by TJ Park
Warlock squirmed out from between Rob and the wall, his shirt ruffled. He ducked behind Doug. “Are you going to let him do that to me?” he yelled.
“That depends. Do you have a proper answer?”
“I told you!”
“Tell me in English.”
“We’ve pissed someone off! The bloke who lived with the girl. The boyfriend or husband or whatever. His woman was a witch. He’s one, too.”
“Crap,” Mick said stonily.
Warlock stuck his hand up his shirt, massaging his blotchy chest. He condemned Rob with a look. “I think you broke my skin.”
Doug decided to go along with Wally’s line of reasoning. It could actually lead somewhere sensible. “I thought only women could be witches.”
Warlock shook his head. “That’s Wizard of Oz bullshit. Men can be witches, same as women.”
“What about a warlock?” Mick muttered.
Warlock didn’t get the jibe. “Yeah, well … could be. Only men can be warlocks. Well, I mean, I’ve only ever heard of men being warlocks.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Doug. He said it slowly, almost as if he was suffering the onset of a headache. He wasn’t.
“Witches worship occult forces. Warlocks try to control them for their own ends. They get off on the power. I doubt he’d be living in a shack in the middle of fucking nowhere if he was one of those. And you can still be a witch and call up something to do your bidding.”
“What do you mean ‘call up’?” Doug was becoming impatient. He only wanted to know if it was a wooden stake or a silver bullet they required.
“Summoned up! Conjured! I don’t know! I’m guessing!” Warlock straightened, becoming alert. “Maybe it’s his familiar.”
“Familiar?” Doug asked. “What’s familiar?”
Warlock started walking a tight line back and forth, dredging up anything he could remember and tossing it out. “A witch’s familiar. To the witches, it’s an elemental, or an animal they’re spiritually connected to, or something created from their own will. According to the Bible bashers, it’s a demonic servant, a minor devil. They look like animals, but they can look like people, too. They’re like messengers or delivery boys, shit-kickers for witches. Sometimes they’ve got really stupid names like Pyewacket and Griezzel Greedigutts. I’ve used some of them in my performances.”
Warlock raised his fingers, waggling them.
“At their meanest, they follow you around and hassle you, make you have bad luck. Ruin your crops, curdle your milk, steal your shoes, lame stuff like that.”
Warlock eyed the front door nervously. His fingers stopped waggling. He didn’t realise he had them hooked into claws.
“But if this is a witch’s familiar, it’s been tinkered with. This one’s like a fucking bulldozer with racing stripes and teeth. It’s been souped up.”
It had been a long, outrageous day, and Doug could only absorb one piece of madness at a time, but if he was to believe what Warlock was talking about, he had his own dark idea about what was added to the mix.
Warlock continued.
“But real witches, modern-day witches, they don’t touch the devil-worshipping stuff, not like the cross-hugging Bible bashers think. They’re into Wicca and pagan rituals … you know, celebrating the change of seasons and praying for a good dope crop. Harmless shit. The ones back at the other house, they didn’t look like the types who worshipped the devil.” He bit his lip. “I guess they decided to change sides.”
Doug knew he looked calm, even though he didn’t feel it. He wanted to force the information out of the punk’s throat in one big dump, not keep prolonging such bullshit for longer than necessary. Even if it was all true, it still embarrassed him.
“Say I believe you even for a second. What do we do about it?”
Warlock shrugged and pointed toward the barricade, the hallstand, but that was not what he meant. He was referring to the open, defenceless doorway behind it.
“That did alright, didn’t it?”
Doug remembered how the monster had taken out a half mile of fence line with hardly any fuss. “Why can’t it get through the doors and windows?”
Warlock pointed at the Clarksons. “Why ask me? It’s their house!”
Doug did contemplate the family for a moment, but they only looked scared and wary. There was no collusion in their faces. They were having a hard time even following the course of the outrageous conversation.
Feeling very tired, he turned back to Warlock. “Have another guess.”
“It’s made from black magic. Maybe it can’t enter a place that’s been blessed.”
Janet’s head rose in attention, though her face was strangely veiled.
“Like lucky charms?” Scott asked brightly.
“Charms. Talismans. Any shit like that.”
“I’ve got a lucky quartz in my room!” Scott cried. He jumped up. “And a rabbit’s foot. It’s old and lost most of its fur and it’s from a hare not a rabbit, but it still works. Maybe that’s what’s keeping it out!”
“Get back here!” Rob ordered his son. He looked around at the others. “This is a load of nonsense.”
“Hear, hear!” agreed Mick from his corner.
“Well, something’s keeping it out,” Warlock said.
There was long silence. A fierce contemplation filled the air, but no-one could come up with anything more.
Everyone jumped at the harsh scrape of something being dragged across the floor in the hallway. Then Janet came in dragging a battered portmanteau behind her. Doug hadn’t seen her leave. He was starting to understand how being secretive might be second nature to her.
Her face was screwed up, concentrating on doing an ugly task. She dropped the trunk into the middle of the room, forcing her son to skip out of the way. She opened the trunk with an old-fashioned key. The trunk had two latches, one popping easily, the second labouring open with a brittle crunch. She swung the heavy lid up and leather ties on the inside stopped its backward trajectory on an angle. It reminded Doug of a giant clam, gaping and ready for a diver’s unsuspecting arm. Janet stepped away from the trunk, deliberately not viewing its interior until she was a good distance from it. Then she stared back at it, as one might at an unpleasant but undeniable fact.
Which was a very strange view to take, considering what was inside.
With a cry of glee, Warlock began pulling out the contents as the others gathered round. He was pawing through a treasure trove of Catholic totems: crucifixes, Bibles of different sizes and thicknesses, a plaster relief of Madonna and Child, rosary beads and brooches, and a folded confirmation dress, stiffly white and lacy. There were miniature figures in religious poses, looking up or submissively down; prints of angels delivering sermons to the stiffly contrite; sunlamps shining out from behind heads; plump hearts in x-ray chests.
Rob studied the hoard with a furrowed brow. He turned to his wife, but she didn’t acknowledge his unspoken question. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
Warlock danced about the trunk. “Holy crap! She’s got a fucking cathedral in here!” He grabbed up a heavy crucifix, the Jesus on it greatly suffering in his grip. “We’re laughing! A hundred fucking vampires couldn’t get past this lot!”
Warlock had forgotten his past love of the dark arts. He couldn’t move fast enough to scoop out the religious trinkets from the trunk and position them in the most prominent places around the room. Crucifixes supplanted prize ribbons. Paintings of saints replaced photographs of cattle. None of the Clarksons objected to redecorating.
Despite himself, Doug was tempted to pick up a small St Christopher’s medal and hang it around his neck … just in case … but in the end resisted. He’d feel a bloody fool if someone caught him. He merely watched on with the others as Warlock did his own version of securing a room, hanging rosaries over broken, upright pieces of window glass, almost pitching them over the jagged points to avoid getting too close to the outside. He plonked a plaster Madonna down before the
barricaded front door. After a moment’s thought, he turned it so it was facing outward.
Spurred on by Warlock’s undertaking, Scott bolted off down the hall.
“Scott!”
A torch found him rooting about in the hall cupboard. He shifted so the light would shine in front of him, to aid his search. He came tearing back into the living room with a small tap hammer sticking out of a glass jar filled with nails and picture hooks.
“Good one!” Warlock said, taking the tools proffered, and began driving hooks and nails into the spaces he deemed too bare of Christianity.
“This is madness,” Rob said, but he did not tell Warlock to stop making holes in his walls. “It’s ludicrous.”
Warlock cackled in between hammer blows. “I’m not arguing!”
***
After fine-tuning his alterations, Warlock plonked down in a chair, agitated with confidence. “All we have to do is wait until morning.”
“Will it go away then?” Doug asked. He could easily accept it. It seemed a madness only possible in the night-time.
“Should do.”
“What makes you so sure?”
Warlock giggled. “I’m not.” Staring into space, he gripped the tap hammer compulsively in both hands, trying to wring it like a rag. “It took out the lights, though. So unless it’s playing mind games with us, I’m figuring it doesn’t like bright light.” He sat up straighter. “Did you see it when the kid –” He twisted round to grin at Scott. “You’ve got balls, bro. You really do.” He twisted back again. “Did you see when the kid shone the bike’s headlight on it? That thing hated it worse than being shot!”
“The fire didn’t seem to bother it.”
Warlock was disgusted. “How many times have you stared into a burning fireplace? Or a huge bonfire? No problem. But try staring at a light bulb too long, even one of those weak ones, and see how long you last. Try staring at the sun. That’s why it’s going to piss off in the morning. We’ll just have to hold out till then.” He thought about it a moment. “And take some of this stuff with us when we go.”
“And you’re certain about that?”
Warlock raised his shoulders in the biggest shrug he could affect, at the same time expelling a mad laugh.
“Mum?”
Lauren was sitting with all the dignity she could muster, the doona crushed into her lap, her face deadly pale. She had gone back to her place on the couch since the clustering at the door, never letting go of the cover she held tight around her.
Janet went to her daughter and helped her up, wrapping the doona more securely around her waist. Lauren shuffled with small steps as her mother lit the way with a torch. Rob watched their procession intensely.
“Where are you two going?”
“To the bathroom.”
“No,” he said firmly, “I don’t want you leaving this room.”
“Rob, we have to clean up.”
“Then do it here.”
If Lauren could have shrivelled on the spot, she would have.
“Rob, you’re going to make your daughter do that here, in front of them?”
Rob reddened, but did not waver. He rushed to the large coffee table and up-ended it, fitting it into the corner of the room so it would act as a modesty screen.
Lauren, looking at it with horror, pleaded, “Mum.”
“Rob. We’re not doing it in here.”
Both parents were determined, but Rob gave in first. “Alright, but at least go into the kitchen, where you’re near.” It was as close as he would come to pleading.
Janet’s own resolve softened. She saw how he was only afraid for them. She nodded and turned her daughter in the direction of the kitchen.
Cleaning herself up would have been less humiliating for Lauren if the others had managed some discussion, but all talk had fallen by the wayside. Except for Rob telling his son – who insisted on being lookout – not to stand too close to windows, all was quiet.
Then Warlock leapt up from his chair, eyes close to bulging, trotting to where he could see inside the kitchen better. He stared at Lauren, past her outraged mother.
“Do you mind?”
“No,” Warlock replied absently, still staring.
“Warlock!” Doug shouted at the same time Janet said: “Get away, you pervert!”
“I’m not perving at her! I’m just thinking maybe you shouldn’t let her clean up.”
“Get out of here!”
Rob was almost upon him, thunderous. “I’ve had it with you.”
But Doug got there first. He grabbed Warlock by the arm and swung him round to comparative safety. He was close to wiping the floor with him as well.
Warlock pulled away. “Leave me alone! I’m trying to help us!”
“Then say what’s on your mind, but it better be good.”
“It mightn’t be the rosary beads and crosses that are keeping that thing out. Or maybe it’s not only them. It could be something else.”
“What is it then? Stop beating about the bush!”
For a reason Doug didn’t immediately get at first, Warlock burst into hysterical laughter. Doug shook him to make him stop.
“Okay! Okay!” Warlock shouted. “Ever heard of the ‘blood of the moon’?”
Doug was really close to losing it. “What do you think?”
“It’s another name for ‘the curse’ – a woman’s time of the month. It’s a pagan name. The stuff’s supposed to be shit-hot in rituals and potions. I’ve had some pretty freaky groupies who were into it.”
“Christ almighty,” everyone heard Mick mutter.
“And this helps us how?” That was Janet’s soft yet steely voice.
“Blood of the moon could also be used as a protective charm against walking pieces of bad luck like our mate outside.”
“How do you know for sure it’s not the stuff out of the trunk?” Doug asked. “Or anything else?”
Warlock managed to both flinch and sneer at the same time. “Gee, I don’t know. Why don’t we test it? Rob could squeeze into one of those little confirmation dresses and go for a stroll outside. If his head comes back in through the window, we’ll know.”
“Shut up,” Janet snarled.
Rob visibly tensed. Perhaps from the idea he needed his wife to defend him.
“It’s a crock,” Mick said. He was still planted in his chair, staring into his own private wretchedness. “The cowpuncher was right the first time. This is bullshit.” He studied one of his hands, the blood long dried into a crackled glaze, the fractures following the lines in his palm. He looked at it as if he could discern his fortune there, and it wasn’t favourable. He continued. “Wally’s ‘familiar’ doesn’t give a shit about blood. It likes it. Wally is trying to big-note himself at our expense. It’s how he gets his kicks, like sniffing soiled panties.”
“Will all of you please shut up!” Lauren cried. She burst into tears.
“Yeah, Mick?” Warlock said, in one of his short-lived fits of bravery. “That stuff makes no difference, huh? Then how about we cut a vein on the girl and give you a choice between a cup of her blood and a cup of her discharge. If you had to drink one of them, which would you rather?”
“That does it!” Rob roared, charging Warlock down.
Doug got in his way.
“Don’t. Or there won’t be anyone left to protect their honour.”
Mick grimaced. “Sicko.”
Warlock appealed to his guardian. “I’m telling you, Doug. That stuff’s powerful! We might need to keep some of it. Don’t let it just go down the drain!”
Doug turned and looked questioningly at Janet, knowing the decision was ultimately hers. This was one undertaking he knew she could not be threatened into agreeing with.
Rob took a deep breath, then let it go. He turned to look at his wife, making sure to step apart from Doug and the others first, to show he wasn’t siding with them.
“I don’t like it. But that thing outside … it’s impossible. It just sho
uldn’t be.” Another deep breath, almost a shiver at the end. “I’ll go along with anything that means keeping it out.” He turned and glared at Warlock, a dire warning. “This better be real.”
“Jeez,” Mick said loudly from the living room. “He’s got you believing it, too.”
Janet considered them with some reproach. She didn’t exclude her husband from her withering gaze either. Finally, she turned her back and whispered something to her daughter.
“I don’t want to,” Lauren nearly moaned.
“And I don’t want you to, either,” Janet replied gently, but firmly. “If I could do it for you I would. We can afford to be embarrassed about it tomorrow. Not now.”
“No.”
Janet turned to the others. “Leave us alone. We’ll sort this out.”
Doug pushed Warlock ahead of him. Rob lingered.
“You too, Rob.”
Chastened, Rob followed after the others.
***
The living room had been transformed into a bunker. Camp beds and blankets filled the space. Rob had made up the fire. A steaming billy sat on the grate. No-one seemed to mind it was a warm night to begin with – the dancing shadows brought some sense of ease. The coals were stoked low and the broken windows released most of the heat.
On the coffee table were war rations: tea, coffee, milk, sugar, Milo, and a large opened bag of potato chips (mostly untouched). There were also candles and an unlit kerosene heater that hadn’t been used in a decade, along with a few tins of fuel, plus glass bottles and carafes containing water, torches, guns, and a largely-depleted first-aid kit. All the necessities needed to sit out a siege.
There was also another change in the room, small but crucial.
Each of the holy icons set about the room was daubed with a dark blemish. Janet did the honours after asking Warlock if there was any special procedure. Best done with a human touch was what he reckoned. So Janet did the deed in a manner much befitting a priest bestowing a blessing on a congregation, dipping her thumb into a shallow saucer of fluid before anointing painted and ceramic foreheads. Rob asked if Lauren should be bleeding so much, but Janet tersely shook her head, not wanting to discuss it. Women’s business. Rob took the hint.
And so they had settled down to wait out the night.