by Brian Keene
There were about a dozen other cars parked in the field. Maria turned off her headlights and got out of the car. The man with the flashlight approached, smiling. As he drew closer, she was able to make out more details. He was in his late thirties or early forties. A few days’ worth of whis kers covered his pale face. His red flannel shirt fit tightly over a middle-aged gut. He also wore a hunting jacket, dirty jeans, and a Mack Truck ball cap. Thin, brown hair jutted out from beneath the hat’s brim.
“Howdy,” he said, pointing the flashlight at the ground. “You the lady from the paper?”
Nodding, Maria stuck out her hand. “I sure am. Hi. Maria Nasr.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand.
“You must be Ken Ripple?”
“Sorry, no. I’m his friend, Terry Klein. I’m sort of a second-in-command here, I guess.”
“Oh. Where’s Mr. Ripple?”
“He’ll be along in a minute. Rudy Snyder, the Winters town fire chief, wanted to inspect some things real quick. He showed up late. Said this was the only time he could do it, and we can’t open up without his blessing.”
“I see.”
“So Ken’s with him. He sent me up here to make sure you knew. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Okay.” Maria quickly recovered from her initial surprise. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Well, while we’re waiting, since you’re involved with the construction here, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about the Ghost Walk?”
“I think you’d better wait for Ken. No offense.”
“None taken. They were just general questions, really. What you think of Ken’s idea and things like that. What people can expect. You know, a chance to talk it up?”
“Sure, but no thanks. Like I said, you’d better wait for Ken. He’ll do the talking.”
Maria decided to try changing the conversation. “Do you happen to know if the staff photographer from the newspaper showed up? He was supposed to take some pictures to accompany the feature article.”
“Yeah, he was here earlier. Took some shots of Ken and a few of the volunteers. Then he walked the trail and took a bunch more. You ask me, he took too many. No way they’ll use all those photographs. Seems like a waste of film—and money.”
“I guess you don’t care much for the media?”
“Not really.” His whiskered cheeks turned red. “I’m sorry. Does it show?”
Maria grinned. “Just a little.”
“Sorry about that.” Terry shrugged. “It just seems to me like they’re doing our country a disservice. You know? CNN or FOX News, it’s all the same bullshit. None of them really report on anything that matters anymore. There’s no news on the news. They just give screen time to a bunch of talking heads who only further whatever agenda is important to them. They let these clowns in Washington dictate the news, rather than going out and finding it.”
“Actually, I agree with you. Cable news services are businesses, and these days advertising dollars and ratings come first. But what about the newspapers?”
Terry laughed. “Shit. Who has time to read the paper these days? I’m lucky if I get a chance to read American Rifleman from cover to cover every month. I don’t bother with the newspapers anymore. Nobody does.”
Maria was speechless. Part of her wanted to laugh and another part wanted to scream in frustration.
“And besides,” Terry continued, “you guys are a business, too. You’ve got advertisers, just like the networks. Instead of ratings, you have to worry about circulation.”
“Perhaps. But I’d like to think we try to do better.”
Still chuckling, Terry said, “I’ll go and fetch Ken for you. I’d call his cell, but the coverage is shit down there in the woods. You okay waiting here by yourself?”
“Sure. It’s not Halloween yet. I’ll be fine.” She grinned.
Terry turned and walked away. Maria leaned against the hood of her car and watched him leave. Despite his jovial, engaging tone, he looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped and his head hung low. She wondered how many hours a day the organizers were putting in on the Ghost Walk.
After he was gone, she looked around, studying her surroundings. The field was large and could probably hold hundreds of cars on opening night. Two large trailers sat in one corner of the field. She guessed that was where they stored their tools and supplies at night. The woods were a long distance away—she couldn’t tell how far for sure in the dark. Maybe the length of a football field. Possibly farther. The tree line was nothing more than a wall of thick, gnarled shadows—skeletal black fingers reaching for the night sky. Their tops swayed slightly in the breeze. She heard dry leaves rustling, even from this distance. Then an owl screeched. It sounded like a screaming woman—just like it had on a special about owls she’d seen on Animal Planet. The cry chilled her. It sounded far more terrible in real life. She idly wondered if owls ever attacked humans. She didn’t think so, but wouldn’t it just be her luck if this one did?
Maria waited, cold, restless and bored. She flipped the hood of her blue sweatshirt over her head and fought to keep from shivering. It was getting chillier with each passing minute. She tried to be patient, tried to fight back her annoyance, but it was hard to do. She wanted to get this article wrapped up and turned in, so she could focus on the book, instead. It was all she’d thought about that afternoon. A true-crime publisher would flip over it. The story was something different, something unlike the usual serial killers and crimes of passion they normally focused on.
A few volunteers walked by her, nodding with polite indifference, but none of them stopped to talk. Instead, they got into their cars and drove away. Maria noticed that all of them had the same weary gait as Klein. The field emptied of vehicles, leaving only four, including hers. She assumed the others belonged to Terry, the fire marshal, and Ken Ripple.
The owl shrieked again, and Maria jumped, banging her leg on the car.
“Go on,” she hollered. “Scat! Get out of here.”
She was glad, at moments like this, that her parents didn’t ask her much about her career as a freelancer. Although they had never said it out loud, Maria knew that they were disappointed with her. They’d expected far more for their daughter than the hardscrabble life of a freelance writer. They wanted her to marry someone successful—a good American Muslim—and move back to Paramus and have an important career as a journalist and give them lots of grandchildren. If they could see her now, standing in a field in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, jumping at owls, what would they say?
The night grew quiet.
“Hello,” Maria called. “Anyone there? Mr. Klein? Mr. Ripple? Mr. Owl?”
Silence. Then the wind moaned through the trees.
“Goddamn it. I don’t need this shit.”
Maria unlocked her car, reached inside the glove compartment, and pulled out a flashlight. It was long and black—a Mag light just like the cops used. The heavy steel cylinder felt good in her hands, gave her confidence. She plucked her digital voice recorder from her purse, tested it, dropped the notebook and pen back inside, and then hid the purse beneath the driver’s seat. Then she locked the car again and flicked on the flashlight. The darkness seemed to press against the brightness. The spotlight beam showed a clear path to the forest. She’d been right. The woods were farther away than they’d looked. It would be a long walk.
“This is bullshit. These shoes aren’t made for traipsing around in the woods.”
Cursing, her hood pulled low, Maria trudged toward the hollow. The mud sucked at her feet, as if the ground were trying to prevent her from going forward.
Levi climbed into the back of the buggy. His weight made it shift, rocking the suspension. The wheels groaned. At the front, Dee shuffled her legs, hooves clattering against the pavement.
“I know what I’m doing,” he told the horse. “Trust me.”
Dee chomped her teeth together. They sounded like a mousetrap snapping shut.
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“There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”
A car drove through the parking lot, hip-hop music blasting from the speakers. The bass rattled the windows. The driver’s face was painted to look like a skull—white and leering. Obviously, they were getting a head start on the holiday. Levi waited for the car to pass. If the driver parked next to him, he’d be unable to proceed until they left.
When the coast was clear again, Levi pulled a canvas tarp off a long wooden box and laid it aside, stirring up dust. He sneezed. The box was padlocked, and covered with charms to protect its contents from thieves, witchcraft, and the elements. The sigils were painted onto the wood, and in some cases, carved deep into the surface. There were holy symbols and complex hex signs, as well as words of power. Levi ran his fingers over the two most dominant etchings.
I.
N. I. R.
I.
SANCTUS SPIRITUS
I.
N. I. R.
I.
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
He’d carved them himself, just as his father had taught him, carefully inscribing the words from The Long Lost Friend and other books. Levi smiled. All of the books had been passed down to him from his father. He wondered what his father thought of him now, as he looked down on Levi from the other side. Was he proud of his son? Did he approve? Did he understand that sometimes you had to use the enemy’s methods and learn the enemy’s ways if you were to defeat them? Or, like the rest of Levi’s people, did his father disapprove, even in death?
There was no way of knowing—not until the day when Levi saw him again. The day the Lord called him home. He prayed for that moment. Yearned for it.
And feared it, too.
Dee whinnied softly and pawed at the pavement again with her hooves.
“Okay,” Levi said. “I’m hurrying.”
He pulled a key ring from his pocket and removed the padlock. Then he opened the box. The interior smelled of kerosene and sawdust and dirt. They were comforting smells. They spoke of hard work and effort and honesty. Many people had boxes like this, on the backs of their buggies or in the beds of their pickup trucks. Usually, they held tools. Chainsaws, shovels, hammers, spare engine parts.
Levi’s box held different tools; the ones of his trade.
He sorted through the contents, pushing aside a bundle wrapped in duct tape. The package contained a dried mixture of wormwood, gith, five-finger weed, asafoedita, and salt—a charm against livestock theft, to protect Dee when Levi left the buggy unattended. As long as it remained in the box, no harm could befall the horse. Too bad that didn’t go for the rest of the buggy, which was why he’d asked the store manager to keep an eye on it for him. He’d tried perfecting a charm for the buggy, but so far his efforts had been unsuccessful. The last time he’d tried it, Levi parked the buggy in downtown Lancaster. A street gang had tagged it with spray paint ten minutes later. He’d been ready to forgive them until they turned their attention on Dee. Then the charm had kicked in and Levi had shown them the error of their ways.
The memory made him smile. The looks on their faces…
But as long as Dee and the box were safe, that was all that mattered.
He moved a few books and trinkets around, and found what he was looking for.
A stick.
Levi’s stomach fluttered. His lips felt numb. He started to sweat.
He didn’t want to do this, but he had no choice. The girl was getting farther away. If he didn’t follow her now, he’d lose her for sure, and thus lose any chance he might have of learning the entity’s true name. Then, whatever befell this community would be on him. He was charged with the task.
Swallowing, Levi reached into the box and pulled out the stick. It looked like a walking staff—four feet long, an inch thick, and round. It had been cut from a tree and the gnarled wood was smooth and hardened with age. It was a Rod of Transvection and Levi was terrified of it.
Since the time of King Solomon, Levi knew, scholars had believed that witches could fly with the aid of a broomstick or similar implement. Lambert Daneau, in Les Sorciers, and witch-finder Henry Boguet in numerous writings, both believed that the stick was covered with some type of magic flying ointment and that was how the witches traveled. Other scholars had believed it to be nothing more than delusion. Prierias argued in 1504 that it did not matter if a witch actually flew or not. Simply believing that they flew indicated a clear devotion to pagan goddess Diana, rather than God, and thus branded them a witch. Sir George Mackenzie, Scotland’s King’s Advocate, also explored the psychological side, writing in 1678 that the witches he’d interviewed only dreamed they were flying.
None of them were correct. Like many men, they presumed to know not only the mind of God, but of His enemies as well. In reality, flying was a combination of both theories. Transvection involved a displacement of the inner self—what some people called an “out of body experience.” Levi’s staff had been cut and cured according to the rules, and then lathered with a special home-brewed oil that seeped into the wood. Holding the stick in a certain way, Levi could indeed leave his body and “fly.”
He just didn’t like to.
Levi sat the rod beside him and locked the box again. Then he picked up the stick, climbed down from the buggy, and gave Dee a kiss on the nose, stroking the horse’s thick mane.
“I’m ready. Stay here and mind the groceries. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The horse stared at him with sad, brown eyes.
“Now don’t you start with that, Dee. I’m about to undertake the Lord’s work. It’s not like I have a choice. If I don’t do it, who will?”
Dee snorted, then lowered her head and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry, girl.”
Levi glanced around the empty parking lot. He needed seclusion, some place where he wouldn’t be discovered or disturbed. The back of the buggy was out, as were the street and sidewalk. He considered using the grocery store’s rest-room, but decided against that as well. What if somebody came in while he was out, and they removed the stick from his hands?
That would be bad. Without the physical tether, his astral form would have no means of staying anchored to his body. Unable to return, he’d simply float away.
He tied Dee’s bridle to a light pole so the horse wouldn’t wander away. Then he chocked the buggy’s wheels. Finished, Levi quickly walked across the parking lot and crept around the side of the building. Behind the grocery store sat three large, green garbage Dumpsters. Beyond them was a vacant lot, choked with dead weeds and debris. The sight made him sad. Why didn’t the town do something with the lot? Perhaps turn it into a park for children. Make it green again. Fill it with life and good things.
He squeezed between the Dumpsters, breathing through his mouth. The small space reeked of curdled milk, spoiled food, and urine. Frowning, Levi studied the pavement, looking for a spot that was free of broken glass, cigarette butts and other trash. Pickings were slim. He swept some of the debris out of the way with his shoe and then crouched down, satisfied. He lay back, stretched out, and positioned the stick between his legs. He lowered it, the tip touching his nose while the other end remained clenched tightly between his thighs. The phallic symbolism was not lost on him, but he ignored it. This was how it was done.
Grasping the staff with his fists, he closed his eyes and exhaled. He forced himself to relax, tuned out the sounds of traffic and the public address system inside the store, over which the manager was calling for a cleanup in aisle seven. A late-season gnat flitted around his face, but he ignored it. Levi shut out the world and focused on his breathing. He couldn’t feel the hard pavement beneath him. Couldn’t feel the pebbles digging into his back or the breeze on his skin. All he felt was the wood. All he heard was his heartbeat. His ears hummed. His pulse slowed. Within minutes, he’d entered a trance. His arms and legs began to tingle, as if asleep.
And th
en he was gone.
Up, up and away…
Levi tried not to scream.
Maria stepped into the tree line and followed the path. The Ghost Walk’s trail was clearly marked. Both sides were outlined with something that glowed white in the darkness. It was almost phosphorescent. Curious, she bent over and touched it. It felt cool and dry. Powdery. She sniffed her fingertips. Lime.
“Pretty smart.”
Even without her flashlight, she’d have been able to see where she was going because of the lime, but she kept it turned on just the same. The beam held the darkness at bay and made her feel more secure. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts or any of the other folklore connected to the area. But there were animals out here. Raccoons, possums, deer, coyotes, maybe even black bear. The light would keep them at a distance.
She hoped.
Maria shivered, pulling her hood tighter. It was colder here in the woods than it had been out in the open field. This struck her as odd. The trees should have acted as a windbreak of sorts, making the forest’s interior warmer than the field. She stuck her free hand in her pocket. The other gripped the flashlight. She sniffed the air and caught a faint hint of burning leaves, even though there was no fire, as far as she could tell.
“Hello?” She stopped walking. “Mr. Ripple? It’s Maria Nasr, from the paper. We had an appointment?”
Something rustled overhead. Off to her right, a twig snapped in the darkness.
“Who’s there?”
The noise ceased.
Maria took a deep breath and continued on. She swept the flashlight beam back and forth, illuminating both sides of the trail. As she rounded a curve in the trail, Maria gasped, startled. A figure loomed overhead, slowly swaying back and forth. She heard a creaking sound. Maria swung the light upward, illuminating a hanged dummy.
“Jesus Christ…”
She passed by more attractions. There was a guillotine, its phony blade covered with tinfoil and red paint. A dummy sat propped against it. Next came a section of trail that had been lined with tied-together cornstalks. Plaster skulls, rubber bats, and other trinkets hung from mosquito netting overhead. This was followed by a giant bird’s nest, complete with an animatronic pterodactyl, turned off for the night. The path went right through the center of the nest, which was littered with fake body parts and a generous amount of red paint for blood. Maria had to admit, it was sort of neat. Not her type of thing, but she could see where others would enjoy this. It was certainly more creative than just dressing in a sheet, jumping out at someone, and shouting, “Boo!”