by Brian Keene
Back home in Marietta, Levi’s neighbors thought that the nice Amish man who lived in the small one-story house next door was a woodworker—and they were partially right. Half of the two-car garage at the rear of his property had been converted into a wood shop (the other half was a stable for Dee). During the week, he spent his time in the wood shop making various goods—coat and spoon racks, chairs, tables, dressers, plaques, lawn ornaments and other knickknacks. Each Saturday, he’d load the items into the back of his buggy and haul them to the local antiques market. It was an honest, decent living and paid for his rent, groceries, utilities and feed for Dee and his dog, Crowley.
But what his neighbors didn’t know was that Levi also had another, more secret vocation. He worked powwow, as had his father and his father before him. Usually, he was sought out for medical treatments. His patients were mostly drawn from three groups: the elderly (who remembered the old ways), the poor (who didn’t have health insurance or couldn’t afford to see a doctor or go to the hospital), and people who’d forsaken the mainstream medical establishment in search of a more holistic approach. Patients came to Levi seeking treatments for a wide variety of ailments and maladies. He dealt with everything from the common cold to arthritis. Occasionally, he was called upon for more serious matters—stopping bleeding or mending a broken bone.
But powwow went beyond medicine. It was a magical discipline just like any other, and once in a while, Levi was charged with doing more than helping the sick or curing livestock. Once in a while, the threats he faced were supernatural, rather than biological, in origin. Levi knew that tonight would be one of those times.
More screams rang out as Levi reached the buggy and climbed up into the back. His weight made the buggy shift, rocking the suspension. Even though the wheels were chocked, the axles groaned slightly. The buggy’s floor was as messy as that of any automobile. Road maps, emergency flares, a flashlight, assorted wrenches and screwdrivers, a pack of tissues and empty fast-food cartons were strewn about haphazardly. He’d meant to clean it out in the morning. Now he had more pressing concerns.
Levi crawled forward through the debris on his hands and knees, careful to keep his head down and out of sight as much as possible. The night had grown dangerous. As if to punctuate this, a gunshot echoed through the night. Judging by the sound, the shooter was only a few blocks away. If the echo was any indication, the weapon was a large-caliber rifle rather than a handgun. He listened carefully, but heard no police sirens—just more screams and shrieks.
A man peeked out of a house across the street and then ducked back inside, slamming the door behind him. As Levi reached the rear of the buggy, he heard footsteps coming toward him. He turned around and saw two men, each carrying a hunting rifle, running his way. They appeared nervous and unsure of where to go. He raised a hand in greeting and they stopped.
“You know what’s going on?” one demanded.
Levi shook his head. “No, but it sounds bad, whatever it is. Perhaps you gentlemen would be safer inside, with your families.”
The second man scoffed, looking at Levi as if he’d just offered them a rabid dog.
“Screw that noise,” he said. “I reckon the best thing we can do for our families is to find out what the hell’s going on. First the power goes out. Then all the damn dogs start acting crazy. Making a fuss. Now everybody’s screaming and shooting.”
“I bet it’s the Al-Qaeda,” muttered the first. “Reckon they could be going after Herb Causlin’s beef farm.”
“You think so, Marlon?”
“Yeah. I figure they’re hitting America’s food supply. Herb’s cattle would be a good place to start.”
“That’s true.” The second man adjusted his grip on the rifle. “Reckon you could be right.”
“I really don’t think it’s Al-Qaeda,” Levi said. “And if it was, why would they go after a small beef farm in West Virginia?”
The men stared at him, frowning. One spat a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the street. The other let his eyes travel up and down, taking in Levi’s garb.
“You’re a weird fucker, aren’t you?”
Levi smiled. “You have no idea.”
“Haven’t seen you around town before, come to think of it. What’s your name, fella?”
“You may call me Levi Stoltzfus. And you’re right, I’m not from around here. I was passing through on my way to Virginia Beach. You should be glad that providence brought me here.”
“Provi-what? That place in Rhode Island?”
The second man nudged his friend in the ribs as another, more distant gunshot echoed through the streets. “Come on, Marlon. Let’s see what’s doing.”
The two ran off without another word. Levi watched them go. When they were out of sight and the street was empty again, he pulled a dirty canvas tarp off a long wooden box at the back of the buggy. He laid the tarp aside and wiped his hands on his pants. The box was padlocked and covered with powwow charms to protect its contents from thieves, witchcraft and the elements. The sigils were painted onto the wood, and in some cases, carved deep into the surface. There were holy symbols and complex hex signs, as well as words of power. Levi ran his fingers over the two most dominant etchings.
I.
N. I. R.
I.
SANCTUS SPIRITUS
I.
N. I. R.
I.
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
He’d carved them himself, just as his father had taught him, carefully inscribing the words from The Long Lost Friend—the main powwow grimoire—as well as words, charms and sigils from other occult tomes he owned that dealt with other magical disciplines. Most of the books had been passed down to him from his father, but since then, Levi had gained access to books that his father would have frowned upon. As he often did during times like this, Levi wondered what his father thought of him now, as he looked down on Levi from the other side. Was he proud of his son? Did he approve? Did he understand that sometimes you had to use the enemy’s methods and learn the enemy’s ways if you were to defeat them? Or like the rest of Levi’s people, did his father disapprove even in death of how Levi used his talents?
There was no way of knowing, of course. It would remain a mystery until the day when Levi saw him again. The day when the Lord called him home. Sometimes, Levi prayed for that moment. Yearned for it. But he feared it, too. Feared what the Lord’s answer might be when he finally stood before Him in judgment.
“Your will be done,” he whispered. “That’s what it’s all about, right, Lord? Your will?”
Another scream pulled him from his thoughts. Levi shivered. The night air was growing chilly and damp. He reached into his pocket, produced a key ring and removed the padlock. Then he opened the box and, despite the growing chaos around him, sighed in a brief moment of contentment. The interior of the box smelled of kerosene and sawdust and dirt. They were comforting smells. They spoke to Levi of hard work and effort and honesty. Many people had boxes like this on the backs of their buggies or in the beds of their pickup trucks. Usually, they held tools of some kind. Chainsaws, shovels, screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, spare engine parts, oil or gasoline cans. Levi’s box held tools, as well, but they were different tools, the ones of his trade.
A rapid volley of gunshots erupted. Levi could tell from the sound that it was two different weapons—a rifle and a handgun. They were far enough away to not immediately concern him, but close enough to tell him that whatever was happening was coming closer.
He reached into the box and sifted through the contents. Normally, a duct-tape-wrapped bundle containing a dried mixture of wormwood, salt, gith, five-finger weed and asafedita—a charm against livestock theft—was at the top of the box, to protect Dee during those times when Levi left the buggy unattended. He’d had her since she was a foal, and the horse—along with his dog—was Levi’s closest companion. She was descended from an old line, a
nd her family had aided his family for a very long time. Her safety was of paramount importance to him. Since she was stabled beyond the town’s outskirts, he’d tied the bundle around her bridle. No harm could befall the horse as long as the bundle remained with her. He felt satisfied that Dee would be safe. He wished that he could say the same for the people of Brinkley Springs.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his slim, battered copy of The Long Lost Friend. Written on the cover in tiny, faded gold lettering was the following:
The Long Lost Friend
A Collection
of
Mysterious & Invaluable
Arts & Remedies
For
Man As Well As Animals
With Many Proofs
Of their virtue and efficacy in healing diseases and defeating spirits, the greater part of which was never published until they appeared in print for the first time in the U.S. in the Year of Our Lord 1820.
By John George Hohman
I N R I
Just holding the volume in his hand made him feel better. This was his primary weapon—an unabridged edition, unlike the public-domain versions one could find online. Those were watered down and edited. This was the real thing.
Smiling, Levi returned the book to his pocket and then focused his attention on the box. He sorted through the books and trinkets. It was an odd assortment. The first item was an e-book reader loaded with the unabridged versions of Frazer’s The Golden Bough, Francis Barrett’s The Magus and Parkes’s Fourth Book of Agrippa, as well as the collected works of John Dee and Aleister Crowley and a scattering of scanned pages from the dreaded Necronomicon and other esoteric tomes. Also in the box were a knife, wooden matches, a cigarette lighter with a cross emblazoned on its side, a small copper bowl, plastic freezer bags filled with various dried plants and roots, a peanut-butter jar filled with desiccated locust shells, a black leather bag filled with different stones and gems, a vial of dirt, a second vial filled with water, a third filled with oil, a small compass, a mummified hand wrapped in cloth, pendants and other assorted jewelry, a lock of hair tied together with red string, fingernail clippings held together with a strip of masking tape, flint arrowheads, baby-food jars filled with various powders and debris, his Rods of Transvection and Divining and many other items. There was also a black cloth vest with many deep pockets.
He put on the vest. The garment was snug around his middle, but it would suffice. He selected the compass, a small bundle of dried sage, another of dried rose petals, a canister of paprika, a second filled with salt, the vials of oil and water, the cigarette lighter and the knife, and stuffed them into his vest and pants pockets. His pants bulged around his thighs when he was finished, and he had to tighten his belt in order to keep his pants from falling down around his ankles. Satisfied, Levi quickly shut and sealed the box. The padlock snapped into place with a sound of finality.
The buggy’s axle groaned again as he hopped back down. Levi stood in the street and glanced up at the moon. It was bright and full and cold. The breeze brushed his face and ruffled his hair. Bowing his head, Levi murmured a prayer.
“The cross of Christ be with me. The cross of Christ overcomes all water and every fire. The cross of Christ overcomes all weapons. The cross of Christ is a perfect sign and blessing to my soul. Now I pray that the holy corpse of Christ bless me against all evil things, words and works.”
He hoped that the prayer and the items in his pockets would be enough to face whatever evil had been visited upon the town. Ideally, he would have fasted for several days before undertaking this task, but these were far from the ideal circumstances. The screams grew louder and more numerous. Armed against whatever might be causing them, Levi waded into the night, ready to do battle.
FIVE
Trish Chambers danced around in her darkened living room, singing ELO’s “Shine a Little Love” in a breathless falsetto. Her treadmill had died when the power went out, and her iPod had stopped working, too, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from getting into shape. She was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and a pair of black loose-fitting sweatpants. The sweats hadn’t always been so baggy, and it was their distinct lack of snugness that kept her going, no matter how exhausted from her exercise routine or disillusioned with her diet she became. Two months of working out every night—of running on the treadmill or dancing along with Richard Simmons and sweating to the oldies—had delivered results. All she had to do was keep going, and she did. Electrical outage be damned. She was divorced, thirty-two and desperate to find someone again.
Not that Brinkley Springs offered her many choices when it came to finding someone to date. Trish worked at the bank in Lewisburg, and the choices there weren’t much better. All of the male employees were either married or gay. A friend of hers had suggested she try one of the online dating websites, but Trish hadn’t quite worked up the nerve yet. She decided to wait until she was happy with her body.
After all, she’d spent the last twelve years of her life trying to make someone else happy—her ex-husband, Darryl. Now it was time to focus on herself. If she was happy with who she was, then it would be easier to find someone else who’d be happy with her. A man like she’d always dreamed of. Someone who would take her breath away.
She switched from ELO to Garth Brooks’s “Friends In Low Places,” singing out the vocals with an exaggerated drawl, and did a series of jumping jacks. The knickknacks on the shelves trembled and the ceiling fan swayed back and forth, but Trish didn’t care. She pressed herself for another three minutes and didn’t stop until she heard the gunshot.
Gunfire was a normal sound in Brinkley Springs. Lots of people hunted in the mountains around town, or engaged in a little backyard target shooting from time to time. On the Fourth of July, many residents often celebrated by firing their guns into the air. Normally, the sound of gunshots was nothing to be concerned about. Trish was just about to start exercising again when she realized that the gunfire was accompanied by multiple screams.
“What in the world?”
Breathing hard from the past half hour’s exertion,she padded to the front door and looked out the window. The streets were dark, and she couldn’t see anything. More shots echoed down the streets, followed by more cries of alarm. Trish was just about to open the door and peek outside when she heard glass breaking in her bedroom. Her hand fluttered to her chest and her breath caught in her throat.
More glass tinkled, as if falling to the floor. Then she felt a slight breeze drift through the house. Someone had broken in.
She reached for the phone, picked it up and dialed 911. Then she brought the receiver to her ear. There was only silence. No emergency operator. No ringing. Not even a dial tone. Whimpering softly, she placed the phone back in its cradle and tiptoed toward the kitchen. Her cell phone was lying on the counter. If she could reach it in time . . .
Laughter drifted from her bedroom, cold and malicious and definitely male. Her heart rate, already rapid from her exercise routine, increased.
Trish kept a pistol in the house, a Ruger .22 semiauto. She’d bought it at the gun store on Chestnut Avenue after she and Darryl split up because she’d been nervous being alone in the house at night. She kept it loaded. (“No sense having an unloaded gun in the house,” her daddy had always said.) The weapon was in the top drawer of her bedroom nightstand— right next to the window the intruder had gained entry through, judging by the sound.
Fat lot of good that does me.
She wondered if the intruder could be Darryl. She wouldn’t have thought so. He’d been pretty satisfied with the divorce, because it meant he could cat around at the bars and elsewhere without fear of getting caught. But if he’d been drinking, she wouldn’t put it past him. Maybe her lawyer had been right.
Maybe she should have gotten a restraining order.
Trish reached the end of the living room and was just about to step into the kitchen, when her bedroom door banged open at the far end of the hall a
nd a figure dressed entirely in black leaped out into the hallway and rushed toward her. Trish backed away, screaming, aware that other people were shrieking right outside her house. She collided with an end table, sending a lamp her aunt had bought her as a wedding present crashing to the floor. Then the dark figure was upon her. He stank like something dead. The last thing Trish noticed was how big the man’s mouth was. Darkness engulfed her. She opened her mouth to scream again, and her attacker stifled her cries with a savage, forceful kiss that suffocated her. She was aware that he was laughing as he did it. His body shook and jiggled against hers as he wrapped both arms around her and squeezed.
Trish heard her spine snap as he took her breath away.
***
Clutching a 12-gauge shotgun, Paul Crowley stood in his backyard and squinted, peering into the darkness. The air was chilly, and Paul shivered as the breeze rushed over him. He was clad in a dirty pair of jeans and a loose-fitting, faded John Deere T-shirt with mustard stains on it. The stains were fresh— leftovers from his dinner, which he’d eaten in front of the television again, sitting in the recliner and watching a nature program on PBS.
Paul didn’t care much for PBS’s liberal bias, but he enjoyed shows about wildlife and nature, and since he didn’t have cable or satellite, PBS was his only option. Tonight’s program had been about crows. Paul didn’t have much use for the damned things. Nasty little creatures. They carried the West Nile virus and other diseases. In the spring, they rooted through his garden and ate up all the seeds he’d planted. In the fall and winter, they fluttered around in the woods, making a fuss and alerting wild game to his presence. Paul had missed shots at plenty of deer and wild turkeys over the years thanks to motor mouthed, obnoxious crows. When he’d been a boy, Paul’s daddy had told him that a group of crows could kill and eat a newborn lamb. Maybe that was why a group of crows was called a murder. He’d been surprised to learn from the program that crows could imitate a human’s voice. Apparently, they were highly intelligent and cunning. Paul didn’t care. Just because they were smart didn’t mean they were any less of a nuisance.