The Bookseller's Secret

by Catherine Jordan

  In the past year, nine children have been reported missing from several different shanties within ten kilometers of each other. Officials are looking for a possible connection. Inspector Tseme Dusu, an officer with the Unit—the only police force in the world dedicated to supernatural crimes, believes the number of missing children may actually be higher, noting not all those who go missing are reported.

  “I believe we are looking for a serial killer, not a sangoma,” said a police official on the scene, Captain Massu Thuzien.

  “Belief in the power of harvested body parts has spread,” countered Inspector Dusu, pointing to the recent prosecution of a Johannesburg mortuary owner accused of selling body parts.

  “Although most people don’t care where the body parts come from,” said Dusu, “most want to be assured that the victim’s death was violent in order to increase the potency of their black magic.”

  Unsolved Missing Cases

  Increase in Unsolved Cases

  Highlight Police Shortcoming

  Mason Barry Friday 17 May 2013

  A mother of a missing youth claims when she reported her daughter missing, the police did not even take down the child’s name.

  “The increase in the unsolved missing cases highlights police shortcomings,” said Inspector Tseme Dusu of the Unit, a specialized police force located in Pretoria dedicated to supernatural crimes. Inspector Dusu was on the scene at a township in Cape Town investigating the skull and rib findings in early May. He was willing to go on the record with his response. “We must work together, not independently of each other. Regardless of whether or not the local police take juju seriously, they must at least admit the seriousness of these crimes.”

  “Why my child?” the mother asked.

  “Why so many children?” another parent asked.

  “The genitals of young boys and virgin girls are regarded as being especially potent,” said Inspector Dusu. “And unfortunately, here in the townships where children run around unattended and where the people are often ignored by the police, the children of the shanties have become easy targets.”

  Mob Burns Sangoma And His Hut

  Locals Fear Shanty Inhabitants’ Hysteria Might Spread

  Mason Barry Sunday 19 May 2013

  An arson attack and execution yesterday in a township outside Cape Town has the locals wondering if hysteria will spread.

  The burning of a sangoma follows the latest report of a missing youth. So far, the child’s remains have not been found.

  Since the late 1990s, rural communities have burned hundreds of sangomas accused of black juju to death.

  Most sangomas are considered traditional healers and are a respected part of South African society, but the recent rise of murders, especially children, and the proximity of where the bodies have been found, have the people living in the townships angry and suspicious.

  “Are the townships and shanty towns the murder scene or are they the dumping ground?” a reporter asked an official on the scene, Captain Massu Thuzien.

  The officer responded, “No conclusions can be made at this time.”

  42—Mason, the Reporter

  “Do you like zombie stories?” Lowther asked.

  “Seriously?” I asked. I yawned, stretched, and sat up in bed. Early morning sunlight streamed across the bed like ribbons.

  “I’ve been having some fucked up dreams lately,” I said.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “I used to have nightmares about the cartel, about the friends murdered or kidnapped during and after my time in Mexico, about being chased, about dying. Now, I dream about flying. I dream about bright light and a house with a garden.”

  “Her house?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Give me details.”

  “Can’t, because my buddy in the corner and his big fuckin’ mouth starts yapping away the second I wake, and then I forget.”

  “I don’t care for your sarcasm. If it wasn’t for me,” Lowther said, his voice taking on a sharp edge, “you wouldn’t have all those articles.”

  I got out of bed, stepped on a pile of clothes, kicked a fallen pillow out of my way. “I still find it hard to believe no other reporters are willing to tackle those stories.”

  “In this country, the government makes the news,” Lowther said. “War and injustice get the Pulitzer, not witchcraft. Which is exactly why you and I are the ones to write these articles. We will be taken seriously; you will make headline news. Your Pulitzer is on the horizon.

  “Do you like zombie stories?” Lowther asked again.

  “Not really,” I said, making my way to the bathroom.

  “Ever hear of World War Z? It’s a novel.”

  “Yeah. I don’t live under a rock. I am a reporter, remember?”

  “I think I have an interesting zombie tip for you.”

  “I doubt it,” I said, splashing sink water on my face, slurping water from my hands. “I saw Night of the Living Dead when I was a kid. Stupidest fuckin’ movie I ever saw. World War Z was a decent book, but I still think zombies are a little too far out there. No one believes in them.”

  “You didn’t believe in witches until you came here,” Lowther said. “You wanted to smoke Eva out as a fraud.”

  “I still do,” I said. “Until I meet her, she is nothing more than fiction. Now, if it’s Jeffrey you want to talk about, well, that dude is serious. Him, I believe in. But just because he says she’s real, doesn’t make it so.”

  “You’ve been to her house. To the barn. You’re still an unbeliever?”

  “There are people out there who will not believe the Earth is round until they see it for themselves,” I said. “They are convinced the pictures we see have been manipulated, and the videos were created to look real. Are they gonna get on a rocket ship and go take a gander? No, but if I’m going to write about a woman I expect people to believe in, I want solid evidence. I not only have to convince others, I have to convince myself.”

  “What about me?” Lowther asked.

  “I’m the only one who sees you,” I said. “You said demons hide so people won’t believe in them, so you fuckers can work your secret nastiness for the common good.”

  “And you believed me?” Lowther asked, narrowing his eyes as they bore into me.

  I turned away from Lowther’s glare. I hesitated only a moment before answering, “Yeah, you I believe.”

  “You think you’re the one who can turn nonbelievers into believers?”

  “I do.”

  “How?” Lowther asked.

  I felt Lowther’s penetrating stare grow hotter. “I don’t want to make you angry, but c’mon. We are going to write stories about magic and ghosts and demons haunting the African continent and the woman who claims to rule them all.” I took in a breath. “You know I’ll have to find a way to expose you, too.”

  “But we don’t want that,” Lowther said with a growl. “Exposing us will bring on another war.”

  My lip curled into a smile so thin, I at first hadn’t realized it was on my face. “I recall you saying war and injustice get the Pulitzer.”

  Lowther returned the smug smile. “I did say that.”

  I began to dress, picking up strewn and worn clothes off the floor.

  “So, you’re not at all interested in a zombie story?” Lowther asked, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Over one hundred zombies reside in South Africa. Thousands live throughout the continent. They live in the United States and in Europe. They live in Haiti and Asia and Iceland. And they are all hers. She’s the chief zombie maker.”

  “Is she? Then how do they spread, since she won’t leave the continent?”

  “She is the only one who can confer the power upon another to create zombies. Real zombies.”

  “Get the hell outta here,” I said.

  “It’s true,” Lowther said. He took a deep breath and smiled wide. “There is more magic in her than you think. You don’t want to believe she has the power to
raise the dead. You shouldn’t be doubtful,” Lowther said. His smile turned to a scowl. “Not after all you’ve seen. I’ve shown you things most people never imagine.”

  “We need to focus on one thing at a time here,” I said. I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. “I researched the hospitals. I checked the public records. Jeffrey was never admitted to any hospital for insanity. But his girlfriend was. Caroline is her name, Eva’s half sister.”

  “Caroline was accused of insanity,” Lowther said.

  “You said you know crazy. So, was she?”

  He didn't answer.

  “I don’t think she was,” I said. “But people perceived her that way since she committed suicide. The hospital recorded her death as suicide, and it made the papers. She was a prominent socialite, and her family was loaded. In America, that shit gets brushed under the carpet. Here, it doesn’t seem like anyone even tried to keep it a secret.”

  “Think about it,” Lowther said.

  “They wanted her suicide made public?” I asked. “Eva wanted it made public,” I said, sucking in air as I answered my own question, “to take credibility from Caroline’s accusations, should any surface. So that makes me wonder what might have surfaced? What proof, if any, did Caroline have about Eva?”

  “I understand your hesitation, Lowther. You feel if you make the man-maggot believe in you, then he will fear you and all other devils. However, I would like to propose this second thought.

  “If he believes in you and gains an unhealthy interest, then he will try to immerse himself into our world. Through error and misinformation, for we are all excellent liars, he will become excited by what we can offer, no matter what the cost. Find out what he wants. Offer it to him. Extract a price worthy of me, and I will be quite proud.”

  “Yes, master. I will charge him accordingly, master.”

  43—Mason, the Reporter

  I jotted down a few notes and scratched them out as I put the thoughts in my head on paper.

  Jeffrey—alive and residing at home. Jeffrey has no siblings. Caroline’s father—Edward van Hollinsworth. Presumed alive, no record of his death. Edward, no siblings. Caroline’s mother—Lindsey Stockley. Also presumed alive, no death record. Lindsey, no siblings. Jeffrey’s father—James Henry Thurmont. Fled the country under tax evasion and embezzlement charges, died in England. Has a brother, Father Charles Thurmont, residing in England. Jeffrey’s mother—Margaret Thurmont ne Kingsley, committed suicide in England. Margaret, no siblings.

  After a quick Google search, I picked up the phone and referred to my notes while the line rang.

  “What are you doing?” Lowther asked.

  “I think I may have found Jeffrey’s uncle.”

  “The priest?” Lowther stepped out of his shadowed corner. “What do you want to talk to him for?”

  “I want to talk to somebody,” I replied. “Charles was over here as an exorcist. Now I want to hear what happened.”

  A woman answered the phone on the first ring.

  “I’m looking for Father Charles Thurmont,” I said.

  I had a hard time hearing her with Lowther jabbering in my ear, “What do you want to ask the priest? Huh? Huh?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said to her, shushing Lowther. “Could you please repeat that?”

  She did, her English accent soft and unassuming, and she sounded guarded, like she didn’t want to give away too much information. But she’d said enough. Her accent. Was it English, I wondered. I thought I picked up a harsh emphasis on her vowels.

  “The priests, do they always have to wear their garments, the everyday outfits I see them in with the white collar? What’s it called?”

  “You mean the blick cissack.”

  Blick cissack. Black cassock. “Your accent. Is it South African?”

  “Yis,” she said, clearing her throat.

  “I’m sorry,” I coughed. “I didn’t catch your name, Miss …?”

  The line went dead.

  “I think that was Lindsey,” I said, a lightbulb flashing on in my head as certain facts came to light. I searched through the papers on my desk, pulled one out, and said, “I’m pretty sure, based on my notes, she and Charles fled South Africa around the same time. Holy shit.” The lightbulb burned brighter. “She’s in England with him. Answering the phone at the rectory. You don’t think Charles came back here, do you?”

  The look on Lowther’s face told me yes.

  “Why? Because of Jeffrey?”

  “I think you might want to hear about this zombie story now,” Lowther said.

  I slumped in my chair. “Zombies. No shit. Why would Charles come here for zombies? You don’t exorcise a zombie. Zombies aren’t demons.”

  “Or are they?” Lowther asked. “Would you like to meet one? Then you can see for yourself. Decide for yourself. Get the proof you want, so you can write your exposé.”

  My heart began to beat faster. “Yeah,” I said, having a change of mind. I’d seen a lot of fucked-up shit lately, and zombies would be the least of it.

  “Remember, Lowther, there is no truth in her space. Her space is a confusing paradox, which cannot be measured. In her home, time cannot be measured either. Man-maggot is disconnected from time and space and left with a disturbing ambiguity in regard to both her world and his own.

  “Confuse the man-maggot with sights and sounds and encourage him to increase the noise level in his surroundings to drown out the voice of reason. The more confused our man-maggot becomes, the easier it is for him to believe a lie and to tell a lie, to call the truth a lie and a lie the truth. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, master. I understand. I will carry out your instructions.”

  44—Mason, the Reporter

  As the car approached the turn on Victoria Road, I pointed out the abandoned soda can I had left on the ground, the sun hitting it at the right spot and at the right time, signaling the gate’s location.

  Lowther picked up the can. “As if I don’t know where she lives,” Lowther said, crushing it in his fist, tossing it across the road.

  “You been here before?” I asked.

  “Others like me have. We communicate effectively.”

  I parked and stood in the exact same place I stood every time I came to visit. I had never ventured beyond my footprints, and my shoe had worn an indentation in the soft ground within a few inches of her white gate. But this time, at Lowther’s prodding, I took a few steps farther and gazed through the bushes into the forest’s haze. I waited for someone to show up, as Lowther said someone did almost every day. I had never seen anyone, I told Lowther. Lowther said that was because I wasn’t looking. They could come out in the daytime, but hid in the forest from those who considered them an abomination.

  I focused on a small clearing where I saw movement. A woman with long hair and a thin build leaned against a tree.

  “Is that her, Jeffrey’s daughter?” I whispered.

  “No,” Lowther answered, insistent.

  The snap of a twig alerted her. She looked up toward me. Unwittingly, I had stepped closer and closer toward the gate. My head rested upon a cold, hard bar. I backed up, heard the snap again, and realized the snap came from underneath my foot.

  “Shit,” I whispered as I lifted my foot off the twig. Lowther elbowed me and put a finger to his mouth. My body tensed. She had moved closer and was mere inches away. I stood perfectly still and felt the cold sweat beading on my forehead.

  She was repugnant. Earth and burnt hair and wet ashes and … and a metallic smell filled my nose. I struggled to catch my breath. Her eyes possessed an emptiness I had only seen on a corpse. The prayer for the dead went through my mind:

  Eternal rest grant unto them and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.

  It was the prayer I had heard at George’s funeral, and it had stuck in my memory.

  “You’ve been hanging around the front gate every day,” she said. “I’ve seen you. Jeffrey’s seen you.”

&nb
sp; Dread washed over me.

  “She’s been calling you,” the zombie said.

  “Who?” I asked, fidgeting, ready to run. I would come back again tomorrow and crouch, more unobtrusive, less stupid.

  “My sister.”

  I gasped, shocked by the revelation. “Then you must be Caroline,” I said. “Is she the one who brought you back?”

  Caroline gave a slight nod.

  I turned to Lowther to see his reaction, but he was gone. Shit.

  45

  “Okay,” I said, keeping my excitement in check. This was her, Caroline, Eva’s sister, standing before me. We faced each other, the gate separating us by a couple feet. I could’ve reached through the bars and touched her skin, felt her withered face if I wanted to. I didn’t want to. “I need your story. Were you kidnapped?”

  I told myself she was a living person, that she had been drugged, and she looked that way because she was wasting away in the forest.

  Lowther was right; I didn’t want to believe a person could be raised from the dead, even though all five senses told me I was staring at a talking dead woman. “Tell me everything,” I said, practically panting with excitement and fear. “I can have the article running by morning.”

  Caroline watched me carefully.

  “I’m Mason, a reporter,” I said. “I’ve already run a few very successful stories about some of the stuff going on around here. You’re the first person I’ve talked to, other than Jeffrey, to corroborate her, Eva.”