by Angie Sandro
Chapter 5
Mala
Something Wicked
The spirits come in mass, far too many to count.
Blood covers severed limbs, slashed throats smile, and cloudy eyes seem to see right into my soul. I rear back, trying to escape, but a solid presence blocks me from behind. Arms wrap around my chest, becoming the bars of my cell. I scream, bucking to break free.
The stump of an arm, with the jagged bone protruding from the wrist, brushes my face. The spirits’ memories barrage my mind, flashing images of people I’ve never met, places I’ve never been, all coming at me faster than I can process. Then the reflections slow and solidify into a vision of a single moment.
My vision narrows, darkens.
Rain falls across my face. I shiver from the cold, hunkering deeper into a too-small rain jacket. My stomach clenches, grumbling from hunger. Exhaustion weighs heavy, bowing my shoulders until it takes all of my strength to remain standing.
Headlights shine in the distance, and I stretch to my full height and stick out my thumb. Desperation makes me whimper.
At first it seems like the car will blow by, spraying muddy water over me as it passes like the others tonight. When it slows, my heart leaps. My thumb drops, and I hold my breath as the mud-streaked white car pulls onto the shoulder of the road. I shade my eyes, blinded by the rain and the lights in my eyes. The windshield wipers flicker, barely keeping the glass clear of rain. I can’t see the driver, but I don’t care. Get me out of the cold and I’ll do whatever I’m asked. I’ve done things in the past to survive that I’m not proud of. What’s one more?
Shivering, I run to the door, and it pops open. With a grin and a shout of “Thanks,” I throw my backpack onto the floorboard, slide inside, and slam the door. A blast of heat from the vents warms my frozen cheeks. The seat belt is twisted, and I try to untangle it—moving quickly so I won’t annoy the person waiting for me to finish. The belt buckles with a low click, and I turn toward the driver.
A fist fills my vision. The force of the blow snaps my body sideways, and the right side of my head rebounds off the glass. Pain strikes—explosive and raw. I lift my arm, but a heavy body throws itself across my chest. Its weight pins my arms to the side. A wet cloth covers my nose, and a cloying sweetness follows my inhale. My eyelids grow heavy. Close. I drift.
I wake to pain and claw my way to the surface.
Stars twinkle through the leaves overhead. The stink of a rotting animal makes me gag. Vomit clogs my throat, and I try to swallow it back down. But I can’t. I’m suffocating. The rag in my mouth soaks up some of it, but I also breathe some in. My chest and nose burns even more.
I’m dying. My point of view shifts out of the body.
A hunched shadow crouches in front of me. His arms move back and forth. The sound reminds me of sawing wood, only different. Wetter. He stops sawing, reaches for something, and drops it. My hand thumps onto the ground. He picks up the saw again.
I stagger backward. He’s cutting off my hands. Why?
Why am I seeing this? Who am I?
I wrap my arms around myself. The hug reminds me that I’m not the shell of the boy lying on the ground. I’m here as a witness. I’m Mala. And the guy is nothing but a nightmare. I take a deep breath and tiptoe closer, careful with each step. I need to get close enough to describe him to George.
I can do this.
My next step lands on a branch. The crack of the break draws a startled gasp from me. My eyes dart upward. The shadow turns, handsaw rising. He swings it at my neck. Screaming, I throw myself backward. Yellow eyes meet mine for a second and then sharp pain fills my cheek. My head snaps back.
I blink rapidly, focusing on the clearing with the yellow crime-scene tape while the vision fades. A shadow crosses my face, and I look up to find George standing over me. A worried scowl brings his copper eyebrows together.
I raise my hand, covering the throbbing in my cheek. “You slapped me?”
“Damn right I did. You started hyperventilating, then stopped breathing. What did you expect me to do?”
What indeed?
I raise my hand to George, and he helps me to my feet and brushes the dirt off my jeans. I’m still too shocked by what happened to protest the invasion of my personal space. “Sorry…and thank you. I think you saved my life.”
“What happened?” he snaps. “And don’t leave anything out because you think I won’t believe you.”
“I’m sick of lying.” My eyelid twitches. Shadows flicker in and out of the corners of my eyes. “They’re all still here. The murdered kids.”
George turns a full circle. “Kids plural. Not just the one we found?”
“Yeah, that’s why I lost it. I wasn’t prepared for an assault. I can usually handle one or two spirits, but five’s a bit much. I saw how one of them died. He was hitchhiking, and someone driving a white sedan stopped to pick him up. The kid didn’t see the driver’s face. Almost as soon as he got into the car, the killer punched him. He woke up out in the woods. Either here or somewhere nearby.” I pause to take a deep breath, still tasting the puke from when I was inside the boy’s body.
“Did he see the killer before he died?” George asks.
“No, he choked to death on his own vomit. The killer cut off the boy’s hands after he was dead. I tried to see his face, but…” Yellow eyes. He’s got eyes like Landry’s when he’s possessed by the demon.
A surge of denial rushes through me, and I chase after it like a starving dog after a bone. I know Landry’s heart like my own. He’d never do this. Or let the demon use him to kill. I release a heavy breath, my momentary surge of doubt fading in the face of my faith in Landry. Besides, I saw two eyes. Not one.
The boys don’t appear in solid form, but I sense their presence. Their need for justice shouts louder than words, and I want to cover my ears and hide. My heart still races from being trapped in the dream. I hate losing my sense of self—of being assimilated as if I’m nothing more than a mirror—a dark reflection of the other side, giving voice to the voiceless.
George rumples my curls, and the affection in the action startles me. “Are you okay?”
I glare at the muddy toe of my boot. “Yeah, I’m just sorry it’s not much of a lead.”
“Hey, don’t get down on yourself. It’s a hell of a lot more than what I had before.”
But not enough to catch this guy. He’ll kill again. Over and over, until he’s stopped. The next time it could be Carl or Daryl, unless I duct tape them to chairs in front of the Xbox. And then there’s Landry. I know it’s not him, but he’ll think the worst. It’s his nature to protect, even if it’s from himself. If he finds out, he’s sure to believe he did this while under the control of the demon. No telling how he’d react.
“Maybe one of the other kids saw more details. I should try again.” The words come out before I can stop them, and I’m kind of glad. I’m not so good with long-term planning. If I think too much I’ll cage myself in my fear. It’s time for action. “Now that I’m prepared, I’ll strengthen my mental shield so I don’t get overwhelmed by their emotions.”
George shakes his head. “Nope. Landry will kill me if anything happens to you.”
“I’m a grown woman, Deputy Dubois. I make my own decisions, and this is work. Think of me as being a contracted consultant and keep this transaction strictly on a business level.” I touch his arm. “Look, it’s not like this is my first rodeo. I know the risks. If I don’t help these kids, who will? The murderer disposed of their bodies in a way that even a K-9 with a sniffer like Rex’s couldn’t pick up. Come on, isn’t this the whole reason why you dragged me out here, Georgie?”
He squints, scanning the clearing as if trying to see what is hidden to him yet so obvious to me. When his gaze returns, I see resignation. If he really understood how dangerous this is, I couldn’t have convinced him to let me connect with the spirits again. He only understands the results. Not the consequences that might befall me while tryi
ng to get them. And I don’t plan on enlightening him. If I stop breathing again, I have faith he’ll bring me back. And as long as the kids don’t attack me like zombie puppies starved for brains, mouth to mouth will not be necessary.
I fan my heated cheeks, totally embarrassed by the flashback of the kiss Landry and I shared way back before we admitted our feeling for each other. I wonder whether we would still be together if we had sex that day. Would he have stuck around after poking that virgin notch in his belt like the player he was rumored to be? His continued relationship with me led to a whole lot of pain for him. Well, more pleasure than pain lately.
God, I’m so glad George can’t read minds. Go away, dirty thoughts. No time for you.
George’s hands land on my shoulders. “You talk a good game, but can you really handle this?” His thumbs rub my collarbones, and I twitch. “You’re a bit jumpy.”
I pull free of his hands and turn to give him a sickly smile. “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” I sing. “Seriously, I’m good.” Not great, but I’m not screaming and running away anymore.
“Okay. Walk me through your plan. If it sounds logical, then I’m onboard. But I’m the team leader of this investigation. I call the shots. If I think things are getting too dangerous, I’m telling you to stop.”
“Sure,” I agree, ducking my head to hide the panicky chewing of my lower lip. If this works, I won’t be able to hear him. “Basically, my plan is to slip my skin. If my soul is free of my body when I contact the spirits, I don’t get overwhelmed. It’s like I’m on a level interdimensional playing field.”
“Uh, you can do that? Astral projection?” He rubs his chin. “I read about it while researching your symptoms.”
“You say it like I’ve got some rare disease.”
He laughs. “In a way, you do. What do you need from me?”
“Watch over my body. If I stop breathing, then wake me up. Fast.” I lean over to brush twigs and rocks from the ground and lie down. I fold my hands across my chest.
“You look like a B-movie vampire in its coffin,” George says. “I vant to suck your blud, muwahahaa.”
“Shut up. If you make me laugh, I won’t be able to concentrate.” I lay my palms flat on the ground. “Okay, here goes.”
My eyes close to block the flickering light of the sun shining through the branches overhead. Warmth from the earth and a tingling energy soak into my palms. The energy in this place feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Like it’s a focal point or a convergence of magical lines—ley lines, that’s what they call them in books. Could this be that sort of place? Were the boys murdered here because of this energy or was this some sort of coincidence? Either option is bad. Option A: Some random serial killer chose this place because it has a creepy reputation and nobody comes out here. He probably would’ve been able to hide what he’s been doing longer if that professor hadn’t found the body parts.
Onto option B—which is the same as option A—only insert random witch/hoodoo doctor/Satanist cult member with delusions. Unfortunately, after seeing those yellow eyes, I’m going with option B.
Okay, speculation at this point is getting me nowhere but amped up. Must chill.
I tense and relax my muscles, starting with flexing my toes, then moving up my calves and thighs. While at the same time, I count backward from one thousand. With each number I tick off, my body grows heavier. I sigh. My spirit trickles from between my parted lips. I hover above my body, watching the sluggish rise and fall of my chest. It still unnerves me to see myself so vulnerable. What’s even freakier is the silver glow around my stomach.
I turn away from myself, still not ready to face that particular shiny revelation. I prefer to live in denial for as long as possible. Well, at least until dinner time. I can accept anything if it’s followed by sweet potato pie and whipped cream, even if said dessert is made by the rev.
Lick Creek’s reputation for giving off bad vibes is compounded in spiritual form. What I felt before as creepy crawlies skittering across my flesh is magnified tenfold. The dirt beneath my feet oozes blackness, like tar. Then I look at the boys and gasp. Hundreds of blue-winged butterflies flutter around their spirits and crawl lightly across their exposed wounds. Their shocking presence brings an ethereal beauty to an otherwise horrible scene.
“Where are you?” I ask the boys.
The kids roil around, excited balls of sparks, and then they fade into misty wraiths, mixing with the butterflies to form a silvery-cobalt cloud. I will myself to follow. Trees pass in a blur. I’m moving too fast. The scream breaks free of my locked throat, scratching it raw on exiting. I bury my face in my arms and then remember that I’m incorporeal. Nothing can hurt me. I am in control.
With that thought, my speed decreases. I drop to my feet, sucking in air, as my spirit instinctively reverts to my normal bodily functions. When I stand, vertigo sends my thoughts spinning, and I waver like Mama used to when trying to pass a field sobriety test. It takes a few seconds to get my balance, and then I freeze. I’ve landed at the edge of a pond. Green scum coats the water. Gas bubbles rise to the surface, popping to release a sulfurous stench. I turn in a slow circle to get my bearings. I’m on an island, surrounded by this nasty water, with no visible way to cross back to the other side without going for a plunge. Bet leeches would like that scenario. Thank goodness I don’t have to rely on something as mundane as walking. Relief at being here in spirit form fills me once again.
The caw of a crow whips my head back. The white oak’s branches stretch outward. Bloodred sap oozes from the rents in the curling bark. My gaze flies past the lump on the branch overhead, then dances back. My brain doesn’t want to interpret what I’m seeing. My subconscious erects a shield to protect me from the horror, but when it crashes, I fall hard. My stomach twists, but I don’t look away.
I’m here as a witness. I must be strong.
Putrid corpses are tied to branches with rotting ropes, decorating the oak like macabre Christmas tree ornaments, celebrating death instead of life. Each boy reflects a different stage of decomposition. And all of their bodies show signs of being picked apart by scavengers, like the murder of crows hopping from branch to branch, feasting on eyeballs and entrails and the butterflies, wings fanning the air as they suck the moisture from the decaying flesh like it’s the sweetest nectar.
I bat away the butterfly fluttering around my face, disgusted. I knew some butterflies ate the dead, but I’ve never seen it. And I wish I hadn’t now. A large scavenger must’ve dropped the hands and fingers at the original crime scene. It’s the only way to explain how they were removed because the rest of the boys’ amputated hands are nailed securely to the trunk of the oak.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want to be here,” I whimper, speaking as much to myself as to the boys’ eternally trapped on Horror Island. I’ve seen what I need to lead George here. Time to go back. I focus on returning to my body, straining to whoosh back to reality. The rubber-band-like cord connecting my soul to my body stretches, lifting me, then rebounds with a snap. I tumble backward, slamming into the ground.
The earth feels dirty, contaminated, and I feel tainted by touching it. Scrambling upright, I brush my hands on my jeans. No! I strain forward again, but the effort of returning to my body sends pain arcing through every nerve. This isn’t right. I’ve slipped my skin more times than I can count, and I’ve never failed to go back. This is not happening.
I breathe through the pain and fight back the panic. If I stay calm, I can figure this out. The trauma of seeing the boys must be messing up my mojo. Once I pull myself together, I’ll be in control again. I’m not stuck here.
The earth trembles beneath my feet. Dirt erupts, peppering my body with clods and stones. Vines, thick as ropes, climb out of the holes left by the erupting dirt. They curl around my ankles—alive and full of thorns that leave oozing, paper-thin cuts on my skin. My legs look like the tree. Oh Saints, how can a spirit bleed? And if I can bleed, does this mean I can a
lso die? What kind of shitty place is this—tampering with the rules of the other side?
“Stop!” I jerk my leg, trying to break the vine. But it’s like I’m a catfish jerking on a hook. The more I fight, the tighter the vines wind around my body, and the more the thorns imbed into my skin. “Help! Gaston, help me.”
Oh God, what’s going on? I scream, arms flailing as I lose my balance and fall forward. I stretch out my hands to catch myself, but only my fingertips brush the ground. I’m hanging vertically, dangling from the vines wrapped around my ankles. More vines whip around my torso. They manipulate my body, lifting me higher and higher. Bark and hard wood press against my back. Vines twine around my chest, tying me to the branch. To my left, a skull grins in welcome. Patches of leathery skin sticks to the bones. A butterfly crawls from the open mouth and scurries down the jaw.
I close my eyes as the light tickle of wings brush my cheek. “Please, please, Georgie, wake me up. Someone help me.”
Chapter 6
Landry
Deal with the Devil
Mala’s trapped within a circle of black magic? Where? How?
I search Gaston’s scarred face for clues, but his blank expression shouts louder than if he showed his fear. My fists clench to keep from shaking the spirit to get his attention. I can’t touch him. Can’t do anything. I tremble with the overwhelming weight of my frustration as I yell, “Tell me where she is. I’ll go to her if you can’t. Gaston!”
The guardian spirit stares into space. He doesn’t hear me. Hopefully he’s trying to get to Mala in his own way. I hate to think of her being alone. Afraid. Trapped God knows where. She needs me to find her, and I’m wasting time. Gotta move.
I grab my jacket from the ground and turn to head back to the house to get my truck. George kept yammering about finding a dead body. What if he dragged her off to the crime scene, wherever that is, and the killer came back and snatched her? Now she’s being held as a hostage by a psychotic cannibal. Damn that rent-a-cop. Mala doesn’t know anything about being the law. She doesn’t even own a gun. He’s gonna get her and my baby killed.
