by Ray Garton
. . . Malachi Stone, who trembled in the sunlight as he stared up at the attic, not from a chill but from the most intense fear he’d ever felt in his life.
He knew what had to be done. His son Matthew, who owned the farm, would be furious, and his wife, Corinne, would once again begin raving about sending Malachi to a home.
There was once a time back in Pennsylvania when Malachi was certain his boy would grow up to be just like him: a good farmer and a faithful Mennonite who would always cling to the old ways.
Well, Matthew was a good farmer. But he had lost sight of the old ways. He’d even decided to leave the old farm and come here to Colorado—after some pressure from Corinne, of course. Malachi had not approved, but his wife Sarah was gone and he was getting old and would need care, even though he refused to admit it. So he had come along with Matthew and Corinne and their two small daughters.
He tried to keep the family’s past alive, but when he spoke of the old beliefs and customs, Corinne got upset and chided him for giving the girls nightmares with his stories of witches and Satanists.
Malachi did not understand the woman’s logic; how could she expect her daughters to lead good lives if they were never shown the evils of the world, the obstacles—visible and invisible—that awaited them in life.
But, at Corinne’s insistence, he kept his stories to himself. They were alive in him, though, those old beliefs. They kept his eyes open and watchful.
And his eyes had seen evil that morning.
He’d first noticed it upon waking. Dawn was greeted with silence; the cock did not crow.
At the breakfast table in the kitchen, warm toast and hot coffee had been set out for him. Corinne was dividing her attention between the stove and oven; she was forever cooking.
Malachi started to pour cream into his coffee, but stopped when he caught a whiff of the pitcher’s contents.
“It’s gone bad, this cream,” he said.
“Don’t see how it could, Dad. Brought it in only yesterday.”
“Then you left it out. Overnight.”
She turned to him with a sigh and gave him the same look she gave the girls when they were annoying her.
“The cream is fine,” Corinne said. “Maybe not for an old dairyman from Pennsylvania, but it’ll do for the rest of the family.”
Matthew clattered through the back door, hands and forearms greasy from working on one of the plows. He went to the sink and washed.
Malachi pointed to the cream pitcher and said, “Spoiled.”
“Shouldn’t be. Brought it in just yesterday.”
“You smell it, Matthew. Then tell her.”
Matthew dried his arms briskly, saying, “Gotta busy day, Dad. Look, when you’re done here, could you turn out the horse for me?”
Matthew left the kitchen.
Corinne stood at the stove stirring something, her back to him.
Malachi dumped the cream into the sink.
The silence at dawn had made him suspicious. The mysteriously soured cream had frightened him. But the final sign had convinced him.
In the stable, Malachi had found the horse in a frantic sweat, its coat sheened with a dull glow, foamy spittle dangling from its panting mouth. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly.
Malachi had not been imagining it. The signs were real. And this one was proof, which he would need if he were to convince his son. He’d hurried from the stable to find Matthew and show him.
That was when he’d spotted the access door to the attic. It was slightly ajar.
It was always closed. They’d never used it since moving.
He knew then that he was right.
Something had come into their home, something that was not welcome there as long as Malachi Stone drew breath.
He knew what had to be done, but wanted a closer look first so he’d know what he was up against. He feared no evil with God’s promises at his back.
Malachi went into the house and upstairs to the door in the ceiling that led to the attic. He silently climbed the rungs in the wall and carefully pushed the door up just a crack—
—and nearly tumbled back down the ladder.
The attic was gone. The walls, floor, and all the stowables were a vast night sky studded with diamondlike stars. Floating in the midst of it was a man in black in a half-prone position, his back to Malachi. Floating around him were countless unbound pages; they passed before his face one at a time, slow enough to be read clearly.
Malachi’s breath caught in his throat like a fishbone, and he thought, for a moment, that his heart would give out on him.
When it didn’t, he silently lowered the door, climbed back down the ladder, and hurried out of the house.
Matthew would be livid, so much so, perhaps, that he might finally give in to Corinne’s pleas to put Malachi away. But that didn’t matter; it was not debatable.
Evil had come to the Stone household and it had to be dealt with immediately. Malachi went to the back shed to mix some whitewash . . .
16
A Sign
Kassandra was curled up in the front seat as Redferne drove. She’d gotten some pillows from the trunk and piled them up against the door, then cuddled up and slept for a few hours. She’d awoke at dawn. Redferne, who had taken to driving quite well, was listening to a preacher on the radio.
They stopped at a McDonald’s for Egg McMuffins to go and drove in silence the first part of the morning.
Kassandra felt achey and stiff and wanted to stretch her legs, but she was afraid to take the time. To get her mind off her discomfort and fear, she said, “Redferne, can I ask you something? And will you promise not to have a meltdown this time?”
“Ask.”
“Who’s Marian?”
He gave her a look of warning, but she pressed on, gently this time.
“Well . . . it’s why you’re after the warlock, right?”
“Yesterday, you cared not to know such things.”
“Yesterday was twenty years ago.”
She thought he wouldn’t reply at first, but realized he was just choosing his words carefully; it was not easy for him.
“She was . . . your age. Your true age. And . . .” He took a deep breath and smiled slightly. “. . . what a blessed vision. Skin like pure lamb, a soul clean as God’s own fingers. Marian. She was my goodwife.”
“Thought you said you weren’t married.”
He ignored the remark.
“What happened to her?”
Again, a long pause, then, “I had been trailing the warlock for years. I’ve known many a witch, but all pale in comparison. He is ancient and cunning. None remembers his true name; he is known only as the warlock. He is a hero among witches. His power is tremendous and he is rumored to be so favored by the Prince of Darkness that he has been imbued with Satan’s member.”
“Member?”
“His . . . organ, his . . . his . . .”
“His dick. This guy’s got Satan’s dick?”
“At first, I thought ’twas only a wives’ tale.” He shook his head. “ ’Tis true. I’ve seen his handiwork, his . . . violations. He was captured several times and prepared for execution, but always he escaped. And then came the night he took Marian. I came home from a meeting of church elders to find her breathing her last. He’d . . . had her. Tortured her. She was torn . . . open. Badly. She died.”
His eyes were brimming with pain and something else, something she’d very rarely seen, most recently in Chas. Love. Pure, without motive or deceit. Redferne’s eyes were filled with unspent love for his wife.
“The warlock sprung a trap set for him in the woods,” Redferne went on. “He was found early the next morning. He was held, the execution was prepared . . . and this happened. A storm . . . something evil . . . brought us both here.”
“I’m sorry, Redferne,” Kassandra said softly. She reached over and put an old, wrinkled hand on his.
He simply nodded.
They drove on, making only quic
k bathroom, and fuel stops.
Sometime after noon, Kassandra drove again. The steering wheel seemed higher, her swollen fingers ached and had difficulty holding the wheel steady.
They were in Colorado and the sky was a bright, clear blue, the air clean.
Kassandra found some music on the radio and tried to sing along, but her voice was not what it used to be.
“Stop,” Redferne said suddenly.
“What?”
“Stop the car.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I bid you stop, woman!”
He swung his foot over and stomped on the brake. The Corvair went into a long skid and came to a dusty halt on the shoulder. Redferne was out before the dust cleared, setting up the compass in front of the car.
Confused and a little frightened, Kassandra got out and went to him, coughing at the dust as she said, “I thought we cleared up that woman shit, Redferne.”
He ignored her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Sh!” He deftly set up the compass and waited. The vial of rehydrated blood began to tremble. It trembled so rapidly that it made a soft chiming sound—
—then shattered.
The end of the pointer bent downward.
The pedestal collapsed.
Redferne stood.
“The compass!” Kassandra cried, panicking. “It’s broken, Redferne, what’re we gonna—”
“Leave it. If God stands with us, we’ll need it no more.”
She followed Redferne’s gaze to a farmhouse across the highway and off the road some distance. Beyond it was a barn, and painted on its side was a pentagram within a circle.
“What’s that mean?” she asked. “Did . . . did we find him?”
Redferne was already hurrying across the highway.
“Oh, Christ,” she whispered, following, “I think we did.”
Before Kassandra could catch up with him, Redferne went to a side door of the house and barged in. “Without even knocking,” she puffed, quickening her pace. “You’re gonna get us arrested, Redferne.”
As she neared the house, she heard Redferne say, “Tell me your woes!” And once she reached the door, she saw the man and woman staring at him. The man sat at a table; the woman stood at the oven, from which she’d just removed a loaf of bread. Both were aghast.
“You are bewitched,” Redferne said.
The man stood threateningly and asked, “What is it you’re looking for, friend?”
“The hex mark. Is it yours or is it not?”
Redferne pointed to the kitchen window.
The man laughed, going to the window. “Last one of those I saw was thirty years ago and about a thousand . . . miles . . . east of here . . .” He gawked at the big hex mark on the side of the barn, then bellowed, “Dad? Dammit, Dad!”
A door in another part of the house opened and a grizzled voice said, “The mark is mine.” He stepped into the kitchen and looked Redferne over, then Kassandra. He was dressed in black and wore a broadrimmed black hat.
“Amish?” Redferne asked.
“Mennonite. Malachi Stone.” He shook Redferne’s hands, then indicated the others, saying, “My son Matthew and his wife Corinne. And—” He turned to his son. “—we are bewitched. It comes from the attic.”
Redferne clutched Kassandra’s arm and said, “Hither has he come.” Then, to Malachi, “Does the attic have an outside exit?”
He nodded.
“Then bring me hammer and nails.”
Corinne turned to her husband and snapped, “Matthew!”
The man said, “Dad, what the hell’re you—”
“No time, son.”
Kassandra stood back from the commotion and, a minute later, went with Redferne to the front of the house, where Malachi steadied a tall ladder leading up to the attic. With hammer and nails, Redferne scaled the ladder, nailed the narrow attic door shut, then came back down, saying, “If there are children, make them absent.”
“Dad, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Matthew asked. “Who are these—”
“Take the children and leave, Matthew.”
“Leave? I’ve got a schedule to keep today. I can’t just—”
“Listen to me, boy!” the old man roared. “There is trouble here. Old trouble. The kind your grandfather used to whisper in your ear as you sat on his knee on cold October nights.”
“I don’t know what—”
“A horse that sweats in the morning? Cream that sours overnight? You know the signs. We both know.”
Kassandra watched the struggle on Matthew’s face as he turned from his father to his wife.
Corinne whispered, “Matthew, you aren’t listening to this malarkey, are you?”
He thought about it a while, then said softly, “Go find the girls, Corinne.”
She stalked away, muttering angrily.
“We’ll take the truck,” Matthew said.
Kassandra wished she were going with them . . .
17
Malachi’s Eyes
Redferne stood in the hallway below the attic door, praying. The prayer was silent, but desperate. He admitted to his heavenly Father that he was dreading a confrontation with the warlock more than he’d dreaded anything and he prayed for strength, courage, and guidance. When he was finished, he quietly muttered, “Amen.”
“Amen,” Malachi echoed firmly.
The men’s eyes met.
Redferne knew he had a solid ally in Malachi Stone. He saw something in Malachi’s eyes that he’d seen in few, if any, of the others he’d met in this strange place: belief. Not just a belief in God—although that appeared to have seen better days, also—but a belief in anything. A firm conviction. That conviction was in Malachi’s eyes.
“God be with you, brother,” he said, and the conviction was in his voice, too.
“Whatta you want me to do with these?” Kassandra said, holding out the pennies Redferne had told her to fetch earlier.
Redferne took them from her, said, “Close your mouth,” then slipped them between her lips one at a time. “Fix them there. ’Twill help ward off any errant magic.” To both of them, he said, “Show him no fear. ’Tis the air he breathes. And under no circumstances look into his eyes.”
Malachi nodded firmly, but could not entirely hide his fear.
Redferne unsheathed his dagger and faced the ladder.
Kassandra squeezed his hand and, through the pennies, garbled, “Be careful.”
He nodded and started up. At the door, he braced himself and threw it open, scurried up and was on his feet in an instant, his dagger held before him, the other hand on his coiled whip.
The first thing he noticed were bootprints in the layer of dust on the floor . . .
Moths fluttered in the dark rafters above . . .
There was a depression in the mattress where the warlock had been sitting . . .
At the foot of the bed, a wooden trunk had been broken open and emptied of old religious articles that were now scattered on the floor around it.
A bar of sunlight made floating dust particles sparkle; the light was shining down into the attic as if from—
—a high window, small but still big enough for the warlock to escape through.
Redferne’s heart sank.
The window was open, its shutters swaying slightly in the breeze.
“He’s fled,” Redferne said, looking down through the door.
Kassandra tried to speak, but the pennies fell into her mouth and she coughed and spat them into her hand.
“What about my bracelet?” she asked.
“Come. We’ll search.”
He saw hope in her eyes and was sorry he’d inspired it. Redferne knew the bracelet would not be there.
He helped her up and together they scoured the attic.
It hurt Redferne to watch her shuffle through the clutter, stooped and unsteady, when only days ago she’d been a girl—a girl in dire need of a few firm slaps in the m
outh, but young nonetheless. Young and vibrant and . . . very beautiful. In spite of the facepaint and grossly impractical clothes.
Now she was an old woman, and Redferne felt somewhat at fault. If only he could have persuaded the magistrates to execute the warlock immediately . . .
Redferne searched hopelessly for the bracelet, moving boxes and bags, looking under the bed, behind the broken trunk, where he found—
—a page. There was no book nearby; the page did not appear to have been torn from one, anyway.
He picked it up and tried to read it, but the writing was not English. Redferne stared at the scribbling on the old parchment until—
—it began to make sense.
“No,” he breathed, “it can’t be . . .”
But he feared it was . . .
Kassandra’s back was killing her and she had to go to the bathroom again. She’d been going to the bathroom a lot that day.
She bent down to look under a stool and, as she stood, she groaned, “Golden years my fuckin’ ass.”
When Kassandra saw Redferne standing by the bed reading, she became furious. He wasn’t even looking a little for her bracelet, he was just standing there reading.
“Hey, Jackson,” she grumbled, “read on your own time, ’cause I don’t have much left.”
He didn’t take his eyes from the page.
She joined him. “Okay, this better be goo—hell, it’s not even in English.” She squinted at the nonsense written on the yellowed page, trying a couple of the words. “ ‘Motus . . . dardares . . .’ What is that, Latin?”
“Something akin,” Redferne replied, his voice low and dry.
“Well, it’s no good to us.” Kassandra plucked the page from Redferne’s hands and tore it—
—and screamed, nearly falling as she tossed the page away from her.
It had not torn crisply, like paper. It had torn like skin . . . and something warm and wet had splattered on Kassandra’s hands.
She held her hands out, saw speckles of blood, and quickly wiped them on the dusty bedspread, whimpering disgustedly.
The page on the floor was moving.
She’d torn it halfway across but, as the page squirmed on the floor, the tear was mending, healing up like a cut.