by A. R. Braun
He smiled. “All right, goodnight again, Delia.”
She sighed. “Goodnight.”
Delia lay in her bed with Heather at her side. Some good the protection spells did. Goddamned charm book is worthless. If I had a fucking nickel for every time I’ve been ripped off by Mother Nature’s Sacred Space, I’d be rich.
Delia’s dad had helped her board up her daughter’s window. He’d searched the house and found nothing, had even offered to let them stay with him, but Delia wasn’t going to let anyone scare her out of her own home.
She kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Goodnight, Poppy.”
“Mom?” Heather turned to her. “You don’t think he’s still in here, do you?”
She looked her daughter in the eye. “No, honey, he left through the front door. Plus, I searched the house and so did the officer. We didn’t find anyone.” Delia kissed Heather’s cheek. “Go to sleep, okay?”
Heather smiled. “Kay. Goodnight, Mom.”
“Goodnight, Poppy.”
Exhausted, Delia fell into a deep sleep.
In the morning, when Delia woke, she found the child gone.
What sounded like Heather’s scream came from the bathroom.
Panic filled Delia like ringworm. She trembled, leapt off the bed and ran into the hallway.
Heather stood crying in her pajamas. “Mom! I went into the bathroom and that man was sitting on the toilet! He called me a bitch and said I interrupted him.”
Delia grabbed her daughter, rushed to the living room and looked out the window. The squad car had left. She moved her shaking kid into the kitchen, where she grabbed the biggest piece of cutlery she could find. Then Delia dialed 911 again.
Heather held onto her arm with a grip like a vise. “Mom, I’m scared.”
Delia gently moved her. “Stay behind me. I’m going in there.”
“No, Mom, please, just wait for the police.”
“Nobody threatens my daughter and gets away with it.”
The hobo came off the stairs and walked into the living room. He seemed oblivious to how they could see him from the doorway in the kitchen.
She put her mouth to Heather’s ear. “Stay here,” she whispered.
Delia ran into the living room. “Hey, Freak!”
The intruder was about to walk out the front door, but he stopped without turning around. “What?”
Delia stuck the knife out in front of her and approached. “I have a knife.”
He stayed put. “So?”
“I’ll stab you in the back! You stay away from my daughter! If you come here again, I’ll cut your heart out.”
“Oh yeah? Wanna know what I think of that?” Chuckling, he pulled down his pants.
Delia blinked. Surely this couldn’t be happening. But it was. The vagrant took a steaming shit on her living room carpeting. Delia blanched, then gagged from the overpowering stench.
Then he wiped his ass with his hand. He pulled his trousers up, which he wiped his hand on, then turned only his head around. “Stab that.”
Leaving her to ponder that chestnut, he left.
Delia vomited.
“Delia,” the officer said, “you are you going to get that protection we talked about, right?”
“After all this? Of course,” she answered.
“Good. Have a great day.”
Delia frowned. “You, too.” She shut the door.
She walked into the kitchen, where Heather cowered at the dinner table. Delia put her hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead and get a shower. He’s gone. I’ll make breakfast and drive you to school.”
With a look of mistrust on her face, Heather hesitated, and then walked away.
After ham, eggs, pancakes and toast, Delia drove as the child rode shotgun. “I don’t want you to walk to and from school anymore.”
Heather seemed preoccupied with looking out the window. “Kay, Mom.” The morning sunlight glinted on the child’s face, highlighting her picturesque hair.
The brakes squealed as she stopped in front of the school. “Have a good day, honey.” Delia kissed her cheek. “Be good.”
“Kay. Bye.”
Heather got out and slammed the door. The child looked behind her sporadically while walking up to the school.
Delia called her boss and told him she’d be a few minutes late, explaining about the intruder. She drove home and walked through the house, opening the door to the basement and going down the creaking steps. The scent of mildew wafted over to her in the dank space. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor, and she jumped when a rat scurried by.
“Little bastards!”
I’m calling an exterminator.
A too-brisk breeze assaulted her. The damn bum had broken out a window. Underneath, a bunch of boxes sat, peppered with glass fragments.
That’s how he got in.
“Why, Goddess Brigit?” Delia asked. “Why are you letting this bum torture me?”
No answer came.
When Delia went upstairs, she realized she’d left the entry door open. A yellow Great Dane had snuck in and was eating the bum’s defecation. Not being able to touch it earlier, Delia had thrown a bath towel over the shit. Perhaps the wind had blown the towel off. It lay on the floor a few feet away.
Delia retched again. After cleaning her face, she got the dog out of there, and then forced herself to clean the carpet and shampoo it till there was no trace of the hobo’s memento.
Coming out of the store with a purse full of mace, Delia was finished with her errands. She’d stopped by Vonderduty Alarms and bought the deluxe special. Delia had also dropped by a siding and window company and paid cash for a Heat Mirror window so the child would have more protection with a triple pane. They’d come out and installed the window right away at Delia’s insistence. The most important errand had been going into the gun store for her seventeen-round Glock Nine. Her father had been right after all.
Let’s see how he likes bullets in his ugly face if he ever comes near my daughter again.
Confidence thrummed through her. Armed and dangerous, she knew his mission was now suicide. Delia grinned. I’m really enjoying this, getting off on it even.
On her way to pick up Heather from school, a wave of shock ran through Delia as she spotted her daughter walking down the street. The child looked behind her periodically again.
Damn! I’m late. I spent too much time shopping after work. Looks like bloodletting.
Delia stopped her car and hit the button for the window to go down, which made a whining, electronic sound. “Heather!”
The child snapped her head Delia’s way. Her face glowed. “Mom!” Heather ran toward the car.
Delia opened the door for her, and the child climbed in and hugged her. “Why were you late? I had to walk.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I stocked-up on weapons to fight the crazy man. I bought an alarm, too. Oh, and you’ve got a new window with three panes.”
“Nifty!”
Delia glanced at her after stopping at a red light, the engine quietly purring. She thought Heather looked calm enough. Delia turned on the radio, hoping to hear the news reporting the police had nabbed the destitute man. “You really should wait at school for me, even if I’m running late. It’s dangerous to walk home with that weirdo around.”
Heather frowned. “I know. But you took like for-ever.”
Delia smiled and petted her hair. “Okay, Poppy, don’t get smart.” She chuckled and then pointed at her. “You wait for me next time or you’re grounded.”
“Oh, Mom.”
The light turned red and Delia pulled out; the engine roared. Before long, they pulled into their driveway and she pushed the button for the garage door opener. No use taking chances. Delia pulled in, and they slammed the car doors, then trudged inside. Heather ran to watch TV. Delia waited for the staff from Vonderduty to put the alarm in at three-thirty.
The men arrived fifteen minutes early and had it installed in no time. “That’s got it
,” one of them said, a short-haired, husky-looking guy who was her height. “Just set the alarm when you go to bed, but if you want to go to the kitchen or the living room, turn it off and turn it back on when you leave. It’s this button right here. Push it once to turn it on, then again to turn it off.”
Delia inspected the contraption, and looked them over. “Thank you very much, guys.”
“Thank you. Have a great day.”
“Have a good one.”
When they left, Delia beamed. I can relax at home, with pride and a smile on my face.
She checked the Glock in her purse. The safety was off.
I’ll wear the handbag everywhere in the house now.
“Bring it on, fuck-face,” she said to the bum, wherever he was.
The homeless man didn’t bother them all night. After tucking Heather in, Delia smelled her rank armpits and realized she needed a shower. I worked hard today. She breathed a sigh of relief. I feel so safe with the alarm. In her bedroom, Delia stripped naked and put on her white, silk robe. She walked down the hall, checking on Heather while she did. The kid slept soundly. Walking into the bathroom, she crossed the threshold and shut the door.
Delia took off her robe and looked at herself in the mirror. You cow. Then she walked over and pulled back the shower curtain.
The bum, grinning, sat in the bathtub. He’d cleaned himself up, or she would’ve smelled him. He’d washed his hair and put on a fresh set of slacks and a blouse. Her blouse.
Delia shrieked as she jumped and took a quick couple steps back. Oh fuck! I forgot my purse!
The hobo chuckled. “Nice body.”
She backed up, grabbed the robe and threw it on, then took a couple steps forward, shaking her fists. “How did you get in here? I set the alarm! It’s impossible!”
“I was already in here.” He cackled then, stopping to cough.
Delia blinked. She moved backward toward the door, pointing at him. “I’m gonna to get my gun and shoot you! No one will miss you, you goddamned hobo!”
“Go ahead. You think I care if I die? I’m a bum.”
Delia ran to the bedroom to retrieve the Glock. Her heart did triplets. Sweat slicked her, and her mind raced. He couldn’t have broken in. Goddamn worthless alarm! She dug frantically in her purse for the Glock.
“Finding everything okay?” the bum asked from behind her.
Delia wheeled on him, seeing him standing in the doorway. She pointed the gun. “You want to say a prayer first?”
He grinned like a sadist. “I don’t think so. People pray to me.”
“Who prays to you, you piece of homeless shit?”
He chuckled. “Before you shoot me, can I explain?”
“You’ve got five seconds.”
“I know I don’t look like a god, but oh, are you in for a surprise, heh-heh-heh. Actually, you’re the one who prays to me.”
Her mind lurched. “Pan?”
“The very one.” He whipped out a flute from the back pocket and played an esoteric tune.
Delia’s eyes widened.
When he finished the ditty, his face glowed and lit up the room, sending rays of light that flourished the space.
Then another insane thing happened. His feet changed into cloven hooves, and his nails morphed into claws. His teeth became serrated.
Pan let out a hearty laugh. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a bit mischievous. In fact, I’m about to force some tears out of those pretty blue eyes.” He chuckled again. “I’m kidding. I kid.”
Delia furrowed her brow and trembled. This guy’s too much! She managed a nod.
Pan said, “You can’t shoot me. I’m your god.”
Delia eased down the Glock. She took a few deep breaths. Nonplussed, she backed away and sat down on the bed before she fainted.
“Does your daughter want a little brother or sister?” he asked.
Delia looked daggers at him. “What?”
“Well, a boyfriend is what’s missing in your life, right? You’re not bad looking. How would you like to make a baby that’s a god?” He leered. “You’re a cutie.”
Delia slapped her head a few times, then shook her head. Oh no, this weird shit is NOT HAPPENING.
“I had to laugh when you prayed to me.” Pan chuckled again. “If you’re a polytheist, then you believe I wooed Diana, and now I work with her, Di being only half of me. Guess who’s next? Now I’ll woo you.”
She pinned him with her eyes. “If you’re the Wiccan god, then why did spread bad karma, saying and doing all those mean things to me?”
Pan held his arms out again. “I told you, I’m impetuous.” He snickered. “I’ll be your boyfriend. There. Now you can’t say no guy wants you. It’ll be such an honor for you, having a second child that’s a deity.”
Delia just looked at him.
“It’s not like it never happened before. That writer guy, he used to be a Wiccan. The lucky bastard poked the goddess Brigit, the goddess you thought you prayed to, that A. R. Brawny paper towels or something.”
She stood, scowling. “This is all really interesting, fucked-up shit and all, but there’s a problem, flute toter. I hate your fucking guts! You terrorized my child. I wouldn’t worship you for all the money in the world!”
He frowned, his beady eyes turning dark. The atmosphere in the room changed. Electricity made her hair stand on end.
Pan spat on the floor, and the saliva boiled. “Then you ain’t a witch.”
She raised the Glock. “You know what? Fuck Wicca! And fuck you, too!”
He sighed smoke. “You’re making me angry,” he growled.
“I don’t give a fuck! Join the club!”
Pan spat again. “You ain’t a witch, then I’ll leave.”
“Yes! That’s what I want! Get out of my life forever, you shit-eating monster. Go, or I’ll fill you full of holes.”
“First things first.” He weaved foo fire with his hands. Yellow lights filled the room.
“What are you doing?” Delia shook so badly she could barely hold the Glock.
“I’m taking your magic away and breaking your protection spells. You said you don’t want to worship me anymore.”
“You’re taking our protection?”
“Well . . . your protection.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take your daughter. She still wants to worship me.”
“The fuck you are!” She stood and unloaded on him, emptying the Glock.
With supernatural speed, he caught every bullet with his impish hands. He stuck them into his mouth, inhaled, and when he exhaled, the bullets shot out as if from a machine gun. Delia had dove to the floor before he’d reared his head back. When the shooting ended, she rose and looked at the wall just below the window.
The bullets abbreviated this message: F U 2.
She turned around.
Pan had disappeared.
Delia ran to Heather’s room in a panic, her heart bashing her ribcage as if it would explode. “Oh no, not my baby, please!” She reached the room, and her daughter was gone.
Delia fell to her knees. “No! She’s all I’ve got!” Tears rushed out her eyes as she trembled, feeling utter desolation of the darkest caliber. For the first time in her life, she considered suicide.
A note lurked on the bed. She felt her eyes grow wide as she stared at it in amazement. Her knees knocked as she got up and ambled over. Someone had scrawled on a parchment.
Fiddle de dee and fiddle de dum.
Your Wiccan god Pan, I am the one.
I wrote this spell to let you know
I’ve taken your daughter far below.
Tremble be quiver, tremble be shake.
You’re a cowan, so doom is your fate.
You’d better take heed whom you forsake.
For Pan is a satanic, infernal name.
Into the Pit
Van screamed.
The air chilled his body, and he shuddered. Why am I naked and falling
?
He continued to shriek, glancing around, though he couldn’t see anyone. The walls were like a cave’s, and he wondered why he was here. He looked below him. Heat caressed the bottom of his feet.
Van’s thoughts returned to his last normal moments. I was working in my office at Burzum Publishing, the secretary buzzing around and handing out memos, the boss barking orders, the hot-shot intern flashing movie star teeth at the ladies, and then . . . then. . . .
Van couldn’t breathe. He gagged, wheezed, retched, PANICKED. His mind swam. Oh my God, there’s a furnace of fire down there!
He’d been sitting at his desk one minute, and then the next, the building—the whole freaking building—had collapsed and fallen into the earth.
Just like the Jews that withstood Moses when he returned from Mount Sinai after catching them worshiping the golden calf. This is my punishment! Oh no, not me! I thought life would last forever!
Embarrassed, he covered his crotch and his face.
In his life, he’d only cared about winning, beating out the other guy, whether for love, money, or material things.
Now the heat had spread to his legs.
Flashes of memories came to him, leaving the church at eighteen and the frat-boy lifestyle of eating junk food, drinking, and getting high. The draw of partying at college was too strong, though everyone went through that phase at that age, didn’t they? But why didn’t I ever go back to God? Lust and alcohol got my mind off my problems, the desolation of a failed family—my vices helped me forget. When I reached middle-age, I still didn’t care.
Even after my heart attack.
Van had been slapping his legs to stop the pins and needles of pain, but it had spread to his crotch, not the kind of sting he was used to.
How do I slap that?
His whole body trembled. When the building collapsed, he’d never stopped falling.
Where were the others? Shouldn’t they be falling with him?
Van’s co-workers at Burzum weren’t religious fanatics or anything, but they also weren’t afraid to admit they went to church, that they believed in something. Van never worshiped, just served himself, getting drunk and laid after work.
And now he was falling too fast.