Spells, Salt, & Steel--A New Templars Novella

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by Gail Z. Martin


  I pulled out the old button and clutched it in my palm. Ghostly footsteps paced above me, and the cows sounded downright pissed. I had to hurry because the firecrackers had been loud and I didn’t want to explain myself to either a local cop or a security guard.

  I put the old button in a tin can that I’d brought for that purpose, filled the can with kindling, gave a squirt of lighter fluid, and dropped the button into the flames, followed by a generous handful of salt and iron shavings.

  Overhead, I heard a man’s shriek followed by what I guess was some creative cursing—everything sounds worse in German. All the research Chiara and I found said that burning a personal possession in the place where a troubled spirit manifested with plenty of salt, iron, and holy water should do the trick if the bones were not available. I hoped that was right because I’d sure as hell had enough of the KOW to last a lifetime.

  Once the fire burned out, I dusted off my hands and stared up at the catwalk overhead. The clouds slid free of the moon, but I did not see any trace of Helmut’s ghostly silhouette. Cautiously, I edged out from under the water tower, ready to dive back to shelter if a shot rang out, but nothing happened, and I sighed in relief.

  The galloping hoof beats echoed in the quiet night, and I looked up to see a wild-eyed, full-grown, big as fuck bull coming right at me like a hellhound with horns.

  I grabbed my backpack and ran. I’d faced down wendigo and werewolves, vengeful ghosts and possessed raccoons, but right now, I was reenacting the Running of the Bulls in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania, in the middle of the night, and my money, if I were a betting man, was on the bull.

  I lit a cherry bomb and threw it behind me, barely slowing my pace. It exploded, and the bull made a noise between a snort and a whinny that told me it intended to have Wojcik-kabob for dinner.

  The fence loomed up ahead of me, and now that I looked at the cut I had used to enter, I wondered whether or not the bull could tear right through after me. I’m thirty-five, so I’ve slowed down a bit since my teenage years, but tonight, my legs ran like I was seventeen again. I threw myself at the fence like a two-strikes junkie caught with a pocket full of dime bags and scrambled up the metal links before my manly ass could get deflowered on the point of that bull’s pointy horns. As I flipped over the barbed wire at the top and shredded my jacket, I thought about how easy they make this look in the movies.

  Just before I could let go, the bull hit the fence full speed, catapulting me free. I might have pissed myself, just a little. Or maybe I landed in a puddle. Either way, I came down hard and landed with an inglorious splat.

  The bull stared at me with pure malice in its beady black eyes, huffing and snorting on the other side of a chain link fence that looked as delicate as lace to me right then. It backed up a few steps, and when I saw how the fence support posts had tilted after its last charge, I had visions of it chasing me all the way back to Adamsville.

  Screw that. I reached for my grenade launcher, grabbed another paintball shell, and took my shot. The shell hit the chain link fence and exploded all over the bull, spraying holy salt water in its eyes and pinging it on the nose with the iron BB. I didn’t wait; I ran for all I was worth, legs pumping, chest heaving, and I didn’t stop until I collapsed next to my big, black Silverado pick-up, Elvira. I damn near threw up on my boots, and I sat on the running boards until I could breathe without gasping, then I hauled my ass into the driver’s seat and spun out on the gravel, before that bull could follow.

  Chapter 2

  Snow covered everything, thick and cold. The trees hung heavy with it like something on a Christmas card, and the woods were quiet except for the creaking of branches beneath the extra weight.

  Inside the cabin, a roaring fire chased away the chill. My father and my Uncle Christoph still sat at the table in the kitchen, finishing their coffee and laughing about something. So many in-jokes between them and they’d rarely explain, just share a knowing grin and a guilty chuckle.

  “Don’t encourage them.” My cousin Greg came down the ladder from the loft buttoning up his flannel shirt. He looked at our fathers behaving like teenagers and shook his head with an affectionate smile. “You know they’ll get worse tonight, after we tap that keg.”

  “You mean, my keg.” Sean, my younger brother, looked up from where he sat in one of the worn chairs near the fireplace. “Since I’m gonna be the one who gets the buck with the biggest rack.”

  “What’s the rule again? No drinking before the hunt?” I needled him. The keg was a long-standing Wojcik tradition. We all went up to Grandad’s cabin on the first day of deer season. The hunter who shot the buck with the most points had the honor or being the first to tap the keg. The first round of drinks went in order of points, and whoever either didn’t get a buck or got the smallest rack had to serve.

  “You got lucky last year,” Sean replied, competition keen in his eyes. “Paybacks, Mark. Paybacks.”

  Just before sundown, the dying started. I’d heard all kind of wild animals out in those woods: bears, mountain lions, wild dogs, bald eagles. I’d never heard that noise before, a shriek like a cat in a blender, and before we even had a chance to look around, the creature was on us.

  Dad and Sean shot first, but the bullets didn’t even make a dent, ammo that could drop a two-hundred-pound buck, and I know they didn’t miss. I took my shot, just as Uncle Christoph and Greg fired, and the bullets just seemed to bounce off the thing’s hide.

  It stalked us, as if it wanted us to get a good look. Coarse, dark, matted hair covered its body, and its head looked like an elk’s skull without the skin, but with razor-sharp teeth and at least a twelve-point rack of antlers that didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen in a fish and game magazine. I learned later to call it a wendigo.

  We kept on shooting, and it just kept coming. The creature stood on two legs, but its long arms made me think it could drop to all fours and outrun us. It lurched forward and caught Uncle Christoph across the throat with the long claws on its huge paw, and he went down, burbling blood.

  “Chris!” Dad yelled, but the beast swiped once across his chest, opening him up to the ribs from throat to belly, spraying blood across the white snow. Sean shot the thing point blank, but it never slowed down, and it grabbed him with one hand while its teeth sank into his throat and Sean went still.

  “You son of a bitch!” I shouted, dropping my rifle and pulling my utility knife. Greg did the same, and we tackled the creature. We each weighed about two-twenty, and we jumped that beast at a full run, but it took our weight like it was nothing. Up close, the stench made my eyes water. Greg and I stabbed with our knives, but its hide was so tough we couldn’t cut deep enough to wound it.

  The creature fixed its blood-red eyes on me and ripped me away from its body with one hand, throwing me across the clearing before it swung its claws and took Greg’s head right off.

  My knife was useless, my gun was empty, and I was the last one left. I scooted backward like a crab and felt something hard press against my back. I still had my flare gun, and as the creature loomed over me, I pulled the trigger.

  The flare hit square in its chest, and the matted hair ignited. The wendigo screamed, in pain this time instead of dominance, and the flames engulfed it. It backed up, beating at its burning pelt, back arched, howling, and the woods filled with the smell of burning flesh and hair. It kept on screaming, and I collapsed back into the snow, too battered to move, and too heartsick to want to.

  I sat up in my bed, gasping for air, the wendigo’s shrieks ringing in my ears, and the smell of stinking smoke in my nose. I swallowed hard and guessed I’d been screaming in my sleep. Again.

  I ran a shaking hand back through my hair and wiped away cold sweat. Ten fucking years, and when I closed my eyes, it was just like yesterday. The alarm clock read three a.m. I sighed and got up, stumbling to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. I wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight.

  On the way, I saw the picture of the five of us on the mantle.
Dad, Uncle Christoph, Greg, me, and Sean, all with our arms slung over each other’s shoulders in front of the fireplace at the cabin, holding our hunting rifles, big cheesy grins on our faces. We’d taken that photo the morning of the hunt, and it hurt every time I saw it, but I couldn’t bear to put it away. I needed a reminder of how badly I’d failed.

  If bullets didn’t hurt it, I should have known knives wouldn’t either. I forgot all about the flare gun, until it was too late. I lived, but that screw-up cost me everything.

  I made myself turn away from the photo. The cuts on my shoulder where the wendigo slashed me burned, and I chalked it up to imagination. Then again, with supernatural creatures, maybe it did leave some of its taint behind. If so, it wasn’t merciful enough to finish the job it started.

  I made a pot of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table until it brewed. It had been a while since I’d dreamed of the wendigo, and I wondered if the Nazi ghost stirred up old memories. I fired up my laptop while I waited on the coffee and started looking for new cases.

  By seven a.m., I’d started on my second pot of coffee and made notes about several promising leads. All that research hadn’t completely pushed the dream from my thoughts, but denial is one of my specialties, and I’d managing to get this far into the day without spiking my coffee, which I took as a win.

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, which felt like I’d poured sand in them. Damn, but I needed some time off. And I was going to take it, too. I had a whole week of vacation written onto my calendar in red ink. I’d lined up someone to cover for me at the garage, made sure my fishing license was current, and made a list of everything I’d need. Spend a few days by myself fishing and watching movies on my laptop and tramping around the woods, and then my poker gang were going to come up on the weekend. Nice, simple, relaxing.

  My phone rang, and I grabbed it without looking at the number. “Mark! Did I wake you?” Father Leonardo “Leo” Minnelli sounded far too chipper.

  “No, I was up,” I managed, running a hand over my face and realizing I needed to shave. “Look, Father, if this is about what I owe you for the poker game—”

  Father Leo chuckled. “You do owe me—or, I should say, you owe the Poor Box—but you can pay me on Friday before we start the next game.”

  Nothing is normal about my life; why should my poker buddies be any different? My regular group includes Chiara and Blair, Dave Ellison from Ellison Towing, Tom Minnelli and his brother Leo—the priest. Father Leo’s winnings go to the parish poor fund. He said he learned to play in seminary, and I guessed all that unrequited libido had to go somewhere, because he’s probably the best player at the table, and we’re all pretty damn good.

  “You called me about poker at this hour?”

  “No, I called because I need your help. Can you meet me at the diner? I’ll buy breakfast.”

  Considering that I’d been up for hours and only had coffee and a day-old donut, he had me at “hello.” “I’ll be there in fifteen,” I said.

  “I’ll be there in twenty,” he replied. “Get us a table and a pot of coffee, and I’ll join you.” He paused. “Take a spot in the back, where we can talk.”

  I closed down my laptop, set my notes aside, and shambled to the bathroom for a quick shower and a shave. I planned to go straight from the diner into the garage, so I dressed for the shop. Pete Kennedy, my shop manager, would open, so if I came in by nine, I wouldn’t miss much. And I figured having breakfast with a priest came with a side of automatic atonement.

  The Original Best Lakeview Diner was a local institution. It sat on stilts at the very edge of Conneaut Lake, with a great view and even better food. Pictures of local celebrities dining in the booths hung on the walls, as well as framed restaurant reviews spanning sixty years and vintage ads and placemats from the diner’s long and storied past.

  “Hiya, Mark!” Sandy called from the register when I walked in.

  “Hey, Sandy,” I replied. “I’m meeting the padre—got a table for us someplace quiet?”

  Sandy rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to start confessing your sins, Mark Wojcik, you’ll be here all night.”

  “Good thing you’re open 24/7,” I quipped. Sandy went to high school with me; we go way back. Sandy had short dark hair, blue eyes full of mischief, and a figure that, even now, could stop traffic. She and her husband Vince run the diner now that her parents are retired. That’s the thing about living in the town where you grew up. Everyone knows where the bodies are buried. In my case, that’s not even a joke. I tried to leave after the whole wendigo thing, but that didn’t work out, and now I’m back.

  “Take the back table on the right,” Sandy said with a jerk of her head. “I’ll get Amy to bring out coffee and menus, although I don’t imagine either of you will look at them.”

  I wended my way toward the rear of the diner, nodding to people or stopping to say hello as I went. The early morning crowd here doesn’t change much, and most of us have been coming in for years. I was just lucky that the table in the back didn’t “belong” to a regular.

  I’d barely poured myself a cup of coffee before Father Leo slid into the booth across from me. “You look like crap, Mark.”

  “Need to work on that bedside manner, Father.” I didn’t take offense. He was right.

  Father Leo is Tom’s older brother, which makes him about four years my senior, or just shy of forty. He looks younger, with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes. I bet he was the guy who got carded until he turned thirty. Leo was ahead of me in school, and the way Tom tells it, he left a string of disappointed girls in his wake when he announced his intention for the priesthood. He’s funny and easy to talk to and has the boy-next-door looks women seem to fall for. I wondered if that made for better attendance at Mass.

  On the other hand, I had my dad’s straw-blond hair and light green eyes, with the high cheekbones and broad forehead that mom always said was like having a “map of Poland” on my face. Whatever that meant. The solid, stocky build came from mom’s side of the family and made it clear I came from a long line of farmers and laborers with big hands and strong shoulders. I’m not the guy any of the girls notice first in a room, but back in the day, it’d been enough to get Lara’s attention. For a while.

  Father Leo cleared his throat, and I hurriedly sipped my coffee. “Sorry, didn’t sleep well last night,” I muttered.

  He gave me a look that said he gathered far too much from my appearance. I often wondered if he didn’t have a little psychic mojo that he kept on the down-low. Might not fly well with the Vatican boys, but I imagine that a little enhanced intuition could be a help in his line of work. Right now, it made me squirm. “Bad dreams?” he asked quietly.

  I blew out a long breath. “Yeah. Same old, same old.” When I looked up, I pasted on a smile neither of us believed. “You have a case?”

  Father Leo took the shift for what it was and nodded. “You know Sam Roundtree?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Worked on his sports car a while back. Owns some kind of plastic molding company out near Conneautville, right?” If it was the same guy I was thinking of, he had made a fortune with a couple of lucky government contracts and became a hometown hero by keeping the factory here, where good manufacturing jobs were scarce.

  “He’s involved in a lot of local philanthropy projects, including some where I’m on the board,” Father Leo went on. “Like the Tracks to Backpacks initiative.”

  I’d heard of that. Back in the day, when this area had more tool and die shops than anywhere else in the country, a lot of railroads came through to take those machine parts to Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago, and elsewhere. Then the big factories closed or moved overseas, and most of the trains stopped coming here. Now, Tracks to Backpacks raised money to buy up those old abandoned railway easements and turn them into hiking and biking trails. I’d tried out a few and loved the way they wound through countryside that usually went unseen. “I don’t understand—”

  “They’ve
been getting a new trail ready, and there’ve been problems,” Father Leo said. “Your kind of trouble.”

  Oh. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. The railroad was a dangerous place to work, and back in the day, safety standards were often non-existent or poorly enforced. I’d heard tell of men who got burned in boiler accidents, who fell beneath the cars, or were crushed between them. Of hobos who got hit on the tracks, tumbled out of freight cars, or motorists broadsided by engines at lonely crossroads. “Restless spirit?”

  Father Leo nodded. “There’ve been delays throughout the construction, and while the official paperwork says otherwise, the workers claimed to see strange things, hear weird noises. The phenomena got stronger as the work went on and started to knock over tools, spill materials, and hide things. Then the workers said the manifestation got hostile, shoving people, tripping them, and throwing objects. They reported cold spots, a shadow that didn’t have a source, or a gray man walking along the tracks who suddenly disappeared. They began to feel unwelcome, like something was trying to make them leave. It got serious when a flying hammer hit a man in the head and everyone swears there was no one around to throw it.”

  I frowned. “You sure it isn’t just pranks gone awry, or maybe the work crew has been drinking?”

  Father Leo sighed. “Believe me, the organization tried every other explanation before they took any of the stories seriously. But the workers have walked off the job, and the organization is supposed to do a big ribbon-cutting in a few weeks, where they expect to take in enough donations to fund the second half of the project. But if the first portion isn’t finished—”

  I got the picture. Bad press, donors might bail, and a worthy project would founder—and with it, jobs that the trails would bring to the area. “And I guess they can’t do a big fancy event with a renegade ghost on the loose.”

  Father Leo leaned forward. “There are men who would, regardless, just to avoid embarrassment. Even if people got hurt. Sam isn’t like that. He’s done a lot for this area, and he’s got his own money donated to this. He wants it to succeed, but he doesn’t want anyone harmed.” He tugged at his collar. “I said I knew someone who could look into it, discreetly.”

 

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