“Stop!” yelled Mia. “You’re wrong. I saw him kill her.”
Weston shook his head. “Oh, child. You’re already under the influence of the dark one. You couldn’t possibly have witnessed it. The girl would be almost fifty years old now if she hadn’t been killed.”
“I’m psychic. I saw it in a dream… so vivid as though I lived it.”
“You believe you’re psychic?” Weston regarded her with a pitying expression.
“You believe in an imaginary sky wizard.” Mia folded her arms. “I’ve received at least two pieces of verifiable information that I had no way to know otherwise. Do you have any proof your God is real? And I mean that as a sincere question.”
“God is there if you know how to look for him,” said Weston.
“That’s not proof. That’s brainwashing. You’re wrong about Wilhelmina. I’ve seen things. I had to watch that son of a bitch hold that little girl down and… and…” She raised her arm as if holding a hammer. “I didn’t want to see the rest… forced myself to wake up. You were all over this house when the Vaughans lived here. You had to have heard the damn toolbox smash into the floor every damn day at 1:03 in the morning.” She pointed at him. “And I saw Mr. Vaughan reach the top of the stairs. The ghost jumped out at him and screamed. He fell over backward and knocked a younger man down the steps with him.” She shook her pointing finger. “That was you like twenty years ago.”
Most of the color in Weston’s cheeks faded. He stared at her with an unreadable expression that could have been fear as easily as revulsion.
“There’s no way I could have known that without being psychic, is there? The Vaughans moved far away from here, and may not even still be alive given their age. I’m sure you didn’t tell anyone he knocked you down the stairs, or that he claimed to see a ghostly little girl jump out at him.”
“I…”
“Look, Weston. We got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry I assumed you were just like my parents. However, I need you to understand that there is nothing at all satanic about Wilhelmina. She doesn’t even believe that Satan is a real entity. Just because you don’t understand something and don’t want to understand it doesn’t make it the work of Satan.”
He kept glaring.
“Before this escalates more… I’m not looking for any animosity here. But, you aren’t helping the situation in the house. You spent months here with the Vaughans, tormenting an innocent child. And yes, she heard all the things you called her, all the horrible things you said she was. If your God is so benevolent, why did he allow a seven-year-old girl to have her head smashed open by her own father? Where was his protection then? Why is he letting her spirit linger here instead of… whatever happens after? Why does he need you, a mortal human being, to beg and pray for him to do something? Obviously, everything you tried to do twenty years ago didn’t work. And honestly, the ‘situation’ in the house is fine. No one needs to do anything. We’ve come to an accord.”
“An accord?” His hostility faded to confusion. “What are you talking about? With the Devil?”
“No. With the spirit. It’s not the girl you need to worry about, it’s Vic. And, no matter what you want to convince yourself of, Wilhelmina had nothing to do with her death. She was devastated.”
“You need—” Weston gestured at the house. “There is—” He fidgeted at the Bible. “Sunday, you should—”
“Speaking from a psychological standpoint regarding Wilhelmina,” said Adam, “for a girl of thirteen to be capable of murdering a younger child, she would have displayed various types of aberrant behaviors that would have been noticed by someone—parents, teachers, even other kids…. Children that young who kill don’t have the capacity to process consequences and often make no effort to hide their crimes, or they lack the sophistication to conceal them well. Had she been both deviant enough to kill and intelligent enough to hide the crime like an adult, we’re talking about the makings of a dangerous serial killer that’s one in ten million. Has there been a string of unsolved murders in the area? Someone like that would not have stopped at Robin Kurtis unless they were caught and institutionalized.”
Weston rubbed his chin, a note of doubt in his eyes. “No, not that I’m aware of. Perhaps then the Devil, or whatever dark force is in this house affected Vic and compelled him to kill.”
“There are plenty of psychological reasons to explain what he did that don’t require supernatural influence.” Adam scratched at his eyebrow. “Men with histories of abusive behavior like that don’t need a push from beyond to lash out when their dominance is threatened.”
Mia fidgeted, anxious about making it to work on time. “I have no idea. It’s possible some negative energy affected him. There definitely is something dark in this house, though I’m inclined to say it’s Vic. Again, if I decide we need your help, we’ll ask for it. Please stop harassing us. I’m about to be late for work. Please go home, have a nice cup of coffee, and relax. I spoke to Nate, and he thinks we can handle this like adults and he doesn’t need to be involved.”
Weston frowned, but retreated down the porch steps. “You’re making a mistake. To beguile the unwary, Satan appears as one you will trust.”
“It doesn’t feel like I am being tricked. Really. I have to get ready for work. Thank you for your concern.” She forced herself to smile, despite worrying about her earlier thought regarding the man who clearly told Weston about her meeting with Wilhelmina. She’d wanted him to fall down the stairs. Up until coming to this house, the worst thought she’d ever had about her father had been not wanting to see him. She’d never wished ill on him until coming here. Though, did an idle daydream about him going face-first down a flight of stairs count as ‘wishing ill?’ Also, she’d had a rather crazy reaction to Robin attempting to kill her… scolding her like a child who’d purposefully spilled milk out of spite. A sliver of doubt crept in that perhaps the pastor might have a point, but she trusted her intuition more.
“If things don’t work out with the animism, we can talk.” Adam offered a handshake. “Until then, please give my wife some space?”
Mia didn’t wait for his answer, hurrying inside to change for work, grumbling the whole way upstairs to the bedroom. Because of him, she wouldn’t have breakfast and worse, she’d have to wait until she got to the museum to have any coffee.
The energy in the house darkened as if in response to her annoyance.
25
Bad Deeds
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Weston’s mind raced, trying to poke holes in the Gartner’s argument.
The fools teased with powers they had no understanding or respect for. Clearly, the Devil had already gotten his claws into the woman. How else could she have known that Hal Vaughan had jumped back so forcefully at the top of the stairs he’d knocked them both into a fall, and that Hal later claimed to have seen a little girl leap out at him? The only other people who knew anything about his war with the Devil during those months in 2001 had long since left the area. And he doubted Hal or Ettie would’ve told anyone about it.
Doing battle with Satan in a house occupied by a scientist and someone so hostile to those doing God’s work wouldn’t be easy. On some level, he sympathized with the woman for having parents who misused The Word. He had a far dimmer view of them than even atheists—at least the atheists who only wanted proof and didn’t actively mock the faithful. People who claimed to be Christians yet used their faith to divide and harm did more damage to God than those who refused to believe. In this woman’s case, her parents’ cruelty had pushed her away from Him and left the poor woman vulnerable.
Satan had affected young Mia Gartner, and Weston would save her—whether she wanted him to or not. A drunken man can’t ask someone to help them walk home, but they still needed someone to walk them home. Her mind had been affected by the Devil too much already, his influence irresistible due to her lack of faith.
She kept demanding proof, visible proof, and God simply didn’
t work that way for whatever reason. Who was he to question the Creator, much less make demands of Him?
He’d been two years shy of fifty when Hal Vaughan swept him down the stairs. That had hurt quite a bit. Now, at sixty-two, a fall like that could have serious consequences. Perhaps he should let the poor fools suffer the fate they asked for and walk away, but he couldn’t turn his back on people so clearly in need of God’s help. Inviting them to services on Sunday had sent the wrong message. He’d wanted them to be surrounded by the energy of the Lord, but they—mostly her—assumed he merely desired their donations to the plate. A different approach was needed. As much as it worried him to attempt anything without the support of holy ground at his feet, he’d compromise and do everything here, tell them going to the church wasn’t necessary. His flock had already done battle with the evil in that house and God wouldn’t care if they prayed here, in a fancy building, or wherever.
He tried to pick his words carefully to formulate a suggestion, but before he could assemble a full sentence, Adam thrust out a hand.
“If things don’t work out with the animism, we can talk. Until then, please give my wife some space?”
Mia abruptly dashed inside, and the instant she turned away, a palpable wave of evil radiated from the house.
The faithful behind him all stopped praying at the same time.
Weston’s mind blanked. He feebly shook Adam’s hand and backed up, gawking at the upstairs windows. Something seemed to be staring at him, but he couldn’t pinpoint it.
“What do you want us to do now, pastor?” asked Violet, a sweet woman a few years older than him who, without fail, knitted afghans for everyone in the church each Christmas. She had to spend all year making them… every year.
Weston couldn’t stop looking at the house, wary of danger. It seemed Mia had called Nate Ross to complain about him. Of course, out-of-towners would do something like that instead of actually talking like neighbors. City folk never understood how it was out here, how people ought to be to each other. Worse, what with Nate trying to ‘modernize’ and be all respectable as a law enforcement officer, he probably wouldn’t be as receptive to him doing God’s work as Ralph Kline had been. The former sheriff knew how to keep the peace in a small town. Nate, although he grew up here, spent some years away and brought back a notion of ‘city police.’ The man would likely take Mia’s complaints of trespassing and harassment seriously, despite that she desperately needed Weston’s help.
No sense provoking that conflict yet, at least not unless things got out of hand.
Adam pulled out his cell phone and hurried into the house while explaining to someone on the other end that he’d be a little late due to an ‘issue at home.’
“Ehh… The house has got them both pretty deep.” Weston turned to face the volunteers. “Thank you for coming out here to support these people. I’m sorry if it’s frustrating. They don’t appreciate what they’re up against.”
“I… felt the evil,” said Walter, Violet’s husband. “For a sec there, I’d swear the house was starin’ at us.”
“Yeah.” Earl nodded.
Murmurs of agreement swept over the group.
Weston raised both hands in a placating gesture. “It’s all right. I experienced the same thing the last time I fought the darkness here, and it did not prevail. The Vaughans escaped with their lives, even if we were unable to cleanse the building. My only concern is protecting these people. For now, we’ve done all we can do today. You folks ought to go on home, maybe offer a prayer or two for their souls.”
The group muttered their assurances they’d definitely pray for the Gartners, and wandered off back to their cars, parked a short ways down Minstrel Run. Adam jogged outside again, having added a blazer, hopped in his car, and zoomed off.
Weston strolled down the driveway, but paused at the end, not quite ready to give up on two innocent souls yet. On sudden inspiration, he slipped into the trees beside the road. Crouched low, he watched the house for a few minutes.
Mia rushed outside, pausing long enough at the door to say, “Be good, sweetie. I’ll come home as soon as I can.” She closed the front door, twisted her key in the upper lock, and ran to her SUV.
“That old witch is going to take the poor woman’s soul.” Weston ducked while she backed out of the driveway onto the road. As soon as she drove off, he stood again, shaking his head. “There are foul, foul deeds afoot.”
She could be going to meet the witch right now. Eyes wide with urgency, Weston climbed up onto Minstrel Run and fast walked to his Jeep. As he always did, he’d left the keys in the ignition. It prevented him from losing them, and if God thought someone else needed his truck more than he did, so be it.
He stared over the wheel at the retreating taillights of Mia’s Chevrolet, and turned the key.
The starter whirred a few times then cut out. Weston backed off, waited two seconds, and tried again. No sound came from the engine.
“Blast… Dear God, why would the engine die now?”
Again, he turned the key.
“God had nothing to do with it,” snapped a little girl—from the passenger seat.
Weston stared into the scowl of seven-year-old Robin Kurtis, her skin as pale as paper, her once light brown hair nearly black, nightgown stark white.
He screamed.
A sudden roar came from the engine. The Jeep lurched forward as though he’d stomped the gas pedal all the way down. Weston couldn’t look away from the child glaring at him; the revving engine nearly drowned out his wail of panic. Branches clattered at the roof. Weston tore his gaze off the devil child and faced forward… at the tree ten feet in front of him.
He stomped on the brakes and crossed his arms in front of his face.
Wham!
Steam hissed out from the Jeep’s grille, gathering in a cloud at the front end.
Robin stood in the middle of the street, smiling at the green truck.
The old man groaned from inside, knocked senseless by the crash.
He wanted to make Mia go away. Even Mommy went away and left her all alone with no one to protect her from Daddy. She said she’d be back, but she never came home. Robin wanted to wait for Mommy to come home, but she knew Mia wouldn’t go away.
Mia would never go away.
The driver door opened. A delirious Weston Parker stumbled out of the Jeep, blood trickling down his face from a broken nose. He swooned to his knees, clinging to the door so he didn’t fall completely over. Unfocused eyes swept over the road, oblivious to the child’s presence.
Robin glanced away from him, down the length of Minstrel run at the sound of an approaching car. She grinned at Weston, who wheezed and fell seated, then skipped off toward home, gradually fading out of sight.
Seconds after she disappeared, the curtains behind the tall window to the left of the front door twitched.
Nate Ross shook his head, squeezing and relaxing his grip on the wheel.
He drove along Deer Path Road to the right turn where it met Minstrel Run, his thoughts circling around Old Sheriff Kline’s stories about the house. Two possibilities waited for him at the house. Either nothing at all—or something horrible.
Ever since he’d gotten off the phone with the new woman living there, he couldn’t shake the feeling he really ought to go out there and have a look for himself. Nothing about that house ever wound up being normal or routine. Every time Nate had come out here to check up on the empty house since taking over, he’d been restless for days, unable to sleep. He’d never seen anything, at least not with his eyes, but something had gotten into his head, distracting him with phantom worries.
Maybe he shouldn’t have given into curiosity and checked out the old files, looked at those ghastly pictures of the little girl’s body. It had been the sort of scene that could send a detective diving headfirst into a whiskey bottle or turned hardened cops into the worst sorts of clichés. He felt awful for the poor bastard who had to take those photos, and worse for the
mother who had to find her daughter like that.
Sheriff Kline had been new in 1970, only a twenty-six-year-old deputy. Once when talking about that case, he’d said something cryptic to Nate like ‘sometimes, a lady just needs a .38 special.’ The man hadn’t seemed too concerned that Mrs. Kurtis had smuggled a firearm into the courthouse and executed her husband in front of fifty witnesses, including two sheriff’s deputies, two Syracuse cops, a bailiff, and a judge. It bothered him more that the woman had passed away while awaiting trial. Officially, they’d listed her cause of death as suicide despite she’d been found in bed, not a mark on her, no drugs in her system. Old Sheriff Kline said ‘that poor woman just didn’t wanna live no more.’
Nate rounded a bend to a roughly quarter-mile stretch of straight road that passed in front of the house. For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw the figure of a little girl in a nightgown skipping off the road into the trees. He slowed, staring into the woods while trying to figure out if he’d imagined it.
A flash of green drew his attention to a Jeep Cherokee about twenty feet deep in the woods on his left, crashed into a tree. Weston Parker sprawled on the ground beside it, blood all over his face. Nate cut the wheel hard, pulling a U-turn to that side of the street while switching on the emergency lights. He grabbed the radio mic.
“Clark, come back?”
“Copy, Nate,” replied Allison. “What’s up?”
“Need an ambulance out here by Six Minstrel Run. Send a tow rig as well.”
“You got it. What should I tell them to expect?”
“One person injured. Weston Parker went off the road and hit a tree. Gonna go check on him.”
The Spirits of Six Minstrel Run Page 20