The Hag

by Erik Henry Vick

  Scott understood the sentiment. “Waiting’s the hardest part, Benny. I was trying to tell you that earlier.”

  Benny nodded absently and looked out the window.

  11

  LaBouche kicked the Bertrand woman’s door hard enough to pop it off its hinges and send it walking across the small kitchen where it slammed into the oven before it fell. He entered the tiny apartment with a grimace on his face and his hands tucked into fists. “Hey, dumbass! Where are you?”

  The rustling of fabric on fabric and a muted whisper came from the closed door on the other side of the small family area. LaBouche crossed the family room in three giant strides and kicked that door off its hinges, too.

  He glimpsed silvery skin and black mist streaking into the bathroom before the door slammed shut. Welsh lay on the bed, sound asleep and snoring.

  LaBouche grabbed him by one mother-of-pearl scaled ankle and pulled. Welsh squawked as his butt hit the floor, then he thrashed as the rest of him came off the bed.

  “What… Who…” he muttered. His eyes came to rest on LaBouche’s face and cleared. “How dare you!” He jerked his foot back, but LaBouche’s grip was too firm.

  “How dare I?” LaBouche punctuated the question with a savage jerk of Welsh’s ankle. “How dare I? I’ll tell you how I dare: I’m busy doing Brigitta’s will, and you are here with a silver-skinned whore acting like a couple of…of kids!” He flung Chaz’s ankle to the side and drew his leg back to deliver a kick.

  The bathroom door slammed open, impaling its knob in the wall, and Nicole Conrau stepped out, wrapped in a towel. She glared at LaBouche, then shifted her gaze to Chaz. “Are you going to let him insult me this way?”

  Chaz growled deep in his throat and sprang to his feet, his all-red eyes glaring at LaBouche. “Get out of here while I’m still of a mind to let you,” he grated.

  LaBouche smiled, but his expression was ugly. “How I’ve waited for you to threaten me since Brigitta gave me my true form back. Oh, I’ve watched you, Chaz. I’ve seen you strutting around as if you’re a Bantam cock, and I’ve waited for a reason to deal with you.”

  Chaz grinned, showing his fangs. “And now you’ve got it. So, what will you do, LaBouche? Run back to Brigitta?”

  “I think I’ll‍—‍” In mid-sentence, LaBouche sprang, baring his own shark-like teeth and throwing his arms wide. He slammed into Welsh and wrapped his arms around the demon’s torso. With a savage twisting lift, he swept Chaz off his feet once again and drove him through the bedroom wall to the floor in the living room. Furniture splintered beneath them as the two rolled and fought.

  Nicole Conrau came to stand in the bedroom door, observing the fight with a small smile on her face.

  12

  As the clock ticked away toward midnight, Toby piloted the rented Cadillac down the freeway at eighty miles an hour. Scott sat next to him, staring out the side window, and Shannon and Benny sat in the back seat murmuring to one another. As Toby flicked his turn signal on and cut across the lanes for the off-ramp that would take them to Strong Memorial Hospital, Benny bolted up straight.

  “No!” he said.

  Toby looked at him in the rearview mirror. “No? What’s up, Benny?”

  “Don’t get off here,” said Benny, as he stared out the windshield. “We can’t go to the hospital yet.”

  “No?” repeated Toby.

  “No,” said Benny firmly.

  “Okay, then where?” asked Scott.

  “Airport.”

  Toby shook his head. “Why, Benny? There’s nothing there but parking lots, a few cops, and a lot of security.”

  Benny shook his head. “We need to go to the airport.” He snuck a peek at Shannon. “Now.”

  Toby watched his face for a few moments—something which made Benny nervous since they were still barreling down the highway at eighty miles an hour—then he grinned and bobbed his head. “Okay, Benny. To the airport, we go.”

  “Good,” said Benny.

  “Can you give us a hint?” asked Scott.

  Benny shook his head and slumped against the back seat as if the conversation exhausted him. Shannon lay her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Toby glanced at Scott and shrugged.

  13

  Mike awoke in a hospital bed, and for a moment, had no memory of what had happened. His back ached like never before, and he was as sore as the time he’d flipped his car in a drunken stupor. His mouth tasted foul—as if a combination of asphalt, chalk dust, and bat guano coated the inside of his mouth. An IV dripped a clear liquid into his arm, and he tried to reach for it with his other hand, but the handcuff stopped him.

  Outside his room, the hospital whispered the muted tones of hospital night shifts everywhere—not quiet, but not as loud as during daylight hours. Mike figured there was a police officer stationed outside of his door.

  “Hey!” he called. There was no answer, so Mike felt around in the bed until he found the button that would call the nurse. He pressed the button and waited.

  And waited.

  Then, he waited some more.

  When the nurse finally arrived, anger thrummed in the back of his mind. “What do you need?” she asked.

  “Water would be nice.”

  She looked at him for a moment, then pointed with her pen at a water pitcher on the bed table.

  Mike pressed his lips together to keep from shouting at her, and rattled the handcuffs against the bed rails, instead.

  Her eyes widened, but then she nodded. “Let me get you a cup.” She poured water from the Styrofoam pitcher into a large plastic cup with a built-in straw. She held it for him, and Mike took a long drink.

  “What time is it?” he asked her when he finished drinking.

  “It’s a little after midnight.”

  “Why am I handcuffed?” He rattled the handcuffs against the bed rail again.

  The nurse shrugged, glancing over her shoulder. “Your chart says a detective wants to ask you a couple of questions. Something about your accident.”

  Mike grimaced and rattled the handcuff chain again. “And is the detective waiting somewhere?”

  The nurse shook her head. “No, we are to call when you awaken.”

  Mike looked up at her. “Well, I’m awake. I don’t much care for being in handcuffs so go call whoever you have to call and get these damn things off of me.”

  The nurse deployed her professional smile—the one that said Mike was being an asshole—and turned and left him alone once more.

  He knew what the detectives would ask him—questions about his identity, about Toby, about what had happened in Oneka Falls—and he didn’t want to answer them. He pulled against the handcuffs again, testing the limits of the chains.

  Even if his pocket held his key, there was no way he could reach the locks.

  Chapter 7

  1986

  1

  Stephen groaned and cracked his eyes open. The demon—or whatever it was—had left. The place was a wreck, splinters of wood and shelving, the pantry door, slivers of glass—and blood…blood everywhere.

  Stephen pushed himself up and groaned a second time as the world began to spin. His head ached as if someone had put it in an industrial vise and squeezed. He put his hand on the back of his head to explore the damage and felt the massive lump, as well as a long, bleeding gash just below the crown of his head.

  “Gary?” he called, hoping the man was only unconscious but knowing deep down a person couldn’t lose that much blood and survive. “Mary? Mom?”

  No one answered him. He crawled to the base of the breakfast bar and pulled himself to his feet. The world spun harder, and for a moment, he didn’t know whether he was going to puke or pass out.

  He puked.

  Trying to pull himself together, Stephen walked to the shattered window above the sink and looked out into the darkness. Gary Dennis’s head lay in the middle of the concrete path outside the window. “Oh, Gary. I’m sorry.”

&
nbsp; He turned, and using the counter for support, he walked around the edges of the kitchen and made his way into the living room. He grabbed one of the throw blankets from the floor, and after shifting the upended sofa off him, covered Gary’s body.

  The living room looked as if the wildest riot in history had taken place in it. Gary died trying to give them a chance to get away, just as Stephen tried to sacrifice himself so that Mary had a chance at escaping. “I hope you did, Mare.”

  He threaded his way through the destruction and stopped at the opening of the hall that led to the porch. In his mind’s eye, his mother’s figure—her body—blazed, lying in a pool of blood, the skin ripped from her torso.

  He didn’t want to endure the sight again.

  He turned and went out the kitchen door. Dawn threatened to break across the lake, and he turned toward the gravel road at the back of the house. Please don’t be there, he begged. Please let that rental car be gone, and Mary with it.

  He hesitated at the back corner of the house, scared to round the corner and see for himself if Mary had gotten away. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut until tears leaked out. Steeling himself, he walked around the corner and gasped.

  The rental car sat where he’d left it, and Mary’s body lay splayed on the hood, naked and bloody.

  Mary hadn’t gotten away. Gary’s sacrifice… It had all been for nothing.

  Stephen’s scream echoed through the early morning air, disturbing the dawn song of the birds living around the lake. His knees gave out, and he pitched forward into the gravel, not even attempting to break his fall.

  He couldn’t think, couldn’t process his loss beyond the raw burning horror of it, the pain. He lay there, face down in the gravel, and when he heard footsteps approaching, he didn’t care, he didn’t move. Stephen hoped it was the demon, coming back to finish him off.

  But, of course, it wasn’t.

  2

  Joe led Greg out of the woods as dawn cracked the night sky. Songbirds did their thing to greet the day. He looked around to regain his sense of direction. They’d come out on Thomas Hill Road, the gravel lane that connected them to Lake Circle, but down around the bend about a half a mile from the house. He’d never felt so exhausted, so run down, not even in boot camp. Not even in Korea during the war.

  A ragged scream rent the predawn stillness. Joe’s head snapped in the direction from which it had come, and his hand tightened around the foregrip of the M1. He didn’t feel safe out in the open, standing in the middle of the road, but when he cast his gaze back at the forest behind him, he saw no other choice.

  He faced his grandson and squatted before him, putting his eyes on the same level as Greg’s. “I don’t know what’s happening up the road, but that scream… Well, it can’t be good. I don’t want to take you into the middle of whatever is happening, but I can’t leave you here alone, can I?”

  Greg shook his head in vigorous denial. “No! Stay with me, Grandpa! She can’t get you if you’re with me.”

  “Now, don’t start all that again.” His voice was gruff, but he pulled the boy in for a hug. “I won’t leave you.” But even as he said the words, his gaze drifted toward the curve and the road. Something about the scream bothered him, but Joe couldn’t put his finger on what. Greg trembled against him, his thin arms looped around Joe’s neck. “There, there.”

  “She did this, Grandpa,” said Greg in funereal tones. “My invisible friend said she would, and she did! Something’s…”

  “Shh, now, Greggy. We don’t know anything.”

  Greg nodded against his shoulder. “Someone’s coming, Grandpa.” His tone was so relaxed, so lackadaisical, that Joe almost ignored the meaning of his words.

  Joe disengaged Greg’s arms and stood, guiding Greg’s hand back to his belt. “If we have to run, you let go, and you run as fast as you can. Mind me now, Greg.”

  The sound of footsteps came from the direction of Lake Circle, and Joe turned in that direction. He checked the M1, ensuring it was ready to go, and shouldered his weapon, but let it drop to his side almost at once.

  Coming up the road toward them were six cops—each one armed to the teeth—led by Tom Walton and Mason Harper. “Ho there, Joe!” called the chief. “Man, I’m glad to see you. And is that Greg I see?”

  Mason stepped away from the cops, his gaze burning into Greg’s eyes. A small, cruel smile flirted with his lips. “Hi, Greggy,” he said.

  Greg stepped closer to his grandfather, his gaze on the gravel beneath his feet.

  Joe wagged his head up and down once. “Ayup. He led me on a merry chase, but here we are. Tom, there’s a woman‍—‍”

  Tom held up his hand like a traffic cop ordering someone to stop. “We’ll call in Leland Chambers and get to the bottom of whatever is going on in these woods. Don’t you worry, Joe.”

  Joe nodded, but his worry didn’t abate. “Did you hear it? From down around the bend?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “A scream.” He hooked a thumb of his free hand over his shoulder. “I can’t go check it out.” He jerked his head toward Greg. “He doesn’t want me to leave him.”

  “I’ll stay with him, Mr. Canton,” said Mason in a piping voice.

  Joe looked down at the boy, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, but said nothing. Greg stepped behind him, and his hand fluttered against the small of his grandfather’s back.

  Tom turned toward one of his men. “Martin, you go. Double-time it!”

  The officer sprinted down the road, his feet crunching in the gravel. It didn’t delight Greg as much as the noise his grandfather’s GTO made as it rolled through the gravel, but he liked the sound—even after a night of terror. The rest of the policemen gathered around them, the older ones nodding to Joe.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Tom,” said Joe. “I fired this tonight.” He glanced at Greg, then met Tom’s steady gaze. “I fired at someone. A woman dressed in black.”

  “Okay,” said Tom with a solemn nod. “Did you hit her?”

  Joe cut his gaze away. “It seems I did, but it didn’t slow her down any. Things…” Joe waved his free hand at the woods. “Things got confused, weird… I’m not sure…”

  “Ayup,” said the chief with a terse nod. “We ran into a bit of that ourselves—a low hanging mist, disappearing tracks, something that…taunted us.” Tom shrugged. “I’m not sure I can explain any of it, Joe.”

  Joe nodded once, his expression cheerless and despondent. “Do you suppose…” He twisted to glance at Greg’s face, then shook his head.

  “We can discuss it later,” said Tom. He turned his attention to Greg. “And you, Greg? Are you okay?”

  Greg peeked out and imitated his grandfather’s terse nod, but avoided meeting anyone’s eye.

  “It’s okay, son,” said Tom. “You’ve had quite a night, too, I’ll bet.”

  “Should we get on up to the house?” said Joe in a worried tone. “Stephen is there, but Mary and‍—‍”

  “Elizabet called the station to say Stephen went into the woods after you two.”

  The thing that had been bothering Joe solidified in his mind. He took two steps up the road, almost without thinking about them, then stopped and took Greg’s hand. “Will you stay here with Chief Walton?”

  “He can stay with me,” said Mason, still grinning like a cat watching a mouse.

  Greg turned a horrified expression on his grandfather and took a step closer to him. “No, Grandpa!”

  Joe fought for calm, but that scream… He directed his gaze at Tom and lifted his free hand then let it drop.

  “Martin will be back. That or he’ll radio to let us know it’s safe. Give him a minute.”

  Joe stared toward the bend in the road, the muscles across his back tensing. He rested his hand on Greg’s shoulder and gave him a little squeeze. “Hear that, Greg? Not much longer to wait.”

  3

  Pete Martin sprinted up the gravel lane, rounding the bend at speed, compensating for
the slipping gravel beneath his feet. He held his AR-15 with both hands, ready to snap it into firing position should the need arise.

  The string of Genosgwa police cars stood where they’d left them, parked on the right shoulder of the gravel lane, facing toward the Canton lake house. A man lay in the center of the road, on his face and not moving.

  Pete slowed, then stopped. He tightened his grip on the AR-15. “Sir?” he called. “Sir, are you injured?”

  The man lying in the road didn’t move, but he moaned, and Pete took a few cautious steps toward him. That’s when he saw the nude woman laid out as if on display on the hood of a nondescript rental car. She was bloody, long furrows ripped along her sides, chunks of flesh missing from her trapezius muscles, one leg cocked to the side at a savage angle, as if her hip had been dislocated.

  Pete took a few more steps. “Ma’am? Are you all right?” He clenched his jaw in disgust. Of course she’s not all right, you jackass! That much is obvious. He turned his attention toward the man lying face down in the gravel. He stepped toward him and squatted to his side. He lay a hand on the man’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Sir? Are you injured?”

  A wail escaped the man, but still, he didn’t lift his head or roll to his side.

  “Sir, I need you to tell me if you’re injured. Did you hurt that woman?”

  The man flung himself onto his back, his eyes burning, gaze boring into Pete’s face such that Pete rocked back and fell on his rear. “You leave her alone!” the man grated. His hands scrabbled into fists, scooping up gravel in the process. “You stay away from her!”

  Pete’s eyelids fluttered several times, his knuckles going white on the AR-15. “I’m a police officer, sir!” The man had been in a life or death struggle, that was plain—he was bloody, his clothes hung in tatters, and his eyes…his eyes were glazed and faraway, or perhaps a concussion swaddled his awareness.

  Pete had never seen Joe Canton’s son, at least not that he remembered, but he would bet his salary the woman on the hood of the rental car was Mary Canton. “Stephen Canton?”