by Catie Rhodes
"Can you turn it around to face me?" The amused glint never left his eyes. I did as he asked. Dwight leaned forward. The smirk fell off his face. "Where’d you get this? I heard rumors about Loretta’s book, but there’s not one picture of it floating around."
Instead of answering, I put the picture back in my bag. "We’re playing show-and-tell, Dwight, and it’s now your turn. Who’s Loretta Nell, and what did she do that has this town on a gag order?"
Dwight’s eyes chilled. Fear pricked at the base of my spine. Awareness of how alone I was out here filled my heart and made it thud harder. Dwight reached under the counter and dug around. I stiffened, muscles screaming at me to run, but I held still. He straightened and set a brass key down on the sheaf of papers.
"You’re in room five."
I reached for the key, but he put his hand over it.
"How about we go to room five, and I’ll give you the whole story on Loretta Nell and the Messengers? I’ve got some primo giggle smoke." He pulled the key just out of my reach.
I’d had enough of Dwight. For all the time he’d wasted, he could have told me Loretta Nell’s life story. If he decided not to let me stay here, it might be a blessing in disguise.
"I appreciate the offer, but I don’t smoke dope." I packed as much disdain as I could into my refusal, even though I really had nothing against pot. I just didn’t smoke it. "Tell me about Loretta Nell."
The smile finally fell from his face, and he gave his pretty eyes a practiced roll. "I can’t believe you’re here with that picture and don’t know anything. But all right. Loretta Nell Grimes came here in the early nineteen-seventies with a bunch of other hippies. They called themselves the Messengers."
What a weird name to call their group. Had they chosen it because they delivered a message from Mohawk’s book? I didn’t ask. The less Dwight knew about why I was here, the better. Something flickered behind his eyes, as though he knew my thoughts, but he continued talking without missing a beat.
"The Messengers rented a farmhouse outside town and told everybody they were going to live off the land." Here, he snorted as though it was the corniest, most typical thing he’d ever heard. "They stayed to themselves, so people got to thinking they weren’t so bad. Besides, there’d been a couple of pretty brutal murders, whole families, and a couple of kidnappings. People had bigger things to worry about."
Had one of these been the murder of Phil’s mother? My monkey burger rolled around on my stomach. Dwight watched me, eyes gleaming in a way I didn't like at all.
"But this one sheriff’s deputy, Freddy Stephens, figured out those hippies were the ones doing the killing." He drummed his opened palms on the countertop and hummed some tune. "Freddy Stephens and some other lawmen raided the farm. It turned into a standoff, and all those murdering hippies ended up full of bullet holes. Except for Loretta Nell. They never found her body." The smile slid back onto his face. "Now…you tell me where you got that picture."
"A collector." The word popped out before I had much time to think about it. I’d helped Tanner move a few magical artifacts. He always called the people who wanted them collectors.
"Of pictures?" One of Dwight’s eyebrows cocked, stark black against his pale skin.
I suddenly wanted to tell him to give my money back. My truck would be an okay place to sleep for the next two nights. Maybe I could use the public library’s internet. Even if I had to pay for it.
"Come on. Maybe I can help you." This time he wasn’t flirting. He was curious what I had going on.
"The collector I’m working for wants Loretta Nell’s book." I kept it short and simple.
Dwight nodded slowly. "The book. Yeah. Your picture’s the first I’ve seen to prove its existence. I’d only heard rumors. Supposed to be some kind of book of the dead. Sacrifice to the god, and you’re all powerful." He waggled his fingers and made a woo-woo sound. He had to take his hand off the key to put on his little finger puppet show, and I snatched it. My fatigue made me clumsy, and I dragged the sheaf of papers off the desk.
"Shit," I yelled as papers fluttered to the floor.
Dwight hurried through a swinging half-door separating the counter from the reception area and knelt to help me pick up the papers. I dropped to my knees to help him.
"I got it," he snapped.
I ignored the little turd and began picking up papers. They were covered with row after row of email addresses. Dwight saw me looking. His shoulders slumped, and the confidence fell off him.
"This place doesn’t get the most business. I’ve been trying a little email marketing." Red spots blazed high on his cheeks.
Devil’s Rest didn’t seem like a place to get rich. And I didn’t think emailing all these people would get him more business. Different strokes. "So about the book. Any ideas where I could start looking for it?"
"I’ve been out to that farmhouse dozens of times. If that book was there, I think I’d have found it." Dwight went back to stacking his email addresses, popping them against the counter.
Something about this place, and Dwight, made me itch. I lifted the sleeve of Tanner's too-big Foo Fighters shirt and scratched my arm. Dwight's eyes widened at the sight of my raven tattoo. I dropped the sleeve.
He straightened. "You know, you might have better luck searching for Loretta Nell's book at the farmhouse yourself. Why I don’t I give you directions?"
"I’d appreciate that." I had already started formulating a plan. If this had been a made-for-TV movie, sweeping victory music would have been playing in the background.
Dwight reached under the counter again and pushed a home-printed brochure at me. "Map’s ten dollars. Cash."
Inwardly growling, I dug out the ten-spot and snatched the map.
"What's the internet password?" I wanted to knock the smile off Dwight’s face.
"Loretta." Dwight’s laughter followed me into the hot parking lot.
I glanced at room five and turned over the brass key in my hand. Should I go to my glamorous room and try out Dwight’s internet access to learn more about Loretta Nell and the Messengers? After all, I’d gotten a room so I could access the web.
The lengthening shadows gave me my answer. No. Better to use the last of the daylight to visit the farmhouse.
I got into my truck, turned on the air conditioning, and studied the map. A big red x marked the farmhouse. Unless Loretta Nell escaped the police raid, which I doubted, she’d died in the farmhouse or on the grounds. The best and easiest way for me to find out about the book would be to contact her spirit.
Loretta Nell herself could tell me the location of the book. I'd banish her for her trouble, get the book, and see if I could salvage my relationship with Tanner. The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to see him walk away. He mattered to me unlike any man—even Chase Fischer—had.
Come to think of it, maybe I did have an immediate use for Dwight’s internet. I still hadn’t answered Tanner’s text message. Even though there was still no phone service, there was internet as long as I had Dwight’s silly password. I logged in and tapped out a quick email.
Tanner,
No cell service out here in the wilds. Hope you are checking your email.
Things are okay. I’m here in Devil’s Rest and think I have a line on this book. Maybe I’ll be finished faster than I thought.
Please forgive me for the way I acted.
xoxox PJM
I tapped send and had to wait several seconds for the confirmation ding. Dwight’s internet sucked. But hadn’t everything about this trip?
I spent a few minutes hunting through my witch pack and the covered bed of my truck to make sure I had everything I needed. Then I started the truck and put it in gear.
Dwight’s map instructed me to reset my vehicle’s trip meter before I left the Devil’s Slumber Inn. Then I was to drive exactly ten point two miles south of Devil’s Rest and turn onto an unmarked dirt road. The helpful note on the map said the road’s official name was Stephens Ranch Ro
ad, but dark tourists kept stealing the sign. The county eventually quit bothering to replace it.
Stephens Ranch Road turned out to be hard to miss. A tall, rusted metal archway with a big S on either side marked a dirt road winding into the hills. I turned onto it, bumped over the cattle guard, and drove along feeling pretty good about things. If it all went well, I could be headed back to my friends and family tonight.
But then the road came to a fork, both branches stretching off into nowhere. I took out the ten-dollar map and studied it more carefully. It didn’t show a fork in the road. Had I turned off on the wrong unmarked road? I didn’t think so. All the landmarks had matched up with Dwight’s cheesy map.
I took the road to the right because I didn’t want to waste the time to backtrack. According to the map, the farmhouse was three miles from the state highway. I’d gone a mile and a half, so I’d either be there soon or not.
The road took me up a steep incline that switched back and forth up the side of a hill. I chugged along at little more than a crawl because each second made me more sure I’d chosen the wrong branch. Now I’d have to find somewhere to turn around or back down the way I came. Turning around would be a bitch because this little road was barely wide enough to accommodate my truck.
At two and three-quarters of a mile, the hill flattened out into a grassy clearing overlooking miles of rolling green hills below a deep blue sky broken only by a few puffy clouds. The place seemed vaguely familiar, but the Texas Hill Country was full of views like this one.
Something moved at the edge of my vision. I turned to see three men getting out of a truck parked on the far edge of the clearing. They sauntered toward my truck. The chubby one in the middle with sunburned cheeks waved. One of his two companions, a pig-faced guy wearing a muscle shirt to show off his nice body, smiled at me. The third one, nondescript with his mousy hair flopping in his face, marched along with his head down like he was going to war.
My body tightened. I had two choices. I could slam the truck in reverse, do a quick donut, and haul ass back down the road I came in on. Or I could see if these men might give me directions.
A stinging combination of apprehension and doubt simmered in my guts, the bane of womanhood. I’d been on my own most of my life and considered myself a capable woman. But the hardest part was knowing when to take a chance on people being normal and helpful and when to run. It could go either way. Once it did, things would happen fast, and it would be too late. I made sure the gearshift was in drive and kept my foot on the accelerator.
The chubby guy with sunburned cheeks smiled wider and hollered, "You lost, lady?"
The other one, with the ugly face and the nice body, yelled, "Looking for the old Stephens farmhouse?"
I started to nod, but then it hit me that the third guy with the floppy brown hair had disappeared. Where had he gone? I took my eyes off the first two guys and searched for him. As I stared out the windshield, Floppy Hair leapt onto the hood and jeered at me. My fear snapped. I screamed.
The other two men laughed and closed the distance faster than I’d given them credit for being able to move. The chubby one yanked at my door and frowned when it wouldn’t open. He yanked again.
"Open this door, you bitch." He beat on the window with a meaty fist. Now that I could see his eyes, I knew I never should have stayed. They glinted pure, wild crazy.
The pig-faced one, eyes just as wild as Chubby’s, pulled a hammer out of his back pocket and hefted it in one hand as though testing the weight.
Go, go, go. I snapped into action, jamming my foot down on the gas pedal. The truck shot forward.
Pig-Face bleated a high-pitched squeal but couldn’t jump out of the way in time. The truck moved him. I tensed for the huge bump of running him over, but it never came. Chubby chased my truck, beating his fist on the side, his face so contorted with rage he barely looked human. I swerved toward him. He tried to jump away and fell into a cactus. His pain-filled scream made something inside me wake up and blink sleepily at the world.
Anger always simmered close to the surface for me. Now it came at me full steam. I wanted to hurt Pig-Face and Chubby again. The urge was so strong, vivid, bloody images accompanied it. But I’d had a lifetime’s practice controlling my anger—or at least knowing when to run before I got my ass whipped.
I put more pressure on the gas pedal and made a U-turn, cruelly steering my truck over the rough terrain. An ATV buzzed to life and burst out of the bushes near the mouth of the road, racing to block me from leaving. Floppy Hair sat on the back. His hair streamed out behind him like a banner.
I gunned the engine even harder. Floppy Hair and I reached the road at the same time. He gave me demonic grin that would never pass for normal, accompanied by a satisfied raise of his eyebrows. As though to say “got you now.”
Maybe some women would have stopped to keep from damaging their vehicle. Others might have stopped because they didn’t want to run over Floppy Hair. I wasn’t either of those women. I swung the steering wheel toward the ATV and never let off the gas. Floppy Hair could do nothing but let me hit him or get out of the way. He chose the latter, missed the road, and jounced down the steep hill. I hoped the ATV rolled over and killed his sorry ass.
I hightailed it back to the Y in the road and sat hunched over the wheel, taking deep breaths and shaking. Part of me expected my would-be attackers to come chasing after me. But I’d fucked them up pretty bad. It would take them a while to regroup and work up their nerve again. If they came back, I’d show them my magic. Make all of us sorry.
I stared down the other fork in the road. Would traveling it bring me just as bad of luck as the first fork? My instincts yelled at me to get back to the motel and find someone to come back out here with me. But who?
I’d run off a perfectly good boyfriend, perhaps the nicest I’d ever had, five hundred miles ago. My conscience didn’t want him here anyway. The same went for my friends and family. Even so, I wished for them with all my heart.
A familiar black form came to rest on a scrubby little tree’s gnarled branches. Orev. My raven familiar would come with me. He cawed as if saying, yes, he would. His thoughts met mine, and I saw what he’d seen as he flew here.
Go back toward the main road a bit. There was a place where I could turn around if I was careful. If I drove slowly, the men wouldn’t be able to tell if I’d left the property or if I’d gone down the other fork looking for the farmhouse.
Orev was right. I did as he suggested, coming upon a grassy crossroads I’d barely noticed before. The turnaround done, I drove back to the fork and took the road I didn’t choose before, driving slowly so as not to create a dust cloud. This was going to work out. I’d find the farmhouse, summon Loretta Nell, and get the book. Easy as chocolate pie.
The narrow little road went on for so long I figured I’d somehow gotten lost again. But then I rounded a curve and saw a faded red barn. Beyond it stood a white shape that could be nothing but a house. I stopped the truck, twisted in my seat, and stared behind me for the telltale puff of dust from another vehicle following. The shadows had lengthened with the ending day, but other than that, nothing had changed.
I continued my snail’s pace, still determined not to throw up dust for anybody to see. In the distance, the barn had looked small and quaint. As I got closer, I realized it was a towering building that covered as much ground as three houses. Beyond were mazes of pens and corrals. All empty with boards buckled and warped by the intense Texas heat.
In back of the barn lay a pile of junk that would have been the envy of any hoarder. A bicycle sat balanced on its handlebars. The wheel’s rim had been torn away, and the spokes pointed at the sky like meat skewers. Imagine falling on that. My skin tightened, and I glanced away.
I drove toward the farmhouse but didn’t see the graffiti until I got almost to the yard. The white chipped paint had been covered over with phrases like "Josie did it. She killed them all. Josie is just like Loretta Nell," and my personal favo
rite, "Josie is the devil."
I stared at the words. Dwight hadn’t mentioned anybody named Josie, but he had mentioned a group called the Messengers. Maybe she’d been one of them.
I parked near a sagging picket fence that used to be white but was now mostly gray. I slung my witch pack over my shoulder and grabbed the padded case holding my stang in one hand and a pot of grave dirt in the other.
The faded fence’s gate was warped shut. I had to put down the grave dirt and the stang to power it open. The hinges let out a groan. It echoed over the empty property. The air around the old farmhouse went still.
The sense of someone, or something, watching pricked at my skin, so intense that I did a slow circle, scanning the horizon for those assholes back at the hill. Nothing moved. I was alone, but only in the sense of being the only living person for a few miles.
Had I come here without talking to Dwight first, I’d have still known a bunch of people died here. It hung over the house like a swarm of flies. This old farmhouse was the kind of place where ghost hunters said they saw something.
If I believed Dwight, and I had no reason not to, the people who died here were murderers. Bad folks. Sometimes dark, ugly shadows came to claim evil souls. But sometimes hell didn’t even want them. They were left to walk the earth, lonely and angry, terrorizing whoever they could.
I stared into the farmhouse’s second-floor windows. The glass had been busted out and littered the ground near my feet. Rust-colored splotches decorated the crabgrass and broken glass.
Blood? That didn’t make sense. Dwight had said the cops took out the Messengers in the early nineteen-seventies.
A board above creaked, and a shadowy figure passed across one of the windows. The whispers of the dead filled the back of my mind. Yes, a spirit here would talk to me. Even if I had to force them.
