Forsaken

by J. D. Barker

  He heard their whispers now, tiny papery whispers escaping their angry lips as they watched from across the creek. They wanted to rip his limbs from his body, to spill his blood on the rain-soaked soil. He tasted their hatred on the air.

  Will they kill me, Christina? When they learn why I am here?

  Do you honestly believe they’ll allow me to leave with the box?

  He waited for a response from Christina, but none came. There were only the sounds of the storm, of the forest, of them.

  Thad stopped.

  The dead forest stood before him.

  He had seen the tangled mass so clearly when he had written the story, and now he stood at its edge.

  Not a single tree, plant, or weed flourished. Only death remained in the blackened earth where life once thrived, as if a terrible plague had somehow killed everything in its path with such swift vengeance nothing escaped. There was an edge to it, clearly defined—a place where death met life. He sensed it growing—the large circle of death expanding even today, centuries after it began, encroaching upon the living earth, eating the bordering life away with an insatiable appetite.

  Thad knew a spell had created this circle of death. A spell cast hundreds of years ago with a dual purpose, to isolate Her and keep others away. It began—

  By scattered leaves,

  By blood of saints,

  Taint this ground,

  Earth, air, and place.

  To enter seemed foolish, but Thad had no choice if he wanted to retrieve the box. In his book, the box was buried at the center of this place. He had no doubt the real one rested there as well.

  Again he sensed Christina at his side, anxious and deeply excited. Although he didn’t see her, she no doubt peered into the gloom as he did. He wondered if she feared it as he did. Did she even understand what this was?

  Of course she did. Perhaps her understanding of this place kept her from making this journey herself. Maybe she knew where the box had been buried all along. Even now, she didn’t follow him in the flesh, but with some projection of her mind, her soul.

  My dear Thad, she finally spoke. You only have to realize what this place is, what the death represents, to discern that I, of all people, may never enter. For the same spell that keeps Her trapped here keeps her ancestors out. I’m blood of Her blood, Thad. I dare not enter such a place, or I risk the same fate. You, of all people, should appreciate such is true.

  Thad stood at the edge of the dead forest and peered inside. His eyes sliced through the rain, through the very trees that stood in his way, until his mind’s eye found what he sought: the great oak at the center of this place. The mother of this forest, she stood tall and proud over the other trees. Even in death, her trunk and branches were unyielding. Unwilling to crumble and rot, the oak had petrified centuries earlier and was now stronger than stone, marking her final resting place as a monument.

  Would he be able to cross the barrier without harm?

  He didn’t know. He hadn’t asked this question while writing the book, nor had it offered an answer. Thad may die the second he stepped in, or the spell may not affect him at all.

  You must hurry, Thad. Christina told him. Your family only has hours remaining.

  Thad had little choice. With a deep breath, he stepped across the boundary between the living and the dead, his feet sinking into the rotted, damp earth below.

  Even in her projected state, Christina proved unwilling to follow. He sensed her at his back, standing with anticipation at the dead forest’s edge.

  The rain grew colder and his skin tingled at its touch. Not a tingle accompanied by goose bumps, but something else—an electricity in the air, the kind that makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

  He gripped the shovel with new vigor, holding it close to his chest, ready to swing should he encounter one of the creatures. They were the only other living things likely to enter such a place, the only ones to call this dead forest home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  WE STARTED OUT AT nightfall.

  For the past four hours, we had listened to the stranger as he shared tales of his journeys, the magistrate prompting him along with much doubt at first, then with a keen interest, then enthrallment. For this man had traveled the world for much of his adult life in search of the woman now hiding among the shadows of our wooded home.

  Death followed her too, he explained. Nipping at her heels was always a trail of death and loss. When he had lost her just outside of Paris nearly twenty years earlier, he only had to follow the stories of the locals to learn of the plague eating through the small villages to the north of the grand city. The fallen cattle and missing children; he had seen it all before. The very ground smelled of her as he approached. The worn, distant looks of the locals simply gazed upon him with vacant stares. Their energy was now Hers.

  It would happen here too, he insisted.

  It was hard to fathom, of course. For this man insisted that he had chased her for the better part of sixty years, much of his life. Yet she appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age.

  Stranger still, he went on to tell us that she appeared to be of a different age to each of us—an old woman to some, a little girl to others. She became what we wished to see, he explained. This was confirmed as those around us began to share stories of their encounters with her. All spoke of the same person, of this there was little doubt. But she was different to each of us.

  As those around me told their tales, I remained silent, unwilling to share my experiences with her. Instead, I stared intently at my script, documenting each story as it unfolded. For this was my duty, was it not?

  Through it all, the stranger did not share his name. When inquired of such, he simply shrugged off the request. It was not important, he had said.

  I was unable to determine his age.

  His skin was deeply weathered and scarred. It told of a harsh life, as did his eyes—a gray of which I had never seen. His accent could not be placed. After four hours, I felt I knew less of this man than I did at his appearance.

  Nearly an hour ago, we had begun to amass in the town proper. Many carried lanterns, knowing this night would be late. Most hefted weapons. There were crosses and holy water taken from the church, soil from the yard at its side.

  William Hobbs initially refused to lead the stranger to her home, but his mind was quickly changed when the magistrate reminded him that he had knowingly colluded with a witch—and at this point all had agreed that she was indeed a witch—the penalty for which he did not wish to face.

  Reluctantly, Hobbs started down Corning Trail toward the thick oaks, flanking the village with the Stranger at his heels and the remainder of us closely behind.

  I carried no weapons.

  I would not be willing or able to hurt her should the need arise. To bring a weapon would be nothing more than a falsehood told to myself.

  —Thad McAlister,

  Rise of the Witch

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Day 3 – 06:45 a.m.

  THE BULLET SEEMED TO travel in slow motion.

  Rachael watched as the projectile left the barrel of the gun, a thin trail of smoke following close behind. It raced across the room toward the four strangers standing in the doorway.

  The oldest of them, a tall woman wearing a black dress buttoned to the neck, calmly raised her left hand and closed her eyes.

  Rachael and the others watched in awe as the bullet stopped in mid flight and fell to the ground with a thump on the mud-covered wood floor.

  The four stepped into the foyer together, their cold eyes locked on Rachael. Behind them, three minions scrambled to close the door and secure the deadbolt.

  The old woman stepped forward and glared at the gun. “I think we’ve seen the last of that.”

  The gun was ripped from Rachael’s hand, flew through the air, then slowed and landed in the old woman’s outstretched fingers. She passed the we
apon to the large, bulky man at her side, who secured it in a large black leather case.

  Ashley began to cry and buried her head in her mother’s side. Rachael wrapped her arm around her and combed through her hair.

  The old woman turned to the two men behind her and passed on instructions, her voice low. With silent nods, they turned and disappeared—one into the kitchen, the other heading upstairs. Minions followed at their feet, tripping over each other to remain close.

  The large man set his black bag down at his side and folded his arms. The old woman stepped forward, her cold blue eyes glaring down at them. “My name is Eleanor. You must be Rachael McAlister.”

  “Get out of my house!” Rachael sneered.

  Eleanor smiled. “And this must be your lovely daughter. Ashley, isn’t it?”

  She reached out to run her hand through the girl’s hair, and Rachael slapped her away. “I’ll kill you, do you understand? I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

  When the next contraction hit, Rachael doubled over. She grimaced and squeezed her daughter’s hand.

  “Mommy, you’re hurting me!” Ashley cried.

  Again, the old woman grinned. “Yes, Rachael, you’re hurting her. Perhaps you should let go. Perhaps you should let me take her.”

  Rachael pulled her daughter tight, wrapping her arms around her shivering frame.

  “Out of my house…,” she growled, fighting back the contraction.

  “By my count, it’s only been five minutes since the last one, Rachael. Your baby will be here soon, just a few hours at the most. Since you will not be leaving this house, your options are very limited. You can attempt to have the child on your own, lying in all this filth with your daughter and housekeeper standing over you in horror, or you can let me help you. I have substantial experience in such matters; I’ve been a midwife for more years than I care to remember.”

  The woman reached for Rachael’s wrist, but she pulled away.

  “I only wish to check your heart rate, my dear. There is no need to fear me.”

  When she reached again, Rachael allowed Eleanor to touch her, clutching Ashley tightly against her chest. The woman pressed cold fingers to her wrist while following the hands on her watch. “Your pulse is a little high, but that is to be expected. Aside from the contractions, do you feel any other pain?”

  Rachael shook her head.

  “That’s grand. Now, please relax as we prepare this place for the birth of your child.”

  “Who are you?”

  Eleanor smiled, then turned to the large man at her back, whispering in his ear.

  Rachael glanced at Ms. Perez, who remained silent at her side, her face filled with fear.

  “Make them go away, Mommy,” Ashley breathed.

  “Who the hell are you?” Rachael said again, raising her voice.

  Eleanor glared at her, eyes dark and cold, her skin as pale as death. Rachael remembered the woman from her dream, the old woman with the long fingernails and gravelly voice. Although this wasn’t her, she knew they were connected.

  Clickity, click, click, click.

  The sound came from nowhere and everywhere, echoing in her mind. She would have written it off as her subconscious if not for Eleanor—for she was grinning again, and Rachael knew she had heard it, too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Day 3 – 07:00 a.m.

  THAD STOOD BEFORE THE great oak tree in awe. Its trunk was wider than any he had ever seen, at least five or six feet across. Its crusty old bark appeared both dead and alive, riddled with moss and mold, ravaged by insects, the weather, and time. Yet the oak stood strong—unyielding to the elements, unwilling to surrender, its trunk petrified to that of the hardest stone.

  This tree, this place, had only existed in his mind months ago, as the story, as Her story, took shape. How could this have been here all along?

  Thad knelt down before the tree and closed his eyes, remembering the exact words from his book:

  Follow the trunk to the east, to where the bougainvillea once grew thick, its thorns now thirsting for blood. Beneath the blanket of dead moss, you’ll find a hollow damp with the waters of the rain. It is here she rests, her box buried deep within this earthen grave. It is here she is to remain, her evil caged for all time by the binding spell of Shadow Cove, by those who protect it, by the Order of the Draper.

  Again, Thad remembered how the words had flowed when he wrote the book, materializing in his mind faster than he could put them to paper. He knew now they didn’t come from his imagination, but instead came like memories. Not his own memories, though—memories placed within his subconscious by Her, those who worship Her, or both.

  If the tree is real, if She is real, that also means the danger is real.

  The thought came into his mind, awash in sounds of the forest. Thad looked up—dozens of tiny red eyes watched him from behind the trees. They disappeared into the night, fading into the shadows with his gaze.

  He stood and shined his flashlight at the base of the tree. He circled around until he came to a large bougainvillea bush.

  “The east side,” he muttered to himself. Moss wasn’t supposed to grow on the east.

  Like the rest of the forest, the bush had died many years ago but somehow remained preserved. Even its dried leaves still held the faintest hint of color, glistening under a coat of rain. The thorns scratched angrily at him, larger than any he had ever seen on such a plant. Thad shied away from it, taking a step back. His grip tightened on the shovel, and with a deep breath, he brought the blade down hard against the plant.

  He imagined cries of pain as the stainless steel sliced through the tangled mass of branches, the thorns scratching against the shovel in defense. He pulled the blade back and brought it down again, then again—each blow with more force than the last, until the plant gave way and he exposed the bright green moss underneath.

  Ten minutes passed before he had cleared enough away to reach the moss with his hands. Thad set down the shovel and fell to his knees, then pressed his fingers into the thick green carpet, tugging at the earth with all his remaining strength. The moss gave way, spilling warm water upon him. Thad couldn’t help but envision blood seeping from an open wound, his fingers piercing skin. Then the wound came to life as thousands of tiny black spiders fled from within, running across his arm, up his legs, prickling at his skin with angry feet. Thad let out a soundless scream and jumped back, brushing them away, stomping them under his shoes. When the last one scurried across the muddied earth to the safety of the creek’s edge, Thad shivered.

  Once again he knelt down before the tree, shining his flashlight into the hollow behind the moss.

  The space was large, much larger than he had imagined.

  Large enough.

  With the flashlight in hand, Thad clambered into the hole, his fingers digging into the rotten soil. The air rushing forth smelled of death, the earth damp with decay. The walls glistened with the decomposed syrup of rotting moss. The spell filled his mind, joined by the second stance of the spell, now as real as the rain falling from the blackened sky:

  By scattered leaves,

  By blood of saints,

  Taint this ground,

  Earth, air, and place.

  Of life it’s not,

  No life shall leave,

  Trapped for all time,

  In the bowels of this tree.

  Thad traced the trail of moss with his eyes, from the dead strands within the tree; they found life as they passed through the opening to the forest, growing greener with each inch, healthier with distance.

  Thad realized he had this backward—the moss didn’t grow healthy as it left the confines of the tree; life was lost as it entered.

  He had to hurry.

  With his bare hands he clawed at the earth, digging through a soft layer of mud at the top until he reached the harder packed soil inches below.

  The hollow wasn’t large enough to use the shovel properly. He angled it and scraped at the ground wi
th the blade, cutting through the rocky soil. Sweat broke out on his brow, and his muscles began to ache. He ignored the pain and continued, unwilling to stop.

  It’s the curse, the spell! His mind cried as he fought for energy. The curse on this place. It’s stealing your strength, your life.

  Thad dug faster.

  Another ten minutes passed before the shovel scraped the top of the box. The wooden box he knew would be here but shouldn’t be, his imagination come to life.

  With bloodied fingertips, he scratched at the earth; his eyes widened with every racing heartbeat. He scraped away the earth until he could grip the sides of the box and pull it free from its long-forgotten resting place.

  The box tingled in his hands; it was far heavier than he had anticipated. Thad stared down at the intricate carvings in awe, amazed that he was holding the box at all.

  The Rumina Box.

  Fatigue weighed him down. The lead-lined box grew heavier with each passing second. He could not stay any longer.

  Backing out of the tree, Thad’s breath escaped him as he tried to drag the increasingly heavy box through the thick mud.

  Looking down, he noticed his hands ;they no longer seemed his own. The skin had grown pale and loose, riddled with dark age spots. His nails had yellowed, turned brittle, grown much longer than just minutes earlier, appearing as if neglected for years. He drew a breath and felt pain in his lungs as they fought to expand. Again, the spell filled his mind:

  By scattered leaves,

  By blood of saints,

  Taint this ground,

  Earth, air, and place.

  Of life it’s not,

  No life shall leave,

  Trapped for all time,

  In the bowels of this tree.

  Without hesitation, Thad began running through the forest back the way in which he had come, leaving the shovel lying in the dirt, the box wrapped in his straining arm. He pressed on, knowing the pain would only get worse if he stopped to rest. He had to get out of the forest. He had to get as far away from this place as possible.