by Dan Alatorre
I screamed and screamed, staring at the pale tissue as it seeped blood, wetness dripping onto my collar and pain throbbing through me.
“Stop! Stop! I’ll tell you anything! What do you want to know!”
The room grew warmer. I was desperate. The pain was surging, pulsing, unbearable. But the hooded figure turned back to the cart again. My heart sank. “Please don’t. Please. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”
He bent over and pulled a hammer from the second shelf of the cart. With his other hand, he picked up a black marker.
Breathing hard, I tried to plead my case. “I’ve done something wrong. I don’t know what I did, but if you’ll just stop and talk to me, I can figure it out.”
The man pulled the leg of the jumpsuit over my left knee, drawing an X on my shin. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
“Please.” I quivered. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll tell you, whatever it is, I’ll tell you. What do you want?”
He stood back, looking at the X, the hammer in his hand.
“Please. What do you want?” My sobs were uncontrollable. I swallowed hard and stared at the hood. There was no face, no eyes, only blackness.
The breath went out of me.
He raised the hammer over his head and held it there, staring at me, then staring at the X.
“No, no, no! No, please! Just talk to me! I’ll tell you anything. I’ll—”
With a heave, he swung the hammer into my leg. A loud crack went up from the front of the chair, and a lightning bolt of pain shot up my leg.
I screeched, gasping as spit flew from my mouth. “What do you want?” I howled. “Please! Tell me! What do you waaaaant!”
The room turned hot as pain blinded me to almost everything but the hooded man and the cart. Sweat rolled down the front of my face, but the madman wasn’t finished.
He’s going to do to me what he did to that other guy.
Think, Harper. Think. What does he want?
The next few minutes introduced the pruning shears to my thumb, which came off with a low thwock of the blades, rolling a few feet across the floor. Then another fillet knife sliced away a short swath of skin from my cheek and neck. He doused both with alcohol, shooting massive waves of pain through me.
He stepped back, his voice calm and even, staring at me. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
Gasping and drenched in sweat, I rallied past my sobs to beg again as he bent over the tray and reached for the second shelf.
My words came out as an incoherent mumble. “Please . . .”
He stood, an axe head in one hand and a big steel mallet in the other.
I slumped in the chair. “Please, no.”
Gently placing the axe blade in the middle of my forearm, he lifted the mallet over it and reared back to deliver a blow. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”
“Yes! Yes!” I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut, the room now hot as an oven, screaming for mercy one last time.
“What do you waaaaannnttt!”
* * * * *
Josh and Remy kneeled by the coffin, staring at the young man inside.
Pretending to pray, Josh lowered his head. “I guess it’s wrong to say here.” He glanced around the funeral home. “But he was a real a piece of work. He constantly lied to us, his so-called friends. He cheated on Haylie every chance he got. He stole from his boss . . . Can’t say he was a real happy guy—I’m not even sure why we stayed friends. But now we have to sit here and listen to somebody eulogize him like he was a great guy? What a load of crap.”
He glanced at the body, an impeccably dressed man with his hands folded across his chest, all ten fingers folded interlocked, as if in prayer. His twenty-five-year-old skin had not a scratch on it, and his hair had been styled the way he always wore it, falling just past his ears.
Josh frowned. “Hard to believe he was in a car crash, huh? I don’t see a mark on him.”
“Coming to meet us at a club, no less.” Remy leaned forward, inspecting the corpse. “The funeral guys did a pretty good job. Harper looks really peaceful.”
“Yeah, he does—the jerk.” Josh stood, straightening his jacket and adjusting his tie. “Well, you know what they say. He’s in a better place now.”
THE END
Volume 2: Dark Voodoo
The Rendering
Countenance
Epilogue
The Rendering
The old woman stroked the head of the cat as she cradled it to her chest. “Right now, there is life.”
The medium’s words were thick and deliberately slow, with a hint of an accent that sounded Jamaican or Cajun—but each syllable was rich with meaning.
Ashley hung on every utterance.
The cat tilted its head back, closing its eyes and purring as the old woman’s fingers massaged its neck.
With a grunt, the medium rammed her hand downward and to the side, causing a muffled crunch. The cat’s tail dropped, and its legs went limp.
Ashley gasped, jerking backwards and covering her mouth with her hand.
“Now, there is no life.” Laying the matted, dirty animal on the floor of the shop, the old lady turned to look into Ashley’s eyes. “The cat has been rendered, and now the magic is released.”
“Magic?” A shudder rippled through the young lady, but she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run from the dark room.
“The spirit energy, trapped in the animal.” The old woman stepped over the carcass, to a tiny round table, sweeping her hands outward as she glanced around the small shop. “Now it is free.”
A knot formed in Ashley’s stomach. “And . . . what do we do with a dead cat?”
The medium reached out with her thin, gnarled hands, finding a match in the near-darkness. Striking it, she held it to a lone candle in the middle of the table, gesturing for Ashley to join her. “Now we cross the bridge.”
“Why do you want to go in there?” Bruni asked. “It looks so creepy.”
“It’ll be fun, that’s why.” Ashley stared at the corner shop, its windows painted with tarot cards and Mardi Gras masks—and a Ouija board. Just seeing it made her insides tingle with an excitement she couldn’t explain. “I’ve always wanted to go inside a real voodoo shop, ever since I was a little kid.”
Bruni shook her head, stepping away. “Girl, you go alone, then. I’m not setting foot in that place.”
Her friend departed for their hotel, and Ashley entered the shop. The little bell over the door pinged one time as she entered.
Bruni was right. It was creepy.
The store was dark inside, even though it was sunny and hot out, and it smelled of incense—like what they burned at the dog groomer’s shop, so customers didn’t notice the stink of wet dogs. The small shop was cramped with rows and rows of wooden tables, painted in bright colors and loaded to overflowing with exotic herbs and all varieties of strange trinkets. The walls were jammed with shelves full of crucifixes, dried flowers, candles, and beads.
In the back, three sets of elaborately painted curtains framed three tiny rooms, each with a big set of fancy iron garden gates mounted on the door frame, and a thick gold rope hanging just inside. As Ashley pretended to shop, she worked her way to the rear of the store and eased her fingers around the edge of one of the heavy curtains to peek inside.
There was the Ouija board.
Tiny dust particles floated in the beam of light that snuck past the painted windows and onto the little table. The board was just as she remembered hers: light wood, with black lettering. The answer Yes occupied the upper left corner; No was on the upper right. Underneath, in gothic letters forming two rows, was the alphabet, and below that were the numbers one through nine, followed by a zero. All of that was surrounded by a decorative black border; the center was decorated with a pentagram and a muscular, goat-headed demon.
It was as if the entire board had been custom-made to give anyone looking at it the chil
ls.
Which it probably was. She’d had one when she was a kid, and there was a strange reverence paid to it by her parents; even by the neighborhood kids. But no matter how many séances she and her friends tried, or how much meditation they did, the planchette—the triangular pointer for the game—never moved unless someone moved it. Usually that was accompanied by an overdone display of innocence from the offender, who guided the fake ivory pointer toward his or her pre-determined answer, and then broke into hysterical laughter.
But Ashley was no longer a child, and today she had reasons to play. Questions to ask. Answers to get.
The Ouija board rested on a painted silk scarf that had been draped over a round table and positioned between two blue velvet seats. It was housed in a room that was smaller than her closet at home. Almost nothing else would fit in the tiny space.
She stared at the board, her mouth open, her heart pounding. She had never believed in black magic or “seeing,” until attending a party at a friend’s house, back when she worked as a teller at Mid Florida Bank. Everybody kicked in ten bucks and a “psychic” told their fortunes. All in good fun.
But the psychic knew things, or pretended to know them, and gave just enough information to make Ashley question her long held belief that mysticism didn’t really exist.
But only question it.
The medium at the party had said Ashley would meet a man with a unique gold earring. He would be carrying the north star, and they would fall in love. Easy enough; earrings were common on guys her age, but the rest was a laugh. Carry the north star?
But the next day, a tall, handsome customer came into the bank. He had a dashing smile, a wide, fat earring, and just the right amount of chin stubble and charm. It wasn’t until he pushed up his sleeves and leaned on the counter that she spotted the tattoo. A constellation—the Little Dipper, featuring the north star. Inexplicably, Ashley knew right then and there that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.
Aaron ran his own business, and since he banked at Mid Florida, it was easy enough for Ashley to check his accounts and see he was doing quite well. She accepted his offer of lunch that very day—following it with dinner that night and breakfast in bed the following morning.
And while she could chalk all that up to coincidence, or even a self-fulfilling prophecy on her part once she saw the things the psychic had foretold, it was enough to set her wheels in motion.
Those wheels eventually took her to New Orleans with her man and her best friend, and to a small, musty voodoo shop a few blocks back from historic Bourbon Street.
Now a different medium stood in a different room, calling her to a different meeting.
And after seeing the stray alley cat meet its untimely demise, Ashley’s pulse raced.
What happens now?
The old floor creaked as the wiry thin medium set an incense burner on the table, gathering her sun dress at the back of her knees before easing her bones onto the velvet cushion. A knotted, withered finger with a long yellow nail pointed through the smoke to the other chair. “Sit.”
The séance had been negotiated mere moments before. Fifty dollars for a few small questions, allowing Ashley to authenticate the woman’s prowess before delving into items of a more substantial nature.
The young lady sat, leaning forward.
Pulling shut the ornate metal gates, the old woman reached up. A gentle tug of the thick golden rope allowed the curtains to close, shutting out most of the light and any noise from the shop. A tiny gap in the heavy cloths allowed Ashley to confirm the outside world still existed.
“The life spirit from the cat is the missing piece.” The old woman’s eyes seemed barely open in the flickering candlelight. “Its life energy come into the room and commune with those on other side. It make a bridge for us and allow the marker to move. That is why your board not work.”
Ashley’s breath caught in her throat. It was probably a good guess, or maybe she’d said something about playing with the Ouija board as a child. She glanced at the gap in the curtain, toward where the dead cat lay. “For each game . . . something has to die? That’s awful.”
“This was bad cat, an alley cat who come into my shop at night and kill my Gepetto. So, I trap him, and he is rendered.” The old woman sighed, her eyes far away. “To remove evil from the world is not awful. And it is the only way. The price must be paid.” She leaned forward, stretching her hands over the Ouija board. “You must show respect. We not call this a game. The price has now been paid, the bridge opened.”
A chill went up Ashley’s neck. She shuddered, rolling her shoulders to calm herself.
It’s all designed to get you on edge. The room, the incense, all of it. Part of the act. Relax.
The old woman leaned back and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. “What are your question for those who listen on the other side?”
Ashley managed a shrug, the knot in her stomach growing. Maybe this wasn’t the time. “I just wanted to—I was just fooling around. Playing.”
“I already tell you, this be not a game. I see in your heart you have questions.” The medium’s voice fell to a whisper. “Tell them to me and I will get answers, but do not delay. The price has been paid. The spirit energy does not stay here forever.”
Ashley folded her hands in her lap and glanced around the dark room. A tarnished, silver-framed hand mirror rested next to the incense burner; photos and paintings lined the room’s dark walls. A civil war soldier. A native American wearing a headdress. Cajun farmers in overalls and swamp boaters with wide-brimmed hats. All of them staring, unsmiling, at the camera—at her—and gently dancing with each quiver of the candle flame.
Under the table, she kneaded her hands. “Okay, well . . . can it be anything? Like, can I ask about the future?”
The old woman nodded.
Ashley took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting her eyes focus on the planchette, like she was speaking to it. “Will . . . my boyfriend Aaron propose, and will we get married?”
The old woman curled forward, lowering her head and resting her fingertips on the planchette. A thin line of smoke curled upward from the incense. Outside, the bell from the shop’s front door pinged one time.
Ashley stared at the Ouija board. In the thick black border, next to Yes, a nearly-hidden sun smiled at something unseen on its right. Next to No was a frowning crescent moon. Her eyes went to the demon, who seemed unhappy in its long, tapered goat’s head. The demon had a woman’s naked torso and a rat’s tail and legs. Angel wings stretched out from its back; long, thin horns emerged from its forehead. It seemed bigger than it had when she first glimpsed it from outside the tiny room.
The planchette crept across the board, the old woman’s fingers either guiding it or going along for the ride. The ivory triangle crossed the intertwined snakes on the demon’s belly and took a slow curve to the right, finally stopping just under the word No.
The old woman lifted her head. “He will not marry you.”
Ashley fell backwards into her chair. “What! Why?”
“That is not a question to take across the bridge.”
“Yes, it is.” Ashley frowned, folding her arms over her chest. “Why doesn’t he marry me?”
The medium stared at Ashley with dark, unmoving eyes. “He do not marry you because you do not say yes when he ask.”
She cocked her head. “Oh, my gosh, why? I wonder what happens for him to ask and I don’t accept.” Her gaze went to the old woman. “Is . . . there someone else?” Ashley raised a hand to her mouth and bit her fingernail. Thoughts of Aaron and Bruni filled her head. She pushed the images from her mind, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he marry me?”
“This has been told.”
“Can you find out why I don’t say yes when he asks? I mean, why don’t—”
The old woman raised her leathery hand. “These are things that will be. The bridge is here. With it, I hear answers from the other side because
the price has been paid.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Cat was small. Price was small. The bridge has now faded. When the spirit energy is released, it can be released slow to make a longer bridge—but then we must kill cat slow.” The old woman leaned forward again and smiled, displaying a sparse row of cracked yellow teeth. “A slow rendering is bad for the cat, but it will bring more answers. Those who want answers must choose.”
Ashley huffed. “Kill ten cats, I don’t care. I’m still not convinced this isn’t all some sort of sick con game. You might just take my fifty dollars and guess if Aaron proposes—you have a fifty-fifty chance either way.”
“I do not take your money.”
Ashley raised an eyebrow. “You ran my credit card, didn’t you?”
“The card was not yours. You know this.”
A shiver went up Ashley’s back.
“Oh, my god,” Bruni squealed as they dashed across the brick paved street. “I can’t believe you took that lady’s credit card!”
“Hey, she passed out on the trolley, so she was practically asking for it.”
“I think she was just asleep, Ashley.”
“What’s the difference?” Ashley held the card up in front of her friend’s face. “Now, some unscrupulous jerk might use this to steal her identity, but I’m just going to let her buy us a round of drinks and a pair of nice shoes, maybe two. Then I’ll toss it in the trash. Promise.”
Bruni shook her head and held up her hands. “Uh-uh. You are too crazy for me, girl.”
“Look. She wakes up, discovers it missing, and calls her credit card company to report it stolen. They won’t make her pay for the stuff we bought, so nobody gets hurt.” She headed down the sidewalk toward a boutique with a boot-shaped sign out front. “Come on.”
The old medium might have gotten a message from the credit card company. Maybe something appeared on the screen when she ran the card at the cash register. Maybe—
“Payment is to render the cat, not for the reading of the board. The reading is free, but it require a rendering to work. The price must be paid.”
