Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know?

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Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 12

by Heather Graham


  “They wouldn’t let me. They tied me to my bed and kept guard outside my door all night! I wanted to but I couldn’t!”

  She nodded, but the hurt and betrayal of that night sat on her shoulders like a mantle. “I’ve spent ten years trying to understand, Alan.” Her arm swept wide encompassing the failing grounds of The Excelsior. “My only crime was that I was a girl.”

  “My only crime was that I was smart.”

  “So petty. So insignificant,” she murmured so he could just barely hear.

  A long silence stretched between them. “Why didn’t you tell the police?” he finally asked.

  “No one would’ve believed me. I couldn’t even speak when they pulled me out. I-I wandered in a strange darkness for a long time.” She turned back to stare out over the lake.

  “You seem to have succeeded quite well. I’ve read all your books. New York Times bestselling horror author. I guess you’re a millionaire now too.”

  She shrugged. “Funny, without The Excelsior I would never have been a success, I would never have been able to tap into that darkness.” She turned. “Strange how things work.”

  Her gaze snared his. “You haven’t done so badly for yourself either, have you, doctor?”

  A PhD in Physics. “I suppose.”

  She turned away again as if looking at him sickened her. Looking in the mirror sickened him at times too.

  “Strickland’s dead. Stabbed to death. Multiple times. They said he was mugged.”

  Surprised Alan answered, “I didn’t know.” Just like Caesar, he thought.

  “Niebold’s dead. Afghanistan.”

  “I’d heard.”

  “You probably didn’t hear how.” Alan shook his head. “They said it was locals. Retribution. They left him in a pit. Twenty feet deep. In the middle of the desert. He couldn’t crawl out. He died of exposure.”

  Exposure? Wait a minute. A pit?

  “Chadwick had a severe intestinal virus,” she continued, her voice completely monotone. “Vomiting. Diarrhea. Went on for months. To the point where he burnt out his esophagus and ruined his entire digestive system.” She paused. “Do you know how Vespasian died?”

  “No.”

  “Diarrhea,” she stated as if it were an ordinary fact. “Chadwick’s permanently disabled and in a wheelchair now. I checked up on him recently. He’s about 90 pounds, soaking wet. The feeding tubes don’t work anymore.”

  Alan frowned. “Are you telling me this so I’ll feel sorry for them?” He started breathing heavily. The air became thick and too hard to draw in.

  Her features registered pure innocence. “No. I thought you might like to know, that’s all.”

  “So, go on.” Fair enough. He’d go along with whatever game she was playing. Again, he owed her that much. And she seemed hell bent on making sure he knew all the details. “Devlin?”

  “It was rumored that Augustus was poisoned by a fig.”

  All of a sudden it dawned on Alan. She wanted him to know what happened to them all because… “You did it.” He drew in a deep breath. “You-you killed them.”

  Without a drop of emotion she simply answered, “They killed me. The night they left me in that pit. And so did you.”

  His insides hollowed. The thick air began to choke him. His throat closed. “I’m sorry, Christine. S-s-s-so very s-s- sorry.”

  She smiled. “There’s the Alan I knew.”

  Alan shook his head and clamped his lips together until the shaking stopped. “Are you going to ruin me too?” he joked.

  She didn’t smile this time. “I purchased the property, Alan. I own this whole place now. I can do anything I want with it. Even make a new school.”

  Bewildered, he asked, “You’d do that?”

  “No. Of course not. You see, it’s about power. Just like Strickland said. You never grasped that. You kept thinking the truth would win.” She stared at him, pity in her gaze. “But Strickland knew. So did the Triumvirate. It was always about power. And I have the power now.”

  She wasn’t making sense. A strange light grew in her eyes and Alan realized that in order to write the books she wrote, she’d gone a bit mad. His heartbeat sped up in his chest again. Realization dawned. She wanted revenge.

  Alan turned to run. His feet slipped on the damp grass and he stumbled. His legs churned as he tried to get a grip, but she was fast. The needle pierced his neck with a faint pinch, and the world faded.

  When he awoke, they were in the third floor music room. This time the room blazed with light. His hands and feet were zip-tied together. Fear spread like a sickness inside his belly. “C-c-c- Christine. Please. You’ve made your point. I was a little r-r-rat bastard. But I was a kid. A terrified kid. You have to understand.”

  “I understand, all right,” she answered, her tone gentle but hurt. So very hurt. “Yours was the worst betrayal of all, Alan. I thought you were my friend.”

  “B-b-but I was, Chris. I w-w- wanted to be. I-I…”

  She almost looked sympathetic. Almost. “I couldn’t take it anymore. The-the-they broke me.”

  “Yes. They broke me too. And now I’ve healed. And so will you.” That strange light was back and burned even brighter in her gaze. “I want you to understand. I want you to feel the abandonment. I want you to wallow in every moment of torment.”

  “Christine, please. You’re talking crazy. Stop. I was always your friend. Honest. I swear.”

  She continued as if Alan hadn’t uttered a word. “I own this property. No one will ever find you. I won’t come to rescue you. Just as you didn’t come to rescue me. And as the darkness closes in and you realize that I’m not lying, remember what you did. Remember how it felt. As the last breath of your life leaves your body, remember what you did. Remember what a coward you are.”

  She began to screw in the last plank of the riser. The sound of the drill screeched up his spine.

  “Chris. No! Please! I beg of you! Have mercy!”

  “Why should I? You showed me none.”

  “CHRIS! PLEASE!”

  The last screw drove home with sickening finality. Alan pounded on the panel with all his might. He kicked, he fought, but the boards wouldn’t budge.

  “Goodbye, Alan.”

  The lights went out.

  Alan screamed.

  6

  the hierophant

  mathew kaufman

  Upright: Religion, group identification, conformity, tradition, beliefs

  Reversed: Restriction, challenging the status quo

  Saint Augustine Church, Key Largo, Florida—Friday, August 14, 1992

  Ten days before…

  Vivian Hampton, thirty-four-year-old single mother of two, pulled into the church parking lot. She had spent a lot of time speaking with God ever since she was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. She pulled the silver Volvo into the first available parking spot and slipped the shifter into park. Fumbling, she retrieved her purse and rummaged through the contents before finding the aluminum flask.

  Okay. So God wasn’t the only thing she was turning to these days. But cancer was wrecking her life, not to mention her perfect tits.

  “Jesus, please forgive me,” she said, before taking a long slug of the Five O’clock Vodka inside. She grimaced, forcing the liquid down with a hard swallow. One more burning gulp later and she returned the shiny, metallic container back to her purse and pulled her keys from the ignition.

  She stepped out of the car and forced on the best fake smile she could muster. Here we go. Please, don’t let me die. I don’t want to die. I have already lost everything. Why are you doing this to me? Vivian tried her hardest to clear her mind and walked to the church.

  She opened the front door with a metallic click. The foyer floor was a beautiful white marble with golden cross inlays. The walls were coated in a multitude of colors, the majority a bright red. Vivian followed the stone pathway into the massive worship room. Beautiful stained-glass windows lined the walls, depicting various scenes from t
he Bible.

  Light shone through the multi-colored windows, illuminating the church’s extravagant interior. A life-size golden Jesus on a cross hung directly above the pulpit. Vivian approached the prie-dieu and again fumbled through her purse. This time she retrieved the new-looking Bible, and after setting her purse on the floor next to her, she knelt.

  She placed the book on the rail in front of her and lowered her head to pray. She quietly mouthed the words even though Saint Augustine was currently empty.

  “Dear Lord, please… Please, please let me live. I am on my knees for you. Please,” she said.

  Footsteps clacked on the hard floor; she looked toward the sound.

  “Vivian, welcome back. It’s good to see you,” Father Marcus said. “I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

  “No, Father, no interruption at all. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Vivian stood and greeted Father Marcus. Her arm snapped out clumsily to grab hold of his hand. A small pair of skeleton keys fell from his grasp.

  “Oh, please, forgive me, Father,” she said, grabbing his hand and kissing it.

  “Please, my child, relax. Would you like to go to confession? There are two others waiting. I would be happy to hear you out.”

  “That would be wonderful, Father. Thank you.”

  Truthfully, she loathed confession. She hated everything about churches and the people that went to them. She would much rather be getting laid, but none of that would happen if she died. Come on Vivian… You can fake your way through this. Soon, you’ll be back to normal.

  They quietly left the worship room and proceeded to the confessional booth at the side of the room. Vivian sat on the bench outside, next to two other middle-aged women waiting for their turn to confess. They quietly greeted each other with nods and smiles. Vivian didn’t recognize either of them, but she was relatively new to religion. Religion was a common side effect of cancer, and it was no different in her case.

  Roughly thirty minutes passed before it was her turn. The previous woman exited the booth and departed. Vivian stood and entered the dark-brown wooden booth.

  Hearing her enter, Father Marcus began the typical prayer. “Please begin,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been over twenty years since my last confession.”

  “That’s quite a long time. I am sure you have much to confess.”

  “I do. You see, I have recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. I am very scared. I don’t want to die. I want so many things from my life.”

  “Aye. Have you prayed on it a lot? Have you been a good Christian?” he asked.

  “I have prayed every night of my life,” she lied, rolling her eyes in disgust.

  There was no reply from the Father. A wooden door clacked shut, somewhere close. Vivian jumped.

  “Father Marcus?”

  Again, no reply. The sound of keys jingling broke the silence. The lock on her side of the booth clicked as the key, now inside it, turned.

  “Father? What’s going on?”

  Vivian grabbed the handle on the door and began to turn it. The door wouldn’t budge.

  “FATHER?” she said, panic stricken. “Father… What the fuck is going on?”

  She heard the other door open and close again.

  “Oh thank God. I’m stuck in here. Please get me out.” Stricken with panic, Vivian pounded on the door.

  She screamed, “LET ME OUT! GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! HELP!”

  Suddenly the lights flickered before dying completely. The confessional wall between her and where Father Marcus was supposed to be slid open. The booth was pitch black and suddenly very hot inside. Vivian stood and slammed her shoulder against the door. Her heart pounded rapidly, forcing her blood through her veins.

  “FATHER MARCUS, HELP!”

  “There is no use screaming,” a voice whispered right in her ear. “This is what you get for being a whore. Voluptuous Vivian. Isn’t that what they called you after you got your new tits?”

  “Fuck off! I don’t know who the hell you are, but I am going to call the police! FATHER MARCUS?”

  “No. No, I don’t think you are,” the voice said as Vivian rattled the door.

  Unable to open the door, Vivian searched through her purse in the dark. Her hands glanced over the contents. There. There it is. With the flick of her thumb, a spark jetted from the top of the lighter she had retrieved. The flame illuminated the blackened room like a can light at a rock concert. Unfortunately for Vivian, the light impaired her already night-adjusted vison. Fuck.

  A long, slender finger slid out from behind the flame.

  That wasn’t a finger… That was a claw. A claw with a very long, very sharp nail.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” she screamed.

  “At least your tits won’t kill you! Goodbye Vivian.”

  As the voice spoke her name, the claw closed around the flame and extinguished it. The lighter ripped from her grasp. The thick, hot air began to fill her with panic. Her heart pounded. Something clacked against the booth’s wooden floor, moving closer to her.

  “Oh Jesus.”

  Sharp claws struck her arms. Blood escaped the new wounds wetting her clothes. Pain rushed in and took the blood’s place.

  She screamed—

  It was too late. The claws ripped through her skin, through the muscle in her neck. The creature grabbed hold of the spine buried deep in her neck. She felt the fingers grip it tightly. Vivian stood frozen, only able to blink as the life drained from her body.

  The creature pulled, breaking her neck. The grip released at the sound of the snapping bones. Vivian’s body slumped to the floor, her eyes filled with eternal darkness.

  *

  Vivian Hampton’s home, Key Largo, Florida—Tuesday, August 18, 1992

  Six days before…

  Dex sat conversing with his sister, Mary, in the kitchen of their beachfront home.

  “What the hell are we going to do, Dex?” Mary asked.

  “Nothing. Mom has done this before. You know how she is. I’m sure she’ll be home soon. I’m sure she is just out with the dickbag of the week,” Dex replied.

  “I get it… Mom’s a whore. But still… she’s never left us alone during hurricane season. Hurricane Andrew is only a few days out. We can’t stay here. I don’t want to fucking die, asshole!”

  “Oh my God… Over-react much? I’m seventeen, Mary. If she isn’t back in a couple days, we can just get in the Jeep and I’ll drive us out of here. I have a few hundred bucks saved up so we can eat and stuff. Relax already. You’re such a drama queen.”

  “Fine but…” Mary said anxiously.

  An emergency alert warning broke over the television.

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. It’s windy. Stop playing that annoying sound,” Dex said.

  Mary slammed an elbow into his ribs. “Shut up. This is serious.”

  A computerized voice spoke as the words scrolled across the screen. The two, now silent, leaned closer to the TV

  “The U.S. Weather Service has issued a severe storm warning for areas in the southern panhandle of Florida. Expect winds of up to forty miles per hour tonight growing to fifty tomorrow,” the voice said.

  “The U.S. Weather Service is issuing an evacuation for the following counties: Miami-Dade, Broward, Palm Beach, Martin, St. Lucie, Indian River…”

  “Dex, I really think we should go. They’re evacuating the whole coast,” Mary said.

  “I know but I’m not leaving Mom here and spending all my money for no reason. It isn’t even that bad out. Look.”

  He stood and walked to the sliding glass door. The sky was a bright blue and peppered with clouds. They were moving relatively fast, but all of the trees were still upright. So how bad could it really be?

  “It’s not even bad. The waves are still below the seawall. We are good for another couple days. Trust me.”

  “Fine, but you are getting us pizza for dinner tonight! And I want mushrooms!”

&nb
sp; Dex laughed and messed up her hair with his hand.

  “Stop… Stop!”

  *

  Vivian Hampton’s home, Key Largo, Florida—Friday, August 21, 1992—5:00am

  Three days before…

  Waves crashed violently over the concrete seawall. Set after set bashed against the concrete, sending hundreds of gallons of saltwater flying into the air. The wind had been howling since late Tuesday night, but not like this.

  Dex awoke to the sounds of rattling siding and the whir of wind whistling through the cracks in the closed windows. He was nervous about getting trapped in the storm but had been through worse. The last hurricane had been just like this and then drifted away into nothingness. He hoped that hurricane Andrew would do the same, even though the likelihood of that was small.

  Dex rolled over in his bed and reached for the remote on his nightstand but discovered the whole stand was empty as he swept his arm across its surface. A fresh blast of sea air ripped in through his window, flying across the stand.

  Jesus, that’s some strong wind. It knocked all my shit onto the floor.

  He reached down and poked around in the darkness, like a blind man, before he found it. Gripping its rubber keys and plastic body, he flipped himself back into bed. He fumbled for a moment before finding and finally pressing the power button.

  The television clicked on. MTV raged to life. Ugly Kid Joe’s Everything About You blared. He’d obviously forgotten to turn the TV down before he crashed. His thumb jammed on the volume button and began flipping through the channels, searching for news.

  He found the local ABC news channel. Peter Jennings was intensely reporting on the approaching hurricane.

  “Overnight the wind speeds have seemingly increased exponentially. Andrew wasn’t expected to make landfall until August twenty eighth. In an unprecedented manner, Andrew has now morphed into a Category Five storm. The latest analysis now puts Andrew crashing onto the shore near Homestead, Florida, sometime on the morning of the twenty fourth. If you haven’t already begun your evacuation, I urge you to do so now,” Jennings said.

 

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