Witch Lights

by Michael M. Hughes

  “No,” Ray said. He closed his eyes.

  “Look!” Sabina laughed. “See what you asked to see!”

  He opened them again. Ellen was naked, now, in a bed surrounded by darkness, a white garment ripped next to her. She was curled up against a wall, eyes wide, like a frightened animal. From the shadows something crept toward the bed, walking stiffly. At first Ray thought it was the skeletal robed woman again, but then he realized it wasn’t a black robe he was seeing, but wings. Enormous, leathery, sharply angled wings.

  And then it turned to him, and he saw its face.

  Sabina cackled.

  It was only partly human, with long pointed ears, eyes as black as Sabina’s obsidian stone, and a nose that ended in a brutish snout. But what made a scream rise in his throat was the snarling, fanged mouth, the long sharp teeth.

  It saw him. It smiled at him, the teeth stark against the pink ribbed interior of its mouth.

  “Camazotz!” Sabina shouted. “He learned from me the mysteries of the Old Ones. I taught him the language of the ajtz’alam and the power of flight. He is the one who will wed your woman, Ray. He will put his seed in her. Don’t close your eyes—look!”

  And the horrid bat-human thing was crawling onto the bed, its clawed hands spreading the veined, leathery wings. It crawled atop Ellen, who started screaming, and fell upon her, wrapping her in the black embrace of its wings.

  “Stop it,” Ray croaked. “I don’t want to see anymore.”

  He opened his eyes and they were back in Sabina’s home. Alone. Mantu and her sister were gone. Green balls of light poured in through the tiny windows, sending moving shafts of sickly illumination dancing around the room. Sabina sat, smiling widely, her three teeth like jagged, leaning tombstones. She was enjoying this, all of it. I am malice, she had said.

  “They’re here,” she said.

  More globes of green fire moved through the walls, each of them the size of a softball. They hovered above him, shimmering like soap bubbles. More, maybe a dozen, entered. As if the walls didn’t even exist. They bobbed and floated, and soon the room was filling with them. He could no longer see Sabina, just the mass of opalescent orbs.

  She answered before he could ask. “The spirits of all the brujas who have come before me,” she said. “They have gone back into the rocks and roots. My sisters, called forth from their realm beyond death. They will burn away everything inside of you.”

  Ray shivered. Despite their brightness they radiated intense cold.

  “Ask them in,” she said.

  He stared at them. There was a weird beauty in the green, swirling lights, but it was cold and hard and old beyond belief.

  “Ask them to come into you! Now!” she shouted.

  His entire field of vision was filled with the orbs, which were packed so tightly they looked like an enormous wall of foam. How could these things get inside of him?

  “Do it!”

  This is all just a hallucination brought on by that blood potion. And hallucinations can’t hurt you. He wished he could believe it. Taking a deep breath, Ray clenched his fists, and whispered, “Come into me.”

  And just like that, they filled him.

  The battle raging inside him was not a metaphor. Every cell in his body was occupied and swirling with competing energies. He was certain he had gone completely and irrevocably insane. No human should be able to bear that kind of physical and mental pain without shattering.

  The green spheres within him felt like mountains, high places pregnant with power, bone-biting waters flowing through caves, and ancient stone temples dripping with blood and viscera. They were the inhabitants of this land, these old women, mistresses of biting insects, rabid dogs, and sharp-clawed rodents. Faces flashed before his eyes—women, young, old, beautiful, pox-scarred, wizened, dancing and reveling in their rage and hunger. Black-eyed mothers of death.

  And the other things, the ones that had been eating away at him for days—they were even older. Now that they had emerged from hiding in his cells he saw them for what they were—primal, as deep and dark as the void of interstellar space. The darkness of a black hole swallowing a star, of a galaxy collapsing into pure emptiness. They had come here long ago, when the earth had barely begun to cool and only the simplest of cells floated in hot chemical soups.

  Lily’s black entities.

  Both of them, two atavistic, elemental armies locked in a violent dance. In a fight that would either save him or kill him.

  Right now it felt like he was dying as the two forces ate away at his insides.

  He felt himself disappearing.

  —

  Ray.

  An old man’s face above him. Black skin, cratered with scars, eyes white as ghosts.

  “Micah,” he whispered.

  The old man smiled. “You have to hang on, Ray. Ellen and William need you. They’re both in a pile of trouble right now. You understand me? You can’t be checking out now.”

  Ray nodded.

  “The witch is fighting bad with bad inside of you. And hers are gonna want to be paid. You gotta pay it, Ray. I hate to say it, but you’re gonna have to pay.” His eyes narrowed. “And Lily’s coming back, too. You’ll need every last bit of your strength because if you live—and I do believe you will live—you’re gonna see her again. That’s one little secret I’m allowed to tell you. So you have to be prepared.”

  Ray stared. “You’re dead. I watched you die.”

  Micah laughed. “You still haven’t learned much, have you? I figured you might have gotten a little wiser since I last saw you.”

  Ray felt tears running down his face.

  “Things have gotten bigger. This ain’t just about you anymore. It’s about everyone. The whole world, Ray. This is what everything has been leading up to. From the first spark of light out of the void. Since time began.”

  “What do you mean? Where are you now?”

  Micah put his finger to his lips. And then he was gone.

  Ray was standing in the middle of the jungle, in a small clearing. The sky above him was full of stars, a swathe of the Milky Way so dense it was like a bolt of gossamer cloth. The noise of the insects was deafening.

  Ahead of him, dressed in a white gown, stood a young barefoot Mayan girl. Her face was painted with symbols, spirals, glyphs like those on the temple walls—a snake, a spider, a fanged bat. She exuded a pale glow in the light from the stars. She motioned to him.

  He walked toward her. He felt solid again. Real. Had he somehow wandered out of Sabina’s hut while under the influence of her black potion? If so, it sure felt like the stuff in his system had suddenly worn off. Did that mean he was healed?

  The girl was tiny. Perfect Mayan features—high forehead, long, gently sloping nose. Her shiny black hair was pulled back and tied behind her head. She smiled as he approached. Perfect tiny white teeth.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. When she spoke, her voice was musical, childish, and high pitched. “I am the one who healed you. My name is Ajkun.”

  She held out her hand. Ray took it in his. Her skin was soft, but cold. Icy cold.

  “Sabina brought us to you. We ate the poison of the red-haired witch. You will live.”

  Tears rolled out Ray’s eyes. He felt clean again. Clear. “Thank you,” he said.

  The girl smiled. Her eyes glinted.

  Ray noticed the sudden, profound quiet. All the insect noise had stopped. He could hear his heart beating in his ears.

  The girl’s grip tightened on his hand.

  When she smiled again, her teeth were sharp, needlelike fangs. Her eyes had gone solid black.

  Before he could react, her head shot forward and she pulled his hand with immense strength. Her mouth closed in on his ring finger. And bit down hard.

  —

  “Ray. Ray. Jesus. Come on, man. Open your eyes.”

  Mantu’s face floated upside down above him. Ray blinked. He breathed as if he were a baby taking
its first inhalation.

  “Good. You’re okay.” Mantu closed his eyes and exhaled. “Goddammit, man, you scared the shit out of me.”

  Ray felt nauseated. He sat up and then the pain hit him. He looked at his hand. It was wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. And there was something wrong.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  Mantu’s face clouded. “Lay back, man.”

  Ray stared at his hand. His left ring finger was gone. And it felt like someone was stabbing a nail down into the space where it had been. A nail heated in a fire.

  Across the room from him, Sabina stood in the shadows. Her mouth wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were.

  Ray’s vision clouded. “What happened?”

  “You’re healed. It worked. That’s what matters. But we need to get you to a doctor. Come on. I’ll help you up. There’s a clinic about twenty minutes from here. You need antibiotics. And painkillers. Somebody needs to take a good look at that.”

  Ray sat up and a bolt of pain shot from his hand to his elbow. He grimaced. Stared at the clump of bloody cloth. “What happened to my fucking hand?”

  Mantu grabbed his shoulders. “There’s not time. I’ll explain later.”

  “Did she do this?” He pointed with his good hand at Sabina.

  “She saved you. You’re alive. Now come on.”

  Sabina spoke harshly. Her sister translated. “She says you should be grateful, gringo. She could have let you die.”

  Mantu stepped behind him and lifted him under his arms. “Let’s go.”

  Sabina smiled at her sister as the two men walked through the door into the night.

  —

  Ellen watched as the men lined up to pay tribute to her. Behind and above her, wrapped in a black robe and holding an enormous scythe, was the woman they called Santa Muerte. Saint Death.

  The men at the party were leaving her presents. At her feet, among the white flowers, black candles, and pots of smoking copal, they were leaving packs of cigarettes, bottles of liquor, thickly rolled joints, and U.S. hundred-dollar bills. They bowed before her reverently, muttering prayers, each leaving a bottle, a stack of money, or a pack of Marlboros.

  El Varón stood back by the animal cages, watching.

  One by one they filed by. More offerings, more prayers. She avoided their eyes and did her best to pretend she was somewhere else. Sitting on a blanket by the reservoir just outside of Blackwater, or waiting tables at the diner. Playing Frisbee in Stuart Park with William. Back before everything turned into this nightmare that didn’t seem like it would ever come to an end.

  Around her the offerings piled up, all mingling with the constant gray smoke from the smoldering pots of copal. What was this all about? This bullshit goddess nonsense? The stupid robe? The way these men were looking at her, in some drunken, worshipful brand of awe?

  She started crying. And immediately hated herself for losing control. But it was ridiculous. Absurd. That she would once again be held captive and displayed for a bunch of hideous, horrible men to gaze upon. Like a piece of meat.

  Get ahold of yourself. She wiped her eyes. She couldn’t show weakness like that. She needed to be strong—for William as well as herself. And for a moment, she felt strangely like Ray was watching her. It lasted for a few seconds, but the deep sense of his presence physically startled her. She closed her eyes. If only. The only way Ray could get into the compound was if he was dragged in by one of El Varón’s guards. If he even made it to the front gate without being pumped full of bullets.

  This was far too much like what had happened in Blackwater for her taste. Although she didn’t remember much about that night—she’d been drugged senseless and nearly comatose—Ray had filled in enough details to know that she’d been surrounded by a group of men in blood-red robes. And one woman. And that she’d been prepared as some sort of obscene ritual sacrifice.

  She couldn’t imagine El Varón wanting to physically harm her, but nonetheless, the parallels with what had happened in Blackwater made her start to shake. You have to play along. Just long enough to get alone with him. And then, God willing, knock him out long enough to grab William and escape.

  It was the “alone with El Varón” part of the plan that worried her.

  —

  When the last of the men had paraded past Ellen and left an offering, El Varón stood next to her while a photographer blasted their eyes with flashes. What a bizarre photo that would be—the capo and the woman in the white robe, and behind them the blank-holed eyes and grinning rictus of the saint of death.

  The photographer walked away, and El Varón bent to whisper in her ear. “You did beautifully, Ellen. Santa Muerte came through you, and your tears pleased her. We will be alone very soon, and I will share secrets with you that will lift you to another realm of experience.”

  She smiled, despite the pounding of her heart.

  “Amigos,” he shouted. The crowd quieted and all eyes were on the two of them. In Spanish, and then in English, he told them it was time to sing for the saint. “In the language of the first people. The language taught to them by the ancients, the Old Teachers of man.”

  He began a chant. It wasn’t Spanish. It could have been Mayan, but it sounded coarse and gruff, like a mix of German and Russian spoken by someone with something stuck in his throat, and the syllables were discordant and guttural.

  El Varón closed his eyes. He chanted, deeply rhythmic yet ugly and sharp.

  The others joined in a refrain. Ellen noticed the priest watching her closely as he chanted, his eyes broadcasting something that looked like intense lust. Or hunger.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  The chant ended abruptly. A man in a traditional Mayan capixay overshirt stepped up to the microphone. He took out a small, crude clay flute and began to play. The melody was otherworldly, a mix of notes that sounded both ancient and alien.

  From out of a door on the side of the compound came a line of women. Young Guatemalan women. All in the same white gowns Ellen was wearing. Ten, twenty, maybe thirty of them. And still more. Each went off into the crowd and paired up with a man. And then they started dancing. But their eyes—there was something unnerving about them. Although their smiles were flirtatious and sexy, their eyes seemed cold and empty. Like the plastic eyes of dolls.

  The flute music grew faster, and the dancers stepped up their movements, swirling and spinning in circles while the men yelped and trilled. The women grew wilder in their gyrations, a sea of white cloth and fanning black hair. Some of them began lifting the gowns up above their knees, which made the men holler even more loudly. If things kept up at this pace, Ellen realized, the clothes would start coming off. The sexual heat rising above the chaos seemed almost visible.

  El Varón held out his hand. Her legs had started to go numb from sitting for so long so she took his hand and he helped her up. His face was flushed and his eyes were wide, glassy, and wild. As he guided her, the crowd parted, opening a path in front of them, although no one paid them any attention. They were all caught up in their own reveries. Now some of them were entwined, grinding, kissing, and groping. Ellen wanted to run, but El Varón held her forearm tightly as he maneuvered her to the door.

  Ellen whispered in his ear. “I need something to drink. How about some tequila? For the two of us?”

  El Varón’s breath stank of alcohol. That was good. The drunker he was the easier it would be to drug him. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Watching all of this is making me want to get wild tonight.”

  El Varón’s smile widened. He licked his lips. “Ellen, my love, this is a night of wildness I promise you will never forget.”

  —

  It was quiet in the house. Only one guard sat near the front door, absently staring at the cameras. El Varón led her to his room, and as she passed her bedroom, she felt a pang of fear for William. Was he okay in there? Could he sense what she was doing? Or what she might have to do? She prayed he would be ready when t
he time came to run. If, of course, that time came. If she could trick him. If she could get the keys.

  El Varón had picked up a bottle of tequila and two glasses. He closed the door behind them. Locked it. “Please sit on the bed,” he said, placing the bottle and glasses on a bedside table. “I will make us some drinks.”

  Ellen smiled and touched her hand to his face. “How about I make us some drinks? You’re always working. You’ve done nothing but go out of your way to take care of me. How about I do something nice for you now? Why don’t you relax and I’ll freshen myself up a bit?”

  He seemed taken aback, but smiled. “I forget that women in your country like to be the boss sometimes. I will wait for you.” He sat on the bed and pulled off his alligator boots.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and closed the bathroom door.

  —

  She pulled the tiny folded square of paper out her underwear. She’d ground up a few of the more potent-looking pills into a mix of pink and white powder. She stared at herself in the mirror. God, she’d started to age. Between the sun and the stress, and the lack of sleep since she’d been held captive, she could barely stand to look at herself anymore. She ran the water, breathed deeply, and tried to stop her hands from shaking. It felt like the trembling would spread into her entire body. That wolf in the other room—what was he thinking? How far could she let him go? How could she even let him touch her—touch her like that—without screaming?

  She remembered a boy, Kenny Curtis, who had tried to push her too far one drunken night after a high school football game. He’d shoved her against the basement wall of a friend’s house, forcing his tongue down her throat and shoving his hands up her skirt. She’d kept pushing him away, telling him to stop, but his hands clawed at her panties and his chest pressed into her so hard she could barely breathe.

  And then Steve had walked in. They hadn’t been dating at the time, but Steve had seen the panic in her eyes, and Kenny Curtis left that party with a concussion, a broken wrist, and the side of his face looking like a lump of bloody Silly Putty. A week later she and Steve became inseparable.