The Girl from the Woods

by Chris Keane

  “The doctor says it’s dementia,” Dante responded.

  “The same doctor who lies to his own daughter, and hoards material on witchcraft? His soul has obviously been compromised.”

  “I did a bunch of research on his family tree. He’s a direct descendent of one of the girls burned at the stake during the Salem witch trials. He had her remains relocated to the town cemetery sometime in the seventies. Since then, some residents have claimed to see him performing strange rituals at her grave. But before I could finish my research in the library I was attacked by a witch myself in the basement. She choked me until I blacked out, and I didn’t wake up until the next morning.”

  “It’s all very troubling. If he’s one of their own, we don’t know what satanic powers got passed down to him. Even if he’s just a plain old homo sapiens, these demons are hunters. What better vantage point than a phony doctor to a bunch of gullible town folks? He may have gotten into medicine for all the right reasons and then fell in a little too deep. People keep secrets. And I think you know that; otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I believe he’s a very dangerous individual.”

  “How about the witch? Couldn’t she have killed me if she wanted?”

  “Most certainly. Maybe she just fired a warning shot? To stay away from the good doctor? They can be very territorial. Especially with someone of value.”

  “I need your help,” Dante pleaded.

  “I don’t have the health, son, I’m sorry. But I sure as hell ain’t going to let you go in there empty handed,” he said reassuringly, leading Dante into a back closet. The old man sighed and pulled out a box of religious articles.

  “Here,” he whispered, handing Dante a piece of garlic. “Wear this around your neck whenever you’re in his presence.”

  Dante rolled his eyes.

  The shop keeper grabbed his shoulder, firmly. “I detect some doubt, and so can they. It’s no good to go in there with your humanness on display.”

  Dante reluctantly took the garlic, and tucked it into his backpack, as the old man slipped him a bag filled with tiny green leaves.

  “What’s this?”

  “Sage. You burn it. It’s good for the cleansing of evil spirits. You own any rosary beads?”

  “My gram does.”

  “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it,” the old man quoted, handing Dante a worn leather-bound Bible. “It’s got passages marked. Some got me through some pretty rough times. Others, priests have used in actual exorcisms.”

  Dante thanked the man profusely as he laid a sweaty ball of cash on the counter without counting it.

  “Are there good witches?” Dante asked.

  The old man sneezed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “How do you mean?”

  “Forget it,” Dante muttered, walking away.

  Dante cracked open the exit and light poured in, dazing his vision. In that moment, he vividly pictured Angie laying healing hands on him during their first hike together. He turned back to the shopkeeper “Well, is it possible for someone to have special powers and also be a good person?”

  “Unless you’re talking about Mother Mary, I’d be very suspect.”

  Dante quickly exited the shop and scurried up a long narrow alley and onto the bustling streets of Albany. It seemed strange to watch suited business types nibbling at their organic lunches on the sidewalk tables while he silently waged a battle against ancient powers. Any cry for help would undoubtedly send him to Albany’s finest padded room where a team of non-believers would put him through a battery of psych tests. Angie was out of the picture now. Kurt no longer took Dante’s calls. Gram was drifting further and further from reality. His parents remained unreachable. Other than the bag of religious paraphernalia he held in his hand, he was on his own.

  ***

  At some point during his journey home, Dante had realized he needed to devote more time and attention toward his grandmother. Only then would he be able to truly assess her mental and physical health. The last couple of weeks had been a total loss. Dante had completely checked out of life and drifted into his own world of pain and heartbreak. In the meantime, Gram had been languishing in the background somewhere. Their conversations were just a series of mumbled hellos and goodbyes, bookended by the closing of doors.

  Dante had never discussed the break-up with Gram; he was very wary of broaching the topic, especially after how poorly she had treated Angie at dinner last month. Dante had never even bothered to ask how she was doing. Regardless of his own extenuating circumstances, he still couldn’t help feeling pretty guilty for blowing her off. After all, she had graciously taken him in all summer without ever asking for anything in return.

  Dante busted through the front door of Gram’s ranch clear-headed, available and wanting to engage with his grandmother. But during an increasingly frantic search of the property, he quickly realized that Gram was nowhere to be found…again.

  He headed directly to the police station where the same cop from Gram’s previous disappearance was behind the desk typing a form on an actual typewriter. He didn’t seem surprised to find Dante back at his desk. Without a word, he ripped the form out of the typewriter, stuffed it in an envelope and grabbed his cap.

  As the patrol car screeched past the library, Dante noticed that it was all boarded up with a sign that said, “No Trespassing.” Dante asked, “What’s going in there?”

  “Oh, it’s closed down,” Officer Lefler, reported, shaking his head.

  “What’s going on?” Dante asked, suspiciously.

  “Ol’ Ms. Beady. She took a tumble down the cellar stairs Friday morning.”

  “Wait, what? Is she alright?”

  “She died, son.”

  Dante felt a chill slink down his spine. Whatever had called him down there, and nearly choked him, clearly must have gotten to Ms. Beady too. He knew that going down there the second time to investigate had been a bad idea — and had nearly cost him his own life. A wave of remorse crashed against his body. He viewed the librarian’s death as his own fault. After all, she had survived decades of employment on the premises prior to his arrival.

  “When will it re-open?” Dante asked, concerned about losing his only connection to the outside world.

  “It won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The place has been pretty vacant for a long time. They didn’t have the funding to buy books or modern computers. Most folks have stopped going there altogether. Besides, the VFW has been eyeing that spot for years.”

  Dante pictured the crumbled body of Ms. Beady bruised and bloody on the basement floor. What an awful way to go. He hoped that whatever had happened to the poor woman was instantaneous so she didn’t suffer. His very own grandmother had possibly fallen victim to the same dark forces. A fire began burning inside him. Someone needed to pay for what was happening.

  In his bones, Dante now believed that Dr. Sewall was somehow involved. His selfless service to the town and its people didn’t come across as genuine to Dante anymore. He had learned too much. He had seen evidence of another guy with a sketchy past and a hidden agenda.

  ***

  Luring Mrs. Elton from her home into his Saab this morning had been all too easy. Sewall had simply told her that his wife had invited her over for tea. It didn’t matter that his wife had been gone five years and never cared for tea. He could have said a number of things that would have worked. But getting her to the facility was the easy part. The real problem was what to occupy her with until he began the operation. In the car, she had been slipped a light sedative so he could get to the lab. Now she was chained to a cot down the hall as his plans crumbled around him.

  Seeing his long-time patient sedated and chained up hit Sewall with hard pangs of guilt. But being in the medical field, he knew the awful truth about end-of-life care. Her dementia would continue to wreak havoc on her mind until she drifted slowly into madness; eventually, she w
ould be unable to tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Like many of Sewall’s past patients, she would rattle around some nursing home, frightened and confused until she took a fall or until some excruciating disease ravaged her aged, immune-deficient body. Sometimes you really were better off dead.

  Now Crystal was MIA. Sewall hadn’t heard from her all day, and he was very concerned. She had wanted to rest a while in her own bed before meeting him at the site, so he had reluctantly agreed. He would have definitely preferred to escort her to the operation as her health was rapidly declining. For all he knew, Crystal could have passed out behind the wheel along the side of the road somewhere. Whatever the reason, Sewall needed to get her under the knife as soon as possible. Right now, she was on borrowed time.

  Another awful development was his partner-in-crime wasn’t answering his cell. On the phone, Sewall had sensed Bud’s hesitation with going forward with the operation. The jovial tone Sewall had come to know and love as an intern in the Army’s medical squadron had gone flat. In fact, the last thing Bud said was an admonition: “Watch your tail.” It wasn’t “we better watch our tails.” Was he already out and didn’t have the guts to tell him?

  Hours after that conversation, it was becoming apparent that hooking his friend up with a covert underground lab was as far as Bud was willing to go. Now, Sewall was on his own, attempting the most cutting-edge procedure of his career. It was a long shot.

  For the last few weeks, he had poured over print-outs from a Bangkok surgeon’s website, committing as much to memory as possible. During the procedure, there would be no free hands or time for research. Every extra second meant more blood loss, risk of infection or even sudden death.

  He sighed. By now, he had practically memorized the damn printouts that described the illegal procedure. But knowing precisely what to do was meaningless if he was unable to keep his composure. Operating on a loved one was illegal in the States for good reason. And obviously, harvesting a living person’s organs was quite illegal as well. But Crystal needed a liver, and no hospital was going to give one up for a cancer patient, even if the CT scan had shown the cancer to be tightly confined within the organ.

  It was time for the final preparations for surgery. First, Sewall checked his watch and arranged an array of silver instruments on two sanitized white cloths. Then he loaded the IVs and hypodermic needles with anesthetic, spilling some onto the floor; it pooled on the ground with a consistency that reminded the phony doctor of blood. He washed his hands vigorously, anxious to get himself clean, and then stared at the elevator doors. There was nothing else he could do until Crystal or Bud arrived. Sewall was hopeful both would come through those doors.

  The dusty digital clock chirped above the operating tables like a harbinger of death. Another hour had gone by with no word from Bud or Crystal. It was now late afternoon. At a bare minimum, he needed Crystal. She was way too late for the reason to be her typical lax attitude. There had to be some other issue.

  “Fuck it!” He bellowed, echoing through the OR. “I need to get this show on the road!”

  Sewall ran down the hall, quickly administered a dose of propofol to Mrs. Elton, who appeared to be waking up, and headed back toward the elevator.

  22

  problems

  Kurt woke up to find himself all alone in his living room with no recollection of how he had gotten there. Chunks of vomit covered his parents’ prized Italian leather couch. Discarded pizza boxes and porno magazines were all over the floor. Crushed Bud Light cans covered the coffee table. There was an empty bottle of Wild Turkey, which he couldn’t recall purchasing, much less drinking. He wouldn’t be surprised if the cops had pegged him with a noise violation or two last night, but now the place was eerily quiet.

  Despite his many admonitions to his friends about smoking indoors, cigarette butts were all over the damn place. He figured the house needed to be firebombed with air freshener or his parents would seriously take him out when they finally returned. But for now, he just needed to shower, down a couple of non-alcoholic drinks and keep pumping Ibuprofen until he felt human again.

  Kurt chugged a warm Gatorade he had found in the pantry before his cell phone started ringing; he fumbled around for it, finding it underneath the couch. The caller ID said “Lesley.” An unexpected phone call from his ex put a huge smile on his face. He cleared his throat and said, “Hello Baby.”

  “Stop fucking drunk dialing me!”

  “Huh?” he responded, but then she was gone.

  He frantically went through his call log. He had called her ten times the night before, along with almost everyone he knew in Essex County. All after 2AM. Despite all his outgoing calls, the only message on his phone was from Dante saying he was in big trouble and needed help immediately. What else is new? Kurt hurled the phone across the room.

  Kurt figured he was never getting back with his ex. And even if by some miracle he could get her back, what could he realistically offer her? He had bombed high school and blown off college. All the jobs he had scoped out paid just over minimum wage, not even enough for a studio apartment. On his way to the toilet he grabbed an Army Times he had picked up at 7-11. It was too early for porn, and he figured somehow it seemed like manly reading for taking a dump.

  Kurt was still hurting and had no desire to help his lowly brother. Actually, Dante had always been more of a weak sister. He cried at the drop of a hat, he whined, he bitched, and he got freaked out. But Kurt was getting concerned about Gram. Dante had said she was confused and frail. After all this time, she could be pushing up daisies if left in the hand of someone as incompetent as Dante.

  With the landline at Gram’s house down, and Dante’s cell phone out of service, there was no choice but to take a ride up the Thruway to check on her. Besides, the drive would give him plenty of time to think about how fucked up his life was, and how to go about fixing it.

  ***

  Officer Lefler’s squad car idled in front of Gram’s ranch just after sundown.

  “So, what happens next?” Dante asked.

  “Well, we’ll put out a missing senior alert. Let the surrounding areas know. Then we’ll keep our eyes and ears peeled,” Lefler said, turning the dial of the radio.

  “You have any extra radios?” Dante asked.

  “I’m not supposed to give out police equipment. Sorry, kid.”

  “It would make me feel a lot better…and safer. Do you happen to know a Dr. Sewall?”

  “Yeah! He gives my boys free medical. Hell of a lot of a fun dude to fish with…great guy.”

  “I’m not so sure. I think he may be involved in the death of Ms. Beady and my grandmother’s disappearance.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” the officer chuckled. “Look. I can tell you’re rattled. It’s only natural with your grandma missing and all,” Lefler sympathized. “Here, take this,” he said, handing Dante an old analog radio.

  “Thanks,” Dante replied as he exited the squad car.

  The background chatter of the radio was a welcome distraction for Dante. With Gram gone, the house seemed eerily quiet. And now with Angie out of the picture, there was no good use for an empty house anyway.

  To call Lefler’s radio a police scanner was an exaggeration; it was mostly truckers talking about the best go-go joints or whining about back pain. But just as Dante was losing interest, he heard the familiar sound of Officer Lefler. “Ten-four. We got a call from Emergency that there is a young woman in her thirties passed out in her vehicle on Highway 31 near Hopewell Pass. I’m on the way.”

  Dante sat up and took a swig of water. Realizing he hadn’t eaten all day, he headed into the kitchen. It was a bit messy by Gram’s standards; there was even an opened quart of milk sitting on the counter. Dante took a whiff and gagged before dumping it into the sink. There was nothing prepared to eat so he grabbed the peanut butter and a sleeve of Ritz crackers and headed back into the bedroom.

  The police scanner buzzed with activity surrounding the woman
who had passed out behind the wheel. Luckily, she had veered right off the road and not into another car. Dispatch crackled, “Lefler, what’s your twenty?”

  There was a brief pause before Officer Lefler replied, “I just made it to the scene now. Girl is banged up pretty good. Doctor Sewall is here taking care of her. I tried to urge him to take her into the hospital for treatment, but he got real short with me. Told me to mind my own business. Strange.”

  The dispatcher garbled, “Roger. Anyone else on scene? Any other vic’s?”

  “Negative. Negative. All clear. The girl is easy on the eyes and practically nude. I think she’s an exotic dancer of some kind.”

  “Roger. I need you to come back in and relieve me. Dead tired.”

  “I’d like to stay to make sure she’s alright.”

  “I’m sure you would!” the dispatcher barked. “Return to station, Lefler, return to station, ASAP.”

  “Ten-four,” Office Lefler replied, curtly.

  Dante sprang from his chair. The woman in the car had to be Doctor Sewall’s girlfriend from the strip club — and possibly the thirty—year-old with cancer. There was something strange going on, and Dante was going to get to the bottom of it. Even Officer Lefler had said it was odd for Dr. Sewall not take her to the hospital. Hopefully, this would somehow lead to locating Gram. After an exhaustive and fruitless search so far, Dante was willing to explore anything.

  It took more than a few turns, but Gram’s car eventually started. As Dante peeled out of the driveway, he felt a rush of endorphins. He hadn’t felt this alive since his last date with Angie. He had the urge to blast the radio, but he didn’t want to risk the chance of missing radio chatter.

  As Gram’s car careened toward the bottom of the hill, something broke off the back. Dante figured it was probably just a piece of the tailpipe. The other day he had clipped it coming out of the garage. Still, he needed this car to hold together; otherwise he would be dead in the water.