by A. W. Jantha
Katie appears beside me, the long piece of railing in her hands. “Heads up, Poppy,” she says.
Then, without hesitation, Katie steps up onto the lower bar of the railing and takes a swing at Winifred, connecting with her hand. The moonstone flies from Winifred’s grasp, making a high arc through the air and catching the light of the blood moon as it begins to descend.
Legs still shaky from my brush with death, I move to the edge of the deck, making up in speed what I lack in grace.
Eyes wide with horror and fury, Winifred utters the final words of the spell. “‘On All Hallows’ Day ere twelve is struck, trade three hundred and sixty-eight souls until sunup!’”
Even as my fingers close around the moonstone once more and I haul it in, shielding it protectively, it does nothing to stop what happens next.
Below, green flickers of light appear in the trees surrounding the lighthouse. One by one, the cell phone zombies are replaced—snuffed out—as beings from beyond the veil claw their way into our world and allow each glowing tear to close behind them. It’s like dozens of green-flamed candles being lit and extinguished in quick succession, leaving a trail of witches from Hell in their wake. Without taking a moment to adjust to their new surroundings, they press forward, ready to swarm the lighthouse.
“Oh, no,” I mutter. “That’s a lot of evil witches.”
“At least they don’t have brooms,” murmurs Isabella, ever the one to look on the sunny side of things.
Winifred cackles. “Perhaps I underestimated thee, foolish girl,” she sneers at me. “It appears that the game is afoot.”
Somewhere below, I hear the sound of Sarah’s gleeful voice, chanting, “Afoot! Afoot! Afoot!”
I chance a look over the edge of the deck and see the beings below fanning out over the grounds from the forest’s edge to the dock and from the narrow stony footpaths to the boathouse.
The boathouse. Travis.
He’s still down there.
They’ll be after him immediately.
I feel an icy dread creep over me at the thought.
Then, as if on cue, he bursts through the door and out onto the lighthouse deck.
“Big problem,” he pants. “Huge problem. We’ve got—”
“Zombies?” Katie fills in. “Yeah, we caught that.” She rolls her shoulders and wields the piece of railing turned Witch’s Worst Nightmare, looking ready to take out anyone foolish enough to get in her way.
“We need to destroy the blood moonstone,” says Elizabeth. “It’s the only way. There are too many of them. They’ll be up here any minute.”
“I’m sorry,” Travis says. “The light...I tried, but...” he trails off, shaking his head. “I blockaded the door below, but I don’t know how long it’ll hold.”
With a grunt, Katie leans over the railing and wrests the oar back from one of the witches flying around the tower. She tosses it to Travis. “Here,” she says. “Let them come.”
Travis, never terribly athletically inclined, catches it with more gusto than I’d imagined he had in him. “I don’t know how to—”
“Pretty simple, nerd,” says Katie. “If something gets within oar distance, you make sure it doesn’t stay there.”
He nods once, then grips it with resolve.
Travis, Katie, Isabella, and Elizabeth are all looking to me, searching for something between assurance and direction.
I open my mouth to say something, but I stop short as the space around the tower lights up around us.
Brilliant jets of purple and green slice through the air as conjured ropes knot themselves around the railing, pulled taut as the fiends of Hell on the ground below begin to ascend the tower.
Katie rolls her shoulders again, preparing, and Travis tightens his grip on the oar, doing an admirable job of looking like he’s ready for whatever’s about to come sailing toward us over the railing. Isabella raises her hands in preparation to conjure her magic, blinking away exhaustion.
The timing isn’t right. If we refocus our efforts on using Isabella’s and Elizabeth’s powers to blast the stone to smithereens, it will only be a matter of seconds before the eight flying witches and the crowd of witches from below will be upon us, and we can’t afford that. We have to keep them at bay long enough to put together a new plan for destroying the moonstone. I put it in my pocket.
The sky around us is getting brighter, which doesn’t do much to boost morale.
The witches in the air hover around us, poised like snakes ready to strike.
The ground below is teeming with witches, some of which are climbing the sides of the tower.
And then, the light in the balcony gives a faint flicker.
Isabella and Elizabeth share a look, then go about focusing their energy on it, sending controlled streams of lightning into the base of the lamp. It brightens, surging to life, becoming at once more radiant than it ever could’ve been on its own.
Warm light pours from it and, with a clumsy groan, it begins to rotate.
It’s blinding, and on instinct, we shield our eyes in unison.
The witches in the sky disperse like a swarm of sparrows chased by a hawk.
It’s all according to plan. Sort of. With a little luck, we might be able to keep them at bay long enough to figure out how to destroy the stone...for good.
“Keep going!” I shout over the sound of aging metal grinding through decades’ worth of rust and briny wear.
Isabella and Elizabeth outstretch their arms farther, palms out, lightning streaming forth.
A hand finds its way onto the metal of the deck.
Then another.
A head appears, clad in a peaked, tattered hat, below which is a face twisted with hate and disgust. It’s hard to tell if it belongs to a witch or a demon or something in between, but it’s pretty obvious that whoever it is isn’t coming bearing tidings of comfort and joy.
Katie’s there in a flash, swinging her makeshift staff expertly. She connects with an arm.
With a flurry and a shriek, followed by a thud, the path is clear once more.
It doesn’t last, though.
More witches make their appearances—some tall, some short, some grisly and some disarmingly inhuman. As soon as they reach the level of the deck, though, they’re stopped by the light. Whether blinded or burned, they hesitate, and Katie and Travis spring into action, batting them away and making sure that nothing comes near Elizabeth or Isabella.
It’s working, I realize. At least for now.
We have the upper hand—and something Winifred wants.
“Don’t you dare come any—” Katie’s comment is cut short, though, and she vanishes.
Where she stood only milliseconds before, there’s now a green glow at the edges of another invisible tear. A moment later, there are hands, then a cloak, a face, and hair that rivals even Winifred’s in its disregard for the laws of physics.
The witch stands in Katie’s place, blinking rapidly as she takes in the scene around her.
My friends and I watch, stunned. We take in her short black hair, threaded with hints of blue, which curls in waves and hugs her pale face. Her perplexed expression features puckered red lips and twinkling, watchful hazel eyes. She wears a fur-trimmed gold brocade cloak atop what I can only imagine must’ve been a very fine dress by seventeenth century standards, black gloves, a feather hair fastener, and more jewelry than I thought existed in 1693. The way she holds herself shows she is a dignified witch of great power and status.
“Mother!” Winifred cries triumphantly, hovering just beyond the railing on her cordless vacuum once more. “I told thee I would bring thee back, and I have delivered.”
The witch, the Sanderson sisters’ mother, raises a dramatically arched eyebrow. “It appears as though you have, Winifred.” She’s reserved and regal, unlike her daughters, and resembles none of them. Her face is severe and shows only the signs of aging that were stubborn enough to stick around and suffer her.
Standing straigh
t and lifting her chin, she regards each of us with a suspicious, hawkish stare.
“Now,” she says, “where is my stone?”
On top of the lighthouse tower, it’s all a cacophony of cackles and shrieks as the assorted baddies from the great beyond make their way onto the metal deck.
Isabella and Elizabeth keep the light on and turning, but without Katie, we’re being overrun, despite Travis doing his best to run interference.
“The girl has the stone, Mother,” Winifred says, pointing a long, gnarled finger at me. “Just one little girl stands between us and ruling Salem—no, the world—for all eternity.” She throws back her head and lets out a long, sinister laugh, in a way that implies she’s showing off even more than she usually does and putting on a show for good old mommy dearest.
“Don’t be stupid, Winifred,” the elder Sanderson barks. “There is no ‘us.’ There’s only room for one witch on the ruling broom.” A chilling grin spreads across her face. “Me.”
Winifred balks, blinking and pursing her enormous bloodred lips.
“You didn’t really think we’d be some sort of evil ruling family, did you dear?” Winifred’s mother asks. “That’s so...old-fashioned. Who needs a line of succession when you’re immortal?”
I turn to Elizabeth, who’s regarding the scene with shock, clearly not expecting this turn.
“But Mother,” Elizabeth butts in, “you told me to protect the stone. To keep it from being used for evil.”
Her mother rounds on her. “I did, dear,” she says. “I meant that you should keep it from being used for evil by anyone but me.” She grins wider. “And what have I told you about calling me ‘Mother’? It makes me sound positively ancient. It’s Druscilla. Druscilla the Dreadful, to those who know me best.”
A look of betrayal, hurt, and confusion crosses Elizabeth’s face. “But I—I...then...” she begins, but trails off, unable to find the words.
Druscilla wheels back to face me and extends her gloved hand. “Give me the stone, dear, and I may turn you into one of the more dignified animals for the rest of your days,” she says sweetly. “A horse, perhaps? Maybe a pig? They’re actually quite intelligent, you know.”
“Over my dead body,” I growl.
With conviction that I can only hope runs bone-deep, I stand my ground, ready to fend off the big bad witch with whatever I have left. To my credit, I only falter when the sound of boots landing heavily on the metal deck is followed by hands on my shoulders and a blade to my throat.
Winifred has landed behind me and dropped her cordless vacuum, the bone hilt of a dagger in her hand. I can almost see the cruel smile spreading across her face. “That can be arranged.” She drops the spell book onto the metal platform, near her feet, and its eye regards us warily.
I freeze, feeling Winifred’s hand steady itself against my chin as she strains for control.
“Winnie,” Elizabeth says, “please. Can you tell me, truly, that the balance of these forces is in your favor?”
“Get thee back, Sister,” Winifred spits, pronouncing the word sister like she means snake. “Thou hast foiled me for the last time!”
“Foiled you?” says Elizabeth. “My dear sister, I’ve never foiled you at all. Winnie, you foiled yourself. And Mother foiled us both.”
“You didn’t exactly make it difficult, you dim-witted ditherspoons,” Druscilla interjects.
Elizabeth presses on: “The village would have let you live had you not taken one of the children to make yourself young again. What is the value of youth, Winnie? You were meant for greater things than being young.”
“Thou wouldst try to flatter and distract,” says Winifred, shaking her head furiously.
A teen witch touches down on the balcony to our left, broom in hand. “Your Wickedness,” she says, offering a mason jar to Winifred. “I believe this belongs to you.”
“Thou believes correctly.” Winifred snatches it with her free hand. Inside, bloodred fluid sloshes from side to side, and red steam curls against the seal. The teen witch nods and takes to the sky.
Travis catches my eye, oar still held aloft and at the ready. “It’s the potion,” he mouths.
“It’s not enough to complete the spell,” Elizabeth tells her sister.
“One drop is all it takes for the spell to be complete!” retorts Winifred. “And it’s only missing one final ingredient.”
I feel the blade barely touch my bare neck, and I wince as its sharp edge bites my skin.
“You don’t have to do this, Winifred,” says Elizabeth. I realize that she really does mean this last plea to her sister, even if her family never really treated her like family. “You can use your powers for good, Winnie. You can use them to help yourself and others.”
“This world has mocked me for the last time,” says Winifred. “All my life I’ve been ratty-haired Winnie, wild-eyed Winnie, long-toothed Winnie. When I am done with this night, witches will rule Salem and all the world!”
“Quiet, girl,” says Druscilla, bored. “Stop this ridiculous power-tripping. Get the stone for me and get on with it.”
Winifred digs the knife deeper against my neck and whispers, “Drop it.”
Isabella and I lock eyes. She looks torn, as if she’s debating whether she should strike Winifred with her lightning. I shake my head once, just barely. It’s too close.
Travis rounds the curve of the balcony, oar in hand. Winifred pauses, looking up.
“Not so fast, Warty Wonder.” He steps in front of me and swings the oar in a fluid motion at Winifred.
But just before it connects with her, Druscilla sends a blue bolt of energy from the tips of her fingers, stopping the oar, then fires a bolt directly at his chest.
Travis recoils, stunned, but quickly shakes it off. He furrows his brow and redoubles his efforts, parrying her attacks and advancing on her without an ounce of trepidation.
“Winnie, Mother, please,” says Elizabeth as Travis and Druscilla draw nearer to the place where her bucket of dirt sits.
“Oh, give it a rest, you prattling skelpie-limmer,” Druscilla chides, then sends a bolt directly for the bucket.
For a moment, it teeters.
Time seems to slow as I watch Isabella’s eyes widen, her arm outstretched, reaching forward to stabilize the bucket.
A grim grin of victory flashes on Druscilla’s face, and before Travis can even think about reacting, one of Druscilla’s bolts hits him in the leg and he crumples.
Several feet away, Isabella’s too late, too far away to stop what’s already been set into motion. Elizabeth’s ghostly eyes flash with fear, and the bucket tips, the dirt within spilling onto the deck and quickly scattering on the wind. Elizabeth flickers and disappears.
“No!” Isabella shouts, dropping to her knees, trying to shovel the little bit of dirt that’s left back into the bucket.
It doesn’t do any good, though.
Elizabeth doesn’t reappear.
Isabella deflates, shocked into inaction.
“Poor girl,” Druscilla titters. “Mean something to you, did she? Who knew she’d kick the bucket—again?”
Isabella’s saved from having to reply, though.
Travis groans, then lifts the oar and strikes Druscilla swiftly in the abdomen.
Druscilla looks stunned for a moment. Then she stumbles backward, winded, and tumbles over the railing.
A faint shriek follows her down, but the deck is otherwise silent.
Travis looks back at me, expression unreadable. The air around him begins to turn that familiar shade of electric green.
My stomach drops. “No,” I breathe. “No, no, no.”
Travis shoots me a wink. “See you on the other side, Pops.” He puts on a brave face, and with a flash of green light, he’s gone.
Out of the tear emerges a tall, grizzled witch perched atop a broom. With a chilling cackle, she takes to the sky and disappears from view.
Travis!” I cry, struggling against Winifred’s grasp, but
it’s no use. She presses the blade harder, painfully into my neck.
“Don’t do anything rash, lubberwort,” Winifred taunts. “He’s gone now. And so is my rotten, ungrateful excuse for a mother!” She spits to the winds, smirks, and attempts to adopt her mother’s regal posture without much success.
I look to Isabella, who’s standing again, eyes locked on mine as she moves around the deck, inching closer.
Winifred is distracted, watching gleefully as the beings below swarm. Without Katie, Travis, and Elizabeth to run interference, the witches below have a clear path and begin to ascend the tower once more.
“Sister?” comes Sarah’s voice, moments before I see her float up to the tower’s railing to my left, perched atop her Roomba. She touches down on the deck. “Dost thou have the stone?”
Mary appears behind her, struggling to stay upright on her Swiffer. “Are we immortal yet, Winnie?” She crashes to the deck, trying and failing to play it off as a dismount.
“Silence!” Winifred bellows. She turns her attention back toward me, keeping the blade of the dagger pointed squarely at my throat. “Now. Where were we?”
Isabella is drawing nearer. My eyes flit back to hers, and immediately I can tell she’s trying to tell me something. It doesn’t take much—just a few subtle gestures and a head tilt or two and I know exactly what she’s trying to say.
I nod once, just barely, letting her know that I understand as I begin filling in her plan with a few flourishes of my own in my head.
“Hand over the stone, girl, and perhaps I’ll spare you and your friend,” says Winifred, holding out her hand. “Is it really more carnage you want tonight? More suffering?” Her vile voice is hot in my ear.
I try not to think about Travis. Or Katie. Or Mom or Dad or Aunt Dani or anyone else who’s in Hell—because of me.
Closing my eyes and forcing myself to breathe normally, I stick my hand into my pocket, my fingers trembling as they close around the only thing that can get us out of this mess without being damned for all eternity. As I pull it from my pocket, I open my eyes again, looking to Isabella for assurance.
