She reveals how the members of the Society of Franklin realized she was capable of far more damage than they could calculate. They instantly stopped their violent ways and founded Franklin Hills—an establishment created to lock up suspicious women and witches rather than executing them. It’s widely known that Franklin Hills had been closed down several years after it had initially opened. What didn’t become public knowledge was how several corrupt nurses were caught doing inhumane tests on some of the patients. In 1903, it reopened as a mental institution under the same name with an entirely different staff. I had no idea that many of the tortured women were suspected of being actual witches. More of those horror stories from my childhood suddenly make sense.
“The wishing well’s main purpose was to entice some unsuspecting soul in town to make a wish requiring my intervention—one that would lead to the town’s destruction.”
“The actual people that caused you so much agony are long gone, though,” I point out.
She explains that over the past 150 years, the seed from those that killed her family or watched the execution spread like wild spores from a morel. Big families reproduced and made more big families. Assignations often resulted in bastard children. What she presented is a tricky math equation with lots of variables.
“The majority of the original descendants were self-involved, greedy, and petty,” she explains. “That bloodline doesn’t change just because the earth rotates around the sun and generations pass.”
“And today, Patricia said precisely the words needed to carry this all out,” I state as a reminder of the method to her madness. “It took nearly 140 years to atone. That’s a long time to put anything on hold.”
“I needed to wait,” she points out. “As a child, I didn’t want to treat Wilkinson Creek as a voodoo doll that I was sticking with pins. Many idle years passed before putting a plan into action. There was never a guarantee that those petitioning would say the exact words that were needed. I cannot pull strings to get people to make specific wishes. Wilkinson Creek was much like a game of chess. I made calculated moves until I was in a position for a checkmate. I admit pawns were sacrificed, but it led to giving each of the townspeople a funeral in a similar fashion to that of my mother and my sisters.”
I also grew up in this town so she would have been within her rights to squash me into fine particles. Thankfully, I turned down sex with Katie Schumacher in eleventh grade. Some inner voice kept me from unbuttoning her 501s—it may have been Abbey’s whisper in the fresh night air to not reproduce with a local girl.
“Did you spare the people that moved away since they are living in different zip codes?” Why would I pose such a serious question with obvious ramifications?
“Ms. Jackson’s wish covers the removal of anyone linked to the original settlers of this town. I will hatch clever ways to dispose of everyone that didn’t perish.” It sounds as if she’ll discard these people like yesterday’s trash. Christ, what catastrophes are about to occur? “Over the next few weeks, you may hear about unexplainable deaths and pandemonium in some relatively quiet places. I will not allow the original bloodline to persevere. A change of geographical location does not change what needs to be. You are welcome to attempt stopping what I’m planning to do, but I would highly advise staying clear of my objective.”
After killing off so many rivals, she should feel a sense of vindication for the atrocities committed against her family. Apparently, she is just gaining momentum. It’s hard to look the other way with the knowledge that people are about to be bumped off. Then again, she could probably bury 100 people and return to this exact spot before uttering my next syllable. I just pray airplanes won’t begin dropping from the sky in a quest to do away with a few Wilkinson Creek descendants sitting in coach.
“Don’t you think that what happened today will be seen as a bit extreme?” I ask. She is almost trivializing her actions and whatever acts of requital are just around the corner. “Once the news leaks about the property in a town all disappearing and a mass burial, it’ll frighten everyone to their core.”
“Everyone needs a harsh reminder to revere what time they get on this planet,” she says like an evangelist unleashing a sermon. “Without adversity, most humans are basically selfish. People often make profound changes in the face of fear.” After a brief hesitation, she adds, “The tired expression, ‘everyone dies alone,’ will no longer be a valid statement. These people all saw their last glimpse of sunshine at the exact moment.”
The residents here were all living on borrowed time without being aware of it.
“That doesn’t fully answer my question, though,” I say cautiously. “Wasn’t it enough to wipe out thousands of people for the atrocities that happened more than 100 years ago? Reprisal was achieved by preying upon two desperate women that made foolhardy wishes.”
“Don’t reduce my actions to that of a warped manipulator.” She pauses to clear her throat. “I have never granted a wish without requiring some effort on behalf of the seeker. This demonstrates that they willingly entered into the agreement. I abide by free will.”
“In Mandi’s case, you weren’t forthcoming about the fallout that would transpire from her wish,” I remind her, trying to be gentle with how condemning I get with my firm wording. She has a tortured soul and the power at her fingertips to level small towns—not a good combination for any debating mortal to be up against. “Is there free will when someone is deliberately misled?”
“Those soliciting for my assistance were wise enough to decide if they should trust a stranger or simply turn and walk in the other direction. Almost everyone is taught this cautionary lesson during early childhood. In Ms. McAllister’s situation, I approached her in the middle of the night in a quiet park. Surely, she could have sensed that the offer may have been too good to be true. I was a complete stranger dressed as irregularly as I am now.” She motions at her getup that is reminiscent of a woman from a lavish party before Warren G. Harding took the presidency.
“You weren’t exactly offering a bowl of candy from the passenger’s side of a black sedan; you were presenting the promise of a better tomorrow as well as circumventing danger. For Patricia, she just wanted to free her incarcerated son.”
“Wishes were made—often vague—and the rest was filled in based on their level of despair.”
“I assume you have granted other wishes along the way.”
“I’ve fiddled with several direct descendants of the original seven,” she admits. “Many were drawn to the wishing well as if it was a lottery ticket that would pay off from the drop of an unsubstantial penny. When hope withers in small towns, people are often willing to throw caution to the wind to attain whatever it is they seek most. I’m not aiming to win a popularity contest. I don’t deny that there were seemingly innocent victims in today’s episode.”
“I do understand the reasoning for what you did, but Mandi McAllister didn’t exactly get the happy ending she expected.”
“Being a descendant of Artemis, she got exactly the proper send off. Too many decent women were brutally murdered by his savage hand. In fact, that entire McAllister clan was a black mark on society in general. One tiny change in the past caused Agnew to be born. Don’t even try to tell me that his existence isn’t absolute proof that the McAllister bloodline is dark and mucky.”
“He was a heinous side effect of Mandi’s wish,” I admit. “Wiping out everyone in one broad swoop may be looked at as a bit egregious without knowing all the facts.”
“People will probably demonize my actions,” she says, although no one will ever know she did this. I’m certainly not telling anyone what I know. “I’ve been around long enough to watch humans use every technological advancement to destroy other humans. They’ve done it with motor vehicles, ships, airplanes, lasers, plutonium, and computer chips. I should not be condemned for using what was readily at my fingertips. The abysmal decay in this community had to go!”
I could go on until sunset
asking her about her childhood, her political views, and her brutal plans for the future, but I’m beginning to feel like Frost interviewing Nixon. I’m not about to turn this into a debate. Any questions related to what she did to Wilkinson Creek will not get me any closer to what I really want to know. Why me?
Chapter 34
Derek (yeah, me again)
As nervous as I am to pose such a question, I’ll just toss it out there and let the chips fall however they land.
“Can I ask why was I included today?” After the words hang in the air, she doesn’t seem to want to answer the question. I add, “I clearly understand Patricia and Mandi’s part in today’s events, but I don’t believe you merely involved me so I’d follow Mandi to Wilkinson Creek. I believe there’s much more. It seems as if there would have been easier ways to infiltrate my life than becoming my counselor. You had to set aside nearly five hours to do those sessions with me.”
“The counseling sessions were to determine if you were mentally sound following your brush with Agnew.”
“That was a painful experience, but it was only a bullet to the arm. I’m not saying it’s the equivalent of a paper cut, but it doesn’t feel critical enough for you to have posed as a grief counselor.”
“I wanted to be sure your mind wasn’t damaged. I could only establish that by conducting some intense sessions.” She hesitates. “You are not aware of all that happened the day you were shot.”
Some of that afternoon is still fuzzy around the edges. “Can you at least tell me what I’m not seeing here?”
“Since you insist on knowing, it will be much easier to show you through my eyes—similar to what you experienced this afternoon. The details of that afternoon are accessible in my memories. You’ll need to extend your arms.”
Accessible? I may have been way off about the witch thing. She seems to replicate a cyborg with a computer log capable of tapping into every moment of her existence. If not for the memory in her underground chamber earlier, I’d seriously consider such a possibility. I wish her memories were somehow searchable. I’d be quite curious how many times I’ve made an appearance over the years.
Although I’m reluctant to enter her mind again willingly, my curiosity is piqued. Offering my hands to a witch with such limitless power feels as if I could be entering into a cataclysmic contract that will bite me in the ass down the line. I can’t be worrying about “what ifs” when the mysterious moments leading up to being shot may just unfold.
This is not the first time I’ve done something foolish to satisfy some extrapolation. I reach out as she tightly wraps her delicate, but dangerous fingers around my wrists. Within seconds, everything around me fades to black. When the light reappears, I’m in an unfocused state, gazing up at a high-ceilinged room as an inactive observer.
Abellina is an internal tour guide to a harrowing moment of my life. The empty tellers’ stations and thick open vault door prove she is standing inside a bank. She glances over an extended Formica partition to witness two men and four women executed upon the floor. A pool of sticky blood overlays most of the tiles near the lifeless bodies. I don’t even feel Abellina flinch or gasp.
To the left of the dead bodies, a woman is tied to a support beam with a plastic cable fastened around her left arm. At least she is alive and breathing. From the file I saw in the hospital, I recognize her as the woman that survived the massacre and snapped off the photos. At least the image of the umbrella from the photographs is proving to be authentic. Since I’m a passenger of this memory, I’m relieved that the woman on the floor will not be shot through the head like the other unfortunate employees of this tiny bank branch.
The woman curled up on the floor takes no notice, making me consider that Abellina is unable to be seen when she hasn’t introduced herself to a mortal. So many questions may go unanswered.
Abellina looks down, watching her steamship punk boots clicking musically along the marble tile like a tap dancer in slow motion. Her amplified stride feels a bit animated as to make a point that she means business. The crisp sounds of this memory are so genuine that it feels as if this entire moment is happening in the present. This significantly throws off my sense of reality.
Her attention leaves her black boots to focus on Agnew loading a high-powered rifle behind a mahogany desk. She stands before him. The tapping of her foot is a subtle demand for his attention. He continues pushing hollow-tipped bullets into the chamber of a rifle that one would only find circulating on the black market—a weapon created solely to take down humans.
“You shouldn’t be here already,” he says, glancing up to meet her eyes. His pupils are black and empty. I’ll confirm that his photographs don’t do him justice. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but I haven’t called for you yet.”
“Robbing a bank! Agnew . . . what were you thinking?” she asks, infuriated. “Have you taken a peek outside? This place is surrounded from every angle. Your arrogance is causing bad judgment.”
“I knew you’d show up, so everything is peachy.”
“I’m not here to cater to your whims. Why’d you resort to entering a bank without having a concrete exit plan? You didn’t even dress inconspicuously.”
“You never dress inconspicuously,” he states. “Anyway, I need money like anyone. With the media splashing my picture everywhere, it isn’t like I can pick up any part-time work. I came here for a fast cash grab. Convenience stores have become boring. I’m tired of the chump change I get after shooting some halfwit with a double-digit IQ.”
“Why the dead bodies? I can’t imagine the women were a threat in their tweed pantsuits. Why didn’t you rob the place and exit?”
“Things just have a way of happening, you know,” he says, indifferently. “A couple of these haughty women shot me a dirty look. They acted a little better than me, so I set them straight.”
“Every public spectacle becomes a misery overdose. Blame the media all you want; you crave attention by leaving a trail of blood. Keep being sloppy and you’ll get caught. Having said that, let’s go.”
“Well, I ain’t ready to take off yet. I have tons to do.”
Her tension is mounting. As from the vision I experienced earlier today, her thoughts aren’t accessible, yet I feel the rage rising due to his blatant disrespect. Abellina isn’t immune to getting edgy.
“We’re going,” she reiterates. “I didn’t show up today as a charitable endeavor.”
“Look out there,” he says, motioning toward the front window. “The coppers are all sitting ducks. Most of them aren’t even behind adequate cover. Such dummies. I’m loaded and ready to do some target shooting. You ain’t making me leave yet.”
“Agnew, I’m not here to watch you in action,” she states, quite agitated. “I’m here to help you evade capture. You better start appreciating the role I play in your ongoing freedom.”
Out of protest, he stands up and carries the rifle to a cracked window at the front of the bank. “I can get at least seven of ’em for the home audience. Don’t be raggin’ at me while I’m in the zone, Ab, or you’ll make me lose my concentration.”
Her anger is intensifying. Agnew crouches before the window, aiming the rifle toward the assemblage of people across the street. These people include guys from my department and me.
“I’m not playing, Agnew,” she demands. “It’s time to go!” He ignores her regardless of the firm tone. Even as an observer through her eyes, I can sense that something heavy is about to go down.
He has one eye peering through the scope. “Come on, fuck face, just rise three more inches, and I’ll plant one through your eye.”
I hope “fuck face” isn’t a reference to me!
Briskly, she places her left hand over the zebra-striped umbrella handle. As a surge of power moves through both of her tiny arms, a gunshot also discharges. As the rifle is still kicking back into Agnew’s shoulder, the room goes silent, and his body stops moving. The blast instantly deadens as the smoke from the barrel hangs i
n the air like a motionless light brown cloud. I can tell she started the repose, but the escalation of energy she used didn’t seem to be more than I’d expect if she had whipped a football downfield. Her powers must be predominantly mental. The quixotic side of my thoughts presumed that being inside a body possessing superhuman strength would be an outpouring of recurring electricity. It’s still exciting but not quite the thrill ride I’ve always expected.
“You defiant little prick,” she yells, racing out the front door of the bank—she even left the umbrella behind.
She mumbles inaudibly while running swiftly across the barricaded road towards the strip mall where Shopko is sadly the main attraction. My department has converged at the edge of the plaza’s parking lot facing the bank. As she runs up the small embankment, the guys from my unit are frozen in place with drawn guns, as the newscasters reporting the robbery are stationary like an oil painting. With every observer perfectly transfixed, a sight like this should be getting more of my attention. My focus is diverted as I witness my uniformed body standing behind a car door. This is the only time I’ve ever seen myself through a pair of eyes without the aid of a reflective surface. This morning’s hypnosis episode got me attuned to being in a repose. Otherwise, I’d be having serious trouble seeing myself as immobile as a statue. It’s freaking me out!
As she approaches my body, we pass Agnew’s bullet hanging in the air—undoubtedly, the one that will soon be tearing through my arm. The shell is violating all rules related to gravitational pull and energy. Although I requested to relive a moment where I’m aware of the outcome, seeing it in slow motion is quite daunting.
The discharged bullet got quite the jump on Abellina before she was able to initiate a repose. The silver bullet is about forty feet away, heading directly for my head. Based on the sluggish speed the object is traveling, a repose indeed slows time down to nearly a standstill. I’d need a protractor to figure it out precisely! Still, it’s a hell of a sight.
In Dark Places Page 37