Dance For The Devil

by S. Kodejs

“She’s fucking loony-tunes.”

  “Gina, that’s really nasty. Lauren is just... sensitive.”

  Lauren continued to gaze vacantly, ignoring the conversation centered around her.

  “I know who you are,” Amy said finally. “You’re Lauren Johnston. The girl who disappeared. You were walking home from school with your sister, then ran back around a corner to find a glove you dropped. When your sister came looking for you a few minutes later you were gone. Vanished. Like the earth had swallowed you up. You’re famous! We heard about you even in Toronto, there was a whole bunch of stuff about you in the news. You were featured on ‘Unsolved Mysteries’.”

  “See what happens when you’re rich?” Gina asked. “Everyone makes a fuss. I go missing and nothing. Nobody gives a shit. No newspaper stories, no TV shows. Ow!” She suddenly doubled over.

  “Gina? You okay?” Charise was at her side in an instant. “Is it the baby? Is it time?”

  Gina slowly straightened up. “Nah. Little bastard just kicked me.” She looked squarely at Amy. “Get used to it, kid. You get kicked a lot in this place, inside and out.”

  **

  They were sitting around the kitchen table, eating takeout Chinese. An eavesdropper could be forgiven for thinking them a family. Father dishing out chow mien, mother smiling patiently as she pushes her long hair over her shoulders, son absently patting the family dog. Only they weren’t a family. And each member of this cosy trio held dark thoughts in check, afraid they’d spill onto the table like soya sauce.

  Jake broke the silence. “How was your day, Skeet? Do anything interesting?”

  “No.” Skeeter thought briefly about the arcade, but knew Jake would disprove. So, instead, he asked for another egg roll.

  Jake cleared his throat and the others glanced expectantly. He didn’t know where to begin. So much had happened today, too much information to process. He needed to work it out in his head, let it make sense before he shared it.

  First the meeting with Sergeant Carmichael and his implication Elizabeth hadn’t abandoned them for selfish reasons; that her disappearance sprang from a more sinister connotation. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Was it easier to believe Elizabeth would simply forsake them? The evidence had been there, Jake reminded himself. Her growing discontent, their arguments, the removal of her clothing, the farewell letter. Even subsequent correspondence continued the ruse, written in Elizabeth’s spidery scrawl.

  Then, of course, his despair over Amy’s disappearance. And the heavy, unshakeable feeling he could have prevented it. That it was his fault. That he could find her if only... if only he searched hard enough. But every time he tried he either hit a blank wall or was inundated with information too frightening and too sickening to contemplate.

  Like today. His pleas over the Internet opened a floodgate of information that scarred his soul with stories of ritual abuse that went beyond the boundaries of his imagination. Information that testified to Satanic activity occurring both around the world and here, in Victoria. In his backyard.

  What was worse? Stories of tortured infants or that the name Gil Vandercamp had surfaced seventeen times?

  Gil Vandercamp was, by all accounts, a Satanist. If one could believe the outpouring of human grief that flooded across the computer screen. And Jake did believe it. Why would all those people lie? People, shrouded by anonymity, warning Jake, sharing their stories, their concerns, their anguish.

  Gil Vandercamp. A friend? Certainly, if the definition of friendship included companionship and common interests. How many times had Jake sat with Gil late at night, pouring over plans for the latest video game? How many times had they traded quips about their families? Enjoyed a beer while watching a televised hockey game? Played racquetball, grabbed a meal, worked side-by-side in companionable silence? Gil had offered him a dream job, a dream house, a pleasant social life, and even found the time to dispense pertinent snippets of childrearing advice.

  And, like a dream, he’d woken up to find his life had been nothing but a fantasy. Fired unjustly, career trashed, home destroyed, isolated from his peers and, beyond all reason, missing a child.

  It had all been bogus. He could see that now, in retrospect. The job that seemed too good to be true, the perfect house that he secretly loathed, the sage advice that sounded good yet often went against his instincts.

  So, why had he followed it, so blithely unaware the path led to his own destruction? And, perhaps more importantly, why had Gil set him up?

  Well, that folks, was the million dollar question. A question, unless Jake planned to continue playing the wallowing sucker, he needed to find the answer to.

  He wanted to tell this to Cari but it was impossible with Skeeter sitting innocently across the table. The boy had experienced enough trauma. Christ, Skeeter could keep Dr. Phil going for an entire week: Children abandoned by their mothers. Sons of workaholic fathers who promise to slow down but never do. Siblings with missing siblings. Boys who play with Satanists and live with Witches. Yeah, that would bring in the ratings.

  Jake had grappled with the decision to include Skeeter in the discussions – after all, Skeeter was involved in this as much as he, but in all fairness, it was too big a burden. Twelve was too young to hear about dismembered babies. Too innocent to learn about sex slaves and ritual hazing where the members ate feces and drank human blood. No, his son might not have a place to call home, but the tattered remnants of his childhood would not include the lesson of how mankind can sink to a denominator so low it came directly from Hell.

  Cari sensed Jake was struggling with some inner demons but had problems of her own. She didn’t want to alarm anyone so she’d kept quiet about the vandalism wrought on her store. A malicious break-in where nothing was stolen, only destroyed. Some ceramic pottery was smashed. A few dozen books were strewn about, pages torn and covers shredded, arranged in a tidy pile before being defecated and urinated on. The black spray-painted words: ‘Stay away, Bitch!’ graffitied crudely across one wall.

  Cari discovered the damage this morning. A random act of violence? Or, a deliberate threat? She pondered that during the many solo hours she spent cleaning up.

  She’d been as jumpy as a Siamese cat, jerking abruptly at every little noise, finally managing to slice her finger wide-open on a shard of glass. “Shit,” she muttered, putting it in her mouth to staunch the blood. This nervousness was highly unlike her, but something malevolent was swirling in the air. Something sinister watched her, testing her. The same feeling she’d had when confronted by Gil Vandercamp. Was he behind this? Or had her emotions run amok?

  “Silly thing,” she chastised herself aloud. “A grown woman, afraid, in broad daylight. Been alone here a million times.” Cari caught herself then, thinking, Oh, blessed-be, now I’m talking to myself. What next? The rubber-room and a straight jacket?

  By midday, a new dilemma. The glass repairman couldn’t come until four and she’d promised to pick Skeeter up from school. But then what? If she brought Skeeter here she’d have to explain the broken window and remaining mess, and that was bound to upset him further. Would he be alright by himself for an hour or two until Jake returned? The boy, after all, was twelve. Hardly an infant.

  Skeeter had helped her decide. “Sure, I stay by myself all the time. I’m not a baby,” he explained, echoing her earlier sentiments. And, in retrospect, it was the right choice. Upon returning, Cari found a strangled cat hanging from the ‘Blessed Be’ sign. The pretty calico-body was still warm and soft even though its life was irrevocably gone. Cari cut it down, cradling the poor creature to her chest, fighting the hysteria, while the repairman made her a cup of herbal tea and phoned the police.

  If the ‘Stay away, Bitch!’ hadn’t been warning enough, the dead cat was. This was no isolated incident. No random act of violence. Cari Valentine had been singled out and warned explicitly, in language anyone could understand. Now her decision remained. What was she going to do about it?

  **

  The w
itches began arriving an hour before midnight and amid good-natured jostling and joking, transformed Cari’s living room from cosy den into candle-flickering coven. Jake wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not this. Not this babbling mass of feminism, cheerfully making preparations for what looked like a Tupperware party. If he’d thought about it, he might have imagined witches to be dour and quiet... creatures of the night. He might have expected Cari was an exception, not the norm. Indeed, there was such a wide diversion of ages and appearance amongst the ladies it appeared there was no norm. Some, like Cari Valentine, were young and beautiful. Others were matronly and round, and a few were downright elderly. Some were dressed in retro-hippy clothing, others like crisp fashion models. More than a few were dressed casually in jeans and sneakers. His favorite was the elderly lady dressed neatly in a red wool suit, bearing a striking resemblance to Britain’s Queen Mum. Jake counted an even dozen. He felt out of place, like a rooster in the henhouse.

  The furniture had been pushed to one side, and the carpet rolled up, exposing hardwood flooring marked with a circle that bore marks similar to a compass, only these markings held little meaning for Jake. Inside the circle lay an assortment of items: a wand, an iron pot, a pentacle, a multi-ended whip, a carafe of wine and a brass goblet, some incense and even more candles. There were other items, too, for which Jake could only guess at their usage. He turned his attention to the outer circle: four candles had been placed in quarter sections, and Queen Mum was busy lighting them. He glanced at the clock... midnight. It appeared the meeting was about to begin.

  Jake pressed himself into a corner, trying to remain unobtrusive, aware he didn’t belong here. He was an intruder, yet Cari turned her gaze to him and smiled softly, reassuring him. Jake felt the hackles on the back of his neck begin to rise. He was about to witness something special, something unusual. Something sacred.

  Queen Mum entered the circle and began to talk. She was undoubtedly the leader. It was fitting, Jake thought, since she was by far the eldest. What a proper little thing she was, with her precise movements and clear enunciation.

  “We call,” she began, “upon the Lords of the Watchtowers, the Guardians of the Four Quarters, to prevail and help us locate a lost soul. We ask the Mighty Ones for direction in finding the girl-child Amy Montclaire, and for the preservation of her body and soul so that no harm shall come to her.” She knelt with nimbleness uncommon for a woman of her advanced years, stretching her arms forward and allowing them to be bound. Jake gaped. She appeared to be meditating, eyes closed, rocking gently on her knees. The others followed suit. Although they adopted a variety of positions, all fell into a meditative trance. Jake could see their even breathing, each in tune and unison. Some were silent while others gesticulated with their fingers and arms. Jake located Cari. Her body was breathtakingly still, her face pointed downwards, her mouth moving slightly. A flush had crept into her cheeks and she looked serenely lovely. An aura of tranquility emanated from the room.

  Queen Mum began chanting and Jake tore his attention from Cari back to the elder. The wording was strange, foreign to him but not to the others who joined in readily, their voices rising in concert. A movement caught his peripheral vision and he watched with amazement as one of the witches rose, bearing the odd-shaped whip of fabric cords, and began to strike Queen Mum. Her back arched with each blow, yet the tempo of her chanting increased... Impossible, Jake thought, ready to intervene, until he realized the flagellation was symbolic. The whip never touched Queen Mum’s back.

  The smell of incense was stronger now. Cloying, indeed suffocating. It made Jake feel dizzy and more than a little nauseous. The dozens of flickering candles and loud chanting and overbearing scent gave way to a feeling of complete surrealism. He felt as though he was participating in an old film where the celluloid was grainy and dark, and the actors’ actions unfathomable to the modern viewer.

  The chanting had grown to unbearable proportions, both in intensity and duration. There was energy in this room; Jake could feel its tangibility. As if all these collective souls had banded together and created power. Or summoned it. It was unsettling and more than a little frightening, and Jake realized abruptly that if he wasn’t a believer before – he was now.

  A subtle shifting. Some of the witches were breaking off the chant and sipping wine. Others began to dance. The chanting carried on with less intensity. The witches had reached a state of some sort, Jake realized, and they were now working at maintaining it. He looked for Cari. She was moving freely among the others, her bare feet dancing in the circle, her palms upturned, her long hair swirling. Queen Mum was still kneeling prostrate and the symbolic whipping continued, but Jake sensed a difference in her, too. The old bird had stopped chanting and remained unnaturally still. He watched her prone form for signs of breathing but saw no movement. It was as if she was sleeping, no...more than that. It was as if she was dead.

  Jake lost track of time. He felt like a sleepwalker. He wondered what he’d say to Skeeter should his son wake and appear, but could think of no plausible explanation. Not even the truth made sense.

  Queen Mum jerked violently, and then everything was different. The chanting slowed, the dancing halted. Cari removed the binding from Queen Mum’s wrists and helped her stand. The old girl looked rather wobbly, like she’d been drinking. A chalice was offered to Queen Mum and she accepted it, holding it aloft. “I offer this consecrated wine to the Lords of the Watchtowers. Thank ye for thy help. I remain your humble servant.” With that she took a sip and then passed it around. Each witch partook before handing it to the next. At the end of the circle stood Jake, and he took the proffered vessel, unsure, until Cari motioned for him to drink. He warily took a sip. Red wine. Nothing else. The symbolic similarity to Christian communion was not lost on him.

  It was over. The candles were being extinguished. Someone retrieved the carpet and was unrolling it over the circle, covering the markings. The furniture was replaced, vases returned and pillows plumped. Within five minutes there was no trace of the magic circle, nor of the ritual that had occurred. Someone was handing Jake a piece of chocolate cake and he looked at in disbelief. “Cake?” he asked, his voice a squeak.

  “Of course. You can’t expect a dozen women to congregate without sustenance, do you? We need to replace our energy and what better source than chocolate?” She was joking, he realized.

  “Let me guess,” he said, mouth twitching slightly. “Devil’s food cake?”

  She laughed. “What can I say? They were all out of Angel food mix at Safeway.”

  “Funny.”

  She winked and moved on. The ladies were standing and sitting in little groups, devouring their cake as if the occasion was nothing more unusual than a tea party.

  Women. Jake shook his head. The fairer sex, perhaps, but they left him completely perplexed, witches or not.

  “Jake?” Cari’s voice was soft, her hand warm and reassuring. “I’d like you to meet Aurora Blake, our unofficial leader.”

  “I’d gathered,” Jake said, looking down at Queen Mum. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling merrily. “Quite a production you ladies put on.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. It worked, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The ceremony. It served its purpose. I saw your daughter.”

  Jake was nonplussed. “You saw her?”

  “Oh, yes. I left my body and searched for her. Astral projection, you understand. Very simple really, if you know the technique. Of course, it takes years of practise. The deities heard our pleas and led me there.”

  Jake blinked. The old dear was completely dotty. Cari was beaming, nodding her head. They were all stark-raving nuts. His head throbbed suddenly, an incense hangover. “You saw her?”

  “Oh yes, dear, and you needn’t worry overmuch. Your daughter is fine. A trifle frightened perhaps, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? She’s not alone, there are others with her. Others like her.”

  Jake
shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t making sense. Where did you say my daughter is?”

  “In a room, down below. Terribly dank, it was. Nothing pretty about it. Not much more than a cell, really.”

  He wanted to shake her, to shake the words from her until her teeth rattled and her eyes rolled. Instead he asked patiently, “The address? Did you get an address?”

  Queen Mum smiled toothily. “Of course I did, dear. I may be old but I’m not incompetent. It’s on Tantalus Lane. 46662 Tantalus Lane.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jake rasped, and she repeated it, although he really didn’t need to hear it again. He knew that address. He’d been there many times. 46662 Tantalus Lane housed the stately mansion of Gil Vandercamp.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gil Vandercamp sat in his den contemplating the sky. Not that he could see much of it. The night was as dark as ink and rain pellets the size of marbles were unleashed with unending fury. An occasional lightening flash illuminated the blackness for a microsecond, followed moments later with a satisfying rumble. Gil loved storms. Had loved them his entire life. He remembered sitting on his papa’s knee, watching the forked lightening arc across the eastern sky with a kinetic energy that tantalized the youngster. “The Gods are talking to you,” Papa would say. “Just to you. You’re special, Gil.”

  Eastern lightening was better, of course. Gil missed the variety and intensity of the electrical storms that frequented Ontario, where lightening cracks were so vibrant they’d light up the house. And it was beautiful: luminous forks of fire branching out like the vengeful hand of Satan. Or the ultimate destruction of ball lightening – fabulous. So much power. It was more than a visual experience: it was internal. The static energy travelling through the sky, tingling his skin, making his hair stand up and his body course with charged particles.

  This storm was too watery to feel effective. But that’s what you got on the West Coast, Gil reflected. A poor relation, to be sure, but it would have to suffice. Perhaps next summer he would take Jason to Toronto to allow the boy to experience nature’s majesty for himself.