by Mark Tufo
WHOOSH!< and causing all those around to jump back.
Calvin stood over the grave, squeezing the bottle as hard as he could when the wind suddenly picked up again, increasing in intensity to the point that the stream of lighter fluid began blowing across the slab of stone and across the grave, spreading the flames.
Suddenly Eckerson was lifted off his feet and thrown through the air, his screams fading into the night. Justin watched in horror as his best friend disappeared from sight. His hand went to his holster at the exact moment that he too was jerked from the ground and thrown deep into the night.
*****
Amber felt the hold that the spirit had on her begin to fade. She knew that whatever it was that had taken over her, it was feeding off of her, using her for energy. Her tonic wasn’t as powerful as she had hoped, and her strange gift of ‘sight’ was most likely what attracted it to her, and would also be her biggest weapon to fight it.
It had attacked her when she didn’t expect it, laid in wait and ambushed her. She didn’t have a chance to put up a shield against it. Then it used her to do things against her will. She knew it.
As her mind cleared, she remembered doing things that she didn’t want to do. She remembered going to Colonel Murphey’s house. She remembered threatening him. She remembered telling him to drop his interest in the case. And now, as her strength returned and its hold on her lessened, she knew why. He was its closest descendant—a nephew of sorts. It was somehow connected to him…had given up its secrets to another.
She could even see the person’s face; see him handing over boxes of books, personal belongings. He was a traitor. And now he was hell-bent on stopping the revenge. For his own fame, no less. He had to be stopped.
Amber’s stomach turned as the tonic did its work, the tea flowing through her veins. She had brewed up a homemade spiritual chemotherapy of her own, and she was determined to exercise this demon if it killed her.
Cold sweat rolled off her body as she crawled across the floor back toward her bedroom. She may have the fight of her life on her hands, but she didn’t have to do it on her kitchen floor.
As she passed the bathroom door, she paused and stared at the toilet. Her stomach churned again and she made a dash toward it, hugging the porcelain. Her stomach heaved as a black liquid spewed from her mouth and sprayed the inside of the toilet.
She gagged and threw up again, spraying the nasty, putrid liquid once more. She could barely breathe from the smell of death that emanated from what she had just expelled from her body and was spitting to remove as much residue from her mouth as she could. Her entire fragile body shook with exhaustion as her midsection tightened to spew forth another round, but something wouldn’t give. In her mind’s eye, she could almost see the ghostly hands inside her, clinging to her innards to stay with her, to keep feeding from her…clutching for its own life as her body attempted to remove it.
Her head wobbled from weakness and her breathing slowed as she fought to stay awake. She knew that if she didn’t remove this last vestige of death from her, she’d never awaken if she allowed herself to succumb to sleep. One strong slap to the face widened her eyes, and a finger down her throat brought up one last spray of black death. Amber’s ‘sight’ could see the parasitic death losing its grip on her and being expelled into the bowl. Her body tried to collapse as the last bits of it sloshed into the throne, but she forced herself to reach up and pull the lever down.
She lay against the tub, heaving to inhale fresh air as the blackness went down the pipes. Slowly her energy returned as did her clarity of thought. She fought to get to her feet and stared into the mirror. Black bits of…something clung to her chin and her nightshirt. She quickly pulled it off and wiped at her face. Tossing the shirt into the trash, she stepped into the ancient claw footed tub and stoppered it. She lay down in the tub and using her big toe, she turned the handles to let the water begin to flow.
As the tub filled with water, Amber sighed with relief and muttered, “Get em, guys!”
*****
Quinn watched the two deputies be thrown into the darkness as easily as ragdolls, then screamed and dove for the porch, trying her best to get under the floor boards of the dilapidated structure. Ginger wasted no time in jumping over the porch and trying the door of the church only to be pulled back and thrown into the darkness as well, her screaming figure disappearing into the darkness.
Jon watched as the gorgeous redhead took flight and he screamed, stretching his arms up to try to catch her, but she was too high and too far to the side for him to stand a chance at rescue. He balled his fists and screamed into the darkness. “Show yourself you son of a bitch!” He spun in slow circles staring into the darkness lit orange by the fire. “What kind of man picks on defenseless women? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you bastard? You call yourself a lawman? You’re no lawman. You’re no better than the sons of bitches that killed you!” Jon screamed into the night, spittle running down his chin.
“Jon,” Ginger called weakly from behind him.
He turned and pulled his light from his duty belt, shining it into the darkness. He saw Ginger stumbling from the dark, cradling her arm. “I think I dislocated it when I landed.”
“Oh no.” He rushed to her side. “Let me take a look.”
She winced when he touched it, but it definitely appeared to be dislocated at the shoulder. “I fell in some pretty tall grass, but I landed all kinds of wrong.” Tears ran down her cheek ash she ground her teeth.
Denise stumbled up to her. “Let me take a look. I was an EMT long before I was a cop.” She checked Ginger out and explained that if she didn’t allow her to put the ball back into the socket, the socket would fill up with blood and be extremely painful when they put it back into place.
Ginger groaned, but tried to prepare herself mentally for the pain. “Jon, hold her like this.” Denise showed him where to put his hands. “Hold her tight, because she’s going to try to move.” Denise turned to Ginger. Okay. I’m going to do this on three. Try not to fight me, cuz it will only make it worse, okay?”
Ginger nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Denise took her arm firmly. “Ready? One…” Then she twisted the arm and pushed up, setting it back into place.
Ginger screamed and almost collapsed into Jon’s arms. When she caught her breath again, she looked up at Denise who had a satisfied look on her face. “What happened to two and three?”
She shrugged. “I failed math. Sorry, sugar.”
“She didn’t want you to try to fight her,” Jon whispered in her ear.
Justin crawled out of the brush looking like he had been attacked by alley cats. “Fuck me,” he mumbled. “Son of a bitch threw me into a bois d’ arc tree.”
“Oh, my God,” Denise said. “Jon, get the kit out of the trunk of my cruiser. We have to get a septic on these cuts.”
“You going to be okay?” he asked Ginger.
“Go. I’ll live.”
He took off for the car, scanning with his flashlight for Eckerson along the way.
Quinn crawled out from under the porch, “Is it over?”
Calvin sat down on the edge of the grave. “I think so.” He looked around at the others who suffered far worse. “The wind is gone and that red eyed demon isn’t here anymore.”
“Has anybody seen Ben?” Justin asked. “He was the first one tossed around.”
“I’m up here,” Ben moaned.
Heads turned in unison and they saw him wave from the roof of the church. “Luckily, the roof held. And I can see Eckerson from here.” He flashed his Maglite to the side and Calvin stood up and headed in the direction that Ben was pointing. Ben directed him until Calvin stumbled upon him, literally.
With a few pats to the face, he was able to rouse the deputy. Other than a sprained ankle, Jeff appeared unharmed. Calvin helped him hobble back to the gravesite and they used a cold compress on his swollen ankle. “Aren’t we a fine bunch,” Jeff mumbled.
“How do
you figure?” Jon asked.
“Got our asses kicked by a dust devil.”
Justin shook his head. “I dunno, brother. That ‘dust devil’ killed a lot of people.”
“Didn’t kill us though,” Jon said.
“Oh, hell no,” Justin said. “We’re too mean to die. We’ll just nasty away,” he joked, chuckling, then regretting it as he held his ribs.
*****
Jana Mattox sat at her computer playing with the program that Dr. Whynot had given her. She was really enjoying the Latin thing. She played with different Latin expressions that she had heard over the years, different Latin websites then finally she pulled out the assortment of books that Mary O’ Dell had owned.
She scanned through a few of the books and typed a few phrases into the translator, only to come back with everyday phrases or, as was more often the case than not, ‘word not found’, or ‘no match available’.
Still, she continued to play with it.
Eventually Jana broke out a notepad and a pen and pulled out the oldest and most worn of the leather-bound books from the collection. Starting at the beginning, Jana began deciphering the book. At first, there was copyright information, which surprised her. For a book from the late 16th Century, she really didn’t expect to find something like that. It wasn’t truly a copyright, but more of a warning that these works were the property of Agatha Sontheil, not to be copied or shared without the permission of Agatha lest a hex be put upon you and your house for all eternity.
“Hmm,” she chuckled, “a wee bit paranoid, if not extreme.”
Jana sat back and considered the ramifications. Pretty steep threat for something as simple as sharing information. She chuckled to herself again nervously and continued to translate. As she worked, she began to realize that this wasn’t your ordinary book. Nor was it your ordinary recipe book. Nor was it a religious reference.
As Jana dug further into the book, she got a very sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and her blood ran cold. She got up from the computer and checked the clock.
“Maybe it’s not too late to call,” she clucked nervously as she picked up the phone.
She pulled the business card from her corkboard and slipped on her reading glasses from around her neck. She dialed the number and got an answering machine. Jana hung up without leaving a message and instead flipped the card over. She eyed the cell phone number and began dialing it.
She adjusted the phone between her ear and shoulder and listened while it rang. The call went to voicemail and she considered hanging up on it as well, but decided to leave a message instead. After the brief greeting, when she heard the beeping tone, she cleared her throat. “Um, Constable Gregory, this is Jana Mattox. I’m afraid I may have some bad news. I need you to call me as soon as you possibly can please. It’s very important.” She placed the phone receiver back on its cradle and sat down, wringing her hands.
She turned her eyes to the sky and recited a quick prayer.
*****
Jerrod Miller walked into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. This entire mess was leaving his nerves shot and he was completely on edge. He scrubbed at his eyes and patted his face dry with the soft cotton towel. Jerrod Miller leaned against the counter and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
“What’s become of me?” he asked his reflection. “My God, look at you. You look ten years older.” He turned his face slightly to look at the crow’s feet along his eyes, the dark circles, and heavy bags under each much more pronounced.
Shaking his head in disgust he pushed off from the counter and went to step away, but his reflection stayed put, still admiring itself. Jerrod froze and turned back to the mirror. He stared in horror as his reflection continued to turn side to side, mouthing words he couldn’t hear. He stepped back slowly, staring at what couldn’t possibly be happening.
His reflection got angry and punched the mirror, splintering the glass from the other side, sending spider web cracks in all directions. It threw a temper tantrum and began trashing the bathroom from the other side of the glass. Jerrod turned and looked, but everything remained in its place. He quickly looked back at the reflection as his other self, with bleeding hands, continued to rip cabinets from the wall and throw them, hurl rolls of toilet paper and fling stacks of clean towels across the broad expanse of the bathroom.
Jerrod stepped closer, hoping to hear some of what his reflection was saying, but no sound came through the broken glass. Slowly he reached out to touch the spider webbed mirror, but it was smooth to the touch. He pulled his hand back smartly as if the glass were hot, his eyes riveted to his other ‘self’ in its tortured rage.
Suddenly the other Jerrod threw itself to the floor and began pounding his bloody fists against the tiles. He punched until he was spent then lay there weeping. Jerrod Miller crept to the counter and peered over the edge of its reflection to see himself lying in the floor crying.
What could have possibly caused such a breakdown?
He watched with horrific curiosity as the reflection slowly pulled himself to his feet and stood at the counter once again. Slowly it lifted its puffy red eyes to the broken mirror and opened its mouth and screamed into it. Quicker than Jerrod thought possible, it reached out and snatched a shard of the broken mirror and dragged it across its neck, leaving a jagged, bloody, torn slice. Blood sprayed from the side of the neck and painted the wall of the bathroom as the reflection of himself finally smiled and collapsed to the floor.
Jerrod Miller choked back a scream and backed into the wall of the bathroom, his hand going to his mouth to cover the sounds that surely were about to spring forth. He turned and bolted from the florescent lit room as quickly as he could, his feet slipping on the tile floor. He ran out the hallway exit and into Bridger.
“Slow your roll, man,” Bobby said.
Miller gave him a shaky look and simply shook his head, glancing back over his shoulder toward the bathroom. Bobby looked back toward where Miller glanced, “Is that the pisser?”
“Uh…yeah. But I wouldn’t go in there,” Jerrod croaked.
“Yeah?” Bobby smiled at him. “Next time light a match.” He pushed past the older man.
Jerrod knelt in the hall on shaky knees as he waited for Bridger’s reaction to the horrific scene in the mirror. He heard the man relieve himself, then the toilet flush. Then he heard the water running in the sink. Jerrod’s heart sank and he slowly pushed the door open and glanced in the mirror. He saw Bridger washing his hands and he glanced over his shoulder towards the mirror. The mirror kept changing with each blink of the eye. One moment it was normal with only Bridger’s reflection, the next it was shattered with arterial spray painted walls in the background, then back. Jerrod pulled his head out of the doorway and squeezed his eyes shut.
“This can’t be happening,” he muttered as he turned away from the bathroom and made his way toward the safe room.
He got to the door and pushed his way inside. He sat down at the console and began pushing buttons on the keyboard. Cycling through the different cameras, he continued to searching for intruders. Surely someone must have slipped past security and made it inside only to slip him something.
Maria knocked lightly on the door. “Mr. Miller, supper is finished if you would like something to eat.”
“I’m not leaving here.”
She nodded and offered, “I could bring you a plate?”
Miller all but ignored her, “Fine, whatever.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
She smiled and made her way back to the kitchen. She made him a plate of roast with rice and stewed vegetables. She covered the potatoes with brown gravy just the way he liked it. She picked up a set of flat ware and made him a tall glass of sweet tea and set the tray with two sourdough buns. She delivered the tray to him and set it on the counter next to the computer.
“Your supper, Mr. Miller.”
Jerrod could smell it, but it barely registered. “Yes, thank you.”
H
e continued to stare at the computer screens. Slowly he turned and picked up the silverware. He grabbed the edge of the tray and slid it over toward him. He finally pulled his eyes from the screens and gave the plate his attention, but what his brain saw was a pile of rotten veggies, steaming dog shit and maggots climbing over everything. He screamed and swatted the tray away, gagging.
“What the fuck?!” he yelled as the plate shattered against the back wall.
Maria came running back, “Mr. Miller, are you alright?”
“What is the idea of serving me that?” He came to his feet and pointed at the ruined plate of food sliding to the floor.
Maria’s eyes filled with fear and tears as she saw the ruined food splattered across the wall and dripping to the floor. “What was wrong with it, Mr. Miller? You’ve always loved my roast.”
“Roast?” He stepped closer and saw the meat lying on the floor. He stepped even closer and bent down to peer at the ruined mess. “I…I didn’t…” He lifted his eyes to see the hurt on her face. “I’m sorry. It looked like…”
“It is alright, Mr. Miller. I will clean it.” Maria bent down and began picking up the shards of plate and scooping up the ruined food in a napkin and placing it back on the tray. “You are just tired, that is all.” She turned her face from him to hide the fear in her eyes.
Jerrod Miller stepped toward her and noticed her cringe, then paused. “Maria, I didn’t mean…”
“Problem?” Bridger leaned against the open doorway, biting into an apple.
“No,” Jerrod lied. “Just a little accident.”
“Mm-hmm.” Bridger looked down at Maria picking up the mess and shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think somebody had a temper tantrum.”
Miller sighed and rolled his eyes. “It was just an accident.”