The Sisters: A Mystery of Good and Evil, Horror and Suspense (Book One of the Dark Forces Series)

by Don Sloan

  Sarah sighed. In a strange way, this was becoming very predictable. Episode after episode of incredibly real dream-states for both her and Nathan had led to many questions with few answers. She breathed the rich, fragrant air, flavored as it was with cold salt. She should have been freezing, standing there in January, even with her jacket, but a warmth came suddenly from deep within, along with a voice, much like Nathan had heard, speaking in the calming tones of a woman quieting her child’s nightmare fears. “Patience,” said the voice. “Patience. You are our hope.”

  “Who are you?” Sarah said.

  But no further words came. Clouds continued to skid across the sky, flying before a lower level jet stream. But on the pier not a whisper of a breeze stirred, and all Sarah heard was the crying of the gulls and the crashing of the surf. She turned her back to the breaking waves and began walking toward her home.

  Part 2

  Chapter 1

  June, 1890

  It is hot in the jungle of the Congo. It is just past nightfall.

  Nagutu and his brother have finished their evening hunt and are on their way back to the camp of their clan. It has been a good hunt, with their gods favoring them. Nagutu’s spear-point has been thrust true three times today and they have strung between them enough meat to feed the clan for a week. There will be celebrations tonight.

  They move noiselessly through the tall savannah grass of the lowlands by the river, each clad only in a loincloth of tanned leather. Nagutu also has his pouch, with his gods and medicinal stones and other oddments in it. They are within sight of their camp when they see flames. Campfires are burning but they are bigger and brighter than usual. Nagutu signals to his brother that they should stop and put down the meat they have been carrying. They creep to the edge of a hill overlooking the camp and see—

  —a perimeter of white men, armed with long guns, set up around their village. In the center, near the largest campfire, is their clan’s chief, trussed up hand and foot and propped on a long pole beside a makeshift wooden desk where a man sits writing by candlelight. Laid out on the banks of the river are all his clanspeople, also bound by hand and foot, next to waiting longboats. Nagutu narrows his sharp eyes and recognizes the black man standing beside the white man at the table. He is upset and making many gestures with his hands. It is Obetha, the chief of the clan just up the river. On the table are many coins of gold and silver.

  Nagutu swears a dark oath. Obetha will pay dearly for this dark treachery. The rival clan’s chief has sold his clan’s people into slavery! Nagutu motions for his brother to come with him. Silently, they steal away through the tall grasses.

  “If this is all the niggers they’ve got, this is all the money ye’ll get,” says the white man seated at the table. “Ye needn’t be upsot about it. Just be glad we’ve only got the room for his clan and not yer own this trip.” And with that, the man gestures toward the chief’s trussed figure. But Obetha is still dissatisfied with the deal. He complains angrily in his native tongue, which the man does not understand.

  “McAfee,” he says to one of the white men on the perimeter, “I’ve had enough of this. Put a gun to this fellow’s head and let him understand we’re done. We’re shoving off.” McAfee takes Obetha aside and roughly puts a pistol to his head. Obetha understands this at once and falls to his knees, begging for his life. The other men come in from their positions around the village and begin laughing at him.

  Suddenly Obetha falls forward on his face. An arrow is protruding from his back. The men stop laughing and pull their weapons up to the ready. Another arrow comes whistling out of the darkness and quivers in the table’s edge.

  Willingham gets calmly to his feet. “All right, boys. It looks like we’ve not gotten everyone. Take the chief inside that hut—that’s right and the rest of you with him. I don’t want anybody else harmed—except for the chief.”

  The white men quickly do as they are told, bundling the chief into the nearest hut and all crowding inside with him. Willingham waits outside, speaking loudly in the direction of the tall grassy area from which the arrow has come.

  “I don’t speak yer language, sir, but it appears ye’ve got the drop on me,” he says to the darkness in which Nagutu waits with his brother. “If ye’ll only come down, perhaps we can strike a deal.”

  From inside the hut, strangled noises come, as though someone is choking. The chief cries out in Nagutu’s native tongue to come and save them. Nagutu wavers, knowing he is outnumbered. He reaches into the pouch behind his back and takes out a wooden idol of a man-god, with sharp features and red eyes. He strokes it and feels a dark power growing.

  “Come on, now,” Willingham says, “or we’ll have to slit yer Chief’s throat.” A leer plays on Willingham’s face until he feels a presence behind him, something he can feel—but, when he turns to look, he sees nothing. Turning back, a black, man-like shape with glowing eyes is in front of him and he recoils in horror, dropping his pistol. The shadow growls and Willingham scuttles far under the table, making yelping noises. The shadow rushes past him and into the nearby hut.

  Instantly the hut begins emptying. White men begin running forth in wild disarray, screaming for their lives. Growling noises, like a Bengal tiger, rend the night air. The natives on the bank take up a chant.

  Willingham, from his crouching position beneath the table sees a strongly muscled black leg appear before him. It is Nagutu and he is proud that he has unleashed his god Bakka on these white men. His chest swells as he sees them running for the cover of the jungle. Willingham reaches out for his pistol, lying on the ground nearby and, bringing it up swiftly, he fires a shot directly into Nagutu’s calf muscle. Powder smoke and blood fill the air and Nagutu drops to the ground, turning in agony to face Willingham under the table. Willingham scuttles out from under the table and picks up a rifle.

  “So, where is this black magic pal of yer’s, mister?” he says. Nagutu writhes on the ground, gritting his teeth. He cries something in a strange tongue and the shadow appears in the doorway, but its outlines are ill-defined and wavering. It makes a rush at Willingham, who shoots it straight through the chest area and it disappears, like so much black smoke on a calm night.

  “I thought as much,” says Willingham, turning to Nagutu. “These cheap tribal gods are never much good when their keepers aren’t in full control of them. Now, let’s get yer leg bandaged. Ye’ll fetch a fine price where we’re headed, spunky as ye are. Get him, boys!”

  And the crewmen, who have come back after hearing Willingham’s gunshot, begin tying Nagutu up. He is weakened from loss of blood and shock and does not fight them much. Before they begin tying his hands, he manages to return the idol of Bakka to his pouch. Perhaps when his leg has healed, there will come another time to get back at the white man, when he is stronger, he thinks. Then he is bound completely and carried to the river. From out of the tall grass, three white men bring Nagutu’s brother to the banks of the river and the cargo of slaves is complete. A single gunshot inside the hut sounds the end of their chief and a wail goes up from all the villagers.

  “Enough of this caterwauling, then,” says Willingham as he comes out of the hut. He is reloading his pistol. “Get them in the longboats and out into the river. We make for the Elizabeth Ann by the light of the moon and from anchorage to Charleston.” The crew begins bustling the frightened black men and women into the boats. There are no children. Willingham has seen to that. Of all the campfires burning in the village, the one burning brightest is the one heaped with their small bodies.

  As the last of the longboats shoves off from shore, Nagutu looks back and prays a special prayer to Bakka that this white man will find no peace in life as long as Bakka has the power to kill him.

  Chapter 2

  Nathan rubbed his eyes, and knew he had been wearing his contacts far too long. His eyes felt gritty and sore, as though someone had poured Tabasco sauce in them. He was at his wits’ end.

  After Sarah had disappeared, he had
chased the shadow down the hall, only to find nothing there. It had simply disappeared, and the wind had picked up with snow squalls that made the old house echo and creak with sounds that seemed both natural and unnatural. Whistling winds and groans came from every corner as Nathan had stood there, turning in circles with the knife in his hand. Finally, he had cried out to the unseen shadow to return her. He had pleaded with it, begged it, threatened it, and had gotten only silence mixed with old house noises in return.

  He thought once more of going to the local police. Would they believe him? Or would he just become a sudden suspect? They would think he was crazy. Maybe he was. He shook his head. If he were in jail, it would certainly hamper his own search for Sarah.

  The wind was rising again late on Wednesday morning as Nathan approached the block of Ocean Avenue on which Sarah’s house stood. What he saw stopped him cold.

  Standing on the front porch of Sarah’s house was a man―Nathan could make out the man’s lean, spare form even from a half-block away. And, as Nathan watched, the man crouched behind the wicker furniture on Sarah’s porch, as though he was going into hiding. But from whom? Nathan swept his gaze toward Beach Avenue and his heart almost stopped. There was Sarah, moving slowly across the boulevard from the direction of the pier, her head down and in a contemplative pose.

  “Sarah!” Nathan yelled. At the sound of his voice, Sarah looked up toward him. He thought she smiled, but in the instant he had taken to call her name, the figure that had been crouching on her front porch had disappeared. Nathan broke into a run, intercepting Sarah just as she got to her front walk.

  “Well, it’s my knight in shining armor,” she said, and a delicious smile played about her lips as she said it. Nathan blushed, and caught her up in his arms. Sarah was so surprised she laughed out loud. Then she saw the look of genuine worry on his face and put a hand to her mouth.

  “Nathan, I’m okay. Really. But I have had one weird time since I saw you last.”

  Nathan kept looking hard at her porch and did not let go his embrace.

  “You’re not going into that house again,” he said. “Someone is waiting for you there. I just saw him.”

  Sarah stiffened and pushed Nathan back, but gently. “Are you sure?”

  Nathan nodded, and said, “None of this is making any sense, and the more it goes on, the more convinced I am that these are not entirely supernatural events. I don’t know how it’s being done, but I do know we’re being watched. Can’t you feel it?”

  And Sarah thought about the feminine voice in her head out on the pier. Patience, the voice had said. You are our hope.

  “Yes,” Sarah said after a long moment. “I can feel it, too. What are we going to do?”

  “First, we’re going to get away from here. Whoever that was, I’m sure he’s still hanging around your house someplace. Let’s go back to my house and maybe we can begin to figure some of this out.”

  “All right,” Sarah said. “But―”

  “But what?”

  Sarah looked carefully at him. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair looked as though he had teased it with a comb. She circled her arm into his and began moving down the boulevard. “But nothing. Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, and they set off for his home.

  my dear, the night she slept in the parlor was the night she was killed.

  for heaven’s sake, I do believe you’re right. After all these years, I get them confused. And how did she die, darling? It was horrid, but, then, how could it have been anything else the way she had been acting?

  well, she was home alone and trying to make dinner for her husband, but in the middle of it her friend came by.

  which friend was that, darling?

  the friend that came by to partake of her favors, and she had plenty, let me tell you. He took her by the hand and led her into the parlor, where they made love in the middle of the afternoon.

  but she was just a servant girl, no more than 16.

  it didn’t matter to him. A long time passed and he took her again and again. She knew that she should be making dinner and that time was running out, but he wouldn’t let her up until she

  drove the brand new Studebaker into the garage. He was very proud of it and showed it off to everyone in the neighborhood.

  as if they didn’t have enough cars and other expensive things, darling.

  well, this one proved to be the death of him, when the keeper made him stay in the car with the engine running and the garage door closed. The exhaust fumes gathered in through the car’s open windows and he just went to sleep. His lips and nose turned a blueish-gray and that was how his grand-daughter found him.

  how terrible for her!

  well, it never really matters to the keeper, does it? It’s as though he has a quota to keep of the dead. So many per month, and

  it was the first wife that was buried in the cellar. I’m sure of it.

  my dear, you’re wrong. Clemmons’ second wife was the very pretty one, the one from Wellesley, and a dear thing, really. Kept us so very clean and spotless. Wouldn’t let a servant get away with just dusting here and there. She would check behind her and if things weren’t the way they should be, she docked their wages.

  smart girl. These working class people need to understand what they can and can’t get away with.

  well, all the servants decided one morning while she was shopping that they had had enough, and argued among themselves over how to do it, so none of them would get caught. There were four of them, and all were in it thick except for the cook, who was a kindly woman. The others killed her first, of course, and buried her in the root cellar. She was a big woman, too, and it was hard, digging two graves, but nothing else would do. It never worked out, though, because the youngest one told the keeper and he was onto them as soon as they had put a knife into the poor wife’s back.

  no!

  well, there wasn’t much they could do. He could have let the police take care of them, so they all would have swung from a rope, but it would have taken too long and there would have been too many questions. So, as soon as they had finished covering up both graves and begun cleaning up the cellar, they heard the root cellar door close and lock. There was no one else in the house at the time, just the three of them in the basement, dirty and sweaty as pigs, and when they heard the door close, they tried to get out through the window, but it was too small for any of them.

  in the end, I suppose they all just rotted away there?

  no, the keeper let the shadow take them to a far away place and have his way with them―and a terrible way it was, too. There are terrible unnatural things the shadow can do, once he gets you inside, like turn a body inside out.

  no!

  yes, and more besides. They’ll see. Oh, yes, they’ll all see sooner or later.

  Chapter 3

  October, 1891

  William Bradford Morris, Architects, Philadelphia, have built the house at the corner of Beach Avenue and Howard Street under the direction of owner Thomas L. Tipton. He is a particular and secretive man, sallow to the point of melancholy, but he can be lively enough with a joke when in the mood. He has no family and has emigrated to America from Great Britain, where he reputedly amassed a fortune through speculation in gold futures. He has been free with his money philanthropically in Cape May and whatever doubts the locals may have held about his lineage have been put into perspective by his generosity and diplomacy in town matters. He has participated actively in the community, serving twice as town alderman, but has long since retired to his home on Ocean Avenue to write his memoirs.

  Once a year he has opened his home to a gala party, benefiting the local charities, and, though he never has revealed much about his past or his present activities, he has been well-thought of. His age, while unconfirmed, was put at around 26 when he built the house. The local gossips often repeated the rumor that, since he did not court young women, he must be of another persuasion, and, indeed, he has leaned f
ar more toward the collection of fine art than to the keeping of female company. This rumor was enhanced when he hired another British expatriate to be his personal servant and valet. There have never been women living in the household, neither maids nor housekeepers, but the house is always in spotless condition when the annual gala is held, each year in the fall.

  Time passes, but Tipton seems to age very slowly. His youthful appearance, though not handsome, continues to endure well into his fifties and he sometimes jokes to those who remark on it that he has found the fountain of youth during his world travels. Other than this off-hand remark, he only explains that he comes from a line of very long-lived individuals. Since his health is still quite good and he does not appear to be more than 60, even to his physician, on his actual one hundredth birthday, he enjoys both good health and continued good will in the community. He has outlived all who knew him from years before.

  No great curiosity is aroused over this. Brits are reputedly a long-lived people and so he continues to live as he has always done, holding his gala each year, and continuing to be a patriarch of the town, consulted in important matters involving civic development of the area. In only one area is he held in some disapproval. Over the years he has steadfastly refused to join―or even set foot in—a church of any denomination. When asked about this, he attributes his dislike for organized religion to a puritanical upbringing. But he always manifests an outwardly steadfast belief in all things holy. He is rarely questioned on this and, when he is asked point-blank about it, he replies only with terse answers that lead to empty silences. So, no one asks any longer.

  He has kept his arms covered at all times over the years, so no one has ever seen the tattoos that once marked him as a seafaring man originally named William Willingham, first mate on a doomed vessel originally christened the Elizabeth Ann.

  Chapter 4