by Libba Bray
“You saw somebody who looked like him, doll. That’s all,” Sam said.
“I know what I saw!”
“I’m telling you—it’s the power of suggestion. We’ve been all over the legend of John Hobbes. You’d seen his mug in the papers, so that was already in your mind when you went under. You supplied the killer with the first face that came to mind.”
“Will you stop staring at me, please!” Evie said to Jericho, who looked away quickly, blushing. The tiny claws of a new headache raked across Evie’s skull. “Unc, you haven’t answered my question. How could John Hobbes have killed Gabriel Johnson, and possibly all those others?”
Sam put an arm around Evie’s shoulder. “I’m telling you, baby vamp, it wasn’t him.”
“It’s him,” Will said, breaking his silence at last.
The room was quiet except for the crackling of the wood as it was consumed by fire.
“Will,” Jericho said after a moment, “you’re not honestly saying that you believe a ghost is killing these people, are you?”
“Yes,” Will said, his voice hoarse.
“I mean no insult, Professor—you’ve got a swell museum going here—but there are no such things as ghosts,” Sam said.
“Sure of that, are you?” Will turned to them. The firelight cast his face in shadows. “There are doorways between this world and the world of the supernatural. Ghosts. Demonic entities. The unexplained and undefined. The mysterious. I’ve whole books and archives dedicated to it.”
“But those are just stories people tell,” Evie said. The headache was spreading out behind her eyes.
“There is no greater power on this earth than story.” Will paced the length of the room. “People think boundaries and borders build nations. Nonsense—words do. Beliefs, declarations, constitutions—words. Stories. Myths. Lies. Promises. History.” Will grabbed the sheaf of newspaper clippings he kept in a stack on his desk. “This, and these”—he gestured to the library’s teeming shelves—“they’re a testament to the country’s rich supernatural history.”
“But, Will, you’re not just saying ghosts exist; you’re saying they can come back from the dead and kill,” Jericho said.
Will sank into his chair, but his foot tapped steadily against the floor. “I know. Impossible. They shouldn’t be able to….” he said more to himself than to anyone else. “I’ve been keeping watch.”
“Keeping watch over what?” Jericho asked.
The chair couldn’t contain him, and Will was again up and pacing. He swiped another handful of newspaper clippings from his desk on the way. “These. Ghost sightings. Supernatural activity. In the past year, it has escalated. Instead of a few reports here and there, there have been hundreds, something reported every day.”
“And you think it’s related to our case, that Naughty John has come back from the dead?” Evie sneaked a hand up to rub at her temple.
“I’m sure of it,” Will said. “The question is not whether John Hobbes has come back from the dead, but how and why.”
“Ghosts exist. Ghosts are real,” Evie whispered like a mantra. She looked up and saw Jericho staring at her. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Jericho said, again looking away quickly.
Will gave in and reached for a cigarette. He took several puffs before speaking again. “The parts of the body,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I think he needs to ingest them to become stronger. More corporeal. Spirit made flesh. A perversion of transubstantiation. He’s getting stronger with each killing. He’s very strong now. Soon, he’ll be unstoppable.”
Evie shuddered just thinking about it. “And then?”
“Armageddon. Literal hell on earth.”
“But he can’t really become some anti-Christ, can he?” Jericho asked.
“He believes he can become the Beast through this ritual. Belief is everything. And we don’t understand everything about what he can do. These are not the rules of our world we’re playing by here, Jericho. They’re his rules—the rules of the supernatural world.”
“So how do we stop him?” Evie asked. “How do we stop a ghost?”
“We have to meet him where he is. We have to dispatch him via his own beliefs. If the last page of the Book of the Brethren contained some sort of spell or incantation for getting rid of John Hobbes, we need to know what was on that page. And we must solve the mystery of his connection to this book. Why does it matter to him?”
Evie opened the Book of the Brethren, running her hand along the rough seam where the last page had been torn away. There were three offerings remaining: the Destruction of the Golden Idol, the Lamentation of the Widow, and the Marriage of the Beast and the Woman Clothed in the Sun. She flipped back to the previous offerings.
“The dead body found at Belmont in 1875—that had to be the third offering, the Pale Horseman Riding Death Before the Stars,” Evie said.
“And besides Ida Knowles, they found exactly ten bodies in the basement of Knowles’ End,” Jericho said.
“The ten servants of the master,” Evie said excitedly. “A laundress and a maid went missing, as did people who boarded there. They could all be considered servants. The second offering. Oh, Unc. It fits!”
“So who was the first offering?” Sam asked. He put up his hands. “I’m just playing along here. I don’t go for ghosts.”
Evie stared at the picture of what looked like a house or barn. “The first offering—the Sacrifice of the Faithful. Ida Knowles was faithful. For a while, at least.”
“But she wasn’t first,” Jericho said.
“True,” Evie said on a sigh.
Uncle Will reached for another cigarette. “I don’t like that you went to Knowles’ End, Evie. Not with what we know now.”
“But it’s just a house, Unc.”
“An awful, awful house filled with dead bodies once upon a time,” Sam said cheerily. “I’m sure it’s swell at Christmastime.”
“It’s his house,” Will said. “It’s his lair, and I imagine he wouldn’t take too kindly to trespassers. Evie, you and Mabel didn’t leave anything behind, did you?”
Evie thought of the small patch of cloth stuck on the laundry chute. It was so small—too small to be of note. Wasn’t it? “No, Unc.”
“Why not just go there and burn it to the ground?” Sam asked.
“Because we don’t quite know what sort of entity we’re dealing with,” Will explained. “What if that only made him stronger? No. Until we’ve satisfied the question of why Naughty John is enacting this ritual, why it matters to him, and we’ve found what was on that missing page, our only hope is to prevent him from killing again. We know he has to complete the murders by the time of Solomon’s Comet—”
“Which is in four days,” Jericho reminded everyone.
“If we can stop him from finishing his task on time, he’ll lose by default. The timing is key.”
Sam played a coin across the tops of his right knuckles, flipped it, and neatly caught it in his left hand. “You planning to tell Detective Malloy you’re hunting the ghost of a killer who hung fifty years ago? I don’t care how good of a pal he is to you, Professor—he’ll lock us all up in the loony bin.”
“Sam’s right,” Jericho said.
Will nodded. “Agreed. We can’t let Terrence know. We’re on our own. Evie, what’s the next offering?”
Evie turned to the correct page. “The Destruction of the Golden Idol. ‘And lo, they did not believe but were seduced by the golden calf. They paid tribute to false idols and were damned for it. And the ninth offering sprang from lust and sin. The golden calf was destroyed, stripped of its skin of shame, and placed upon the altar of the Lord. And the Beast was pleased.’ ” Evie looked up to see that Jericho was still staring at her in that uncomfortable way. “For crying out loud, Jericho, what is it? Have I grown a second head?”
“Sorry. It’s just that… you’re not what I thought.” He hadn’t meant to say it like that.
Evie was tire
d and scared and her headache had really taken hold. And now Jericho thought she was a freak. He was afraid of her. She thought somehow it would be different with Jericho. He was a deep thinker, a philosopher, but he was no different from the small minds of her small town. Angrily, she grabbed his cold hand and clamped her own over his watch.
“That’s right, I’m a real sideshow act,” she said. He tried to pull away, but she dug her fingers under the watch. “How’s about it, Jericho? Would you like me to tell you your secrets? All the little lies you keep hidden from the world?”
“No!” Jericho jerked his hand away from Evie’s so quickly that he nearly lost his balance.
Tears stung at the corners of Evie’s eyes and a lump rose in her throat. She wasn’t about to cry here, and so she ran from the library and shut herself in the bathroom.
“Nice work, Frederick,” Sam grumbled and went after her.
Sam sat on the floor outside the bathroom door, hoping Evie could hear him. “Doll, I don’t care if you can read every secret I’ve got. I don’t even care if you keep me sitting outside this john all night. Well, my legs would care, but don’t mind them—they like to complain.”
Evie didn’t respond, and Sam blew out a gust of trapped air. He’d never met anyone else with a strange gift. Never. So there were two of them. A pair. A pair was good.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. I just want you to know that.”
Silence.
“Take your time, doll. You know where to find me. I’ll keep your seat warm.”
In the bathroom, Evie leaned her head against the door. “Thank you,” she whispered, though Sam was no longer there to hear it.
The stranger stood in the dark of the basement, listening as the house whispered to him. He could tell something wasn’t right. The house felt violated. Unclean. He would have to repaint the symbols to restore it to its purity. Anoint thy flesh and prepare ye the walls of your houses. The sacred covenant kept.
Naughty John plucked the scrap of Evie’s coat from the edge of the laundry chute. Again, the house whispered to him. A girl. A girl had done this violation. She would pay for her transgression. But first, the house must be prepared in time for tomorrow’s offering.
Whistling the old tune, he felt for the secret door. It opened for him, and he was welcomed inside with sighs and whispers.
THE NINTH OFFERING
When Detective Malloy came to call the following afternoon, he didn’t look happy. He gestured to the crowds of visitors. “Business is good, I see.”
“We’ve gone from forgotten to fad in a few weeks,” Will said. Two giggling college girls asked for Will’s autograph and he politely declined, much to their disappointment.
Detective Malloy watched the exchange. “That’s the trouble.”
“What do you mean?” Evie asked. She’d never seen the detective quite so businesslike. He was uncomfortable—that much was evident. But she had no idea why. After all, shouldn’t he be pleased that his old friend’s museum was finally in the black?
The detective lowered his voice. “Will, there’s talk that you might be involved in the killings.”
Will’s eyes widened. “What?”
“That’s bunk!” Evie protested.
“I know. But it doesn’t look good—the fella who knows everything about the occult, who gave us the tip on Jacob Call, whose museum is now the hottest ticket in town, getting written up in all the papers—”
“I had nothing to do with those newspaper articles, I can assure you,” Will snapped, and Evie hoped no one could see her blush.
“I’m just saying, you might want to stay out of it. Leave it to the police.”
“But we’re so close,” Evie said. “We’re going to find him.” She wished they could tell Detective Malloy what they were really up against, but of course that was impossible. How could they confess that they were looking for a ghost? He’d lock them up forever.
“Will, I’m telling you, as a friend, you’re off the case. Go back to teaching. I’ll handle it from here.”
Uncle Will squared his shoulders. “What if I say no?”
“Then you’re on your own. I can’t protect you.” Detective Malloy put his hat back on. “Fitz, don’t do anything dumb. Know when to quit.”
“Are we going to quit?” Evie asked after the detective had gone.
“Not on your life.”
By evening, Evie, Jericho, Sam, and Will were once again crowded around the table in the library.
“The ninth offering, the Destruction of the Golden Idol,” Evie said. She swore under her breath. “He’s out there ready to kill again, and we don’t have any idea where he’s going.”
She buried her head in her hands.
“Don’t let your frustration get the better of you, Evangeline. Think. Golden idols…” Will flicked the wheel on his silver lighter, creating sparks and squelching them with his thumb.
“Gold. Money, greed—Wall Street, a banker or a broker?” Jericho said.
“The Golden Palace in Chinatown?” Sam threw out. Evie could hear the exhaustion in his voice.
“In the Bible, it’s a golden calf. But we can’t be sure the offering is biblical in reference. The Book of the Brethren is a pastiche, remember?” Will said.
“We’ll probably be here all night,” Evie said, sighing.
“I don’t think we have all night,” Jericho said.
“None of you has eaten,” Will said suddenly, and Evie knew he must be hungry himself or he’d never have said anything. “I’m going to Wolf’s Delicatessen on Broadway for some pastrami sandwiches. Keep working. I won’t be gone long.”
“Let me see that,” Evie said as Will left, taking the Bible from Jericho. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words since he’d discovered she was a Diviner. She was still smarting from his comment. Evie read the Bible passage again and again, searching for some clue, but it wasn’t coming.
“Worshipping false idols. Worshipping false idols…” Something was trying to take shape in her mind. “What’s the name—” She broke off mid-thought, flipping wildly through the Bible. She put her finger on a passage. “Ba’al,” she said suddenly. “The worship of Ba’al. Oh, god…”
“What is it, doll?” Sam asked.
“I know where he’ll strike next,” Evie said, already grabbing for her coat and hat.
“Where are we headed?”
“The Globe Theatre!” Evie yelled.
“What’s at the Globe?” Jericho asked.
“The Ziegfeld revue,” Sam said and ran after Evie.
LITTLE BETTY SUE BOWERS
Theta sat at her dressing room mirror, cold creaming the last of her makeup. The mirrors were hung with scarves and boas. The wardrobe mistress had already put away the rapidly discarded costumes as the girls hurried to meet their stage-door Johnnies and stockbroker boyfriends. Except for her, the theater was empty. Theta had always liked the feel of an empty theater.
Theta was six when she made her debut in the Peoria, Illinois, musical emporium as Little Betty Sue Bowers in a pinafore dress of red, white, and blue, and silver tap shoes that sparkled under the lights. She sang and danced to “God Bless America” while her overbearing foster mother stood in the wings, mouthing every word. The audience was charmed. “The Ringleted Rascal,” they called her, and “Betty Baby Doll.” Soon she was playing the Orpheum Circuit throughout the Midwest. Theta hated vaudeville, hated the hours of work, the drafty backstage rooms, the leering “uncles” who invited her to sit on their laps. Crisscrossing the country, all those little towns and their dying music halls. Every night Mrs. Bowers would set her hair on rollers and smack Theta on the rear with the hairbrush, saying, “Don’t you ruin it.” Theta had been too terrified to sleep, afraid she’d muss those curls and get another, much harder smack come morning. She’d never been to school. Never had a birthday party or a real friend.
By the time Theta was fourteen, it was clear she was no longer the Ringleted Rascal. She was develop
ing a woman’s body and face, with long, shapely legs and a pout of a mouth. She was too old to play the adorable little girl and too young to play the more risqué acts. Theta was on her way to being unemployable. They’d just signed on for a monthlong run at the Palace in Kansas City when Theta met a handsome soda jerk named Roy. She eloped with him two weeks later. That had proven to be an even bigger mistake than staying with Mrs. Bowers. At first, Roy had made her feel protected. But Roy soon became obsessed with her—what she wore, where she went, whom she saw. Once, he’d even locked her in the bathroom all night while he went out with his boys. Theta had picked the lock and crawled out of a second-story window to get away. Roy hadn’t liked that. He hadn’t liked that at all.
The next morning, with her eye swollen and bruised and her lip split open, she’d tried going home. She stood on the front porch of the boardinghouse with her small plaid felt suitcase. Her tears stung her raw mouth. “Please, Mama. I’m sorry,” she’d pleaded.
“You made your bed, you lie in it, Betty Sue,” Mrs. Bowers had said and shut the door.
Theta had tried to be what she thought a good wife should be, but every little thing seemed to set Roy off: Her stockings were crooked. The toast was too brown. Her long hair, thick as broom bristles, wasn’t put up like a proper lady’s, making her look “like some kinda Indian squaw!” The house wasn’t tidy enough. If she didn’t get a good cut of meat from the butcher, she was a terrible housekeeper. If she did get a good steak, well, then she must have been flirting. The sting of the hairbrush was nothing compared to the smack of Roy’s hand. Nights were the worst. She would grit her teeth and stare at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over. Once, she tried to get a part in a sketch at the Palace, but Roy forbade it, and anyway, pictures were the new fashion. The vaudeville theaters and music halls were being refitted as grand movie palaces. The days of vaudeville were coming to an end. Sometimes, when Roy was away at work and the heat from the diner below would rise up through the linoleum, baking the apartment in an afternoon haze, Theta would strip down to her slip, roll back the carpets, and dance to the radio, imagining she was Josephine Baker at the Folies Bergère in Paris. In these fantasies, it was not the imagined love and adulation of the audience, the collective desire, that fueled her. Rather, it was the sense of absolute freedom, of dancing because she could, dancing because she enjoyed the dancing and not because she was expected to do it.
