Supernatural 7 - One Year Gone

by Rebecca Dessertine

“I know. But you have to trust me on this. Everything is going to be fine. I came here for something, but I just think I stepped into something bigger.”

  “So unlike you.” Lisa managed to crack a slight smile. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

  Lisa hugged Ben close, as if reassuring herself that he was still with her and all in one piece. Dean nodded then swung around and beelined toward the crowd, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. He fumbled for his car keys in the pocket of his wet jeans. Miraculously, they were still there. He jumped into the car and sped off.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Dean pulled up in front of the charred remains of Connie’s Curios and Conversations. A policeman and a county coroner were pushing a white body bag into the back of a van.

  Dean jumped out of the car and ran up to them.

  “Hey dude, who is that?” he asked.

  “Poor girl who worked there. Burned up like a crisp. Don’t know why she didn’t even try to get out,” the county coroner replied, slamming the door shut.

  Dean stared after the van as it chugged away. He got back in his car, flipped a bitch, and headed north to Connie Hennrick’s place.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dean was reeling from the death of Sukie. Apart from the incident with the baseball bat, the kid had been harmless enough. I guess it proves you can’t “dabble” in witchcraft. Dangerous shit like that always catches up with you eventually. But Dean wished he’d been able to save Sukie. She hadn’t deserved to die.

  Sukie’s death, combined with his Titanic moment and Teddy’s death, sent Dean into an emotional spiral. He had certainly stumbled onto a case, something big which needed his attention. He still wanted to find a Necronomicon to raise Sam, but it was clear that the brutal killings, the hex bags, and the pirate ghosts, that something was going on and someone was trying to stop him from finding out what it was.

  Dean headed north looking for the Hennrick farm, following signs to Ipswich Road. The road curved through woods. After a mile or two the trees bent over the blacktop, cutting out the gray sky. Dean slowed at a large iron gate with a decorative “H” mounted onto the face. He pulled up twenty meters further on and stopped. Dean took out Nathaniel’s journal and started to read.

  Nathaniel and his boys set out the next day to visit the Widow Faulkner. Nathaniel wanted to pay his respects as she’d lost a daughter. But his curiosity had also been piqued when Hannah mentioned that Abigail Faulkner was in a quilting circle with Reverend Parris’s daughter, the girl who had been bewitched for two weeks. It seemed strange that almost to the day that the bewitching started, Abigail’s body had been found. Did the two events have anything to do with one another?

  Rose Mary wrapped up a loaf of freshly baked bread, and handed it to Nathaniel to put in his pack. It was widely known that since John Faulkner had died five years ago, his widow had struggled to feed her children and keep her small farm. Taking a little something for the family to eat was an appropriate gesture, especially after the loss of a child. At least that was Nathaniel’s reasoning as he, Caleb, and Thomas set out.

  What they reached the widow’s homestead, they were surprised to find, rather than a rundown and poverty-stricken house, a prosperous little residence. The previously empty barn held two horses and two cows, quite a luxury in Salem.

  Nathaniel rapped on the door. Widow Faulkner invited them into, not a cold unforgiving room, but a warm and cozy interior. There was food on the table and what smelled to Nathaniel like venison stew bubbling away on the hearth. That season had been particularly bad for hunting and someone would have had to be a very fortunate to bring home a catch of fresh deer.

  Nathaniel formally introduced the boys to the widow. He passed on Rose Mary’s condolences and added that he and the boys would be happy to do anything around the house if the family needed help. She declined politely, explaining that she was comfortable and had plenty of food for her and her two remaining children.

  “And how are the twins? I seem to recall they have some difficulty walking,” Nathaniel enquired.

  “They are quite fine, thank you. Here they come now,” the widow said, straightening in her chair.

  Two identical boys about Caleb’s age sprinted through the door and into the common room where the Campbells sat. Both looked healthy and ruddy, with not a sign of a limp between them. Whatever affliction had caused their lameness was completely gone.

  Nathaniel wondered how a widow could go so quickly from abject poverty to living comfortably.

  “Widow Faulkner, I’m so very sorry about the loss of your daughter,” Nathaniel said earnestly, watching the woman’s reaction.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Isn’t that what Reverend Parris says?” she replied evenly.

  “Indeed. You are correct. It seems that you want for nothing, however,” Nathaniel said, gesturing at the evidence of comfort around them.

  “Except my daughter. I would do anything to have my daughter back,” the widow said.

  “Of course. Tell me, did she have very many friends? Perhaps she was acquainted with Reverend Parris’s daughter?” Nathaniel asked.

  “No, not at all. On Sundays and Thursday evening prayers, perhaps they spoke. But they were by no means friends.”

  This was not the response Nathaniel had expected. He nodded solemnly, repeated his regrets, and indicated to Thomas and Caleb that it was time to leave.

  Once outside, Nathaniel shook his head. He was confused. He had been sure the bewitched girls would have some link to Abigail’s death.

  As Nathaniel mounted his horse, the widow appeared at her door. She gestured to Nathaniel.

  “Mr. Campbell, there is one more thing,” she said.

  “What’s that?” asked Nathaniel.

  “I loved my daughter, but I didn’t agree with some of the company she kept.”

  “What do you mean?” Nathaniel asked.

  The widow looked around nervously, even though no one was around.

  “Like the Ball family,” she said finally. With that she nodded politely and went back inside.

  Nathaniel looked at his two boys.

  “Feel like a visit to Constance Ball’s house? This may be a link to those unearthed graves you saw on her property.”

  Caleb and Thomas nodded. Constance Ball’s daughters were notorious throughout Salem Village. They never seemed to want to talk to anyone except each other, and they were also all strikingly beautiful.

  The Ball residence was located not far from the Campbell family home, hence Thomas and Caleb occasionally cutting across their land, though they knew they shouldn’t. The house was an impressive brick affair, its building material alone setting it apart from most of the nearby residences, which were clapboard. The one singular thing about the Balls everyone in Salem knew was that ever since anyone could remember, they had lived on that land, and in that house.

  “Do you think Constance Ball has something to do with Abigail’s death?” Thomas asked as he trotted alongside his father.

  “I guess we will find out,” Nathaniel said. “Do you know what to do once we are invited inside?”

  The boys nodded. This was exactly the kind of situation Nathaniel had trained them for. They had sat up for long nights in freezing weather staking out potential vampire nests. They had seen their share of demon possessions. But Nathaniel also taught them how to be polite enough to be invited into a home, which was sometimes half the battle.

  By the time the Campbells reached Constance Ball’s house, a great wind had whipped up. Snow blew across the open fields, blinding them as they approached. Nathaniel tied up his horse and they ascended the steps. The door knocker was as big as Caleb’s head. Thomas pried it from the door and let it fall against its brass base. Even over the wind the CLACK! could be heard echoing through the building.

  A minute or two later a large man in black pants and jacket, the kind that buttoned all the way to the collar, opened the door, revealing a grand entranceway and a sweeping sta
ircase. Nathaniel introduced himself and asked to be let in. The man led Nathaniel and the boys into a large living area to the right of the grand hallway.

  Thomas and Caleb had never been in such a big house. Once inside, they found places next to the large roaring fire as they waited for the lady of the house. Nathaniel immediately recognized a couple of curious artifacts around the room, most notably a small worn-looking book perched on a podium. He peered at the first page—it was written entirely in Latin.

  He heard the boys gasp as a long index finger suddenly closed the book in his face. Nathaniel looked up and found himself face to face with Constance Ball. She was a handsome woman, always well-coiffed, almost in a Renaissance style, but specifically overdressed for a colonial woman.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Madam Ball, I’m Nathaniel Campbell and these are my sons, Caleb and Thomas.” The boys bowed politely.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “Your property abuts mine. Is there a problem? Did one of my girls trespass?”

  “No, not at all. Though perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I spoke with your daughters?”

  “What for?” Constance asked.

  “I’d like to know if they were acquainted with Abigail Faulkner,” Nathaniel said.

  Constance affected a frown of deep thought.

  “I’m quite sure I don’t know the name,” she said after a moment. She sat down in a straight-backed chair and glared coldly at Nathaniel.

  “That’s strange,” Nathaniel said. “For her mother, Widow Faulkner, said that her daughter knew you and your girls.”

  “I’m not sure what you are aiming at,” Constance said.

  “You do know that little Abigail Faulkner is dead?” Nathaniel asked.

  Constance paused before replying.

  “No, I’m not sure that I did. Exactly what are you getting at, Mr. Campbell?”

  During the exchange, Thomas and Caleb had crept behind Constance’s chair. Caleb pulled a small bag from his pocket and tried to place it under her seat. Constance whirled around instantly, startling the boy.

  “What are you doing down there, you little monkey?” she demanded.

  Nathaniel stepped in.

  “I’m sorry, he’s a strange boy. Caleb, come here.” Caleb did as he was told and took his place beside his father.

  “Mr. Campbell, I’ve had just enough of your tomfoolery. You can leave now,” Constance declared, rising from her chair.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Nathaniel replied.

  “Rathburn,” she called. “Show these gentlemen out.” The large man materialized in the doorway as though he had been listening behind it all along. He marched across the room and grasped Nathanial by the arm.

  Nathaniel pulled his arm away from Rathburn’s vice-like grip.

  “Per is vox malum ero venalicium. Per is oil malum unus ero ostendo.” Nathaniel started to chant the Latin marking spell.

  Constance smiled serenely.

  “Mr. Campbell, if you wanted to know if I was a witch, why didn’t you just ask?” With a casual flick of her wrist, Caleb went flying against the bookcases.

  “Daadd!” Caleb’s small body twisted up against the wall.

  Nathaniel unsheathed the knife hidden beneath his coat.

  “You think you can hurt me with that pig sticker? Mr. Campbell, you don’t know me or what I’m capable of.” She whirled her arm around and the room became filled with a gale as powerful as the one outside.

  Constance turned to face Nathaniel. Another small hand gesture sent him flying across the room.

  Thomas tried to tackle Constance, but she flipped him end over end into the corner.

  “I’ll not be attacked in my own home, you silly fool.” Constance waved her hand again. The fire leaped out of the fireplace and began to swirl in a tornado up toward the ceiling. “Eugae satan imus focales olle obligamus tu adque subsidium me clades mi trespassers,” Constance shouted.

  The fire burned closer and closer to Thomas, who lay in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

  “Thomas! Wake up!” Caleb shouted.

  “Oh, isn’t that curious, your eldest seems to have lost his senses. Just like his father,” Constance sneered. She stood regal as the fiery tornado swirled around her. “Tell me, Nathaniel, why would you bring your children here? Why put them in danger? Oh, I know why—you’re a hunter. All hunters are the same. Blow-hards who think they have the right to judge everyone but themselves. Let me tell you something,” she leaned her face close to Nathaniel’s, her breath was icy cold on his face, “we came here, same as you, for a new life. The New World is for everyone, not just those with their nose in a Bible.”

  “You killed Abigail Faulkner, an innocent young girl,” Nathaniel spat back at her.

  Constance shrugged and turned away from him.

  “So what if I did. Sometimes the weak have to be punished for insubordination.”

  “Salem won’t stand for this,” Nathaniel yelled at her back.

  “Please, Salem is doing a good job of extinguishing all rational thought. Don’t you think, girls?” Constance turned to address five young women standing in the doorway. The flames reflected in their very dark eyes.

  Constance turned back around and stared coldly at Nathaniel.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Campbell: I could kill you, it would be as easy as this.” She clicked her fingers. “If you cross me again, your children will be orphans. I’ll make sure of that.” She raised her hand up, hovering near Nathaniel face. “And next time, I will not be so merciful.”

  Three large deep scratches appeared across Nathaniel’s cheek, sending blood dribbling down his chin onto his coat.

  “I can control many things,” she hissed. “Nowhere in Salem is safe. Girls, show the Campbells the way out.”

  The five girls gathered in a circle, raised up their hands, and with a flick of their wrists Nathaniel, Thomas, and Caleb blew through the glass-paned glass windows and landed on the snow outside. The gale wrapped around them. Thomas was still unconscious as Nathaniel lifted him onto the horse and they limped away.

  Rose Mary opened the door as Nathaniel, Thomas, and Caleb approached the house.

  “What on earth?” she cried. “Hannah, go get the herbs and oils.”

  Nathaniel gently laid Thomas on the table. Caleb tugged off his brother’s boots, and Hannah pressed a warm compress of medicinal plants against Thomas’s temple.

  “What happened?” Rose Mary asked, leaning over her son.

  “Constance Ball attacked us,” Caleb replied.

  “She’s a full-fledged witch, she and her daughters,” Nathaniel explained. “As Salem sends innocent old women to the gallows, the real witches are left alone.”

  “But why did they attack you?” Rose Mary asked.

  “Because I asked her about Abigail Faulkner. Constance killed her. I just don’t know why.” Nathaniel sat down in a chair near the fire and kicked off his boots.

  Thomas stirred and opened his eyes then sat up with a moan holding his head.

  “I’m sure that woman is up to no good,” Nathaniel continued. “She has a Latin spell book. I think it’s a Necronomicon.”

  “What would she be doing with that?” Hannah asked.

  “I’ve only seen one once. It’s filled with all sorts of ways for binding demons.” Nathaniel indicated his cheek. “The book has many powerful spells. All of them dangerous and all of them evil.”

  “Like what?” Caleb said.

  “Unless I can read it, I have no way of knowing,” Nathaniel said. “But take great care in everything you do now, in town or wherever someone can see you. Constance is up to something and the atmosphere in town is like a dam about to break.”

  “What about the graves?” Caleb asked. “What do those have to do with it?”

  Nathaniel shook his head with frustration. He wasn’t sure what Constance’s plan was, but he knew that it must tie in with Abigail Faulkner’s death, and the une
arthed graves.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Dean closed Nathaniel’s journal. He was slowly putting it together. Connie and Constance, the old house off Ipswich Road. Could they be one and the same? Could she still be alive, hundreds of years later?

  From the back of the car, he pulled out one of the machetes hidden in the spare tire wheel well and cut down some of the low hanging branches from nearby trees. He piled those on top of the car for cover and then walked back toward the heavily padlocked gate.

  In the distance behind the gate a large brick house loomed tall, surrounded by empty expanses of field on both sides. A high stone wall extended all around the property.

  “Guess I’m not going to be invited in,” Dean said to himself as he hoisted himself onto the flat part of the wall.

  Dean felt something give under his hand. He looked down. Stuck into a crevice in the rock and mortar was a weathered-looking hex bag wrapped in red string—a protection gris-gris bag. He was in the right place.

  Dean jumped down the other side of the wall, feeling the soft earth sink under his shoes. It was going to be difficult to sneak up on the house with all that open space around it. Dean surveyed the area and decided to enter from the back. He snuck around the perimeter of the fields, keeping hidden in the tree line.

  Once he was behind the house, he made his way up the slope and hid behind a barn. From what he could see, five young girls were working on the farm. One was pulling weeds in a what looked like a kitchen garden, another was leading a cow across a pasture. It looked idyllic, if not really old-fashioned.

  Dean heard the titter of voices coming from within the barn and peeked in through the wavy glass panes to see two women grooming a horse.

  This is either going to turn into the hottest Puritan porn I’ve ever seen, or these bitches are witches, he thought.

  He turned his head and—

  WHACKKK!

  He was twisted round and thrown up against the solid wooden surface of the barn. A heavy weight pressed up against his chest, but the brawny field hand in front of him wasn’t even touching him.

  “Hey, sorry, man. Lost my way? Do you give pony rides here?” Dean said.