Beloved Evangeline (A Dark Paranormal Urban Fantasy Trilogy for Grown-ups - Book 1)

by W. C. Anderson

  When CNN resumed it was one of their fluff pieces, something about a miraculous way to be debt free by saving just $10 a month, so I found myself channel surfing. I clicked off the power as soon as I saw the Ghost Chasers marathon.

  Maybe a book instead. I picked up the last book I bought, a crime novel. After only a few pages in, I deduced it was about a female detective with complicated abandonment issues, the source of which could be traced back to her father. She was gun shy with men, so she slept around a lot, but her true love was her partner, who, to the surprise of no one, was already married to someone else. Frustrated with the direction the book was headed, I tossed it in the vicinity of the sofa.

  But it made me think of another cliché plaguing detective novels—clues. Every killer in those books leaves some kind of clues behind, clues to their identity. They want credit for what they’ve done in most cases, in others they’re just careless. It occurred to me that the Midnight Murderer was different for this reason. No clues had been left behind. He did not want to be caught. He did not want notoriety. Whatever he did want—whatever he took from the victims—that was the key to the mystery.

  I found myself with the TV on again, searching for something real, something a little less trite, but settled on a news channel instead. I perked up when I saw it was Fareed Zakaria. I was engrossed in the problems in the Middle East before a different type of story came on. The camera man panned to an elderly woman who was sitting in the desert with her back turned to the camera.

  She was perched atop a large sand dune and appeared to be busying herself with some type of project. Such an occurrence seemed out of the norm for typical news fare, but I was strangely engaged. What was this woman doing? Did she just not see or hear the army of videographers who must be standing not far behind her? The camera angle changed abruptly to a view from above, rather than behind. To my horror, all of my remaining friends lay outstretched before her, their bodies sloping bizarrely on the downturn of the dune. The woman was still busying herself with something, but from this far off I couldn’t tell what. The camera zoomed downward slowly, until the object of her labor became horrifically clear: she was pinching the flesh off of their bones and... eating it.

  She ripped apart the flesh as easily as if it were cotton candy—no pulling, no straining, no tearing. She seemed not to notice the presence of anyone else, until the cameraman pulled an extreme close up. With the camera zoomed in on her, she turned to face it. She wasn’t a woman at all. Black eyes gazed up from an exaggerated, forehead. The creature opened its mouth, revealing a mouth full of jagged, razor-sharp teeth.

  I awoke to the sound of a loud piercing noise, my hand clutched to my chest.

  Damn it. My dreams were coming more rapidly and with greater intensity than they had in years. This particular dream had haunted me for the majority of my youth, only, instead of a desert in the Middle East, my friends at the time had been in the old 19th Century Cemetery where we had played so often.

  The cemetery. I fell off the couch with a thud before scrambling off to my room to retrieve the chest. To my great delight, I found the carvings were exactly as I had expected. I had associated the carvings with something evil because I had seen those carving so many times in my dark dreams. Those same carvings were on several of the crypts in that old cemetery. I jumped into my closet and began getting dressed.

  Nicky, Jonathan, and I spent a tremendous amount of time exploring that cemetery. One or two nights, Nicky and I actually spent the night there, not seeing a thing. Of course, I spent many more nights there alone.

  23.

  Finally within my reach were the answers I’d so desperately sought. Of course, the price for that knowledge was that I had to venture to an ancient graveyard at midnight. The horrifying truth that something unnatural not only existed, but had recently tried to do me harm, was still fresh in my mind. This time, there would be no one else around to help if I got into trouble—I had made sure of that.

  Unperturbed by this, I scrambled through the darkened graveyard, easily finding the carvings on the crypt of Lidora Rathburn. I examined the chest closely, holding it up to the moonlight for examination. The carvings on both the side of the mausoleum and the chest seemed to match together perfectly—not just carvings, a key. I held the chest up to the side of the crypt, fitting the pieces together, until I heard a small click. A compartment had opened on the inside of the lid, and a large silver cross fell from it. Engraved on the back of the cross was the name Wadsworth. I immediately set out to find his grave.

  I found the Wadsworth mausoleum easily. I was looking around for something to do with it when someone cleared his throat behind me.

  “Ahem,” he said again.

  I turned to see a very pale man dressed in a maroon velvet cape and dark trousers.

  “Good evening, miss. I am Edgar Vicente Wadsworth, son of Josiah Edgardo Wadsorth, IV, direct descendants of the houses of nobles in Britain. Am I to understand that you are the young lady to whom my family cross has been bestowed?”

  “This is yours?” I asked, handing over the cross.

  “Splendid,” said he, “Then I am instructed to give you that which you desire, but I daresay you should refrain from using it in my presence,” he dusted off his cape pompously with a white silken handkerchief. “God save and keep you from yourself and these evil endeavors,” he continued, one eyebrow raised as he directed me toward a crystal vile containing a glowing blue liquid in the corner of his crypt.

  “You are hereby forewarned: no one, be it nobleman or commoner, has consumed this liquid and kept his breath moving through him for more than a few moments. All have perished, swiftly and painfully—as will you.” He expounded with absolutely no emotion. “Now what you need to do is change into some proper clothes, young lady. You remind me of the time I was in lower Charleston, when the carriage broke down and I was forced to walk a quarter mile in the company of vagabonds…” the story continued, but my attention had already begun to drift away as I held up the glowing blue vile in my hand.

  The liquid inside was a glowing, fluorescent blue. Drinking this would surely be the most insanely ludicrous thing I had ever done. Surely nothing fluorescent can be good for you. But the compulsion in my heart was leading me onward, and there was really no decision left to make. And what’s the worst that could happen? My life is already in ruins, and maybe, even if I didn’t come back… No, I mustn’t even think about that.

  Maybe I should at least ask what the clearly undead Mr. Wadsworth was doing with this potion before I just go ahead and drink it? Funny how, come to think of it, my lifelong search for the supernatural was clearly over. I’m standing in a crypt next what can only be a ghost, and the thought never even occurred to me to take so much as a picture. My recent experiences seem to have at least cured me of that. I suppose I had always imagined that, if spirits or ghosts did exist, they would be benevolent entities, lost souls who only wanted justice or lingered to watch over or protect the still living. Not dangerous, as I experienced at the house, or snobbish, as was the case here. Not even the undead can always live up to the hype.

  Mr. Wadsworth, who was clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice, continued to prattle on, “I say, do care to hear the story of how I died or not?” His voice had gone quite nasally with annoyance.

  “I cannot wait to hear that story, but first, could you tell me how you came to have this?” I asked, holding up the vile.

  “It’s not nearly as interesting a tale, but yes, I shall acquiesce at the behest of a Celtic lady, whatever her lowly station may be. A man brought the vile to me some years ago. He said I was to give it to none save whoever brought me my family’s long lost cross. My great-grandfather gave his life taming your wild frontiers, and that cross was the one trophy he claimed for his own.”

  He was clearly prepared to continue so I interrupted, “The man, did you know his name?”

  “The name escapes me, though I believe it was a German surname.”

&n
bsp; “Von Olnheisen?”

  “Yes, yes, that could’ve been it,” he replied dismissively. “Now, on to the titillating tale of my earthly demise,” said he, clapping his hands and gleefully rubbing them together. “I had been following this rascal, this weaselly young fellow who had for some time been stalking me. I could not sit back and allow myself to become the target of whatever nefarious scheme he was so obviously plotting, so I decided to turn the tables on him! I followed the villain to several seedy little drinking establishments and houses of ill repute. He seemed to be collecting monies from his fellow ne’er-do-wells…”

  It’s no wonder someone did him in, I thought severely. I slipped behind the side of the crypt to escape the tedium.

  Once alone again, without no forethought, I turned my head, lifting the vile to my lips discreetly to avoid being seen, when suddenly—it slipped through my fingers. I dropped the vile momentarily, fumbling and grappling with it in an effort to keep it from shattering. Fortunately I succeeded before it could hit the ground, but unfortunately, not before a portion of the poison had been spilt. Mr. Wadsworth was still talking, this time about the excess population of beggars he believed should be neatly disposed of, when I picked up the vile quickly and downed its remaining contents before anyone discovered that the vile was now less than full.

  Mr. Wadsworth continued his nonsensical ravings without even noticing I had gone. At first I didn’t feel markedly different and foolishly hoped that the previous quantity had prepared me sufficiently.

  At this I was in error. My stomach began to churn unnaturally. I sat down. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I stood back up. I sat down again, then stood back up. No matter how many times I changed positions, I could achieve no relief. My stomach was definitely uncomfortable, unsettled. I took several deep breaths—no help. I switched to shallow breaths—no help. I held my breath, and then released it slowly.

  Was I going to be sick? I decided to sit back down, but it was too late. A strange sensation began in my stomach, seizing me, bringing me to my knees. Instead of sitting, I sort of flopped over and lay prone on the grass unsteadily. The pain started slowly, a pinpoint, gradually radiating through me. My chest, the pain in my chest was unbearable—I choked for breath. I writhed, desperately trying to change positions to relieve the pain, but what was happening now could not be undone. I felt my chest gradually—painfully—expanding, like a balloon being filled with too much air. I examined it to see if I would soon explode, but there was no perceptible change. I had just time enough to conjure the words heart attack before the unimaginable pain spread to my back, and all conscious thought ceased.

  I gasped and struggled for breath, willing my lungs to expand and contract. They did not obey.

  Mr. Wadsworth face leaned into my view, and he watched me writhe in agony for a few moments. “I say, what are you doing down there on the ground? You’re sullying with dirt your already squalid clothing.”

  He seemed to be speaking to me from very far away, “Suit yourself, I suppose. Always had a very delicate back myself, could never quite understand anyone wanting to lie about in the grime...”

  Either his voice slowly trailed off or I had completely lost the ability to focus. He was obviously not concerned enough for my well being to offer help and, therefore, completely useless. For a moment I thought I heard him continue talking indifferently about my ill-mannered behavior, until I sort of drifted off again, and I heard him no longer.

  A strange sensation of being pulled came over me, pulling me down, down, down. A rustling sound filled my ears. I felt as though feather-light silken sheets were rushing against me in all directions. I’m assaulted by strange, surreal thoughts, like I am one of the melting clocks in a Salvador Dali painting. Alternately, thoughts of disbelief assail me, nagging that none of this is real.

  Flashes of the past came in waves. Jack’s smile. My mother’s voice. Nicky’s kind eyes. Gavin and Simon’s laughter.

  Abruptly, sound and movement ceased, and silence settled around me.

  My eyelids fluttered groggily, but only a blazing red light fills my sight. Several attempts are required before I can open them successfully, as the red light burns. When I can finally see, I find no discernable source of light—only the world bizarrely colored. I close my eyes tightly, temporarily afraid of seeing any more.

  When I finally open them again—slowly—the world is ablaze. Rubbing my eyes in confusion, I realized I could no longer feel pain. With a sinking heart, I knew that, were I still alive, I’d feel pain, nausea, fatigue. I felt none of those. I felt nothing.

  Despite this revelation, I could locate no trepidation. Instead, I got up slowly, logically, and beheld the heavenly firmament. The sky above me was on fire. There is no other way to describe it. Instead of a brilliant blue or inky midnight, it was fiery red and swirling with constant motion.

  The color was so intense that the flaming sky mirrored itself onto the earth, the true color of the ground an intriguing mystery. Aside from a few scattered dead trees, I saw nothing else. The ground was dry and cracked. A perfect soothing warmth embraced me. Despite the bizarre color and surroundings, I felt at peace.

  Something in the sky seemed to change, like a shadow moving over me, eclipsing my own. A black, ghostly shape was hovering high in the sky overhead. As I watched, another appeared. Then another. On and on this continued until there were dozens of them. Though I was strangely reminded of sharks, specifically sharks circling in preparation for a feeding frenzy, I continued to maintain a calm stillness, a sense of ease that prevented me from being overly concerned. This was the best feeling I had ever felt. No pain. No fear. No anxiety or sadness. It was almost impossible to believe I had ever been burdened by those feelings.

  For reasons seemingly unrelated to the strange apparitions, I felt something pulling me, and it suddenly seemed like a good idea to start walking. I walked on and on, endlessly. Time simply had no meaning. I had no idea how long I’d been walking across the barren landscape before I saw another person in the distance, walking toward me. The figure appeared to be shrouded in a blood-red hooded cloak.

  As the figure grew closer, I became aware that its movements were not normal. While I moved in much the same way here as I always had, the figure seemed to move in jagged bursts. It might walk forward for four or five paces and then suddenly appear 15 feet from where it had just been. I also began to notice a strange sound radiating with its movements—a deeply macabre baritone, so deep that it vibrated within my chest. My pace began to slow until, without realizing, I had stopped altogether, hands pressed against my ears in wasted effort. Simultaneously, the figure suddenly appeared a few yards from me. With a painful slowness, it removed its hood.

  A raven-haired, exotic-looking woman stared back at me. She motioned for me to follow her, but my feet were rooted in place. The murmur of voices off in the distance made me increasingly unhappy. I longed to go to them. But the terrible sound from the woman soon drowned out all others. My chest ached from the constant pressure.

  The two of us stood in a deadlock while the black ghosts silently cast their shadows upon us.

  And then she smiled.

  Just a smile one moment, but the next—the face attached to it flickered and changed. Gone were the warm eyes and soft features. In their place was what can only be described as demonic. Black eyes and black teeth contorted in an evil grin. But as quickly as the demon appeared, it was gone again, leaving the beautiful woman alone beckoning me to follow her once more.

  My obedience owed to the feeling that I simply had no other choice. The horrible blare was quickly driving me into madness. Terrible thoughts filled my head. I suddenly felt trapped in a dream, my thoughts again drifting to the Dali-esque, as I was reminded of the equal parts mesmerizing and disturbing dream sequence from Alfred Hitchcock’s Spellbound. Was I the angry proprietor or the wheel being tossed from the rooftop?

  Only baked earth greeted us in all directions. Then gradually, in the distance, a da
rk form began to take shape. Several agonizing heartbeats later I recognized the shape as an enormous dead tree.

  All the while, the black apparitions followed.

  When we were fully in sight of the tree, I felt the faintest stirrings of unease as my senses seemed to try to reawaken. But what to do? There would be no phone to call for help. No assistance would be forthcoming here. I was completely and utterly on my own—I may no longer even be alive. As my senses returned, I also noticed a drastic change in temperature. It was quickly dropping. The sky was no longer red but a bluish gray. The red sky seemed to be retreating into the distance, and oh, how I longed for it.