Rita gasps. “Look.”
The Old North Church. Mitch slows and turns left at the crossroads. Parked cars line both sides of the narrow, rural road. We inch forward slowly between them until we reach the one-lane bridge over the creek and Mitch stops, puts it in park.
“Oh my God,” he says.
I lean forward. Through the windshield, ahead I see a crowd of at least one hundred people gathered at the creek. Cars line the road all the way and past where it curves and disappears into the forest.
“The Donnevilles?” asks Mitch.
“Who else?” says Rita.
Mitch rolls down the window, lifts his camera and takes a quick photo. “Look at all these people.”
Rita exhales with force. “We’re never going to get to them with this crowd.”
“What are they doing here so early?”
“Sunrise ritual,” I say.
Above the churning mass of the crowd, the branches of the Throne stretch into the air like a monstrous black claw.
“There it is,” George said, pointing ahead and to the right. He was delighted. We had driven overnight, he was so anxious to see the Throne.
It was late spring, and a mist hung over the creek, covering the ground so that the Throne seemed to rise from smoke of the Underworld.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “I’m not going near that thing.”
“Look at it!” George smacked the dash. “That is fucking spectacular.”
“Shhh, language!”
I turned to make sure the girls were still asleep. Lydia leaned against a pillow propped on the window, mouth hanging open slightly so I could see the metal line of her retainer. Juliet lay with her head in her sister’s lap.
“Don’t tell me they haven’t heard worse at school.”
“Still, they don’t need to hear if from us.”
He squeezed my knee. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I’m just so fucking ecstatic. No wonder Bev’s got her crew here. That’s the kind of thing that draws shit to it. Bad shit.”
I cringe at every profanity. I became a prude approximately the time Lydia gained the power of speech without the awareness of knowing what she was saying. She repeated every word her dad said.
As we crossed a one-lane bridge over the creek, we passed the Throne and turned onto a two-rut road that twisted into the dark forest.
“Where are we going?”
“Fisher’s.”
“Are you serious?”
“He won’t pick up the phone, so we come to him.”
The forest closed in on us again. The sun struggled through the dense growth. We wound through the forest, the road at a slight incline, until finally, the trees cleared to reveal a small log cabin of maybe one or two rooms. George stopped the car and cut the engine.
He opened the door. I cringed as the alert chimed, glancing at the back seat.
Lydia woke, blinking at me. “Where are we?”
“Go back to sleep,” I said. “We’re just stopping for a minute.”
I closed the door as softly as I could to keep from waking Juliet and followed George.
The cabin was isolated, the clearing on a hill overlooking the road from which we’d come. I could see the Old North Church, the bridge, and beyond…the Throne.
“What were those kids doing down there?”
“What kids?”
“Back in 1934. The first boy who died. He was only eight years old. I don’t think the other kids were much older. The story says they were all friends playing. What the hell were they doing way out here?”
“What about the girls?” I could see through the window that Lydia had closed her eyes again. “I don’t want to leave them here alone.”
“They’re fine. If they wake up, they’ll know we went inside.”
The cabin was old but well-cared for. We stepped onto the porch that covered the front of the cabin. A single chair sat next to a stump used as a table. On its surface was a green metal ashtray with two skinny brown cigarette butts. Other than that, the porch was clean, no other furniture or plants, dirt and leaves swept away. A neat row of boxwoods lined each side of the steps.
George opened the screen and knocked on the wooden front door.
A short, elderly man with hunched shoulders and a wrinkled, pinched face opened the door a crack and squinted at us. The safety chain pulled taut at the same level as his forehead.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Fisher?”
“Yeah?”
The little man had to look up at George, and George wasn’t the tallest specimen.
“I’m George Drake, this is my wife Thea. We’ve been trying to contact you, sir. Can we talk to you about the Witch’s Throne?”
“Five thousand.”
“What’s that?”
“My price.”
“Price?”
Martin Fisher slammed the door closed.
George knocked again.
The door cracked again, the chain pulled taut. “Goddamn it, five thousand for access, that’s the daily rate. Yes or no?”
“That’s the daily rate? Mr. Fisher, I don’t pay for the information I collect, it’s against my professional—”
Slam.
George turned to me, delighted. “Oh, I like this old bastard.”
He shouted at the door. “Mr. Fisher! Are you saying that Charles and Beverly Donneville are paying you five thousand dollars a day to film at the location of The Witch’s Throne?”
No answer.
“Mr. Fisher! Could I please go look at your tree stump for free?”
I snorted.
“What? Doesn’t hurt to ask.” He shouted at the door again. “I don’t want to film it or anything!”
“You don’t?” I ask.
“One step at a time. I’m building up to that. Letting him warm up to me first.”
“Yeah, that plan’s working.”
George spent several minutes shouting and pounding on Martin Fisher’s door. Lydia woke up and got out of the car, stretching. I motioned for her to stay put. She huffed and leaned back against the car.
I did what I always do in these situations. I sat down and started writing details in my journal. Martin Fisher’s porch was damp with early-morning dew. I felt the moisture soak into my thin cargo pants as soon as I sat. I exhaled, puffing my cheeks. George pounded on the door.
I wrote: You’re going to get us kicked out of town. I’m calling it here on the page. Patience is not in your skill set.
Behind me, I heard the door latch click and I turned. I expected a threat, a slew of curse words, possibly a shotgun making an appearance, but Martin Fisher was calm. George stopped pounding, his hand still raised in the air. He dropped it to his side.
This was George’s expertise. Here was where he excelled: talking to difficult people. George Drake could relate to the most withdrawn, introverted, pissed-off, maniacal personality in the world. Through my twenty years of marriage to him, back through college, from the first day I met him, I had seen him talk to the gregarious, the withdrawn, the delusional, the narcissistic, the manic, and the mentally unstable. I had watched him discuss the best recipe for mud pies with twin five-year-old boys and the basics of quantum mechanics with a theoretical physics professor. He baked a lemon tart from scratch with a retired acupuncturist from Arkansas. He debated race relations post-Civil Rights on the porch of an antiques shop in Jackson, Mississippi.
George could find a way to connect to any person. Every person. I was constantly amazed by this superpower.
When the door opened and Martin Fisher appeared, I turned and waited, pen poised, ready for whatever course the discussion might take.
“Mr. Fisher,” George exclaimed when he saw the man’s stubbly face, “let’s talk money.”
“You’ve said you don’t pay.”
“Sure, sure…but can we come to an agreement? A trade?”
“I’ve called the police. You’re trespassing.”
Lydia pushed away from the car.
She was close enough to hear. I closed my journal and stood up.
George continued, unfazed. “Sure, Mr. Fisher. I hear you. We’ll go now. Maybe I could call later? Make an offer?”
“He never answers the phone,” I murmur.
“Or I could come back at whatever time is convenient for you.”
The distant hum of a car engine drifted through the trees. Martin Fisher shut the door in George’s face.
I walked to the car. “Get in,” I told Lydia. I slid behind the driver’s seat. “We’re going,” I shouted to George.
George backed a few steps away from Fisher’s door as a police cruiser appeared in my rearview mirror.
“Mom?” Lydia stared at the cop car out the back window. Juliet was still, amazingly, asleep.
“It’s fine. We’re not doing anything wrong. Well, not too many things wrong.”
Lights flashing, the officer sat in his car a full minute while the rest of us waited. I gripped the steering wheel. I could feel the seat of my pants still wet from sitting on the porch. George tucked his hands in his pockets and waited as if he were on his own front porch.
Finally, the officer emerged from the car and made his way to the porch. I heard him approaching the car, his shoes squeaking, the heavy fabric of his uniform brushing. His shadow covered the open window and he ducked into view.
“Ma’am? I’m Officer Tims. Step out of the car, please.”
“Mom?”
Juliet sat up rubbing her eyes, hair tousled.
“My daughters…”
“They can stay put.” Officer Tims smiled at them. “It’ll just be a minute.”
He stepped back, and I got out of the car and followed him up on the porch where George waited for us as if welcoming guests to his home.
“George Drake?” asked Officer Tims.
“That’s me,” said George. He lifted his palms up. “Listen, I don’t have any ill intentions. I’m a researcher. We wanted to talk to Mr. Fisher is all. We’ve been here all of ten minutes.”
Officer Tims nodded. “We know who you are here, Mr. Drake.”
“Oh good, then you know I just want to talk.”
“Mr. Fisher has not invited you here. You’re trespassing on private property. I’ll ask you to leave and remind you that Mr. Fisher’s property covers the Old Church, the cemetery, and the land on both sides of Hardtack Creek from the NF-290 to Wheeler River Road. You are not allowed on this property.”
“Right,” said George. “Absolutely. Thank you, Officer. We’ll be leaving now.”
I followed George back to the car and slid into the driver’s seat again. Lydia and Juliet both watched me with wide eyes. I winked at them, but they continued to stare.
George stopped at the car and turned back to Officer Tims, who followed us. “The Donnevilles,” he said. The police officer stopped. “They’re allowed to film here, right?”
Officer Tims paused for several moments, then nodded once. “That’s correct. Mr. Fisher has given Charles and Beverly Donneville exclusive access to film on the property.”
“And those filmings. I’ve been to several, Officer. They’re open to observers. Beverly Donneville likes an audience. So, let’s say I come back to watch…?”
“Then you would be asked to leave, Mr. Drake.”
George nodded immediately, and gave the officer a thumbs up. “Just checking.”
He slid into the car and waved to the officer as I turned in the drive. “Son of a bitch,” he swore as I drove away.
“George, the girls.”
“I can’t believe they are doing this shit again.”
I sighed, imagining Juliet running a string of curse words through her conversations with teachers at school.
“Maybe you should forget this one,” I suggested. “You’re not getting anywhere.”
“People have died,” he said, “and she’s using those tragedies to spread fear, to make people believe there’s a curse on this place.”
“You’ve already proven she’s a fraud.”
“And I’ll do it again. And again. Until people actually believe it. If I can get access to the Throne, I can film it.”
I didn’t get it. George had spent the night in cemeteries, abandoned cabins, ghost roads, and countless haunted houses. Mitch had photographed every experience. They filmed every encounter. And of course, never got proof of ghosts or spirits or demons or anything supernatural happening. That was kind of the point. The point of filming was to not get anything on film.
“What? What are you going to film?”
He stopped as we came to end of Fisher’s road. Across the way, the mist had cleared from the creek but not the base of the Throne.
“What else? I’m going to sit on that tree stump and film it. That’s how I prove her wrong. I’m going to sit on the Witch’s Throne and live.”
We never saw Martin Fisher again after he slammed the door in George’s face. George went forward with his plan even without permission, and Fisher must have known George defied him. The video was on the internet. Someone in town would have told him. Maybe even Beverly Donneville herself.
While Mitch snaps more photos, I scan the road ahead and see the turnoff to Fisher’s cabin about a quarter-mile away.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Oh, shit.”
I turn, thinking Mitch is opposed to my idea before I’ve explained, but he’s referring to the police cruiser pulling up behind our rental.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” says Rita, already arguing before she has a present opponent. “We’re looking for a parking spot.”
“You’ll have to keep moving...” begins the officer.
I recognize him from last May. It’s the same police officer who came to Martin Fisher’s cabin.
He notices me. “Mrs. Drake.”
“Officer Tims.”
“What brings you to town?”
“Uh…”
“Research,” says Rita.
Officer Tims keeps his eyes on mine. “That right?” he asks.
Mitch holds up his camera as if offering evidence. “George Drake wasn’t able to finish his book on the Donnevilles. Someone needs to pick up the task, provide a counterpoint to these claims.”
“And that’s you,” he says, addressing me.
“We worked with him” says Mitch. “Years ago.”
Officer Tims is still watching me. I realize he’s still waiting for my answer.
“Yes,” I say. “We all used to work together on these research trips. Years ago.”
I introduce Mitch and Rita to the officer. He shakes hands in turn and steps back. “You’ll still have to move your car from the road.”
“Absolutely,” says Mitch.
As he and Rita get back in the car, I hang back and Officer Tims notices. “How are you doing, Mrs. Drake?”
“I’m okay. I’m…”
“What is it?”
“I know this is a weird question, but…I can’t find George’s phone. Do you remember seeing it?”
“His phone?”
“Right, his cell phone. He had it on him…that night.”
“Yes,” he answers after a moment. “That’s correct. He was found holding his phone.”
“But it wasn’t with his belongings.”
“I see.”
“The thing is…”
“Yes?”
“I got a call from his phone, from his number.”
The officer blinks rapidly. “That is strange.”
“Is there a way to locate the phone? Or find out who might have called me?”
“We can track the phone, find its location from the ping on the cell tower. Let me look into it, and I’ll give you a call.”
He shakes my hand before we part ways.
Back in the car, Mitch drives slowly between the parked cars. “What was that about?”
I lean up to the front seat. “Was that true, what you said?”
“About what?”
; “About the book. Are you writing a book about what happened? About George?”
He and Rita exchange a look.
“A photo book,” says Mitch. “We were going to talk to you about it.”
I sit back. “Find a place to turn around. I want to go to Martin Fisher’s cabin.”
Rita turns. Mitch eyes me in the rearview mirror.
“The Donnevilles were paying him thousands of dollars to film on his property. He wanted money from George, too, but George wouldn’t pay.”
“That’s hardly…”
“Fisher never gave us permission to film here, but George did it anyway. George was going to prove the Donnevilles frauds and end Fisher’s income. Now George is gone, and Fisher’s still getting his money, obviously.”
“We came here to confront Beverly Donneville,” says Rita.
“And we’re not getting anywhere near her,” says Mitch. “At least, not here. Not now with this crowd of people.”
“We’ll find out where she’s staying,” says Rita, “catch her there.”
“She’ll be here for a while,” says Mitch. “Maybe we go see this Fisher guy first. Thea’s right. We should talk to him. Then we’ll figure out how to get to Beverly.”
Rita glares at him. She sits forward and crosses her arms without arguing. That, for Rita Chase, is as close to acquiescence as it gets.
JOURNAL OF THEA DRAKE | MAY 29
1951 – Enora Roman
On the morning of November 5, 1951, two freshman girls at Portico High School reported to the office that their teacher for first period English, Miss Enora Roman, had not shown up for class. The principal first called the boarding house where Miss Roman lived and discovered that she had not returned to her room the night before. Alarmed by this information, the principal next contacted the police station to inform them that the young woman was missing.
Miss Roman was from Chicago, Illinois. According to rumor, she was estranged from her wealthy family and reduced to working for a living, yet she nevertheless exhibited cultured and expensive taste. She wore fashionable clothing—designer dresses, shoes, and, on occasion, shockingly high-cut shorts. Three weeks after her arrival, she bought a car. For a single woman, let alone a school teacher, to own a car was spectacle enough, but the car was a red Corvette, a brand-new style called a hardtop convertible, and Enora Roman zoomed around town with the top down all through late summer and into early fall, usually with Thacky Olsen in the passenger seat.
The Witch's Throne (Thea Drake Mystery Book 1) (Thea Drake Mysteries) Page 10