Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

“Crazy woman.” Pete opened the door, then turned and put his gun on the seat. Elijah had told him not to take the gun with him; he said Tessa wouldn’t talk at all if she saw a gun.

  Pete turned off the motor. He walked slowly through the yard and stepped around the bright orange planter, made from a chipped toilet.

  This was a bad idea, he thought.

  Pete knocked on the door. Around him, he saw wind chimes, broken pottery, and a collection of rusty tin cans, each sporting a large flower.

  He changed his mind. The thought that Tessa was indeed a tie-died, fruit-selling nutcase, flashed through his brain.

  “This is a waste of time.” He turned to walk down the stairs just as the door opened.

  Elijah was right. She was beautiful. Even at her age - which Pete knew better than to try and discover - Tessa was stunning. Her long, auburn hair framed a round, gentle face and large, green eyes. She had the body of a woman much younger. Pete immediately felt at ease. Now he understood why Elijah smiled when he talked about her.

  “Yes?” Tessa said. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but… but I wondered if I might have a few minutes of your time. My name’s Pete Jacobs, I’m the…”

  “I know who you are, Sheriff Jacobs,” Tessa said. “I’ve been expecting you. Can I get you some coffee?” She directed Pete to a pair of high-backed wooden chairs at the far end of the porch. She stepped back inside the house, and after a few seconds, returned with two cups and a silver carafe of coffee.

  “You look troubled.”

  “I am, ma’am,” he said. “Elijah… Elijah Kent suggested I speak with you about…” Pete took a small notebook out of his pocket.

  “About all the deaths in Bayside?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Those.” He took out a pen. “Do you mind if I take a few notes?”

  Tessa shook her head. . “What would you like to know, Sheriff?”

  “Well… Elijah, he said you’ve seen… you’ve had visions of… those folks who were being killed. Is that true?”

  Tessa shifted in her seat. She pulled her bare feet under her skirt. “I called Elijah several weeks ago. We talked, briefly. I wasn’t sure if I should even speak to him or you. Elijah said I should, it was actually his idea.”

  “I understand,” Pete said. “But please, I am interested in what you have to say.”

  Tessa drew a deep breath. “Yes. I… I have witnessed several deaths… in visions. They’re like pieces of an old movie. I see the person’s face for a few seconds. Then I see them scream. After that, there’s bright white light, like a flash from a camera, and I see the person die. It’s… horrible.”

  Pete leaned forward. He scratched his head. “And you have these visions frequently?”

  “Years ago I did, from the time I was ten until I was about twenty-two. Then, suddenly, they stopped.” Tessa folded her hands around her coffee cup. “I’ve lived peacefully for the past twenty years or so, but about… two months ago, the visions started again.”

  “That was about the time Mr. Withers died?”

  “Yes, it was,” Tessa said. “I saw him die.”

  Pete cocked his head. He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her, but he wanted her to keep talking. “You say you saw him die. Can you describe it? Do you remember where?”

  “I’m not sure. It must have been outside, because I caught a glimpse of grass and sky. But I don’t know where.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “No. I could hear things, though… sense them. I could hear the flapping of wings… buzzards I think.”

  “Buzzards? Are you sure?”

  “Mr. Jacobs, I’ve lived here a long time. I know the sound a buzzard’s wings make.”

  Pete smiled. “It’s just that the bodies were… well, the buzzards got there and…”

  “And the buzzards were eating the flesh, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I thought so. Once, when I was a teenager, in one of my visions, I saw a buzzard… eating a corpse.”

  Pete scribbled another note. “Do you have any idea who we’re dealing with? Have you ever seen who is killing these people?”

  Tessa shook her head. “No. Never. It’s… it’s almost like I’m looking through the killer’s eyes. I’ve never seen a face.”

  “How long do your visions last?”

  “Not long,” she said. “Usually a few minutes, and they are very painful - think of the worst headache you’ve ever had and multiply it by ten. They always start out the same. The person is alive and doing whatever it is they’re doing at that moment, then I see images of their death. After that, I hear the flap of wings and, well, you know the rest.”

  Pete closed his notebook. “Is it a person or… or is it something else?”

  “I wondered if you would ask me that question,” Tessa looked down at the porch, “and I’ve wondered how I would answer it.”

  “And…?”

  “Well, I’m not sure.” She took a long sip of coffee. “I think whatever is killing was human, but I don’t sense that now. All I feel is blind, white-hot hatred and rage and pain. I’m… I’m not sure. But like I said, I believe at one time it was human.”

  Tessa leaned forward and stretched. Pete could tell she was worn out. Maybe it was the visions, he thought, or something else.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sheriff. I feel the need to rest. This… this has been most difficult.”

  Pete stood, finished his coffee, and walked toward the steps. “I understand. I appreciate your help.”

  “Sheriff?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Thank you for not laughing. It’s… it’s been a long time since someone listened.”

  Pete nodded. “You’re welcome, ma’am. I believe you’re the first person in several months who hasn’t tried to tell me how to do my job.”

  Tessa smiled. “Perhaps it was for the best that you came to see me, then.”

  Pete stopped, placed a worn business card on the porch rail and walked back to his Jeep.

  The green neon light that flashed over Billy’s Diner was burning bright by the time Pete returned to his office. Keri, the dispatcher, was waiting for him, her face red. She was ready for a fight.

  “And just where have you been?” she hissed. “I’ve been tryin’ to reach you for hours.”

  “I was busy,” Pete said.

  “Well, why didn’t you answer your radio?”

  “’Cause I was out of the car, mother.” Pete rolled his eyes. “Now, is there something you need? Or are you and Dad gonna send me to my room?”

  Keri shoved her ample chest toward him. “Fine.” She handed Pete a stack of small, pink notes. “But Neal O’Bannon has called about fifty times tryin’ to reach you. Said it was really important. Just thought you might want to know.”

  Pete finished typing his notes from the interview with Tessa before he called Neal’s office. He really didn’t expect find Neal there, but then again, Pete didn’t understand newspaper people.

  The phone rang twice.

  “Bayside Reporter,” the voice said. “This is Neal.”

  “My dispatcher says you’re a real important fellow, Mr. O’Bannon. Said I was supposed to call you right away.”

  Neal laughed. “She’s a good girl, that Keri. I know I wouldn’t want to make her mad.”

  At his end, Pete smiled. “Me either.”

  “Pete, I wish you would have called earlier,” Neal said. “This is important; too important to talk about on the phone. You should probably come over here.”

  Twenty minutes later, Pete sat in Neal O’Bannon’s bright, comfortable office. Like Neal, the office wasn’t what one typically associated with reporters; tan walls, a large, overstuffed couch, and several bright Van Gogh prints. “I thought newspaper reporters smoked, kept whiskey in their desks, and worked in dark, inky places?” Pete said.

  “Some do.”

  Pete surveyed the room. “What
about you? This place looks too nice to be a newspaper office.”

  Neal laughed. “I don’t function well in clutter. And I gave up smoking - except for the occasional cigar; but the whiskey is there, in the other room, above the coffee maker.”

  Pete stood. “Now that’s my type of newspaper man.” He walked to the small kitchen Neal had pointed out and rummaged through the cabinets until he found a large bottle of amber liquid.

  “Like the expensive stuff, huh?” he said.

  “It was a gift,” Neal shouted back. “Bring the bottle. You’ll need it.”

  Pete stretched out on the couch. He poured a large shot into a coffee mug. Then he handed the bottle to Neal.

  “So what’s so important we can’t discuss over the phone?” he asked. “And why do I need this drink?”

  Neal pointed to a stack of musty, yellowed newspapers on the floor. The papers were bound, like books. Only the books were the size of a television.

  “Those are our historic files,” Neal said. “I’ve spent the last two days going through them.”

  “They look old.”

  “They are,” Neal said. He pointed to the top of the stack. “This one goes back to .”

  Pete took a long sip of his coffee. “So why were you digging in your old newspaper files?”

  Neal leaned back in his chair. “In college I was a history major. And I learned that there are very few tragic events that don’t get written down. Especially if there is a newspaper around.”

  “Okay,” Pete said. “But I’m not sure I follow you.”

  Neal pushed a stack of papers toward Pete. “It’s like this: For several months now, I’ve heard people talk about Bayside’s past, saying there were ‘horrible, evil events’ that happened. But nobody ever seems to know anything more. Elijah even mentioned it the other day, when he was at your office. He said something about ‘not knowing about Bayside’ when he settled here and how ‘most of the men in the room didn’t understand’. Remember?”

  “And that got you to thinking…”

  “Yes, Mister sheriff, it did. So I went down to the basement and went through these files.”

  “I thought all this stuff was online?”

  “Most is. Including ours. But those files only go back to 1920. Want anything before that, and you have to use the old-school approach.”

  Pete smiled. “And…?”

  Neal O’Bannon took a long drink, and then wiped his mouth. “Pete, you won’t believe what I found.” He pointed at the dark, water-stained file on his desk. “Open this one to the page with the marker.”

  Pete eyed the headline. “‘Tragedy on Holly Farm’,” he read. “Bayside residents killed by marauders.”

  Neal took another long drink of his scotch. “Keep reading.”

  Pete’s eyes scanned the story, then, like he’d been bitten on the ass, he abruptly sat up, and spilled his drink.

  “…comes a report to us that the entire population of Bayside Township perished a fortnight ago when all the township’s buildings were burned to the ground by a group of heathen marauders. Many of the town’s children were celebrating the construction of the new church at Holly Farm when the building’s doors were blocked and the building set aflame…”

  Pete continued reading: “…at least one witness has claimed those who tried to assist the victims and extinguish the blaze were shot by armed gunmen. A rumor has come to us, through most trustworthy sources, that the marauders were part of the apocalyptic group, the Spiritus Sancti.”

  Pete looked around. He felt his face grow warm. “Neal, what the hell is this?”

  Neal handed him a book. “Spiritus Sancti was a cult that believed they could bring about the end of the world through the blood sacrifices of virgins,” he said. “They must have started around here, sometime after 1800. Eventually, they spread all over the country.

  “Shit. But what’s this have to do with the murders?”

  “Keep reading. You’re not done.” He handed Pete a water-stained map. “Look at this, look at where all those buildings were located.”

  Pete followed Neal’s finger. “This Holly Farm, it was owned by the Cosindas family? Is that the same family that Tessa…?”

  “Yep, Mister sheriff, it is, her great-great grandfather.”

  Pete looked back at the musty, brittle page. “‘…the structures burned quickly, preventing the noble firemen from Rusville, situated only a few miles to the north, from defeating the conflagration with their new one hundred gallon pumper…’”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Pete said.

  Neal turned the map toward Pete. “This map shows Rusville was originally about four miles away from Bayside, before they built Highway One. The road mentioned there is The Old North Road.”

  “You mean the original village of Bayside - those buildings they were talking about - sat along The Old North Road?”

  Neal nodded. “I believe so. I think there was a church and a parsonage, a small store, and some houses scattered along that two-mile stretch.”

  “And somewhere along that road…”

  “Two hundred and seventy one men, women and children were sacrificed. Most of them on a burning funeral pyre intended to bring about the end of the world.”

  Pete wiped his face. “Sweet Jesus.”

  “Keep reading,” Neal said. “It gets worse.”

  •

  The vision wasn’t like the others. It didn’t wake Tessa from her sleep. It didn’t come at night. This one caught her while she worked the crossword on page 28-C of the newspaper.

  For more than a week, Tessa’s mind had been clear. She thought the visions might have stopped.

  She was wrong.

  This image hit her like a hammer - a shock of electricity that seemed to split her brain in two. Tessa covered her face with her hands. The pain sliced through her head like a sharp knife.

  She saw the bright flash of light. Then she fell into darkness.

  Tessa stood next to a man near a grove of strange-looking trees. She stood next to Marvin Boyd.

  Her mind reeled. God, was it her? Had she somehow managed to kill dozens of people? Her heart raced. Sweat poured down her face. It matted her hair and soaked her blouse.

  Another bright flash, and she heard - and saw - Marvin cuss and whine. He said something about the land being priced too high. She heard another voice, another man behind her, argue back. She heard something about a shopping center; about money and interest.

  Then the voices faded, like someone had turned down the volume. Tessa strained to listen, but the voices had moved further away, off in the distance. For a few seconds she didn’t hear, or see, anything. Then she saw the back of the second man. He walked to his car and drove away.

  Tessa turned and looked. She recognized this place, a place she’d avoided since she was a small girl - The Old North Road.