The Witcher Chime

by Amity Green

  Savannah felt her bottom lip begin to tremble, so she looked down. “You’re a monster. You hurt my little brother.”

  “I am no monster. I had no use for him here, and the case is the same for Caroline. This way, they are safe.”

  She watched him approach, repulsed by the silk in his tone and the way each step was carefully placed and graceful.

  “Do you see that this is an offering to you? I could have done away with them in another fashion, but for you, I made them leave, themselves.” He sat on the bed again. With a gentle touch, he reached for her glasses and pulled them away.

  She flinched, despite the effort to show she wasn’t easily cowed. “Are you Witcher?” She peered at him.

  He smiled, showing the deep set of dimples, then laughed, shaking his head. “Why do you need a title?” He folded the spectacles and placed them on her nightstand, regarding her closely.

  “I’ve known the others, the ones kindred to your father from the house over the mountain. I apologize.” He paused, apparently trying to find the right words. “The females, I speak of. You have the look of them, but you are far different. I admire that in you.”

  She snatched her glasses and put them back on, intent on getting his identity, especially since he admitted to knowing her family. “You said this is your house and Witcher’s the name on the gate.” She pulled her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Whoever you are, I want you to leave.”

  He frowned. “That’s not what I’d hoped to accomplish.”

  “Then why do you do mean things? Like chase us? I want my dad back.”

  “Your father is still here.” He stood. “I chased you because you wanted to leave. Each time you see me or think of me, you bring me closer to your likeness. I can’t have you leaving me.”

  “We didn’t want to come back because we were scared.” She studied him. He stepped back. “Leave my dad alone.”

  He shook his head.

  “Please?”

  “I make him happy,” he dictated.

  Tears welled and the muscles in her face tightened as she tried not to cry. She covered her face when a sob erupted like steam from beneath a manhole cover. “Get out!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I want my little brother. I hate you!” she screamed, crying openly.

  He approached, bending toward her. “Don’t cry, please. I made them leave and he is safer there.”

  “Get out of here!” She grabbed her reading lamp and flung it hard. The shade glanced off his shoulder, crumpling. The cord came loose from the outlet behind her nightstand with a loud pop, dragging the stand forth, legs squealing as it scraped the hardwood floor. She clamped her hands over her ears.

  Standing straight, he stared at her, snarling, a silhouette against morning light outside the window. He threw his head back, screaming with a mountain lion’s voice. His shape went quadruped, long, feline tail lashing with agitation. The cat took a long step and leapt at her, fangs bared, obsidian eyes gleaming.

  Savannah skittered back onto the bed, recoiled against the headboard, and tucked her face against her knees with her arms locked over her head. The mountain lion smashed into her, crushing air from her lungs with a grunt. The smell of death filled her senses and the temperature dipped to the feel of ice water. The last thing she heard was her voice crying out.

  * * *

  A dying fire smoldered, one last crackle popping a soft farewell. Savannah lifted her head and straightened her glasses with one hand. She sat on the couch downstairs in the den, curled under one of Mother’s afghans. The stranger wasn’t around. She rolled her neck to try to get it to loosen up, but pain throbbed from her ear to her shoulder blades. Dried blood caught her eye, darkening her shirt around the upper arm. Pulling the short sleeve back revealed a deep bite mark puncturing the flesh of her biceps and shoulder. Thankfully, puncture wounds didn’t bleed much. Two deep fang marks were separated by a neat row of indentations from smaller teeth. She looked down her collar. Aggravated bruising coated her shoulder and chest with hues ranging from deep navy blue to violet and pink. The wounds looked like she’d been strung up with a meat hook.

  Daylight from the twin, eastern windows faded in and out, twisting with the shadow from wind in the trees outside, illuminating the painting above the mantle. The mountain lion watched her, stoically and all-knowing. The foggy mass beneath the cat’s rock perch churned with each flicker from outside.

  Holding the injured arm close to her torso, Savannah came to her feet slowly, experiencing a head rush that nearly took her back to the couch. She breathed in a big breath, steadied, and paced toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

  The rest of the house was silent, deserted. She downed one glass and filled it up again. A soft tapping sound came from the den. Nothing seemed out of order when she poked her head inside. The fire was too low to make the sort of sound she’d heard. The gentle knocking came again, so she walked in the direction of the sound, ending up back at the couch. The picture frame rattled against the wall.

  Without taking her eyes from the cat painting, she bent and slid the water glass onto the coffee table. Two solid beats hit the canvas from the back, as if someone was knocking on a window behind it. She placed a hand on the bottom of the frame, pushing it against the wall. Vibrations pulsed against the painting, creating the effect that the foggy mass below the rock shelf churned, the clouds shifting and rolling against each other. They sped up, the tapping growing more intense. The center of the mass separated into two dark areas that spiraled with charcoal, black, and silver, becoming a liquid flow across the surface of the art. The canvas began to bulge, an obvious hand questing forth, scratching and pushing, feeling for a way out. Or a way in.

  Savannah took a half-step backward. The mountain lion’s gaze followed her movements in the dim light. She backed to the window drapes and fumbled for the draw cord to open them up the rest of the way, the cat gloating, reclining on its perch above the thing trying to burst through.

  The string fell into her grasp and she jerked the curtains open. Blinking, she stared, examining the painting. The lion still regarded her with the same stalker-like stare, but the mass beneath the ledge was just fog, the same as any other day. The oil paint wasn’t cracked or damaged. Nothing had been stretching it out.

  The sun was still high so she hadn’t been out long, although she didn’t feel as exhausted as before. It was just past midmorning of the longest damned day ever. Her shoulder was killing her and she was woozy, but couldn’t afford to waste the rest of the day.

  ***

  Chapter 11

  Hooray for a full tank of Birthday Gas.

  Driving out of town by herself was the last thing Savannah wanted to do, but necessity called. She had the timing down and the trip mapped out so she’d be back before Molly got off the bus. Her arm screamed each time she shifted gears, but soon pain fell away to throbbing numbness she could ignore. A war of wills between the manual transmission and her fear resulted in several stalls coming out of the driveway, but since she’d made it to Highway 50 the pickup kicked right along in fifth gear. The driver’s side window didn’t seal up top, so wind moaned low, creating a monotone backdrop for Tammy Wynette on the stereo. A country station was all that came in on the FM radio, which beat silence. Barely.

  Despite the lyrical whining about broken marriages and ruckus about tough bulls and long highways, questions continued to form and Savannah made mental notes. In less than an hour she would arrive at her destination, the Colorado State Mental Hospital. Caleman wasn’t a common name. It was worth a chance and the drive to see who might reside there. Even if no one was left, being family, she might be able to show her ID and get some information on any family member who lived there. She’d be careful. The place was a lot like a jail, and the patients were held under security. Not only were they a danger to themselves, most had likely done something to break the law. Hopefully, Rebecca’s one remaining daughter would know how to help,
although she’d have to look into the face of a deranged relative.

  The “what ifs” were ugly. What if there really was someone there and the staff said she could not talk with them? What if she was allowed to and that person looked like her or her sister? Dad only mentioned females, but what if there was a man there, an uncle or cousin, who had some condition that made them scary and psycho? Would a crazy man be easier to deal with than a woman? What if she learned there was a sickness that ran in the blood and her father was right; it only affected the women in the Caleman family? Suicide Rebecca whispered to the walls, house plants, her art, rocks … and finally killed herself. At least that’s what she and Molly thought happened. Their parents told them to stay in their rooms that night. The screeching and yelling coming from the kitchen pretty much let everybody in the house know the nutty old hag finally stepped off the deep end. Then there was a funeral. Then they moved to the Witcher Place. Then Dad turned into a monster. Deep down, she didn’t want to think he’d never be back.

  There would be answers because their parents said there was a relative locked up at the hospital. She would ask doctors about her father’s behavior and tell them about what he’d said about Caleman women. Before, growing up with a crazy old lady living with them wasn’t abnormal, it was just life. Just family, despite what some people in town had to say. Everything that happened since Suicide Rebecca died was the weird stuff. Surely the doctors would have information or advice.

  The engine idled low at a hill on the highway, so Savannah downshifted. When she pushed the clutch pedal to the floor, her knee popped loudly. She cringed, remember the sick popping sound Chaz’s elbow made when it hyperextended. He cried so hard, her heart still ached. Mother might lack a lot in the love department for her daughters, but there was no doubt she would look out for Chaz. She was certain he’d been taken to the hospital in Colorado Springs for the best of emergency care. Still, seeing him hurt and confused by … whatever had happened, was the worst ever. At least he was gone, taken away from the Witcher Place, along with Mother. She hadn’t looked back, just floored it and hauled ass out of the driveway.

  Savannah caught herself absently rubbing the spot on her scalp where a chunk of her hair was missing. Like it or not, Mother had it in her head that she and Molly had done something wrong, maybe even something to cause what happened to Chaz. She probably also thought they were the cause of the way Daddy had basically checked out. It wouldn’t have done any good to confront her about the way Daddy acted when she and her sister were to blame, in their mom’s mind. The most frustrating part about the whole mess was that no one had done anything to cause any of the craziness.

  She scrubbed away a tear, gritted her teeth and gave the Toyota more gas. Molly would be out of school in a few short hours. She had less than an hour to spend at the hospital before the drive home to meet the school bus.

  * * *

  “I’m here to see my great aunt, please.” She was screwed if the plump, bespectacled secretary asked for a first name, but she had to try something. The antiseptic “hospital” smell flooded into her lungs like muddy water.

  “Name?” the lady asked. She set the phone receiver on her shoulder and the coiled cord bounced with the jiggle of her office chair. She smiled from her desk.

  “Caleman.” We’re all nuts, haven’t ya heard?

  “Ah, for Stella. It’s nice to see she has living relatives, besides her nephew. Must be your cousin? What’s his name again?”

  Savannah froze, trying to think of what to say. She had no friggin’ idea who’d been coming to see her “aunt.” Her mouth opened and then closed again.

  “Charlie. There it is,” the woman said, fingering a line on the inside of a yellow folder.

  “Oh, yeah. I have a few cousins scattered around the state. Didn’t know which one had been in. Thank you. I’m Savannah.”

  “The young people in your family are so polite, dear. You and Charlie both, with your ‘please and thank you’. And Stella herself is so sweet. She’s really made a turn-around this last couple of months. She just sings and sings. No more outbursts. A real joy to have here.” She slid a clipboard forward, indicating a sheet of paper and a blank line beside “Caleman”.

  Despite a stab of pain in her shoulder, Savannah took the proffered pen and signed and dated like the other person before her, under the “Visitors” column. The paper was clipped onto the back flap of a folder, the sheet below showing a typed medical form. Savannah sped through the fields, looking for any long medical descriptions, but didn’t see anything enlightening. She handed the clipboard back to avoid looking suspicious.

  “Thank you, dear,” the woman said. She pulled a huge ring of keys from some unseen place beneath the desk and hustled around to the office door to step into the hall. “Stella’s room is just right down the main hall, here,” she said, gesturing.

  Savannah eyed the square passage of big doors with tiny windows. The secretary walked at a fast rate, so she kept her eyes in front and didn’t give in to peeking in any of the rooms. “Just down the hall” turned into a five-minute jaunt along a meandering corridor of echoes and odd smells. The ring of keys jingled in rhythm as they walked. White-clad staff, men mostly, smiled and nodded as they passed with the secretary greeting them with hellos and respective names. There was hustle and bustle, but everyone seemed friendly and good-natured. Security was handled well in the number of staff, but as she passed, she couldn’t help but notice the small windows and aggressive locks on each room. Everything was so sterile, so white-on-white, it made the place very cold.

  “Now don’t you worry about all the paint and brushes she has in there,” the woman said, huffing a little from the fast pace. “She insists that artistic talent runs in the family. It’s very important to her. We started her out with finger paints and finally gave in to the begging after about a year of that. We don’t give her pencils or anything too pointy. Besides, she loves her art supplies too much to use them to do anything harmful to the staff or to herself. She loves oil pastels and crayons.”

  They slowed and the secretary knocked on the next door to their left. One of the men, who Savannah guessed was a nurse, stopped at the door with them.

  “Do come in!” called a lilting voice from beyond.

  “Stella?” the secretary asked, opening the door. “Your great niece is here to see you.”

  “Where’s Charlie?” the old woman asked, coming up from a chair. “I don’t want a niece.”

  Savannah stepped inside sucking in a long breath as she looked from the woman’s lengthy, thin feet all the long way up to her face. Stella preened, big hands twisting her silver and grey hair behind a shoulder, then smoothing her nightgown and house coat. She stopped when she noticed Savannah by the door.

  “No, ma’am, not today, but thank you.” She turned back to the secretary. “Be a dear and go find Charlie. We shall read today and waiting makes me terribly impatient.”

  Savannah stepped forward. “Hi, Aunt Stella. I’m Savannah, Jack Caleman’s daughter. I was hoping we could talk for a little while.” She punctuated the introduction with a smile she hoped seemed friendly.

  The old lady cocked her head, eyes roving around Savannah’s face and down to her shoes, finally coming to rest on the top of her head.

  Savannah stilled while the ginormous woman gave her a once-over. Great Aunt Stella was easily the tallest woman she’d ever seen, standing at what she guessed to be far over seven feet. Even her hands and feet were big, but not out of proportion.

  She continued to wait for her aunt to say something, checking out the various pieces of paper stuck to walls like kids’ art on a refrigerator. Rudimentary depictions of sunshine and flowers and angels in the sky hung in clusters. One of the papers had a brown cat sitting on a rock. Savannah’s blood chilled.

  “Mother told me art is in our blood,” Stella said, tentatively.

  Savannah nodded encouragingly and pulled her eyes away, not wanting to alert the old woman in any w
ay. It was like getting a new horse comfortable and used to her. Savannah didn’t want to make any sudden movements that might startle her away.

  “Your mom’s name is Rebecca, right?”

  Stella nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Stella held her ground, her big form rigid as her lips, which had been slathered heavily with deep red lipstick. The same shade coated her fingernails. Pink house shoes peeked from beneath her floor length, frocked gown and housecoat. She looked at the smiling secretary.

  “I’ll be just out in the hall.” The woman stepped out, but left the door open, which Savannah appreciated. Stella sat down again, so Savannah took a seat opposite her at a card table that was bolted to the wall. Although her aunt was seated, she still had to look up slightly to make eye contact. Stella stared at her across the top of a toy make-up mirror that had a reflective foil square rather than glass. Bottles of fingernail polish and various tubes of lipstick were arranged in neat rows.

  “I’m sorry I’m not Charlie,” Savannah offered, again with a soft smile. “That is an old family name, right?” The woman didn’t respond, just watched her. “I won’t take up much of your time, so when he shows up, you two can read.”

  “You’re not Charlie,” she said, then sighed. “You most certainly are a Caleman.”

  “That, I am.”

  “So, what would you like to talk about?” Stella asked, without returning the smile.

  “Our family, mostly. Maybe get a little family history, if you don’t mind.” She folded her hands on the table.

  “Is there no one left to ask? You’ve made quite a long trip from the ranch.”

  “Actually, we don’t live there anymore. We moved to Victor, up to the old Witcher Place. Do you know where that is?”

  Stella blinked, then shook her head slowly. “Of course, I know where Victor is, but not your Witcher Place.” She shook her head again and looked away. “What of the ranch, then?”