Cursed: Paranormal Women's Fiction (Mid-Life Haunts Book 1)

by Nhys Glover

  It seemed small wars on private property were not recommended by the Bureau. Luckily, Jake had informed them of his findings before the event, as serial killers were their domain. There was still discussion as to whether they could legitimately be called domestic terrorists. I didn’t care what name they got, as long as none of the good guys got blamed. And Jake assured me that that wouldn’t happen.

  He had come out to see me the day after the battle. His old stiffness was back, and I had no idea why. But he did catch me up on the findings.

  “I keep trying to work out how it all happened, you know? I mean, what drove that maniac to come after me and mine that night, knowing that we had professional protection?” I mused as we’d walked the yard, much as I was doing now.

  “Seems the FBI had a leak, and the pastor knew how close he was to going down. He attempted to send an email to the local press just before he set out that night. His manifesto outlining his reasons for his actions. His lifelong quest to rid the world of Satan and his minions. His ordained part in the End Times. Luckily, the FBI had his computer monitored by then. They’re fast, once they get on the scent. They stopped the manifesto getting through and sent it on to me. If it had reached the media, we’d have had a shitload of press on our doorstep by now.”

  “I’ve had more than I want at my door already. So what did he say exactly in this manifesto? I can’t get my head around making such a drastic move. Why not just get out of Dodge, the way he had so often before?” I said, still no clearer in my own mind about his reasoning.

  “I guess that with his churches and crimes finally being linked, not to mention the IRS sniffing at his tax records, he saw the writing on the wall. He had a good run. Thirty years, way longer than he probably expected to get away with his crimes. With his house of cards coming down, his fanatical hatred of you and your mother, who seemed to have been able to thwart him every step of the way, this must have seemed like the time to end it all in a blaze of glory. Think Waco or Butch Cassidy.

  “If he believed the drivel he wrote in his manifesto then this was the site of Armageddon and you were the Antichrist. He was Jesus, returned to make the final stand. It’s why his people didn’t flinch when I spoke to them that night. It seems that I had been seduced away from righteousness by siding with you. No one was going to listen.”

  “When I got the call from your scientist friend that night, I’d already received the manifesto—”

  “My scientist friend? Luke rang you?” I broke in, confused by this tidbit.

  “He didn’t tell you? Okay, well, it seems he didn’t like how the violence against you Channings was escalating. He didn’t think we were taking it seriously enough. So he hired some guys of his own to keep the pastor under surveillance. When it looked like they were on the move, his man notified Dr. Myers and he notified me. Then Myers and his man joined ours on the way out to your place. You’ve obviously won that man’s heart.”

  My mouth probably fell open at that point, because the news was so outrageous I at first thought Jake was punking me. Luke was the one who’d made sure we got forewarning that night? Hilary had joked about him being interested in me, but this was way more than a little interest. I knew first-hand how much private surveillance cost. And he did it without telling me? Without letting me know so I could thank him?

  “I’ll leave it to you to work out how you want to show your appreciation,” Jake said testily, before going on using a more professional tone. “Now here’s what we’ve discovered since the attack:

  “When the pastor’s possessions were searched they found a stack of video recordings of the girls who’d been tortured. We were right in assuming that the few who had escaped were just a drop in the bucket. The videos were of hundreds of exorcisms covering thirty years and far more states than I’d identified.

  “Because of his obsessive need to record his victories against Satan, the pastor, whose real name was Jeffery Campbell, had recorded every girl’s name and age on the box containing their video. He also listed the coordinates of their gravesites. Which means families, what’s left of the families Campbell hasn’t killed off, can get back their children for a proper burial.”

  My mind reeled at the numbers. This madman had been far more successful than we’d thought. Surely not even a mole in the FBI should have stopped him coming to their notice at some time in his long history.

  “I’m worried the girls might all be like Cindy, still at their gravesites,” Jake admitted reluctantly, after a long silence had fallen between us.

  “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll move on as soon as they’re found,” I pointed out.

  His bright green eyes met mine, troubled. “Would you consider visiting some of the spots to see… I hate to think of them living out eternity alone, after what they suffered. Karl told me what you did for Cindy.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. “Okay. Not all at once, though. I couldn’t handle that. And I have commitments here.”

  “No. No rush. Just when you can.”

  He drew in a deep breath before going on. “You did good. You did real good. I wanted to tell you that. A lot of women would have freaked out, but not you. Or your kids. But Child Services are looking for the girls’ family. They aren’t happy about the danger they were in out here. I explained that the danger was because of them, but it’s hard for them to see it that way when they look around at the battlefield out here.”

  And it was a battlefield, even when the bodies had all been removed. Blood had soaked into the barren soil. The inside and outside of the first floor of the mansion was a bullet-ridden mess. A lot of the new furniture on the first floor we’d been so proud of had been destroyed.

  Yes. It was a battlefield, but we were the victors. I just hoped it would be seen that way, and that my family would also be seen as the innocent victims of madmen. None of this was our fault.

  Jake said he’d keep me up on the fostering situation, which would be frustratingly slow-moving. It would break my heart if I lost the girls now, after all we’d been through, but all I could do was wait and see.

  As the threat was over, I had cancelled my contract with Pete Saunders. But because Karl had no family, and therefore nowhere to go after he was released from hospital, I had offered him a room in the mansion while he recovered well enough to go back to work. Wherever that work would take him next.

  I’d miss him. In his big silent way, he had become a part of our family. I’d hate to see him go, as I knew my kids would too.

  There had been a steady stream of townsfolk coming out to bring meals and check out for themselves the site of the biggest news story in the town’s history since the Vietnam Moratorium March that had turned violent back in the late 60s. Whatever the reason for their visits, I was grateful. Not so much for the press, who seemed to find the ecological disaster combined with an attack by a demon-hunting preacher the best story to hit the state in years.

  However, as long as they kept painting us as the victims I’d be happy. And it would be nice to be part of a community again. It had been a long time.

  As I walked my land, I felt a bone-deep contentment settling over me. A stiff, unfamiliar smile drew my lips up at the ends. It had been a traumatic homecoming, but a homecoming it had been. Now the threat from the pastor was over, I could focus on the curse and finding a cure. That task didn’t feel nearly as daunting as it had less than a month ago.

  In the shadow of the foundations I spotted something colorful and small. Had the investigators left a piece of evidence behind? A piece of clothing, perhaps?

  Curious, I walked closer and leaned in to get a better look at the green and red object.

  My hands began to shake as soon as I identified what I saw.

  A poppy. A blood-red poppy was growing in the barren soil of my cursed land next to the foundations of my damaged home.

  Hastily, I looked around for more evidence that life was returning to the land.

  I found none.

  What did it mean? Was this j
ust the beginning? Would more life start appearing around us?

  It was too soon to know.

  I tried to think why a poppy seemed significant. I didn’t think my mom had ever planted any around the place, and they weren’t indigenous to the area.

  Poppies…? Red poppies?

  The flash of memory had me kicking myself for not remembering the significance sooner.

  The battlefields of World War One were covered in wild poppies. They were used for remembering those who had died in wars.

  It was fitting, I supposed.

  And it was life amidst death.

  Carefully, I uprooted the flower, along with its soil, and went looking for a small pot. I didn’t want the others to see it yet. I didn’t want them to get false hope. But I didn’t want the flower to die, either. So, I put it in a small pot and took it into the house. I sat it on my bedroom window sill behind the drapes.

  If more began appearing, then it would be time to share the wonderful news with the others. Until then, it would be my secret. And I would keep the hope of it close to my heart.

  Because hope was always worth fostering.