by J. D. Barker
I pushed past her and raced back toward town without so much as a backward glance, my skin crawling, her rancid scent lingering as I fled, her nails snapping against one another—
Clickity, click.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Day 2 – 10:30 a.m.
“I NEED TO EXCHANGE this ticket for one to Boston, Massachusetts. Can I do that?”
The girl behind the North Eastern Airlines counter eyed Thad wearily, then took the ticket from his hand and began typing away at her terminal.
Although dressed in an airline uniform, the counter girl wasn’t quite what she seemed. A streak of bright pink hair poked out from under her regulation cap and when she turned to fetch something off the printer. Thad glimpsed the top of a red thong beneath her tight slacks. Her perfume was familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place it.
She returned to the counter with the printout in hand. “I’ve got a three fifteen into Boston but nothing earlier. I’m sorry.”
Glancing at the clock behind her, Thad noted the time. It was almost ten thirty in the morning. “That will have to do,” he told her.
“Can I see your driver’s license, please?”
Reaching into his wallet, Thad removed his driver’s license and handed it to her.
She glanced at the name and smiled back at him. “You’re that writer, aren’t you?”
Thad nodded. “That’s me. Which one is your favorite?”
“Dunno, I don’t read that trash,” she said with a grin, returning his driver’s license. “I’ve never been into fiction much.”
“Really, what do you read?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Between my class schedule and work I don’t have the time for recreational reading anymore, just textbooks. This week I’m buried in algebra and European history. Not what I would call fun.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yeah, it is,” she replied. “Do you like it?”
“Like what?”
“You know, writing.”
“Most of the time I do,” he told her.
“But not now?”
Thad shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes it takes me in directions I really don’t want to go.”
“Like Boston?”
“Yeah right, like Boston.”
“So why go?”
I have to.
“Sometimes choices aren’t always your own to make,” Thad said.
“Aren’t you Captain Mystery,” she joked. “Is that an occupational hazard?”
“Something like that,” he said. “Are we about done here?”
Her face flushed and she returned to her computer. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
Thad shook his head. “That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry. You’re not prying. I guess I’m just a little tired. I had a long night.”
“Here you go, Mr. McAlister,” she said, handing him his updated ticket. “You’re all set to fly out of Gate 24 at three fifteen arriving in Boston at four twenty. Would you like me to arrange a rental car for you?”
Thad shook his head.
“Thank you for flying North Eastern Airlines,” she said. “Can I help the next person in line, please?”
Thad smiled, scooped up his belongings, and made his way across the terminal to the waiting area where he found a seat in the corner. He settled in for a long wait.
Running his hand across his stubbly chin, he sighed, then clicked open his briefcase.
His journal sat inside, open to the sketch of the box.
The Rumina Box.
“Carved of oak and lined with lead, it forever holds the souls of the dead,” he said softly.
The simple phrase had come to him as easily as did the name of the box, the story itself.
Was he to believe the line had been placed in his mind? Just dropped into his head, where it waited patiently to be told? To be written in the journal? To be shared with the world? Not a work of fiction but a roadmap, one he followed now?
The witch in his story had been capable of such a task. Of that, he had no doubt.
But She’s not real.
Last night seemed real enough.
Her.
He shook his head. What the hell was he doing? He should go home, just go home.
Thad’s rational side told him there was no box; there never had been a box. Yet, the rest of him was convinced it would be right where his mind’s eye had left it at the end of his novel—beneath an old oak tree, sleeping under a blanket of rotten earth.
He wouldn’t be able to get Her out of his mind until he held the box in his hands.
The story wasn’t over yet—the ending yet to be written. Perhaps this was an epilogue, writing itself as he went. An epilogue to the book he had handed Del.
He had to follow through.
If the Rumina Box did exist, if Her story was real, he had to find the box before someone else did—before it fell into the hands of someone unaware of its true power. Or worse still, before it fell into the hands of someone who did.
There is no box. There is no girl. Your mind is breaking, buddy. You’re slipping fast. You’re jumping on a plane to follow a delusion.
Thad thought about the pills in his bag. He wanted to take another. Make all of this go away.
But he needed to know if it was true.
So go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Day 2 – 10:30 a.m.
DEL THOMAS FISHED TWENTY dollars from his wallet, paid the cab driver, then darted from the car into the pouring rain with his jacket held above his head like a makeshift umbrella. Careful not to slide on the wet pavement, he hurried onto the sidewalk and pushed through the thick crowd hunched below the awnings of the various storefronts of downtown Boston.
Searching the signs, he spotted Rosemarie’s Flowers about three doors down and stepped inside, leaving the weather at his back.
The aroma hit him at once and Del thought his allergies would quickly surface, but they did not. Instead, he found himself taking in the pleasant scents of the hundreds of flowers lining the shelves and tables—his eyes lost in a sea of color as they took in every bloom, every leaf. Until today, he had never thought of himself as much of a flower person. In fact, for the most part, he despised them. He wasn’t home enough to care for a plant and didn’t see the point in keeping something around only to watch it meet an untimely demise, particularly at his hand.
“You seem lost,” the shopkeeper said from behind the far counter, eyeing him with the suspicion of a bank teller watching a customer wearing a hooded jacket in July. “Are you looking for something in particular? No wedding band, so I doubt you're picking up flowers for the missus, and today is certainly not the day to start a garden.”
Del shook the water from his jacket and crossed the store, forcing a smile. “Well, you’ve got me pegged, don’t you!”
The shopkeeper grinned. “Let’s just say you don’t look like one of my regulars.”
“Fair enough,” Del replied. “I’m trying to find a very special plant, one not usually found in this part of the country. A bougainvillea.”
“Mmm, that is going to be tough. They typically only grow in the southern states and out west in the desert. They’re not real fond of rain, so they’re not hardy out here. They’ll grow, but you won’t see any blooms. What do you plan to do with it?”
Del hesitated for a moment, choosing his words with care. “It’s actually for a friend. She said she wants one, and I’m not about to question her motives. Her wish is my command, right?” he said with a wink.
The shopkeeper frowned. “There’s not a whole lot you can do with these. Sure, they’re pretty, but they’re covered in nasty thorns—prickly little things—they’ll take a good bite out of you if you’re not careful. And see these blooms—” He pulled a photo off the wall behind him and handed it to Del. “Those gorgeous blooms are deadly poisonous. Your friend, she doesn’t have any pets, d
oes she?”
Del shook his head.
“That’s good. I’d hate for a dog or cat to chow down and get sick. Let me make a few phone calls and I’ll find out how quickly I can get them delivered,” he said.
Del frowned. “You don’t carry them here?”
“Something like this? Naw. I’ll have to get them from out west somewhere or maybe even Florida. Give me a minute,” he said, disappearing into the back room.
Del swore under his breath. He didn’t have that kind of time. He glanced down at the photo in his hand and flipped it over. “I’ll be damned.” There was an address written in the top left corner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
“MERCY SHORT IS DEAD! Murdered as she slept!”
I glanced up from my writings to find Carol Bender’s plump frame standing in the doorway.
She was pale, clearly frightened.
“What is this?” the magistrate bellowed.
“We were to meet today, and when she did not appear by midmorning I went to her home. The door was open and she did not answer my calls, so I went inside,” she dropped her head into her hands. “It was the smell that I noticed first. Then I saw her.” She began to weep. “...so much blood,” she breathed.
The magistrate went for the door, led closely by the other elders. “Come, boy,” he ordered as he passed me. “This should be documented.”
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Day 2 – 10:30 a.m.
ASHLEY WATCHED IN HORROR as the tiny little hand poked through the fresh plaster and wiggled before her, grasping at the air. Like her own, the hand had four fingers and a thumb, but the similarities stopped there. Its nails were long and sharp, its skin a dark gray—almost black. The hand was bony, yet strong. It seemed to reach for her, held back only by the thinly repaired wall which cracked away at a fast clip.
Buster had backed up, growling, his angry throat working itself up to a bark.
Ashley remembered the red eyes from the night before, eyes which clearly belonged to the owner of this hand. She also remembered how the monster had bitten Buster, how it had wanted to bite her.
A small piece of plaster broke away and the arm reached closer, its tiny shoulder poking through the hole. Ashley frantically looked around her, eyes settling on the various mousetraps Ms. Perez had left behind. Fighting back tears, she picked up one of the traps and eased it toward the flailing hand. When its fingers brushed the wood, the creature paused for a moment, no doubt attempting to determine what it had found, then snatched the edge, pulling the trap away from Ashley and slamming it into the plaster. Like a battering ram, the monster continued to pull the trap back hard against the wall, chipping away at the plaster with each hit. Unsure of what to do, Ashley gripped the trap with both hands and tried to take it away. From behind the wall came a frustrated grunt. Then another hand appeared and reached for the wood. Tiny fingers brushed the trap’s trigger and the metal spring released, sending the bar crashing back onto the little hands, severing them above the wrists. The creature squealed in pain and disappeared back into the hole. Ashley fell back, the mousetrap still in her hand.
In all the commotion, Ashley hadn’t heard Buster barking, nor did she notice her mother rush in from the other room. Both were standing over her now, staring at the mousetrap in her hand.
“What did you do?” her mother asked. “Are you hurt?”
Ashley couldn’t take her eyes off the trap.
“What’s wrong?”
Ashley shook her head. The hands were gone, replaced with small piles of foul-smelling dirt.
“Show me your fingers. Did they get caught in the trap?”
Ashley dropped the trap and held her hands up to her mother.
Satisfied that Ashley had not hurt herself, her mother let go and frowned. “Those things can break your bones. I don’t want you anywhere near them, and God knows what that powder is. Go wash yourself and promise me you’ll stay away from here.”
Ashley could only nod her head.
She wanted to tell her mother what she saw, but she didn’t have the words. She wouldn’t believe her anyway—no more than she did last night when the creature bit Buster. She needed proof. She needed to show her mommy they were real.
Pouting, she stood and left the room with Buster following at her side—her only soldier. She couldn’t help but wonder how many the enemy had, but she was sure it was a lot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Day 2 – 10:32 a.m.
RACHAEL WATCHED AS HER daughter sulked away before turning her attention back to the small hole in the wall. Ms. Perez had obviously sealed it as she had asked, but then why did Ashley try to reopen it? Did she think the rats were pets like the furry little creatures in some of her cartoons? Perhaps she wanted to rescue them? She wasn’t in the mood to try to get into her daughter’s thoughts right now. She only wanted to solve this problem and possibly get some rest.
Quickly searching the room, she found a stack of books on the end table and braced them against the hole like she did upstairs. She then repositioned the mousetraps around the books in case they were able to get through.
The stench in this room had grown stronger and was making her nauseated. She hoped Ms. Perez had reached the exterminator. The couch had to go, too. They couldn’t keep it—not after what they had found inside.
Thunder crackled in the sky.
Just what we need, she thought, more rain.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Thad.
Voice mail.
“Dammit.” Should she try Del?
Not yet. He’ll call. She had to give him space, had to trust him.
As she returned to the kitchen, she switched to iMessage and opened the two images she had forwarded from Thad’s MacBook: the girl and the old woman. Both faces looked up at her from the phone’s tiny screen, eyes so lifelike they seemed to follow her gaze. The old woman, haunted, horrifying. The young girl, longing and lustful.
She had so many questions.
How could Thad possibly have drawn the woman from her dreams? Her nightmares? Not once had she mentioned the old woman to him, not once.
“Ms. Rachael?”
Rachael jumped, nearly dropping the phone.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Rachael. I did not mean to frighten you.”
Ms. Perez was at the kitchen door, a dust cloth in her hand.
Rachael forced a smile. “I’m a little jumpy.”
“Mr. Thad will call,” Ms. Perez said. “I am sure he is just busy. He has much love for you.”
Rachael nodded. “Thank you, Carmen.”
“The exterminator will be here Friday before lunch. I called a friend of mine. He is very nice. He will do a very good job.”
“He can’t come sooner?”
“No. Friday is the earliest. I called two others, but none are able to come until next week. My friend is the soonest and the best. He said no problem to wait until Friday.”
“Please try to find someone who can come sooner,” Rachael said.
The woman nodded. “I will try.”
Rachael glanced down at her phone, then back at her housekeeper. “Ms. Perez?”
“Yes, Ms. Rachael?”
“Have you ever seen my husband draw a picture?”
The woman appeared puzzled.
“When you clean his office? Have you ever spotted any sketches?”
“I would never snoop through Mr. Thad’s work.”
“I know that,” Rachael said reassuringly. “But maybe while you were cleaning, maybe you saw something?”
Ms. Perez’s eyes turned to the floor. “In his old book, the one on his desk, there are many drawings. I did not open the book, though; it was already open.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Rachael said. “And if the journal happened to be open on his desk, there is nothing wrong with taking a peek.”
“What did you see, Carmen? What kind of drawings are in his journal?”
“Mr. Thad would not be angry?”
“Of course not. If he left the book open on his desk, I think he’d want you to look.”
“I see many drawings,” she told her.
“Drawings of what?”
“There was an old tree. And a picture of a box,” she recalled. “Both were very good drawings. Mr. Thad is a talented man.”
“Any pictures of women?”
Perez hesitated. She tugged at her left thumb with her right hand and shuffled her feet.
“Carmen?”
She spoke softly, “There were women.”
Rachael held the phone out to her. “Did you see these two?”
Perez glanced at the screen and nodded. “Many of both.”
“Do you know who they are?”
She shook her head.
“Are they characters from his book, or do you think they’re real?”
“I do not know.”
“Has he ever mentioned them to you? Maybe he saw you looking through his journal?”
The woman grew quiet. “Your marriage is happy, yes?”
“Of course,” Rachael said without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”
Perez fidgeted, unsure if she should continue.
“Why do you ask, Carmen?”
Her housekeeper pointed to the picture of the young girl. “In many of the pictures, this one is naked. He draws her many times naked.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
I DIDN’T WANT TO GO—let me make that perfectly clear. The magistrate insisted, however, leaving me with little choice but to follow him back to the church and down the dark, narrow staircase at the back.
I carried a candle, but the flame neither fought back the shadows, nor intimidated the cold, which grew stronger with each step as we descended the stairs into the damp basement. The earthen floor was muddy with last night’s rain. Tugging at my every step, muck seeped into my boots.
“It’s just ahead,” the magistrate told me.
We came to a large oak door and he pulled a key from around his neck. The lock turned with a clunk that echoed in the narrow hallway. He pulled at the large door and it slowly opened, revealing another hallway. This one was lined with black metal bars on either side. Cells. At least four of them beneath the church, my church.