And as the others watched, Mia came to him then, descending like an avenging angel of infinite power and grace. She knelt beside Simon and reached out, gently but firmly cupping the ruined contours of his face.
Shhhhhh, she whispered. Shhhhhhhh…
And just like that, Simon stopped, momentarily transfixed. His sunken chest heaved, breath quivering raggedly. Mia leaned close.
Shhhhhhhhh…
And as Simon’s soul hung abated, Justin reached out with his one good hand and opened the lost boy’s shirt. The others gasped as Justin’s hand pushed through gray and pitted flesh, working its way toward his heart. Simon mewled, tiny and piteous, as twin sparks lit in blackened eyeless sockets. And Simon’s flayed brow furrowed. Dauntlessly, Justin touched Simon's soul. As the sparks glowed where his eyes had been, he crumpled, sobbing.
I’m sorry… he murmured. I’m so sorry…
The others watched, amazed, as Mia and Justin helped the boy up, embracing him. When Simon rose, the huge divots in his face had partially healed. He looked at his old friends, smiling uneasily. Then his features grew pensive. Gone was the madness and manic energy; he looked like a lost and frightened child.
I wanna go home, he said in a tiny voice. Can I please go home?
Mia and Justin looked at Lucas. He nodded.
And as they hugged and released Simon, the sparks in his eyes grew bright. Mia placed a tender, almost maternal kiss on his now-healed brow. Simon looked up as if seeing something beyond them, beyond the room, beyond time and space and comprehension. The dead boy’s spirit cast one glance back at his old friends. The sparks grew so bright they had to look away, celestial illumination filling the room. Then they faded.
And when they looked back again, Simon was no more.
Mia and Justin looked at their friends, at Lucas. For one perfect moment, they were all swept up in the conviction that somehow everything would work out.
And that was when Justin began to scream.
35
Back in the nganga shack, Duke looked ready to hurl. It was one thing to benefit from the trappings and privileges of dark familial power, quite another to have to roll up his sleeves and do the dirty work himself.
Which he was now, in no uncertain terms, obliged to do.
“Gurk,” he belched, gorge suddenly buoyant and rising. The nganga squatted before him, black and ghastly. Its lid was off as tongues of fire roasted its contents to a fetid and simmering boil. The stench was thick and vivid, its vapors compounded in the claustrophobic confines of the little shack. Duke looked green as he stared into it, saw squirming things bubble and pop in the tumescent goo. He started to get up, and Eli’s bony hand clamped down on his shoulder, hard and surprisingly strong.
You wanted it, boy,” he hissed. “You got it. Now pay for it!”
Duke looked back, eyes brimming with acrid tears, mucus streaming from his nostrils. The old man was stripped to the waist and smeared with ash, as was Duke, in preparation for the ritual. A fat stogie was clenched in his yellowed teeth, its end glowing amber. Eli’s pale and flaccid flesh quivered with anticipation, and for a moment Duke thought he could see something slither under the old man’s skin.
“Pop, I cah… I can’t,” Duke pleaded.
“You can,” Eli intoned. “And you will!”
Behind them lay the drugged and captive child. As the ritual had commenced, Eli had explained that every scrap of skin or knuckle joint that was sacrificed offered that much more power to the Great Night. In theory it had seemed doable; Duke had spent a lifetime relishing petty tortures. But now, confronted with the source of his power and the price to be paid, he had quavered. And so before the main course was served, Eli had opted for an appetizer.
“He is coming!” Eli commanded. “Do it!”
Duke looked down: in one trembling hand he held a pair of rusted shears; in the other, Justin’s severed hand. The pinkie finger was missing. Duke looked into the nganga and watched the sheared phalange slip below the surface. He promptly vomited. Eli smacked him in the back of the head.
“Fool!” Eli bellowed. “Do it!”
Hands shaking, Duke made another snip.
36
Custis Manor. Underworld.
Justin screamed and held up his stump as they all witnessed the flesh begin to curdle and wither. Mia grabbed onto him as Justin collapsed, writhing in agony.
Do something! she cried.
Where is the hand? Lucas asked. Josh blurted out the story of the hit squad, the assault on the church. As he listened, Lucas stared out into the swamp, in the direction of the islet. He looked at them gravely.
Keep going, he said to Caroline and Seth. Find who you can, and free them. With that, he turned and made for the door.
You can’t leave us! Caroline called out. Where are you going?
Somewhere you cannot, he replied, eyes flashing. Then Lucas took off, leaving Mia, Josh, Seth and Caroline behind with the suffering Justin and their own mounting terror. Josh looked at his friends; Caroline was horrified but adamant, tears of fear and anger welling. Their fragile reunion, so long in coming, was unraveling before them. She reached out for Mia and hugged her desperately.
Fuck this, she said. I won’t leave you! I can’t…
You have to, Mia told her. We’ll be all right. Her voice was soothing, but her eyes said otherwise. She looked at Josh, who nodded grimly.
Caroline held onto Mia like a drowning woman in a ocean of despair. She stifled a sob as Josh pulled her away, sobbed again as Seth enfolded her in a protective embrace. Mia cradled Justin’s head; Justin moaned, tremors wracking his flesh.
Go, Mia told them. We’ll see you soon…
She smiled bravely. They all smiled back.
But no one really believed it.
Josh led Seth and Caroline through shadowed fields; by the time they had exited the manor, Caroline’s tears had all but dried. Her expression was now one of steely resolve: the world she had known, the nonstop parade of work and bills and pressure and obligation to all things real and rational had evaporated, as if it had never existed. They moved furtively through the strange and fevered dreamscape until they came to a series of wretched hovels stretching out into the blackness. They could see the souls of the lost cowering in shadowed doorways, could hear the sound of many voices murmuring uncertainly.
The slaves’ quarters, Josh whispered. The highest spirit concentration is here.
So how do we do it? Seth asked.
Like this, Josh replied. One by one, Josh seized upon the spirits, repeating the ritual he had been taught; one by one, the spirits were freed. Caroline and Seth joined in; warily at first, as each lost soul struggled weakly, only to succumb, then more urgently as the growing ranks of the saved awakened and stood trembling and disoriented. The spirits milled uncertainly, not knowing what to do with their sudden liberation.
Each of you has the power to free another! Josh called out. Help them!
Slowly, the tide began to turn. Once awakened, few of them refused the opportunity. Their collective energy came visible as a beacon swirling into the heavens, a spiraling tower rising up, drawing the liberated souls toward it like moths to a spirit flame. As their spirits intertwined, glowing golden threads extend from their hearts, joining the growing weave of light.
Release your pain! Josh called out. Those who did were themselves released, souls disembarking from spent spirit bodies which instantly cindered and burned in the supercharged air. Their soulfire stoked the mounting flame, which grew brighter with every passing second. Beckoning to the legions of the lost. Calling them to freedom.
As bit by bit, the beacon grew…
37
Friday, August 29th. Stillson Beach. 8:32 p.m.
Back at casa Tabb, Amy chain-smoked, thoroughly wired. Kevin leaned against the counter, eyeballing the cordless phone hanging in its cradle on the wall. Zoe paced and stewed, full of righteous rage. Doris watched Louis, who sat, feverish and high, at the cluttered tabl
e. His pain, alleviated only by Amy’s dwindling stash, was palpable to all. A thin sheen of sweat beaded his brow. His head occasionally nodded, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. But his hand never strayed far from the gun laying next to the Little Black Sambo ashtray.
The gun that had been there ever since the others had left.
Kevin watched Louis’s head bob and inched ever so carefully toward the phone. “Don’t even think about it,” Louis said.
Kevin held his hands up in supplication. “I don’t understand you!” he said. “They’re out there doing God knows what, and you need help!”
“I’m fine,” Louis said.
“You’re not fine,” Kevin said. “You’re hurt and you’re high! How is that okay??”
“It is what it is,” Louis replied.
“Tell me about it,” Zoe muttered back, for different reasons altogether.
It had come as a rude shock, having gone through the madness of the day, when Josh and the others had emerged from the basement and readied themselves to go. He had conferred with Amy at the last moment and then announced to Zoe, Kevin, and Doris that they were not to come along. He had explained that Louis would be a liability in his condition, Amy needed to stay behind to tend to his wounds and help keep the others under control, and the rest of them… well, it was just too dangerous. Doris had nodded and heartily agreed; Kevin had seemed agitated but weirdly relieved, though he remained deeply concerned about Caroline.
But Zoe…
Zoe was seething. She felt cheated and dissed: dragged into a bizarre familial drama that had morphed into an even more bizarre unfolding unreality, only to be reduced to mere child status in the end.
“This sucks,” she said bitterly, for roughly the ten billionth time. “This is so fucked…”
“Zoe, please,” Kevin said. “Josh was right.” He could scarcely believe the words as they came from his mouth, had never believed that he would say such a thing. It was further evidence of their total departure from reality. Zoe huffed and glared at him, brimming with fury; Kevin looked at Amy and Doris imploringly.
“Josh was right, Zoe. It’s too dangerous,” Amy said. “You don’t know what you’d be dealing with…”
“And you did?” Zoe spat back. “I’m older than you were when this all first happened!”
“And I’ve spent the last twenty years dealing with it!” Amy countered. “Is that what you want? Do you want to wake up screaming every night? If you get to wake up at all?”
“I just want to end what you started,” Zoe said.
Amy winced, visibly stung. “We didn’t start this, Zoe.”
“No, you didn’t.” Louis looked up, his eyes hooded yet strangely clear. His fingers touched the smooth porcelain of the little black caricature. “None of us did,” he amended. “But we gonna finish it.”
And with that, Louis picked up the gun and stood, bracing himself against the wall.
“Everybody up,” he said. They stood, suddenly fearful; their hands all raised warily. “Over there,” Louis said, gesturing toward the pantry with the gun. Everyone moved toward the door; Kevin first, followed by Doris. They stood in the cramped confines of the pantry, flanked on all sides by mammies and sambos, toms and picaninnies, coons and brutes and golliwogs, all smiling as if in on a very secret joke.
Which left Amy and Zoe, hovering at the entrance uncertainly. Louis looked at them.
“What’s it gonna be?” he said. “In or out?”
Zoe looked at him, then at Amy, Kevin, and Doris. She pulled the door closed, the lock clicking shut.
Louis tossed his keys to Zoe.
“You drive,” he said.
38
Friday, August 29th. Custis Manor.
The black Bronco rolled through the gate like a shark through murky current, headlights off as it glided down the drive. As Zoe pulled up to the house and keyed off the ignition, Louis reached down between the seat and the console and withdrew a fat black maglight. His condition had visibly worsened, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy, his pain dulled but evident through the narcotic haze. Zoe looked suddenly worried as adrenaline and attitude gave way to growing anxiety.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Never mind me,” he said. “Worry about yourself.”
“I’m ready,” Zoe said.
“No, you’re not,” Amy’s voice sounded from the rear seat. She was looking at the vast and implacable façade of the house. Even in the dim dashboard glow she looked ashen, uneasy. She looked at Zoe. “I think you should stay out here.”
“What?!” Zoe blurted flatly. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve got as much right to be here as you do!”
“This isn’t a contest, Zoe,” Amy said. She looked at Louis imploringly. “You don’t understand the power of this place. It feeds on what’s inside you. Pain. Anger. Secrets…”
“I don’t have any secrets,” Zoe said. “My mother is the one with the secrets, and she’s already in there!”
“It’s not just your mother, goddammit! It’s about your father too…”
“I don’t have a father!” Zoe hissed, her eyes narrowing to wounded slits. “My stepfather is locked in a fucking closet, and my real father is…”
“Josh,” Amy said, cutting her off. Zoe stopped, stunned. “Your father is Josh!”
Zoe said nothing at first, her silence oppressive in the Bronco’s close confines. It all clicked shockingly into place. The way Josh looked at her. The simple math of it all. Which, when followed to its inevitable origin given her age and their history, equaled an even more appalling epiphany. “Oh God,” she gasped, feeling ill. “Oh God. You’re telling me I was conceived in this fucking place?”
“Worse,” Amy told her. “It’s like Joya said: this place isn’t just a part of you, it’s in you. His blood. His history. And he’ll use it against you if he can.”
“Fuck you,” Zoe hissed. “Fuck you.” Her voice was steely but her eyes were bright with tears. Amy reached out for her.
“NO!” Zoe said, and threw the door wide. And before they could stop her, she was gone. Running from the brutal truth of it all. Running into the fields.
“Shit,” Amy muttered and started to follow. Louis shook his head and took a bitter breath.
“Let her go,” he said.
Inside, Amy and Louis moved cautiously, peering warily into every shadow, every nook. As they approached the great hall, Louis suddenly stiffened, nostrils flaring.
“What’s wrong?” Amy asked.
Louis drew his gun and motioned for her to shut up. The great hall was dark and dreadfully silent as they entered; a thin pall of acrid haze hung over the vast expanse like an alien atmosphere. A trail of bullet holes pocked the plaster walls in wild connect-the-dot chains. Suddenly Amy gasped.
“Louis…”
Louis turned and the maglight beam swept the darkened interior. Then he gasped too.
And they beheld an abattoir.
Just past the long table, the bodies of Kahlil, Russell, and Henri slumped grotesquely over the ritual drums, splayed and gutted. Long ropes of entrails coiled and snaked through their pooled blood, obliterating the circle and conjoining in a tangled mass at the center. Worse yet, the mirror had been shattered into a thousand ragged shards; glittering fragments littering the floor like islands in a rapidly congealing charnel sea. Joya’s ceremonial dagger stood abandoned in the carnage, its tip stuck deep into the hardwood floor. But Joya was nowhere to be found.
“What does it mean?” Amy asked, terrified.
“Off the toppa my head, I’d say it means y’all are fucked.”
They turned in shock as a small red dot of glowing light appeared dead center on Amy’s chest and Jimmy Joe Baker emerged from the shadows, holding an AR-15 assault rifle with nightscope and laser sight. He grinned imperiously.
“Drop the iron,” he said flatly. “Or I drop the bitch.”
Louis hesitated a moment, fingers clenching the weapon. “Don’t do
it,” Amy whispered. “Louis, please…”
The dot moved from Amy’s chest to a point between her eyes. Louis released the gun, and it fell clattering to the floor.
“Good boy,” Jimmy Joe said. “Now kick it on over.”
Louis obeyed; the gun skittered and slid through the muck. Jimmy Joe gestured skyward with the muzzle of the rifle for them to raise their hands. As they did, Jimmy Joe circled them, a toying predator. “Very good,” he said. “Now get down.”
Louis did not move. “I said, down!” Jimmy Joe barked and jabbed the butt of the rifle viciously into his side. Louis buckled and collapsed in agony.
“Bastard!” Amy hissed and turned toward him; Jimmy Joe smashed the butt of the gun into her solar plexus. Amy sucked wind and went down on all fours on the gore-soaked floor. She fought the urge to pass out, her ears ringing madly, the pain overwhelming.
“Y’all been a royal pain in my ass,” he said. “But it’s over now. Your little pals ain’t coming back. And you ain’t ever leavin’ here. Question is, which one do I do first?” He pointed the muzzle first at Amy, then at Louis.
“Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. Catch a,” he chuckled, “By the toe.” The gun moved back and forth as the sick sing-song continued.
“…If he hollers, let ’im go…”
Amy’s fingers grazed against a gleaming shard, and for a heartbeat she thought she saw something spark across its surface, a faint blue-white filigree of light.
“Eenie, meenie, miney… aw, fuck it,” he said. And turned the gun on Louis.
“NO!” Amy wailed, grasping the shard and whirling. Amy thrust forward with every ounce of strength she had, sinking it deep into the juncture of hip and thigh. Jimmy Joe screamed and fell back, the stub of the glass protruding from his crotch, blood jetting blackly.
“Bitch!” he roared. “You fucking bitch!” He reeled, off balance; it was a fleeting window of desperate opportunity. Amy grabbed Joya’s dagger and stood, bringing it down between his shoulders, blade crunching through meat and bone and embedding to the hilt. Jimmy Joe howled and began to thrash wildly…
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