The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2)

by Michael Penning

  The clock in Abigail’s head ticked ever louder, faster. Josiah’s tale of an eternal war between light and dark twins brought to mind the tragic story of the Legendre brothers. Was there some sort of link? Could the monsters of Native legend have driven Sebastian Legendre to murder his elder brother before taking his own life decades ago? It seemed impossible; if such mythical beings were real, they would be like nothing any witch had ever encountered in over five centuries of recorded lore. And even if they did exist, how did any of this relate to the current streak of suicides?

  And then it came to her.

  The realization struck her with the force of a cannonball. There was one way of discovering what had motivated the victims to take their own lives. It was dangerous—perhaps even reckless—but if she was successful, it could yield all of the answers she needed.

  Abigail leaned forward, her whiskey now forgotten in her hand. “These lands where Tawiskaron’s monsters dwelt. Do they encompass the lake where you and Mr. Colvin discovered Jed Hawes’ body?”

  Josiah nodded.

  “Does this lake have a name?”

  “Lake Tear of the Clouds.” Raising his tumbler to his lips, Josiah finally drained it off in one gulp before leveling his black, impenetrable eyes on Abigail. “Medicine Lady, I have answered many questions. Now please, tell me how I can help stop the dying.”

  “You have already helped me, River Stone.” Abigail’s eyes gleamed in the firelight as she finished the last of her own whiskey. “You have told me all I needed to know.”

  Chapter 21

  The campfire spit and crackled in the gray morning quietude outside Glenn Colvin’s cabin. The rain had ended shortly before dawn, leaving behind a sky as ashen as the smoke spiraling from the campfire flames.

  “Evil ghosts?” Colvin leveled a skeptical eye on Abigail. He sat on an upturned log, the heel of his big boot propped on one of the stones encircling the firepit. Abigail occupied another log to his right. Timber gazed mistrustfully at her from where he lay curled by Colvin’s side. Duncan was there as well. Across the fire, Josiah stood with the butt of his rifle planted between his moccasins and his fingers interlaced around its long barrel.

  Abigail nodded. “Ghosts, ghouls, lycanthropes, nosferatu—every creature from every corner of your imagination.”

  “And you kill them?”

  Abigail returned Colvin’s unflinching gaze. “All of them.”

  Colvin gave her another long and cagey look before pivoting to Duncan. “You truly believe this? You honestly think she can actually stop the suicides?”

  “I’ve seen her defeat the most unimaginable horrors with my own eyes,” Duncan replied. “She wouldn’t have come all the way out here if she wasn’t what she claims to be.”

  Colvin looked across the fire to Josiah and said something in the Native’s own hard and clipped language. The strange speech came to the lumberjack naturally, with no hint of an accent. There was a brief exchange between the two men, Josiah’s expression remaining somber throughout.

  “You’re certain?” Colvin finally asked in English.

  Josiah nodded once.

  “Why didn’t you mention any of this before?”

  “It was not important then,” Josiah replied bluntly.

  “But now it is?”

  Josiah shrugged. “Who can say?”

  Colvin frowned and scratched at his beard. Fishing a boiled egg from his shirt pocket, he cracked it and began peeling. Timber nosed at the shell fragments where they fell on the ground. “How do we know this isn’t just another tall tale told by the Mohawk?” Colvin challenged.

  “That is precisely why I must speak to Jed Hawes,” Abigail replied.

  “But Jed Hawes is dead!”

  A knot of wood exploded in the fire and sent a shower of glowing embers across the ground at Colvin’s feet. Timber sprang up as Colvin crushed the brands into the dirt with his boot and popped the egg into his mouth. “If I understand correctly, you expect us to escort you to North Camp so that you might have a conversation with a dead man?” Colvin made no effort to hide his incredulity as he gazed at Abigail and chewed.

  “That is precisely what I am suggesting. Here are the facts as we know them, Mr. Colvin: Jed Hawes was the first man to commit suicide. He did so in a most hideous manner in the vicinity of Lake Tear of the Clouds—which, as it happens, is believed to be favored by Tawiskaron, the Dark Twin Spirit of Indian lore. Fifty years ago—on the shore of this same lake—a young missionary bludgeoned his elder brother to death before taking his own life. ‘Tis not unreasonable to surmise that there may be some link between Tawiskaron’s creatures and our most recent tragedies. However, there is only one means of being certain. We must visit Jed Hawes’ grave and summon his spirit.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Colvin scoffed.

  “On the contrary,” Abigail returned. “If you want to know why your people have been killing themselves, we need only ask one of the victims ourselves. For that, we will need a body... and Hawes’ is the only one to which we still have access.”

  Colvin shook his head. “This is your strategy?”

  “’Tis the only one we have.”

  “That’s not very encouraging.”

  “Neither is the prospect of another suicide.”

  At this, Colvin went quiet. His expression was hard and pensive as he stared into the fire and smoothed his dark beard absently. “Suppose you’re right,” he said at last. “Suppose these creatures are somehow driving my people to take their own lives. How exactly do you expect to stop them?”

  “I am not entirely certain,” Abigail replied. “But given recent events, I would say our present situation requires, shall we say, a much more aggressive intervention than has yet been attempted.”

  “You understand what you’re asking will require an overnight journey through some of the toughest wilderness you’ll ever encounter?”

  “Mr. Emmons has apprised me of the difficulties involved. Nevertheless, I see no other alternative.”

  Duncan leaned forward. “Glenn, if we leave this afternoon, we could reach North Camp by tomorrow evening.”

  “You will not be accompanying us,” Abigail stated flatly.

  Duncan froze and stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are to remain here.”

  “Absolutely not. Abby, if—”

  “Do not pretend to have a say in this matter, Duncan. You almost had me leave Hannah Gill to die because you refuse to let me have anything to do with witchcraft.”

  “Abby, I didn’t—”

  “We’ll bring Keenan and O’Brennan,” Colvin declared with a cool finality that indicated the debate was over. “Emmons, you’ll remain here.”

  Duncan swiveled and gaped at Colvin in disbelief.

  “I’m afraid I must object to being accompanied by anyone other than yourself and Mr. Benedict,” Abigail interjected before Duncan could protest.

  “And why is that?” Colvin inquired.

  “The conjuring ritual is not without its risks. In fact, it can be quite deadly. In my experience, men without the proper mettle to withstand such an ordeal tend to get themselves killed.”

  Colvin smiled easily. “Well, in my experience, the people of this town can be a zealous lot—and they’re already suspicious of you. We’ll need trustworthy witnesses to assure them that our journey to North Camp consisted of nothing more than, let us say, interviews with the men who live up there.”

  “You mean to say you need witnesses who are willing to lie,” Duncan remarked.

  A twinkle came to Colvin’s dark eyes. “Precisely, as Ms. Jacobs is so fond of saying.”

  Abigail remained silent for a moment as she considered her options. “Very well,” she finally agreed. “You’ll apprise your men of the risks?”

  “I will.” Colvin returned his attention to Duncan, whose expression resembled that of a boy who hadn’t been invited to play in a game of jackstraws. “There’s a good reason w
hy I want you to remain here, Emmons. Five of our people have now died by their own hands and the village is wild with rumors. No one has seen Heath MacIntyre since yesterday, and despite Father Carnes’ best efforts, there are a fair number who remain fearful that a woman suspected of witchcraft now resides among them. I need someone with a level head to be the voice of reason while I’m gone. You’re the only man for it.”

  “Glenn, I—”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Emmons,” Colvin smirked. “If your old friend Ms. Jacobs is half as formidable as you say she is, I’ve no doubt I’ll be kept safe.”

  Duncan seemed about to protest again but something in Colvin’s steady gaze told him there would be no use; the decision had already been made.

  “When will we depart?” Abigail asked with some impatience.

  Gathering the fragments of his eggshell, Colvin stood from the log and stretched his back. Timber sprang immediately to all fours. “As soon as I can round up the men and you can change from that gown into something more fit for our journey. I’d encourage you to pack light, Ms. Jacobs. You’re in for a helluva hike.”

  Chapter 22

  They made their camp that night on the bank of the wandering river. For three hundred miles downstream, the steady current would wind and curl its way south through the Champlain Valley, growing steadily in size and might as it flowed south through the Catskill Mountains until it finally split against the ramparts of New York City and found release in the Atlantic. But up here in the Adirondack—just miles from its headwater somewhere to the north—the rush of what would become the mighty Hudson was now gentle and serene.

  Abigail reclined on the blanket she had spread next to the fire and listened to the whispering babble of the water tumbling down the mountainside. It was twilight and a forbidding duskiness was gathering among the trees. The cool evening air was damp and thick with the pungent scent of autumn rot. Abigail pulled her heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders and found herself thankful for the wool breeches and layers of mackinaw shirts that Colvin had brought her before their departure. The clothes were intended for a man of small stature and they were only slightly too large for her. It had taken some time for her to get accustomed to the unfamiliar cut, but she had quickly come to embrace the practicality of men’s clothing.

  As Colvin had promised, the hike had been long and arduous. The trail they followed was little more than a narrow herd path hugging the river as it climbed relentlessly toward North Camp. Timber led the way, trotting easily up the trail. Nose down and ears perked, the dog stopped at regular intervals to allow his two-legged followers to catch up. Josiah followed close behind, keeping a brisk pace as he moved effortlessly through the woods. The two lumberjacks, Keenan and O’Brennan, had gone next. Less than an hour into their trek, Abigail had understood why Colvin had recruited them. Both were young, unmarried, and carried conversations easily despite the fact that they seemed quiet by nature. They were Irishmen who had come to America together from Derry by way of Boston. The two friends couldn’t have appeared less similar. Keenan was stocky, round-faced, and fair-haired with a sprinkling of freckles. O’Brennan was taller with chestnut curls, heavy brows, and deep brown eyes. Both men lugged their heavy packs easily and were surefooted while navigating the trail.

  Abigail and Colvin had come last, traveling single-file with Colvin bringing up the rear. They said little as they went, Abigail finding it necessary to focus on the gnarled roots and muddy holes that constantly threatened to snare her ankles. The trail was steep and slippery from the constant rains. Water ran freely over the exposed bedrock, submerging her leather boots to her ankles as if she were wading up a stream. There were times when she regretted the weight of the large canvas pack slung around her shoulders, but its contents were vital for what she intended once they reached their destination.

  It was early evening when Colvin finally called the group to a halt. Dinner consisted of salted deer meat and potatoes boiled over the campfire. Abigail ate heartily and without complaint. After rinsing their pans in the river, O’Brennan produced a tin whistle and Keenan lent the lilting charm of his voice to a few caoineadh laments for their Irish homeland. The music helped to ward off the pall settling over the woods as twilight began to fall.

  Nearby, Abigail could now hear the sounds of the men as they readied to bed down for the night. O’Brennan was somewhere further in the forest, hanging their provisions high in the trees away from their camp. Abigail had offered to do her part to help but Colvin wouldn’t hear it, insisting instead that she rest and gather her strength for the day ahead. By nightfall tomorrow, they would arrive at North Camp.

  By midnight, Abigail would be talking to a dead man.

  Abigail wasn’t entirely sure what to expect once they arrived there. Upon first hearing Duncan’s story of the tragic fates of the Legendre brothers, she had been filled with a mingled sense of excitement and relief. At last, she had found an explanation that could account for the string of deaths that plagued the village. But now that she’d had the long hike to think about it, there were still some nagging details that troubled her. Were the ghosts of both brothers haunting the village? If not, which one was it and why? And perhaps most important of all: exactly how were they compelling the villagers to commit suicide? Abigail had still not forgotten that she hadn’t detected a single trace of possession among the victims. But if it wasn’t a haunting, then what else could it be? Could the monsters of Josiah’s Native legend be real?

  A rustle of canvas caught Abigail’s attention. She looked over to see Josiah disappearing into his tent without a further word. O’Brennan returned and, after wishing her a goodnight, he and Keenan also crawled into the tent they shared.

  “Josiah and the boys are gonna turn in early,” Colvin said as he ambled toward her with Timber loping at his side. “I’ll be taking first watch.”

  Flopping himself down on the ground next to Abigail, Colvin crossed his legs at the ankles and reclined on his elbows. Timber curled close by and nestled his furry chin on his big front paws while keeping an eye on Abigail. Colvin shifted his weight to one side and reached into his shirt pocket. Abigail was sure he was going to produce a boiled egg. Instead, he withdrew a small tin flask. With a wink, he uncorked it, waved it under his nose to smell the aroma of the whiskey, and took a swig.

  “Josiah tells me you’ve a taste for the finer things.” he grinned as he offered the flask. “Quite the gossip, he is. Can’t seem to shut him up. Go on... if you’re gonna dress like a man, you might as well drink like one too.”

  A grudging smile came to Abigail as she took the flask and drank. The whiskey did wonders to dispel the chill sinking into her flesh. She returned the flask and it disappeared back into Colvin’s pocket. A moment passed as they both sat, gazing into the fire with the darkness closing around them like a blanket. An eerie chorus of crickets and tree frogs was now coming to life.

  It was Colvin who finally broke the silence. “Bringing you out here was as much for your own safety as it was to stop the ghosts.”

  Abigail nodded. “I assumed as much.”

  Colvin sighed as he shifted his weight on his elbows. “For my own part, I’ve seen too much ugliness in God’s name to call myself a believer anymore. Still, even if I don’t throw in with ‘em, I don’t begrudge those church folks their beliefs. If it keeps my village calm and my men working hard, then to each his own, I say. Father Carnes seems to want to help you, but he’s young and his views don’t always sit well with the others. I figured it’d be safer if you left town for a couple of days to let the worst of the storm blow itself out.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Colvin.”

  “Call me Glenn. And considering as how I’m supposed to be the boss around here, I’m not gonna ask your permission to call you Abigail.” He grinned again, his teeth gleaming from within his beard as he gazed at her in the firelight.

  In spite of the miserable conditions they had endured on the long trek, Abigail had ne
ver complained and had never fallen behind. Her dogged determination was enough to earn a measure of Colvin’s grudging respect. He thought she might even make a good traveling companion if she weren’t so withdrawn and distant. Throughout the long journey, there remained a coldness to her. When she looked at him, Colvin saw no compassion in the fathomless blue of her eyes. There was only the cool intensity of a woman driven by obsession. And yet, there was something inexplicably alluring about her. It wasn’t merely her beauty—which was undeniable. Was it the mystery she represented? The supreme confidence she radiated? Colvin found the latter to be both irritating and engaging at once. He didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Tell me, what exactly makes you a witch anyway?” Colvin asked after a moment.

  The light in Abigail’s blue eyes leaped and danced in time with the flickering of the fire. “I have mastered certain ancient, occult arts that allow me to harness the power of the paranatural.”

  “Such as?”

  “Spellcasting; conjuring; necromancy.”

  Colvin cocked an eyebrow. “Necromancy?”

  “Communion with the dead, yes.”

  “These spells. Can you cast them on command? Light a candle with a word? Turn a man into a frog?”

  “No. That kind of magic only exists in fairy tales. My power derives solely from my ability to interact with those who dwell beyond the Veil.”

  “You mean spirits.”

  Abigail nodded.

  “These spirits, can you compel them to hurt people?”

  “When necessary.”

  Colvin gave her a sideways look.

  “If it will put your mind at ease, I vowed long ago that I would only use my craft to help others.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “By hunting down the evils that haunt them.”

  Colvin ran his hand over Timber’s thick, black coat and the dog made a contented rumbling noise deep in his throat. “How exactly do you put an end to such hauntings?”