“Okay.” Felicity nodded as she directed her attention toward me and motioned for me to come over. “Rowan, you come stand here, then.”
I did as I was instructed, still feeling somewhat wistful at the sight of her and that auburn mane.
“Ben, you stand on the other side here,” she instructed.
“Okay.” He moved into position. “What now?”
“Just be quiet and don’t open that bag until I tell you to.”
“This isn’t gonna get all hinky, is it?”
Felicity had already stepped behind him, facing toward the east and was tearing open the salt packets. “Just be quiet and do what I tell you to do.”
“Yeah. Great,” he answered in a flat tone then mumbled, “Jeezus, I can’t believe I’m doin’ this.”
Felicity carefully began sprinkling the salt along an arc as she walked slowly clockwise around us. She would stop only briefly at each of the quarters-south, west, and north-and give a slight nod of her head, silently acknowledging the elements. By the time she made her way back around to the east, she had emptied a half dozen of the small paper packets onto the floor in a rough circle, leaving only a small opening unsalted. Though it was not visibly perceptible, the energy of the purified barrier was something I could easily feel.
In a fluid motion my wife moved smoothly deosil-or clockwise-around us a second time. Holding her arms outstretched, she moved silently until she was once again before the small opening where she started. After a slight pause she repeated the circuit twice more.
“What the hell’s she doin’?” Ben whispered the question to me from across the wheeled table.
“Cleansing the work area,” I replied in my own hushed tone.
As Felicity came to rest at the end of the third revolution, she brought her arms down, around, and back up in front of her as if gathering something unseen into a bundle. Then she forcefully pushed her palms outward, casting the invisible detritus she had gathered through the opening she had left just for this purpose. Immediately upon completing this task, she sprinkled the remains of a salt packet on the floor at her feet, effectively closing the now purified circle.
“Is that it?” Ben voiced.
“Shhhh!” my wife warned as she remained at rest-arms at her sides, facing east with her back to us, and her head bowed.
He started to retort but halted before uttering a sound as I slowly shook my head and mouthed the word, “Don’t.” Instead he simply rolled his eyes and allowed his shoulders to fall slightly.
I could sense that Felicity had fallen into an easy rhythm with her breathing, taking deep lungfuls of air in through her nose and exhaling softly out through her mouth. In an almost symbiotic reaction, my own breathing slipped into time with hers.
After a short meditation, she slowly raised her arms from her sides, palms upward, then allowed her chin to rise from her chest, bringing her face upturned toward the ceiling.
“Lord and Lady spin about,” she began in a quiet, singsong voice, “Watch over us this night throughout. In the dark, one journeys long, in search of answers hidden strong. Please guide him through and guard his fate, for on this side, I shall wait.
“Please lead me through these passing hours, and grant to me your protective powers. For here and now are spirits still, kept at bay by my own will. From head to toe, above and below, watch over him as west winds blow. From earth to air, sky to ground, keep Rowan safe and well and sound.”
Chilled silence filled the room as her last words faded. Ben stood staring at me, mute but questioning with his eyes. I’m not entirely sure what he had been expecting to happen in conjunction with this bit of SpellCraft, but he seemed almost disappointed. His face visibly betrayed his reaction to what must have been anticlimactic in a host of ways. The sort of letdown that comes from seeing real WitchCraft firsthand, but only after first being saturated with years of too many Hollywood special effects and inaccurate portrayals by the entertainment industry.
I couldn’t place all of the blame in their laps, however. Even though they were only partially connected with my spiritual path, one could be certain that the bizarre psychic phenomena that seemed to plague me on a regular basis had helped to cloud his perceptions as well.
“Like I’ve told you before,” I whispered in answer to his unasked question, “casting a spell for a Witch is pretty much just like praying is for a Christian.”
Felicity had left her station at the eastern point of the circle and had now sidled up next to me. I felt her right palm press against my own and her fingers intertwine with mine in a vise-like grip. Immediately I felt the chaotic energy within my body connect with hers as she took firm hold of my ethereal self. She simply ignored my own earthly bond, fleeting and tenuous as it was, and forcibly grounded me through her own solid coupling with this plane of existence.
She looked into my eyes, silently daring me to even try letting go of her hand, and then glanced over to Ben with a look of extreme concentration furrowing into her brow.
“Aye,” she said with a nod. “ Now you can open it.”
CHAPTER 8
If nothing else, I was most definitely no longer fantasizing about my wife’s hair.
The malodorous stench of decay spewed outward in a cloud of invisible but uniquely vile smelling gases. They escaped the body bag in an instantly rising plume that marched lockstep directly behind the zipper pull as Ben tugged it open.
The noxious vapor forced the three of us to cough and twist our heads away as it pushed its way into our nostrils. I felt a column of bile searing upward in my throat, and I swallowed hard to force it back into the depths from which it came. My churning stomach did a somersault and twisted into a tight knot as it threatened to evacuate what little contents it held.
I shifted my watery-eyed glance between Ben and Felicity and saw that they were in no better shape than me. My wife was seriously green, and Ben’s head was cocked away with his eyes tightly shut. He had already seen this at least once, and he didn’t appear to be particularly interested in a repeat viewing.
“Awww, Jeeeezzz…” my friend’s voice trailed off as he mumbled.
Two months, fluctuating temperatures, and even some of nature’s children had been hard at work on the earthly remains of Debbie Schaeffer. What was left of her body was still clad in the tattered leavings of a pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt that bore the partial logo of Oakwood College.
The clothing had already begun along the same journey of decomposition as the rest and was heavily stained with the purge fluids that escape the confines of the flesh during decay. The fibers had already begun to break down in places, creating large holes in the garments. One side of the sweatshirt was particularly desiccated, revealing a substantial portion of her ribcage and even some remaining mold-covered flesh. One running shoe still hugged the remnants of her right foot, but the other was gone, leaving the left exposed and skeletonized within the disintegrating weave of a white cotton sock.
I suddenly remembered having once seen a cable television documentary about forensic pathology and a place in Tennessee nicknamed “The Body Farm.” While a plot of land where decomposing human cadavers are studied wasn’t exactly high on my list of things to recall, the sight before me triggered the forgotten memory and a handful of facts returned to the forefront of their own accord.
What came to me immediately was the recollection that there were basically five states the human body would go through post mortem-fresh/autolysis; bloating/putrefaction; wet decay/skin slippage and fluid purging; dry decay/partial mummification; and finally, skeletonization.
This young woman’s remains represented at least four of these five stages, and they were fully embroiled in seeing the process through to its conclusion. At the moment the gelid atmosphere of the cold room was holding them off only slightly, which is what triggered the next arcane factoid to bubble up from the depths of my memory-any and all of these stages could be hindered or hastened by a wide variety of factors such as te
mperature, humidity, and even body type.
Debbie Schaeffer had been dumped in the woods, fully clothed, and wrapped in plastic sheeting. To the best of the medical examiner’s determination, it had been sometime around the end of October or beginning of November. The temperatures had ranged from well below freezing, right up into the sixties and even seventies over the past two months. Rain had fallen. Sun had shone. Opportunistic predators from mammal to insect had come and gone. Mother Nature had worked to reclaim what, in the end, rightfully belonged to her.
This young woman had literally become a self-contained forensic pathology specimen suitable for inclusion in a textbook. I had to consciously remind myself that she had once been whole and full of life, not the putrefied and skeletonized mass I was seeing before me now. The visual evidence didn’t make it easy.
“Jeeeezzz, white man,” Ben sputtered. “Ya’ wanna do your thing so we can close this up. I’m about ready ta’ spew.”
His words rattled in my ears and registered as little more than background noise because I was already doing my thing.
A calm like I had not felt in more than a year fell over me. I had all but forgotten what it felt like to be fully and completely grounded. I squeezed Felicity’s hand tight and basked in the vibrant flow of energy passing between us. Almost instantly I found myself wishing I could remain this way indefinitely.
I drew in a deep breath and sputtered as I immediately regretted the action. After a quick shake of my head, I pulled myself back together and focused on the task that brought me here.
Slowly, I brought my free hand up and reached outward. I could feel a growing static electricity-like attraction flowing between Debbie Schaeffer’s remains and me. The ethereal magnetism took hold, and like the opposite poles of magnets, it sucked my palm downward until it brushed against a tangled mass of blonde hair that had pulled away from the skull.
Where am I?
Darkness underscored by a faint, high-pitched whine.
I scream… Or do I? I hear nothing.
What is happening to me?
An explosion of blinding light.
Blink.
Psychedelic spots before my eyes.
Staring into nothingness.
Darkness.
A second bright blast.
Blink.
My heart races.
The kaleidoscope goes on.
Darkness…
Darkness…
Yet another sudden infusion of brightness.
More spots in the mix.
Darkness fading to a soft light.
A silhouette moving in the shadows.
Visceral fear.
My ethereal self jerks quickly back as the most recent experiences of Debbie Schaeffer’s life-and perhaps death-assault me without apology. Her fear wraps its icy grip about my heart and begins to squeeze mercilessly. I have no idea what I am going to see, but I am certain it will be less than pleasant.
Felicity’s grip on me remains steadfast; I don’t think I could break free of her even if I wanted to. As I force myself back forward into the ethereal quest for answers, I feel a wholly familiar presence in the room. In the here and now-in the land of the living. But I can tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that it no longer belongs on this side of the bridge.
Phasing in and out of synchronization with time, the entity’s feminine voice rings directly into my ear.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up. I’ve been waiting for you, you know, Rowan. What took you so long?”
Before I can respond, Debbie Schaeffer turns her attention elsewhere. She is apparently observing something that I cannot see. She continues her recitation off in the distance, speaking as much to herself as to me.
“What’s he doing now? Oh man, is he kidding? Would you look at that, Rowan? Is he an idiot or what? I mean it’s not like it’s rocket science to pick out an outfit, you know. He’s got to be color blind or something.”
I have no idea what she is talking about.
I cannot see what she is seeing.
The volume of her voice fades from high to low and then low to high as it moves about my head in an insane demonstration of stereophonic principles. The disconcerting pattern of her speech continues to shift in and out of time between planes of existence.
“Get a grip, will’ya? Those red shoes don’t go with that skirt. The black ones, you moron, the BLACK ones!” Her voice seems directed at someone unseen by me.
“I don’t think he can hear me. Hell, I can’t even hear me. What do you think, Rowan? Can he hear me?”
“Who?” I ask aloud. “Tell me who can’t hear you.”
“What’s that?” Ben’s voice slowly rumbles past me in a discordant echo.
Oh God, what’s happening?
Where am I?
Absolute terror burns its way into my chest.
I can see only a silhouette in the dim light. I can’t make out any features.
An explosion of brightness sears my eyes.
I’m blind.
I try to scream, but it catches in my throat and rests there, making me choke.
I can feel the burn of tears welling in my eyes.
An angry voice exclaims, “Fuck! Not again! STOP IT! STOP CRYING! Your makeup is running!”
“I don’t care. It serves you right, you weirdo. Oh, no way. Are you blind? That lipstick is way too dark. Look at me, you idiot.” Debbie Schaeffer’s voice vibrates inside my head as she admonishes some unseen figure.
She turns her attention back to me for a moment. “Can you believe this guy, Rowan?”
Before I can even begin to answer, she is yelling at him again.
“Go ahead, make me look like a circus clown, you dipshit!”
Her voice bounces around inside my skull, trying on my psyche for size. From one moment to the next, I am she and she is me. We are one and the same. We are neither and separate. We phase in and out of one another like playing cards shuffled into a deck.
She stands at my shoulder.
She faces me.
She steps into me.
She steps out of me.
She runs to the brink of a distant unseen abyss and casts her deprecating observations into its depths.
The darkness enveloping me bleeds black then suddenly shifts to blue grey.
Then it all becomes blackness again.
She jumps in and out of my head as if trying to find the most comfortable spot to reside.
I try not to fight the process but wonder if the pain is truly worth what I may eventually discover from her; if I discover anything at all.
She settles in behind my eyes, and the landscape becomes a muted haze. I am beginning to see what she sees. But what for her is vivid color, for me is nothing more than a faint outline.
Together, we watch with growing interest as the shadow moves about.
Who are you?
Why are you touching me?
No! Please, no?!
Oh God, please don’t!
A violent thrust from nowhere purges Debbie Schaeffer from me. The suddenness of it all is even more painful than her careless entries and exits have been. The scene changes point of view, and I see a young woman clad in a party dress. She is arranged in a chair, her body limp. Her face is a palette of colors, painted haphazardly on delicate features.
Visceral, primal thoughts race through my head.
Electrically charged sexual desire wells within me, coursing throughout my body with an animalistic passion.
The feeling is unnatural and foreign.
The intensity of the desire frightens me, but I cannot back away from it.
In the real world I am disgusted by something dark that permeates the arousal.
In the real world I begin to feel physically sickened by the perversity that is woven within the shroud of lust.
Between the worlds I am engaged by it and craving more.
Oh Jesus! She is just so gorgeous!
She’s so close! So close!
Damn! She’s almost perfect!
Muted darkness.
Explosive blinding light.
Muted darkness.
Explosive blinding light.
Muted darkness.
Jesus…So close.
My desire is stiffening, and I can’t wait any longer.
I must fulfill the need.
Quench the fire.
On this side of reality I deny the urge to take myself in hand. In the darkness between, I am unable to resist.
“Dammit, Rowan! Don’t let him in!” Debbie’s voice scrapes past my ears with anger charged static. “You aren’t like him. Stop it!”
Panting…
Heart racing…
Quickening…
She’s so close…
She’s the closest yet…
If only she was really her…
So close…
Quickening…
Faster…
Again, Debbie’s voice punches inward and wrestles me away, evicting the sudden perversion from its warm and comfortable place in my head. For all the disconcerting imagery she brings with her, I am thankful for the rescue. Her voice is frenzied and caustic-aimed at me, him, whomever. She slips into the three-piece suit of my id, ego, and superego taking absolutely no care as the seams rip. The intensity of her emotion painfully rends the garment that is I.
“Look at me, shithead. I must look like a two-year-old who got into Mommy’s makeup. Are you blind or are you just stupid? How in the hell can that be getting you off?”
She slips out without warning and stands before me. I feel the hard sting of her palm against my cheek. “Don’t you ever do that again! It’s GROSS! You’re supposed to be HELPING me, Rowan, not acting just like HIM!”
Her voice calms, and she studies me carefully.
“Okay. That’s better. So now that you’re back, you want to tell me what is up with this guy, Rowan?”
Again, she flits away before I can answer. I am left standing in the cold darkness.
I hear her distant tenor echo in the abyss.
“Hey, you! Perv boy! Are you listening to me?”
She returns as quickly as she left, making my stomach churn as she turns my neural pathways into an amusement park ride.
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