by Alex Gordon
Look at that padlock. It caught what light there was and flashed it in her face like a dare. The door proved to be steel, but it had been set in the old jamb, which was cracked and worn. But even so, she would need a hammer and crowbar to pry off the hasp, and there was no way that could be done without the entire household hearing, assuming she had the tools to begin with.
Lauren looked around the corner toward the garage, which was also closed, the only lighting a safety lamp that illuminated the driveway. Then she walked around to the rear of the shed. Let her eyes readjust to the dark. Nothing but a mess to be seen, long-forgotten firewood strewn amid waist-high weeds that had dried to spiky stems with leaves like razors.
Lauren hiked her skirt above her knees, and let Waycross’s boots take the brunt of the punishment. Kicked through the dead vegetation to the shed wall, then walked along, tapping the frame with her toe.
She found the loose boards at the halfway point. The bottom board shook when she nudged it, then slid into the weeds, taking two other sections of the frame with it and leaving a gap big enough for her to wedge through.
Lauren crouched and maneuvered through the gap between the wall studs, pushed through into the shed. The interior proved to be a large open space, about the size of a two-car garage, one corner set up as a kitchen with a sink and a refrigerator, the opposite corner a walled-off compartment with a plastic curtain hanging in the doorway, a shower or toilet.
A bare low-watt bulb above the sink provided the only light, casting Lauren’s shadow across the length of the floor and along the walls as she explored, kicked up dust, breathed in the musty air.
Emotions. She sensed them in the air, faint but distinctive, like the perfume of a long-departed wearer. Fear. Happiness. Lust. Love. At some point in the past, her father had entered this place. More than likely, he had made love to Emma Cateman here. Did you know you had been set up, Dad? Did you care? She leaned against the wall and looked around, tried to visualize the room as it had been almost four decades before, the refuge for the fine-boned woman and her angry colt of a young man. Did you report to Leaf about your progress, Emma? Did you laugh at my father behind his back?
Lauren pushed away from the wall and walked the perimeter of the room, brushed her fingers along the bare plank wall. One circuit. Another. Then she stopped, studied the floor, and spotted the shadows on the boards nearest the kitchen. She thought it a trick of the dim light at first. Then she drew closer, and picked out the hinges. The handle.
Don’t go down there. Every idiot move by every horror-movie screamer replayed in her head. But I’m in the movie now. And according to this script, she needed to face whatever was in the cellar, because the odds were good that her father had faced it, too.
Lauren lifted the door. Faint light shone from bulbs strung along the packed-dirt wall, revealing narrow wooden stairs. She heard her mother’s voice in her head, a saying that Angela Reardon fell back on whenever she pushed a point so hard it snapped. In for a penny, in for a pound.
The first step. The next. No railing to grip, but the walls were close enough that she could press her hands against them to steady herself. Wooden steps changed to dirt at some point. The walls pressed closer and the air grew thick and damp as she descended lower, lower.
Funnel me down to hell. Lauren paused, then looked back over her shoulder. No light visible at the top—the stairway had twisted and skewed that much. Someone could close the door and lock it and she wouldn’t know until it was too late.
She took the next step down. The next. Most of the bulbs had gone dark, leaving her to feel her way. She didn’t realize she had reached the bottom until she felt with her foot for the next step and found nothing but a stretch of flat dirt floor.
She edged forward. Caught a flash of light and heard the sizzle of a failing bulb. Rounded a corner and found herself looking down a long, narrow passage, dirt walls shored up with wooden posts and beams, bulbs stuttering so that light pulsed with a flickering beat that hurt her eyes.
A room at the end. A chamber.
I know where this is going. But she went anyway, because she was a witch of Gideon now, however inexperienced, and this was what they did. The walls closed in, brushed her shoulders, and she told herself that she had never suffered claustrophobia before and now was not the time to give it a try.
She saw a platform in the chamber, an altar or bier. Stepped inside, then reached up and twisted one of the remaining bulbs so that it shone upon the mound resting on top.
A drape of some sort, stained and stiff with age. She peeled it back, and looked upon a face. What remained of a face, after rot and damp and time’s passage had taken their toll.
“Who are you?” Lauren looked down at the blackened form, the arms curled and tucked like wings.
She didn’t catch the tremor at first, then thought it a trick of the light.
Then the body’s arms twitched. Straightened. A growl rose in what remained of its throat.
Lauren let go of the bulb. It swung back and forth, casting warped shadows across the ceiling, the walls, as the body sat up, dragged its legs over the side of the bier.
Raised its head, and started at her with eyeless sockets.
Lauren backed up, hands pressed to the wall. “Who are you?”
The body stared, all stillness.
Then it groaned and pushed off the bier. Held on until it steadied, then staggered forward. Clicking noises sounded as teeth and bone clattered. Desiccated skin flaked like dark snow.
Lauren stopped. Was her Gideon sense worth a damn—well, she would find out now because she sensed nothing from this creature but fear and confusion and need.
“Help.” It shuffled toward her. “Me. Help.” Half-spoken words, half howls, sounds uttered in dread.
“Do they know you’re here?” Lauren took hold of wrists thin and brittle, crackly as broiled fat. “Who are you?” She tried not to squeeze, knew its arms would shatter like spun glass if she squeezed too hard. And still it came, until its face pressed close to hers and she could smell ash and rot and see through its cracked eye socket to the back of its skull.
“Help.”
Lauren stepped back, and let it go. It remained in place. tottering like an infant finding its footing for the first time. “I’ll get someone. I’ll go get someone.”
“Help.”
“I’ll be back. I promise.” She backed up until she found the steps, then took them two at a time, the thing’s crumbling voice chasing her like an echo.
She stumbled once. Twice. Barked her knee on the wooden edge of the top step. Shot through the trapdoor into the still, dark shed, then through the gap in the boards into the night.
“A BODY?” JORIE Cateman sat at the head of the dining room table. “In a shed that hasn’t been used in decades and will be demolished in the spring?” She tapped the handle of a serving spoon against the rim of her plate, kept up the clatter until Emlyn Howell reached over and plucked the utensil from her hand.
“I told you. There’s a trapdoor in the floor. Steps leading down. A narrow corridor. Body’s in a small chamber at the end. There are bulbs and everything—someone knows what’s down there.” Lauren stood off to the side, flanked by the pair of kitchen workers who had served as escort. All the men had stood when she entered. Then came the flurry of questions. A resigned shake of the head from Corey. An order from Jorie to get a rug for our guest to stand on so she doesn’t dirty the carpet.
The silence when she told them what she had seen.
“And you discovered this how?” Jorie looked Lauren up and down, and grimaced. “Just happened to wander outside after harassing my husband to the point of collapse.”
“He belongs in the hospital.”
“I’d tell you to mind your own business, but I’m not sure you know the meaning of the expression.” Jorie pulled her napkin off her lap and tossed it onto her plate, then pointed to one of the women. “Olivia, bring me the house keys, a coat and boots, and whatever e
lse I’ll need. Emlyn? Dylan? You come with us.” She brushed past Lauren, cheeks mottled pink, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“What the hell have you been doing?” Corey prodded Lauren in the back, steered her toward the door. “What happened with Leaf?”
“He’s sicker than they want to admit.” Lauren lowered her voice when she spotted Howell within eavesdropping distance. “I saw the office, though.”
Corey chuffed. “I hope it was worth it.”
“How was dinner?”
“I’ve had pleasanter root canals.”
They suited up in coats and gloves and bustled to the rear door, where Amanda Petrie awaited them. She had dressed since the altercation with Lauren, in a drab brown housedress, errant curls sticking out every which way from a messy chignon.
“Mistress?” The emotion that Petrie managed to pack into that single word. Disdain. Irritation. Injured pride.
“We need to examine the shed.” Jorie brushed past her. “My house keys.” She snapped her fingers at Olivia, who held them out to her in her cupped hands, like an offering. “We have bodies, apparently.”
“The Master doesn’t like anyone to go in there—”
“The Master is indisposed.” Jorie smiled and met Petrie’s eye. One beat. Two.
Petrie tried to rally. “But you don’t have—”
Jorie held up her key ring and shook out a shiny silver padlock key. “Yes?”
Petrie paled, and sagged against the wall.
“Let’s go.” Jorie barged past her, then turned, hands on hips, and waited for the rest of them to follow.
THEY CROWDED DOWN the stairs and into the narrow corridor, the four of them, Howell remarking about the history of the place and Corey muttering about the quality of the supports.
Then they fell silent and looked down at the floor, then into the empty chamber.
Lauren’s stomach clenched.
“So, where is he?” Jorie grimaced and waved off a spiderweb that had dropped down from the wood support. “The fiend. The zombie.”
“It wasn’t evil.” Lauren pointed to the place where the body had collapsed. “I left him—it—here in the corridor.” The dirt appeared disturbed, but then she had walked on it, hadn’t she? They all had. “It asked me for help. I asked who it was, but it didn’t tell me.”
“Nicholas Blaine was burned to a cinder in 1836.” Howell, the fountain of historical information. “Then there were the folks killed in the Great Fire. Leaf must have uncovered something.”
Jorie sighed heavily. “All right. It was supposed to be a secret. He read about these cellars in one of his old books. They used to hold rites down here. Baptisms and whatnot. It was one of Leaf’s dreams to reopen them for all of Gideon to use once more. It was meant to be a surprise, but now—”
“So that explains the excavation, but not the body.” Howell smiled, a thin curve of lip that rivaled Thad Trace in the amount of reptile contained therein. “Perhaps our visitor had a vision. It wouldn’t be out of line to suppose that Blaine’s troubled spirit might appear to her. She did say it asked her for help.” He looked over the top of Jorie’s head to Lauren. “And you know what the answer to that is, don’t you, Miz Reardon?”
Lauren gave herself a mental kick. I should have kept my mouth shut. “It wasn’t Blaine.”
“How do you know?”
Because it was gentle, and so, so scared. “Ask Leaf Cateman.”
“That’s Master Cateman to you.” Jorie pushed past Howell toward the exit, brushing her hands over her coat sleeves in a futile effort to clean off the dirt. “My sick husband, who you browbeat until he collapsed. Don’t think I won’t remember that, Miss Reardon.” She started up the stairs. “This is a waste of time.”
“Agreed.” Howell shot Lauren a look of disgust, then turned and followed Jorie.
Corey tugged on Lauren’s arm. “What the hell?”
“Later.”
“I told them you had stomach flu—I’d kinda like to know what I got myself into.”
“I don’t think you’re the one who needs to worry.”
Jorie had already departed by the time they made it upstairs, leaving Howell to deal with them. He said nothing as he walked them to Corey’s truck. Recovered the loaned suit coat from Corey, then followed Lauren around to the passenger side, and held on to her arm when she tried to get in.
“I don’t know what you thought you would accomplish with this little charade, but between this and the episode with Leaf—”
Lauren tried to extract herself from his grip. “I didn’t—”
Howell shook his head. “Amanda told me what happened. Not a smart move to mistreat a sick old man who offered you a kindness.” He released her, then held the door for her, closed it after she got in. “And who has most of Gideon on his side.” He remained in the window, ignored Corey’s warning glare. “The offer still stands, for the time being. You would be wise to take it. The alternative would be extremely unpleasant.” He waved as they backed out, the designated host bidding them good evening, and watched them until they turned off onto the square.
“That could’ve gone better.” Corey pulled a roll of antacid tablets out of the glove compartment, tossed a couple into his mouth.
“How?” Lauren waved off his offer of the rest of the roll. “I shouldn’t have told them about the body.”
“That’s the least of your worries.”
“I saw it, okay?”
“I’m not saying you didn’t.” Corey dug into the glove compartment again, this time pulling out a CD. “I just wish you hadn’t made them angry. They can get back at you in ways you never imagined. I had a feeling it would be bad, but I didn’t think they’d pull out the heavy artillery so fast.” He shoved the disc into the slot in the dash, then fiddled with the volume. Soft jazz filled the cabin, a quiet, settling sound.
Lauren looked out at the passing scenery. Nothing had changed, yet everything seemed different. “They just let me go.”
“You’re complaining about that?”
“They threaten me with a murder charge, and then Jorie leaves and lets the second team read me the riot act.”
“I don’t think that means you’re off the hook.”
“They didn’t ask why I went in the shed in the first place either.”
“Why did you?”
Lauren thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“Nosy pain in the ass. That’s what I thought.” Corey flashed a weak smile that faded as quickly as it appeared. “That’s what they thought, too.” A fine mist fell, and he clicked on the wipers. “I’m not saying that you didn’t see what you said you saw. I’m not saying that you were dumb to go upstairs and hunt for the office. What I am saying is that they want something from you, and if you don’t give it to them, they will take it, somehow. And they will make sure it hurts.” He took her hand. “And I don’t want it to happen.”
Corey’s touch felt quiet for a change. Lauren rested her head on his shoulder. Enjoyed the peace, for however long it might last.
“You want to stop and get a drink somewhere?”
“Where?” Lauren shook her head. “Not the diner.”
“My place?”
“I thought you wanted to stay away from there?”
“Well, yeah.” Corey glanced at the dashboard clock. “Night’s still young. We could drive around, find a bar.”
Lauren sat up straight. Thought back to all the cars and trucks pulling into the Waycross driveway, and let go of Corey’s hand. “What’s going on?”
Corey turned down the music. “What do you mean?”
“Dinner didn’t last as long as you thought it would, did it? You still need to kill some time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s something going on tonight, isn’t there? Mistress Waycross is planning something.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
Lauren pushed away from Corey to the far end of the bench seat. “Back to the r
anch. Now.”
Corey and Lauren arrived at the Waycross place to find a dozen cars and trucks parked behind the house, the horses milling and fidgeting in the corral. Lauren jumped out as soon as Corey came to a stop, ran up the back steps and into the house to find it dark.
The barn. She collided with Corey on her way out the door, ignored his shouts for her to stop. Her right foot cramped in the stiff boot, and she staggered, caught herself, limped the rest of the way.
The barn was lit bright as day by lamps and lanterns arranged in the ring in the middle of the floor. Inside the ring sat Waycross, Zeke Pyne, Phil, Beth and Penny, and fifteen or twenty others—faces Lauren recognized from the convocation. They all turned when she entered, their expressions stopping her in her tracks. Only Zeke offered anything close to a smile. Even Waycross eyed her with suspicion.
“What are you doing?” Lauren squinted, stared into the light. It formed a dome over Waycross and the others, a force field from a science-fiction film, and she knew that if she touched it, physical pain would be the least of her problems.
“This isn’t your concern.” Waycross rose from her place at the top of the circle. “Go back to the house.”
Lauren sniffed, caught a now-familiar whiff of cat piss, looked up to find the beams hung with wreaths and branches of elder. In the corners of the barn sat clusters of pots and bowls, all steaming, exuding the same stink. Protection. By the bucketload. “I can help.”
“No, you can’t.” Waycross’s words came stern and hard, a voice with no patience left. “Dylan, take her back to the house.” She lowered herself to the floor. “And keep her there until we’re through.”
Lauren turned to find Corey behind her—he tried to grab her wrist, but she twisted beyond his reach and ran outside. Looked up at the sky.
Country night. No light to mar the view of the stars when skies were clear. No light to cut through the murk when they weren’t. And the skies weren’t clear now—in the time that had passed since Lauren had sat on the Catemans’ back step, the clouds had thickened and lowered. Reach up and touch. Yes, she could if she tried, except the thought of that swirling dark brushing over her skin twisted her gut and made her mouth go dry.
