by Martin Kee
Charlie shrank under his gaze. “I… I’m sorry sir.”
As if a switch was flipped, The Reverend Summers smiled at the boy, slapping him again on the shoulder. He continued his inspection in silence as Charlie watched.
They traveled up the stairwell and young Charles Wilcox swore he had never seen anything quite like it. A pool of blood was congealed at the base of the stairs, black in the dim light. A deep gash ran ragged from the living room up to the attic where the daughter had lived.
Everyone knew about them of course, the way they do of the town drunk or the local haunted house. It was something that was never spoken of aloud or on purpose. Ghost stories were told about the mother who saw demons and the girl who could read people’s souls like a book. When they walked down the street people diverted their gaze for fear of catching an evil eye and being turned to stone. The mother could wish people dead and have it become so. Or so the stories went, anyway.
Charlie believed maybe half of them. He didn’t know the woman or her daughter, but what was rumor was as good as fact when invoked by the fearful and superstitious.
Being here, seeing the house in person was anticlimactic to say the least. He had been expecting rooms full of bones and cauldrons, chicken carcasses dangling from the ceiling and decorated with strange herbs; skulls of children with glass eyes. He wanted to see a magic wand on the bookshelf and a closet full of flying broomsticks.
He had expected, well… witches.
The young girl’s room, even in shambles just seemed too ordinary. The most remarkable thing about it was the level of poverty it presented. All the clothes were the sort of thing any child would wear, no black pointy hats or robes. Charlie had wondered if they even had the right house.
Then the girl had screamed when he grabbed her and a shadow seemed to engulf his face. It might have been a crow, but it had talked—screamed even. That was certainly not normal… but witchcraft? Was that what witchcraft was? Did it feel so real? He shuddered and crossed himself, wondering just how close he had come to losing his soul right then.
“So, Charlie,” Lyle finally broke the silence. He was standing at the massive hole in one side of Skyla’s wall. “Tell me about this cousin of yours.”
“Her name is Sarah,” he said, taken aback.
“Pretty?”
“Sir?”
Lyle looked directly at him and Charlie felt his skin shrivel at the gaze. “Is. She. Pretty? Charles.”
“Y-Yes. She is, sir. We are almost the same age—she’s a few years older.” Charlie paused. “May I ask why?”
“Her family suffering from the bad economy as well?”
“They get by, sir,” said Charlie. “Not as bad off as these folks, but, well, we could all be doing better these days.”
“Do you think she would be interested in helping me out?” said Lyle.
“Sir?”
“I’m going to need someone to show me around, run errands. That sort of thing. I need someone who knows the city and the surrounding area. I’ll pay her for her time, of course.”
Charlie’s eyes grew excited. The Reverend Summers nearly reeked of money. “Yes sir. I believe she would love to help. And yes, she is very pretty, sir.”
“And she is pretty.” He echoed, more a statement of fact than a question. “There’s always work for pretty girls.” A wiry grin crept along his thin lips.
He plucked something black from the mess of glass and debris and walked over to Charlie, holding it up in front of his face. It was a large black feather like something from a hawk. Lyle twisted it in his hand and Charlie saw the pale lamp light dance blue-black off of it.
“Do you know what that is, Charlie?”
“It’s a feather, sir.”
Lyle sighed, “Do you know what kind of feather that is, Charlie?”
Charles looked fearfully between Lyle and the feather he was holding. “A... crow feather?”
“Close,” said Lyle. “It is a raven feather. Do you know anything about ravens, Charlie?”
“They are like crows aren’t they?”
“Well, now, that’s like saying that whales are just big dolphins.”
“Sir?”
“All ravens are crows, but not all crows are ravens,” Lyle sang. He continued to twist the feather in his fingers. “While your average crow is as common as vermin, ravens are thought to be magical servants of the underworld by heathens and their ilk. They are crafty and smart and far more clever than you. That raven was a witch’s familiar.”
“I thought witches had cats, black ones.”
“They cavort with all messengers of the Devil, my boy.”
“So this was the right house then?”
“Yes, Charlie. I do believe it was.”
“Where do you think they went?”
“I don’t know,” said Lyle, sighing. “But they won’t be coming back here. Fetch the kerosene from the trunk, will you?” He handed the tool kit back to the soldier, who returned it to the car.
*
Skyla watched from the shadows as the two men talked. With his helmet off the young one looked much less frightening than he had in her room. Her skin crawled at the memory of him grabbing her with those black armored hands. They spoke for a while as she watched from the fence, unable to make out what was being said. She heard the words “witch” “raven” and some other connecting syllables, but nothing she could make any sense of.
Finally, the man in white reached down and picked up a feather that belonged to Orrin. Skyla’s forehead went cold as he twisted it between two gloved fingers. He held the feather out and showed it to the boy, his shadow pulsing in random, manic shapes as he spoke. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen.
After they spoke the boy left with a bag and the man in white stood for a long time, smoking a cigarette. Then he too disappeared into the black abyss that was once her room.
A few moments later, Skyla wept silently as black smoke billowed from the house. It was hard for her to tell if it was the smoke she was seeing or the shadow of the man in white. As the flames roared, Orrin fluttered to her shoulder and croaked into her ear: “Pree-cher.”
Chapter 3
While Charlie rushed off to tell his cousin Sarah about the job opportunity, Lyle Summers returned to his hotel room, storming past the smiling receptionist as if she were invisible. He felt it before he even arrived at the witch’s house, his opportunity slipping away. It was amazing the girl was even there at all.
Too slow. Too slow and Charlie let her escape, he fumed.
He felt the disappointment as a physical thing—a pressure from within. The sin collected on his cheeks and arms, crawling through his clothing, digging into his flesh. A million ticks, finding purchase with every action. The simple act of moving filled Lyle with disgust.
Perspiration pasted white linen clothes to his skin in damp patches as he rushed gasping into the suite, slamming the door. The tie around his neck felt like a noose. He loosened it, rolling his eyes with relief. Trembling hands tore at the suit jacket, flaying it open, flinging it onto the floor in a pile. The gloves were the last to go, slick with sweat as he removed them like a second skin.
He thought back to the witness, how she was so trusting at first, those large eyes looking up at him, so cooperative. He promised her it would be over—he hadn’t lied about that at least. After she told them what they needed to know, he had said his prayer, dashing baptismal water on her forehead as the blade made its final pass, sending her to heaven.
That was our window, our one chance to find the girl. To find the mother.
She served her purpose, the witness, now off to receive her great reward. Oh, she screamed and cried at first. They all did once they understood the gravity of their situation, once they saw the tools. But now she was with Jesus.
A slaughtered lamb, dead and for what? He ended the thought by hitting his fist against the wall. It’s all a waste. All of it for nothing!
Standing there, naked and s
carred, he felt reborn, renewed like a babe. But still his skin crawled with disease. Tiny fingers skittered through the fine hairs on his arms leaving behind slimy trails of black ink. He slapped at them with open palms, leaving welts, but they only burrowed deeper. He slapped his chest as they tunneled into his heart. He clawed at them and the relief was… promising.
The witness had been consecrated. They all had to be. There was no other way to satisfy the demons, satisfy the voices. It was through their purity of heart that they should suffer the way Christ suffered. The knowledge that it was for a greater good, to save the world, was what made the suffering divine, transcendent.
And so she had satisfied the beast within him, inviting Lyle to see the witches’ home, her screams a harmony to his jubilation.
Fingernails gouged at his flesh. So too would he suffer, now that he had failed. Now the punishment would begin.
“Be gone,” he prayed in his mind as nails sanctified and tore. Deep gouges leaked dancing red lines of blood down his chest and into the carpet, pooling around his bare knees—the wounds burned as he rocked. He ripped again and again, the pain in his flesh subjugating the pain in his fevered mind.
“I’ll not feed you again.”
Fine threads of curled skin tumbled to the carpet like dead maggots, to join the congealing fluid at his knees. He looked up at the paintings before him, rebuking the sin, purging it—such truth and beauty in those paintings of oil and canvas. Mother Mary looked down upon him with her eyes of mercy. Sweat from the heat of the lamps stung at his self-flagellation, the pain sweet and freeing.
He felt himself back on the stage, under the lights, back where he had been whole. He felt his healing hands on the congregation, his palms on their foreheads as he had yelled, “Be gone. Be gone! Here is your meat. Take my flesh. Take my blood! Be gone! I have given you your lamb!”
And was that a knock at his door? How long had they been there?
He stared at nothing with red-rimmed eyes. Memories slid back into his mind at a crawl. He looked down at his stained hands, scarlet paws, his chest screaming red, burning pain. It was better now, quieter now. Lyle breathed deeply, eyes closed for a moment.
The blood washes away all sin.
Another knock at the door shocked him into reality. A muted, wavering voice came from the hallway.
“Reverend?”
He cleared his throat. His throat was so dry. Had he been screaming again?
“Reverend, your luggage has arrived. You… um… is everything alright?”
“Yes,” he said, struggling with the words. “Yes, everything is just fine.”
His gaze fell on the pile of white clothes, so foreign now.
“One of the guests said they heard screaming. I-I wanted to make sure you were alright. I’ve brought your things from the station… are you sure you’re okay?”
Lyle blinked again. Sweat was beginning to work its way into the trenches on his bare chest. He welcomed the burning, closing his eyes and taking another long, ragged breath. A stream of saliva connected the corner of his lip to the white bloodstained hairs on his bosom. He wiped it away, surprised.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said to the closed door.
He pulled open the closet and grabbed a gray bathrobe, shuddering as he put it on.
“I was rehearsing a sermon,” he said through the door. “It’s important that you rehearse how you perform, I always say.”
He opened the door, smiling to see a nervous looking bellhop in a red and black uniform with a matching pillbox hat. There was a trickle of sweat on the bellhop’s brow.
Lyle watched the bead as it crawled down the boy’s forehead and fought back the urge to strike him. A wardrobe chest, as tall as The Reverend, stood behind the young man.
“Bring it inside.” He opened the door wider, his voice pleasant. “Please give my apologies to the other guests. I sometimes get a little passionate when I rehearse. I guess I must have overdone things a tad.”
The bellhop rolled the trunk into the room, taking special notice of the paintings, the lanterns illuminating every corner… the red stains.
“Is that—”
“Red wine. I apologize for my clumsy hands.”
“I can have that cleaned—”
“No need.”
Lyle stood patiently, hands in his robe pockets while the bellhop continued to roll the chest through the suite. He stopped at the pile of clothing on the floor.
“Would you like me to take these?” he asked.
“That would be splendid.” Now get the hell out.
“I can have them dry cleaned for you overnight—”
“No,” shouted Lyle. The boy winced as if struck. Idiot.
Lyle paused for an awkward moment before continuing. “Go ahead and take them but I don’t need them back.”
The boy gathered the pile of clothing as Lyle winced.
“What should I do with them?” said the bellhop, clutching the mass of clothing like some beggar; Lyle felt bile rise in his throat.
“I would appreciate it if you could burn those, son.”
“B-burn—”
Lyle’s eyes ground the boy into fine powder. He spoke in succinct, buzzing syllables. “I said, I would appreciate it, if you... Would. Burn. Them. Do I have to say it twice?”
“Yes sir… I mean… no sir... I’ll burn them,” said the bellhop. He found himself staring at a dark stain forming on the center of the bathrobe. “Sir, are you—”
“I’m fine,” snapped Lyle. “Now if you will please leave me. I have a very long day tomorrow.”
The bellhop left the room, eyes tracing the floor and walls as he went. Lyle fought back the urge to send him out with a kick, instead slamming the door behind the boy. Nosy little prick.
He turned and faced his empty room again, embracing the solitude. The wardrobe trunk stood staring at him like an old friend. He threw off the robe—let them burn that too—and stepped up to the trunk. He unlatched it and swung the lid open sideways. The inside was thick with tightly packed white clothing.
“Cleaned, pressed and blessed,” he said with a chuckle.
He walked around the chest to the work desk and sat, feeling the cool wood against his buttocks. He began to type:
[I will need some documentation]
The reply:
[What do you need?]
[Forms mostly, and photos] [I’ll send a courier with a detailed list]
[Anything else?]
[I believe I will be needing those bank notes now] [Also a map]
[You lost the girl]
No, you did with your incompetent military. [Yes] [An unfortunate detail that will be rectified]
The pause was longer his time.
[You’ll have your map by morning]
[And schedule a meeting with the city constable’s office if you could] [I’ll send an assistant by to arrange the details] [I will require full access to their records]
[That would require security measures]
[Then promote me]
[You are forgetting who gives the orders, Reverend]
[Am I?]
The pause stretched on for a full minute while Lyle rummaged through his desk for a cigarette.
[Congratulations, Reverend Inspector] [You should be receiving your paperwork by morning]
Lyle leaned back in the chair and smiled, the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
Chapter 4
Skyla hadn’t given herself time to mourn all night. There would be time for that later. She tried to keep to the shadows, ducking into alleyways and behind piles of trash. Above her was Orrin, always following from a distance, soaring from streetlamp to rooftop, as large as a hawk, always watching for danger. A pair of dim amber lights appeared in the distance, accompanied by a rhythmic sputtering and hissing. He cawed a deep throaty warning and Skyla ducked behind a planter—trying to get out of sight as the headlamps of a steam-buggy approached.
Not him, she thought. Not the man i
n white.
The car passed. She waited for the all-clear from Orrin and then left the protection of the planter, continuing down the empty street. She was hungry, but then there wasn’t time for that either. She passed the closed shops, staring longingly into the gas-lit windows, her stomach growling at the pastries and sweet meats hanging from hooks. She wiped dirt and tears from her face in the reflection.
Orrin let out a series of guttural clucks.
“I’m coming.”
They reached an alleyway and Orrin changed course, flying straight into the darkness. Skyla stopped at the entrance to the alley.
“Are you sure?”
In response, Orrin swooped from the rooftops, buzzing her. She ducked as he seemed to disappear into the ground. Skyla followed and found herself at an open manhole.
So this is how it’s going to be from now on, she thought.
The sewers of Bollingbrook were ancient and—aside from her mother—were the only other thing that scared small children in the city. Orrin squawked from the darkness far below. She paused, looking down a series of slimy metal rungs before lowering herself into the shadows. A stone corridor stretched out before her.
Orrin skipped and flew ahead, down the dimly lit tunnel. His croaking echoed in the void, the shadows moving in dim methane light, but thankfully not living.
She wondered how he knew about this manhole, if it was somehow already arranged ahead of time.
But that seemed silly.
Orrin was her only real friend now, though one of flesh and feathers and claws. In the few days she had known him, he had been kinder to her than any human had ever been. Orrin never pulled her hair, or threatened to cut her with a shard of mirror from the girl’s bathroom. Orrin would never betray her, she hoped. Could ravens betray?
As the reality of leaving Bollingbrook settled in her mind, Skyla realized just how few regrets she had. She would miss little about this city. Not a friendly face in Bollingbrook, she used to say.
All except for Missy, she thought with a sudden pang in her chest. That friendship had ended in disaster. There were little hands clutching Skyla’s arms, a pair of pliers grinning at her—Victoria’s smile with her tiny lizard teeth…