by J. D. Barker
“When were these built? Who authorized such a thing?” I couldn’t help but ask.
The magistrate silenced me with a glare.
Our breath formed a fog trailing at our backs as we stepped into the chamber. The magistrate tensed as he neared the cell on the far left. With his candle he lit the lantern hanging on the corridor wall, sending an eerie glow dancing across the stone.
I didn’t spot her at first. It wasn’t until I approached the bars that I saw her small frame curled tight on the floor beside the wooden bed. She was shrouded in a frilled blanket. I could feel her eyes on me, but her face was lost to the shadows.
“Get up, you wench!” the magistrate ordered, his voice bellowing off the stone walls.
Her tiny frame remained still.
He picked up a bucket of water from beside the wall and flung it at the bars, soaking the girl and her wooden bed. Her head jerked up from beneath the blanket and she hissed at him, her eyes dark as coal.
“Enough!” the magistrate shouted. “Mercy Short and her husband were murdered in their bed. What do you know of this?” Although his voice was strong and sure, I couldn’t help but hear a sliver of fear in his words. I refused to look at her directly, knowing if she truly was a witch, only a direct glance would be enough for her spell to grip me.
I found it hard not to gaze at her, particularly after the visit of her sister—a visit of which I had failed to tell anyone.
She glanced up at me and a smile filled her lips. “Finally, you have brought a witness to view the conditions in which I’ve been kept. Perhaps his heart isn’t as dark as yours.”
The magistrate raised the bucket, ready to soak her again. I reached up and grabbed his arm mid-swing.
“How dare you?” he breathed.
“Angering her will not bring us answers,” I told him. “Perhaps if she agrees to tell us what we need to know, there will be no need for further punishment.”
The magistrate held the bucket with quaking hands, then set it down at his feet. “You shouldn’t find pity for such a foul creature. She is less than a dog.”
It was not her I pitied, but I dared not speak my true feelings.
“What part did you take in their deaths?”
She smiled back at him. “What would you like me to say? That witchcraft allowed me to leave this cage and dispose of that liar and her wretched man, then return unnoticed? Would that satisfy you?” She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps I stopped at the local tavern for a drink and nourishment as well. I have told you, I am not a witch. I’m not capable of such things.”
The magistrate kicked the bucket of water at her. “You lie! You had a hand in this!”
She stood, and the blanket fell from her petite frame, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She approached the bars. Her dark blue eyes burned through the shadows, so much so that I had to look away.
“If I were capable of taking a life while locked in this terrible place, don’t you think it would be yours?” she said to the magistrate, her finger gently brushing against his on the cold metal.
The magistrate pulled away. “You sicken me.”
“I don’t think it was you,” I told her.
She smiled. “Finally, a man with sensibilities.”
“Where can we find your mother and sisters?” I asked, my eyes locked with hers.
She turned away, ever so quickly, and walked toward the back of her cell. “I have no sisters, and my mother is long dead,” she replied.
“I don’t believe you.”
She leaned against the back wall and ran her hand through her long dark hair. “And why should you? After all, I am but a witch and a whore, am I not? Not someone to be trusted or believed. I was wrong about you. You’re no different than the rest, no better than him,” she nodded toward the magistrate.
“This is a waste of time,” he spat. “The trials will decide your fate soon enough. If there truly is blood on your hands, you will pay for your sins.”
Her glare found his, her eyes black and cold. “As will you,” she concurred. “As will you.”
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Day 2 – 3:15 p.m.
THAD SETTLED INTO HIS seat in first class with his briefcase on his lap. He watched in silence as the passengers of Flight 931 boarded the plane, filling it from front to back.
He needed a drink.
He knew after the previous night that the last thing he should do was hit the bottle, but his nerves were on edge and if he didn’t do something to calm down soon he wouldn’t be able to focus on his task. He wouldn’t be able to find the box.
The box.
Did they have Rachael and Ashley?
Just because they weren’t answering the phone didn’t mean they were in danger. They might be out shopping or visiting neighbors, or even—
They have them. They have them for sure.
“Excuse me, miss?” The flight attendant paused in the aisle, turned, and smiled. “Yes, sir?”
Thad did his best to smile back. “Would it be possible to get a drink?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re not permitted to serve alcohol until after takeoff,” she replied, pressing against his arm in order to allow a passenger to pass down the aisle. “Sorry,” she blushed.
Thad smiled. “No problem. Listen, normally I wouldn’t ask but I’m a real nervous flyer. I usually take a sleeping pill, but I didn’t have a chance to pick some up. I could really use a drink before we take off.”
She sighed, then nodded her head. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
Thad watched as she made her way to the flight attendant station behind the cockpit and disappeared around the corner. She returned a moment later with a can of 7 Up and a plastic cup filled with ice and soda. She winked and handed it to him. “Don’t let the appearance fool you; it’s Grey Goose.”
Thad took the cup and raised it to his lips, putting it down in one gulp. He shook as the cool liquid burned his throat.
“Wow! You did need that!” She chuckled, taking the empty cup away. “My name is Francine; let me know if I can get you anything else.”
“Will do.”
A woman one row up on the left side stared at him. She turned away when he spotted her. Thad spied one of his books in her hand. Among Us, he believed. It was hard to tell from the dust jacket. He recognized his photo staring back at him.
“Wonderful,” he muttered.
Turning, he found another woman sitting three rows back with another of his books in her hand. Behind her was a man in his mid-fifties. He held one of his books too. Unlike most, when their eyes met he didn’t turn away. Instead, he met Thad’s gaze.
We’re watching you, Thad, Christina had said.
Is this what she meant?
Am I being paranoid?
Thad sunk low in his seat, his fingers clutching his briefcase so tight they had turned white. He thumbed the locks, rolling the dials to random numbers (not that anyone with a screwdriver and a little determination would be denied access for very long). Reaching up, he twisted the small air conditioner vent until he felt the trickle of recycled air streaming down on his face. Thad closed his eyes and hoped this was nothing more than a very bad dream.
The plane roared to life and began down the runway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Day 2 – 7:30 p.m.
THE SCREAM WAS LOUD and echoed through the old house.
At the kitchen sink, Rachael froze as the cry cut through the otherwise silent house, riding the still air until reaching her with a slap, causing her to drop the apple she had been rinsing under the warm water.
The scream was followed by a mix of English and Spanish obscenities, each louder than the previous, nailed haphazardly together by the deep sobs which fell between them.
It had come from upstairs.
“Ms. Perez?” Rachael called out. “Carmen?”
If the wo
man had heard her, she was not inclined to answer. Only her cries drifted down from the second floor.
Where is Ashley?
Leaving the water running, Rachael raced to the staircase as fast as any woman in her third trimester possibly could, the pains in her abdomen growing stronger with each step. The baby kicked as she reached the second-floor landing. She rubbed her stomach, her touch reaching for the child within her, fingers soothing it until it stilled.
She found Ms. Perez standing at Ashley’s door, her hand over her mouth, her tear-filled eyes wide, her cries now nothing more than a faded whimper.
God, my baby. . . Please let Ashley be safe.
The housekeeper stepped aside as Rachael drew close, her eyes dropping to the floor. “Ms. Rachael, I have no idea how this has happened,” she murmured. “I leave her alone for just a minute, only a minute.”
Drawing a deep breath, Rachael looked into her daughter’s room.
The odor wrapped around her, choked her, and she almost fell back as her breakfast threatened to rise up her throat.
Ashley stood at the center of the room, her clothing piled at her feet. Her eyes were glazed over, staring blindly at the ceiling. A muddled gurgle rose from her lips, increased to a growl, then fell silent. She repeated the noise seconds later, and again after that.
The walls were covered in dirt, scrawled across the bright pink surface Rachael had painted last summer when her daughter had insisted she was too big for the clown-covered wallpaper that had adorned her walls from birth.
The vile substance had been spread with no rhyme or reason except to cover every square inch.
“Dirty child,” Ms. Perez snarled.
Yet she wasn’t, Rachael noted. Her daughter was perfectly clean. She stood in the dead center of this disgusting mess, yet down to her fingertips she was free of the foulness that surrounded her.
Her daughter’s shelves were bare, too; all the toys which had filled them as recently as an hour ago were stacked to the ceiling in the far left corner, a freestanding structure inches from the walls and nearly eight feet in height.
Her daughter couldn’t have possibly done this.
“Mommy?”
Her voice seemed distant, and at first Rachael wasn’t sure she had spoken at all. She watched in awe as her daughter lowered her head, meeting her gaze. She reached for her and Ashley snapped to life, her eyes flooding with tears—in one instant shifting from a comatose state to one of fear as she stared in horror at her room.
“Come here, sweetie,” Rachael said, her arms outstretched. “It’s all right.”
The little girl came to her, her feet padding across the damp carpet until she found her mother’s fold. “I told him not to do it, Mommy, but he wouldn’t listen. I told him over and over but he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t!”
“Who?”
“Zeke,” her daughter whimpered between sobs. “It was Zeke.”
“Her make-believe friend did this?” Ms. Perez frowned. “I am to believe this?”
Rachael silenced the woman with her glare and stroked her daughter’s long blonde hair. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll clean this up. Why don’t you run a nice warm bath, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.”
Ashley nodded. “I think he’s still in my room, Mommy.”
“Please, honey, go start a bath,” Rachael told her.
Her daughter stared up at her with shame gathered behind her wide eyes, then turned and waddled to the bathroom. The sound of running water came a moment later.
Buster poked his head out from his hiding spot behind the master bedroom door, gave Rachael and the housekeeper a quick glance, then trotted into the bathroom behind Ashley.
Rachael sighed. “I know this goes way beyond your job description, Ms. Perez, but I don’t think I can go in that room. The smell is making me nauseated and with the baby so close. . . I can’t go in there.”
The housekeeper swore under her breath in Spanish. “I’ll clean this time, but you must speak with your daughter. There is no excuse for this. So much mess, and to blame a make-believe friend? The child must be punished for this or she’ll do it again,” the woman said.
“I think with her father leaving town and me focused so much on this baby, she’s feeling neglected. I’ll talk to her later about it, when we’ve all had a little time to calm down,” Rachael said. “I promise I will.”
“Something is wrong with a child who can do this,” Ms. Perez pointed out.
“I’ll talk to her.”
Behind them, the stack of books and toys tumbled to the ground with the rumble of a bomb and both women jumped. The tower collapsed into the center of the room, sending toys sliding across the floor.
Ms. Perez shook her head. “I’ll get the carpet cleaner from the garage.”
“Thank you,” Rachael said, her mind racing as she tried to figure out what could drive her daughter to do something like this.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
FROM THE OUTSIDE, THE Short home appeared eerily normal. The small structure sat quietly at the edge of town with the thick forest at its back. Mercy had planted various flowers in the beds near the door and along the path that reached around the side of the home.
The front door stood open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond its frame.
“Where is her husband?” the magistrate asked of no one in particular.
Carol Bender stood beside me, no longer able to speak. Instead, she raised her hand and pointed at the open doorway.
“Wait here,” Constable Metcalf ordered.
“I will do no such thing,” the magistrate replied, pushing his way past and through the door.
As he entered the small home, his gasp was audible even from where I stood. The constable followed quickly behind him. When I started toward them, Carol Bender reached out and took my arm. “You don’t want to.”
She was right; I did not want to go inside. However, I felt a duty to do so. The magistrate felt this was related to the trial; as such, it was my obligation to document our findings just as he had asked.
I carefully pulled away from Carol Bender’s grip and slowly approached the door, fighting the knot growing within my chest.
The smell hit me first. The thick scent of copper wormed through the air and landed upon me with bony fingers, sending a chill across my spine which only grew worse as I stepped over the threshold.
The constable and magistrate both stood at the back of the room, their wide eyes fixed on what could only be the bedroom in such a small structure, their skin pale and damp with sweat. Neither man spoke, only stared inside.
Nothing could have readied me for what we found inside.
Mercy’s naked body was spread across the top of the crimson sheets, her eyes and mouth still open wide in a silent, fearful cry. Her chest had been cut open with haste and her organs removed, then placed around her on the bed. Her heart in one hand, her liver in the other.
I felt bile rise in my throat and forced it back by telling myself this was all just a terrible dream from which I would wake very soon.
The magistrate pointed to the side of the bed; it was then that I saw her husband lying in a pool of blood. His hands were wrapped around a large knife embedded deep within his chest. A fatal wound, one which it appeared he had inflicted upon himself.
“It ends,” the constable murmured.
“What?” The magistrate replied, his eyes locked on the scene before him.
The constable pointed at the far wall, still lost beneath morning shadows. He pointed at the words scrawled on the wall in blood.
It Ends.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER FORTY
Day 2 – 8:00 p.m.
THAD WASN’T SURE WHEN he had dozed off, but when he woke he found Christina sitting next to him. The plane was dark and quiet; the flight attendants had retired to their cramped quarters at the front.
“Wh
at are you doing here?”
Christina smiled up at him and brought a single finger to her lips.
She had draped a blanket over the two of them while he slept. She had also lifted the small arm between their seats; her warm body now pressed up against him.
Christina took his hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. She placed his palm against her thigh and guided him until his fingers found the soft, moist hair between her legs.
“Are you naked?” he asked.
With her free hand, she slowly pulled down the blanket, revealing her bare breasts.
Thad jerked it back up.
Christina giggled.
Glancing around, he realized they were alone. The flight attendants had pulled the curtains separating first class from the rest of the plane. The passengers were gone; nobody else was in sight.
“Where is everyone?”
“Shhh,” she breathed.
Reaching under the blanket, she found his belt and began to pull it free. Thad reached down and stopped her. “We’re not doing this.”
Her dark eyes grew wide. “I think we are, Thad. I think you really want to.”
Thad felt his arms move to his sides, pinned against the seat. He tried to move them but couldn’t; they were held still by unseen hands. Somehow, she controlled them.
Her hands returned to his belt. A moment later, she unsnapped his pants and pulled down the zipper. When she reached inside, he was unable to stop her.
“You’re so tense, Thad. You need to learn to relax,” she teased. “Would you like me to help you relax, Thad?”
He tried to respond but found only silence as her fingers wrapped around him.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to do this, Thad? Share a private moment with someone special on a plane? I’ve often fantasized about it, but until now I just couldn’t work up the courage. Will you help me, Thad? Will you help me overcome my fear?”