I looked up now. “And pushed her under.”
The old woman stared at the candle. “Wot else cud I do?”
She sighed then, a long, rattling chuckle of a sigh from deep in the sunken chest. “Best get them duds off now.”
I stood, fists doubled to strike her, kill her. “What--?”
“Or jest yer pants if ya like, I don’t care none.”
I gaped at her. “What is it you want from me?”
The focus seemed to come back to her eyes as she appraised me. Her smile was terrible. “To mount her, a course! How else you reckon we gonna send that mad child’s spirit back to its lair but to blaspheme before God? Pack with the devil!”
“You’re insane!”
She snorted, lifted the rusty pistol from her dress. “Mebe, but thet child’s too strong to handle tonight, probably on account of y’alls presence! An you kin only fight thet kind of paganism with paganism! Now get yer miserable self unzipped and plough thet hefer!”
“She’s dead!” I screamed.
The horrible grin widened. “Don’t I know it?! And a touch o’ necromancy’s to drive back the evil’s jest what we need to send it runnin’!” She lifted the ancient weapon. “It be yer fault, ya know, professor! Cheatin’ on thet pretty fiancée of yern, and bringin’ this brainy little chippie here to Manchac!”
I had all I could do not pulverize the withered thing on the spot. “You can go straight to hell!”
She lifted the gun, gap-tooth smile widening further. “No doubt! But you first!”
She pulled the trigger.
I saw the hammer fall and, blessedly, my fried brain was filled suddenly with Katie’s wonderful gray eyes, sweet smile.
And her’s with her love.
A love that was so all-encompassing it seemed to fill that entire ugly little mud basement…fill and illuminate it.
Two things happened then, nearly simultaneously.
The hammer fell on an empty round and, the old hag stumbling to squeezed off another, backed up two steps in time for the second thing. The wind.
Yeah, I know. Where does wind come from down in a closed-off cellar?
I didn’t know then and I don’t now, but it came, fast and hard and it took the surrounding candle flames with it.
The candles went out all at once, but not their individual lights. The winds caught them, twisted them into a projectile of flame that enveloped the black hem of the old lady’s tattered dress. The threadbare material whooshed, shot high and became a rippling pillar. Mama Grace danced and leapt with unimagined speed, a capering torch on legs.
I whipped off my shirt to smother her billowing from, the terrible heat driving me back; in my heart I knew she was already beyond help. Never have I seen a fire burn with such vengeful intensity.
The old woman whirled and clawed, leapt high and came down with a sharp crack like her splitting swamp skiff, that this time was the dry rot of plywood under the thin earthen floor. A shocking blur, like a magician’s trick, and the Voodoo Queen vanished downward, replaced by a briefly jubilant fountain of sparks.
All light followed her through the hole and the damp cellar’s darkness was complete.
I only barely remember switching on the flashlight before I passed out.
But not before I’d fallen to my knees before the gaping hole of imploded wood and glimpsed the charred remains of the witch woman in the brick-lined tomb ten feet below.
And the smiling skeleton of the little girl that seemed to embrace her.
EPILOGUE
As for carrying Katie’s limp form from the shack and collapsing on the ruined little dock, I don’t remember that at all, though sometimes at night I dream of a moon-swept glades lit unnaturally bright and jumping with burning mangroves and a collapsing timber shack.
The next moment of real clarity from that night was feeling the itchy thrum of the outboard against my back, and opening my eyes on the bottom of the little skiff to find Katie smiling down at me from behind fireplug McKenzie’s the oil-smoking tiller.
“Where’s your hatchet?” I muttered hazily.
Katie smiled wider and jerked a thumb behind us at the luminous wake. “Hatchet? Is that what you saw? With me it was rattlesnakes.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Hallucinations! From that filthy-smelling incense the old with was burning!”
I was silent a moment. “Then Amy’s bones under the floorboards. Was that a hallucination too?”
Katie pointed gently to an emptied out fishing tackle box that I’d noticed aboard earlier. “No…those were real. I’m taking them to Angel. She’ll put Amy to rest at last…” Her eyes were a bit misty.
“Are you going to tell Angel what Mama Grace said about—“
“No. What would be the point of that? Let the dead bury the dead…”
I thought about his. Angel was Katie’s client, but she was also a friend. She’d been hurt enough. It was better to just let it go. Perhaps Amy had found peace at last.
“Where to now, Skipper?”
Katie’s cell phone went off in her pocket. Frowning, she answered it.
“Katie Bracken here….yes…yes…sounds very interesting. Yes, I’d like to meet with you…I’ll get on a plane to New York and meet you at my office, 4 pm. Thanks.”
She hung up and looked at me. “So Bledsoe, you in or out? No swamps this time.” She smiled only the way Katie can smile.
I blushed. “I’d have to think about that for a while…”
Katie went back to steering. “See that star above the cypress? It’s the north star. Never leads you wrong…” And we sailed the rest of the way in silence…
THE END
PUBLISHED BY ROVER PRESS
Copyright Bruce Elliot Jones and April Campbell Jones 2012
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the writer’s imagination or are fused fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art Copyright April Campbell Jones
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
CAMPBELL JONES is the pen name for writers April Campbell Jones and Bruce Elliot Jones. Together they have written ten novels in four different series over the last two years exclusively for Kindle.
Previously, April Campbell Jones was a screenwriter in Hollywood for many years and husband Bruce published several hardcover and paperback books as both Bruce Jones and Bruce Elliot. Together they created several graphic novels and worked as staff on television shows. They are both accomplished artists as well, and spent time in front of the camera in their younger days, April as an actress/model, sometimes posing for Bruce’s artwork.
They have also somehow managed to produce three talented and brilliant children in their spare time, and currently reside happily in the ethers between Los Angeles and the Midwest…
OTHER NOVELS BY CAMPBELL JONES:
THE VAMPIRE POODLE MYSTERIES
MITZI MAGEE: VAMPIRE POODLE
MITZI MAGEE: BLOOD SCENT
MITZI MAGEE: A NIP IN TIME
THE BRACKEN AND BLEDSOE PARANORMAL MYSTERIES
FEVER DREAMS
NIGHT CHILLS
DARK VISIONS
THE BREE AND RICHARD MATTHEWS MYSTERIES
LIE LIKE A WOMAN
THE TARN CREATURES TRILOGY
THE TARN
BOOKS OF TERROR BY BRUCE JONES!
THE DEADENDERS
SHIMMER
SOMETHING WAITS (TWISTED TALES): Horror Short Stories
DIRE HOUSE
ONE LAST THING:
When you turn the page, Kindle will give you the opportunity to rate the book and share y
our thoughts on Facebook and Twitter. If you believe the book is worth sharing, would you take a few seconds to let your friends know about it? If it turns out to make a difference in their lives, they’ll be forever grateful to you. We know we will.
All the best,
Bruce Elliot Jones
April Campbell Jones
FEVER DREAMS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery Page 40