Darkness Stirring: A Troubled Spirits Novel

by J. R. Erickson

  "Or raped," Kenny said. "We came barreling up the stairs, ready to kick the guy's ass. Your door was locked, so we had to bust in. Sorry about that."

  Lori looked beyond him to where her door hung ajar, dangling crooked on one hinge.

  "But then there was nobody in here. Just you lying there screaming and, like… you didn't stop,” Kenny said.

  Lori dropped her eyes to her lap and rubbed her forehead. She could feel the warmth burning in her cheeks, and she wanted to pull the blanket over her head and make everyone in her apartment simply disappear. Normal people already would have left, she thought. They’d have realized she'd just been having a nightmare and taken their leave, but these were drunk people. A few of them had even begun to chitchat as if they weren't standing in the middle of her apartment.

  "I must have been having a bad dream," she said finally.

  Kenny bobbed his head up and down. "More like a nightmare. I mean when I touched you, you were like so hot. You maybe need to go to a doctor."

  "Yeah, thanks." She raised her voice, though it hurt to do so. "Umm… thanks, everyone. I appreciate your coming to my rescue, even if the bad guy was just in my dreams."

  A few of them chuckled, but they still didn't mobilize toward the door.

  "I think I'd like to get back to bed now," she told Kenny.

  "Oh, yeah, sure thing. I was gonna say 'don't lock your door in case it happens again,' but"—he gestured at the door—"that thing won't be locking anyway."

  Lori pressed her lips together and nodded. "Thanks again, Kenny."

  Kenny waved at his gaggle of drunken friends. "All right, guys and gals, let's take this party back downstairs."

  They slowly trooped from the room and disappeared into the hallway. One of them made a half-hearted attempt to close her door, but it remained open a crack. Lori stood, wincing at the pinch in her neck and massaging it as she made her way to the kitchen. She poured a tall glass of water. Two beer cans remained on her kitchen table.

  She remembered Matilda and scanned the space, looking for her kitty. "Matilda. Here, kitty, kitty," she called, but the cat didn't materialize.

  Lori finished the water and limped to her bedroom. Not only did her neck ache, her feet ached.

  "Jesus, I'm not even thirty and this is happening," she muttered, bracing her hands on the side of the bed as she lowered onto the floor. She peered under the bed, spotting two glowing yellow eyes tucked into the far back corner.

  "There's my girl," she murmured. "Come here, honey. Come out. It's okay."

  After a minute of coaxing, Matilda shimmied out from under the bed. Lori picked her up and snuggled her, then set her on the mattress.

  "Let's lock this, shall we?" Lori said, moving back to her bedroom door and turning the lock on the handle. It was a flimsy lock, easily broken, and she hoped Kenny wouldn't be making another appearance that night.

  The thought of it made her cringe and she didn't want to sleep knowing she might have another nightmare and find herself trapped somewhere, her body shrieking while her mind did God only knew what.

  The dream repeated on a steady and disturbing reel in her head—the crunching and slurping—and though she hadn't opened the door in her dream, she felt convinced that the figure she'd drawn so long ago stood on the other side.

  Lori lay awake, listening to the throb of the music in the backyard blending with voices. She tried not to sleep and managed it for an hour, but then exhaustion took hold and pulled her under.

  24

  Ben slipped on his padded spandex shorts and his dry-fit shirt. He velcroed his cycling shoes and lunge-walked to the garage while circling his arms.

  He rode west on 10, a highway that eventually ran through the Manistee National Forest, turning onto back roads to avoid traffic.

  As he rode, the pavement unrolled in a sinewy strip, gradually muting his mind. He concentrated on his breath, on the steady thrum of his legs as they scissored beneath him.

  On either side of the road, the forest bunched against the ditch, casting a streak of shadow that he tried to stay within to keep his body temperature a few degrees cooler.

  Ben wasn't sure when he sensed that something was off. He'd been so focused, so empty of thought, but gradually noticed the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He peered down to see his forearms too were covered in gooseflesh.

  He glanced toward the dark woods and had the unnerving sense that something watched him from within them, but something couldn't watch him. He was pedaling nearly twenty miles per hour. Anything in the forest would have to be running at top speed to track him from the woods. There were animals that could do it—wolves, foxes, even deer—but they'd be dodging trees and foliage.

  Still, the sense that something tracked him and continued to pace him only deepened as he pumped his legs faster. He was on a long stretch of country road, a stretch he'd ridden before, and he knew the next signs of human life lay at least five miles away, the next town more than fifteen.

  He pedaled harder, but turned and skimmed the forest as he did so. Something flashed in the trees, a whirring shadow that was in fact moving. Or was it stationary and his momentum caused everything in the trees to have the illusion of movement?

  Whatever it was, it stalked him. It wasn't a benign, curious being watching from the safety of the trees. It was something malevolent, and alarm pinged in his head. He tried to shake it off and return to his empty mind, but he could not make the feeling dissipate, as if his body sensed the danger and refused to let his brain shut it out.

  Lactic acid accumulated in his legs and, though he hadn't had a cramp in years, one seized him. Ben took one hand off the handlebars to knead the taut flesh in his side. His breath huffed, and he'd stopped the rhythmic breath necessary for a long ride and started panting—the type of breath that caused blackouts if it went on too long. He needed to stop, take a break, catch his breath, but he sensed that whatever pursued him in the woods would attack, and he'd be alone and vulnerable on the roadside.

  Gritting his teeth, Ben pedaled harder, sweat pouring down his face, entire body moaning in protest.

  When he spotted the Red Light Tavern, he broke wide open, pumping his legs, breath singing through his teeth. He swung into the dirt parking lot, hopped off his bike, allowing it to crash to the ground. He didn't kickstand it or chain it up. He fled into the bar, panting and limping.

  Ben inhaled the spirits, the beer smells that comforted him and reminded him of his dad, though he hated that the primary scent he associated with his father was draft beer. Warm yellow lights softened the edges of the room and the lined faces of the men occupying the bar stools. Most of them looked at him curiously when he entered, but soon returned to their drinks and conversations.

  A middle-aged woman with black hair streaked white drifted down the bar. "Hey, sugar. What can I get ya?"

  Ben swallowed the bile rising into his throat. He thought he might throw up and held up a hand, unable to speak for a moment. When the sensation passed, he walked on trembling legs to a barstool and collapsed into it. "Ginger ale and a glass of water, please, and some paper towels.”

  "You all right, honey? Your face is red as a tomato. Not having a heart attack, I hope. Young thing like you."

  "I biked here. Just overdid it, I think."

  He mopped his face with a paper towel and downed the entire glass of water in one gulp, slid the glass back for a refill. After fishing his phone from the back of his shirt, he dialed Carmen's phone number.

  "Hey, Ben," she answered.

  "Uncle Bem, Uncle Bem," Thomas called in the background.

  "Hi, Sir Thomas," Ben said. "Carm, could you or Jonas come pick me up?"

  "Thomas, please stop trying to hold the kitty. She's going to claw you," Carm said, distracted. "Did you say pick you up? Where? Did your car break down?"

  "No, I'm at a bar called the Red Light Tavern somewhere off of highway ten. I biked out here, but started feeling sick to my stomach. I don't want to risk tr
ying to make it back."

  "Huh, guts of steel is having stomach issues. That's hard to believe."

  "Yeah, for me too."

  "I'll come. I just need to load up the kids."

  "Bring Jonas's bike rack."

  "Okay. Give me a half hour and I'll be there."

  Ben hung up the phone and sipped his ginger ale. The sickness in his stomach subsided, but the terror he'd felt on his ride lingered. Nothing could have been chasing him in the woods, and the more he thought about it, the more he wound back to Lori's fears about the Dogman or a witch in the woods. Her superstitions had gotten to him. That was all.

  And yet… the image most prominent in his mind was Amanda, the girl in the hospital, who'd slit her own throat after saying the words 'she's in the woods.' Who was in the woods? And more bothersome still, how had Amanda gotten the unicorn necklace? Unless of course he'd hallucinated seeing it there in her hand. Strange nights—full moons in the E.R. Murphy's Law ruled those nights.

  A woman sitting with a man at a little table in the back stood and sauntered to the jukebox. She wore jeans so tight her belly spilled over the top and an equally tight red top showed off her bulging cleavage. She primped her poufy blonde hair as she walked, leaned seductively over the box and turned to blow a kiss at the man at the table. He caught it, but rather than putting it to his mouth, he made a show of reaching for the crotch of his pants.

  "I'm in hell," Ben muttered under his breath.

  A moment later the jukebox kicked on, the song sending an icy trail of gooseflesh up Ben's spine.

  Every Breath You Take by the Police started, their signature electric guitar sound pumping out the chords.

  Ben stood and stumbled to the bathroom. He braced both hands on the grimy sink and stared at himself in the smudged glass.

  Too many nonsensical things were happening, each testing Ben's ability to stay focused on the obvious truth. A person had been abducting and likely murdering girls in the Manistee National Forest. It wasn't a great mystery. Once the killer had been unveiled, all the little illogical pieces would slide together, but for now the inexplicable kept rearing up, drawing him away from the truth.

  Even as he explained it all away, he saw her behind him. Summer, but not the Summer he remembered. This was the Summer of his nightmares with her face a mask of putrid flesh. He spun around, but there was no one there.

  25

  Lori woke late, emerging from sleep to the undiluted light of mid-morning. Matilda lay curled on the pillow beside her.

  Yawning, Lori reached for her phone. It was nearly nine a.m. and she had a missed call from her mother and a text message from Ben.

  Ben: Heading out for my bike ride. We still on for meeting this afternoon?

  He'd sent it an hour earlier.

  Lori texted back.

  Lori: Yep, I'll be at your place at four.

  She had to be at Grand Rapids by noon to meet Irene Whitaker, and it would take an hour and a half to drive there, which left an hour to get ready. She stood, nuzzled Matilda's back, and then made for the kitchen. She brewed coffee, peeking into the backyard and grimacing at the mess of cans and beer bottles left by Kenny and his crew. A pair of polka-dot thong underwear dangled from a bird feeder Lori had hung in the backyard.

  "I've gotta get out of this place," she grumbled, taking her mug of coffee with her to the shower.

  Lori ran the water cool. The dream from the night before hovered, and no amount of coffee or cold water uprooted it from her befuddled mind.

  Irene Whitaker's office was located in an old section of Grand Rapids where brick ran amok and ivy crawled up the faces of the buildings. The building that held 486 Kensington had two display windows darkened by heavy black curtains. The door did not open when Lori pulled the handle, but a large green button beside the door said, ‘Ring for Service.’

  Lori pushed the button and waited.

  Several minutes later, a woman opened the door and peered up at Lori as if the midday sun were difficult to look into. "Lori Hicks?" she asked.

  "Yes, that's me. Are you Irene?"

  "Yes, I am. Do come in out of that glare."

  Irene stood less than five feet tall. Bouncy black and gray curls framed her petite-featured face. She wore red glasses and a bright blue shirt with a beaded neckline. A black skirt, so long it hid her feet entirely, brushed the floor as she moved. She closed the wood door and slid the deadbolt into place.

  "Pause," she told Lori, putting a hand on her arm. "And breathe." Irene took a deep breath through her nose. "Smell that? That is the smell of ancient secrets, of papyrus and paper that has seen the passage of time, worn leather and glue and the oils of millions of fingertips brushing the pages, of ink and lead and paint. For me it is the most intoxicating scent I have ever encountered."

  Lori closed her eyes and breathed. She did not know how to describe the smell—musty, but warm and soft, inviting. The smell reminded her of the little library in Baldwin where'd she sometimes sat as a girl, tucked into the kids' corner, reading paperbacks while her mother searched for sewing patterns and magazines and occasionally a Harlequin romance.

  "It is very homey," Lori said.

  "It is. Which is why, much to my husband's frustration, I have filled our house with old books. They are decadent. Some of the pages are so worn they are as soft as silk." Irene sighed dreamily. "On we go," she said, opening her eyes and urging Lori forward. "This is my work space and the closest thing I have to an office. Shall we sit?"

  They walked deeper into the room, which was long and narrow and filled with bookshelves as high as the ceiling. Books lined every surface. A wooden table with two padded chairs sat at the back of the space. A single book lay upon the table next to a notepad and pencil.

  "I do all of my translations here," Irene explained. "I hear the voices of the ancestors when I work, the voices in all these books telling me to see clearly what the author meant to convey."

  Lori pulled out a chair as Irene sat in the one opposite.

  "Tell me what ancient figure you seek to know."

  Lori glanced at the book on the table. The title had long since rubbed off from the dark leather cover. "Witches, I guess. I'm wondering about witches."

  "Ah, yes.” Irene’s eyes shimmered in the soft yellow light. “Witches have come into vogue, as they say, or don't they say that?" Irene chuckled. "I'm never one to keep up with the lingo in this fast-changing world. Regardless of the verbiage, the mistrust of witches is long behind us. The empowerment of women and the shifting of the scales from patriarchy towards matriarchy is redefining the witches of history. As well it should.

  “But let me also tell you this. There were powerful women who learned to work their own kind of magic and then there were the hags of the forest. They were rare, nearly always lived in total isolation, and the magic they sought was not to increase the harvest or honor the cycles of the moon. There's a reason the truly old tales are filled with a certain kind of witch, and that witch was not kindly or beautiful. She was as evil as the most vile of men—the men who tore into homes and raped the wives and children and killed the livestock and burned the field to ensure the family would not survive the winter. She had malice and greed and most of all hatred in her heart.

  “The word ‘witch’ derives from the old English word ‘wicca,’ which means sorceress or female magician, but later this word would come to be associated not only with magic but with a purpose linked to the devil, a woman who deals with the devil or whose magic comes from the devil.

  “Now the devil is a whole other entity, much broader in scope, which I dare not get into or a week from now we'll still be sitting in these chairs. Suffice it to say the term ‘witch’ had a negative connotation not simply because men detested women in power, which many of them did. It became soiled in part because some very nefarious individuals walked this earth and they had abilities that seemed to defy the intellect of mortal men and women. Since they used these powers for evil rather than good, the s
ource of their power was attributed to the devil.”

  “Do you believe that’s where their power came from?” Lori asked, thinking of the doorway in her dream and shuddering.

  “Do I believe that?” Irene mused. “How are we to know the source of such extraordinary power? We live today in a world of science. We move further and further from mystical explanations for good and evil. Now we look upon brain chemistry, parental attachment, life experiences. We pinpoint those things as the reason for evil acts, but still those explanations do not satisfy most because we inevitably come upon the outliers.

  “The well-adjusted boy with loving parents who was never teased in school but still mutilates and murders other human beings. The bright young woman who poisons her entire family. There are many who still believe it is the war between good and evil carrying on beneath the surface, and that we've merely taken on new, less frightening words to describe it.”

  "But what do you believe?" Lori insisted.

  "I believe there is free will among human beings and some of them will do evil acts for their own benefit. I also believe there is magic, there has always been magic, and there will always be magic and we, perhaps, are not a species that will ever be able to distinguish between the two."

  "Then you believe that evil witches existed?”

  "Surely, yes."

  "Could they still exist?"

  “Anything can exist. There will always be a limit to our perception as human beings. There are sights we cannot see, sounds we cannot hear.”

  “What about here in Michigan? Do you think a witch, an evil witch, could live here in Michigan?”

  "There are hundreds of thousands of homes in our state, twenty million acres of woods, more than ten thousand lakes. Plenty of places for something to hide. There are places that people never go. Is that by design? By something that is capable of steering them away? I think it’s possible, yes."

  "Have you ever come upon old texts about evil witches here in Michigan?"