To the Devil a Daughter

by K. H. Koehler

  “Oh.” I lay there, staring up at him. “Jesus. Sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry,” he says, letting go of my hand. “And I’m not Jesus.”

  I laugh at that, which sounds funny in the dark after such a violent nightmare. I sit up and see I’m sweating like a pig. Little droplets are even running down my cleavage.

  He notices, too. “Need a new shirt?”

  “Please.”

  He walks to the basket of our clothes, which he brought in from the Laundromat earlier that day. They’re a messy tangle and he can’t seem to decide what’s mine and what’s his. Finally, he grabs a random clean white T-shirt and throws it at me.

  I think it’s likely his, but I don’t care. I peel off the drenched one I’m wearing and slide his on even though he’s watching. I’m not exactly concerned about Sebastian losing his mind over a pair of girl boobs. I instantly feel better to have clean clothes on. I notice Sebastian sitting on the edge of his air mattress, watching me worriedly.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask as I try to make things light. “Never seen tits before?”

  He’s quiet a long moment, and then he states with a frown, “Pretty sure I had tits at least once.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  The little thought dimple between his eyebrows deepens. I’ve only ever seen that once or twice when he’s in deep thought—not a place he prefers to be. “Not really. I don’t have good long-term memory.”

  “Seriously?” I sit up and cross my legs. “You don’t remember?”

  He makes a vague gesture with one hand. “It’s the witchery. It takes a toll on the selfie.”

  I believe it and feel sorry for him. He doesn’t talk much about his past. I used to think it was because there are things he wants to forget, but maybe it’s because there are things he can’t remember. I’ve also noticed that his accent wavers. Usually, he sounds like he tripped out of BBC One, but sometimes he almost sounds Australian, and I’ve also noticed he rolls his “R’s” the way Russian and Slavic people do.

  “And you,” he says, pointing. “What did the witchery show you?”

  I recoil in my covers. “It was just a bad dream.”

  “I think not.” He swirls a finger. “You were all glowy.”

  “Glowy?”

  “Like a bleedin’ nightlight.”

  I sigh. I don’t think I’ll win this argument.

  He gets up. “Right, then. Putting the kettle on.”

  I wait while he brews tea on the little propane burners on the kitchen counters—because this place doesn’t even have a working stove, and if we don’t slide into the black after Opening Day, I’ll never be able to afford one.

  He brings two mugs of chamomile over and sits down on the bed beside me. “Spill.”

  I sip the tea and lick my parched lips. Even though I’ve only just woken up, parts of the dreams are already falling away from me and I have to struggle to remember. The bird in my throat sticks with me the most. I must sound like a madwoman as I explain the dream to him—what I can remember.

  He’s silent for several long moments after I finish. He sinks his lower face into the mug a moment before mumbling, “Doesn’t sound like a dream to me. More like a scry.”

  “You mean a prophetic dream.”

  Sebastian shrugs. “If you like.”

  I’m not so sure about that. Maybe I’m just stressing over Opening Day.

  “But…” It takes me a moment to breathe through my sudden spike of fear. “…I think I died in it, Sebastian.” I swallow hard. That lump is back in my throat as it was in my dream. “I think I’m going to die. I think that strange woman is going to kill me.”

  11

  I KNOW it was just a dream. I know I shouldn’t listen to Sebastian about it being a scry. But, of course, I can’t stop thinking about it.

  As I do the final touches on the shop—inflate and set the blue and white balloons, arrange and rearrange the display window, and stare at our welcome pamphlets/menu, searching frantically for typos—I can’t stop thinking about the burning street, the terrifying woman, and the way she made me feel. I can’t help cringing inside when I remember how she looked on me with such appetite…and disappointment. In my dream, I was her servant, her pretty, her bride. But I’d rejected her, failed her, and then she killed me.

  It was just a dream. Probably the result of too many post-apocalyptic horror movies on Netflix and too much stress in getting the shop ready. But it felt so real. It felt like something that had happened to me already. Or something that would very soon.

  That’s what frightens me the most. The idea that we really don’t have that much control over our fate. That no matter what we do, what good life decisions we make, crappy things are going to happen to us no matter what. The idea is fatally depressing.

  “Chocolate crosses,” Sebastian says when I step into the prep room. He swivels around on his stool and offers me a keen look. “It’s almost Easter. We should do them. They’re popular. That and chocolate lambs.”

  As I tie my apron on, I state firmly, “No. You can do chocolate bunnies or lambs or whatever. But no crosses.”

  Sebastian looks surprised. Until now, I’ve given him free rein as my official chocolatier to do whatever he likes—whatever inspires him. But I draw the line at confections that can burn the skin off my fingers if I accidentally touch them. Putting his hands on his knees, he straightens up. “Did you get any sleep, witchy?”

  I turn and give him a smile to make up for my snippy tone of voice. “I’m fine, Sebastian. I’m just not…fond of crosses.”

  “Bad childhood experiences with priests?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I thought you were raised Catholic?”

  “I was,” I admit. “I’m not anymore.”

  Later that day, a food critic for the Metro newspaper drops by unexpectedly. I expect her to be super bitchy like you see in romcoms, but she’s actually surprisingly nice. After taste testing a number of Sebastian’s chocolate creams, she moves on to my hard candy. She immediately tells me she loves the Sweet Stix—formerly the honey wands. I changed the name at the last moment because I was afraid it would lead to unpleasant double entendres.

  “These are gorgeous,” she tells me, and goes on to use words like rustic and malty and “crunchy-natural.” I show her the beecosystem and she’s on cloud nine and starts writing frantic notes in her little notebook.

  Sebastian and I high-five each other after she’s left. We’ll be getting an important review on the day of our Grand Opening. Things finally seem to be coming together, and, for a little while, at least, I forget all about the nightmare.

  But then, around ten o’clock, as we plod upstairs to get some much-needed rest, I start thinking about the dream again. And the woman. I’m afraid to sleep. Afraid I’ll see her again.

  Sebastian, the bum, drops right off to sleep and, within the hour, I hear him snoring on the other air mattress. But I remain awake, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what I can do to forestall or stop what might or might not be happening.

  When I look over, I see the time on my cell phone reads 11:38. I don’t think I’m getting any sleep tonight, so I get back up, dress in some loose sweats, and throw on a heavy down jacket against the rough April night. Then I go downstairs and let myself out the back door.

  For a while, I stand over the spot where the man died, skinned alive while still in his clothes. I keep thinking I’ll get some kind of psychic vibration, or maybe a picture in my head of what happened, but tonight, like every other night I’ve tried this, I just feel empty and concerned. The asphalt is a little stain-darkened, but there is no psychic “residue” to read. Or, I’m just not knowledgeable enough to tap into it—which is a distinct possibility. I want to be good at witching, but I’m really just a novice.

  I start to walk down the alley that connects to the main avenue. From there, I keep walking. Even though it’s a Thursday, the street is jumping with people. Some
are walking to or from the restaurants and bistros that line this part of the street. Others are ducking into the theater near the end of it where they’re playing a romantic comedy starring Sandra Bullock. I smell popcorn as I pass. Ahead, some tough-looking kids are muscling up the street. They make a rude comment as I pass them, but I ignore it. They’re stupid kids. Hopefully, they will grow out of their moronic behavior.

  The florist is next. There are some pretty flowers in the windows, exotic types I couldn’t even guess at. They make me think of my dream and the Aztec Goddess’s words to me.

  “Say it. Say the words, little flower.”

  “You understand at last, Daughter of Darkness.”

  I stop and stare at some fancy Easter arrangement in the window. Sister Marie uses that same name. She, too, called me Daughter of Darkness. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection there.

  Before I even know it, I’m walking again—faster this time. Soon, I see the cathedral looming ahead. Ignoring the drag on my soul, I descend the steps to the side entrance, but I quickly discover the doors are locked tight tonight. There is a printed schedule on the door. The support group meets three days a week—Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday. But not tonight. I growl in frustration. I haven’t realized until now how I much I want to talk to Sister Marie again.

  I go around to the back of the building in the futile hopes that there’s another door and maybe it’s unlocked. There is a door—one of those pneumatic deals with a push bar—but that’s locked, too. So I keep walking around the building until I find the basement windows I spied while I was inside. I crouch down and peer in. They’re super narrow, but I think a grown person could fit if they put some work into it.

  I feel ridiculous and stupid grunting and sweating through the window—but I have to admit it’s also kind of fun, and I wonder if this is the high Nick gets when he’s investigating one of his little small-town mysteries. Five minutes later, I stand up and glance back at the open window. A Bible verse I learned in school suddenly comes to mind: “Be vigilant and watch. Your adversary the devil as a roaring lion walks about, seeking whom he may devour.”

  It makes me shiver with worry: A devil in a house of God. Who woulda thunk it?

  I keep thinking God will strike me down, but nothing untoward happens. In the dark, I can hear some pipes ticking in the walls, but, otherwise, the church basement with its colorful motivational posters is dead silent. I can sense a low, white noise buzzing in my ears, but nothing interesting seems to be happening.

  Okay. Now what?

  First, I take the steps up to the cathedral. It’s dark and empty. I don’t know what I expected. Sister Marie hanging around after hours, lighting votive candles and casting witchy spells? After that, I retrace my steps and go back downstairs. Not liking the dark, I flip on the overhead fluorescent lights, which buzz as they flicker alive. The trestle is empty except for a runner and some fill-out forms for a raffle stacked in a corner. The folding chairs are neatly stacked on the walls.

  At the opposite end of the basement, I spy a door I hadn’t noticed the first time I was here. I walk to it, expecting it to be a utility closet or a bathroom, but I can feel cold air swirling around my ankles, so maybe not. I try it and find it’s locked with an old-fashioned lock plate with a keyhole, the kind that needs an actual key I don’t have.

  I kneel down and look at it. I think about skeleton keys—something I’d read about years ago. Getting up, I go the table, steal a paperclip from the stack of forms, and return to the door and kneel down. I don’t actually expect the tumblers to move when I jiggle the straightened-out clip—I always thought it looked too easy on TV—but they do. Probably only because it’s an old door with a simple lock.

  Seconds later, I’m in a dark dungeon-like basement of some kind. There are naked light bulbs hanging down, but they’re all dark. I search the wall beside the door and find a switch that lights up the bulbs over my head. It’s a brick tunnel of some sort. I spend a few moments trying to decide why an old brick tunnel would exist under a church. Then I recall my Pennsylvanian history. The Underground Railroad ran like a labyrinth under many of the major cities in this part of the state. That makes the most sense.

  The place smells moldy, and the walls are cobwebby, but I see the dust on the floor is disturbed. Someone has been here recently. There’s a broken copper pipe lying against one wall. I heft it up and weight it in my hands before starting down the lighted tunnel. I mean, it can’t hurt to be prepared, right?

  It’s a surprisingly long walk, and I can hear small things skittering around in the dark, but I’m not worried about mice or rats. I’ve seen so many worse things in my life.

  A few turns later, I find a dead end, which is disappointing. But as I retrace my steps, I spot several little alcoves off the main tunnel. The first one has tall, empty racks and several barrels set up along the walls. I start to rethink my earlier assumption. More than likely, these tunnels were used to store bathtub gin during Prohibition. And my assumptions are confirmed when I notice a stack of moldy newspapers being used to fill in cracks in the aging walls. I glance at the top paper, aged almost beyond readability, and see it has news about Al Capone about it.

  Checking the other alcoves produces the same results. Racks, barrels, crates. A lot of empty bottles rolling around as though someone left this place in a hurry. Rats have chewed everything to bits, and silverfish dart in and out of the light cast by the bulbs hanging down from above.

  Finally, I come upon an alcove that, like the others, doesn’t have a door, but someone has placed a few heavy planks of wood across it to deter people from entering. I’m hesitant at first, but then figure fuck it and move the planks and step into the room to see what the person who didn’t want anyone in here is hiding.

  It’s smaller and darker than the other alcoves. There are no windows or lights, just dirty brick and cement walls. The only light comes from the weak bulb in the corridor outside. It hardly touches the room, but I can still see what’s in here.

  A huge iron sarcophagus lies on the floor, taking up almost the whole space. I figure it must weight tons, at least. It’s intricately and lovingly engraved with hundreds of birds and flowers as if the artisan took great pains to honor the occupant. The lid is carved with a human face and what is supposed to look like cloth flowing over a very fetching female body. The beautiful features and rounded breasts make me suck in a quick breath. The attention to detail is mesmerizing. It looks like something you’d expect to find in a temple to honor a great queen.

  The sight of it gives me goose pimples. I try to stay out of the path of the light from the corridor so I can examine the carvings of birds and flower. But as I draw nearer it, I suddenly recognize the death mask carved into the lid.

  Jolting, I stand up straighter and drop the pipe at my feet with a clang. I feel sick to my stomach as that horrid dream comes swirling back in Technicolor. It’s real. It’s all real. I know it is. And I suddenly remember a lot of little details I’d forgotten, like the Aztec queen touching me so intimately while she calls me her flower…setting the whole city on fire for me…

  “Shit.”

  I shouldn’t be here. I never should have come.

  It feels like it would be a very good idea to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible. I don’t even question my motivation when I turn back to the door and bolt into the corridor.

  But then I stop. If the sarcophagus is real, then she is real. And that means my waking dream is also real. It means it’s all going to happen.

  Reluctantly, I turn back to the alcove and take in the sight of the sarcophagus even though it makes me sick and makes the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end as if I’m conducting a current of electricity flowing throughout my entire body. I swallow so hard I think I’m going to choke. I don’t want to look at the sarcophagus. I don’t want to remember that dream…!

  But as I step back into the room, another thought occurs to me.

&nbs
p; If she’s real, then she’s in there. Sleeping.

  She could be. And if she is, that means she’s required to rest like some second-rate Aztec vampire. She could be asleep and vulnerable right now as in all the vampire and mummy movies. Maybe I should try and open the sarcophagus. Maybe I should try and stop her. I have a pipe. Not the greatest weapon, granted, but still…

  “What’s a pipe against something like her?” I ask myself, my voice dry and croaking in the silence. I want to run far away, but by doing so, I feel like I’m condemning this whole city to whatever her plans are. And, after all, maybe Sebastian is right. Maybe the dream was a scry. Maybe the dream was meant to motivate me to do something…

  I turn back to the sarcophagus and stand there, looking at it with total and absolute dread. I’d rather stick my arm in a hornets’ nest than open that damned sarcophagus. I can feel my heart ticking in my throat and the blood pounding in my ears. I want to leave—I want to run more than anything right now—but this might be a way to make up for some of the shitty things I’ve done in my life.

  This could be my salvation.

  So, I take a step toward the sarcophagus and pick up the pipe. After another shuddering breath, I put my hands on the lid. I expect a supernatural spark of some kind, or maybe for the sarcophagus to crack in half like a rotten iron egg, but nothing so dramatic happens. It does feel incredibly cold under my fingertips. I wonder how old it is. I wonder what she is. Vampire? Goddess? Something no one has ever heard of before? I run my fingertips over the engravings along the side, searching for a seam.

  I feel something.

  But my efforts are useless in the end. When I try to move the lid, nothing happens. It’s way too heavy. Pushing all my weight against it doesn’t budge it even an inch. It must weigh tons. It was stupid to try, to even think I could do something…

  But I did try. That’s better than nothing. Right?

  Picking up my handy-dandy pipe and, clutching it close like a magic talisman, I turn and hurry into the tunnel.