Hex Marks the Spot

by Madelyn Alt

  His face broke into a smile meant to be reassuring. Then, in one heartstoppingly masculine motion, he turned and, with a flex of mighty shoulders, lifted down a heavy, old-fashioned bicycle that was held fast to the back of the buggy. A toolbox soon followed suit and was strapped to the bike’s back fender. “Keep supper warm for me.”

  As he pedaled off, he gave a shrill whistle over his shoulder. At the sound, the fuzzy head of a medium-sized pooch popped briefly into sight above the rim of the buggy. The dog leapt down and was after him like a shot, a blur of muted browns in motion.

  Still caught up in the drama we had accidentally witnessed, none of us had thought to move before Hester Metzger turned away from him. It didn’t seem to matter; if she recognized me, she gave no indication. Lost in thought, she smoothed her hand over her cheek once—to hold dear the memory of his hand or to wipe away all hint of tears, I could not tell—before straightening her shoulders and disappearing within the darker depths of the barn.

  “Poor lamb,” Liss said under her breath.

  “Men,” I grumbled by way of agreement.

  We both turned to give the lone male in our vicinity the evil eye.

  “Hey, hey,” Marcus said with a laugh, holding up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t do it.”

  There was something about watching a good woman get taken advantage of that made most other good women snarl. Wine, women, or song, the reason didn’t matter. It was the end result that was so painful to watch, compounded by the residual fear that it could one day be us. I didn’t know what Luc Metzger was about that afternoon, or why Hester was afraid. I didn’t need to. The situation, whatever it was, was one that resonated in the heart of every woman, everywhere. We’d all been there at some point in time. Some of us might even be there again in our lives, and therein lay the rub. “Guilt,” I sniffed, “by association.”

  Marcus looked at me mournfully. “You are a hard, hard woman.”

  Liss laughed. “That’s the thing about women. Any one of us can be hard and unyielding, when provoked. Best to remember that, ducks. It will keep you out of trouble.”

  Chapter 3

  We turned back toward the heart of the festivities, but my heart was no longer in them. The sunlight, once bright and warming, now felt harsh and unyielding. The chill in the air now possessed teeth. The laughter, no longer cheery, seemed instead to have a predatory edge, one that wound and circled through the proceedings, watching for a chance to strike. And it had struck, hadn’t it? Hester Metzger had felt it. Who would be next?

  I shivered and closed my jacket more tightly around me.

  The afternoon’s joy tainted, I was glad when Marcus raised his hand and shouted, “Hey, Aunt Marion!”

  I glanced up just in time to see Marion Tabor, librarian extraordinaire, coming toward us. Marion was Marcus’s favorite aunt and a long-standing friend of my mother. By all outward appearances she was a maiden-lady scholar—just so long as one overlooked (a) her tendency to ogle every male who came into view, and (b) her unfortunate penchant for mixing animal prints into her wardrobe in every way possible. This afternoon, her choice in animal prints included a pair of faux-zebra cowboy boots that would give any old-school rocker heart palpitations, a shearling-lined jacket, and a leopard print purse. All in all, pretty reserved for Marion.

  Marion held up a hand from which dangled several plastic bags loaded with goodies. “Howdy, neighbors!” she shouted, smiling with pleasure at the lot of us. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Always good to see my favorite auntie.” Marcus wrapped his aunt in a big bear hug, then kissed her with a resounding smack on the cheek. “And just what are you up to today?”

  Marion held up the bags. “Shopping, shopping, and more shopping,” she confessed. “I think I broke the bank. I found the cutest little rooster and hen salt-and-pepper shakers in one of the antiques and collectibles tents, and a Victorian-style mirror that will be perfect at the bottom of my stairs. And the food! Lordy, lordy, lordy. I’ll have to diet for a month when all is said and done…but it’ll be worth it,” she said with a wicked little wink. “Did you all find what you were looking for?”

  That and a little more, I thought, picturing Hester’s sad face. “I bought a few cookies for Grandpa G,” I told her. “Not much else, though. And Felicity—”

  “I totally missed my mark,” Liss inserted with a sigh. “Completely outdone at the auction, I’m afraid. I had so wanted that armoire. Although I did pick up quite a few lovely wood pieces from Eli Yoder for the store—”

  “So the day wasn’t a total loss,” I finished for her.

  Marion chuckled at the exchange. “Do you two always think in tandem? No wonder you have such a good working relationship. Louisa Murray won the armoire, I hear—I just ran into her down the way. She’s one of my library regulars, and of course your mother and I know her from church. She’s over the moon about it! Nice lady.” She paused for a moment. “You know, Marcus, I’m glad I ran into you today. I have a little situation at the library you might be interested in.”

  “Oh? What kind of situation?” Marcus asked.

  “Well…I don’t want to go into it here. Little pitchers, and all that. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. You know how people can be…”

  “You mean like those little pitchers with the big ears, way over there by the ice cream booth? Spill it, Aunt Marion.”

  She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I’m not usually this tongue-tied, don’t know what’s wrong with me. The truth is…our ghost has been acting up again.”

  “Boiler Room Bertie?”

  “Right. I’ve lived with the man for a long time now—the last twenty years at least—and he has always been a gentleman. Very respectful, low-key, never frightening. But lately—lately things have been different.”

  “Different, how?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it would be better if you saw it for yourself. You and your, uh, friends.”

  She meant the N.I.G.H.T.S., of course. Which left me wondering. I wasn’t sure that I had known Marion was aware of the work of the N.I.G.H.T.S. Was she also in the know about Marcus’s religious leanings? Had she learned of his relationship with Liss? Despite the lack of sophistication that her choice of clothing and favorite pastime (Manwatching, with a capital M) perhaps suggested, Marion was highly educated and intelligent. She could also be highly perceptive.

  And that was scary.

  Marcus lifted his brows questioningly at me and Liss. I don’t know what Liss’s face told him, but the message I sent was decidedly neutral.

  “Why don’t I stop in this week, sometime?” he suggested. “See what kinds of things are going down.”

  Marion patted his cheek. “Perfect,” she said, relief and gratitude evident on her face. “You’re a good boy.” She shifted her bags on her wrist in order to see her watch. “Oh, my goodness, is that the time? I’m going to have to run. I’ve promised to put in some time at the soup kitchen this evening, and I need to get these things home beforehand. See you all later. Enjoy your day!”

  We walked about a bit more, but the exuberance of the earlier part of the day was gone. I was relieved when Liss asked whether Marcus and I would like to join her for afternoon tea. But even leaving the park behind us, Liss and I happily ensconced inside my aging VW and Marcus following on his rumbling motorcycle, did not help to alleviate the unease that slithered at the pit of my stomach.

  Something was up; I knew it. But I could not imagine what.

  Liss and I made a quick detour by my parents’ house to drop off the cookies. My grandpa accepted his with a gleam in his eye that made it seem like I’d handed over the keys to a treasure chest. Then again, considering the bland, mushed-up foods my mom insisted on feeding him to keep him regular, maybe I was. He made me promise to keep the cookies on the down low from my mom, who at that moment was visiting with Mel and the girls. I did, but I told him he had to share with my dad as a price for my silence.

>   The deal struck, I gave him a kiss and a hug good-bye, and dragged Liss out of there before Grandpa’s gleam turned in her direction.

  Tea ended up extending into a wonderful dinner of grilled vegetables and cheese omelets, perfect with a cup of spicy chai and animated conversation. The sun was making a hasty descent toward the horizon when I finally rose from my seat at the kitchen table with a lazy stretch and announced that I had to be heading for home.

  “Would you like to stay?” Liss offered. “It would take me only a moment to turn down a bed for you.”

  “Oh…thanks…but I have a couple of stops to make on the way. Thanks for the offer, though,” I said, feeling not a little guilty. I was putting her off, and I knew it, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. The last and only time I’d stayed over had been nearly six months before, the night that Liss’s sister, Isabella, had been found dead on her property just up the road. The memories of that time were not exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep…especially when I remembered Cecil, the big black hound who had disappeared—literally—into the night. A guardian of the spirit kind, Liss had said. But was that a positive thing? The jury was still out, in my mind.

  “Well, you’re welcome any time, you know. Marcus?”

  Marcus was in mid-gulp, polishing off the last of his chai. He set the cup back on its saucer with a clatter and pushed to his feet. “’Fraid I’ve got an early morning, luv. Uncle Lou is needing some strong-armed help setting up at the church before people start arriving for morning services. They’re having an ice cream social tomorrow afternoon to raise money for the local firehouse. I promised I’d lend a hand.”

  Liss smiled indulgently. “Always the noble one. Do tell your Uncle Lou hello from me, then.”

  “Will do.”

  Marcus followed me out. I shivered the moment I left the warmth and security of the big house, and did not dawdle. The night air had gone crisp again—a frost tonight seemed a done deal. And after the sunny beauty of the day, too! It didn’t seem right, but that was the Midwest for you. All seasons at once. Standing in the open doorway in a golden halo of light, Liss saw us off, her slender hand raised in soft farewell as I started Christine’s engine. Was it a trick of the light that I saw a shadow hovering like a sentinel at her feet? I almost hoped so—Cecil might not be very reassuring to me, but I’m sure he made Liss feel as safe and secure as a witch can be.

  Giving one last wave, I pulled forward down the paved drive, across the green, and through the thick expanse of trees that were twisting and swaying violently all around me as I moved through the night.

  Too violently—the spring breezes of the day had all but abated while we made merry around Liss’s table, so what was going on? Nervously I darted a quick glance to the left and to the right, but the glow from my headlights did nothing to cut through the thick blackness the trees were now sheltering.

  Mother Mary, what a strange night. If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought there was energy moving. Big energy. A great, wallowing river of it.

  As I drove, I took comfort from the single wavering beam from Marcus’s motorcycle following close behind. The old county roads were narrow, with no shoulder, and were rutted from the winter frost heave, so I was proceeding at a veritable snail’s pace, not wanting to risk damage to one of Christine’s ancient axles. Unfortunately, my slower progress meant I had ample time to survey the landscape around me, and it was dark as pitch out there. Acres and acres of fields stretched on either side of me, some already harrowed and disked and planted, others still rough with their winter stubble, probably destined for a fallow season. In the summer, Indiana is a green place, thick and lush with vegetation. Tonight, arid and cold beneath the endless night of the new moon, it might have been moonscape.

  Two junctions later, and I was on County Road 500, another road that was all too familiar to me. Joe Aames, a big teddy bear of a man I knew from the N.I.G.H.T.S., lived on this road, next to a graveyard that was long out of commission to all but the spirit world. As I’d found out in December, spirit activity ran high among the weather-worn gravestones. In December we’d recorded magnetic field disturbances, EVPs (electronic voice phenomena—in other words, ghostly voices recorded where no voices should be heard), and plenty of spirit orbs, those invisible floating balls of energy that seemed ever present where spirits liked to tread.

  And yes, it had scared the bejeebers out of timid little me.

  Tonight the old cemetery appeared at rest as I passed it—thank goodness—the tombstones silent sentinels in the night. I shivered and motored on, grateful not to feel the cold nudge of the dead attempting to make contact.

  Another turn. Somehow the road ahead was even darker than the one I’d just turned off. Geez-oh-pete, didn’t anyone out this way believe in security lights? The view of the road was limited to the sickly glow of my headlights wobbling around in their old chrome frames. I leaned forward to peer more intently through the windshield and into the syrupy dark. I knew I was passing houses here and there, as evidenced by the limestone driveways and plain aluminum mailboxes my high beams picked out. I didn’t even need to see the names on the mailboxes—Schultz, Schwartz, Metzger, Ritter, Lutz—to know I was passing through an Amish farming community. The lack of security lights and electric power lines gave proof enough. All of the inhabitants, I decided, must have hearts of stone. Mine would have succumbed to a fear of the dark long ago.

  A flicker of red in the road ahead caught my eye. And then another, and another. I eased off the gas pedal. What was it? Animal eyes reflecting in my headlights? Oh, but they reflected green, didn’t they? Not red. And the flashes seemed kind of big for eyes…

  Slowly the scene ahead came into view. The red flashes weren’t eyes. They were the rear reflectors on a congregation of buggies blocking the road in front of me.

  I slowed down to a crawl, barely creeping forward by inches as I tried to decide what was going on. Marcus pulled his motorcycle up beside me on my left and motioned for me to roll down my window.

  “Stay here,” he told me. “I’m going to go up and find out what’s going down.” He started to push his bike forward, then paused. “Why don’t you turn on your flashers? We wouldn’t want anyone rear-ending the lot of us.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He parked his bike in front of me and thrust down the kickstand while I fiddled in the dark for the flashers. There—got ’em. I had left my window down, and now wisps of conversation were floating back to me as Marcus hailed someone I couldn’t see.

  “Evening,” he called out, his tone friendly but neutral. “Is there a problem here? I’d be glad to help if I can.”

  I didn’t hear the answer, but I saw Marcus’s stance go from loose-jointed and casual to a kind of stillness I’d never seen from him. It certainly didn’t make me feel any better. I peered through the windshield, willing my headlights to reach farther into the darkness. What was in front of the buggies? Marcus made his way carefully between them, then disappeared from sight.

  Stay here, Marcus had said.

  Hey, wait a minute! I thought, exasperated with myself. I was a grown woman, and it was obvious that a group of law-abiding Amish men was not something a girl needed to fear on a dark spring night. The only thing keeping me in the car was my own overdeveloped sense of propriety and duty. Marcus was fulfilling the role of overly protective male, as usual, and that was nice, but I was not at risk here. And that being the case, there was no reason I couldn’t just find out for myself what was going on.

  Right? Right.

  Sometimes a girl just has to take charge of her own destiny.

  Before I realized I’d come to a decision, my hand was on the chrome door lever and the door was swinging wide on creaking hinges.

  Outside, my headlights were making a valiant attempt at dispelling the creepiness of the dark surroundings. Unfortunately, the repeating red flashes of my taillights were counteracting the soothing effect, casting a gaudy carnival glow over all. Clearing my
throat, I edged toward the buggies, my desire to assert my independence somehow less resolute now that I had left the security of my car. The closer I came to the buggies, the more I found myself rising on tiptoe.

  Not to see over them. To quiet my steps.

  Marcus had taken a zigzag path between the old-school vehicles, but I didn’t follow. I couldn’t. The horses were shifting their weight nervously, their movements constantly realigning the buggies and backing them closer together. As I had no wish to become a Maggie sandwich, I closed in on the nearest one, a low-slung model that looked short enough for me to see over. But not short enough, so I climbed onto the running board, gripping the sides for balance.

  There were still more carriages off the road. Their positions were heedless and haphazard, which somehow unnerved me even more, but that was nowhere near as unsettling as the circle of men I saw standing on the edge of the field, huddled together as though for protection.

  This was not some kind of Amish rendition of a Chinese fire drill.

  I watched one of the men hunker down, stretching his hand toward a shadow on the churned earth. After only a moment or two he rose again, shaking his head. As he walked back toward where I stood behind the grouping of buggies, even before he encountered the glow from the headlights, I could tell by the shape of the man’s body and by the way he moved that it was Marcus.

  “What is it?” I called out softly.

  He glanced up and stopped in his tracks, and I felt him. staring at me. Then he ducked and arched his way around the buggies until he reached me. “Maggie, I think you ought to go home.”

  I frowned, turning to look at the huddled men. Why weren’t they coming back to their buggies? Why weren’t they going home? “What’s out there, Marcus?”

  Marcus shook his head. “You don’t want to know, love.”

  It didn’t matter. In that moment the truth came to me, unbidden. It wasn’t a what. It was a who lying at the edge of the field just ahead. “Marcus?”