Forsaken

by J. D. Barker

  It was odd. I thought I saw a table covered in spices, pots, and various cooking utensils. Even the corner of a bed covered in thick linens caught my eye. It was gone then, just a split second later—these things were there with the lightning, gone with the darkness. It wasn’t that I could not see them; they simply were no longer there. Where the table had stood, the room was now empty, the floor covered in thick dust.

  I felt her hand take mine. It was cold, unnaturally so. I tried to pull away, but she held firm.

  When the lightning flashed again, when the light flooded the cabin, I had been looking at her. For that briefest of moments, it was not her; it was an old woman. A hideously scarred old woman with large black eyes, crooked yellow teeth, and thin wisps of gray hair. Her clothing changed, too—gone was the blanket and white dress. She appeared in a long black gown, tattered and threadbare. It smelled of dirt and rot. It smelled of death.

  In a blink, I found myself staring at the young girl again, the room lost to pale darkness. She appeared puzzled.

  “What is it?”

  I gasped and tried to pull away, but she would not release me. I had no words for what I had just seen. I wanted to scream for help, to draw in the others from outside, but my voice failed me. All I heard was my ragged breath and the pounding of my heart.

  Clickity, click, click.

  I looked down at her free hand. The nails were long; they were tapping at the wood floor.

  Clickity, click, click, click.

  When thunder struck again followed quickly by another flash of lightning, there was no mistaking what I saw. The old woman leered at me. Then it was the young girl. Her nails dug into my wrist; I felt blood trickle down my fingertips.

  “We haven’t much time,” she breathed.

  “For what?”

  “For me to tell you my story.”

  —Thad McAlister,

  Rise of the Witch

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Day 3 – 08:30 a.m.

  THAD WOKE TO THE smell of mildew and the sound of thunderous rain pounding against his metal coffin. The insidious dark held him like a black tarp wrapped around him. He imagined himself the victim in one of his own books, bound in the trunk of the killer’s car, en route to some remote location for a quick (and messy) disposal.

  The cobwebs left his mind, and he remembered the conversation with Del. The blackness made way for the dull gray of a stormy night, and he realized where he was.

  “That sonofabitch,” he muttered under his weak breath. He tried to move his arms, but they ached with arthritis. He couldn’t look at his hands, his skin. He wasn’t willing to confirm what he hoped had been a nightmare; he had aged. Somehow, he had aged to near death in a matter of minutes.

  But how was this possible?

  It was in his book, all of it.

  Groping the darkness, Thad felt the damp, thin carpet beneath him as well as the metal ceiling inches from his face. He hoped for a tire-iron but found nothing; some other renter had probably removed it. Thad didn’t know if they even kept them in rental cars. It didn’t matter because he had another way out. All cars built after 1999 have a trunk release button on the inside to ensure children don’t accidentally get locked inside. In his haste, Thad doubted Del had disconnected it; he was not convinced Del even wanted to hurt him. He’d had the opportunity to kill him and didn’t. Instead, he had picked him up out of the rain and put him in here. Granted, not the best accommodations, but still better than most of the alternatives when alone in the middle of the forest.

  His fingers brushed over the button. He retraced their path and pushed at its center. A sharp pain resonated back through his finger from the simple movement as the lock disengaged and the trunk lid popped open.

  Rainwater rolled down the trunk and came into the back with the sound of a broken faucet, rushing at him in a wave. Thad sat up as quickly as he could, rising from the damp heat of the trunk to cold, prickling raindrops pouring from the blackened sky. They stung his skin like tiny wasps.

  How long had he been unconscious?

  He didn’t know.

  With all his strength, he forced his legs over the edge of the trunk, wincing as pain shot through his spine. His feet found the mud with a thud, sinking into the damp earth, and he forced himself to a stand with the car as his brace. His own weight proved too much and he found himself tumbling to the ground, welcoming the soft earth as he landed in the mud.

  Rolling over onto his back, he peered up into the dark clouds, the rain falling all around him, burning at his face and arms. He dug his fingers into the mud, feeling a slight tingle in his palms. He closed his eyes, turned his head toward the sky, and opened his mouth, drinking in the rain. At first, the drops stung. But then, like the mud, they began to tingle as he swallowed, spreading a warmth through his chest and muscles.

  The rain is our redemption.

  The rain is our life.

  He had written the words without truly understanding their meaning. He had written them—because She wanted me to.

  He began to tingle and surge with energy as the water crept through him, finding every organ and every cell.

  As the minutes passed, he found himself able to sit up, finally stand.

  “It carries life. The rain of this place…” he breathed.

  Like the book, just like in the book. So much you don’t understand.

  Thad wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but he remained until he felt well enough to drive. He stayed long enough to fill a water bottle with rain. He stayed long enough to remember his wife and daughter and how much he loved them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Day 3 – 10:00 p.m.

  FOR THE MOST PART they had driven in silence, Del watching the road and the young girl at his side clutching the box, unwilling to take her eyes from it.

  “When She returns, do you think she’ll want to go back to that place? Shadow Cove? I mean, they’re still there, right? The ones who did this to Her?”

  Christina remained silent, her fingers running across the carved box.

  “I sure as shit would,” Del confessed. “After what they did? They had no right, none whatsoever. Didn’t they understand who she was? What she was?”

  “That’s why they did it, you bumbling idiot,” Christina mumbled under her breath.

  Del smirked. “It ain’t gonna happen again, that’s for damn sure. Not while I’m on the job.” Reaching over to her, he rested his hand on her bare knee. “Ain’t that right, doll?”

  Christina forced a smile before plucking his hand away from her knee and dropping it on the center console.

  “Oh, I’m hurt,” Del frowned. “You know, as Thad’s agent I get ten percent of whatever he gets. I’m ready to settle up as soon as you are.”

  Christina rolled her eyes. “Watch the road, lover boy.”

  “You’ll learn to love me. All the ladies love ol’ Del,” he stated.

  Christina turned back to the window and calculated the remaining drive time silently in her mind. Not much longer now.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Day 3 – 11:00 p.m.

  WHEN RACHAEL WOKE, HER groggy eyes opened upon new surroundings. No longer was she in her bedroom; they had moved her outside. The dark, cloudy sky stared down on her with contempt as cold, damp wind slithered over her skin. Her hands and feet were still bound, but someone had attached them to stakes pounded into the earth. A thick rain fell, hiding the faces of those around her. So many faces, far more than she had seen in the house.

  “Ashley?” she cried softly. “Are you there, sweetie?”

  Murmurs floated through the crowd, their voices unfamiliar but many, their numbers growing still.

  The contraction hit her hard and a groan ripped unabated from her dry lips, silencing those around her. She wanted to clutch her belly, to feel the baby within her, but ropes held her firm. Her back arched, then fell back against the muddy earth with a wet slap as the pain receded.

  She smelled s
omething sweet in the air and noticed the bougainvilleas; thousands of them surrounding her. She was in the center of what was once her front lawn. These plants, these people, they had taken it all over; it belonged to them now. The ground around her had been plucked bare. Turning her head, she realized she was at the center of a large pentagram constructed from the thorny branches of the plants.

  A hand stroked her hair. “Are you comfortable, Rachael?”

  Eleanor. She had changed into a long black robe.

  “I have to go to the hospital. Please don’t make me have my baby here, I beg of you…”

  Eleanor smiled. “Your baby shall be born of the earth, as it’s meant to be. The onset of a new world in which She will reign again.”

  “You’re sick!”

  She only smiled.

  Three of the minions darted past on her left, each dropping an armload of bougainvillea leaves beside her, vibrant shades of pink, red, and purple. They had created small piles all around her—they shimmered in the rain. Other minions worked their way through the crowd, adding to the existing piles. Under her also, a thick bed of blooms.

  Eleanor knelt beside her and ran her fingertips across her belly. “Her energy is so strong, more than even I could have imagined. Are you ready to bring her into this world?” Reaching into her robe, she produced a jagged knife set in a carved wooden handle. The sharp blade glistened as she held it up to the light. Those around her fell silent and drew close.

  “Behold, the knife of Glanding!” she shouted above the storm.

  The wind and rain howled with excitement, stirring up the blooms at their feet.

  To their left, a car door slammed. Rachael turned her head and spotted Del, her husband’s agent, shuffling toward her, a young girl at his side. She held a small wooden box in her hands. The crowd parted to let them pass.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  THE YOUNG GIRL CONTINUED her tale. “I was but fourteen when she first came to me. We lived in this very cabin—my mother, sisters, and I. My father had passed some years earlier, when I was just a child. I recall very little about him: his smell, his laugh. He died of consumption, so my mother told us.

  “She was a skilled healer, but she was unable to save him. All her knowledge and remedies, and it was not enough. We buried him in a small, nearby clearing and visited him often.

  “On one such visit shortly after the break of spring, my sister and I approached his grave about an hour before dusk. We each carried wildflowers picked in the nearby woods, which we placed at his headstone. We then sat in the moist grass and prepared a simple meal of bread and pudding we had brought in a wicker basket favored by my sister.

  Father liked picnics, my sister had told me on more than one occasion. She was two years older than I. She had been six when he died.

  This was our way of remembering him.

  I was first to hear the cough. It was very soft, but I had always had exceptional hearing. It had come from the woods just to our west. As now, visitors were rare at such a distance from town and I first attributed the sound to that of an animal. When I heard it again, though, there was no mistaking it.

  I rose slowly and approached the trees, my sister calling my name from behind.

  He was lying on the ground, his back propped up against an old oak. A bundle of sorts was at his side. I imagined it contained clothing, personal items.

  He was very old, perhaps the oldest man on which I had ever laid eyes. His skin was pale as paper and creased with lines. His bleak, gray eyes stared up at me with both fear and hope.

  He uttered a whisper from cracked lips, but I could not make out the words.

  He gestured for me to draw closer, but I hesitated.

  Night was falling and dark shadows grew from the damp ground, weaving through the trees.

  Pain filled his face and he whispered again, softer still than the first.

  I knelt at his side.

  It was foolish, I know, but I didn’t see what harm he could bring. He appeared so weak, unable to stand, barely able to speak.

  He grabbed me with the speed of a serpent attacking prey.

  “Bagahi laca bachahe. Lamc cahi achabahe,” he breathed.

  I hadn’t seen the bougainvillea clutched firmly in his other hand. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have know its significance, not then.

  Clickity, click.

  I heard it as I tried to pull away. His grip tightened as he repeated the strange words.

  “Bagahi laca bachahe. Lamc cahi achabahe.”

  I saw Her then, for the first time.

  It happened quickly, faster than I could have possibly imagined—had I been able to imagine such a thing.

  His life, this stranger’s life, I saw it all. I witnessed every moment. His name was Ezekiel Crowley. He wanted to protect me, he wanted to keep Her from me. Yet, he could not.

  I saw Her in his eyes, if only for a brief moment. Then it grew cold, so cold.

  “Zeke, no.”

  Ice filled my veins from his hand, through my arm, my chest. It filled my head and all went white.

  I woke to the sound of my sister’s voice.

  The man was dead, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist.

  And I could feel Her.

  I could feel Her inside of me.

  This woman, this witch, had crept into my soul.

  —Thad McAlister,

  Rise of the Witch

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Day 3 – 11:15 p.m.

  THE BOX SEEMED TO grow warm in her hands as she entered the yard, as her feet crushed the bougainvillea blossoms which covered the ground. “Wait here,” she instructed Del as she stepped into the crowd.

  Hands reached out from all around her, fingertips stroking the wooden case as she passed. Christina recognized most of the faces. Some dated back as far as her childhood. Others had come into her life more recently. She could see the woman at the center of the crowd, her aunt, hovering over her. The wife of Thad McAlister, Rachael, if she remembered correctly. She had liked Thad and was sorry he had to die, but there had been little choice. The witch had picked Thad long ago when she had placed her story in his mind. Only he knew the complete truth—where to go, what to do; his journey could only end in death.

  Christina approached her aunt and placed the box in her outstretched hands. Her aunt smiled and nodded her approval. Christina then stepped back and remained still as those around her removed her clothing and helped her into a robe.

  “It has been a long time coming, my dear niece,” Eleanor said, her hand caressing the warm wood of the box.

  Christina nodded. “That it has.” She paused, closing her eyes. “She is with us now; I can feel her…so close.”

  “She’s growing stronger as the hour draws near,” Eleanor agreed. “Her energy flows freely among us.” Looking to Del, she added, “You brought another?”

  “He has served her well. I believe she has much more planned for him.”

  Eleanor nodded. “I sense that, too.”

  Lightning crackled through the sky, and Rachael McAlister let out a pain-filled groan.

  Eleanor stroked her hair. “It is time.”

  Urgent conversation floated through the crowd as they found their positions, creating three circles with Rachael McAlister at the center. They reached out to each other, their fingers interlocking as they joined hands. Around them, the minions continued to gather bougainvillea leaves and stack them at their feet as the sky churned with eager anticipation. Rachael McAlister cried out once again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Day 3 – 11:30 p.m.

  ASHLEY TRIED TO PULL her hand from that of the woman leading her through the crowd, but she would not allow it. Instead she dug her nails deeply into Ashley’s soft skin, squeezing painfully. She gave her a look that said she would hurt her again if she didn’t stop squirming.

  Ashley forced back the tears welling up in her eyes. She was a big girl and
refused to let them see her cry. Most of the faces were hidden beneath the shadow of their hoods, but the few she could make out were strangers. They passed out black candles.

  The minions followed at her heels. She kicked at one but the little monster proved too fast for her, hiding behind the leg of the woman at her side. It looked up at her with a wicked little smirk on its face, its sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Ashley wanted them to go away—all these people, too. She wanted her daddy to come home, and for her mommy and Buster to be okay. Why couldn’t everything go back to the way it was just a few short days ago?

  When her eyes fell on her mother at the center of the people, she tried to go to her but the woman pulled her back. “Put this on,” she told her, holding out a black robe.

  Ashley shook her head. “I don’t want to.”

  The woman knelt down beside her and ran her fingers through Ashley’s fine hair. “I’m not asking you, sweetie,” she told her. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  Where did Zeke go? Why wasn’t he protecting them?

  The woman beside her beamed. “My dear child, your friend Ezekiel has moved on to a better place.”

  “Ashley…,” her mother mumbled. Her voice weak, trembling.

  When Ashley tried to reach out to her, the woman pulled her back. “Put on the robe, now,” she ordered.

  Ashley did as she was told and slipped the robe over her clothes. The woman at her side pulled the hood over her head. Her face shielded, she let the tears flow.

  Candles burned around her, and the crowd began to chant.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Day 3 – 11:35 p.m.

  “BAGAHI LACA BACHAHE. LAMC cahi achabahe,” the words flowed from Eleanor’s tongue with ageless confidence as those around fell silent and still, only their breath on the chilled night showing any life at all.

  The clouds above opened again, sending the storm’s wrath down upon them. Deep thunder joined the wind’s chorus as a single bolt of lightning cracked the sky. The rain pricked at their skin, as if attempting to burrow under their skin.