A Voice So Soft

by Patrick Lacey

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He closed his eyes and breathed in. “Can’t you feel it? Can’t you smell it in the air? The world is changing for the better. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for, what we’ve wanted for eons even if we didn’t know it.”

  Another step back until she was leaning against the Army and Navy store. She looked left and right. Six shops in either direction before she could turn a corner.

  “Look, my mother let me take the day off, okay?”

  He seemed to consider this.

  “Angie’s coming home from New York later and she wanted me to be there when she arrived. I swear.”

  A smile then. Not the caring, non-judgmental smile of the old Miles. This was more akin to a hunter with a clear shot. “You are a good student, Ms. Everstein, but you’re a terrible liar. Your sister is already home, back in Salem. She arrived this morning. And she’s dying to see you.”

  He grabbed her arm but she managed to push him away, managed to turn around and run into the spider-like bus driver who had been interested in their exchange after all. He lifted her without effort and tossed her into the bus. Her head collided with a window and she saw stars of every color, so many they were almost beautiful.

  Almost.

  Sooner than later, Esmeralda told herself about a thousand times. It was the answer to most of the questions floating through her mind.

  When should you finally listen to the doctor’s advice?

  Sooner than later.

  When should you start taking those pesky high blood pressure pills?

  Sooner than later.

  When should you escape Salem, Massachusetts?

  “Sooner than later.”

  Her own voice shocked her. The apartment had been deathly quiet. Her upstairs neighbor, a young single mother named Miranda with three children whose names she’d never bothered to learn, should’ve been driving her to the brink of insanity. Normally you could hear cartoons and arguments and the wheels of the computer chair those little brats insisted on using as a racecar. But now there wasn’t so much as a footfall. The silence unnerved her.

  As did the scent.

  There was something rotten nearby. She’d checked every trashcan, every nook and cranny of her apartment, and could find no source. The stench reminded her of garbage on a warm summer’s day, yet there was something sweet about it too.

  Didn’t they say that’s what death smelled like? Rotten and sweet?

  Instead of dwelling, she went on packing. Esmeralda Hopkins was not a hoarder by any means but she had acquired quite the collection of junk over the years. It came with the territory when you ran a witch store in the witch capital of the world. The back room of her shop—not your shop anymore—was microscopic. A few years ago, she’d resorted to storing her overstock in her apartment’s spare room. There were countless jars of herbs and roots and other ingredients for spells. Most of which were total and utter bullshit.

  Most but not all.

  She hadn’t always believed in magic. As a girl it had intrigued her but she equated it with Santa Claus. It was fun to buy into the myth but that’s exactly what it was.

  She’d held this opinion until college, when her roommate-soon-to-become-best-friend Jeannie Rogers had a few too many screwdrivers and decided to mess around with the dark arts. The night was hazy at best. All she had were glimpses that stuck with her.

  A dim dorm room and a desk littered with snack food and a window that overlooked a foggy April night and a pile of vials filled with powders and a book of spells that could be purchased online or anywhere supplies are sold and a feeling of dread and certainty that something else was in the room with them, something distinctly not Esmeralda or Jeannie, something that watched with a thousand eyes and spoke with a thousand voices and bit with a thousand teeth.

  She could not remember everything it had said—whatever it was. But she did remember one word. One terrible word she still heard on the darkest of nights.

  Hell.

  She’d heard the word hell and neither she nor her roommate-soon-to-become-best-friend had uttered it themselves. They spoke less and less of the incident as time went on and she was just fine with that.

  She hadn’t had another experience like that until years later, when a little girl by the name of Angie walked into her shop and asked about evocation spells.

  The temperature in her apartment plummeted. The silence from above and her train of thought and that stubborn stench were too much. These supplies were part of her old life, one she planned leaving behind. Let the landlord figure it out. She would only take what she needed.

  Sooner than later.

  She closed her spare room door, walked back into the kitchen, reached for her suitcase and—

  And froze when she heard the doorbell.

  The door was mere feet away and a large window offered a glimpse outside. The white curtains were nearly transparent, so she could see the figure on her steps.

  Esmeralda reached across the island and grabbed the largest steak knife she could find. She had not sharpened them recently but hoped it would do. The blade glistened in the overhead lights.

  She opened the door and was greeted with a robed figure just as she’d suspected. It was dark beneath the hood but the voice was familiar. “Ms. Hopkins, may I come in?”

  “No.” She held the knife behind her back.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” The woman’s eyes were hidden but Esmeralda felt them scan her apartment, linger on the suitcase.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  She paused for too long before answering. “No.”

  The figure stepped forward. Esmeralda stepped back. “Any vacation time will have to be approved well in advance. Short of a family emergency, I’m afraid time off would be denied. Tomorrow is an important day, after all.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “You did not show up to work yesterday.”

  “I’m glad you noticed. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to . . . cleaning.”

  “We noticed. As I said, any time off must be requested.”

  “I don’t work for you.”

  “But you do, Esmeralda. More specifically, you work for our queen.”

  Her fingers grew numb. If she held the blade any harder it would fall from her hands.

  The figure pulled back her hood. Esmeralda wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. A monster perhaps. Something with deformed features and countless scales. Something that whispered the word hell when you weren’t looking. But it was just the woman with whom she’d spoken on the phone. “Ms. Everstein requests your attendance at the shop today.”

  “For what?”

  “A meeting to discuss our plan for tomorrow. We’ll be selling tickets and hosting another autograph signing for much of the day. Then, once the homecoming show begins, we ask that you help with security.”

  “Do I look like a cop to you?”

  Glenda smiled. Her eyes were wide and glazed over. Wasn’t that how all cult members looked? For that’s what this—all of this—was. A not-so-secret society who worshipped a pop star like she was a god.

  Or a devil.

  “Are you sure you’re not planning on going somewhere?” She nodded toward the contents on the kitchen table: a framed picture of Jeannie and the only photo album Esmeralda had kept, from when she was a child and her parents could still walk up the stairs without risking a heart attack.

  “Positive.” Whatever this was, it seemed mandatory. She’d made a mistake by not leaving earlier, when she’d had the chance. The thing to do was attend the meeting and slip out afterward. They would be keeping a close watch on her.

  “Glad to hear it.” Glenda looked at her watch. “You ought to get going if you expect to be on time. You know how much Angie values being punctual.”

  “Who are you really?” Esmeralda narrowed her eyes, wondered if her fear was obvious. Her chest burned being so close to this woman.


  “I told you over the phone already. I’m her manager.”

  “Manager? I don’t think so. Managers help book tours and talk shows and—”

  “And that’s exactly what I do. She appeared on one last night, in fact. Of course, there is more to my role than the obvious. The nature of our relationship is . . . quite complicated. I do whatever she needs me to.” She stepped inside the apartment. “And what she needs me to do right now is make sure you arrive to the meeting on time.”

  Esmeralda hadn’t realized how large Glenda’s robe was until that moment. The fabric flowed from the breeze outside. There was plenty of room for a weapon under there. There could be several knives to her one. Esmeralda nodded, loosened her grip. It felt like defeat. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  A pause. Another cult-like smile. “Very well. We appreciate your cooperation in this matter. I’ll inform Ms. Everstein of your arrival.”

  Glenda took one last look at the suitcase before leaving. The woman may have been brainwashed but she wasn’t stupid.

  From upstairs came what sounded like a quick gasp before the silence returned. Heavier this time. Like something had died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A PERMANENT REMINDER

  FIRST THEY HANDCUFFED HER.

  Too tightly, Shawna might add, though she didn’t. She didn’t say anything until the bus arrived at school. All thoughts of rebellion vanished when she saw the new sign that had been erected overnight. Impossible. Such construction would take longer than twenty-four hours.

  Gone was the Salem High plaque and the Nathaniel Hawthorne quote beneath.

  In its place: a set of new words that made her bowels shrivel.

  Angie Everstein Institute for the Gifted.

  A handful of students stood outside, laughing and joking like it was just another school day. No one was fazed by the new addition. And that was the problem. Whatever was happening out there, whatever spell Angie was casting—no one seemed to care.

  Miles caught her staring. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  She sat near the front, just behind the steering wheel. It was the first time he’d spoken since her abduction—second abduction in a week’s time, she noted—and his voice startled her.

  “Who approves something like that?”

  The same people who approved the stage.

  “Angie can be quite persistent.” As if that answered all of life’s questions. And for her followers, Shawna supposed, it did.

  “I want to speak to my mother.”

  “Later,” Miles said, instructing the bus driver to drop them out front. The man giggled, a strand of spittle hanging down his chin. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth, dog-like, and a cloud of flies hovered above him. “After the pep rally.”

  He led her out of the bus and past the sign. The letters were intricate, carved into the stone with what looked like symbols of some sort. Symbols she’d once seen in a certain spell book.

  The straggling students watched as Miles pushed her along. One of them raised his hand and pointed. “You’re her sister!”

  His friends’ mouths opened like they envied her.

  Of course they envy you. You’re a blood relative. You get to see her anytime you want, which is never. But they don’t understand, don’t know what you know. They can’t see what’s happening.

  Miles waved them away like mosquitoes. “Get inside, will you? The rally’s about to begin.”

  “Sorry,” the boy said. He stared for a moment longer, not once eyeing the handcuffs, before taking off toward the entrance, his friends in tow.

  “You’re lucky we’re on time,” Miles said as they climbed the steps and entered.

  The sign was not the only new addition to Salem High.

  There was a booth set up in place of the front desk. Two girls, wearing tight Forever-with-You-embroidered tank tops, stood behind the counter. On the other side, a line of students tapped their feet as the girls sold tickets to the homecoming show.

  No, not sold, for the sign read free.

  To the left, where there should have been football trophies, hung awards with her sister’s name on each. Shawna thought she saw a Grammy and a CMA. Both unlikely since the former was months away and the latter had no pop category.

  “How many tickets have you sold?” Shawna said, not wanting to know the answer.

  “We’ve lost count.” Miles pulled her around the corner and they stepped into the gymnasium.

  Or what used to be the gymnasium.

  Now it looked more like a temple or church of some sort.

  The windows had been painted over with black and no one had bothered to turn on the lights. She couldn’t remember the last rally but the crowd had been half the size. If you weren’t on the football team or a cheerleader, then what was the point? But today it was a full house. Today wasn’t about sports.

  There was no space to spare in the bleachers. The surplus of students flocked to the center of the room. They formed a circle. And in the middle of that circle was a statue.

  A statue of Angie Everstein. She was not alone in the sculpture. Her sister had made a friend. Angie was wrapped around what appeared to be a goat. A goat that walked upright on two cloven hooves. Shawna had seen a hundred such demons on metal album covers but none of them chilled her like this. Those were pure shock value. This was something else.

  The gym was too quiet. No one spoke, mesmerized by the art installation. They held their phones like lighters, like a rock ballad.

  She looked around for an escape but noted Robes guarding both exits.

  One of them, appearing from nowhere in particular, parted from the crowd and whispered something into Miles’ ear. He nodded, and for a moment so brief it could’ve been an illusion, his face contorted with concern. He was the old Miles again. The one who’d told her to keep writing and ignoring her bullies. The moment passed. New Miles once more. A full-grown glitter critter instead of a well-liked English teacher. He opened his hand, grabbed onto something.

  A long metal rod with a circular symbol at the end. She’d grown up in suburbia, had never visited a farm save for a field trip in third grade, but she’d seen enough documentaries to know what a brand looked like.

  Miles held the rod up. “You may be our queen’s sister but you are not above disciplinary action. Skipping school and nearly missing a rally is unacceptable. We must ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

  The crowd murmured in agreement and Miles addressed them for the first time.

  “Are there any objections to this sentence? If so, please speak up now.”

  Silence again.

  Shawna scanned her fellow students’ faces, many of them unfamiliar. She was far from popular, gave the goths and punks a run for their money, but she did see one face that stood out among the others.

  Mia smiled and winked as if they were in on a secret. As if, after Shawna’s flesh was scarred with her sister’s strange symbol, they’d be friends again. Maybe even lovers.

  Mia could kiss that idea goodbye. Brainwashed or not, her former girlfriend was one of them.

  Another Robe stepped forward with what looked like a blowtorch. They held it close to the edge of the brand and pressed the trigger. A small flame shot forward, heating the metal until it burned neon orange.

  “That’ll do.” Miles turned to her. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  She shook her head. She could’ve bad-mouthed her sister. God knew she excelled at that. But here, in this crowd of critters, it was useless. No matter what she said, rebellious or not, she was about to get her very first tattoo. Not a tattoo, she told herself. A brand. And that sounded so much worse.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  She resisted. Not because she was brave. Quite the opposite in fact. The pain, she imagined, would be beyond words.

  The two Robes grabbed her right arm and held it forward. She closed her eyes, pictured a faraway place. The last Everstein vacation had been ten years prior, when her da
d was still in the picture. Costa Rica for two full weeks. Her mother spared no expense. The finest of cruise ships and dining. They declared bankruptcy soon after. Since then, Shawna had boycotted all tropical destinations. Now, though, the country seemed inviting. A vast beach with crystal water and sand so fine it felt invisible. The tide tickled her feet. Rolling in and out.

  In and out.

  In and—

  She smelled barbecued pork. She opened her eyes. Smoke rose from her forearm and the flesh bubbled and blistered. They held her still, made her watch.

  The crowd laughed.

  It made a terrible sort of sense then. What was it her sister had said?

  It’s about you, Sis. It’s always been about you.

  Forever with You.

  She studied her new wound.

  From somewhere nearby came a thud. Light spilled into the gymnasium and the crowd turned from giggles to shouts. Miles stopped the branding. She’d never seen him so bothered, so annoyed. Days ago, he’d been a patient man and teacher, hadn’t yet become jaded by the educational system. Mr. Fuller had been her hero.

  And part of his skull burst open before her. His eyes unfocused, as if his brain hadn’t gotten the memo. He blinked twice, slid to the floor.

  “Let her go,” Mike Mallory said as he stepped into the gymnasium. He held a pistol, aimed it toward the two Robes, and they followed orders.

  Shawna ran, gritting her teeth against the pain, tripping every few steps. Behind Mike were two familiar faces. Professor Foster and Curtis escorted her into the RV.

  The Robes and the students followed but did not chase. They stood outside the gym and watched. From inside the building, though still dark, Shawna caught another glimpse of the statue. She swore it had turned around. Eyes that should’ve pointed in the opposite direction now peered toward her. Into her.

  Then she focused on her forearm, skin swelling.

  “Don’t bother coming in today,” Josh said to Trish through the phone.