She stalled and crouched to the ground, pretending to tie her sneakers. From the edges of her vision, she surveyed the sidewalk only to see a bag lady pushing a shopping cart. A grubby trench coat hung over stooped shoulders, and the lady’s face was hidden by gray hair that resembled coiled garden snakes. She’d stopped by a trash receptacle and bent at the waist with her head well into the can. Rummaging around before withdrawing a few tin cans, she then plopped them into her cart.
Pedestrians scampered over the sidewalks, but no one looked suspicious. Seeley shook her head, feeling somewhat nonsensical, and hiked onward. She screened her eyes from the sun and looked skyward to the spire of The Courier Express building. Her place of employment before her marriage to her esteemed boss, and now husband, Declan.
Married almost three months, she was adjusting to city living. And today she’d planned a surprise visit with the goal of window-shopping.
She walked while musing about her daughter’s unannounced visit. Why did Jordan want to take me to the hospital? After Declan had left for work, she’d settled at the laptop with a new idea for her novel. She recalled the blitz of morning sickness and how she’d practically ran into the bathroom. She’d crawled back in bed, then the next thing she knew, Jordan had been holding her hand.
From across the street, Seeley gazed at St. Joseph’s Cathedral. The enormous church’s triple-entrance archways had gilded inlaid carvings with marble statues standing in formation along the facade. The cathedral’s four steeples cast extended shadows over sidewalks and street.
Father James had asked her to pay a visit to the parish priest, Father Andre, and she figured she had time to make a quick stop and introduce herself. Turning toward the cathedral and the eight-lane intersection, she waited at the curb for the traffic light to change.
The squeal of rusty cartwheels, like the sound of metal on glass, made Seeley flinch. Glimpsing over her shoulder, the bag lady was padding at warp speed along the pavement. The full-length coat winging around her ankles resembled a crow taking flight. It was then the old lady raised her head. Seeley hooked onto a pair of deep-set eyes. Furrows lined the woman’s mottled complexion and a sunken, toothless mouth was working as if she was speaking to someone. Or perhaps she was just a harebrained old hag talking to the wind.
Wariness tickled Seeley’s brain. However, with a shake of her head, the notion fizzled. Feeling a disconnected sense of purpose, she stepped off of the curb. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, there was a screech of rubber on asphalt and a pealing uproar. The braying noise and someone yelling profanities dispelled her funk, bringing her back to full alertness.
Blinking away the haze, she discovered she’d walked into oncoming traffic.
She skittered out of jeopardy, and then searched for the degenerate old lady. Nowhere in sight.
Fully abandoning her previous objective of visiting Declan and Father Andre, Seeley reversed her direction and headed to an alley that led to the waterfront. Why spend a glorious day inside a bleak church?
Committed to her course, she walked for over a quarter of an hour past apartment buildings, wharfs, and the disintegrating warehouses of the once booming industrialized district. At one time in history, tanker ships had lined up to the now corroded silos to load and unload goods, and then to traverse through the great lakes to distribute wheat, flour, barley, and certain by-products.
Perspiration dribbled along her spinal column, and her shirt adhered to her skin, but she maintained a rapid pace. Gathering her long hair, she allowed air to cool her sweaty neck before knotting it. Her feet had a mind of their own as she picked her way through rocks and tangled overgrown weeds. The area was abandoned, quiet, the commotion of the city well behind her. Beer cans, bags of discarded garbage littered the deserted warehouses. Seeley rounded the corner and froze.
“Why am I here?” she asked herself, gaping incredulous at a building she recognized.
Slogging toward the dilapidated church, ill-fated memories burst to life. It seemed like only yesterday when Jack had seduced her into visiting his place of worship. She’d been madly in love with him and would’ve followed him anywhere, even to the devil’s den.
The Church of Satanic Worship looked unscathed. Except for someone—probably local teenagers looking for a place to hangout—had ripped the weathered planking from some of the gothic casements. The building was hidden in a district rarely inhabited by civilized citizens.
As if in a dream, Seeley walked forward. Her fingers gripped the tarnished wrought-iron handle, and the bulky wooden door opened without resistance, flinging rusty particles into a fine mist. She breezed through the cloud and into the narthex. The place was dingy. A loft in the archway had one rounded pane of stained glass where muted sunlight shirked the baked-on residue. Yet up ahead, a flickering glow danced in the darkness. Her head tilted sideways, listening.
Breathing in quick spurts, she envisioned a past scene . . ..
OVERCOME BY MUSICAL chanting, Seeley had been spellbound and unable to function as Asa’s utterances came to an end. He’d raised his arms and magically steered a lethal axe through the air. Terrified, and unable to object, she’d watched the axe hover in mid-air over a ram’s head. When Asa’s arm slashed the air, the axe had hewed the ram’s neck in one ugly stroke. The headless animal crumpled. Asa had elevated the severed cranium by the horns with blood gushing profusely for all to see.
Jack had steadied Seeley’s swaying shoulders. A member of the cult had tipped the sacrificial goblet to her mouth. She’d refused, shaking her head and stubbornly, biting her lips.
“You must,” Jack had breathed in her ear. “You’re obligated by the rite to consume.”
Jack had snatched the goblet and slugged a mouthful. He’d grasped her face with both hands and forcefully kissed her. He’d pried apart her lips, pushing the tinny blood into her mouth. She’d become obscenely inebriated by the spell. And that night, she’d given Jack her body and soul.
Seeley had become pregnant, and the prophecy had come into being: ‘The warrior will be one with Lucifer, and God will weep.’
THIS TIME, THERE was no chanting, no Asa, and no Jack. Her Jack. Their love had endured throughout passionate trials, and then he’d been atrociously murdered.
Her feet felt heavy as she managed to clomp in. Assaulted by the tangy scent of rotting timber, Seeley inspected the sparse church. The pews had been torn from their moorings long ago, and on the walls ubiquitous satanic symbols stood out, outlined in red. The devil’s den of iniquity was still in use
She inhaled a fluttering breath and was assailed by the distinct smell of blood, or was it her imagination? She peered at the altar and was stunned to see two lit candles, one on each side, shining softly. They weren’t lit a minute ago, were they? She noticed a bundle on the altar.
Standing motionless, she waited to see if it would move. Then she shuffled toward it, slow and gradual. Her rubber-soled heels scuffed the hardwood floor as she moved closer and closer, all the while watching for signs of movement. Her sneakers bumped the bottom step that led up to the platform and to the altar. The bundle’s shape appeared to be a human form, a body.
Why am I doing this? Why am I here? Her spirit hollered, Run. Run! You don’t want to see this!
With each tentative step, icy fingernails tap-danced up and down her backbone. Not only was every hair standing on end, she felt confident she was being watched. Craning her head to the left and right, she blew out the breath she’d been holding—her imagination was getting the better of her.
She edged closer to the human body splayed on the altar. More than likely a sacrificial offering that remained to decompose for Lucifer’s delight.
Temporarily thunderstruck, she gazed at the young face. So serene and beautiful. The girl’s hair fringed the altar like dangling tassels and candlelight pranced over the burnished highlights. For some bizarre reason, Seeley wasn’t disheartened. Jordan looked tranquil in death.
“It was only a matter o
f time,” said a voice that was breathtakingly familiar.
Seeley’s eyes remained riveted on her dead daughter’s face. She didn’t budge and muttered like a zombie, “Yes.”
“Seeley, I’ve been waiting for you.”
His presence overcame her. She dragged her gaze from Jordan’s lifeless body to the man radiating life beside her.
“Jack,” she said, her voice a hushed whisper. Of course. Only he could cheat death. Her heart thrummed against her ribcage.
Devastatingly handsome, Jack smiled. In the dreariness of the church, his eyes impaled her with sheer emerald brilliance, piercing her through. His arm lifted, and curling his fingers under her chin, he drew near. Seeley craved the man who’d been missing from her life.
Full lips claimed her mouth, bruising her own. His fingers cleaved into her hair at the nape of her neck, vehemently pressing her into his body. She looped her arms over his shoulders, succumbing to his charm. Jack’s inscrutable spell held great power. She was defenseless.
His sensual groping became abrasive, hurting her. Nibbling the column of her throat like a heartless vampire, he ripped the collar of her shirt and bit into her shoulders. So unlike the Jack she remembered, but she wanted him and held onto her cries.
Seized in a cruel embrace, Seeley stumbled, hitting her back on the marble altar. The misstep awakened her from the miasma as if a syringe of ice water had shot into her veins.
She struggled and pushed frantically at his shoulders, bursting free.
Violently, his fingers clamped like bands of steel around her neck. His head reared backward, wailing like a demented soul. Then smoldering, red-ringed eyes locked on Seeley.
Asa!
FROM THE BRINK I REMAIN
“SEELEY. SEELEY.”
Dripping from the heat and writhing from side to side on the leather couch, Seeley screamed as Declan attempted to revive her.
“Seeley.”
Her rapid breath slowed as a cool cloth bathed her face, neck and arms. She peeked through her eyelashes.
“Seeley, are you in pain?”
Her eyes widened. Jolting upright, she glanced around. “Where am I?”
“Home,” he said. “Seeley, you’re home.”
Assimilating to her whereabouts, she scrubbed her hands over her face. “I went for a walk. I remember . . . I remember heading . . .” she said, talking into her hands. “I was coming to The Courier.”
She slid her fingers into her damp hair. How could she explain what had happened without sounding like a schizophrenic? Declan’s first encounter with demons had been a debacle, and now, with a baby growing inside her belly, he presumed the evil ones were out of the picture.
Declan assessed her condition with a worrisome expression, but she wanted Jack, felt Jack, desired Jack. What’s wrong with me? A surge of guilt repulsed her. Skirting her eyes past his face, she shook her head in dismay.
I love Declan. Will I ever be rid of Asa?
Her visions were evolving into lifelike events, or, were they complete dreams? It seemed and felt real. After Jordan and Markus had left, she’d taken a walk to surprise Declan. She remembered Saint Joseph’s Cathedral. The bag lady. She had been a witch. Seeley hadn’t sensed it straightaway. For some unexplainable reason, she’d detoured to the waterfront, to that dreadful old church—or had she?
“Did you feel sick and come home?” he asked, still gaping at her as he lifted her chin to connect their eyes.
“I—I must have.” She wasn’t intentionally lying because, at the moment, she didn’t know the truth. “And then I must’ve lain on the couch.”
“Seeley, I think you need to see the doctor. You’re not sleeping, and these bad dreams are upsetting you.”
“You knew about my visions. They’re a part of me. I can’t stop them,” she responded, sounding more perturbed than she’d meant to.
Rising cautiously to her feet, she padded to the kitchen and drank two glasses of cool water.
Declan followed and leaned on the counter, drumming his fingers on the surface. “May I ask what you’ve been dreaming?” He studied her intently. “Maybe you’d feel better discussing it.”
Could she tell him about Jack? Water dribbled down the wrong pipe causing Seeley to sputter, firing droplets like a sprinkler.
He took the glass from her fingers and rubbed her back. After she had her breathing under control, he queried, “Are the dreams about the baby? Is it . . .” He didn’t say the word.
Seeley had seen him wallowing in uncertainty regarding the conception of the baby. Neither of them had discussed the incident in Sherando. And when she had told him about the pregnancy, he’d seemed ecstatic at first. Then the nightmare had dawned.
Seeley shook her head in protest. “No, no, nothing about the baby,” she said through a scratchy throat. “Let me throw some food together while you take a shower, and then I’ll explain.”
Suppressing his questions with a reserved nod, he walked away.
After he left her alone, she rehashed the day. She touched her mouth, still feeling the urgency in seeking Jack’s lips. His once passionate kisses had left her wanting. Her gut clenched as she came to terms with her feelings. It hadn’t been Jack. It had been the loathsome Asa pawing at her.
Divulging everything to Declan would only hurt and prove baseless. She loved him with all her heart, a different love than what she’d shared with Jack. Jack’s love had been intense, consuming. Whereas, at times, Declan left her feeling as if something was missing. As if he wasn’t giving her all he had to offer. Perhaps, it was due to his first wife, who’d played him for a fool by having affairs with several men and leaving him embittered.
One component of her nightmarish afternoon screamed into her brain. Conjuring the image of Jordan’s dead body, she trembled. How could she have forgotten? Then the sentence: ‘It was only a matter of time.’
Was it a premonition?
THEY ROAM ABOUT
LIKE SCAVENGERS
STANDING AT HER bedroom window, which looked out over the backyard, Jordan thought of Markus’s request to meet in the woods. With the twilight hour calling her, she descended the stairs to see Emily on the recliner, absorbed in a television sitcom, and Henry with his eyes closed, whiffing evenly.
“Em,” Jordan whispered, so as not to wake her grandfather. “I’m going for a walk.”
Sweet Emily, an older version of her mother with clipped whorls of grayish-white hair and heavy-hooded eyes, looked at her. “It’s getting dark.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Be careful, honey.” Em nodded with a pinched look to her lips.
Jordan trudged to the rear screen door and browsed the yard before heading out. A chorus of bullfrogs and singing crickets tolled the evening hour. The grass was doused in shadows as she melted into the backyard, her sneakers brushing over the mowed lawn. She peered upward at a blood moon. Definitely not a good omen. She breathed deep and continued toward the huge oak tree, its leaves whispering on a sighing breeze.
Once past the border of trees, she hesitated. Pirouetting in place, she expected to see Markus. Instead, a vague command drifted to her ears.
“Choose your weapon. Training has begun.”
“Choose my weapon?” she said to the trees.
She then understood Markus’s order. However, in the past months, stretching her psyche to infinity had only caused copious nosebleeds.
“Jordan, you can do it.” His voice filtered hauntingly from all sides.
Grumbling to herself, she squashed her eyelids shut to thwart any distractions on her part as she attempted the impossible. She concentrated with all her might in order to shift her psyche into another dimension.
“Markus, help me,” she said, her voice a mute whisper.
She extended her arm and wiggled her fingers. It felt as if her brain was ready to hemorrhage from the effort, then she identified the rippling energy and warmth surrounding her hand. Normally, she’d open her eyes, losing focus. As a
n alternative, she probed deeper inside her mind and felt the major quantum leap.
Her fingers were imbued with molten heat. Slitting her eyelids, she witnessed an object materializing near her hand, and it appeared to be on fire. She clasped the fiery hilt and found it to be surprisingly cool to the touch. The sword solidified. A mysterious moonbeam seared the razor edge, showering sparks.
In the midst of the searing sparks, she almost dropped the short sword. The cutting edge bore a resemblance to a gleaming icicle and the hilt fit her hand like a glove. Perusing the blade, she noticed intricate symbols etched into the glossy shaft. Some she recognized, like the Holy Cross and the Chi-Rho—a P affixed with an X, which in Latin meant, ‘In this sign thou shalt conquer.”
She felt as if she’d been given a license to kill—well, demons and soulless bodies instilled with wicked spirits, anyway. Formerly, her talents had related to visions, astute hearing, and bizarre strength for such a skinny girl, and telekinesis. Recently, she’d seen her spiritual advisor, Father James, in a hologram-like image and had pulled a weapon out of thin air. She couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or, a detrimental to her life thing that God was expanding her talents.
She ducked low, with her hand gripping the sword, uncertain what Markus had up his sleeve. And she wished she’d thrown on a pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt as a replacement for her fairly new capris and cute tank top. What was I thinking? Luckily, at the last minute, she’d slipped on her scruffy sneakers.
She heard his voice, registering at the lowest level of sound. “Soulless creatures are infiltrating these woods. You are to weed them out. I will be with you. Use your talents well.”
Wickedly They Dream Page 5
