Glory found herself wishing, then praying, that it was Hezekiah. She had rebuffed him before, and she could again.
In the early days, the Indians had visited on occasion, but they had since been driven away, somehow, by Conal O’Herlihy. All that aside, something about the knock and laugh told Glory this was no Indian.
Other than the giggle, there was nothing to suggest it was even human.
“Answer me!” she called. “I’ll have no foolishness!”
The response came as a curved blade, sliding between the cracks and slowly scraping down till it met the cross plank.
Then, the blade softly, teasingly, pecked against the plank. As with the initial knock, there was no rhythm to it.
“Go away!” Glory dashed to the matchlock resting in the corner, grateful Allard had insisted on leaving his secondary weapon loaded and in easy reach for her. “I will shoot you!”
The blade halted, resting atop the cross plank of the door like a giant talon pointing straight to hell.
“I’ll shoot you right through the door!” she yelled. “I do mean it!”
The blade withdrew.
From this viewpoint, Glory could not see whether the blackness between the cracks had gone as well. With her back pressed against the dry mud wall, she began to sidestep to her left until she could see through the cracks again.
They were still filled with black.
Yet there was no sign of movement. Glory relived the last few minutes, wondering if she had imagined…
“Triiick…” came a raspy call. Glory reflexively pulled the trigger before she could even aim, punching a hole through the thatch roof. A dusty ray shone onto her chopped carrots.
She screamed, even before the door was splintered to kindling by the boot of a bloody scarecrow.
Glory convulsed as she fell back against the wall, aiming the matchlock across the dining table, repeatedly squeezing an unmoving trigger on a weapon that wasn’t even cocked, much less loaded.
The scarecrow raised the hand sickle and pointed it at her. “…or treeeat!”
Both stood frozen for so long that Glory’s knees began to shake. She hurled the gun at the invader and lunged for the paring knife that lay amid the carrot slices, snatching it as Everett swatted the rifle aside. He flipped the table toward the fireplace as if it was a branch of dried poplar. She lunged at him with the blade. Everett yelped like a suckling pig as the point entered between his ribs.
Glory took a split second to decide whether to run away or stab him again. Choosing the latter, she despaired to find the blade held firm in his flesh.
Her hopes for survival plunged as she recalled that inner suction often took hold of Allard’s skinning knives when he dressed out a deer.
She yanked and yanked. But the ragged demon just stared at her with a mix of disappointment, dejection and what could only be madness.
Everett raised his sickle in a swift upward arc. It entered just below Glory’s belly, sliced cleanly through her breastbone and exited just under her chin.
The only treat she had to offer was the sharp pain in his ribs and this splashing scarlet mess at his feet.
* * * *
Modern Day
“They’re heeere.” Only after she had spoken did Leticia Lott realize she had just echoed a line, complete with childish inflection, from Poltergeist, her son DeShaun’s third-favorite movie on the annotated list he maintained and frequently updated with utmost gravitas.
“You mean…here?” asked Stella Riesling as she sidled through the door carrying four-year-old Emera in one arm, a bursting bag of groceries in the other. She brought a puff of crisp fall air in her wake that gave Leticia a quick thrill of dread.
“At the Blue Moon Inn,” clarified Leticia. “Maisie called when they arrived. They’ll be here within the hour.”
Leticia closed the door and took one of Stella’s burdens—Emera, of course. “Hi, Emmie!” she cooed.
The little girl, adorable in a Scooby-Doo top and leggings, gave a shy smile and buried her face in Leticia’s shoulder.
Then came a squeal from the living room, and thumps of happy little feet. “Meh-meh!” It was three-year-old Wanda, overjoyed that her friend had come to play. Emera returned the sentiment. “Wandaaaah!”
“Show her your spooky drawing, baby.” Leticia put Emera down, and the girls raced to the living room. “God help us all, Wanda is copying DeShaun’s scary comics—and she’s very good at it.”
“Do you still feel weird about this meeting?” Stella asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Mmm…touché.”
“Weird or not, I’m glad you had this idea.” Leticia gave Stella’s arm a reassuring pat. “I couldn’t leave you guys if I didn’t know you were going to be all right.”
“You can thank Abe,” Stella whispered. “He doesn’t want it getting out, but he came up with the whole thing.”
They went to the counter of Leticia’s ever-immaculate kitchen, which these days doubled as an art gallery for Wanda’s crayoned masterworks, and started setting out groceries.
When the doorbell rang again a minute later, both baby girls squealed with faux fright from the living room, then giggled at one another.
“Speak of the devil.” Leticia stopped to dim the lights minutely, then went to the door while Stella looked over the groceries—all organic, as requested by the guests—that would comprise dinner for two housewives, two little girls, two pagan witches and a Christian minister.
“Thanks for letting me borrow your assistant, Reverend.” Leticia said, as she led Reverend Abe McGlazer to the kitchen.
“Yes!” exclaimed McGlazer. “Assistant, not boss! Thanks for playing along, Leticia.” McGlazer dug into a bowl of cashews left on the counter just for him. “Any idea how Hudson and Yoshi are doing?”
“Due back tomorrow. I’m trying not to worry.”
“DeShaun?”
“Helping The Outlines at the Community Center.”
McGlazer gobbled cashews as he cast a glance at the front door.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” said Stella.
“Anxious is the word,” McGlazer answered. “But not about tonight.”
Leticia and Stella did not ask what, then—and did not need to. With Halloween approaching, they all bore the same abiding apprehension. Two consecutive autumns of harrowing, county-wide peril had conditioned them to expect something terrible and terrifying to happen, some horrific disaster surely brewing even now as they futilely rushed to prepare for it.
Chapter 5
Seasons of the Witch
In a raucous race, the little girls answered the door before the adults could. “Twick o’ tweat!” Wanda yelled to the two guests.
Emera giggled and repeated the phrase.
“Trick-or-treat to you, little cuties!” responded Maisie, her smile as wide as a crescent moon.
“Here you go!” said Ysabella, handing the children confections she had made herself. “For dessert. All right?”
“Dee-zert!” said Emera, though she mimed eating it then and there, to the delight of her friend as they darted back to the living room.
“I didn’t know what to expect—but you’re both so pretty!” Leticia told Ysabella and Maisie after hellos, as she took their jackets.
“Hey, look!” Emera and Wanda were back, both holding up rumpled crayon illustrations.
Ysabella and Maisie each took one and examined it. There was not the slightest irony in their smiles of admiration.
Emera’s was a forest. The trees were black at the bottom but became green at the tops, under a fat, smiling sun.
Wanda had rendered a powerful mother figure, black like her, with rainbows sprouting from her hands.
Ysabella knelt, though her knees popped and cracked. “This is far beyond their age lev
el. Have you had them in classes?”
“Neither one,” answered Stella.
“They seem to feed off each other’s talent,” said Leticia.
“A little coven of two,” said Ysabella, touching each girl’s head “That is as magical as it gets.”
Stella got the little girls in their high chairs, McGlazer got the guests seated in gentlemanly fashion and Leticia gave orderly and concise introductions.
The name Maisie came easily to the girls’ little tongues, but “Ysabella” proved to be a challenge. The elder witch suggested “Miss Iss.” They repeated it to each other dozens of times.
“I feel underdressed,” added Stella. Looking down at the guests’ feet, she gave a quick laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said, pointing to their slip-on loafers. “I must have expected pointy black boots.”
Ysabella and Maisie were far from offended. Hyper-aware of the general public’s perception of witches, they always did their best to present a comforting appearance. For the dinner meeting, they had worn casual-elegant dresses and understated makeup.
Rings and necklaces bearing pentacles and other so-called pagan symbols were either concealed or left back at the inn, save for a braided leather bracelet Ysabella wore, woven through a carved jade Green Man head, the tiny polished face sculpted with a gleeful smile.
Emera’s eyes fell to the jolly little man, and she mirrored its smile.
Once everyone was settled at the table, the dinner guests joined hands and looked to McGlazer.
“Right,” he said. “Time to say grace. You…don’t mind?”
“We always give thanks,” said Ysabella.
McGlazer offered a broad, nondenominational thanks, which little Wanda punctuated with chubby hands held high and a hearty “Maaaay-mim!”
The witches tucked in and gave their compliments on the décor and furnishings. Then it was time for business.
“I felt it,” Ysabella said. “Not long after we crossed the county line.”
Maisie rubbed her elder’s shoulder and looked at McGlazer. “You were right to call us, Reverend. It’s only getting stronger.”
“We’ve contacted our sisters, but I must tell you, you’ve caught us at a bad time.” Ysabella’s voice was still scratchy from the earlier vomiting spell. “We’re far from full strength.”
“Suffice to say, we’ll need anyone in town to participate who will,” Maisie added.
“It’s our town,” Stella said. “Of course, we’ll help.”
“There’s a good deal of risk involved.”
Leticia and Stella exchanged an uncertain gaze.
Maisie broke the heavy pause. “We understand you’re moving away, Leticia.”
“Hudson is taking a job in Henderson County.”
This assertion was mostly positive thinking. The deal was far from sealed on her husband’s new position.
“It’s good of you to host us. But I can tell you have reservations.”
“I was raised Lutheran.” Leticia cast a self-conscious smile at Maisie. “Or did you already know?”
“I’m not reading your mind,” Maisie said. “The tells are all there. It’s more important to you to help your friends.”
“Sure sounds like mind reading,” Leticia responded.
“Tell me,” began Ysabella, “do you folks know of any practitioners here in Ember Hollow?”
“Witches?” Stella wondered if she should mention her own psychic moments or her success with dowsing as a teenager.
“We can’t afford to be fussy. Wicca, Vodun, Taoist.” Ysabella looked at McGlazer. “And you, good Reverend.”
McGlazer’s eyebrows rose. “Me?”
“Of course.”
“You surely must believe in ghosts,” Maisie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, “after having been possessed by one.”
“Well…yes.”
“Then you know what we’re dealing with. You’re invaluable to this process.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see how all these conflicting beliefs can work together,” Leticia remarked.
“The conflict is imaginary. Everything has the same source.”
Maisie’s answer struck Leticia as ridiculously obvious.
“Maaay-mim!” Wanda said again, to everyone’s delight, twin points of candlelight alive in her brown eyes.
“How long do we have you, Leticia?” asked Maisie without credulity.
“We should hear from Henderson County any day now.”
“So you might leave before we can finish?”
Leticia frowned, reluctant to answer.
“What about your church?” asked Maisie.
“Closed and locked up since last Halloween,” Stella answered. “Only a handful of us know what was down there.”
“I couldn’t see any good coming of telling everyone what happened and having the old place condemned…” explained McGlazer. He was pained to say the next word. “…destroyed.”
“We told everyone there was a massive mold problem, which is not entirely untrue,” Stella added. “Moved services to the Community Center.”
“Saint Saturn’s is a crucial part of this town. We’ve prayed and brainstormed ever since, to come up with some solution other than condemning it.” McGlazer’s fork shook in his hands. “Thinking of the witch in the hills. Matilda. I thought it couldn’t hurt to contact you ladies, if only to learn more.”
Maisie smiled. “You love your church. We’ll do our best to save it.”
“Miss Iss,” whispered Emera with a giggle, drawing everyone’s gaze.
The elder witch was holding an intense stare with the little one. In less than a second, both the woman and the girl cycled through expressions of sympathy and understanding.
Ysabella laughed, and so did Emera.
“We’ve found one of our new recruits,” explained Ysabella. “Maybe two. Tell me about her and her sister.”
“Emera and Candace? They’ve already been through so much…” Stella said.
“So often, that’s exactly what makes a powerful witch,” explained Ysabella, as she continued to hold the loving gaze with Emera. The child smiled and smiled, like she did when big sister/best friend Candace was near. “Tell us more.”
Stella gave the short version: Candace’s parents were murdered by her brother, Everett Geelens, the Trick-or-Treat Terror, during his Halloween night rampage two years earlier. She was placed in a group home as Emera’s roommate. The house parents had sought to provoke Candace into violent behavior, to exploit the rights to her story.
“The Fireheads gang had a different plan for Candace,” added McGlazer. “To sacrifice her. They were in wolf form when they kidnapped her.”
“Thanks to Matilda Saxon’s magic,” said Leticia.
Maisie raised her hand to her mouth. “The poor child must be traumatized beyond our understanding.”
“Then Everett returned, quite literally, from the dead.”
Maisie reached across the table and grasped Stella’s hand. “You’re a saint, to adopt these troubled babies.”
While everyone else took on grim faces, Ysabella and Emera continued to hold a smile filled on both sides with wisdom. “Don’t worry. We would never endanger any of these precious children. It’s only their imaginations we need.”
Ysabella untied the leather and jade Green Man bracelet from her wrist and handed it to Emera. The little girl raised it in both hands with awe. “Thank you, Miss Iss!”
As Stella tied it on Emera’s wrist, she realized she felt…jealousy? She would tell the witches about her own experiences. But now was not the time. “How do we get started?”
“To heal the town, we’ll have to start with Matilda’s farm,” Ysabella said.
“We need to go as soon as possible,” added Maisie.
After a pause, Ysabella prono
unced “Tonight.”
“Why tonight?” asked Leticia.
Just as Ysabella stood, Hudson opened the front door, looking weary and smelling of woods and sweat.
“Daddeee!” called Wanda.
“You’re home a day early, babe!” said Leticia.
Ysabella stood. “Deputy Lott, I’m sorry. There’s no time for rest or pleasantries. Please take us to the farm. Before something terrible happens.”
* * * *
Settlement era
Not long ago, this daily ritual had been a form of relaxation for settlement founder Wilcott Bennington, nothing more than pleasant time spent with his quarter horse Jupiter, appreciating the new-world acreage he had claimed and conquered.
With the enmity growing between him and the forceful Irishman O’Herlihy, it felt less like a leisurely ride these days, and more like patrol duty. There had been threats, implied by both words and mere looks, from O’Herlihy and his growing group of followers. Given the size of the house and estate Bennington had made for himself and his loyal maidservant, Chloris, he knew it was best to keep a lookout for trespassers, and to make sure everyone knew he was doing so.
Bennington inhaled the unique scent of southeastern autumn air and absently patted Jupiter. Though wary, he did not expect an ambush. Matters had not decayed to that level just yet.
He had a sense that they would, soon enough. There were rumblings that O’Herlihy was holding organized gatherings, to discuss—and perhaps breed—dissatisfaction with settlement affairs and with Bennington’s odd beliefs. That was their right, of course, but it made Bennington sad and regretful that he had been too eager and forthcoming in discussing his evolving spiritual philosophy when winnowing potential partners for his new-world settlement.
Still, it was hard not to lose himself in the unique beauty of the land, especially at harvest season. Its beauty whispered a song of dread and a promise of difficult times ahead that made these short days feel all the more precious.
Jupiter whinnied and snapped his head sharply, alerting Bennington that he was pulling the reins too hard. It was a bad habit that accompanied his dark ponderings. The pioneer eased his grip and scratched the horse’s neck. “Very sorry, old friend.”
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