During the discussion, I convinced Patricia to avoid as many security rigs as possible. With a traffic camera mounted at nearly every intersection, that’ll be a bit tricky. Smaller towns generally spy on their residents much less. Overall, my message was about the importance of keeping their heads down low. His newfound freedom comes with a hefty price. Implementing my plan will be complicated if anyone should wander into this town anytime soon. It’s baffling that no one has shown up yet.
Although most of what I’m saying is getting through, a gloomy look hangs on Patricia’s face. Having passed so many grave markers is a continual reminder of an ambiguous wish gone horribly wrong. She summed up her guilt, mumbling, “They don’t exactly set music to a monstrosity like this.”
She apparently hasn’t heard bands like Bathory or Gorguts.
When we approach the west edge of town, we all notice the same thing at precisely the same moment. The trees beyond the town line are all healthy and full of leaves. It’s as if a straight line has been drawn separating where vegetation is permitted to grow just outside the border that enclosed the modern-day necropolis known as Wilkinson Creek.
Outside the periphery of Wilkinson Creek, the world isn’t full of deterioration. The trees are green, and the two-lane road is actually paved just how I remember it. As we walk up the languished embankment, I notice that my truck is parked on the shoulder of the highway. I verify the license plate before getting too excited. Things are beginning to look up.
“Patricia, I think everything is going to work out,” I say. “Do you see that white truck across the highway? It belongs to me.”
“We both see it,” she says. “Will it have enough gas to transport us to a safe location?”
“If what we’re seeing isn’t a mirage, it should have enough fuel to get to the first bus station in a large city. You will just need to stay out of sight until we arrive in a place where people won’t know either of you. Rockford might be our best move at this point.”
Eventually, things will not be so calm around here, so I don’t mind driving into the night to escort them to a safer location.
“Don’t be afraid of the unknown,” I say.
“We’re not afraid,” she says. “We’ll make it a journey.”
“I know it may seem weird hearing all the noises out there,” I suggest, “but we will—”
Upon turning around, Benny and Patricia have both dematerialized in that space of seven seconds. I sure hope they haven’t been buried along with the other unfortunate residents of the town. After all, Benny was finally getting a long-awaited taste of being free from captivity. No new grave markers appear to be in the vicinity, so I need to imagine the best-case scenario; the death count is already way too high.
Could I have blacked out for a few minutes? Benny and Pat may have left because I was temporarily incapacitated. A town disappearing is a perplexing visual to take in all at once. Who knows what my brain might need to do to compensate for all the visual horror? Considering that the sun is still in the same position, I’m ruling out a loss of consciousness. Benny and Pat are just elsewhere.
Upon stepping over an invisible borderline that literally separates life and death, I look back to be sure Benny and Patricia did not return. With all the wackorama today, I’m not discounting any notion. My truck is intact on the shoulder after disappearing from a parking lot five miles away. Two people reappearing from the void is not beyond the realm of possibilities. While wrestling with my worries, I survey the horizon for movement. Nothing. Well, “nothing” feels adequate to get me moving towards my reemerged truck. I’ve served as a glorified babysitter long enough today.
When I reach into my front pocket, my keys and phone have mysteriously reappeared. My phone seems to be without any battery power, but I’m not complaining. My wallet has also returned to my back pocket. Crossing that line must have reanimated my possessions. I unlock the door and climb onto the front seat. I’m thrilled to feel the heat of leather seats and that warm, stagnant air that spills out upon opening the door on a summer day. I quickly consume the half-eaten pack of almonds and guzzle what is left of a warm can of Sprite I was swigging down on the way to Franklin Hills. Getting away from the uninhabitable graveyard lifts my mood substantially. After what I’ve endured over the past two hours, I will rarely complain again. Very few problems can compare to walking over the soft dirt where over 7,000 residents were stuffed in the soil—all without a gathering to bid farewell to any of them.
When I turn the key, the starter just clicks, refusing to turn over. After three frustrating attempts, the truck finally springs into life. As I pull onto the highway, I stuff all thoughts related to the afternoon and let the evening air blow through the stuffy cab. Within a mile, it becomes evident that the gloomy day isn’t quite over yet. A gorgeous woman sporting a tilt hat, riding boots, and a yellow and black polka dot umbrella walks along the shoulder of the road. Under the circumstances, I would have expected Abellina to descend from a cluster of dark clouds holding her umbrella like a diabolical Mary Poppins! Considering that she probably can step into the unforeseeable future—without the assistance of a Delorean hitting 88 miles-per-hour—she couldn’t look more out of place.
I pull the truck to the side of the road, placing my quivering hands firmly on the steering wheel. The comic book, Matthew’s phone call, and Carmen’s documents were all suspiciously timed. The first precursor from Abellina’s bag of tricks may have just been those binoculars. Something says that the $300 in Patricia’s savings account didn’t slide to the credit side of the ledger by chance. Seeing Abellina through those binoculars was a direct message, certifying that I am not as quick on the uptake as once previously believed. “Hiding in plain sight” never held as much meaning to me.
With the recent knowledge that she is capable of destroying a town faster than I can load a dishwasher, I’m almost afraid to speak with her. I can understand why Tom Hanks was so rattled upon seeing Daryl Hannah’s fins for the first time in Splash. Having a woman reveal her true identity—one that is practically a myth—is simultaneously threatening and exciting.
When I climb from the truck, I tread lightly. Abellina wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to talk. I need to keep in mind, at all times, that the peaceful woman I spoke with during counseling was playing a role to pull the shade on Wilkinson Creek forever.
“Abellina, would I be able to have a few minutes of your time?” Maybe I should be addressing her as Bridget. How to handle this moment is so confusing. “Now that I’m aware of your true identity, a few questions are popping up.”
She turns slowly, sensing my uneasiness. Extreme caution is a natural reaction. Not only did two people dematerialize while in mid-sentence near the town line, but I’m also standing a few feet from a supernatural entity that I’ve known as a completely different person. It’s a dichotomy because there was no sign of compassion in Wilkinson Creek. In all truth, seeing the town swallowed up was less of a shock than Bridget being revealed as Abellina. Crazy shit like this usually only happens in comics with the likes of Diana Prince becoming Wonder Woman.
“I would expect you’d be ruminating a bit,” she says in the usual tone I’ve heard during counseling. She masked everything but her voice. “Taking into account the answers you’ve already figured out, let’s avoid any redundancy since our time will need to be limited.”
From my pondering throughout the afternoon, I managed to reach some conclusions based on small fragments of information I gathered. Without assumption and speculation, many significant questions would remain unanswered in this world.
“I totally understand. We shouldn’t be out in the open like this,” I say, suddenly more aware of the stretch of well-traveled highway disappearing over the slight embankment. A vehicle is likely to pass by at any moment.
“No one will be arriving anytime soon,” she says, looking over my shoulder at the horizon. “Not a single mechanical engine or device works within 90 miles in any direction. A
ll vehicles halted at the same moment so try to relax.”
Cutting the power to anyone that could potentially reach us inside of 90 minutes will surely protect her anonymity. It will also save a few extra innocent people from being buried in the region.
She adds. “Although pressing matters are waiting for me elsewhere, I can sacrifice a sliver of time. You’ve handled every question put before you during our counseling sessions, so I’m willing to be on the other side of the examination.”
The floor is now open. How should I begin a conversation with an otherworldly presence after the death and devastation I witnessed a few miles behind? Commenting on her distinctive tilt hat would be the equivalent of Neil Armstrong landing on the moon and uttering, “cool craters” to the awaiting world. Engaging in small talk about a fashion accessory is preferable to asking why she obliterated nine square miles of human life. When in the middle of an unnerving situation, it’s always best to lightly apply the gas.
This must be how a helpless housefly trapped in a web feels seconds before a colorful garden spider sucks the life out of it. One wrong move in any direction can cause the fanged arachnid to reveal its sharp teeth. I need to quit worrying about what might happen. I may be building up the “real” Abellina to be scheming and ultra-destructive rather than an apoplectic witch with concrete reasons for leveling the town and burying all the residents.
We’ve been conditioned to see villains as these intimidating, larger-than-life characters like Freddy Krueger or in the prodigious form of The Wolf Man. We never expect them to be a woman blessed with lush curves, long curly hair, and supple lips. She may be the embodiment of outward female perfection, but her decision to eliminate over 7,000 people through trickery could keep her from ever being able to blend in with society.
I want to ask about the abrupt departure of Benny and Patricia, but it would be rude to insinuate that she caused them any harm. Thousands of grave markers will make you imagine all types of terrible shit! I’ll get back to the Jackson family dispersing. Without knowing how much time she’s willing to spare, it’s time to shit or get off the pot.
“Can you tell me what happened to the residents and the homes of Wilkinson Creek?” Way to go douche . . . nothing like getting straight to the point! Luckily, she doesn’t flinch from leading out with a blunt question. She probably doesn’t care to be challenged all that often, but throwing out the first punch may have been the appropriate move.
“The removal of the structures made room for the caskets,” she verifies, showing little sign of remorse. “The appropriate action was to bury the residents under the land they already owned—or the land their ancestors stole. Each person has been given a well-marked monument. I exhibited gracious decorum considering the denizens were all spawned from tainted blood.”
The residents being expeditiously buried with a wooden marker in the ground above is hardly proper etiquette. I’ll keep this opinion to myself to avoid being reduced to a pile of swiss cheese.
The pride she takes in her creative extermination method almost falls under gloating! The weaker sex—my ass! She is a treacherous force packaged in a spellbinding outer shell.
“After seeing the current state of the wishing well, I assume it is no longer of any use to you.”
“You are right, Mr. Delaney,” she says, leaning her weight on the handle of the umbrella. “As mentioned during our session earlier, I created the wishing well for the sole purpose of letting the townspeople do their own bidding. It took a long time for my stratagem in this community to fall into place. Once Ms. McAllister took residence in her body this morning, the puzzle was nearly complete. Mandi, Agnew, and Benny contributed to the grand design, while Ms. Jackson served as the mighty sword that decimated the village.”
Well, that answers about five questions I planned to ask.
“Speaking of Ms. Jackson, can you tell me what happened to them? Patricia was having a conversation with me. When I turned around, they had both vanished. I would like to think they were taken somewhere far away.”
“They are perfectly safe,” she assures. “The Jackson’s have been relocated to a small town in the northwest. They were placed somewhere secluded for Benny’s sake, and because all wrongs in the town were corrected in one momentous act as a result of a passionate wish. Ms. Jackson needed to be far away to face herself again.”
I won’t even acknowledge “momentous” as a suitable description for the present stripped state of Wilkinson Creek. I’ll switch gears to avoid going into that topic. “The entire time you were counseling me, were you actually helping Agnew at every standoff? I got the feeling Melinda James was spared today after Agnew was seamlessly removed from the building.”
“Agnew became a nuisance,” she states, matter-of-factly. “I was too busy to continue bailing that debased soul out of sticky situations. I have too many irons in the fire to be summoned at any one person’s whim.”
The mention of fire makes me feel as if I might be dealing with a direct descendant of Satan—if not Lucifer. Not many baby books place Lucifer in either column so it may be a unisex given name. We’ve spent too much time visualizing a scary man with horns, red skin, and a tail. Someone that merciless would need to be alluring so we’d keep our guard down in their presence.
“After his little stunt at the television station, our arrangement reached its last act,” she adds, evocatively. “The tight spot inside the wishing well proved to be his tightest.” She shows the same crooked smile I encountered through the binoculars. Abellina obviously gets a tingle whenever she’s clever. “I offered a passageway from incarceration as long as Mandi was left alone until instructed otherwise. Ms. Jackson worded her request in a way that took care of Agnew and Mandi simultaneously. I do feel some compunction denying Agnew the chance to do away with her, but he spent too much time savoring the kill rather than squeezing the trigger.”
Taking Agnew away from that television station was undoubtedly done as a way to get him to climb inside the well after Mandi. Anything suspicious that has happened today was not by chance. Obviously, Abellina has been a busy woman since daybreak.
“Were we all pawns in your blueprint for destroying this town?”
“Some machination was at play; I did whatever was necessary,” she admits, without any hesitation. “I’ve waited a long time for Wilkinson Creek to reach its inevitable conclusion—even though it took a slight nudge.”
I feel as if I’m in the movie, The Game, where CPS knew which appropriate moves would lead Michael Douglas to leap from the building. She must have figured that Mandi would go to the interview, lose control, and get arrested. She also knew I’d come looking for Mandi when I realized she might be in danger. It seems that Abellina played all of us guilefully to serve her needs.
“Why not just move on? That is a long time to linger to see the pieces to fall in place.”
“I have moved on, in a matter of speaking,” she says. “I am peripatetic; I never stay anywhere long. No matter where my travels took me, Wilkinson Creek was at the forefront of my thoughts innumerable times. Since the town was built on death and affliction, it needed to be retired in the same way.”
The outside of Abellina may not reflect her actual age, but the power she displayed today was the result of built-up hostility that stretched over a century.
“You may wonder why I chose Mandi from the multitude of wishers,” she says, bringing up a topic I’ve been contemplating all day. “The man that tortured my family and pulled the switch that extinguished them was Artemis McAllister. As you can now see, that family was tainted by defective blood going back before I entered the world. Although I dropped the necklace as bait, it took nearly a year before Mandi found her way to the wishing well.”
Since reading Carmen’s document, I had a sneaking suspicion that what happened today and what took place 140-some years ago were interconnected. Abellina certainly has patience. I’m relatively confident that our moon doesn’t dictate the length of her day.
“I presume the ‘87-minute span’ correlates with your powers.”
“Having survived in the womb for that amount of time, my abilities intensified. For up to 87 minutes, I am able to open a doorway through the fabric of time while being able to slow down time to a thousandth of a second. That must seem tame compared to the superhero powers you enjoy reading about. I’m unable to shoot webs from my palms or fly through the air. The abilities I do have are more than sufficient to achieve my needs.”
After being able to see her memories, I have a feeling she has a few other powers that she’s unwilling to tell a simple mortal like me. My suspicions may be a result of reading too many fantasy comics.
“There’s quite a difference between fiction and being able to implement real powers,” I say. “Did you always have these abilities? That vision you gave me under hypnosis proved that you were able to slow down time as a young girl.”
“It took time to learn how to combine my separate powers effectively,” she admits. “When I discovered the lightning rod and constructed it into this umbrella, my powers began augmenting. I am comprised of the same basic elements as any human. My cells have simply transmuted and expanded, opening gateways into my mind that most mortals have never entered—nor would they know what do if permitted such access. You can deduce the rest.”
My deduction skills feel fully awakened. “In that vision, I suspect that you used that picture as inspiration to create the wishing well in Town Square.”
“You don’t miss much. In the course of an evening, I buried their electrocution device, leveled the church, and created the wishing well,” she enlightens, reflecting on a proud moment. “It wasn’t until the sun cracked before anyone noticed that the stretch of land in the center of town had changed. I gave the townspeople a display of absolute strength and reasons to whisper their prayers each night. They all knew the wishing well was left behind as a daily reminder to count their blessings.”
Constructing a wishing well doesn’t sound like a huge feat compared to her aggressive act today. Then again, demolition is usually easier than assembling. Ask any sad infant that accidentally knocks over a stack of multi-colored blocks.
In Dark Places Page 36