by J. D. Barker
Did she do something to make him mad?
Ashley was doubtful, but he could be temperamental at times. Sometimes he got angry and she didn’t know it.
Thunder grumbled with anger outside and Ashley tensed. When lightning flooded the room a moment later, she stole another glance at the toys.
Did they move again?
They looked different.
Gerber, her favorite teddy bear, was sitting to the left of a tall, stuffed parrot; she thought she had left him on the other side. Her small pony was lying on his side—she remembered standing him up before she went to bed.
Of course, he might have fallen over (as stuffed ponies were often known to do). This wouldn’t be the first time, Ashley reassured herself. He fell lots. All the time.
Thud.
From the toys.
Ashley peered through the darkness through a small opening in the folds of her quilt, her heart pounding so hard each beat echoed against the fabric of the mattress.
Buster had heard too; he lifted his head and stared at the army of toys. Ears back, he bared his teeth and a low growl escaped from deep within his throat. He stood with caution, hunched low, his eyes fixed on the stuffed bear.
“What is it, Buster?” she asked him. “What do you see?”
Buster inched closer, his nose sniffing at the darkness.
Ashley crawled out from under the comforter and lowered herself to the floor, falling in behind him. “Get ’em, boy,” she coaxed.
The dog shuffled to the stuffed animals and grew tense. He examined the teddy bear, then the parrot, his nose moving from one toy to the next as he dismissed each, working through them all. When he reached SpongeBob, Buster barked and leapt back with a yelp. He shook his head and wiped his paw against his nose.
He was bleeding.
Ashley stared at him for a moment in disbelief, then bent down to examine his nose. She found two small puncture wounds at the tip.
“What happened, Buster?” she asked.
He whimpered back at her before shaking his head again.
Ashley turned back to the stuffed animals.
The angry storm rumbled outside.
When the lightning came, she caught her breath with a hush as something stared back at her, not from the stuffed toys, but behind them, peering out from between. A small hand reached up and wiped a speck of blood from pointy little teeth before retreating into the shadows, leaving a trail of dirt in its wake.
DAY 2
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Day 2 – 12:15 a.m.
“SHHH,” SHE BREATHED.
Thad let the young girl kiss him. Her lips found his and his heart fluttered like a teenager. When she told him she didn’t want to go up to his room but instead wanted to make love to him under the stars, he didn’t question her. Instead he followed as she led him through the lobby, out the front door, toward the edge of the park just to the east of the grand hotel.
The chill of night reached for them, holding them, gently guiding them deep into the trees. Within moments, the city skyline disappeared, lost beyond the canopy of trees and interlaced branches.
Thad stumbled, his drunken feet tripping over a protruding tree root. He recovered his balance. “Stealthy like cat,” he slurred.
The girl laughed. “Almost there.”
His vision blurred and he shook clear. Those last two shots had been a mistake. His mind was lost in fog. His movements were those of a marionette whose strings were a little too long. He shouldn’t be here; he should be alone. Not this, he shouldn’t be doing this.
Something about this girl. She reminded him of—
The decision was not his to make.
The forest opened on a small clearing and she turned to him, her dark blue eyes glistening under the moonlight. Taking his hand, she guided him beneath the folds of her skirt, along the back of her thigh. Thad felt her warmth burning beneath his touch, a heat unlike any other coursing through the tips of his fingers. She pressed tightly against him, her breath warm, sweet, drifting from her mouth as he found the nape of her neck.
Thad wanted to pull away and leave this girl where she stood. Instead, he flicked the clasp of her skirt and tore it free.
A soft giggle escaped her lips as he frantically tugged at the buttons of her blouse, unsnapping some, breaking others, until the garment fell from her shoulders to the ground beneath. She stepped back from him and eased her fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, slowly sliding them off. She removed her bra a moment later and watched him with those eyes, her naked body glowing softly in the pale moonlight before lowering herself to the earth and reaching to him with an outstretched hand.
This girl.
Nothing existed but her.
Thad fell to his knees and ran his hands down the length of her.
She curled her fingers, digging them into the damp earth, a soft sigh escaping her. “Fuck me,” she moaned softly. “Oh God, fuck me…”
He ran his hand over her thighs, gently spreading them apart. He found her hand on his, guiding, leading him, until he brushed against the moistness between her legs. A chill raced up his spine as she arched her back in ecstasy, his touch drawn closer by her movement.
Thad shed his clothes. The wind howled wildly around them, and the large oaks danced with their long shadows as the moon looked down upon their pale, sweat-covered bodies. The young girl’s fingertips dug deeper into the dirt as his tongue slid across her nipples, her chest, moving lower ever so slowly. With strong arms, he reached under her and gently raised her to his lips as the chilled night air wrapped around them, sending a frenzy of electricity from fingertips to toes.
Do you want me? The words found him, although nothing was spoken aloud. Do you want to be inside me?
“Yes,” he groaned.
Not yet, she replied. There is something you must give me first. Then, only then…
“Anything. . .”
Ahh, yes. I only want what is already mine, nothing more.
Her fingernails were long and sharp; they dug into his back as she pulled him closer. I want you to help me, she told him, her fingers digging deep, drawing blood.
“Yes,” he told her.
You owe me.
“Yes,” Thad said. “I owe you.”
I want the box; will you get it for me?
“What box?”
You know of what I speak, Thad. They buried it so long ago but there it remains, waiting for you to bring it to me. You know where you must go, don’t you, Thad? Where those men hid my treasure? Those evil, nasty men? My precious Rumina Box.
He pressed his lips to hers and ran his hand through her hair. A clump came away with his touch, and at first Thad thought he had pulled it out. Then he felt the wetness under his other hand. He raised his fingers to the light only long enough to see blood dripping from the tips.
Beneath him, the young girl giggled before wrapping her legs tightly around him, locking him in an embrace. Thad looked to her eyes only to find they were gone, replaced with dark, empty sockets within the skull of the creature beneath him.
You will bring my box back to me, won’t you? You will bring my treasure to me? You haven’t much time, you simply don’t. Less than three days, I’m afraid.
He looked up and found an old woman and a large, burly man staring down at them, mere feet away. How long had they been there? The entire time?
Thad tried to pull away but couldn’t break away. Instead, both of them sank deeper into the earth as the dirt grew moist with her decaying form.
She said something else to him before they disappeared into the ground, but he wasn’t able to hear her words. Her voice was lost behind his screams.
Thad woke to the buzzing of his portable alarm clock on the hotel nightstand. He reached over and slapped the device silent. He then cursed under his breath and glanced around the luxurious room.
Just a bad dream, he told himself.
Another one.
“I guess Ashley isn’t the
only one with imaginary friends,” he mumbled aloud while rubbing his aching temples.
He had set the alarm for four in the morning in order to make his six o’clock flight from JFK.
Thad felt one hell of a headache coming on—a common occurrence after a night out drinking with Del.
Swinging over the side of the bed, Thad slowly rose from his slumber. He didn’t notice the moist dirt clinging to him until he stood and looked down at his legs.
“What the—”
Glancing back, he found the sheets black with mud.
It was in his hair, on his arms—
Thad crossed to the bathroom and flicked on the light.
He was covered in dirt, some dry, some still wet. A sour, sickly odor.
Like feces.
It smelled like rotting feces.
Turning to his left, Thad froze when he saw his back.
Dozens of small, red slash marks.
Her nails.
She had scratched him.
A dream, nothing more. There was no doubt in his mind. Nothing happened. He had sleepwalked many times when he was a child; maybe he had again. Sleepwalked and gotten scratched by branches.
But where?
Could he have wandered into the park? Was that possible?
Somebody would surely have stopped him, wouldn’t they?
They’re from her, you know they are. You stink of sex under all that dirt—deny all you want. That won’t change what happened.
His briefcase was on a table at the far side of the room. He went over, threw back the lid, and rifled its contents until he located his journal near the bottom. He flipped through the pages until he found it.
The Rumina Box.
A rough sketch at best; he had never claimed to be much of an artist.
The scratches on his back began to ache, but Thad forced himself to ignore the pain.
He often sketched the items, people, and relevant locations from his books. The exercise helped him visualize during the writing process. When describing a house, for instance, he would map out each floor, sometimes in great detail. This ensured that his characters’ movements and experiences when maneuvering through that house remained consistent. Sometimes, these things would evolve with the story and he would find himself returning to previous chapters in order to amend them with the changes. Objects would sometimes change in the same manner, but that was not the case with this box. Like everything else in this story, he understood exactly what this object looked like from the moment he had begun.
The drawing depicted the box to be about six inches wide and four deep. Although you couldn’t tell from the rough sketch, Thad was certain it had been carved from one solid piece of mahogany, taken from a tree fallen by lightning on the very night of its creation. The interior was lined with nearly an inch of lead. It had been melted shut on the first and only occasion the lid had been closed, sealing its contents for eternity.
You will bring my treasure to me, she told him. You haven’t much time.
Thad traced the edge of the drawing with his finger.
You know where you must go, don’t you Thad? Where those men hid it?
The box was hidden at the end of his novel, buried, to be precise.
Buried beneath an old, gnarled oak tree in a fictional forest on the outskirts of a town that did not exist.
He flipped two more pages, stopping at the picture of a girl, no more than a teenager. Her long dark hair flowed down her back and over her simple black-and-white Puritan dress. She stood at the mouth of a cabin deep within the woods, a forest not unlike the one in his dream.
This wasn’t the first time he had dreamt of her. He had hoped the dreams would stop when he completed the book.
For months, she had dominated his thoughts. He’d wake to the sickly sweet scent of her breath lingering in the night air. The moisture of her kiss at his neck. She had guided him as he wrote the book, her siren’s song calling him back to blank pages, her words helping to fill each of them. Then she was gone, if only for a little while.
He had hoped he’d lost her when he wrote that last page. But here she was, invading his night once more.
Thad closed the journal.
He vaguely remembered the bartender and a bellhop carrying him back to his room.
“You lush,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s how you got back up here.”
He could only hope pictures didn’t end up on the Internet. The last thing he needed right now was to get tagged in a Facebook picture—This famous fuck drank himself silly in my bar! Found him outside playing in the mud!
The sound of his cell phone drifted in from the other room, the broken ring gnawing at his throbbing head.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
COME TO ME.
Her voice drifted to me on the howl of the wind, muffled by a relentless rain and the crackle of the fire I had made earlier, now dying in the hearth. When I heard her, I thought sleep had finally found me and that she was but a dream. Then thunder struck outside and I realized I wasn’t lost to slumber at all.
I sat up with a start, my eyes scanning the dark room.
“Are you here?”
Only silence responded. I found no one, yet I felt a presence.
When her voice came again it seemed to reach from all around me, yet nowhere in particular. The disembodied cry of a specter seeking me out, a siren’s call.
Her call.
I had no choice but to go to her; I wish to make that clear for anyone who may read this. My mind never allowed me such decision; I couldn’t say no any more than I could choose to stop breathing.
I dressed with purpose and pushed out into the cold, dark night, crossing the town square with nothing but a sliver of moonlight to guide me. At this late hour, all was quiet.
The church was not locked. I pulled open the heavy oak door and went inside, closing it behind me. As my sight was poor, her hand somehow guided me across the floor to the back hallway and down the narrow steps. Reaching the door at the bottom, I watched in silence as the lock cracked open by unseen hands and fell to the ground. There was a faint click and it opened before me. I stepped into the hallway, lit only by the flickering light of candle at the far end. The door closed with a bang. I did not turn to investigate; my eyes were fixed on her cell and my feet knew no other course.
I found her sitting on the bed, a thin smile playing across her lips as I reached the bars and finally stood still. Her beautiful skin glowed in the dim light, smooth as the most expensive of porcelain.
“I hoped you’d come.”
“The choice was not mine,” I said. “But you already know that, don’t you, witch?”
The comment didn’t sound as harsh as I had wished; she only smiled, then ran her fingers through her long dark hair. “I saw the way you looked at me in court; you glimpse the truth. You believe I am not guilty of that which they charge.”
“I know no such thing.”
Standing from the bed, she came to the bars. Her fingers brushed mine, sending a shiver over me.
I turned and raced for my home.
I spent the remainder of the night at the fire, hoping the flames would warm my chilled bones.
They did not in the slightest.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Day 2 – 1:20 a.m.
DEL THOMAS HAD BEEN on the plane for at least fifteen minutes before his curiosity got the better of him. Much to the dismay of the old woman at his left, he rose from his seat and plucked his briefcase from the overhead compartment, his overweight frame pressing against her as he wrestled the bag free from the crowded mess holding it prisoner. Falling back into his seat with the briefcase in his lap, he worked the locks with his thick fingers. He smiled with satisfaction as they clicked open. The woman beside him mumbled something to herself before returning to her magazine.
“You’re not exactly thin as a rail
either, lady. Good luck landing a husband with those saddlebags in tow.”
Her eyes widened and she reached for the attendant call button.
“Good idea. Maybe they’ll move you to the back of the bus with the rest of the cattle.”
She gathered her things, unbuckled her belt, and stomped away, her face red as a beet.
Del raised the armrest between the two seats and stretched out.
The manuscript stared up at him, stark white, bearing nothing more than the book’s title and the name of the author in bold block letters.
This simple stack of papers would make him a very wealthy man, he thought to himself with a smile. Words could not express how much Del loved his job.
With the manuscript in hand, Del sealed the briefcase and placed it under the seat in front of him, settling in for the flight. He had about an hour before he’d be back in Boston, plenty of time to peruse Thad’s latest.
As the plane passed through turbulence, he turned the page and found himself lost in the words.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Day 2 – 5:00 a.m.
THAD REACHED FOR THE phone and hesitated for a moment before answering the call.
“I had a wonderful time last night,” she teased, her sultry voice slipping across the line, the warmth of her breath finding his ear.
“Who is this?” he heard himself ask, although he already knew the answer.
She sighed. “That hurts, Thad. It really does,” she said. “How could you not recognize me? We’ve been so close over the past few months while you wrote your book—practically kindred spirits. I would have thought you’d be glad to see me after everything we’ve been through together.”
“You can’t be—” Thad stammered.
“Can’t be what?” she asked. “Can’t be real? Am I, Thad? Am I real?”
The blood drained from Thad’s face. “It’s fiction,” he said. “It’s just a story, she’s not real…you’re not—”