Group Hex Vol 1

by Andrew Robertson

  Ginger clapped his hands together and whooped like a teenage girl.

  Bob felt a deep horror growing inside of him. What had he done?

  “And so we left,” Harvey continued. “That night, no further procrastination. We told the police a story about how Kate fell down the stairs and the kids didn’t know any different so they went along. Bob knew the investigating officer. Had sold him a house or something. Anyway, after Kate was admitted to the hospital and was stable, I took the kids to the Motel 6, checked in, and we haven’t been back to the house since.”

  Ginger snapped his fingers and the little house girl returned and poured another coffee. “Mr. Harvey,” he said, his tone was more business now. “You said your wife was stable when you left her at the hospital.”

  Bob frowned, picking up on the same inconsistency.

  Harvey nodded. “Yes, that’s right. She was stable.”

  “But now she’s in a coma.”

  Harvey nodded again. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So, please go on with your story.”

  Harvey nodded. “I went to see her the next day, to see what she remembered, if anything at all, and more importantly, to see what she’d been able to tell the nurses, or the police who were hanging around. She was awake when I got there, barely. But she smiled as I walked in. That made me happier than I’d been in months, to see her smile. It meant that things were going to be all right in the end.”

  “But there was something out of place, wasn’t there?” Ginger said.

  “Yes. Something on the table by the bed. From the house. I still have no idea how it got there.”

  “Which was?”

  “A statuette.”

  Bob tensed as he pictured the very gift he’d given to Mrs. Harvey after they’d moved in to the house.

  “As I was turning to leave, I heard this awful choking. A tearing, gristly sound coming from the bed.” Harvey covered his mouth with his hand and a tear rolled down his cheek and onto his wrist. “As soon as I turned around, lights started flashing and the machines started bleeping and all hell broke loose and Doctors and nurses pushed past me and over to my wife on the bed, shouting and barking orders and getting into position.”

  “What did you see?” asked Ginger. “Details, details, remember? I need details.”

  “Kate had swallowed her hand. It was jammed in right up to her elbow. When I saw her, her eyes were rolled back in her head, she was convulsing, her face was purple, blood was trickled out of the corners of her mouth and her throat bulged out all distended. The Doctors told me to get out, you know, so they could work. But they knew I had nothing to do with it. By then, they’d all heard about the house. People will tell you they don’t believe in that stuff, but a part of them does.”

  Bob’s mouth stayed open for the next few moments, frozen in shock. This was all too much for him. He wanted to get back to selling houses. Normal houses. To normal families. No excitement, just routine. Surely Harvey knew that Bob had given the statuette to Kate as a gift. He shuddered as a deep sadness seeped into his soul like a stain, and he knew it was there for good.

  The room went silent for the next little while, save for the occasional slurping as Ginger finished his coffee. It was Harvey who broke that silence. “So there, I’ve told my story. What say we move this along.”

  Bob knew that was his cue, but he no longer had any idea what he was going to say.

  Ginger stepped in. “I think Bob here wanted me to make you an offer. For the house. See, I understand it has garnered somewhat of a reputation now, what with the hauntings and all, and as you say, even though most folks tell you they don’t believe in that stuff, they’re still smart enough to steer clear of it anyway. Just in case they’re wrong. So your house is now tainted goods. Am I right?”

  Harvey nodded. “That’s about the sum of it.”

  “Good, so what Bob here was thinking was maybe he could find someone who would be interested in not the traditional real estate value of the property, but in the less tangible value of what the house has to offer. Get my meaning?”

  “I do.”

  “And from what I’ve heard here today, the house has quite a remarkable talent, does it not?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “I most definitely would say that, Mr. Harvey. Now, I’m sure you have to be getting back to the motel, so I’ll forego any attempt at a traditional style of negotiation. My offer, first and final, is this: I will pay you one-point-five-million dollars for your house, Mr. Harvey. Not a penny more, not a penny less. That’s more than three times what you paid for it. Do we have a deal?”

  Bob snapped out of his trance and his mind kicked into Realtor mode—his happy place, finally—but he was too late. Without so much as a flicker of hesitation, Harvey held out a hand and said, “We have a deal.”

  Bob looked from Harvey to Ginger, utterly bewildered. “That’s it?” he said.

  “Almost,” said Ginger. “There is one small condition. The statuette. Do you still have it in your possession?”

  Bob held up a hand. “Ginger, if you would please allow me to consult with Mr. Harvey before we go any further. I can get back to you with a response later today, but for now—”

  “I still have it,” said Harvey, cutting him off.

  Bob said, “Mr. Harvey, please consider what you’re saying. You’re a business man. You need time to cool off. Time to think about this with a clear head.”

  Harvey turned to face his realtor. “What the hell is there to think about, Bob? We all get what we want here, what we need. It’s a win-win. Besides, I don’t see what you have to complain about here, this gets you... what, seventy grand commission? Commission you don’t even need to split. That’s all yours. And for what? You made a couple of calls, we took a trip together to see this guy, and then you sign some papers. That’s... what, four hours work, five, tops? Twelve grand an hour. Why don’t you shut the hell up and take the deal, you greedy son of a bitch! You’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.” Harvey took a breath, but he wasn’t done. “Or, what, let me guess, you’re angling for more money? Well no, that’s not going to happen, I’m done with this house, and done with all of you. This is our way out, and I will not let you jeopardize that.”

  Ginger giggled again. It was the giggle of a small child who found humour in watching the starving coyote fall off the edge of a cliff before getting blown up by his own TNT. When he turned his gaze to the young girl who stood in the doorway, her face turned a deathly pale, and Bob was sure he saw her hair rise up from her head like it was trying to stand on end.

  Ginger grinned. “I’ll have my lawyer send over the paperwork,” he said. “Now if you will excuse me, I have other activities on my afternoon schedule.”

  The deal was done. The contracts signed, the funds transferred. Bob had his lawyer go over the Agreement of Purchase and Sale and he found no irregularities; no catch, no tricky fine print. But this was bad news for Bob. It meant he had no legitimate reason to dissuade Harvey from moving forward with the deal. And with that, the Harvey home now belonged to Ginger.

  Juggling his work duties, child care responsibilities, and of course the numerous visits to the intensive care unit to check on Kate, Harvey was able to make an unconditional offer on another home on the other side of the city, with a closing period of thirty days.

  It seemed the Harvey kids were falling into something resembling a routine, which Bob took as a good sign, and best of all, he’d heard Kate’s condition was improving.

  Bob went to see Harvey on closing to check on things, and he was pleased to find that the new house was perfectly bland and generic; no doubt exactly what Harvey was looking for. The two men shook hands and agreed to part ways amicably. Bob suspected this was the last time the two of them would do business, and that was fine by him. There were too many bad memories.

  Several weeks went by and Bob was pushing hard for business. His intention was to flood as much water und
er the bridge as he could, and he found himself spending every evening and weekend attending viewings and open houses, not to mention all the administrative duties he preferred to handle himself.

  One morning, Bob was in the process of knocking a ‘For Sale’ sign into the front yard of a four-bed exec home in the southern part of town when his cell phone rang. It was his assistant.

  “What happened?” he asked, panic rising in his chest for no logical reason.

  “I, ah... I just thought you should know, Bob, that Kate Harvey passed away last night. You remember Kate?”

  Bob rolled his eyes. “How?” he asked.

  “Apparently some freak accident at the hospital, chemical burns or something like that. Just awful. Her body couldn’t take it. That’s all I know.”

  Bob disconnected the call and got into his car. He drove until he reached the iron gates of the Blauhardt Towers.

  Ginger answered the door with a grim look of satisfaction on his face. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said.

  “Where is it?” Bob asked.

  The smile remained perfectly fixed. “Where’s what?”

  Bob pushed past him and crossed the apartment. In the centre of the mantle, slightly set back and leaning against the wall, was the statuette he’d given to Mrs. Harvey as a gift. Only something was different about it now. He squinted, then gasped. “What happened to it?” he demanded.

  Ginger shook his head. “Oh, that. Terrible thing. I was standing right here, admiring the statuette, when all of a sudden it just slipped out of my hands.” He held out his hands as though to illustrate. “Damn thing fell straight into the fire. By the time I’d found a suitable utensil to retrieve it I was too late. The surface had been burned, as you can see. It’s a real shame, because it was such a beautiful piece, really. And now it’s spoiled.”

  Bob grabbed Ginger by the shirt and lifted him off the ground. Ginger’s eyes lit up with delight as Bob carried the small man across the room and slammed him up against the wall.

  A low growling brought Bob back to reality.

  “My, my, Bob,” said Ginger. “You are a passionate man. Strong, too.”

  Bob lowered Ginger to the ground. When he turned he saw four very large, snarling beasts facing him, teeth bared, a starving look about them. He released his grip and backed away.

  Ginger walked over and stood between Bob and the four creatures. “I would invite you to stay for supper,” he said. “But I’m sure you have other plans. Lots of houses to be sold. I imagine there’s quite a killing to be made, am I right?”

  Without another word, Bob walked over to the door and let himself out.

  Bob navigated his way around the city, with no particular destination in mind, and he played the events over and over in his mind, trying to figure out if there was anything he could’ve done differently, and in a brief moment of almost-clarity, he decided there would be a positive side to all of this. There always was.

  All he had to do was find it.

  BY HER HAND, SHE DRAWS YOU DOWN

  Douglas Smith

  By her hand, she draws you down.

  With her mouth, she breathes you in.

  Hope and dreams and soul devoured.

  Lost to you, what might have been.

  By her hand, she draws you down...

  Joe swore when he saw Cath doing a kid. He had left her for just a minute, to get a beer from the booth on the pier before it closed for the night. Walking back now, he could see Cath on her stool, sketchpad on a knee, ocean breeze blowing her pale hair. A small girl sat on another stool facing her, a man and a woman, parents he guessed, beside the child.

  Kid’s not more than seven, he thought. Cath promised me no kids. She promised.

  The sun was long set, and the air had turned cool, but people still filled the boardwalk. Joe wove through the crowd as fast as he could without attracting attention. Cath had set up farther from the beach tonight, at the bottom of a grassy slope that ran up to the highway where their old grey Ford waited.

  “Last night tonight,” Cath had said when they had parked the car earlier. “It wants to move on. I can feel the change.”

  Joe had swallowed and turned off the ignition. He was never comfortable talking about it. “Where’s it headed?”

  Cath had just shaken her head, grinning. “Dunno. That’s part of the fun, isn’t it? Not knowing where we’re going next? That’s fun, isn’t it, Joe?”

  Yeah, loads of fun, he thought now as he approached Cath and her customers. It had been fun once, when they’d met, before he learned what Cath did, what she had to do. When his love for her wasn’t all mixed up with fear of what she would do to someone.

  Or to him.

  The child’s parents looked up as Joe came to stand beside Cath. The father frowned. Joe smiled, trying to hide the dread digging like cold fingers into his gut. Turning his back to them, he bent to whisper in Cath’s ear. That flowery scent she had switched to recently rose warm and sweet in his face. Funeral parlors, he thought. She smells like a goddam funeral parlor.

  “Cath, she’s just a kid,” he rasped in her ear.

  Cath shook her head. Her eyes flitted from the girl to her pad. “Bad night. I’m hungry,” she muttered, ignoring Joe.

  Joe looked at the drawing. It was good. But they were always good. Cath had real talent, more than Joe ever had. She would set up each night where people strolled, her sketches beside her like trophies from a hunt. People would stop to look, sometimes moving on, sometimes sitting for a portrait.

  Eventually Joe and Cath would move on, too. When the town was empty, Cath said. When the thing inside her wanted to move on. They had spent this week at a little New England vacation spot. At least they were heading south lately. Summer was dying, and Joe longed to winter in the sun. Sleep for Joe was rare enough since he’d met Cath. Winters up north meant long nights in bars. Things closed in then, closed in around him. On those nights, he would lie awake in their motel bed, feeling Cath’s eyes on him, feeling her hunger.

  He looked at the sketch, at the child captured there, perfect except for the emptiness that spoke from the eyes, from any eyes that Cath drew. And the mouth.

  Where the mouth should have been, empty paper gaped. Cath left the mouth until the end. The portraits always bothered Joe when they looked like that. To him, the pictures weren’t waiting to be completed, waiting for a last piece to be added. To Joe, something vital had been ripped from what had once been whole, leaving behind a void that threatened to suck in the world around it. An empty thing but insatiable. Waiting to suck him in, too.

  “Cath,” he whispered. “You promised.”

  She ignored him again. Joe wrapped his fingers around the thin wrist of her hand that held the sketchpad. “You promised.”

  Cath snapped her head around to glare up at him. Joe caught his breath as anger met hunger in her grey eyes, becoming something alive, something that leapt for him.

  The father cleared his throat, and the thing in Cath’s eyes retreated. Cath turned to the parents. “Sorry, can’t get her right. You can have this.” Tearing the sketch from her pad, she shoved it at the mother. “We gotta go.” Cath stood and folded her stool as the child ran to peek from behind the father’s legs. Joe grabbed the other stool and the canvas bag that held Cath’s supplies. He put an arm around Cath’s waist, leading her away.

  The father started to protest. “But you’re almost done. You just need to draw in the mouth.”

  Cath stopped, and Joe swore. He just wanted to get her out of there. She walked back to the man who exchanged glances with his wife. Cath touched a finger to her lips. “Mouths are the hardest part. The most important part,” she said. “Everyone--they say ‘the eyes are the windows of the soul.’ They say ‘Oh, you got the eyes just right.’ They don’t know. They don’t know it’s the mouth you gotta get just right. That’s what makes a picture come alive. Like it’s gonna just start...breathing.”

  The father cleared his throat, but the mother tu
gged at his shirt. Joe grabbed Cath’s arm and pulled her away. The man muttered something, but Joe didn’t care.

  He led Cath to a gravel path that switched back and forth up the steep hill to the highway above. Halfway up, an observation area looked down on the pier and the beach and the boardwalk. Cath twisted away from him there. A low stone wall ran around the area’s edge, and two lampposts stood at either end. Putting her stool down under the nearest light, she began setting out her sketches against the wall.

  Joe dropped the other stool and sat down. The fatigue that lived with him always now rose to engulf him. He felt dead inside, all used up, like the way Cath’s pictures made him feel, waiting to be sucked into the void. “We had a deal,” he said.

  Cath sat, looking up and down the path. “I’m hungry.”

  “No kids, remember?” Joe said. “And nobody with a family depending on them.” He tried to make his voice sound strong, but his hands were shaking.

  She opened her pad. “Kind of cuts down the field, Joe.”

  “Use one of the sketches you’ve got put away.”

  Cath laughed. A bitter, empty sound. Joe imagined the mouths she drew making that kind of sound. Cath looked at him finally. “All gone. Used ’em all.”

  Joe felt the emptiness again, a void gaping below, drawing him down. He leaned forward, head between his hands, fingers pressing hard on his temples, trying to make his fear go away. “Jeez, Cath. All of them?” He searched her face for some hope.