Wilde Intent

by K M Charron

  “Okay, but what about the others?”

  “What others?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “The other girls.” She didn’t want to give specifics and hoped he’d figure it out since he’d lived in the area through all the incidences. Her dad had written that they’d happened over a twenty-year period.

  “Child, you need to be more specific because I have no idea what you’re jabbering on about.” He gave her a look that chilled her. One that said he knew precisely what she was talking about.

  “Never mind, it must’ve been a silly rumor. You know how things get out of hand in places like this.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “You mean places where a bunch of teenagers think they’re smarter than everyone else? Yeah, I’m familiar with those.” He chuckled to himself before seeming to recall her earlier comment. “Now explain what these symbols you found look like. I might be able to help with that.”

  Her stomach felt like she was about to plummet down the world’s tallest rollercoaster. She didn’t want to show him the pictures she’d taken, not to mention they were shadowy, almost to the point of uselessness. “It’s hard to explain, but I think I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “Well, you can start with these.” He gestured to the books. “But remember what I said. A lot of townsfolk around here believe in that ancient hoodoo nonsense. Some of it’s even planted on purpose online and in pamphlets to get tourists to visit the Apothecary shops and museum downtown. Don’t put too much stock in what you may find around here.”

  She forced an easy smile. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Drop the books back off to me at the front desk when you’re through.”

  “Thanks, Hugo.”

  A table stood five feet from her, so she set them gingerly on the table and opened the top one. The paper was unimaginably thin, like the kind inside the bibles where she’d gone to church with her gran on Sundays.

  At this rate, she’d be through it by summer. Ainsley licked her finger and flipped through the pages as gently as she could. It had everything from spells, to ingredients, to the phases of the moon. There were even a few pictures depicting old women in robes with naked men crouching at their feet.

  Ainsley closed it and opened the second book. It had a much darker feel to it with bold, black ink swirling across the pages, beckoning the reader to look more closely at each line. Ainsley kept turning page after page, fascinated with the imagery. There were so many symbols—each described in a foreign language with its English translation below it. Her eyes scanned the pages until she came across one that looked remarkably like the symbol engraved on the wall opposite the door.

  She reached inside her jacket pocket for her cell phone and scrolled through the camera roll until she spotted the symbol in question. Putting her phone’s screen and the drawing side by side, she gasped. The strength in her legs gave way slightly as she read the caption:

  The Evil Eye is an ancient curse intended to direct immense ill will or evil upon its recipient. Those cursed will often get ill and die shortly thereafter. Death is slow and painful.

  Her mouth and throat went dry. Could this affect her? Ridiculous, she reminded herself. Curses don’t exist because curses and spells are fantasy. Besides, what kind of killer would believe in this crap? But her insides still quivered. And even if it were possible, the curse still wouldn’t affect her. The caption stated the curse’s recipient, the person to whom it was directed, and that wasn’t her. Besides, she’d felt fine since they’d left. If she were cursed, wouldn’t she be showing symptoms by now?

  The memory of Sydney vomiting surfaced, but before she could think about it further, an announcement came on over the library speakers that it would be closing in ten minutes.

  Ainsley clicked on her camera app and took a few pictures of the page with the Evil Eye as well as the cover of the book in case she needed to find it again. She made a mental note about which stack they were in and delivered both volumes to Hugo at the front desk.

  He looked up from the computer when he heard their weight land on the countertop. “Find what you were looking for?” One of his eyebrows rose, and he gave her a wary look.

  “Just as I thought, all nonsense.”

  “Smart girl.” He swept the books up, putting them on the counter behind him. “Oh, I saved a new book for you. I devoured it last Sunday.” He opened a cupboard at his feet and produced a small hardcover.

  “Thanks, Hugo!” She and Hugo shared a love for gothic horror. She thought about the Evil Eye, the skeletal remains, and the way Sydney had been so sick. She hoped the only horror coming her way was from the book in her hands.

  Ainsley realized that even her bones ached. The stress seemed to be sinking deeper into her with each passing hour. She hated to think that Ashcroft’s mean girls would be a welcome reprieve to any of this. Ainsley dragged her weary body through the library doors into the crisp night air. She looked up, admiring the stars. The night sky had never looked so beautiful. Too bad her mind sullied it with missing girls and a room full of creepy occult symbols.

  “Ainsley!” A gruff voice made her jump and drop her bag on the ground. She put a hand to her chest and looked up to see a furious Darren Angelo.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Darren,” she called back, acting as unconcerned as she could despite the surge of adrenaline hitting her bloodstream, “what’s up?”

  He stormed toward her, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you, and why are you so interested in Daphne?”

  She backed up, her hands out protectively. “What are you talking about?” she stammered. She was horrid at this whole double agent thing. Her gaze moved quickly between him and their surroundings. No one else was around. She could turn around and run back into the library, thereby cementing her guilt, or she could face him calmly.

  “What I’m talking about is that you fucking lied to me.”

  “Lied about what?” Her voice was weak and unbelievable.

  He brushed his dark brown hair back away from his eyes. “About knowing Daph. You never went to camp with her. You never even met her! What perverse game are you playing? This is my life, goddammit.”

  “Whoa, whoa, Darren. Relax.” As soon as she said it, she saw it was a mistake. “I don’t mean, relax, this isn’t a big deal. I mean, if you calm down, I’ll explain everything.” What could she do but fill him in? If anyone could understand, it would be him.

  “Start talking, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Yes, I lied about knowing Daphne, but I care very much about what happened to her.”

  His eyes widened. “You know what happened to her?”

  She shook her head and sucked in a lungful of air. She was doing this all wrong. “No, I don’t, but I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m at Ashcroft.”

  His face changed again. Less fury and more confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Will you come sit with me over here? I’ll tell you everything.” Ainsley pointed to a bench a few feet away. A crow sat on the back of it, looking at them as if it understood what they were talking about. It was huge, with such dark black feathers that it looked nearly purple in the lamplight. A chill traipsed down her spine. She remembered the one that hit her window and fell to its death the same night as her father’s suicide. She shook her head, praying the thought would clear.

  Darren stalked over and sat down, his body language slightly softer but not by much.

  Sitting next to him, Ainsley began. “My father was an investigative journalist and had been coming to Danvers—Ashcroft, specifically—quite a bit. He was very secretive about his work, so I didn’t know why he kept returning here until I found a file on his laptop after he died.”

  She stared at him, waiting for the inevitable pity to show up on his face the way it always did when people found out. “I’m sorry, that sucks.” He said it with genuine empathy, but no pity. “But what does that have to do with Daph?”r />
  “My dad was investigating her case. He believed there was a cover-up going on and was trying to find out what happened to her. I’m here to continue his work.”

  He scoffed at this. “You’re telling me you uprooted your life, moved here, and are paying Ashcroft’s crazy tuition so you can find Daphne—a complete stranger. Bullshit.”

  “First,” she took a deep breath, “I’m here on a scholarship. I worked my ass off last winter and spring to get here. And second, there were others. My dad’s files show a possible connection between girls disappearing around here across a twenty-year span.”

  He rolled his eyes, but she could tell he was listening closely.

  “My dad believed they were all tied to Ashcroft in some way. I know you didn’t have anything to do with Daphne’s disappearance. He believed that he if could trace the missing girls or see how they were connected, he could uncover who had taken them,” she paused and added, “and learn what happened to them.”

  “Your dad thought the same person is responsible, for all of them?”

  She had him now.

  Darren turned toward her, face focused, most of the tension gone. He looked like he had when she’d first spoken to him at his locker.

  “He believed so, but he died before he could prove it.”

  “Do you mind me asking what happened to him?”

  “He died in a car accident on his way home from Danvers.” The lie slipped off her tongue effortlessly. If she told him the truth—that her dad jumped to his death—he might not trust any of this, and she understood why. But how could she convince Darren that her dad would never have committed suicide?

  “I’m sorry.” He wiped his palms across the tops of his thighs. “I get that you want to honor your dad, but why not just give the information to the cops? Why go to so much trouble to come here and start digging around yourself?”

  “All I can say is that I know my dad would want me to keep going with the investigation. He didn’t trust the police very much, especially the police here. He didn’t have a lot of faith that they were actually working Daphne’s case.”

  Darren laughed, but it wasn’t friendly. “Smart man, your dad. The cops aren’t good for shit here. They certainly don’t care about Daphne.” He twisted his hands roughly.

  “People here want everyone to forget about this,” Ainsley agreed, “and I want to know why. The missing posters, for example, were ordered down almost immediately after she went missing. That’s extremely unusual, especially since she was a minor. I get she didn’t go to Ashcroft, but she was still a member of the community—and your girlfriend.”

  “Headmistress Chambers only cares about the reputation of Ashcroft. As far as she was concerned, Daphne was just bad press by association.”

  “It’s like she didn’t want any reminders that Daphne existed. I can’t figure out if it’s because she likes to live in a fantasy where everything is picture perfect or if she’s hiding something.”

  Darren grunted loudly. “And we’ll probably never find out. That fucking cow has too much power—police and politicians camp out in her back pocket. When I pushed, asked questions, put up more posters, they said it was in my, and my family’s, best interest to leave it alone.”

  This hit Ainsley hard. “Are you serious?”

  Nodding, Darren said, “Afraid so. She’s blocked the investigation as much as possible. I know from Daph’s brother that the cops are stonewalling the family. They kept calling and showing up at the station for months, but they got the same bullshit excuses. ‘We’re looking into all leads. Daphne likely ran away. We aren’t stopping our investigation.’” He shook his head. “Cops haven’t done dick since the week it happened. They did just enough, so it looked good on paper, but that was it.”

  “Well then, I guess we’re going to have to do it ourselves. You in? I could really use a partner.” She allowed a slight smile to rise to her lips.

  “Fuck yeah.” Darren put out his hand for her to shake. He stood, brushing nonexistent dirt off his pants.

  “Wait,” Ainsley stopped him, “how did you know I’d lied about the summer camp and knowing Daphne?”

  “Call it intuition. I’ve also developed a keen sense of suspicion. I know Daph, and if the two of you were as close as you’d said, she would’ve mentioned you. I asked around and found out you’d just moved here. So I asked Daphne’s brother, and he said he was at camp every year with Daph, and he didn’t remember anyone named Ainsley."

  “You, my friend, have some mad detective skills. Excited to work with you, partner.”

  Chapter 2

  Sydney

  Sydney had spent ten minutes this morning with her head draped over the toilet, and she’d been fighting bouts of dizziness and nausea ever since she and Ainsley had opened that door several days earlier.

  She sat in Winslow’s chem class between Jax and Ava, praying to Mother Nature and the ancestors that he wouldn’t call on her today. She wasn’t up to spelling her way to the right answer. And why did the room seem so much louder than usual? Everyone was chatting like usual before class started, but her head pounded fiercely. She fought an overwhelming urge to cast a mute spell on the lot of them.

  She looked from row to row to see if Ainsley had come in yet, hoping to gauge how she or any other of the middlings were feeling. That way, Syd would know if this was just a nasty flu or if something from inside that underground room really was affecting her.

  Ainsley was perched on top of her desk with a big smile on her face, talking to a few middlings who seemed delighted to have her attention. It was utter bullshit. She breathed deeply to quell the fire growing inside her. Ainsley had somehow gone from pitiful charity case to the center of fucking attention.

  “Still have it out for her, huh?” Jax asked, too loudly for her liking.

  She tried not to wince, but the throbbing in her head seemed to increase with each minute. Not removing her stare from the middling, she said, “She’s so fake. How can no one see that?”

  Ava leaned in. “I don’t get it. She’s beyond average. Shall we remind her of that?” Her eyes sparkled with cunning. “I do like surprising people with gifts in their locker.” Syd knew she was referring to a multitude of past victims, including Ainsley’s dorky roommate.

  “I like the way you think.”

  Syd grabbed her bottle of water and sipped it—slowly. Her gaze went back to Ainsley, who was giggling and flipping her long waves over one shoulder. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She either wasn’t sick or a master at hiding it. How had the fog not impacted Ainsley?

  “I don’t get her,” Sydney said out loud to no one in particular.

  Jax paused from texting. “What’s there to get? She’s a boring mid. Nothing more. Your fixation is bordering.”

  “But that’s just it.” It was time to confess. She couldn’t stifle her frustration anymore. She needed to vent. “I can’t read her. I’ve tried like five times now, and I get nothing.” Sydney gathered them closer to her. She felt a tad conspiratorial but didn’t care. “There’s something wrong with her. She’s not a normal middling.”

  “You need to chill,” Ava said and rubbed Syd’s arm.

  Syd yanked herself away. “No, what I need are friends who understand that there’s something not right about her.” The edge in her voice cut, but she had to get them to take this seriously. “And you’re going to help me find out what it is.”

  Professor Winslow called the class to order, but Sydney zoned out, her mind drifting back to the symbols and the room. She still wasn’t ready to share any of that information with them. She and Ava had a healthy competition for just about everything, and she wouldn’t allow Ava to piece things together before she did. And she still needed to wipe Ainsley’s memory, deleting the room from her mind. It was dangerous having a middling mixed up in this—especially that middling. She hadn’t seen her anywhere the last few days except for chem class though, and she couldn’t exactly perform a forgetting s
pell in here. She prayed the freak hadn’t already told Harper or any of her dopey new friends about it.

  There had to be some connection between the room and her illness. Maybe it really was cursed, or they’d actually let something out. She had to go back, take another look around, and see what she was dealing with—for herself and the safety of her coven.

  The final bell rang, and Syd gave Langston, Justin, and Khourtney an excuse as to why she couldn’t grab lattes with them and booked it out there. She was going back to the hole—to the room that started it all.

  The air was chilly but clear, the sun streaming between the trees. She jogged, too impatient to walk. She remembered the general area, but it took her a while to find the hole, disguised as it was behind a cleverly crafted mound of earth covered in thick green ferns. Witches were brilliant! She couldn’t help but wonder how long ago it was constructed and if her coven’s ancestors had been responsible. They had lived in the area as far back as the late 1620s, arriving among the early Pilgrim settlers, so it was likely. Her coven was officially created in the late seventeenth century, after the Salem community convicted Sarah Wildes of being a witch and had her hanged. But Sydney knew the room could’ve been constructed by any witch over the centuries and not necessarily a Wilde.

  Sydney tied the rope she’d grabbed from the stable’s supply room around the closest tree trunk and used it to lower herself down. A few loose rocks tumbled, and she slid toward the bottom.

  She readied the flashlight on her cell and stepped in front of the closed door. The lengths of ropes across it last time lay bunched in a pile on the ground where they’d left them.

  The cavern’s voices began, speaking over one another. “You returned. We knew you would. You weren’t careful. It’s too late now.”

  The whispering hallways at Ashcroft were always cryptic and, at times, tiresome with their riddles. Some of their bored witch ancestors preferred to amuse themselves from the other side rather than enjoy their final resting place. She still couldn’t understand how the voices reached out here, away from the school, Nest, and tunnels though.