Darkness Echoes: A Spooky YA Short Story Collection

by L. A. Starkey

  Personally, I don’t get why she’s so happy.

  The weird thing is that no one can read the book. No, that’s not completely true – anyone can read what is now written on the pages, but the message is an enigma. The cryptic words are written in some kind of poem or riddle. Most of it looks like a weird recipe with some witchy-astrological jargon thrown in, such as “planetary ascendance” and “fifteen degrees Scorpio” and “Samhain”.

  And, from what I can tell, the writing is already starting to fade. The bold, black ink is now a timeworn shade of sepia like in those old, monochromatic photos from early last century. The coven believe the writing will disappear completely by the end of All Hallows’ Eve. It’s as if each imprinted memory or spell has a use-by date.

  I was kind of hoping my part was over – but that would have been far too easy apparently. Ben obviously didn’t feel any loyalty in keeping my secrets as he told his mom about the strange sensations emanating from Ichabod’s book – psychical vibes which only I seem to be sensitive to – when he handed it over to his mother’s coven in the hope that they can decipher it.

  Clearly, his mother finds this intriguing as she says, ‘Well, Evelyn, it’s time for you to learn the ancient rites. You’ve proven that you have the gift and the coven has unanimously agreed to initiate you. I always sensed an ability within you, even when you were only a child.’

  Somehow she catches a glimpse of the suspicion and doubt that I’m so desperately trying to hide because she follows up her statement with, ‘I’m being frank with you, Evelyn. It is one of the reasons why I cannot retrieve the memory of your father’s disappearance from you. You guard the memory in the same way you are able to guard the souls.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ I tell her, feeling like I’m being bullied into something, even though I don’t know what that something is.

  I wonder at times whether my ignorance tries her patience as she explains, ‘Evelyn, please understand, I first met your father more than twenty years ago, when strange stories began to circulate about a plague of biblical proportion. It was an extraordinary time for the coven – a very difficult time. You see, the plague didn’t spread in the normal manner; it wasn’t natural but conjured by a Necromancer who was stealing the souls of young children for his dark purposes.’

  ‘A Necromancer?’ I say quietly. I’ve never even heard of such a thing.

  ‘They’re common enough.’ Dr. Martin-Crane shrugs. ‘Anyway, the plague was known amongst the coven as the “Curse of the First-Born”. It was spreading amongst the city’s inhabitants, even though it wasn’t obvious. It disguised itself as a mist, moving from house to house, seeking out the first-born children. Doctors attributed the deaths to known viruses, spreading through the neighborhood.

  ‘Your father was as young as you are now but trained to be a Soul Guardian. He came to the coven because he’d heard about the dead children. He met with my mother. I don’t know what passed between them but he was permitted to attend the coven’s secret rites on a spirit night.’

  A feeling of déjà vu washes over me as if somehow I know this event. ‘A spirit night?’

  ‘A night of great power, when the veil that separates our world from the netherworld is at its thinnest.’ She fixes me with her abnormal, unblinking stare. ‘A spirit night, as they say in Wales. And probably the most significant spirit night occurs on Samhain; more commonly known as Halloween.’

  I start as a chill runs up my spine.

  Samhain. Turning to look at the book lying so deceptively innocent, so innocuous, upon the coffee table, I believe I see the written word flare bright, though I almost immediately dismiss it as a mere trick of the mind.

  ‘The protections are fragile but your father managed to bind the children’s souls to death. And he banished the Necromancer, removing his power.’ I realize from Abigail’s words that my father means as much to her and her coven as he does to me. But I only ever knew him as a simple, hardworking man – and my image of him is limited by childhood; memories of him enjoying a bitter coffee or red wine whilst reading the newspaper, mowing the lawn or cleaning the pool on a Sunday, working in his study late into the night. Now, because of Dr. Martin-Crane, I am beginning to expand my knowledge of him. ‘You remind me of him very much.’

  ‘Me?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘You may not be aware of it, but I can see the lights surrounding you. You draw them in and bind them to you.’

  So this is what it means to be Wiccan. Ben’s mother is capable of seeing what others, including me, cannot see. I wonder, briefly, if Ben has her abilities in witchcraft as well as his father’s hunting skills. Perhaps I will find out one day.

  ‘But Dad is trapped beyond the veil. Along with the souls of Brom’s descendants … and there are so many of them.’ I take a deep breath to stop my voice from breaking. But, as my father reminded me, I am not alone, so I say, ‘They’re trapped between life and death. Please tell me you or your coven can decipher Ichabod’s riddle and find the means to free them.’

  Dr. Martin-Crane gives me a small half-smile and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as if I know what she’s about to say next. ‘No, Evelyn, I cannot decode it and neither can they … only you can.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  There are alarm bells going off in my head.

  ‘Wake up, Sleepy Head. Rise and shine.’

  I groan and roll over, bringing the covers with me to bury my head underneath. It’s early Sunday morning. Any normal teenager – no, wait, every normal teenager – is sleeping in on a Sunday morning, but my mom expects me to rise and shine like some actor in a cereal commercial. Seriously, no amount of Fruit Loops is going to have me bouncing out of bed with a spring in my step at a quarter past seven – especially not on a Sunday morning.

  Besides, after yesterday, I feel completely drained.

  Dr. Martin-Crane – who has instructed me to call her Abigail, which I guess means that I really have been accepted into the fold – spent all yesterday afternoon and well into the evening giving me a rudimentary knowledge of the craft. And still I am no wiser.

  There is so much to learn – and such a short time to learn it in – that I despair.

  If my father, known to be a legend, failed, and he was trained whereas I am not, what hope do I have of succeeding?

  But I made him a promise.

  And so we begin with the basic knowledge of the phases of the moon and the movements of the tides and of the significance of seasons and of spirit nights, such as Lammas and Harvest Home and Samhain on the Wheel of the Year. All this and more, Abigail patiently explains to me.

  But it is Samhain, arriving with autumn’s end and marking the end of the old year and the beginning of the new, which allows the coven to attempt to pierce the veil with mystic eyes and divine what the coming year holds. And it is Samhain when the veil is at its thinnest; permitting the dead to return, for this one night, to the land of the living.

  Abigail is clear on this point, though I can’t help but argue stubbornly, ‘If we can find my father and bring him back then, together, we can confront the Headless Horseman. That should be our priority. My father.’

  ‘Evelyn, he is beyond the veil,’ Abigail’s voice holds both patience and compassion, and I flinch. I almost feel like it would be better if she was dismissive or angry, because her empathy makes me lose hope. ‘He is following the path that is destined – as must we all. But his destiny is not your destiny. His path is not your path. We, all of us, must walk our own path in life as in death – though, at times, our paths may run parallel or crossover.’

  ‘You believe he is lost, don’t you?’ My voice cracks and she hears my pain.

  Her eyes soften though her response, as always, is ambiguous, ‘I believe he is where he is destined to be and doing what he is destined to do.’

  And so I learn a basic spell of protection which any novice can perform. And when I complete the spell to her satisfaction, Abigail s
miles upon me proudly.

  That’s how we begin.

  But casting spells and learning lore is exhausting work.

  I snuggle deeper under the covers as my mother calls out again, ‘Evee, don’t be such a lazy bones. Get out of bed and join me for breakfast. You were out all day yesterday with your friends. I barely get to see anything of you anymore. C’mon downstairs, there are pancakes on offer.’

  There’s nothing like guilt and the reward of food to motivate a person.

  I contemplate taking a shower and changing but it all seems too much of an effort, so making a concession by way of throwing on my silk knee-length robe and fluffy pink slippers, I make my way downstairs.

  I’m yawning as I stumble into the kitchen and fail to notice that we have a guest.

  ‘Good morning.’ There’s laughter in his sexy voice and my eyes fly open to see Ben flipping pancakes at our cooktop, just as I’m about to sit down on the bar stool at the counter, so that I almost miss it and end up grabbing the benchtop for support.

  ‘Wh-wh-what are you doing here?’ I stutter, embarrassed, knowing that I have a severe case of untamable bedhead and look like death warmed up.

  ‘Making pancakes,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Want one?’

  I’m horrified and furious and a million other things but he ignores me, and my mother looks at me curiously. I look at her and indicate the door with my eyes.

  She not only ignores the look that demands her compliance but reprimands me for my rudeness to a guest, ‘Don’t you remember that we made a date with Ben and Taylor to come over for breakfast today?’

  Uh no. That would have been when I was in a virtual catatonic state; having an OMG-I’m-crushing-on-Ben-I-am-majorally-totally-in-love-with-Ben moment.

  I don’t bother replying as I hear the kettle boiling then click off. My mother looks at me pointedly and indicates that I should make myself useful.

  ‘Tea, Evee,’ she reminds me. ‘And put on the coffee machine. Ben prefers an espresso.’

  Sighing, I go to the pantry to look for the coffee capsules.

  My mood does not improve, especially when I hear my mother laughing with Ben in the adjoining room. I strain my ears to hear what they’re talking about, then figure if I can find the bloody capsules I won’t need to guess.

  I don’t hear Taylor walk in, but I see her as I come out of the pantry. She’s seated at the kitchen counter, directly opposite from Ben, looking like she’s stepped straight out of Forever 21’s latest catalogue. I notice she’s not wearing her glasses. It makes me want to roll my eyes. Biatch.

  Not that Ben looks particularly impressed. But then I can never tell whether he’s impressed or not; he plays his cards close to his chest. He does look buff though, in his standard attire of t-shirt and jeans. Besides, everyone is dressed apart from me. I’m still in my pajamas.

  ‘Nice look,’ she comments as I spoon loose leaf tea into a pot to let it brew. The others laugh as I shoot her a dirty look. Right now I’m trying to remind myself why I’m best friends with her.

  After handing Ben his espresso, I slide onto the stool next to Taylor.

  Mom is placing maple syrup and other condiments on the countertop when Taylor says, ‘Did you get my text about Mia Markowicz?’ I shake my head. ‘Well, she was in a car accident yesterday and is now in hospital. Some of us are putting a collection together for flowers and a get well card to be sent to her. You want in?’

  Shocked, I manage a nod. Mia Markowicz might not be my favorite person but I don’t wish her ill or anything.

  ‘My God, that’s awful,’ exclaims Mom, pausing in the act of setting out cutlery, ‘Is she going to be all right? Do you know what happened?’

  Taylor shrugs, stirring her tea, but she has this conspiratorial look on her face and leans closer in to us. ‘Sam was brought in for questioning by the police. They thought it was drunk driving or drugs as he was at the wheel.’

  ‘Sam?’ I interrupt, my jaw dropping. ‘Sam Harris? What was he doing with Mia? Are they dating?’

  Taylor rolls her eyes, like I’m so out of it. ‘Yeah. They’ve been going out for about a month now. Anyway,’ she says as she continues with her story – she just loves being the center of attention, ‘Sam claims he saw a man on a horse in the middle of the street – well, this is the part that’s like just too bizarre – he says the guy didn’t have a head. I mean, no head. Headless. No wonder they thought he was drinking. But, of course, he wasn’t. And he’s like completely devastated with Mia being placed in an induced coma – lucky, she was wearing a seatbelt but there’s still some head trauma – and her parents going off the way they did, causing a scene at the police station. You know she’s adopted, right? Like, I had no idea…’

  I’m no longer listening as Taylor prattles on.

  Ben and I exchange a long look.

  Things are spiraling way out of control and we need to do something fast … before more people get hurt and more souls are taken.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘I just don’t like it,’ whispers Abigail.

  I’m not quite sure whether she’s referring to my outfit or Ben’s driving – she looked askance when she first saw that I was wearing a tan quilted moto jacket, black jersey top, and black sateen jeggings – which I thought were kind of sick as it makes me look like Katniss Everdene and I’d even sent selfies to Taylor that morning and got emojis of approval – but she also looked askance when Ben took the last corner without even breaking, so I’m not certain what she means by her comment.

  ‘It looks like a storm is brewing,’ she says in a low voice as Ben pulls up alongside a ramshackle wire mesh fence.

  So that explains her unease.

  I look up at the suddenly overcast sky as I alight from the car. It was sunny when we left home at midday. But another black cloud crosses the path of the sun, and the temperature seems to plummet swiftly. I feel a chill shiver up my spine and am glad for my quilted jacket; it provides a small degree of protection from the rawness of the elements.

  The cloud passes and we are rewarded with a brief burst of sunlight and warmth, but it doesn’t last long as more gunpowder clouds quickly chase after the first. Now there is fitful sunlight, which seems to be losing a battle against the roiling darkness conjured from nowhere. It makes us quicken our pace.

  A large building looms in the distance, just before the city gives way to the built up industrial area; it looks like a large whitewashed, weatherboard church hall or barn, built at the time of colonial settlement, in the middle of an empty, overgrown field of wildflowers. The clouds seem to be converging upon the building, and the wind whips up the autumn leaves at our feet in a bitterly cold tirade. It’s like the area has been stripped and left as a beggar to nature and the brutal winter wind. The lone Gothic tree nearby rouses suddenly under the cover of false midnight as a murder of crows, blown and fuming with wild wings, take to the sky.

  Disturbed, Ben looks up, shielding his eyes from the piercing wind that cuts to the bone, and cries over the cawing din that the birds are now suddenly making, ‘Run! Damn you! Run!’

  Startled, I follow his eye line and see a blanket of black, a rush of wings, swooping and diving – beak, feather, claw – and the three of us an open target in the middle of the field.

  Abigail is the first to move and Ben grabs my arm in desperation, hauling me along the uneven path toward the old, weather-beaten building which provides the closest and only shelter.

  But we can never outrun these careening, vicious birds.

  I scream in terror as I feel hundreds of wings swiftly and savagely beat against my uncovered head and back, needle-like claws catching at my loose hair. A sharp, brutal beak pecks my ear and another my right cheek. There’s a stinging pain, and another, and blood trickles down my face but I don’t stop running.

  Desperation keeps me moving forward toward the weathered structure. Throwing my arms up, I wave them about and keep my face down for protection. Ben is doing his best to keep th
e crows at bay but they are attacking in a multitude as if compelled by some dark, unnatural force.

  The doors of the building are thrown open and we are urged by the occupants to hurry as they frantically wave us on, urging us to pick up our pace, encouraging us to make it to safety.

  Following behind Abigail, I dart across the field and up the steps, and hurl myself inside the doors at a run. They slam shut behind Ben as hands hastily pull us further away from the danger. And, as they do, the murder of crows launch themselves against the solid structure – I jump and cry out in fright with every loud thump – pelting the doors and walls like hail, as they break their necks in their effort to make it inside.

  And then the mirthless, shrill laughter begins, tormenting my eardrums. It is harrowing, right down to the bone. And abruptly ceases. Then, a moment later, wails louder still.

  I reach for Abigail’s hand, seeking some warmth from the deathly cold. My hand trembles in hers and I make no attempt to pretend I’m not petrified out of my wits. Then I feel another hand steal into mine and, instinctively, I grip a little tighter in sisterly solidarity.

  This is a trial of endurance.

  The candles suddenly blow out, one by one, but not by any natural wind or breeze, plunging us into a reservoir of darkness.

  Then the banging starts. All around the building, faster and faster, like the rapid tattoo of machinegun fire; the outer walls bang and shake like something, some animal or creature, is circling us. Round and round and round it goes. I close my eyes as, in the darkness, the hollow, crazy laughter echoes.

  When I open them again, I find my sight in the shadowless darkness, the tideless stream of midnight blackness. The deathly cold washes over me, biting into me.