Wicked Warlock

by K. C. Hughes

  She gazed through the sliding glass door to the backyard in a trance. Had it been her fault that he was beaten? Was she overly protective of him? These questions ran laps in her mind. She turned back to the package and something caught her eye. She saw that it came from Germany.

  She grabbed it, scanning the room like she was stealing something. Who would send him something from Germany? She turned it over to see if there had been a return label. She held it to her ear and shook it but didn’t hear anything rattle. Then she stopped. Germany. His birthplace. She set it down and got up. She circled the table with one hand on her chin, eyeing the package like she was playing musical chairs. She kept shaking her head, not wanting to believe what she was thinking. What if it was a birthday present from his biological mother. She had to open it to see what it was.

  Years ago, she hadn’t wanted to tell him about being adopted because she thought he’d feel abandoned. After months of self turmoil, she finally told him the truth. She explained that they wanted him so bad that they traveled across the world to get him. She was terrified that he’d feel unwanted. But he seemed to accept it. The conversation never came up again.

  She was just about to rip off the brown wrapping from the box, and then she hesitated. She’d never opened any of his packages and feared he’d get mad. But her curiosity got the best of her. Or was it her fear that his real mother wanted him back? She felt it was necessary to preview the contents before handing it over to him. What if she was asking to see him? She had to be sure. She set it back down. On the other hand, if it was from her and she opened it, that wouldn't go over well. If his real mother sent it, maybe it would make him feel better. Or better yet, maybe it would help him heal faster. She didn't know what to do.

  She knew that she was grasping for straws by putting hope in the gift. It may not be a gift at all. She held the box in her hand. She shook it again but felt nothing rattle. She made up her mind to open it.

  What could it hurt?

  And then, just like that, the fickle-fanny she’d always been, Wanda left it unopened.

  The next morning Wanda pranced to Deakon’s hospital room, holding the unopened package. She knew she’d done the right thing. And she was proud of herself for leaving it for him to open.

  When she entered his room, it was empty.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wanda Metcalf stumbled backwards as she saw the empty room, nearly falling over the red bio-hazard box on the floor. The room had been cleaned and she smelled Lysol wafting through the air. A horrible vision that he’d died in his sleep popped in her mind. She balled her fists and pounded her thighs. She leaned against the wall shaking her head. Then someone touched her.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” a nurse asked.

  Wanda couldn’t get enough oxygen to speak. Her breathing was fast and croaky. She sucked in a gulp of air. “What happened to my son?” she asked. She looked around wildly when she heard a hospital bed coming toward them. An orderly pushed the bed past her, but when she peered at the patient, it was a stranger and not Deakon. Her eyes followed the bed as it rolled away. She wanted so bad for it to be Deakon. She cupped her mouth and muffled the wail that escaped.

  “Who is your son?”

  Wanda grabbed the hallway handrails to keep her balance. The nurse repeated the question.

  “Um, Deakon Metcalf. My son’s name was-I mean is Deakon,” she corrected. She should have never left him alone. The wave of guilt hit her so hard that she lost her grip on the handrail and fell. Wanda heard the nurse call for help and the same orderly who wheeled the stranger past her ran to her aid. They helped her up and sat her on the same bed that her son had died in.

  “Let me get Doctor Boyd,” the nurse said, scampering out the room.

  When Doctor Boyd arrived, he pulled a chair up next to the bed. She noticed a file that he tucked between his thighs.

  “Mrs. Metcalf, is your husband here with you?” the doctor asked.

  She kept looking at the file. He held it in his hands, fanning it back and forth. Her eyes followed it like Deakon was going to slither out of the fold. She was certain it was his autopsy report. The kind she'd seen on The Closer. She lowered her head and started peeling her cuticles.

  “No, does he need to be here?" she asked. Her cuticles began bleeding so she tucked her hands under her thighs. "Please tell me that my son is not dead.”

  Doctor Boyd tilted his head slightly. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. During the pause, Wanda knew that her son had died and her body trembled for the loss of her only child.

  “Mrs. Metcalf, Deakon is very much alive, but...”

  Wanda jerked her head up. “My son isn’t dead?” she ask with big, rounded eyes out eyes. She leapt from the bed and threw her arms around the startled doctor.

  “Deakon suffered a tonic-clonic seizure last night. The nurse saw that was unconscious and ordered a few tests.” He rubbed his upper lip. “We weren’t able to determine the cause so a specialist was brought in.” He paused, rumbling through the file. “Frankly, Mrs. Metcalf, we couldn’t find anything that caused a seizure of that magnitude other than post traumatic stress.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Unfortunately, since we are not equipped or staffed to help your son, we transferred him to the mental hospital.”

  “You did what?” she asked. She faced him with her hands on her hips.

  “Please understand, the state mental hospital handles post traumatic stress disorders better than the ICU.”

  Wanda narrowed her eyes. She knew hospitals were overbooked and short staffed, but moving Deakon to the mental ward without her consent was unacceptable. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in the mental ward annex.”

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” As she stomped out of the room, Wanda brushed off the old-man-smell that lingered on her blouse after she'd hugged him.

  She was heated. The nerve of those people throwing her boy into the crazy house. He probably had more brains than the lot of them put together. She marched through the entire hospital, it seemed, looking for the mental ward. She turned so many corners she felt like she was in a human rat maze.

  When she reached the psychiatric ward, it was secluded from the rest of the hospital. The double-door entryway was unlike the stainless steel ones she’d just passed. The doors were made of a heavy dark wood with small see-through panes. She yanked so hard on the door that she could've broken a nail, if she had any. It was locked so she pounded on it. She intended it to be loud. She aimed to give these people a piece of her mind for putting him in there. She wasn’t going to hold back. Not this day. Wanda avoided confrontation all her life, always giving in to other people. But not today. Not when they messed with her only child. This would be one showdown she'd win.

  She heard the soft buzz and then the loud click signaling the door had been unlocked. She pulled the left door, but it was locked. When she went to grab the right side door, it was locked too. A timer, great! That’s all she needed. She hammered on the door again and this time, she pulled the correct door and entered the psychiatric ward at the Mercy General Hospital.

  Wanda walked in and scanned the room for Deakon. She envisioned the ward would be dark and reeking of urine. But she was surprised to see that it was bright and clean. She didn’t smell urine, or even antiseptic for that matter. Her mood quickly dissolved from rage to a notch just below it.

  The first thing that caught her attention was the television bank. It was a cluster of four flat-screen TVs with their backs facing each other. There was a large couch in front of the left side. Rows of tables were situated alongside the far wall. Patients were scattered at them, either slumped over or looking out in an empty, lifeless stare. There were no games or ping pong tables that she imagined. Just a large white room with bare furnishings. No sign of Deakon. She glanced to her right and saw the nurse’s station. She ambled over, wondering why no one greeted her.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me where Deakon Metcal
f is?” she asked the petite nurse sitting behind the oval shaped counter.

  The nurse didn’t reply but instead, continued writing in a file. She noticed an old computer with a huge CRT monitor in front of her. Wanda thought it needed to be upgraded to a flat-screen monitor like the kind Deakon had insisted they purchase for their home network.

  Wanda drummed her fingers on the counter. The nurse cut her eyes at her and rolled them to an old fashion cardboard filing system. The place was antiquated.

  “He’s in pod twenty,” was all she said. No How are you?

  "Where's pod twenty?" Wanda asked, smacking her lips.

  "It's across the Freedom Room, against the wall," she said, pointing with her pen.

  She turned around and skimmed the room. In the far corner, in an L-shape, was a row of individual cells. She’d hadn’t noticed them before. One word came to mind-jail. Each pod had a steel door with a small window facing the Freedom Room. Each door had a heavy-duty lock on it. Wanda was repulsed by the thought of Deakon locked up like a criminal. She spotted pod twenty.

  As she walked across the Freedom Room to pod twenty, Wanda felt the weight of the package she toted in her purse. She was undecided whether to give it him. When she was in front of the pod, she peeked in. Her shoulders slumped from the heaviness of her purse and the weight of despair from Deakon’s vacant stare. He sat motionless on the bed with his feet hanging over the edge. He neither blinked nor moved. She feared he’d turned into a vegetable.

  She pulled on the door but it was locked. She checked pod nineteen and it was unlocked. Then she pulled the door on pod twenty-one, unlocked. She'd had enough. She marched back to the trite nurse, slammed her purse on the counter, and put her hands on her hips. “You are going to unlock the door to my son’s room and you are to keep it unlocked!”

  The nurse dropped her jaw. “Okay,” she said slowly. It was both an affirmation and a question.

  Wanda watched, arms crossed, as she fumbled with the key-heavy ring. When she unlocked the door, Deakon didn’t stir.

  As the nurse turned to walk away, Wanda grabbed her arm.

  “What medications are you giving my son?”

  She pulled away from her grasp and sprinted to the counter. She rushed back with Deakon's records and flipped through pages. “Um, the doctor prescribed him both an antipsychotic and a psychotropic drug.”

  “Listen to me and listen carefully,” Wanda spat, pointing close to her face. “You are going to do whatever has to be done to wean him off of these drugs. I will be taking him home in three days which should be enough time to monitor for withdrawal symptoms. If you fail to follow these instructions, I will have the county, state and federal officials in this place drilling a hole in your ass with a twenty-foot Rotor-Rooter!”

  Wanda walked in her son’s room and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  Deakon woke up from a black hole of nothingness and gazed around the tiny room. He blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to let his brain catch up to what his eyes saw. It wasn’t the same room he’d been in and he had no idea how he got there. The room was void of the nicety’s that he took for granted in his other room, like a TV and comfortable furniture. There was only a twin bed with a flat, beat up mattress and a chair. Something was on the chair which he had to squint to see. He studied it but felt sluggish and foggy like he’d been standing on his head for hours. He needed to move to clear the fog that packed his brain like warm mud.

  He stood up and immediately collapsed back on the bed because of the intense pain. Grabbing onto the chair for balance, he forced his body off the bed. Steadying himself, he lumbered out of the room with the pants legs of his pajamas dragging on the floor. He struggled to make it to the nurses’ station, walking bent over like an old man. His weakened muscles screamed in defeat, forcing him to sit at the nearest table only a few feet from his room.

  He had enough energy to lift his head and look at the man that had been sitting at the table. He knew he was a patient because he wore the same hospital-issued sleepwear he had on. Deakon couldn’t see clearly without his glasses, but he saw that he had serious dark circles under his eyes. Something felt odd about him but Deakon turned away from the man’s unwavering glare. It felt like the guy seared his soul with his eyes. Deakon felt self-conscious and looked at his pajama top to see if he slobbered on himself, or something. When he looked back up the man dug in his nose like no one was watching. He was disgusting. Deakon left and went back to his room.

  Before he sat down, he grabbed the box from the chair and eased onto the bed. Because he didn’t have the muscle strength to sit down gracefully, he plopped down hard like a toddler falling on its bottom. The shooting pain from the impact was felt immediately. His rib cage burned with a heat sensation that he’d never felt before. He remained very still until it tapered off. He lifted the box closer. It was addressed to him. At first he thought it was a birthday gift from his mom, but she hadn't bought him one in years. After a second look, he saw the post marking was from Germany. Adrenaline shot through his veins and he stiffened. He knew he was adopted from there, but he’d never received anything from his birthplace. He put it up to his nose and sniffed.

  He jerked his head back from the smell. He sat up straight and batted his eyes rapidly. The throbbing in his rib cage dulled. The relief was noticeable. He ripped the wrapping off and studied the ancient looking box. It smelled like a musty old house that had been closed up for a long time. The lid had some kind of carving, but he couldn’t make it out because of the scuff marks. Suddenly, a tingling came over him. The sensation moved from his fingers, up his arms, and flowed through his veins to his entire body. The stupor he'd been in lifted like an evaporated fog. It was like going from analog TV to High def.

  Deakon slowly opened the box and peered in. The overhead fluorescent light hit the object, emitting a glow that drew him in closer. A warm feeling of peace cradled him and he liked it. He soaked it in and welcomed it. The despair of his pitiful life was gone. He took in deep breaths, enjoying the euphoria. He pulled the bracelet out and clasped it over his wrist.

  The moment it touched his skin, Deakon knew the bracelet was meant for him and him only. It wasn’t a gift from his mom or a mix up at the hospital. The euphoric feeling was more magical than moments before. His eyes softened and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a smile. He couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

  He looked at the gold bracelet and felt the weight of it. He had no doubt in his mind that it had been made with solid gold. It reminded him of an ancient Egyptian artifact, but something told him he was dead wrong. The engraving on the center medallion was just like the one on the box, only he was able to make out the symbol. Four rectangles were encased in a circle and surrounded by stars. It was definitely wiccan looking!

  After intense inspection, his eyes began to itch. He didn’t want to rub them because of the bruising from the beating. But the itchiness was so strong that he couldn’t help but to scratch them. First, he used his index fingers, but that wasn’t enough pressure. Then he rubbed his eyes with the meaty part of his palms. After what seemed like a long time, the itch was gone. He opened his eyes and blinked steadily trying to bring up moisture. As soon as his eyes felt normal, another sensation hit him.

  His ears clogged up like he’d been swimming under water. He tilted his head to the side and tried to pop his them. Instead of popping, a deafening ringing assaulted his eardrums. It got so loud that he rose from the bed, walked around the small room and covered his ears. The distraction didn’t help. He tried to holler for the nurse, but when he opened his mouth, his lower jaw contorted in unnatural spasms. His upper jaw locked in place while the lower jaw shifted back and forth. When that stopped, the lower jaw remained in place while the upper one moved on its own. He looked stupefied as the uncontrolled movements left his jaws and traveled to his hands.

  He dropped his hands from his ears and nearly tripped over the chair when he saw how disfigured t
hey looked. His fingers curled and extended back and forth on their own. And they were growing. He felt his toes doing the same thing. When the ringing in his ear stopped, multiple zaps of voltage pricked his brain. Every sting jerked his body in a freaky way. He walked around the room with his hands extended and feet kicking looking like Frankenstein when he had been juiced to life. Deakon was morphing into a creature and he was horrified.

  It went on for ten minutes. And as suddenly as it started, it stopped. He sat down and grabbed the bed frame, waiting for the next wave to hit. He rocked back and forth but quickly stopped, fearing the movement would bring on another attack. He released his grip from the bed rail and slowly brought his hands to his face. They looked like someone else’s hands. He was about to panic when he realized it was a hallucination from the withdrawal of the strong pain meds. Then he let out a heavy breath and laughed. He shook his head, feeling stupid about thinking he was turning into a creature.

  Suddenly, something donned on him. He cut his eyes from left to right. He counted to ten and took a deep breath. Deakon was pain free. He sprang out of bed, bending and twisting his body checking for body aches. No aches, no vertigo. He felt great, better than great actually. He lifted his hands to his face, and that’s when he heard it.

  A loud rumble overcame him. It sounded like the muffled roar of a Monster Truck and it frightened him. He desperately wanted the withdrawal to be over and done with. When the sound erupted again, he chuckled. It was his stomach growling. His hunger turned primal. He walked out of his room and noticed that his pajama pants didn’t drag on the floor. Out of habit, he touched his face to push up his glasses, but they weren’t there. When he looked around, he was able to see everything with crystal clarity. Something odd was happening.