by J. D. Barker
“Bagahi laca bachahe. Lamc cahi achabahe,” she repeated. At her feet, Rachael cried out in pain as another contraction ravaged her.
The baby will be here soon, Eleanor thought. After centuries of failed attempts, the baby would be here soon. She couldn’t help but smile.
She placed the box at Rachael’s feet atop a blanket of bougainvillea leaves. They had turned crimson in the rain, saturated with this life-giving blood. Christina approached and knelt before them. Reaching out, her hands drifted over the carved wooden surface, her fingers slipping over each groove, tracing the mazelike pattern until she reached the center at the top. Looking to Eleanor, she nodded, then pulled a small vial of incandescent blue liquid from the pocket of her robe. Removing the cap, she poured the contents into the center of the carving at the top of the box. She watched as the liquid raced through the labyrinth, filling every inch of the box, setting the wood carving ablaze in blue. It began to sizzle and smoke as the acidic liquid began to eat through the wood and lead, breaking the centuries-old seal.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
I WATCHED IN SILENCE as the young girl continued. “My sister carried me back to our house, to here. I do not recall the journey. Forced to carry me, she left our blanket and basket near my father’s grave. Our mother spotted our approach and ran out to help.
“I had become feverish, burning to the touch. I was placed in bed and stripped of my clothing as mother prepared a remedy. My sister recounted what little she had witnessed; I heard her words but understood little, as if her language were foreign to me.
“Visions of other lives led filled my slumber—not one or two but dozens, hundreds. I witnessed birth and death, all through the eyes of others, the voices of others. None of the tongues were my own, yet I could comprehend them all. I knew not what my own sister uttered, yet these unknown languages made perfect sense. More so, they were memories. I felt I had lived these lives, felt this pain; I had been to these places and times filling my thoughts.
“Nearly a fortnight passed before I regained my senses, before I awoke.”
“The witch possessed you.”
She eyed me warily. “I do not know that she is a witch. To this day, I do not know.”
“She is an agent of the devil, that is certain.”
“She is older than you or I could possibly imagine. The devil is but a child in her world.”
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. “She must be cast out, or you are damned.”
She looked at me with both sadness and indignation. When lightning filled the room, it was the old woman in her eyes. I tried to pull away but her grasp was strong, her nails buried deeper into my arms.
A smile played across her rosy lips. “She is to leave me tonight, this has been foretold. More so out of necessity than desire, I’m afraid. I do not wish to see her go, but the arrival of that man outside has forced her hand. She had so much yet to teach me. Our time was so brief.”
I tried to pull free but she was too strong, aided by the witch. Her other hand shot out and gripped mine, a stone-like grip of which I was prisoner. The scent of bougainvillea filled the air.
“I envy you, and the time you will spend with Her. I hope you will love Her, as I have.”
Clickity, click, click.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER NINETY
Day 3 – 11:40 p.m.
THAD PARKED ABOUT TWO blocks from his house, then shut off the lights and engine. Thick rain fell from the dark clouds above, but he knew it wasn’t the same as the rain in Shadow Cove; nothing could possibly be the same.
Thad raised the water bottle to his lips and savored the last few drops as they found his throat, breathing life throughout his tired body. The water surged deep, converging on his cells, somehow restoring the youth taken from him only hours earlier deep within that strange forest.
And cursed earth, his consciousness reminded him.
He would take his family back.
And he would put an end to theirs.
Thad climbed out of the car and gently closed the door. He then shielded his eyes from the storm as he peered toward his house. Even in the darkness he could make out the tangled mass of bougainvillea bushes covering his yard. How they grew so fast, he didn’t know. He heard the voices a moment later, dozens, growing louder as he neared. Thad didn’t care. He only wanted to find his wife and daughter, to know they were okay.
Del stood at a black sedan parked at the edge of the property. He stared ahead, his expression blank. No longer the man Thad had known for so many years, Del was just a shell. He belonged to Her now.
Thad knew Del had summoned her the moment they had spoken in the forest back in Shadow Cove. He recalled writing the words to the spell at a fevered pitch, much like the rest of the book.
It had all been Her.
He knew that now.
She controlled Del, maybe even Christina and all these others.
All of these people were somehow bringing her back to the world. Freeing her from the bonds that had held her for half a millennium.
Unleashing this evil, evil thing.
Rachael and Ashley.
The rainwater of Shadow Cove returned his strength. In many ways he felt stronger than he had in years.
He had no weapon.
No plan.
But somehow he would get his family back.
Thad started toward his house, oblivious to the storm churning around him.
“Christina!” he shouted.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Day 3 – 11:41 p.m.
DEL HEARD THE VOICE through the rising storm and peered through the rain. He spotted Thad just as he pushed through the bougainvillea at the edge of the property, disappearing into the tangled mess of branches.
How is he still alive?
The man had looked like a dried-out corpse only a few hours ago. Christina assured him he would not survive.
Wasn’t that the reason she had sent him to the tree in the first place?
She told him how the forest had been cursed centuries earlier, how the evil place stole life from anything crossing its threshold. The spell was strongest at the tree— its purpose wasn’t only to keep people away, but also to keep Her prisoner.
Thad not only journeyed to the tree, withstanding the powers of this curse long enough to hand them the box—it appeared he somehow summoned the energy to pull himself behind the wheel of his car and drive all the way back home.
Home.
Could that be it?
Could the love of one’s home, his family, be strong enough to give a person such drive?
No, Del thought. That was bullshit.
It was something else.
Kill him.
Christina’s voice pushed through his thoughts, engulfed him. He felt the warmth of her press against his cheek.
Kill him and I will reward you so.
Without hesitation, Del started toward the house, toward the maze of wild bushes. His fists clenched at his sides.
He would enjoy killing Thad again.
This time, he would make it hurt.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Day 3 – 11:42 p.m.
THAD PUSHED HIS WAY into the bougainvillea, feeling the tiny thorns rip at his arms and clothing as he went. The branches at his back reached for him, tendrils scraping at the air, like the fingers of famished prisoners stretching beyond their bars for a taste of meat, while the ones between him and his family weaved tighter together, entwined, twisted into a solid wall of living pain covered in little daggers craving his blood.
The mud at his feet fought him, too. The earth pulled at him with each step, holding him long enough for the branches to twist around his ankles into shackles of sorts. He’d rip himself free, only to be tangled again in an unforgiving embrace.
Thad groaned and pushed forward.
He didn’t have much time.
Th
ey planned to summon Her.
Thad knew how this story ended because he had written it.
The bougainvillea, the rain…all so familiar to him.
He glanced up at the sky and searched for the moon beyond the thick, gray clouds.
The summer solstice would come to an end tonight. In the world of witches, this was the most powerful night of the year, the only night on which something like this could take place. Her soul, Her essence, was in the Rumina Box where it had remained for hundreds of years. They planned to summon Her, release that essence, bring Her back.
They needed a vessel, a host.
In life, She had been strong enough to take on any host with a simple touch; no longer, though. Being locked away for four hundred years had weakened Her; She would need a willing host. One who would accept Her without a fight, preferably an innocent.
They were after the baby. Nothing else made sense.
Even Ashley, at her young age, possessed the will to resist.
Judging by the height of the moon, they had already started. As he had written it, Her family would be gathered around his wife in a clearing up ahead. They would be preparing to open the box. The eldest among them would have started the spell, the others joining in.
If Thad closed his eyes, he could see their actions unfolding—the writer within him weaved the scene together like words filling a blank page.
His wife on the ground, surrounded by strangers. His daughter, watching helplessly from her side. A baby, only moments away.
Thad’s eyes went wide as the idea rushed into his mind. It came to him much like all the others for his books; escaping from a deep, dark place in the back of his subconscious to the forefront long enough for him to grasp it and hold tight before the sliver of thought drifted away, a dream just after awakening.
She needed a host. A willing host.
Thad planned to give her one.
He had written this story. He could rewrite it.
Pushing his way deeper into the bushes, he began to mumble under his breath. He began to mumble the spell he had written not so long ago. “Bagahi laca bachahe, lamc cahl achabahe.”
Above him, the sky cracked open again and the storm clouds unleashed their fury with a thunderous howl.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
I EMERGED FROM THE cabin to the waiting eyes of the Stranger and Tauber. Both poised at the edge of the clearing.
“Now!” I heard someone shout.
I felt the heat at my back, but I did not turn. They had set the cabin ablaze, as I knew they would. Attacking it from all sides with flaming torches, setting fire to the piles of kindling they had amassed while I lingered inside. This had been planned before we left town, the girl’s fate determined long before I went to her. I had been a distraction, nothing more.
Tauber awaited her screams; I could see it in his eyes. He had burned witches before; they always screamed as the flames licked at their unholy bodies.
She did not, though. For I knew she was already dead.
The Stranger eyed me wearily, the wooden box held tight in his wrinkled hands. “You did well, son.”
I ached, as if each muscle had been pulled taut and released, only to be stressed again.
I forced a nod.
I could feel Her inside me. The witch’s breath, one with my own. There was an immense power flowing through my limbs, gripping my soul. I could see with Her eyes and She with mine. “She is winning this battle within me,” I said.
The Stranger nodded and gingerly stroked the wooden box.
“By the Lord’s breath,” I heard one of the men exclaim. “His feet, they are no longer on the ground!”
I looked down and realized this to be true. I was floating above the earth by at least a hand, perhaps more. She was growing within me. I willed it to stop with all the energy I could muster and settled back to the ground. “Hurry,” I forced out. “We haven’t much time.”
The Stranger’s face was long, somber.
Tauber approached, a crucifix clutched in his fingers. “The moon is nearly full.”
“Shackle him,” the Stranger commanded.
The urge to flee nearly overwhelmed me, and I felt my feet once again lift from the earth. The hands of the other men grabbed at me in an attempt to hold me still.
“Shackle him now, or this beast will be unleashed upon the world again and we will all meet certain death!”
The jailer and a man I did not recognize approached with caution, iron bonds at the ready. It was then that I noticed the stake in the ground at the clearing’s edge, the fire at our backs bathing it in light.
I felt an energy surge through my fingertips and I reached for one of the men at my side.
Clickity, click, click.
My touch sent him through the air. He crashed into a large oak with a deadening thud and puddled at its base, the life gone from him.
“His hands!” the jailer cried.
They gripped my arms and pulled them behind my back; I felt iron close around my wrists as they locked the restraints. Then they were at my feet and I was robbed of motion.
“Get him to the stake!” I heard the Stranger cry.
Thunder had begun to stir the night sky. Churning angrily, the threat of rain moments away.
Dragging me across the clearing, we reached the stake a moment later and they fastened my bonds to it with chains. I felt the witch gain strength, Her will pushing mine to a black void. I fought back, but she was so strong.
“Death cannot take me. You know this, Samuel.” The voice that came from my lips was not my own.
The Stranger walked slowly around the stake as the others piled wood at my feet. When he stopped, he set the small wooden box on the ground and opened it, extracting a knife. Gilded edges glistening in the firelight, its handle black, carved with symbols. I felt the witch inside me shrink back, and a breath escaped me.
“I’m so sorry, my son.”
“Hurry,” was all I could say, for She returned with force a moment later and pulled at my bonds.
He raised the knife and slipped it across my neck. It sliced effortlessly and I felt little pain, only a warmth as blood flowed down my chest.
“Evocatio Valcyriarum Contubernalia Gladiaria!”
The Stranger raised the box to my chin. It was full of bougainvillea leaves, their scent sweet. I watched my blood trickle over them.
“Evocatio Spiritualis de Septendecim Valcyriis Mortiferis!”
I could feel the witch struggling within me, Her desire to escape clawing at my insides. She pulled at the restraints, wanting nothing more than to touch one of the nearby men, to flee my body for another. But they all stood just out of reach, as the Stranger had told them to do.
“Hexagramma et Pentagramma, Malos Spiritus Sigillent! Lagena Signatoria!”
The fight began to wane as a sleep drifted over me.
As my blood, Her blood, filled the box, the leaves grew black and crumbled, turning to dust.
I watched the Stranger close the cover moments before the world went black, and peace found me and wrapped me tightly in its arms.
“It is over,” he told them. His voice was at the end of a long tunnel, then gone as all else.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Day 3 – 11:43 p.m.
CHRISTINA’S EYES WERE WIDE as the liquid enveloped the box, each crease and crevasse coming alive in a brilliant blue glow. She could feel Her inside, Her spirit, Her essence, clawing to get out, to be free again.
Christina ran her hand across the top and spoke with a soft confidence, “Bagahi laca bachahe, lamc cahl achabahe.”
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Day 3 – 11:44 p.m.
DEL PUSHED THROUGH THE bushes with a fury.
Thorns lashed out, sending blood dripping down his arms and face. He was oblivious to the pain. Thad wasn’t supposed to be here. He should have di
ed back at the forest. She was done with him now. It was Del’s turn to serve Her.
“Where the fuck are you, Thad?” he shouted. “Nobody invited you to this party, you resilient shit.”
He knew he was close, he could feel him. The rain and this impromptu forest made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Where?
The tangled mass at his left opened then, the branches spreading wide, creating a path. She was guiding him. “Oh, here I come, buddy,” he said above the storm. “Ready or not.”
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone (Author Unknown)
TAUBER WATCHED WITH WONDER as the Stranger closed the lid on the small wooden box.
“An angel’s kiss shall seal it tight,
“The Rumina Box a vessel born of this night.
“No seams to remain,
“No lid to raise,
“Closed for eternity
“Held tight by our faith.”
The box glowed in the moon’s half-light, a thin wisp edging across its lip. One moment there was a lid and clasp, the next it was gone, the box becoming a solid block of wood. Intricate carvings glowing all around. A spell of sorts; it was witchcraft, of that there was no denying.
“She’s in there, isn’t She? Her essence, you’ve somehow trapped it?”
The Stranger looked at him for a moment but did not respond. His old skin was covered in sweat. Whatever was happening, it was draining him.
Tauber watched as he carried the box to a large oak at the edge of the clearing. There was a hollow at its base, one large enough to hold a man. With the box at his side, the Stranger dug with his bare hands. He dug with a ferocity found in younger men, dug until the hole was so deep it was nearly an arm’s length from top to bottom. He then placed the box inside and filled the hole with dirt.
When he was done, he pulled out the knife he had used to kill the boy and slit the palm of his hand, watching as the blood dripped to the fresh earth.
“By scattered leaves,
“By blood of saints,