As Ben and I approach the border of sanctified ground, I feel a surge of electricity, accompanied by a slight queasiness. The members of the coven spread out behind us, searching the woodland for movement. They will not travel beyond the meeting of sacred and profane ground but cast the circle under the light of the full moon.
The earth directly in front of us seems to groan and I watch in revulsion as earthworms, centipedes and other insects crawl out of the fecund, loamy soil.
‘Did you feel that?’ Rachael asks, but it is clear from the expressions on her sisters’ faces that they all did.
‘He’s coming. Soon. But not quite yet,’ I say.
‘It will get worse,’ Abigail states with certainty, watching the creepy-crawlies hatch in their thousands from the earth. ‘As the full moon rises and the Hessian gains confidence in his power, it will get much, much worse.’
Skin crawling in disgust, I can only agree.
Chapter Twenty
The dead arrive first.
A malign sulfurous odor weaves its way through the night air, a harbinger of wicked things to come. Amongst the trees, I see what I think is an undulating wave of fog, damp and heavy, clinging to the earth like a gauze bandage.
Reluctantly, I step back, feeling the creeping chill of corruption and death that would leach my spirit. I brace myself, hardening my will against feeling pity for the dead which will do me no good tonight.
The coven have cast their circle in salt and twine, leaving a doorway, an opening, to the east. I know they are ready to snatch me inside its protective boundary at the first sign that I am floundering…
In the hushed and expectant quiet, there are none of the usual noises accompanying nightfall. Though the wind whips through the treetops, a crosswise current that stirs division and discord, there is no sound as it plays out like a silent film before my eyes.
The fog creeps closer still, until I notice as Ben stiffens beside me and throws out a protective arm in front of my chest, as if to stop me from moving forward to investigate, that it seems to walk upon restless legs in a world of darkness. A sensation of dread creeps across my skin, across the back of my shoulders and down my spine, accompanied by a surge of almost irrational fear as the dead appear.
These are not those that died in peace nor those that led a good life. These are the tormented and tortured, where death did not bring the relief long sought. These are the soulless.
But I did not expect some of them to wear rotting flesh like a meat suit.
‘Tell me you’ve seen this before,’ I hiss at Ben, horrified by the stench and decay.
But he fails to answer.
Robed in clammy, clinging fog, the dead stalk the realm of the living. Slimy, corrupted beings, reanimated. The only sound now is bone – bone that is grinding against bone, no muscle or cartilage, no blood to lubricate it. The click and clacking of necrotic, dry-as-dust joints; a percussion of death.
A thousand skeletal feet, all grinding forward like an army of corpses. Some leering, some without eyes in hollow sockets, some without noses, some without limbs. Maggots fall from rotting flesh onto the ground to join the other pests and bugs crawling amongst the forest floor. The air thickens with the reek of sulfur and putrefaction, and I know it is time to begin…
I nod to Abigail and, only after the briefest moment of hesitation, she instructs the others to cast the magick circle of protection, to close it and commence the ritual, weaving their binding spells.
I sense the four cardinal points glowing in the light of the full moon. I don’t need to turn around and look to feel the Wiccans invoking the Guardians of the Watchtower, holding hands, drawing strength from each other and the elements, lines of force sparkling between them, a familiar and powerful warmth. The circle complete at my back, I can feel the light and positive energy bound within. And know that they, at least, are safe.
‘Blessed be,’ I whisper under my breath. I unsheathe my Athame and raise it high to the moon to draw down the power necessary to defeat evil.
I have to remind myself they are not human. Not this bundle of stuff that oozes and dribbles decomposing flesh. As fast as zombies can move forward, they come. Mouths gaping, skin torn and peeling and hanging loose.
The darkest magick is at work. Revenants roaming the land. Reanimated corpses with no spirit or soul or will. Something or someone has deliberately raised the dead, conjuring them to do their bidding.
I brace myself as they rush the boundary of sanctified ground with a terrible violence … only to be met with true death. As splintered bone and putrid flesh hit the impenetrable, invisible boundary, they perish – obliterated in an explosion of dust and ash.
‘What just happened?’ I demand of Ben. This is not like any zombie movie I’ve ever seen.
‘Practical magick,’ he says calmly.
But more come. Stumbling, crawling, dragging themselves forward. Hundreds more, densely packed. Wave upon wave. No vestige of humanity left. No consciousness or free will.
And all are met with the same fate. Until there are none left.
Clouds of dust linger in the air – what once was human, if they ever were, is no more.
But this is not the end. There is something out there. I can feel it closing in. An ancient power. Faintly, I can hear the fires burning in the netherworld … the wails and shouts … screams of pain and fear…
‘Our turn, I believe,’ says Ben, clear green eyes shining in the light cast by the full moon. He is immersed in the moment, like a true Hunter, instincts taking over.
I give a sharp nod. It is time.
‘Give me your hand,’ I say, not brooking any argument. Fortunately, I get none.
His hand is large and callused, the hand of a fighter or swordsman, but I find it reassuring somehow. Instinctively, I grip him tighter, sharing his energy and warmth.
I turn to the east and begin to visualize channeling energy into my Athame which I hold out to chant the invocation to the Guardians of the Watchtower. I can feel when Ben joins his will to mine and the energy flows down my blade and takes root in the earth at our feet. We shift around to face the south, and the next cardinal point.
This is slightly easier; the south and its element of fire can be physically felt, feverishly running through my veins like wildfire. It chases down the blade and, with a brilliance, roots itself at our feet. And we shuffle round again…
Finally, when the circle is cast, there is an immediate lessening of cold and fear. There is no salt and no twine, but it is cast nonetheless and holds strong.
‘Not yet,’ I say, meaning the lighting of the candle.
Ben nods and says firmly, ‘I’ll stand guard.’
He hesitates and seems to want to say more – I’m desperately hoping that he might – but, with a rueful smile, he retreats to face the perimeter of the circle, drawing his blade, and waiting patiently, like he’s done this many times before.
The moonlight is stark white, illuminating the headstones behind and bathing the trees ahead in a ghostly funeral pall.
‘Evee. Evee. Evee.’ A hollow, inhuman voice moans through the forest, carried on the wind whipping the treetops into a frenzy. A familiar voice … though not my father’s. Just a mimicry sent to demoralize me and weaken my resolve. ‘Munchkin. Sweetheart. You’re the only one … failed in my duty … failed … trapped here forever … trapped…’ All of my senses are screaming in protest.
I’ve been warned. I know.
And each member of the coven, and Ben too, face their own trial. Some loved one beyond death, someone they have lost, can now be heard by them – and them alone – driving them to doubt and fear and grief.
Blinking furiously, tears threatening to obscure my vision, I focus on the purity of moonlight streaming down upon the Athame. The darkness echoes, a sound so harsh and cruel, so truly wicked, even nature seems to cower in response; the moon veiling itself behind a cloud.
‘Fools!’
The word is a lick of flame across
my senses, scorching the nerves. The power and negative energy behind it is colossal and, against my own will, I look into the forest to see the evil, sightless shadow.
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then I hear Ben shout a command, ‘Hold steady’, just as a shrill whinny and the pounding of hooves upon the moldy earth can be heard, approaching faster and faster until the glistening blood redness of the stallion’s eyes slice the night and the Hessian appears in an inky splash of foul, tainted darkness.
‘Hold true,’ I whisper.
I take up my position and look through the shadow of night to the looming malevolence and evil that is the Headless Horseman, coming to claim my soul. There is a thing worse than death here with me. I shudder at the thought; the knowledge of being trapped in the netherworld, my soul in captive torment, kept that way forever…
Swallowing back bile, I shake my head.
No. No way. That’s never going to happen.
‘Now!’ I shout.
In one quick motion, all twelve witches light their candles and place them in the sacred lanterns kept hidden in hemp sacks at their feet. The glowing embers spark up, multiplying into cleansing, purifying flame, which will light our way till dawn.
The Headless Horseman leaps forward upon his horse, halving the gap between us. It’s the closest I’ve ever been. I can see the gruesome tendons of its butchered neck, the glistening spinal cord and vertebrae poking up above the collar of its uniform. His severed head is held in his left arm, resting against his hip. It is hideous – more hideous than the zombies with their putrid, decomposing flesh and glazed eyes – and I try to avoid looking at it.
‘Too late. Much too late.’
The hissing voice holds enormous power. Dark magick. He dismounts from his steed and stalks forward, tantalizingly slow. Towering over me, I must crane my neck to look up at him. I can feel him probing for weakness, finding the chinks in my armor – the Soul Guardian who lacks training – exerting a strong pull, wrenching, a force wishing to steal my soul from my body. My muscles seem frozen, locking as I struggle with sluggish thought to remember what it is I am meant to do.
‘Fight it,’ cries Ben, rushing forward.
The coven move quickly, breaking the magick circle of protection to join me. They hold aloft their lanterns, keeping the foul creature back beyond the spill of pale gold light. But the Hessian is undeterred; he continues to stalk forward till he is at the edge of the lights’ glowing circle.
Ben reaches out and rests his hand on my shoulder. His reassuring touch, his positive energy – the energy of a Hunter – pours through me, swelling in force like a tsunami, coursing through frozen, locked limbs, nerves, joints. Freeing my will.
I can hear the blood in my ears and the longing in the sound – a longing for life – calling to me. This is where I should be.
The weight of being so much more is up to me now.
I am ready. I stand as Soul Guardian.
‘Now Ben,’ I say.
He removes his hand from my shoulder. I feel the loss immediately but already I am without doubt. Without question. Without fear.
Ben strikes the match and lights his candle, the thirteenth, and places it within his sacred lantern. The coven march into position in a circle around me, holding their lanterns high, up to their faces.
It has an effect. The Horseman wails, his cry dreadful, and falls back. Only a step or two, but I feel a thrill of success.
‘You dare. I shall plan a fitting torment for you when I take your soul. You will go aware and awake into hell with me.’ He throws his severed head forcefully at me, just as I fall back beyond the circle of light. It hovers in the air.
I hold the Athame up high so that it reflects the flame. Acting as a channel between the realms. The cardinal marks along the blade flicker to life.
Burning brightly, forever illuminating, the arcane characters along the blade flow. And the boundaries between life and death disappear. Suddenly, the moonlight unveils itself, reflecting off the blade; a shining beacon hurtling into the darkness of the Headless Horseman’s body, an explosion of sparks and flame, striking the shadowy substance like lightning.
Still it is not enough.
I feel the Horseman’s dread fist clench my soul to tear it from my body and, in this last moment, I move my hands at the hilt of the blade to reveal a diamond of great power. It channels the light and the Hessian’s true face is now revealed, diminishing his power.
‘Dad?’ croaks Ben on a broken note as Abigail, standing to my left, sucks in a hungry breath of utter disbelief. I feel them wavering and the circle floundering.
I feel a terrible urge for my essential self, my soul, to leave my body.
There is nothing tying me to life.
Then, something slaps my face hard and I hear Ben shout, ‘Fight it! Evee!’
But still, my spirit is slipping away.
Then I feel a savage kiss, passionate and tender and brutal and fierce, invested with an emotion indefinable to me. But it is Ben. And it gives me hope. And it gives me love. And it gives me life. And I drop the Athame and bring my hands up to reach for him, clutching and grabbing at his shoulders, and returning the kiss.
There is a desperate, dreadful roar from the Hessian. And we break away to see him frantically lunge toward us. But, swift as a cheetah, an arm reaches out and drags him back, my father’s face momentarily visible over the Horseman’s shoulder.
‘Daddy!’ I scream in terror.
‘Go back to hell where you belong!’ my father shouts at the Headless Horseman and, with that, the ground seems to collapse beneath them both, swallowing them up.
‘No!’ I scream and rush forward to stare into a pool of solid darkness.
Abigail is moaning and sobbing by my side and I realize there are tears trickling down my face too. Shakily, I grope for her hand. I feel deeply relieved and happy to be alive but it also feels like I’m slowly bleeding inside. Faint whimpering can be heard from the other witches whilst Ben remains stoic, burying whatever emotion he is feeling.
Seconds or minutes or hours tick over.
Then bright white lights, like will-o’-wisps, gently float up from the bottom of the pit. Hundreds of them. Blowing like dandelions in the moonlight, drifting out into the night.
‘They will return to their bodies or to the next realm,’ Judith says.
And I realize that I am looking upon the souls of Brom’s descendants, the souls that were stolen, as my other hand creeps into Ben’s for comfort.
And I know that it is over.
*
We walk to Ben’s car. It’s just Ben and me. The coven are going to perform some rituals and clean up the mess. I don’t know how they’re going to do this but I figure I don’t need to know. Well, not right now.
Neither Ben nor I want to talk about our fathers.
‘It’s off-limits,’ he tells me before I even ask. And I can’t help feeling relieved and guilty.
Instead, as we reach his car, Ben asks, ‘So what are your plans for Halloween?’
I give an incredulous laugh and turn to face him. He leans me back against the passenger door.
‘Want to go trick-or-treating?’ His clear green eyes are alight with mischief.
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘I think I’ve had my fill for now. How about a movie night at my place?’
He rolls his eyes like I’m going soft, but then kisses me tenderly and just stares. It’s so intense that I get a bit embarrassed.
‘Movie night sounds good. It’s a date,’ he says.
I like the way he says this.
‘It’s a date,’ I repeat. ‘And I’ve got just the film in mind.’
His eyes narrow as I give an impish smile.
‘Don’t worry, you’re gonna love it…’
Authors Bio – DB Nielsen
DB Nielsen was born in British Hong Kong and immigrated to Australia in childhood. Dee likes to travel the world with family; dividing time between residing in S
ydney and visits to the cathedrals, crypts and museums the world over, doing research for new projects.
The author is a university lecturer in Linguistics and Semiotics, and continues to teach English Literature and Language whilst writing. Dee's passion is for throwing elaborate dinners and themed parties (such as medieval banquets), and reading anything and everything. Dee's dream project is to do a series of book tours in the Champagne region of France.
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Other Books by DB Nielsen
SEED: Keeper of Genesis I
A powerful, hidden artefact is unearthed and, with its discovery, an ancient conflict is reignited. Seventeen-year-old Sage Woods, the daughter of an eminent archaeologist, uncovers the artefact’s disturbing secret and is placed in terrible danger. Unwittingly, she has stumbled into an invisible war between two primordial dynasties of a supernatural order – a war in which she has a fateful role to play in a race to control the power of the SEED.
Embroiled in a quest that takes her from the British Museum to the Louvre to the Vatican Secret Archives, Sage realises that her blossoming romance with the mysterious, alluring St. John Rivers is inextricably tied to the artefact. Up until now, St. John has managed to keep his true identity hidden, but Sage is determined to delve deeper to uncover his dark secret and his connection to the SEED.
It is a decision that will have a devastating effect on humankind…
SCROLL: Keeper of Genesis II
Identical twins. Poles apart. Light and Shadow. Saffron and Sage. Their Destinies interlocked in a Quest that will determine the fate of Humankind ...
Seventeen-year-old Saffron Woods is haunted by strange voices as if from a distant past. With the SEED’s sentience awakened, these mystical voices intensify, forcing Saffron to acknowledge that she has also inherited its legacy of dark secrets, intrigue and death. Venturing out alone, Saffron is driven to locate an ancient manuscript charting the location of the only undiscovered Wonder of the Ancient World, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, gateway to the Garden of Eden. But last seen in the Library of Alexandria, the SCROLL is long thought to be lost.
Darkness Echoes: A Spooky YA Short Story Collection Page 45