by Cailyn Lloyd
The Jeep Wrangler started without hesitation. He shifted into drive and turned left onto the highway.
The road was a frightening vision—a furious, twisted wall of wind and snow, assailing the few trees he could see. He drove slowly, letting the navigation system guide him, occasionally fondling the cross on his neck.
“Turn in two hundred feet.”
“Turn in one hundred feet.”
Thank God for the GPS. He would’ve missed the turn; the sign had gone down in the wind. As he swung to the right, he noted a single set of tire tracks leading into oblivion, rapidly filling in with snow. According to the map display, his destination sat almost two miles up this zig-zaggy stretch of road.
Farther up, the tire tracks veered to the right near a big house occasionally visible in the snow. Nice to know there was another house on this stretch of road should he run into trouble.
The drive became more harrowing.The Jeep bucked against invisible drifts littering his path, pushing him right then left, threatening to send him into the ditch. Still, he was almost there—
Without warning, the car broke into the open. No trees on either side of the road, the wind fierce and unremitting.
Whiteout.
Had he taken a wrong turn? The navigation system insisted the house was near, but a sense of dread crept over him. Something was wrong.
A dark circle loomed ahead.
What the—?
He slammed his foot on the brakes. The Jeep bucked and slid sideways as he realized in horror the exact nature of that dark circle. Careening, sliding out of control on the ice, the Wrangler pitched over into the open water of Lost Arrow Lake. On its side and sinking fast in the perfect blackness of the storm, Kevin Drew couldn’t find a handle or grip, couldn’t orient himself in the vehicle. Knew with absolute dread there was no escape from this watery grave. He prayed to God to save his mortal soul as the cold water sucked his life away.
So cold.
So very cold.
Seventy-One
Laura reflexively threw an arm up to cover her head and crouched over Leah while glass rained down upon them. Numb physically and mentally, she remained in that position long after the glass stopped falling, cowering, until she felt cold air from the broken window creep along the surrounding floor. Felt the distinct sensation of eyes upon her, watching.
Laura didn’t look. She was exhausted. Beyond rational thought.
Ashley was Anna? Anna was Ashley?
Lucas and Anna—or Ashley, or maybe Anna and Ashley; it was so confusing. They were all dead regardless. That should have been the end of it, but Laura felt someone or something staring at her and knew with sickening certainty that it wasn’t over. Another battle loomed. A fight for which she had no stomach. One she saw no chance of winning. She was done. Broken. Burned out.
The room was deathly quiet, other than the sound of the wind in the trees outside and the ticking grandfather clock that had somehow survived the maelstrom. Laura remained afraid to look, frightened of the palpable presence, but slowly lifted her head anyway.
The room appeared empty.
She focused, searching, feeling eyes upon her. Every pane of glass in the center window had shattered, the leading bent inward and ruptured, forming an ovoid hole. The Hall was a shambles. Tables overturned, the sofa destroyed, broken lamps and glass everywhere. Lucas lay near the center of the room, the battered side of his head turning dark red. Ashley lay near the fireplace, staring with sightless surprise into space, the handle of the pitchfork pointed outward from her chest, her body the final resting place of Anna Flecher. Dana remained unconscious, Leah silent in her arms.
Laura saw nothing but knew something was here, she could feel it. Looking around, the feeling grew more profound. The lighting in the room seemed faulty as well. The overhead lights and one lamp that had been spared were fading, brightening, and fading again as though something were sucking the energy from the room.
Scanning the room again, searching for some detail missed, her eyes settling on a point near the broken window. There was nothing visible, nothing tangible, but Laura sensed a presence there nevertheless. It was the focal point to which all the light rays in the room were drawn. In turn, something disquieting and evil seemed to emanate from that nucleus: fathomless cold and blackness, like the portal to an abyss into which she could fall forever and ever.
Laura shivered, cold with exhaustion and fear—the naked fear of a child lying in bed at night, awakened and searching the darkness for the creature stalking her there. Under the bed, within the closet, or even crouched by the bed, its reddened eyes would bore into her back. Her terror would grow until paralysis made it impossible to roll over and dispel the monster. She would lie there and imagine a long-clawed paw settling slowly upon the bed, close her eyes so tight, blood vessels threatened to burst; would remain rigid until she fell into an uneasy sleep, waking the next morning with an unsettling memory of her fears the night before.
Though she longed for it, she wasn’t home in New York, wasn’t in her bed, and didn’t have the reprieve of sleep to dispel this monster. No, it was here in this room, nameless and shapeless, intent on harming them.
She distantly registered the sound of the front door opening, then slamming shut, feet stomping boots free of snow. The police? What good would they be? Of course, the police would stumble upon a scene of incredible violence, and Laura would finally get the rest she craved—in an asylum.
No flashing lights. Not the police.
A voice in her head spoke. “Hello, Laura.”
Who? As she thought it, she knew the answer.
Shepherd. He had come to help. She carefully laid Leah between two cushions, stood and brushed the glass from her clothing as he walked into the room, a black satchel in his right hand. He was dressed for the weather in a heavy parka with a fur-lined hood. An older man, he was slight in stature. Laura could think of nothing to say. She then noticed the room seemed to be humming, a low bass thrum that sounded menacing, if one could infer menace from just sound.
The man named Shepherd spoke:
“Hwæt! Hēafod-mǣgum, þæs þū in helle scealt werhðo drēogan, þēah þīn wit duge!”
The low frequency hum became a vibration, an agitation in the air, resisting Shepherd. Or so it felt to Laura.
He continued to speak in fervent, incomprehensible words. A crack appeared in the wall by the window. Dust fell from spreading cracks in the ceiling. He didn’t acknowledge Laura standing nearby. It didn’t matter. His words seemed to counter the presence in the room, an antidote perhaps. As if to confirm this observation, or her deluded longing for an end to the madness, the vibrations ebbed. The lights grew brighter, the air clearer, the sense of menace receding through the broken window. Shepherd spoke for a few minutes, then closed his eyes, raising his head slightly as if testing the air.
Finally, Laura said, “Is it over?”
He held up a finger to silence her.
She slowly eased herself over to Leah, who had miraculously fallen asleep between the cushions. The adage about children sleeping through anything had just passed an extreme test. Laura scooped her up with her good arm and tried to brush the glass from her hair with limited success. The broken bone in her arm shot sharp pains up her arm with every movement.
Dana stirred and slowly sat up, looking befuddled. Stared, mouth agape, at Shepherd. Screwed her eyes shut, shook her head and looked again. She must have seen Ashley then, lying dead, impaled with the pitchfork. Her eyes rolled back, and Dana collapsed against the sofa with a sigh in a dead faint.
Shepherd said, “No. It’s not over. Get the child out of here now! Put her somewhere safe and place this next to her. Then hurry back!”
He handed her a small but heavy silver object, an amulet.
“What?”
“Don’t argue!” He looked anxious, his brow knitted with worry lines.
What could possibly happen now? Her anxiety returned in cascading waves.
&
nbsp; “What’s the matter?” Her voice quavered, a nameless dread, black, sleek, and deadly, stalking her.
At that moment, Laura heard a loud and resounding crack. As she backed away from the sound, she looked up and saw a large lamp dangling from the beam above. It tore loose and fell. As Shepherd moved to dodge it, the heavy lamp seemed to anticipate his move, falling in a slight arc and striking a glancing but substantial blow to his head.
Shepherd dropped like an eighty-pound sack of Idahoes.
Seventy-Two
Laura hesitated only a moment. Shepherd was unconscious or dead, she didn’t know which, but opted with little thought to follow his instructions to the letter. She stood and ran awkwardly from the room, trying to balance Leah on her hip with her good arm, the amulet clutched in her other hand.
Through the sitting-room window she saw the Range Rover in the driveway parked beyond the truck, still running, a cloud of exhaust driven at a sharp angle by the wind. Thought about running, taking his vehicle and fleeing—a fleeting thought born of desperation. But she couldn’t leave Dana behind and Shepherd had come to help. She couldn’t leave him to deal with this alone. She just couldn’t. Laura bounded upstairs, grabbed pillows, and ran to the kitchen. Made a small bed with the pillows in the corner and laid Leah down. Leah was asleep, oblivious to everything and, for that, Laura was thankful.
The amulet was solid silver, given the weight. Round, a series of pikes and tridents radiated from the center, surrounded by runic symbols. She set it next to Leah, trusting it would protect her, then thought how irrational that sounded and barked a humorless laugh. Little had happened this long day that was even close to rational. Laura stayed, watching her sleep, trying to stave off his command to return to the Hall. She stroked Leah’s hair for a moment and wearily got to her feet. The house was silent. Perhaps Shepherd was wrong. Maybe it was over.
Laura walked warily through the sitting room, the library, paused at the arch into the Hall. Shepherd lay prone, the room still other than the sound of the wind blowing occasional wafts of snow into the room. Laura checked Dana, who remained unconscious on the floor. She should move her, but with a broken arm she couldn’t imagine how she would.
She slid over to Shepherd and knelt beside him, saw a gash on his temple. Found a pulse. She gently shook his shoulder.
He awoke with a start. “What?”
He shook his head. Focused on her. “Laura.”
She nodded. Already felt an odd kinship with this man. “How do you know my name?”
“I’ve been observing you. Watching the house, your husband, all part of a long story. We mustn’t dawdle. Please help me up.”
She took his arm and he slowly rose to his feet.
Laura looked at him searchingly. “Everything seems quiet now.”
“It isn’t over. She’s just toying with me.”
“She?”
“Why, yes I am, Kenric.” The precise British voice came from behind. Laura turned and saw Ashley standing there, suspended really, like a puppet, her face dead and blue. Three dark puncture wounds crossed her abdomen, accented with rings of drying blood. She held the pitchfork and dropped it to the floor with a clatter.
Laura edged back, hand over mouth but she couldn’t stifle her scream, a long and piercing reaction to the unbearable. Laura thought she might faint, actually willed herself to do so but could find no reprieve from that insane image of dead, talking Ashley.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Kenric.” The dead woman glared at Shepherd. “For five hundred years I’ve been waiting for this moment, you bastard.”
She stepped forward, spoke a few guttural sounds, words perhaps—Laura couldn’t tell—and thrust her hands out. Laura felt a wave pass through her, but it failed to materially affect either of them.
She looked surprised—if surprise could be inferred from a dead face. Again, it spoke in guttural tones with a wave of the arm. Nothing. More and more, Ashley looked like a decomposing marionette. It was awful.
“That is not your friend.”
It looked like my friend. Laura still struggled with that cosmic contradiction. What had happened to Ashley?
“That’s the ghost of a monster, manipulating the body of your friend.”
Shepherd spoke a few unintelligible words, and the Ashley abomination collapsed into a shapeless heap.
He pulled a cross from his bag, a slender silver cross with a pointed tip. “Here, drive this through her heart.”
“What?” Laura stared in shock. “No! Are you nuts?”
“Hardly. That’ll prevent that thing from re-animating her body.”
“I can’t—”
The corpse sat up and said, “Sorry, Kenric. Not a chance. Your time is just about up.”
Shepherd threw the cross and dropped her with deft aim. The Ashley creature flailed in spasms before falling limp, the cross protruding grotesquely from its chest.
Laura thought she had seen everything tonight, but this creature inhabited a nightmarish plane far worse than Laura could imagine. Fighting with Lucas, with Anna, and every last awful event this long night left had her numb. Adrenaline depleted. Exhausted. She ached everywhere. Her cheek, her neck, the broken arm, her shoulder, her hip. She wanted to curl up and crawl into the fog. Anywhere but this horrid otherworld filled with talking corpses, pitchfork-wielding dead men and ghostly apparitions.
Finally, Laura said, “How could she have been buried here five hundred years ago? There were no people here then.”
“She was buried in this house, in England. I don’t know how the house came to be here. Someone or something moved it all that way.” He seemed to contemplate that mystery, then raised his eyebrows. “And Native Americans might bristle at your suggestion that they weren’t people.”
“Sorry, I meant Europeans,” Laura said. “So what now? What do we do? Hold hands…a united front or something?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Hardly. This isn’t a movie.”
“So, what then?”
He gave her a silver amulet. “Put this in your pocket.” Then he handed her a silver Celtic cross. “Focus your energy through this.”
“What? How?”
“You don’t know?” He rolled his eyes and raised his head, perhaps summoning help from above. “Oh, dear God.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Use your powers, my dear.” He spoke as if coaxing an addled child.
“What powers? Everyone keeps talking about these powers I have. I don't have any powers.”
“Oh, you're wrong and very gifted. You have powers—perhaps power is the wrong word. You can channel the forces of nature to your advantage—I feel it strongly. With the proper training, the things you could accomplish—”
“I don't want it.” Laura stared at him.
“You have it. Why fight it?”
“It's…frightening.”
“Daunting perhaps, but also a marvelous gift, given to very few.”
That she might possess powers of the nature she had seen in this room was too frightening to consider though the evidence was there. She’d stopped that shovel in mid-air.
“What does that cross do?” Laura asked.
“It’s a talisman. It focuses energy like a lens—my energy and the forces of nature,” he said. “You’ll act as an amplifier to further focus my power.”
He took her shoulders and turned her slightly. “Stand here and hold it like so.” He arranged the Celtic cross in her hands held up high. She dropped her hands, unwilling to hold the pose.
“Do it!”
“I feel stupid.”
“Would you prefer to be dead? Now do it! We’re running out of time.” He was trying to help but sounded exasperated. Laura sensed a strong undercurrent of anxiety.
“My arm is broken.”
He reached and gently took her left arm, placed his hands over the break and spoke a few words in his strange language. With his index finger, traced a pattern over the break and
spoke again. The pain faded and was gone.
“It’s fixed?” Laura was incredulous.
“Hardly.” He said, a bemused smile on his face. “It’s mending. Mostly, I shut down your pain response.”
Shepherd reached into his satchel and pulled out a round container that looked vaguely like a big salt shaker. He sprinkled a circle of bluish powder around her, then outlined a second blue circle around himself. He gazed intently at the fireplace. The logs burst into flames and burned, filling the room with warmth and orange light. It grew brighter as the lights above faded again.
Laura reluctantly held the cross up. Tried to focus, to be mindful.
Silence fell upon the room. A silence laden with unspoken threats of violence and death. The rumbling returned, subtle at first, then shaking the floor, growing in intensity until the wall behind Shepherd crumbled and paneling and plaster crashed to the floor.
Shepherd faltered, struggled to maintain balance. He spoke rapidly in his ancient tongue, raising and lowering the cross as if appealing to the gods. Perhaps he was. Tremors shook the house, seemed to radiate from the focus of darkness by the window, an invisible but palpable malignant presence. Another of the large Hall windows exploded, showering the room with glass. Shepherd continued to speak rapidly, his voice rising in volume and pitch.
Laura stood rigid, holding the Celtic cross, feeling energy, electricity perhaps, coursing through her. She sensed immense conflict in the room, a cataclysmic confrontation; a collision of matter and antimatter, life and death, light and dark, good and evil; the interface of two immutable forces bent upon destruction and annihilation of the other—a battle between an invisible entity and a slight man who looked like he should be playing chess instead of slaying monsters or dragons or whatever inhabited the room with them.
Beams above shifted and groaned. Plaster fell in chunks from the ceiling, and the fire in the hearth waxed and waned and flared bright again. All the while, Shepherd spoke, an impassioned chanting that was otherworldly.