The Curse of Dark Root: Part One (Daughters of Dark Root Book 3)

by April Aasheim

  He removed his hat and held it to his chest as he peered into the dark musty space before him. It was a virtual cavern, large enough to fit three of his studio apartments within the main room alone. Squinting his eyes, he caught a small shape lurking to his right. It saw him too and scurried behind a cardboard box.

  “Ah, hell!” He stepped back. “There are creatures crawling around in there.” He fiddled with the light switch. “And the power’s off.”

  Sasha’s eyes gleamed like a possum’s as she wound her way through a living room crammed with large pieces of furniture draped in white sheets. Soon enough she found a candle and lit it with the Zippo lighter she purchased at the airport gift shop. “Better?”

  He held back, lounging in the doorway, his thoughts cycling between amusement and disbelief. He wasn’t keen on going back outside––the wilderness was too wild for a city boy––but inside, the covered furniture stood like ghosts ready to pounce the moment he stepped across the threshold. An icy wind rose up and whipped at his back, and he decided haunting souls were preferable to Mother Nature.

  Leaving the door ajar, he removed the sheet from the nearest piece of furniture, revealing a coat rack with upturned brass hands instead of hooks. He returned the sheet to the rack and moved on.

  Sasha lit more candles, placing them around the room, until there was enough light to navigate.

  “So, this is the new casa?” Armand pulled off more sheets, revealing an odd collection of decor: perfectly preserved Victorian tables and chairs nested alongside well-used furniture from the forties and fifties. Sasha’s aura burned a sunshine yellow as she moved about the grand room, reacquainting herself with her past.

  “It’s not exactly new.” Sasha ran her fingers over a painting of a pale young woman with dark hair and empty eyes. “The house has been in my family for almost seventy years, commissioned by my mother when she moved from Portland. I wish you could have met her before…”

  Sasha shook the thought away and Armand chose not to pursue it. She had mentioned her mother a few times but never went into detail. From what Armand could gather, she died unexpectedly and much too young.

  Once the sheets had been removed and gathered into a large pile near the door, Armand began his inspection of the many built-in shelves and nooks that gave the house its character. There were more treasures to be found in these hollows: teacups, books, knickknacks, and stones, some buzzing with energy as if begging for attention.

  “What’s this?” he asked, blowing dust from a cracked leather book. It was a large heavy tome, and required both hands to hold up.

  Sasha left her task and marched over, yanking the book from him. “That is my spell book. An heirloom handed down from my mother, by her mother. It is very old and will go to my own daughter one day.”

  Armand raised an eyebrow and laughed. He had known Sasha several months and knew she was prone to bouts of temper, but he had never seen her react so strongly to an object before. She must have felt bad for scolding him because her aura dimmed and receded closer to her body.

  “I’m sorry. Of course, you’re welcome to look at it. I tend to get protective of my stuff sometimes. But I must learn to share now that we are living together.”

  She was nearly beautiful, Armand thought, when she was humbled––soft and feminine in her face and spirit. He took the book from her, set it down, and lowered her onto the faded sofa.

  “Armand…” she said, but only in pretense. Her breathing caught, then quickened, as he straddled her.

  “What were you saying?” He brushed one of her long curls away from her face.

  “I was saying that you may borrow my book.”

  “Borrow?” He smiled, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll take the book if it pleases me. In fact,” he said, leaning into her. “I’ll take anything I like.”

  He kissed her, feeling the warmth of her energy as it merged with his. She was a powerful woman, even when she surrendered. Her aura was the strongest he’d ever known and he wanted to bathe in it, devour it, pull it inside of him and feel what she was feeling.

  He kissed her again, harder that time.

  They made love and fell asleep, he on top of her, right there on the hard sofa. When they woke, the door was still open and the sun was fading.

  “We’ll get the power turned on tomorrow,” Sasha said, wriggling out from beneath him.

  “Good idea.” Armand rose, then opened the heavy drapes that stretched across the large front window. He looked out, then upwards, towards an endless gray sky that loomed above the trees, like a boat on troubled waters. The world was dimmer in this part of the world, and he wasn’t sure how he’d fare without sunshine.

  “How long does the winter last?” he asked, still studying the sky.

  “Just until springtime.” Sasha fastened her long hair into a low ponytail. “You’ll be amazed at how beautiful it is then. And you’ll be happy you stayed.”

  “I said I’d come to Dark Root. I didn’t say I’d stay.”

  “You’ll never leave me, Armand. For better or worse, we are bound together.”

  Her words were true. He had known many, many women, but there was something about Sasha, a feeling of divine recognition. Even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t, he knew that he could not break free of her.

  Sasha wandered over to a rolltop desk near the kitchen.

  “This photo!” she exclaimed. “This was taken when I was eight or nine! I was so pretty, wasn’t I?” She held the photo up for him to see and he nodded obligatorily. “Mama said she knew I’d grow up to be a beauty.” She stared at the photo, then caught her reflection in the mirror above the desk. Frowning, she put the photo back.

  “Mama paid the photographer a lot to come here. It was scary then, making your way to Dark Root through the woods before most people had cars. He told me not to smile when he took my picture but I did anyway. I hate all those old photos where nobody’s smiling. Looks like they’ve all got dysentery.”

  “My tiki mask!” she said, moving on to her next memory.

  He raised an acknowledging hand, not asking about it. There were too many treasures and if he had to hear about every one of them, he might just run into the woods after all.

  “When are we going to see town?” he asked, seating himself on a dusty chair.

  “Tomorrow, when we turn the power on.” Sasha opened a box, removing a shiny golden object. After staring at it for several minutes she said, “I thought this was lost forever.”

  There was something in her voice that Armand found curious. “What is it?” he asked, getting up to inspect the object more closely.

  She lifted a chain, dangling it from her index finger. It held a large cross with a loop at the top. “It’s an ankh,” she said.

  Armand crinkled his brow. “An ankh?”

  “The symbol for eternal life. They were very important to the ancient Egyptians. Juliana was given two of these ankhs by a famous archeologist who unearthed them from a tomb.” Her eyes narrowed as they followed the sway of the pendant. “Some say the tomb was cursed.”

  “Doesn’t that scare you?”

  “Curses? Heavens, no. I’ve been cursed so many times I swear they just bounce off me now.” She bit her bottom lip as she continued to follow the swaying pendant. “She was buried with hers. I thought I lost mine somewhere in Denmark.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Wonderful things.” Sasha looked at him, eyes alight. “You like power, warlock? Feel this.”

  She thrust her hand out.

  Even before Armand touched the chain he sensed its strength. He placed the tip of his finger warily on the top loop, as if it might burn him. He was rewarded with a jolt of energy that sent him back a step. He grinned. He wasn’t sure what this was, but he knew he needed it.

  “Stay and train with me for two years,” Sasha said, staring at him with eyes that always got their way. She let the pendant dangle enticingly before him like a hypnotist’s watch. “When the two year
s is up, this will be yours.”

  Armand pressed his lips together, weighing the offer. Sasha had helped him get out of Spain when he accidentally caused a local girl to become possessed. He was somewhat in her debt.

  He cupped one hand around the ankh and the other around Sasha’s wrist… and was deliciously jolted by both.

  TWELVE

  The Witch

  Dark Root, Oregon

  March, 2014

  Harvest Home

  An unsettling sound called me back from my dream––the slow, steady groan of my rocking chair on the hardwood floor.

  I sat up, pulling the covers to my chin and adjusting my eyes. Moonlight spilled in through the window. I focused on the chair. It was unoccupied, rocking on its own.

  Abruptly, the rocking stopped.

  I blinked several times, seeking out the clock. It was 2:15. In the morning? The dream had taken me completely, and I had slept through dinner.

  The chair resumed its slow, undulating motion.

  Crick. Crick. Criiiiick.

  I pressed my back to the headboard, feeling the cool night whisper through the crack in the window.

  My first instinct was to scream, but pride kept me quiet. I didn’t want Michael bursting in to play hero, so I sat there, listening to the chair swing forward and back like the haunting tick-tock of an unnatural clock.

  After several moments, I was able to breathe again. I clawed my hand along the top of my dresser, searching for my wand. Grasping it in my fingers, I quietly blessed it and thrust it out before me. The onyx gem at the tip lit up and there was a soft light to the air, revealing an old woman with worms for hair and coals for eyes smiling at me, her form shapeless and shadowed.

  “Mag-da-lene,” she breathed, the mist from her breath unfurling out with every syllable.

  “Mother?”

  Her smile broadened and she extended her hand, reaching for me with thin spindly fingers. Her arm was much longer than it should have been, and stretched like pulled taffy, her fingers crawling through the air towards me.

  “I neeeeeeed…” Her eyes darkened, until they were as black as the shadows. She threw her head back and moaned, a sound both pitiable and horrible. The room grew ice cold.

  This wasn’t my mother.

  I brandished my wand again, feeling the strong surge of harnessed natural energy move through it. “You are not my mother! Leave now or I’ll send you to The Underworld myself.”

  Her searching fingers froze and the arm receded back into her form. I waved my wand, unsure of what else to do.

  “Leave!” I demanded, hoping I sounded braver than I felt.

  The image slumped backwards and dissolved into shards of gray confetti, leaving only the empty chair, still rocking… rocking… rocking.

  Jillian charged in, flipping on the light. “I felt an uninvited presence in the house. Are you okay?”

  I pointed to the chair, my hand still gripping the wand. It rocked one full swing more, then stopped. “I thought the dome spells would keep them away,” I said, referring to the rituals we performed to ward off the Dark.

  Jillian removed her crystal pendant from her neck and dangled it over the rocking chair. It reverberated in response, tugging gently at the chain like a leash on an invisible dog. Then, after a moment, the pendant fell limp.

  “It’s gone now. But Maggie, that dome spell will never be able to keep entities out completely. Your life force is too bright. And when you went into the Netherworld, you may have picked up a few hitchhikers.”

  “I’m sure I saw that same spirit in the nursery window at Sister House.” I looked around the room, searching the shadows. “Can it hurt me?”

  “There are both benevolent and malevolent beings out there. The benevolent ones may move a few things around but their intention is never to hurt or even to scare. The malevolent ones on the other hand…” She looked at the chair then quickly away. “They come to this plane to siphon the energy of living souls, using it for their own dark deeds.”

  “And the thing in the chair… what was that?”

  “It feels restless, but I can’t get a read on it. It almost has a banshee feel about it.” The color drained from Jillian’s face, and I knew why.

  “Banshees come to warn of an impending death.”

  “I spoke out of turn, Maggie. It doesn’t mean anything will happen to you… or your son. You just need to be trained to guard against the darker entities. Sasha taught me, and I’ll train you.”

  Jillian tightened her robe belt, as if it say “it’s settled.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Your father had an affinity for attracting the wrong sorts, too. I tried to help him but his propensity for darkness was too big.” She nodded to my wand. “You handled it perfectly. You didn't let it feed off of your fear and you sent it away.”

  “Away? For good?”

  She eyed the chair again. “For a while, anyway. We’ll get more sage in here and perhaps some snapdragons for added protection. A salt circle around the house, maybe…”

  “Can you sleep in here tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  She left and quickly returned with a stack of pillows and blankets, which she worked into a mat beside my bed. I felt guilty about having her sleep on the floor but my bed seemed to be getting smaller every day. In a wink, the light shut off.

  “Did you do that?” I asked.

  “Someday you’ll be able to control things just as easily. I’ve seen it in your future.”

  “Did you see anything about me getting eaten by a banshee in a rocking chair?”

  “Not in your immediate future. Now, go to sleep, Maggie.”

  I yawned, long and deep, drool already pooling on my pillow. “I visited the memory in the first globe,” I muttered.

  “Good girl.”

  “My dad was so young. And my mom, too. It’s hard to believe they were ever like that.”

  “Yes, my dear. Time stands still while we’re living it, but from afar you can see the details.”

  “He didn’t seem so bad. He was selfish but…”

  But so was I.

  “Goodnight Jillian.”

  “Goodnight Maggie.”

  “What do you mean, you thought you saw our dead mom?” Eve unpacked a crystal owl from a cardboard box and set it on the countertop beside the cash register. Several women were milling about Miss Sasha’s Magick Shoppe, musing over tarot cards and rune stones.

  “It wasn’t Mother. It was something pretending to be her. Twice now, I think. Yesterday at Sister House and last night at Harvest Home while I slept. She looked so old, Eve. Really, really old. Like she was made of dust.”

  “Maybe it was Mom. She was really, really old.”

  “I don’t think so, but…”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a nervous-looking woman.

  “I hear you serve coffee here,” she said, her eyes pecking about the store like a chick looking for feed.

  I pointed to a bright red coffee machine and a stack of paper cups––another of Michael’s changes.

  When the woman left, I finished my sentiment. “Jillian thinks it might be a banshee.”

  “A banshee? I’ll make you a talisman. I’m sure I have a recipe for that somewhere.”

  I tore into the next box of unmarked merchandise. It was filled with Buddhas––an army of fat, golden figurines all grinning up at us. Eve groaned behind me. “Why is Michael ordering all of this stuff without asking? Aren’t Buddhas against his UFO cult religion?”

  I plucked one of the smiling, chubby figurines from the box. I had to admit that they were cute, but Eve was right, it did seem out of character for Michael’s narrow views. I looked at the customers admiring our new Madonna and Child painting, with the Madonna being played by a Rottweiler and the child, a basset hound. “His stuff does seem to be moving.”

  “I guess.” Eve flipped through our receipt book. That morning alone we had already sold two stone angels and the painting of The Last Supper.
When the coffee-lady saw us unload the Buddhas, she snatched one up and continued shopping.

  Eve grunted. “This is our store, Maggie. Not Michael’s. Mom would roll over in her grave. Maybe that’s why she’s haunting you.” Eve traipsed into the back room and I followed. “Break time,” she said, though we had taken a break half hour earlier.

  I dropped into a cushy chair and Eve poured tea, occasionally glancing through the gauzy fabric that separated us from the customers. Finally, she waved her hand. “Screw it. They can steal the whole box of Buddhas as far as I’m concerned.” She slid into the chair across from me and lifted her cup. “What I don’t understand is why Merry wasn’t here. Or Ruth Anne.”

  “Merry was looking after June Bug and me.”

  “And Ruth Anne?”

  “Writing.”

  “So they just turned the keys over to that religious whack-a-doodle?” Eve blew hard on her tea, then added a cellophane packet of unknown spices to it and swished it around. “Sorry Maggie, I know you two had a thing, but he is a whack-a-doodle.”

  “That thing lasted seven years,” I reminded her. “And gave me a baby.”

  “Ooh.” She covered her eyes. “I don’t want to picture that thing giving anyone a baby.”

  I picked up the tarot cards that Eve used for private readings. I cut the deck and drew The Fool card. “From now on, we keep him away from the shop. And if I can figure out a way, he’s going to leave Dark Root the moment the baby’s born.”

  “Good luck with that.” Eve tapped her feet impatiently on the floor. “I guess I’m just upset. I worked hard to set this place up and here comes Michael, swooping in to take all the credit.”

  “Story of my life.”

  A white-haired woman in a pink jumpsuit poked her head in. “Excuse me ladies, but I would like to ring up now.” I followed her out to the register. The woman had three Buddha statues in various stages of pudginess, and a bumper sticker that read “My Other Car is a Broom.”