The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2)

by Michael Penning

  Abigail was heartened to see her Book of Shadows safe among them.

  “You have my assurance that I will return it to you on the day that you put your back to this village and leave it behind,” Carnes concluded.

  Abigail glared at him for a moment before rising from her chair and crossing the room to stand by the only window. Beyond the pane, the sky was a dirty white shroud drawn over the village. It was now mid-October and the colors were gone from the oaks and elms. The few remaining leaves were brown and shriveled like bits of desiccated skin clinging to skeletal fingers.

  “Do the words the venom of God mean anything to you, Mr. Carnes?” Abigail asked abruptly.

  Carnes’ beard drew together as his lips tightened. “Where did you hear that?”

  The sharpness of his tone caught Abigail’s attention. She turned from the window. “The spirit of Jed Hawes said he killed himself in order to find release from what he called the venom of God.”

  Carnes frowned. “By your own admission, Hawes’ spirit was murderous and mad. We cannot possibly trust anything you might have gleaned from him.”

  “Perhaps. But what do the words signify?”

  Carnes drew a breath and let it out. “’Tis an old term—very old—appearing not in the Bible but only in ancient texts of the Apocrypha. In the Book of Enoch, the venom of God is used as a reference to Samael.”

  “Who is Samael?”

  “A fallen angel who was cast out of heaven for fathering children with human women.”

  Abigail’s tired eyes came to life. “A demon?”

  Carnes nodded but gave her a look that seemed to dismiss whatever significance she had inferred. “Ms. Jacobs, the Book of Enoch isn’t even formally recognized by the Church. I don’t believe—”

  “Please, indulge me. What else can you tell me about this Samael?” Abigail persisted.

  Carnes shrugged and shook his head as he crossed the room to the book cabinet, produced a ring of keys from his pocket to unlock the doors, and plucked a volume from the rows. “Unfortunately, my knowledge of demonology is rather lacking,” he admitted as he handed Abigail the book. “Perhaps you can find your answers for yourself.”

  Abigail went quiet as she cracked open Carnes’ copy of the Book of Enoch and perused the pages. Outside, a sudden gust sent a whirlwind of dead leaves brushing against the window. It was an eerie, lonesome sound.

  Suddenly, Abigail shot to her feet and snapped the book shut. The abrupt movement made her light-headed and she swayed dizzily for an instant. She closed her eyes, her hands going back to the table for support as she waited for the sensation to pass.

  “Where are you going?” Carnes asked, grasping her elbow to steady her.

  “To find Duncan,” Abigail replied as she pulled her cloak over her shoulders and went for the door with the Book of Enoch clutched under one arm. Her other hand fished deep into her pocket and fell upon the object she was looking for. “There is something I must show him.”

  Chapter 31

  Duncan Emmons squinted through his magnifying glass and examined the bright yellow stone he held pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Where did you find this?” he asked, his voice steeped with wonder.

  Duncan was seated at the large worktable at the center of the company office. Abigail stood opposite, silhouetted by the cold light of the only window. The afternoon was growing late and the shadow she cast fell long and straight across the small room. Glenn Colvin reclined in a creaky chair in the corner, his attention divided between their conversation and the peeling of a boiled egg. Timber lay curled on the floorboards at his feet. His deep, amber eyes were fixed on Abigail as he panted softly.

  “Do you recognize it?” Abigail pressed.

  “I... well, yes,” Duncan replied as he lowered the magnifying glass and adjusted his spectacles.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s sulfur.”

  A dark look came over Abigail as she stepped away from the window into the light. Once again, Duncan was shocked at the battered sight of her. When word of her return had spread throughout the village that morning, he had hurried to find her before Heath MacIntyre did. By the time he had arrived, it was too late; Abigail had already sequestered herself in the chapel with Father Carnes. When Duncan had returned to the office, he’d found Colvin waiting for him and they had spent the afternoon catching up on recent events.

  “Sulfur,” Abigail repeated, as if confirming something she had known all along. “Otherwise known as brimstone, correct?”

  Duncan nodded.

  “Brimstone?” Colvin sat up his seat. “As in hellfire and damnation? That brimstone?”

  “Well, perhaps not in so many words, but yes,” Duncan said. “The term brimstone literally means burn stone or the stone that burns.” Duncan held the stone up into the sunlight. “You see, if put to fire, this stone would catch and melt into a molten, burning mass—the fumes of which can be most foul and irritating, I might add. ‘Tis because of these properties that the presence of sulfur accompanies most traditional depictions of hell, a place of eternal fire where even the rock itself burns.” He swiveled to Abigail. “Where did you find this?”

  “There were fragments of it in Chester Prue’s mouth.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Colvin blurted.

  “I didn’t recognize them for what they were when I examined his remains,” Abigail explained. “In my haste, I mistook them for broken bits of Prue’s teeth. In retrospect, I am convinced that had we the opportunity to examine the other bodies, we would likely have discovered traces of sulfur among them as well.”

  Duncan ran a hand through his straw-like hair. “What does that mean?”

  “Perhaps ‘tis a sign of demon possession, some remnant left behind by the presence of Samael.”

  “I don’t understand,” Colvin interrupted, the half-peeled egg now forgotten in his hand as he peered at Abigail. “What has any of this to do with this demon you’ve been speaking of?”

  Abigail took a chair from the table and turned it backward to prevent the seatback from pressing against her wounded back while she sat.

  “Apocryphal texts tell us that when God hurled the rebel angels from heaven, they fell through the earth on their way to hell. If we take these stories to be true, is it not possible that such lands could have remained forever cursed? According to Mohawk legend, Lake Tear of the Clouds is favored by the Dark Twin Spirit, Tawiskaron. The monsters he let loose there are believed to feast on men from the inside. What if these creatures are simply another interpretation of the evil beings we call demons? What if Lake Tear of the Clouds is one of those cursed spots where the rebel angels fell? Could it not then have become some sort of gateway to hell? A portal through which a demon such as Samael could arise and lead human souls to destruction?”

  Colvin’s brow furrowed as he gazed at her, unconvinced.

  “Don’t you see?” Abigail persisted. “How else can we explain the fact that in every instance of suicide, there has been absolutely no evidence of the influence of the paranatural? ‘Tis because what is happening in Tahawus is not paranatural but demonic.”

  Colvin shook his head as he finally finished peeling his egg. “The last time we pursued one of your theories, I lost two of my men.”

  Abigail’s face flushed and she shot him a scathing look. But there was nothing reproachful in Colvin’s expression. Instead, she saw a heavy sorrow haunting his normally cool and confident face. For the first time, Abigail found herself considering the toll that the deaths in the village were taking on the man. Justified or not, he felt responsible for each of them and bore the weight of his failures wherever he went.

  “We’ve another problem to contend with,” Duncan said, breaking the brooding silence that had settled on the room.

  “What would that be?” Colvin sighed.

  “Heath MacIntyre. He’s gained power in your absence, Glenn. Carnes and I have done our best to defend Abby, but Heath’s been relentless in his effor
ts to turn the townsfolk against her. He blames her for his wife’s death.”

  “That’s absurd,” Colvin sniffed dismissively.

  “Perhaps. But everyone saw what Abby did to heal Hannah Gill. Instead of being grateful, Hannah’s own mother brought the girl to Carnes to seek absolution for witchcraft. The villagers are frightened and Heath’s using their fear to turn them against the stranger in town. Carnes has opposed him at every turn, denouncing Heath’s tirades and trying his best to assure the people that the days of superstition are a thing of the past. Still, Heath’s influence is growing daily. At first, no one paid him any attention. Most just pitied him for what had happened to Evelyn. Maybe it was because he’s got a wife of his own that Owen Delaney was the first to listen to what Heath had to say. After that, it was only a day or two before other men started to fall in with him. It happened quickly and it’s gaining momentum. They’ve stopped working, refusing to return to their logging until something is done about Abby.”

  Duncan sighed as he turned to Abigail. “For the moment, I believe Carnes still wields enough clout to keep you safe, but I’m not sure how much longer that will last, especially if there’s another suicide. Whatever you’re planning to do, you had better do it quickly. Eventually, Heath’s going to scare enough people into believing his insane notions about you. I don’t know how far they’ll go to act on them, but you don’t want to still be here when they do.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Abigail said. “But Mr. MacIntyre will be dealt with if and when the need arises.”

  “Dealt with?” Duncan asked warily. “What do you intend to do?”

  Abigail left the question unanswered, but her blue eyes seemed to flush and deepen. It was as if she almost welcomed the promise of violence. The look lasted only an instant before it vanished.

  “So how do we stop it?” Colvin asked abruptly, leaning forward in his seat. “How do we defeat this demon?”

  Abigail’s answer was swift and decisive. “We don’t.”

  “What?” Duncan’s hopeful expression fell as he gazed at her. “Then how—”

  Abigail cut him off with a raised a hand. “I have never before encountered an evil such as this. ‘Tis far beyond our power to overcome. At this point, we’ve only one recourse if we are going to survive.” She turned to Colvin. “You must call a town meeting without delay—tonight even. Every man and woman in Tahawus is to attend.”

  Colvin’s face filled with confusion as he swallowed his egg. “What? Why?”

  “We must evacuate the village.”

  Chapter 32

  Glenn Colvin leaned against a dining table at the head of the mess hall as the villagers began to arrive. Outwardly, he projected the easy confidence that made him a leader of men. But his insides were knotted tighter than the ropes that bound the stacks of timber down by the lake.

  This is a mistake, he thought. It’s too risky. I should never have let her convince me otherwise.

  It was nearing seven o’clock and the sun had set nearly an hour ago. It was a cold night, the coldest yet. A chill wind swept through the darkened paths as if winter had extended its long finger and drawn it across the village. Inside the huge mess hall, the dining tables had all been cleared. Oil lamps now burned on each. The makeshift meetinghouse was filled with a warm, orange glow that fell away to shadows in the corners.

  As the cavernous space filled with people, Colvin’s mind once again ran through all the things that could go wrong. What if the villagers didn’t believe him? What if they refused to leave? If Abigail was right, there was no telling how many more of them would fall victim to this bloodthirsty demon if they chose to stay.

  And then there was Heath MacIntyre.

  What would the bereaved widower do when he arrived for the meeting? How loudly would Heath speak out against Abigail and how many more would he convince of her guilt? Colvin knew he was taking a dangerous gamble. Many of the townsfolk would be frightened by what he was about to tell them. He wondered how many more would start to believe that Heath’s way of thinking might make it all better? He remembered the dangerous look he’d seen in Heath’s eyes when the big man had confronted Abigail that morning. He could hear Heath’s words echoing in his mind. You’ll rot in hell, witch. And I’ll be the one to see ye’ on yer way...

  An unpleasant chill crawled up Colvin’s spine as he heaved a deep breath and stole a glance over his shoulder. Abigail was seated between Duncan and Father Carnes at the table behind him. She had undergone a remarkable transformation since Colvin had parted ways with her that afternoon. The ruined, bloodstained clothes were gone and she was now dressed in her comfortable linsey-woolsey dress. Her golden hair was washed and elegantly braided and her skin was clean and white. The only reminders of the terrible incident at North Camp were the jagged wounds across her face. And yet, even those seemed to have healed over the past few hours, appearing now as little more than four long, pink scratches. Colvin marveled at how quickly she had recovered from the spirit’s vicious attack. The unwelcome memory of those terrible moments only filled Colvin with more doubts. What if Abigail was wrong again? What if there was no demon? What if he was abandoning the village for nothing?

  Colvin quickly pushed those thoughts from his mind. All afternoon and well into the evening, he had thought long and hard about his decision to evacuate the town. Even so, he could hardly believe he was even considering the possibility. It seemed rash and absurd; there had to be another way.

  But Colvin knew in his gut that evacuating was the only thing to do. At North Camp, Abigail had opened his eyes to an entirely new world, a dreadful realm of darkness and creatures who lived beyond the grave. Colvin could no longer deny the possibility that something evil was at work in his village. He had buried too many bodies and seen too many horrors to doubt it. Somehow, he knew with awful certainty that even more would die if he refused to act. He wasn’t about to second-guess his decisions now.

  Too much is riding on what happens here tonight, he thought anxiously. Too many lives hang in the balance. I mustn’t fail to convince them.

  The hall was brimming with people now. Men and women were crammed together on the benches. Others were forced to stand, leaning against the timber columns or standing shoulder to shoulder around the periphery of the room. Word of the meeting had spread quickly and the entire village had come to hear what Colvin had to say. Never before had so many gathered together under one roof. Only the children were absent, having already been tucked into bed by their mothers.

  There was a nervous tension in the air. Colvin felt it in the stares that fell upon him and heard it in the hushed murmurs and whispers that drifted to his ears. The dangerous contest of wills between Heath MacIntyre and Father Carnes was taking its toll. The mood of the community had become one of division and mistrust as the villagers took sides. They were turning against each other, casting sidelong glances at their neighbors and sticking with those they trusted. Battle lines had been drawn in Colvin’s absence and he understood why Carnes had refused to address the audience himself. While Carnes didn’t personally oppose the idea of an evacuation, the embattled priest couldn’t bring himself to lend the weight of his church to Abigail’s theory about demon possession. Instead, Carnes was convinced that most of the villagers still trusted Colvin and looked to him for leadership.

  How much longer will that last? Colvin wondered bitterly.

  As his eyes wandered over the crowd, Colvin caught a glimpse of Sally Gill, mother to little Hannah and widow of the unfortunate Cyrus. The petite woman sat sandwiched between two other matrons on a bench near the back of the room. Her strawberry-blond hair was tucked neatly beneath her cap and her hands were folded on the white apron across her lap. Colvin experienced a swift prickle of guilt at the sight of her. After her husband had doused himself with oil and set himself ablaze, Sally had remained in the village simply because she had nowhere else to go; Tahawus was her only home. What would she do now that Colvin was forcing her to leave? W
hat would become of her and her young daughter?

  Sally looked up. Her eyes met Colvin’s from across the room and he looked away reflexively. The gesture made him feel cowardly, but he couldn’t bear to have the woman’s eyes on him. Not now, not with what he was about to do to her.

  Unconsciously avoiding eye contact with anyone else, it occurred to Colvin that Heath MacIntyre hadn’t yet arrived. For a brief instant, he entertained the idea that Abigail’s nemesis had chosen to boycott the meeting altogether. But Colvin’s hopes fell when the doors to the mess hall swung open at the last minute.

  Heath lingered there a moment, his wild mane of hair buffeted by the wind. His cold, gray eyes wandered over the room, scouring the crowd before finally settling on Abigail. Owen Delaney and the rest of Heath’s followers strode in from the night after him. In the span of a single day, they had grown from half a dozen to ten men.

  At this rate, he’ll have a whole congregation by morning, Colvin thought ruefully. Damn him!

  Colvin kept an eye on Heath and his men as they settled into place at the rear of the hall. Fanning out with barely a word to anyone, they stood in the shadows on either side of the door. Their faces were hard; their arms crossed over their chests as if taking up positions to stand guard. Colvin had a sinking suspicion he knew exactly who they intended to prevent from leaving: Abigail.

  Colvin’s eyes sought out Josiah lingering in the shadows to his left. The Native had also taken notice of Heath’s entrance. With a silent look, Colvin told him to be ready for trouble. Josiah understood and nodded once, his face a wooden mask.

  Fighting back the butterflies that swarmed in his stomach, Colvin realized he was stalling. Everyone was waiting, looking to him expectantly. The time had come; what he had to say couldn’t be put off any longer. He raised a hand and brought the meeting to order.

  “I’ve called you all here this evening to get some things out in the open,” he began, his strong voice carrying across the room, “things I know many of you have been thinking but haven’t been talking about... the suicides.”