Death Do Us Part

by JG Faherty

  “Is important, though.” Madam Prioleau’s voice remained quiet and steady despite the tension around her. “In order to stop monstru, need blood of the killer.”

  “What?” Art couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “Why can’t we just blow her up or chop her to pieces?”

  “This is not scary movie, Domnu Stanhope. You cannot burn the monstru, cannot chop her.” The psychic made karate motions with her hand. “If you do not kill monstru the right way, it comes back again the next night. And the next. It never stops until those it hates are dead. Only one spell can stop a monstru, and blood is needed.”

  “But Missy didn’t kill her. So how is her blood going to help?”

  “Your wife believes her sister killed her. That is what brought her back. Spell will work.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Art turned to Missy. Makeup and tears soiled her face. Dark circles rested beneath her eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess from running her hands through it. At any other time, he’d have gone to her, put his arms around her, told her he loved her.

  Now he couldn’t look at her without feeling betrayed.

  At the same time, though, he couldn’t just let her rush blindly into something that could be dangerous.

  “You don’t even know what she wants you to do. What if she needs all your blood? Or has to cut off a finger or something?”

  “I’ll still do it.” Missy crossed her arms over her chest. “This is all my fault. Everything. I’ve ruined our lives. If I have a chance to make things better for you and Connor, I’m going to do it.”

  “No fingers,” Madam Prioleau said, before Art could argue more. “Just some blood. Little cut, like so.” She ran one finger across the palm of her other hand.

  Art stared at Missy and she stared back. He recognized the look on her face. There’d be no talking her out of it.

  “Fine.” He turned to Madam Prioleau. “What do we need to do?”

  * * * * *

  Missy couldn’t remember ever feeling so low. The last few hours had been a personal hell for her, one that grew worse with each passing minute. Each time the cut on her hand throbbed, it reminded her of how she’d destroyed everything good in her life. Living with the guilt of killing her sister had been one thing; she’d accepted that burden from the moment she let Catherine walk out of the bar and get behind the wheel. A police officer committing murder, a sin on her soul that would come back to haunt her one day. All worth it to free Art and Connor from the evil infecting their lives. She’d always intended to take that particular shame with her to the grave. No one else ever need share the weight of it.

  Except now Art knew. And that knowledge had changed him and his feelings for her, just like she’d known it would the moment she revealed her secret. He’d spent the entire day either ignoring her or staring at her with a look she couldn’t bear to see on his face. Coldness radiated from him, creating a barrier that prevented her from approaching.

  She wanted to scream at him, tell him she did it for him and Connor, beg him to talk to her or shout at her or even slap her. Any kind of reaction at all. Just stop giving her that look, the one filled with disappointment and hate and revulsion.

  She’d tried once, not long after Madam Prioleau made her use a kitchen knife to cut a long, shallow line across her palm. Afterwards, with a towel wrapped around her hand to stanch the bleeding, she’d moved to where Art sat immobile on the couch. Before she could say anything, he’d glanced up at her with hard eyes and told her they’d talk when everything was over, but for now just leave him the hell alone.

  Since then, she’d been seated at the kitchen table, alternating between watching Madam Prioleau prepare the ingredients of her spell and casting furtive glances at Art, in the hopes she might catch him looking at her with something other than repugnance.

  So far, that hadn’t happened.

  Madam Prioleau’s spell turned out to be relatively simple. She’d told Art to collect a bunch of weapons—guns and knives—and place them on the table. Then she’d dabbed some of Missy’s blood on each blade and bullet.

  “Without the blood, weapons have no effect,” the psychic explained. The rest of her spell seemed to consist of mixing an assortment of oils and botanicals that she’d brought with her and reciting dozens of magical enchantments while anointing herself, Art and Missy with the surprisingly pleasant-smelling concoction.

  Then, she said, it was just a matter of waiting.

  “The monstru rises with the night. It will come for the ones who wronged it. You both together here, it will come here. Then, you kill. Bang, bang!” She pointed her finger at Missy and made like she was shooting a gun.

  Missy had checked the clock at that point, and held back a groan.

  Still five hours until nightfall.

  Five hours stuck in a house with a grumpy old woman and a man who presently couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  As she’d imagined, time hadn’t just passed slowly, it crawled on hands and knees, moving forward in grudging increments like a child desperate to avoid a bath on a Sunday night.

  Finally, the daylight began to dim. Madam Prioleau, who’d moved to the love seat and dozed off an hour earlier, snapped awake.

  “Not long now. Sun is setting.”

  Art gave a dull nod and continued staring into space.

  Missy silently cursed the sluggish passage of time. She wished there was something to do, anything. But the weapons were laid out, pistols and knives for her and Art, the doors were unlocked so Catherine wouldn’t find her way in blocked and redolent oils had already dried to a sticky film on everyone’s skin.

  The only option left was pacing the floors, and under the circumstances she figured it would only get on everyone’s nerves.

  So instead she sat as motionless and silent as her companions, with only her dark, depressing thoughts for company. Until she realized the shadows outside had given way to full night. She looked at the clock and the numbers gave her heart a jolt.

  Eight fifty-three.

  She’d zoned out and never even noticed.

  “Shouldn’t—” Missy had to stop and clear her throat after hours of not speaking. “Shouldn’t she be here by now? It’s been dark for a while.”

  Madam Prioleau shrugged. “No telling when she come. But she will. Monstru drawn to enemy like moth to flame.”

  On the couch, Art roused himself. “I think I’ll call Connor and say goodnight before…” He didn’t finish the sentence. His voice sounded as dull as his face had been throughout the day, and Missy hoped he hadn’t lost his desire to fight. They’d need him if they were going to survive.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Missy split her attention between listening to the conversation and listening for noises at the doors. How had she drifted off like that? With all three of them in their own worlds, Catherine could have walked in and slaughtered them before they had a chance to pick up a weapon. Not good. Not good at all, if they wanted to see the morning.

  “No, everything’s fine. The hotel is nice. How about there? What? What’s Connor complaining about?”

  Something moved by the kitchen window. Missy rose from her seat, but it was only a shadow cast by a passing car. She sat down again.

  “Well, maybe something spilled. Have Connor check. He likes helping. Okay. Yeah, put him on and I’ll say goodnight.”

  A feeling of unease filled Missy. Her heart refused to slow after the false alarm of the shadow. What was it, though?

  “You be a good boy and help your grandpa. And stop teasing him about having an old nose. Goodnight, kid. Love you.”

  “Everything’s okay?” The words came out automatically, before Missy remembered Art wasn’t speaking to her. He answered, though, and she felt a glimmer of hope that maybe the ice around his heart might thaw after all.

  “Yeah. He’s getting ready for
bed. My dad says he’s been complaining that the kitchen smells, even though they took out the garbage earlier. He keeps saying…”

  Art’s voice trailed off and his eyes grew wide. At the same time, Missy’s heart jumped as her brain made the connection.

  “There’s a smell in the kitchen?”

  “Shit! Catherine!”

  Madam Prioleau sat up. “We must go now!”

  Art grabbed two pistols and his keys. “I’ll drive.”

  Missy paused just long enough to collect a couple of knives and her guns and then she followed them out to the car. Art had it in gear and moving down the driveway before she finished closing her door.

  “Why would she go after Connor first?” Art asked as he tossed Missy his cell. She immediately scrolled to the last number called and hit redial.

  In the back seat, Madam Prioleau shook her head. “Don’t know. Not make sense.”

  “Dammit!” Missy closed the connection and immediately hit redial again. “Now there’s no answer.”

  In response, Art turned on his grill lights and siren and pressed down harder on the gas.

  Missy listened to the answering message come on and cursed again.

  Jesus, help us get there in time.

  * * * * *

  Art blinked his eyes as he drove, fighting to keep tears at bay. The only sound in his head was the thudding of his own pulse, which eclipsed the siren, the roar of the car’s engine and Missy’s non-stop attempts to get hold of his father.

  We have to get there in time. He couldn’t lose Connor, not after everything they’d been through.

  He took the corner to his father’s street at forty miles an hour, the car careening across the road and banging off the far curb before straightening out. Madam Prioleau cried out in the back as she bounced against her door. She’d barely regained her balance when Art slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, tossing her forward into his seat. He was out of the car and running for the door, Missy two steps behind him, before the aged psychic finished releasing her seat belt.

  “Wait!” Madam Prioleau waved at them. “This house is not protected yet.”

  Art ignored her, his fear ratcheting up a notch at the sight of his father’s front door sitting partially open.

  “Connor!” he shouted, drawing his gun and increasing his speed. He struck the wood with his shoulder, knocking the door the rest of the way open.

  The stench of rotten flesh hit him at the same time something came down on his arm, knocking the gun from his hand. He had a glimpse of a dark figure and then a heavy force slammed into him, sent him stumbling across his father’s tiny living room. He collided with a chair and fell over it, landing on his hands and knees.

  He lifted his head and saw his dead wife for the first time.

  Catherine looked every bit as horrible as Missy had described. Gray flesh sloughed from her face, revealing large patches of bone. Shriveled eyes stared at him from black sockets. Shrunken, crusty lips were pulled back, revealing a gray lump that wriggled behind yellowed teeth. Death and decay rolled off her in foul waves, poisoning every breath he drew.

  “Hello, Art. Nice of you to drop by.” Her words whistled through her teeth, adding a hissing sibilance, so they came out as “Nisssse of you to sssstop by.”

  “Fuck you. Where’s Connor?” Art pushed himself up and drew his second pistol.

  “Back here!” Missy called out from somewhere deeper in the house. “They’re okay.”

  Art smiled. “Then it’s time to say goodbye, bitch.”

  Catherine took a step forward, raising hands almost completely free of flesh.

  Art pulled the trigger three times, the shots deafening in the small space. Catherine’s body bucked left and right as all three rounds struck home. The bullets tore through her rotting form, splattering ooze and embalming fluids across the walls and carpet.

  Catherine paused, and then let out a gurgling, hissing laugh. “Didn’t my whore of a sister tell you? You can’t kill what’s already dead.”

  Art fired again, three more rounds. Two into her chest and one that ripped a piece of her neck away, exposing the ringed tube of her trachea.

  She kept coming at him.

  “Shit!” Art moved to his right, putting the old, scarred coffee table between him and the rotting corpse. Catherine followed, moving faster than Art expected for something in her condition.

  “Monstru!” Behind Catherine, Madam Prioleau’s diminutive figure looked no more dangerous than a child. But when she shook a vial of liquid onto the Catherine’s back, it had an instant effect.

  Catherine froze in place, mouth open, arms outstretched.

  “Hurry,” Madam Prioleau told Art. “That will only hold it for a short while.”

  Art wasted no time. He got to his feet and approached Catherine, placed the barrel against her temple. Up close, the stink of her was a physical thing, threatening to double him over and drag the contents of his stomach out. Bits of skin and hair littered her shoulders, evidence that her decomposition hadn’t stopped.

  “Let’s see how you do when I blow your skull to bits.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger and then in the next instant bright lights filled his vision and a burning pain exploded in his chest. The room went dim and spun around him, and then something hard struck the back of his head. A loud ringing filled his ears. Through it, he dimly heard a sound like wood snapping and then someone screaming. Another voice shouted his name but it was so far away, miles away, and he knew it wouldn’t reach him in time to save him. He was falling over the cliff, down, down into blackness, into the place where—

  “Art!”

  Missy’s voice. Closer. Somewhere in the dark. But where…?

  House. Connor. Catherine.

  He realized his eyes were closed. Opened them.

  And wished he hadn’t.

  Catherine’s horrific visage loomed over him, long, yellowish strands of drool hanging from her gaping, lipless mouth. Art lifted his hands. He’d lost his other gun. His ordinary flesh wouldn’t stand a chance against Catherine’s bony, dagger-like fingers driven by her supernatural fury, but he had no choice. Couldn’t let her get Connor.

  A series of gunshots erupted right behind him, each thunderous blast a hammer to his already aching head. Catherine’s body disappeared. He pushed himself up and saw she’d been thrown backwards several feet by the force of the gunfire.

  “Move your ass, Art! C’mon!”

  He turned. Missy stood in the hall, her hands wrapped around a long-barreled revolver that he recognized as his father’s old .44 Colt Anaconda, a gun with enough stopping power to put down a bear. Madam Prioleau stood next to her, cradling one arm against her chest, a look of intense pain on her face.

  Despite a gut-wrenching nausea brought on by the incessant pounding in his brain, Art got to his feet and staggered towards Missy, who kept the revolver trained on Catherine the whole time. She motioned for him to move past her. He tapped Madam Prioleau on the shoulder, indicating she should follow him. She flinched and muttered a curse, moving her injured arm away from his hand.

  Missy shouted something to him that he only caught part of, something about “patio,” and he headed towards the back door, hoping he’d heard correctly. He stumbled outside and found his father and Connor there, crouched behind the picnic table they’d turned on its side. As soon as he knelt down with them, Connor hugged him tight.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Art said. His words sounded muffled and warped, but better than before, indicating his hearing was returning.

  “What in the seven hells is going on?” Jeremy Stanhope asked.

  “I can’t explain it,” Art said.

  “Why is mommy back?” Connor was crying, his tears glistening in the motion lights mounted on the back of the house. “She’s supposed to be dead.”

&n
bsp; Missy and Madam Prioleau came through the back door at that moment, saving Art from questions he had no answers for.

  “She’s right behind us,” Missy said. “Why aren’t the bullets working?”

  Madam Prioleau shook her head and groaned. From what Art could tell, her wrist was badly broken. It sat at an odd angle and had already swollen to twice its normal size and turned a purplish-red color.

  “Spell…spell should work,” she mumbled. Between her pain and the bright lights, her face looked as dead as Catherine’s. “Always work.”

  “Well, it’s not. Any ideas?” Missy glanced at Art.

  Art glanced around the yard. It wasn’t the place he’d have chosen for an escape. Or a standoff. Like his own yard, a ten-foot-high cement wall marked out the property line. To the left and right were houses, and in the back was a sharp slope that led down to the river. The only way out of the back yard was through the house, which meant they were trapped unless they could get around Catherine somehow.

  “Weapons?” He’d lost both his guns in the house, leaving him with only a four-shot pistol in his ankle holster, which he quickly drew.

  “This,” Missy held up the Colt, “and a knife.”

  “Nothing,” added Jeremy. “That…thing caught us by surprise just as we were getting ready for bed. Now, will you tell me what in the goddamn hell is going on?”

  “It’s Catherine,” Art said, while he looked around the yard for anything they could use to hold the monster off until the police arrived. He couldn’t hear sirens yet, but with all the shots they’d fired, it wouldn’t be long.

  “It’s my fault.” Missy’s eyes never left the back door. “I poisoned her, and somehow her corpse came back to life. Now it wants revenge on all of us.”

  Jeremy opened his mouth to say something else, but never had the chance. The back door flew off its hinges and crashed onto the cement of the patio. Catherine, her burial clothes ragged and torn from the bullets she’d taken, stepped into the yard. Both of her eyes were gone, yet she still stared right at her prey.

  “No esssscape now.” Somehow she managed to smile, even with only remnants of lips, the remaining pieces of her face pulled away to show her bared teeth.