A Haunting in the SWATS (The Savannah Swan Files Book 1)

by Balogun Ojetade

  “Change of plans,” she said. “Head for the old camp”

  Rashad nodded. He held Savannah’s eyes with his own. “What he said… it’s not true.”

  Savannah sighed then reached into the car. She caressed the back of Rashad’s head in her hand, just for a moment, just until the darkness welled up through the curse between them and she wanted to bash Rashad’s face into the steering wheel. She retreated from him, her breath caught in her throat.

  “It is true. Somewhere along the way I became the boogey-woman.” Savannah stood up, then patted the top of the Ford Country Squire. “Let’s get moving. I’ve got a bad feeling about this roadblock happening to show up now.”

  “Be safe,” Rashad called as he stepped on the gas and sent the wagon racing down the road.

  ***

  Savannah had not been to the old camp in years. Her father had loved to hunt, but Savannah never had an interest in putting bullets through defenseless animals. She had put enough hot lead into monsters; human and otherwise.

  She peeked in through the cracked glass window in the front door then worked the key into the lock. There was rust around the edges of the keyhole, but it only took a little muscle to get the door open.

  “Welcome to your new home, friends and neighbors,” Savannah said, her arms sweeping in a wide arc.

  Odinga limped up the four wooden steps that led to the front porch then sniffed at the dark interior. “This is a dump.”

  Savannah peered at him over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you noticed, but those cops back there didn’t seem very friendly. They’re looking for us, dirt-priest. All of us.”

  “Nganga,” Odinga said, raising his cane. “Or nanga… even druid. ‘Dirt-priest’, however, is unacceptable. And they would not dare harm me. They have no idea of our confederation.”

  Savannah stabbed a finger toward the still-spotless Bentley. “They didn’t know, but they do now. You think they were too blind to see that big ol’ cream-colored pimpmobile of yours following my SUV?”

  “It’s Old English white, not cream!” Odinga grumbled then stomped into the cabin, leaning on his cane.

  Papa Marcel followed Odinga, grinning at Savannah as he passed. “Bel plas, ya got here, Savannah. Looks like it’ll do jus’ fine.”

  Savannah swatted the old man on the back of the head as he passed, then walked to the SUV. They had stowed the table in the vehicle before leaving the trailer park. He wanted the two experts to get a chance to look at it in a more relaxed atmosphere.

  The rear hatch popped open as Savannah approached it. She pushed it up and slid the table out of the back. Then she paused and looked back at the Bentley and Jimmy Odinga’s driver.

  The man sat behind the wheel, his bald head facing forward, hands on the wheel precisely at ten and two. He looked like he was ready to drive at a moment’s notice; like he was always ready to drive at a moment’s notice. Savannah decided she had more important things to worry about just then than whatever enchantment Odinga had his driver under, but it was something she would keep in mind.

  She wrestled with the table, trying to get a good grip on it. Rashad showed up and grabbed two of the legs. “Thanks,” Savannah said, then grabbed the other two.

  Rashad lifted his side then started walking backward, pulling Savannah along. “I’m fine, you know.”

  “You didn’t look fine.”

  “It’s like…” Rashad paused to get up onto the porch. He tilted the table sideways so they could fit it through the doorway, “… pulling a muscle if you try to lift too much weight. I’ll be sore for a while, but it’s nothing that won’t pass.”

  Savannah was not ready to agree with her husband just yet. “I appreciate what you did back there, but a little restraint wouldn’t kill you.”

  Rashad grinned. He helped Savannah flip the table up onto its feet. “It might’ve, back there. It’s like the first time you gave me some in your daddy’s tool shed… I didn’t have time to figure out how much ‘oomph’ to put behind it.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes then turned to the old men. “All right, y’all; time for you to earn your keep and tell us what the hell is going on out there.”

  Odinga tapped the old propane lantern that hung from the rafters over the table.

  “I doubt that has any gas,” Rashad said.

  The lantern came on with an audible pop, though the flame had a faint gold tinge to its pure white light. Odinga flashed a broad smile then turned his attention to the table.

  Savannah motioned to Rashad from the cabin’s little kitchen, giving the old men space to argue over the arcane mess.

  Rashad leaned against the counter and waited for Savannah to speak.

  “Lashey,” she stopped, gathered herself, then started again. “Do you feel anything out there? At all?”

  Rashad nodded. “She’s out there, but that’s all I can get. There’s something between us. Blocking me.”

  Savannah dug in the pockets of her leather jacket until she came up with a joint that had been bent nearly into an “L” by the day’s activities, but it was still intact. She lit it and had the joint halfway to her lips before Rashad’s fingers brushed the back of her hand.

  “You need that?” He tipped his head toward the spliff.

  Savannah snuffed out the joint on the counter, then slipped it, and her lighter, back into her pocket. “I guess I can go without for a little while longer.”

  Rashad left the kitchen. Savannah slid the joint from her pocket, lit it again then took a long pull.

  Rashad peeked back into the kitchen, shaking his head.

  Savannah shrugged her shoulders. “I said a little while longer.”

  She stared out the window at the untamed forest. Her fondest childhood memories of this place were the smell of brisk morning air; tramping around in the fallen leaves and early snow, a rifle across her shoulder. She could taste the gamey, savory flavor of fresh-killed bear, or venison.

  Then other smells intruded – the scent of blood, mole rat shit and spilled entrails from a gunshot wound to the gut.

  Savannah hit the spliff again.

  “Savannah?” Papa Marcel stood in the kitchen doorway. His voice was low and cautious. “You gon’ wanna see dis.”

  Savannah snuffed out the joint, then followed the old man to the table. The gold-white light of the lantern made it easier to look at the table’s surface, as if the lamps’ pure, clean radiance stole some of its malevolent energy.

  “It is a map,” Odinga stated, tracing its edges with a finger. “And also a bible. And a set of instructions.”

  Savannah sighed. “I’m not sure if you old bastards remember, but some scary bitches stole my daughter this morning, and I’d like to hurry it up and get to the point where I can go and get her back.”

  “Pe bouche ou! You might learn somethin’.” Papa Marcel pointed at the outline of the map. “This part look like it was carved earlier den the rest. Newer carvin’ lap over it here and here.”

  Odinga took up the explanation. “I can’t read the writing they’ve hacked, but these symbols are obvious. They mark where the girls were brought over.”

  Savannah nodded. Each of the symbols was a big snarl of overlapping spirals and tiny etched figures, all surrounded by concentric rings. Where the rings overlapped, there was a fourth symbol. One big circle held three smaller spirals in a tight triangle. Glancing at it sent a stab of pain rocketing through Savannah’s forehead. For a moment, she was looking down on the scene, watching from somewhere outside of her body.

  She stumbled back from the table, clutching her face.

  A voice echoed in the back of her skull, taunting, “Ah-I-ee see ee-you-oo!”

  Papa Marcel helped Savannah catch her balance. “You bet’ not look right at it. You oughta know better, enbesil.”

  Savannah took a deep breath. There was a pull – a feeling of falling toward the table – deep in her gut. She stabbed her finger at the center of the table, where a wide circle filled with
eldritch runes dominated. “What the hell is that?”

  Odinga rapped his thick knuckles near the center of the table. “That would be number four. The fourth conjured girl; much more powerful than her sistren. These symbols all align with that larger circle, as if these others were feeding into it. It looks more impressive than the first three.”

  Impressive was a massive understatement. Savannah could feel that central circle tugging at her eyes. The other symbols marked some of the worst atrocities she’d seen in a life spent hunting darkness. She did not want to imagine what was going to slither out of the big one. “Just great.”

  Papa Marcel laid a gentle hand on Savannah’s shoulder. “There’s more. You ain’ gon’ like it.”

  Odinga stabbed his finger at the first three symbols. “Some of this is written in Proto-Saharan as near as I can tell.”

  Savannah raised her hand. “You’re trying to tell me angels wrote this shit?”

  Odinga frowned. “Proto-Saharan is the language of creation. So-called angels are not the only creatures who know how to call things into being. I do not have the time or tools I’d need to translate all of this, but the bits I can make out refer to seeds spreading on the wind.”

  “And a burnin’; a cleansin’,” Papa Marcel chimed in.

  Odinga continued. “I do not think those girls are an end in themselves, Savannah. They are just the tip of the spear of what is happening in the SWATS. They are harbingers of something bigger.”

  Savannah remembered Lashey’s words in the restaurant. She had called the first girl a seed. The three of them had been spread around the SWATS, and now that they had sprouted, whatever pulled their strings was coming for the harvest. “If whatever put them here shows up, there’s going to be a world of hurt coming down.”

  “For anyone not in on de deal,” Papa Marcel agreed. “Which is, ya know, all of us… and den some.”

  Savannah racked her brain, pulling back the details she remembered from the restaurant and the springs; from the Tuxedo Hotel and Mitchell Manor; Hotlanta Wings. Plummer’s Crack. All places of power.

  She paced the floor. Pieces of the plan fell into place. “I think I know how we can stop this.”

  Savannah sketched out her plan, leaving out a few critical pieces she knew neither of the old men was going to like, and one that Rashad would like even less. She was just guessing that it would work, but it felt right. When it came to the There Road, and how to fight it, sometimes the only thing she knew she could trust was her intuition.

  Odinga leaned on his cane. “That all seems simple enough, but you know as soon as we put that plan in motion those monsters will be all over us.”

  “Not if they’ve got something else to worry about.” Savannah nodded toward the fourth circle. “Whatever they’re gonna do, it’ll be there, right?”

  Odinga shrugged. “That would make sense, based on what we have here, but these people are insane.”

  A hearty laugh escaped Savannah at that. “Priest, anyone who begs for a god’s attention is crazy. They’re just a different kind of crazy from you.”

  She waved off Odinga’s protest. “I think this plan is the only fighting chance we have against these bastards.”

  Papa Marcel looked around the room. “Mwen panse we’re short one person for ya plan.”

  “You and Odinga can take down two of them. That’ll be enough.” Savannah said.

  Rashad piped up, stepping away from the wall. “I’ll do it.”

  “No.” Savannah’s voice was flat and cold. “My family’s shed enough blood for one day.”

  Rashad smiled. The lantern flickered. A cold wind washed over Savannah. “I wasn’t asking. She’s my daughter, too. I’ll take the third.”

  Savannah sighed. She hated to admit it, but Rashad was right. With his help, they had a chance to pull this off. Without him, everything was a crap shoot. “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to come early.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Savannah stood at the kitchen window, listening to the others going about their morning rituals.

  Papa Marcel, in the main room, groaned, his old joints popping and creaking as he rolled out of his cot.

  Odinga’s footsteps shook the little cabin as he paced the floor, reciting prayers in his low, rumbling voice.

  “Almost time.” Rashad said. Savannah could feel him behind her – a pressure on her skin and soul. He spoke quietly, but his words were loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

  She turned then leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over her belly.

  Rashad smiled, then pressed his palm over his heart. “I love you.”

  Rashad leaned in, his body tense against hers, pressing Savannah against the counter. Rashad’s kiss was sharp and bitter, but Savannah held on, fighting the tide of rage and hate, smothering it with a love so fierce not even the Night Howler could kill it.

  They shoved away from each other, hearts hammering in their ears. “Hold that thought,” she said through a crooked grin.

  Rashad touched Savannah once more, his fingers running through the hair at the back of her head. He pinched and tugged.

  Savannah jumped backward from the sudden slight pain.

  Rashad raised the little hairs up between his fingertips. He rolled the hairs into a little bead. “In case I need to come looking for you,” he explained.

  Savannah laughed. “Boy… I was about to beat that ass!”

  They stayed together in the kitchen for a while, laughing and enjoying each other’s closeness.

  Papa Marcel and Odinga left to execute their parts of the plan.

  Savannah gave her husband one last hug then Rashad went out the door himself.

  Carter was still sleeping when Savannah left the cabin. She kissed him on the cheek and prayed she’d come back to see him again.

  She drove the SUV down out of the hills back toward the SWATS. Back to wage war on the There Road.

  ***

  The SUV grumbled up the driveway. Savannah grumbled right along with it. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they formed was not encouraging. Until the conjured girls kidnapped Lashey, Savannah was not sure what they were up to. By taking her daughter, they confirmed her fears.

  She stopped at her house then hopped out of the still-running SUV.

  Savannah darted throughout the house, gathering up supplies as she went. She loaded the supplies into an old backpack, careful not to jostle anything inside.

  Looking at the wreckage of her home, Savannah tried to imagine the family living there again. She could only envision a nightmare of shadows, mole rats, raccoons and blood. How could she ask them to come back here, to this house where they had been hunted and hurt, where the horrors she made had come calling? Savannah ran from the house, leaving the door wide open. She did not think she was ever coming back.

  She took a quick detour down to Rashad’s place to gather up one last item, which she wrapped in a scrap of canvas then tucked into her backpack.

  She let her mind wander as she drove down a road she thought she would never travel again. Old wounds ached with the memories of her last visit.

  She brought the SUV to a halt in front of the ruins of the Tuxedo Hotel. The flames had left nothing except a few thick sticks of charcoal and heaps of ashes. Savannah scooped her backpack off the seat next to her then headed for the place this had all begun.

  Looking at the ruins, Savannah found herself battling more bitter memories. The pressure of the revolver against her son’s chest. The sound of Carter’s screams as the raccoons chewed their way into his body. A flickering cascade of scenes – all the blood and pain and death that had come since that day.

  She stood on the scorched earth where the porch had once been. It was still dark, but a strange light flickered to life above the old well. The gazing ball hovered above the pit, spilling a rainbow of sick, oily light. The three rocking chairs bowed toward weird light, leaning so far forward they should have fallen into the ashes. B
ut they just hung there like three old ladies hunched up on the front of their seats.

  By the light of the seer’s ball, Savannah could see someone had been to the well. They had cleared out a path to the hole, smoothed the ash so that rough, gray dunes flanked the walkway. Where the light fell across the ground, strange symbols flickered in the dust. They tugged at Savannah’s eyes, urged her to follow them down into the darkness.

  “Figures,” Savannah spat.

  Nothing came easy.

  Savannah followed the trail that led down into the crater that had once been a basement. The glowing globe hung overhead, throbbing with an ominous, tooth-rattling hum. Its light caressed her forehead, and pain sizzled along her nerve endings.

  “Honey,” she said, drawing both pistols from her belt, then raising them to the level of her eyes. “I’m home.”

  One of the guns roared, splitting the air with a lance of silver fire. The bullet slammed into the glowing sphere above her. A thunderous din shook the air with a shockwave that blew Savannah’s hair back and rocked her onto her heels.

  The light shattered in all directions, sizzling where it hit the ground; casting strange shadows and flickers where it fell down the well’s throat. The splinters of light wriggled on the surface, then burrowed down into the earth, out of sight.