by Mae Clair
Shawn’s knife hand tingled. Like the flesh was stretched tightly over his bones and a spider scampered across his knuckles. He crept from the kitchen, inching down the hall toward the living room.
“Will.” Sweat dripped into his eyes. His heartbeat accelerated, blood pulsing at his temples. “Will, it’s Shawn Preech.”
Hanley was close by. The man’s fear permeated the air, a honeyed drug lingering a finger’s breadth out of reach.
The craven cowers from the demon. Spineless and weak-kneed. We do not suffer the gutless to live.
“Shawn?” Hanley’s voice was a feeble croak, half its normal volume.
Shawn followed the sound to its source and found Will crouched behind a brown easy chair. He sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, his knees drawn to his chest. Rocking back and forth, he raised his head, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “Is it gone?”
Pacify the fool.
“Gone.” He plastered on a smile. “I scared it away.”
Hanley’s gaze darted to the side, then ping-ponged back in a hopeful expression. “I’m safe?”
“Safe.” Shawn extended his left hand.
Like leading a lamb to the slaughter.
Hanley’s legs were unsteady when he stood. He gripped the back of the chair and looked about the room as if to ensure there was nothing lurking in the corners. “Where’s Misty?”
“Haven’t seen her.” He smiled encouragingly, hoping to place the old man at ease. “Maybe we should go into the kitchen.”
Good boy. Near the door. Set the stage.
“I could make you coffee and you can tell me what happened.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Hanley dragged shaking fingers down his face. He moved from his hiding place—tentatively at first, like someone who ventured from night into day after years of isolation. “Maybe I should call someone…tell them what I saw.” Wobbling, he braced a hand against the wall for support. Another nervous glance about the room, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “I’m worried about Misty.”
“There’s a phone in the kitchen, isn’t there?”
Hanley bobbed a yo-yo nod. Shawn had never noticed before how skinny his neck was. It would be easy to snap, break like the balsa wood planes he used to fly as a kid. He’d saved up his allowances for a nice custom one when he was eleven, then his dad had trashed the thing in a drunken rage. Too bad it wasn’t his dad’s neck he was snapping.
You will use the knife. You will follow my plan.
He trailed Hanley into the kitchen. The guy seemed to be recovering a little with each passing second. Probably didn’t like the idea of dirt-track Shawn finding him cowering behind his La-Z-Boy like a chickenhearted weakling. In a few more minutes he’d have his head together and that would make him a hell of a lot harder to take down. At the very least, he’d put up a fight, which was sure to get messy.
His back turned, Hanley moved to the phone.
Shawn tightened his hand on the knife. He had a clear target now, no resistance, but he wanted to see Hanley’s face when the danger registered.
“Will.”
Hanley picked up the receiver.
“Will, turn around.”
Still slightly dazed, Hanley glanced over his shoulder.
Shawn grinned, but there was nothing friendly in the wolfish stretch of his lips. By the time Hanley saw the knife, all he could do was throw up an arm in defense. The receiver clattered to the floor, bouncing on a springy mustard-yellow spiral of cord. Hanley grunted when the knife sank into his chest, his eyes bulging to the size of marbles.
“Wh—” He clutched at Shawn’s hands—both locked on the knife now—but his life was already slipping, leaking away in each ribbon of blood that oozed over his checkered shirt.
“Why?” Shawn ripped the knife free. “Is that what you want to know?”
Hanley slumped against the wall, a wet splutter of breath rattling from his lips. Blood dribbled down his chin.
Slash. Like claws. Like the demon.
Oh, yes. He could do that, and could do it without explanation. Something slipped inside. A hold on reality—his identity—but he no longer cared. The power was electrifying. Let Hanley go to his grave wondering what sin he’d committed to warrant a brutal end.
Shawn hacked at the man’s cheek. Blood exploded from the jagged tear, a sight which enflamed his rage. How dare this man live! A pathetic coward who cringed behind a chair, too terrified to face the creature the heathen had summoned.
Another slash, the blade flaying open Hanley’s chest. The old man’s legs folded and his eyes rolled back in his head. Shawn followed him to the ground, slashing and slashing again. It was only when Hanley’s body pitched to the side and lay unmoving that Shawn realized he was dead.
His breath heaved from his lungs; great gasps that made him hunch over and bend double at the waist. He waited for the giddy adrenalin rush that had followed beating Suzanne into submission, but nothing came. Instead he felt sick and dizzy. His head throbbed and his grip on the knife was slick with sweat, prickling with fire.
Finish it.
Shawn tried to pull himself together. He looked around and found a towel in the cupboard under the sink. He was making a mess of things, leaving bloody shoe and fingerprints everywhere. Red teardrops splattered his clothes.
There will be time to clean up later.
He looked over his shoulder at Hanley, disturbed he couldn’t reclaim the rush he’d felt earlier. It had all seemed so simple, made so much sense at the time. Now he felt misdirected and confused.
He cleaned the blade off in the sink, washed his hands, then dug through the cupboards for food. Hunger pummeled his gut. He’d drank most of his meal at the River last night and was suddenly ravenous. Finding a large cardboard box under the sink, he loaded it with staples—crackers, bread, peanut butter. He needed food. As much food as he could find. In the cupboard by the refrigerator he stumbled over a pack of Oreos and scarfed half down while he worked. He guzzled a cola, but five minutes later threw the soda and cookies up in the sink.
Shit.
You have enough.
It was time to leave, to get out before someone spied his Charger in the driveway. He cleaned up the sink, wiped up his bloody prints, and looked around for a piece of paper.
There was one more thing he had to do to make the scene complete.
* * * *
Monday mornings were never the highlight of the week and Sarah was glad to have another mostly behind her. She had forty more minutes until her lunch break when Quentin Marsh walked into the Vital Records division of the courthouse. Sarah was at her desk behind the counter, her coworker, Patty Noone, across from her, finishing up a phone call. Sarah waved an aside to Patty, alerting her she would take care of whatever was needed, then plastered a smile on her face and approached the counter. There was something that made her feel slightly on edge when around Quentin Marsh and it had nothing to do with a Ouija board.
“Hi.” Sarah greeted him across the counter. He wore faded jeans and a T-shirt today, the shirt nearly the same chestnut brown as his hair. “Looks like we meet again. What can I help you with?”
She wondered if he found the surroundings stuffy and outdated. The whole room had a weathered, yellowed look that reminded her of old newspapers. Half was taken up by an L-shaped counter, her desk and the desks of two other clerks behind the foot of the L. The larger section was composed of parallel rows of wooden shelves, each laden with fat black binders stacked end to end. Two large tables with four chairs occupied the open section of the room, reserved for visitors or anyone who might want to spend countless hours poring over archives.
Quentin cleared his throat. “I hear you’re kind of an expert on local history.”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far.” A blush of modesty warmed Sarah’s cheeks. “I’m involved in the Historical Society and I’ve done a lot of research on the area.” Behind her, Patty finished her phone call, gathered
a stack of papers, and headed for the copy machine. Her smart black pumps click-clacked across the vinyl floor. “Is there something in particular you’re interested in?”
“More like someone.”
“An ancestor?” Sarah couldn’t recall ever doing research on the name Marsh, but that didn’t mean a forebear of Quentin’s family didn’t exist in Point Pleasant’s history. The copy machine rumbled behind her.
“Does the name Jonathan Marsh mean anything to you?” Quentin asked.
Sarah puzzled it over. “I’m afraid not. But if you know what type of record you’d like to access, I can help you find the correct references. Many of our earlier records are transcribed, but birth and death certificates date back to 1853.”
Quentin scowled. “I have a feeling it would be earlier.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Afraid not.”
“Was Jonathan ever married?”
“Zero idea, again. Why would you ask?”
“Well, certificates of marriage were some of the earliest records for most areas. Our county marriage certificates date back to 1781 and we have some overlap from Virginia, which started recording marriages in 1706. Normally, if someone is researching family ancestry they’ll have a time frame they want to reference.” She raised her hand, touched the blue stone dangling at her throat. Lately, she’d taken to wearing the necklace more frequently. Perhaps it was merely a reminder that the anniversary of her parents’ death lingered around the corner. Eighteen years and her memories of the night always boiled down to lightning and the pendant.
Quentin’s gaze was drawn to the stone. He studied it briefly before glancing back to her. “Is there a way to research based on last name?”
“Of course.” He had his work cut out for him. “I can set you up with some books at one of the tables.” She nodded to the two tables behind him, both presently unoccupied. “It’s the long way of doing things but we can go that route. Just give me the decade you’d like to start with. I’d suggest going through marriage licenses first since they’ll be the earliest records.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Fifteen minutes later Sarah left him at the table, a stack of black binders at his elbow. She’d decided to brown-bag it today and hit the lunch room with Mary Horner from Criminal Records during her half-hour break. Quentin was still immersed in his work, silently flipping pages, occasionally scribbling a note on a yellow legal pad when she returned. Throughout the afternoon, she provided him with more record books, including birth and death certificates.
“Any luck?” she asked at one point when she had a break. Public inquiries had been slow, giving her a chance to catch up on her backlog. She paused at the table on her way to the prothonotary’s office, several folders in her arms.
“Nothing on Jonathan, but I’ve found some other names. Two marriages in the late eighteen hundreds but I don’t think it’s the same Marsh family. Penelope is going to be disappointed.”
“Penelope?
“My sister. She did some preliminary work and was able to trace our family back to the early eighteen hundreds before the line disappears. They weren’t from this area.”
“Oh.” Puzzled, Sarah drew her brows together. “Then why are you looking in Point Pleasant?”
“That’s kind of a convoluted story.” Quentin flipped shut the binder he’d been studying. “I’m not even sure I believe it, but I’m inclined to be open-minded since arriving in town.” He plopped the book on top of another one. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your necklace.”
He’d mentioned something about her necklace the other day. The unusual stone often drew comments, but as his gaze narrowed on hers, she realized his interest might be more than casual. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“Interesting.”
“Why is that?”
“Because so is this.” Quentin dug into his pocket, then plunked an amulet on the table—a black-veined blue stone in a silver setting.
The mirror image of her own.
* * * *
Quentin watched Sarah’s face for reaction. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. The similarity between her necklace and the amulet was too striking to be coincidental. She set the folders on the table then brushed her fingertips over the stone.
“I’ve never seen another like mine.” Her glance was uncertain.
“Neither have I.”
“What do you think it means?”
He shrugged, mentally ticking off possibilities. He vaguely remembered the amulet as a kid. Something his great-grandfather took out occasionally and held like a worry stone, rubbing his thumb over the blue gem in the center. When he passed away it was willed to Quentin with no explanation, just something his great-grandfather wanted him to have. Quentin’s father said it was probably because he was a twin, as Great-Grandpa Al had been.
Then Penelope found out she was pregnant with twins and had gone to see her friend the psychic for an extra measure of comfort—as she called it—to ensure there wouldn’t be complications with the birth. Never mind she had a highly skilled obstetrician at her disposal. Pen had developed a New Age mentality that made her double-check everything against planet alignments and spiritual energy. Not long after her visit to Madam Olga, Quentin found himself chasing down curses and the legend of Chief Cornstalk. Right now all he wanted to do was wrap his visit, head home, and pacify his sister. He wasn’t getting anywhere through tourist channels or record books, so he might as well step out on a limb. For all her strange philosophies and soothsayer beliefs, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Pen—including looking like an idiot if that’s what it took to get answers.
“Seems to me since your family is from this area and mine may have roots here, they must have crossed paths at some time.” He picked up the amulet. “I think this has been kicking around in my family for centuries, but the only speculation I have for thinking that will probably sound crazy.”
Sarah watched him intently. So intently that when a phone rang in the background, she jerked in surprise. Nervously, she fiddled with the chain of her necklace.
“Can I take you to dinner?” He hadn’t planned on blurting the suggestion, but she was his best shot at getting to the bottom of the Marsh family curse. “I’m not trying to be forward.” Hopefully, he wasn’t coming off like a jerk. “These books aren’t getting me anywhere.” He waved a hand over the binders. “And they’re not really the source of what I need.”
She tilted her head. “What do you need?”
“To understand what happened in 1777.” He might as well go for it. “October 10, 1777, to be precise.”
She was a historian and would know the significance of the date.
“The day Chief Cornstalk died.”
“Or was murdered, depending on how you look at it. So, how about it? Would you like to talk moldy history over dinner?”
“Sure.” Her composure returned. She picked up her folders and smoothed a hand over the top. “I get off at four-thirty, but somehow I think it’s more than history you want to talk about.”
Of course she was right. But how did you tell someone you wanted to talk about curses without them thinking you were crazy?
* * * *
Rather than go to the River for dinner, Sarah suggested they grab something to eat at the North Dock, further down Main. Point Pleasant was relatively small and the River was a local hangout where tongues were sure to wag if she had dinner with the hotel’s most recent guest. She couldn’t avoid being seen, but at least at the North Dock she wouldn’t be under the scrutiny of Eve and Katie, who seemed determined to connect her to Quentin thanks to the prediction of a Ouija board.
Inside, the waitress seated them by the front window with a view of the street, gave them menus to look over, and then disappeared to fill their drink order. The atmosphere was casual with booths and tables offset by potted plants and black-and-white photos of riverboats. Her grandfather
was in one of those photos, a man who’d made his living on the barges from the time he was barely fourteen.
Sarah ordered a pasta dinner while Quentin chose a steak and potato combo with a side of green beans. They made small talk about the area until their food arrived.
“How long have you worked at the courthouse?” Quentin cut into his steak, the thick scars on the back of his hand plainly visible.
“About five years. I took a job in Cleveland after college, but I missed Point Pleasant.” He probably thought her too rural for the city but that hadn’t been the case at all. “Small towns have a habit of getting under your skin.” She thought about explaining how she couldn’t bring herself to leave the area where her parents and grandparents were buried, but feared she would come off sounding maudlin. “What about you?” Time to find out more about the man with the unusual amulet. “What kind of work do you do?”
“Before or now?” His tone carried a trace of bitterness; the edge seemed to surprise him. “Sorry. I guess I’m still adjusting to a career change.” He paused and set his knife down to flex his right hand. The gesture looked absent, an automatic reflex he performed without thought. “My family owns an ad agency in Rhode Island. It’s well-established and has a strong client base. I accepted the position of vice president two years ago.”
She saw no reason for his bitterness. “That sounds great.”
“Maybe.” He plopped a pat of butter onto the potato. “It’s not what I set out to do, but it’s tolerable as an alternative.”
“To?” She raised her brows and curled a few strands of angel hair pasta onto her fork.
“Music. I entered Juilliard at fifteen.”
Shock coursed through her. “Oh, wow. That’s amazing.”
He shrugged, his mouth tightening slightly. “For a time. I started on the piano when I was two and by the time I was twenty, I was playing concert halls.”