.
“The dream turns to a nightmare,” Maria whispered groggily. “Seriously, I’m off the Z-Quil for at least three months.” She stood there a moment, hoping the feeling would pass. Though she felt like she had control of whatever dream she was in, she didn’t want to lose it and head into horror movie territory.
“I suppose I should turn around now and be greeted by the world’s biggest spider or, like, a killer clown or something, right? Sherlock?”
She sat up.
Sherlock took off down the steps, whining. He left a trail of drops on the light carpet. Urine. Damn dog.
Maria rolled her eyes. Whatever, it’s a dream. He could piss a waterfall, and none of it would matter. Don’t have to clean up pee in a dream.
She turned around. Beating up a giant spider might be fun.
But what she saw wasn’t a giant spider. Somehow, it was much worse.
“Oh, man,” she said.
“I’m real and this isn’t a dream,” a boy said.
Standing in front of Maria, in what looked like a soldier’s uniform from the Civil War era, was a boy of about fifteen.
“W-What the hell is this?” She glanced around her room, feeling like the walls were closing in on her, tightening, tightening. “Okay, Maria, you can wake up now. Wake up before this kid eats you. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that whenever a kid appears, and especially if the kid starts singing, that it’s time to get the fuck out of there.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” the boy said.
He looked younger than Maria, but he was taller and very thin.
“Well, buddy, this isn’t your house, so it’s time for you to leave. And if you don’t leave, I’ll have to hurt you.”
“You cannot hurt me,” the boy reasoned, “because I am already dead.”
Maria felt a lump in her throat. “Dead?” she whispered, the word coming out hoarsely.
The boy nodded. Maria hadn’t seen the right side of him yet. He stood at an angle, but now he turned.
Maria clasped a hand over her mouth. “That’s…that’s really gross.”
Smooth talking, Maria. Insult a dead kid. What’s next, you’re gonna roll Gramps’s wheelchair down the basement steps…with him in it?
“It happened in a great battle,” the boy said. “We were winning. The Queen Witch was protecting us with her charms, but…”
“But what?”
“But there was a traitor among our ranks. A traitor I believe is coming for you. A traitor named Malakai.”
“Me? What the fuck? I haven’t
seen anyone dressed up in bloody Civil War rags. And trust me, I’d know if I did.”
The boy smiled. It was an odd smile considering half of his face was charred. Maria thought that if he hadn’t died and had been allowed to grow up, that he’d have grown into a handsome man. The thought sent a wave of pain through her heart.
“We’ll get to the traitor later.”
“ ‘Traitor later’,” Maria repeated, chuckling.
“What?”
“Nothing, you just rhymed. Anytime someone rhymes on accident, I usually laugh.”
“You have an odd sense of humor,” the boy said. “I never quite understood the allure of planet Earth.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up there,” Maria said. She grabbed her nightstand for support. First blue skin and magical explosions, now dead alien kids? “You’re not from Earth?”
The boy shook his head.
Maria pinched her arm and yelped. “That wasn’t supposed to hurt,” she said through gritted teeth. “Well where are you from?”
“Near the outskirts of the Dark Forest. Through Gideon’s Pass in a village called Dominion, to be exact.”
Maria hadn’t heard of any of those places.
“Okay, that’s definitely not Earth, I’ll agree with you there; what planet is that?”
The fact that this wasn’t a dream had slowly seeped into the back of Maria’s mind. The kid looked in need of help, and Maria always went out of her way to help someone.
“Oriceran.”
Maria’s stomach flipped. She grabbed the railing with two hands. Oriceran? Gramps’s Oriceran?
“I know, I know, it must be a shock,” the boy said. He swiped his long curls from his brow.
Maria saw the extent of the wound on his face. It didn’t look like a bullet wound or a knife wound, or like the boy had taken a nasty fall—none of that. His wound looked beyond any form of Earth weaponry. She didn’t know why she felt that way, but she did.
“Yes, Maria, it is the Oriceran your grandfather speaks of. I’ve been watching you.”
The Midwest Witch: The Revelations of Oriceran (Midwest Magic Chronicles Book 1) Page 5
