Conspiracy of Ravens

by Chrystal Vaughan

  One night, he was on duty down Arm H, mostly to keep an eye on her. Video surveillance shows him stopping at her door and opening the hatch, talking to her apparently. No sound on those tapes, so we don’t know what exactly was said. What I can say is when you watch the tape, you can see him getting more and more agitated as they spoke, until he started screaming at her door, the veins on his face and neck popping out, spraying spit everywhere. Finally, he started clawing his eyes out with his own fingernails, tearing at the flesh on his face and wiping the blood on the outside of her door.”

  “Dear God,” I said faintly.

  “He ripped out his jugular with his own fingers. Video shows him slumping to the floor, bleeding out before anyone even knew anything happened. He never radioed, and no one heard him screaming at her. By the time anyone checked on him, it was far too late. Pulton was dead in minutes anyway. And that’s not all. We call her the ‘Raven Witch Killer’ because of the bird. He’d drawn a raven on the outside of her door in his own blood. How he managed to do that with no eyes, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Did she tell you what was said, why he killed himself?”

  “All she would say is he got what he deserved. We took all her things away, but we got nothing else from her.”

  “Has she done anything else like that?” I asked.

  “After we took away her paper and pencils, she stopped speaking. Until today.”

  “What was she writing? Did she draw anything?”

  “If she did, she either flushed or ate the pages. We never saw any evidence she was using them, other than the need for a pencil sharpener and more paper,” he answered. “We have surveillance cameras in her room, of course, but there are suspicious jumps and blank spots in the recordings.” He shrugged, having no answer for the discrepancy.

  I was silent for a moment. Then, “What she said to me. No one ever knew about any of that, with my uncle.”

  “Sophia, you don’t have to...”

  “But I do! Don’t you see? How did she know any of that? I never told a soul, not even a priest at confession. If I’d told, if my grandmother found out, it would have killed her. She’d already lost her daughter. I couldn’t tell her what her son was, couldn’t break her heart. I just couldn’t.” Tears pooled over my bottom lashes and dripped from my chin to trace warm tracks down my throat.

  “Most victims don’t report the crimes committed against them in those cases,” Shaw’s gentle voice reminded me as he handed me a tissue. “As a reporter, I’m sure you’re aware of the statistics in sexual abuse cases.”

  I mopped up my face and met his eyes. I saw concern, but not pity, and it warmed me. “My grandmother went to her grave thinking her son was a kind, caring man. He finally got what was coming to him a couple of years after her death.”

  “Don’t tell me you hired a hit man?”

  I smirked. His levity helped break the serious tension of our conversation. “Yeah, I sure did. God.”

  “Ah, the original murderer,” he said.

  “You strike me as a good Irish Catholic boy. Should you be saying such things? Am I in danger of being struck by lightning simply as a bystander?”

  “I’m good, or rather I try to be. I’m Irish, true, through no fault of my own. Catholic, well that I’m not. Although, I’m questioning my lack of a belief system since she came to my prison, I’m not ashamed to tell you.”

  I took off my grandmother’s evil eye pendant and put it in his hand. Our eyes locked again, and I said, “Keep this with you. Some things don’t need your belief to do their job. Or so my grandmother told me.”

  He smiled and it reached all the way up into those baby blues. I returned it. Catherine was right on all accounts, I told myself. I was very attracted to Shaw. Maybe I’d even do something about it. Someday.

  5-The Hierophant

  “So today was a bust, I guess,” Shaw lamented as he walked me to my car. “I was hoping to have something more on her than her word.”

  “I’m sorry I lost it in there. I let her rattle me but it won’t happen again. I promist.”

  “I believe in you. Tomorrow morning, then?”

  “I’ll be here, bright eyed and bushy tailed.” I took my briefcase and purse with thanks and climbed into the rental car.

  Back at the hotel, I kicked off my shoes and lay fully clothed across the bed. Did I believe what Catherine said about me, about my ‘power’? I didn’t know what to think. My grandmother was Sicilian, very Catholic but also extremely superstitious. She was of the old country generation, where orthodox religion lived comfortably alongside pagan ritual. She told me once nearly the same thing Catherine told me today.

  “Caro, you have the gift,” she’d said.

  “What gift, Nonna? A new dress?” I teased.

  “The eye, honey, the eye. Not to worry, your Nonna will help you, when the time is right.”

  But the time never came. Nonna died when I was nineteen. I moved from Pottsdown as soon as she passed and because my grandmother saved every penny, because we’d lived so simply during my childhood, my education was paid for by her estate.

  Now I had to consider the possibility both Nonna and Catherine knew something about me that I didn’t. Shaw hadn’t asked, assuming I guess that Catherine had broken out the light bulb or it could possibly be a coincidence. Yet I wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time something broke, seemingly on its own, when I was upset or angry.

  I fell asleep, though it was early afternoon, questioning my beliefs about myself and my place in the world. It was after six p.m. when I woke, hours past my deadline with Rick. I ignored my phone, knowing he was probably pretty pissed and taking it out on my cell. I fired up my laptop, and rattled off the required snippet for the paper:

  “Catherine Meara sits in a nine by nine prison cell at Pennsylvania State Penitentiary, the only woman housed in the prison in its entire history. She asked, upon turning herself in to State Police Headquarters, only one officer and one reporter be present at her confession. A confession, she claims, to the murders of seventeen people. Ms. Meara is the last person one might expect to fit the profile of a serial killer. She is young, attractive, and seemingly intelligent. Additionally, most serial killers are statistically men, whereas Catherine Meara is clearly a woman.

  Ms. Meara sat, chained and shackled as I approached. A wooden table and chairs were provided by Officer Bradley Shaw for our conversation, the officer chosen by Catherine to hear her confession. Officer Shaw insisted on having armed guards present while I interviewed her. It seems Catherine Meara hasn’t been the most cooperative inmate, though she chose to turn herself in.

  Catherine Meara appears to be in flawless physical health. Her body is said to be adorned with numerous occult-related tattoos and markings. On her wrists, visible in spite of the prison uniform, are two pentagrams. One is tattooed with spidery black ink, while the other appears to have been burned into her flesh like a brand. She speaks of witchcraft, and she speaks in riddles. So far her only statements are the adornments she wears with pride. It seems Ms. Meara is a true believer.

  A believer of what remains to be seen.

  There. Fuck Rick. Over two hundred words and he could bite me. I fired it off to him and logged off the computer. After a quick shower, I ordered a bowl of cereal from room service. The front desk advised me they had some issues with billing they needed to speak to me about. I sighed. I’m sure Rick cancelled payment on my room, payback for my late submission. I crunched my cereal in bed and decided to deal with it in the morning.

  My dreams were hunters that night, stalking me with my uncle’s face. Just as he covered my body with his and slapped a sweaty hand across my mouth to muffle my screams, his head transformed into a giant black raven’s, its sharp beak stabbing down at me until I knew no more.

  6-The Lovers

  I awoke the next morning with a sleep hangover, the kind of fuzzy headed feeling that comes from repeatedly interrupted sleep. This trip is going to be the death of m
e, I thought, but quickly squashed those thoughts as flashbacks from my nightmares replayed themselves in my mind’s theater.

  I was running late already, so I slapped on some fresh clothes, washed up, grabbed a coffee and almond scone from the coffee shop by the hotel and hit the road.

  In spite of yesterday’s disaster, I had no intention of letting Catherine get to me today. Bitch was going to play my game instead. I knew a little something about what she was, too.

  Officer Shaw was waiting for me on the sweeping steps of the prison entrance again. I smiled at him, happy to see him, and handed him the extra coffee I’d picked up. He thanked me profusely, and seemed genuinely touched by the small gesture.

  “You’re a spot of sunshine today,” he observed. “Feeling better?”

  “I’m ready for her this time. Let’s do it!”

  He handed me my badge, forgotten in the turmoil of yesterday’s failure. Ignoring the tingling in my fingers as our hands touched during the exchange, I clipped the badge to my suit jacket and allowed Shaw to lead me down Arm H to Catherine’s cell. Someone had replaced the bulb in the ceiling and covered the wire cage with a finer mesh wrap. In case such a thing were to happen again, I guessed. Taking no chances she would be able to fashion a weapon out of glass debris.

  Catherine was once again shackled and cuffed, our same wooden table and chairs set up like before. The stage was set, with the same players. The only difference was my attitude.

  Catherine clapped her hands together in delight when she saw me. Hindered by the cuffs, she nonetheless more than adequately conveyed her glee in having another crack at me.

  “Good morning, Catherine,” I said evenly. “Now, where were we?”

  “Hell-o Sophia! Pleasant dreams last night? Tell me, was our hunky officer in any of them?”

  Shaw cleared his throat, embarrassed, but said nothing. He took up his post by the door. I ignored him and concentrated on the task at hand.

  “You know, I’m starting to think you might have an interest in Officer Shaw, Catherine. Are you jealous?”

  Her face came alive with fury. “In his DREAMS!” she spat, nearly hissing the words, cat like. “No man touches me.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Sounds like I’m not the only one with uncle issues.” I was baiting her on purpose, pleased to have found a chink in her armor so quickly. She realized it, too, and smoothed her features back into pleasant interest, through sheer force of will. It was like watching Claymation on those old cartoons, where the putty melted from one thing into another.

  “Well done, Sophia. Are we through with the pathetic attempts to play with my psyche? Or do you want to hear some details about your parents’ last moments on earth?

  “Nice try, Catherine. Now...let’s talk about why we are both here. You asked for me, whatever your reasons, and so here I am. As you wished it, it is so. What am I here for Catherine? What have you done?”

  A sly smile slid across her lips. “I heard that Sophia. So mote it be, your mind said, though your lips spoke differently. Very well. A binding oath we will craft, you and I. A light witch and a dark witch, as I said. I will reveal all, and you will hear my words. When I am through, you will tell the world what I have wrought. That is our pact.”

  “What’s in it for you? Sick pleasure? All the witch crap aside, what, at your core, is your intent?”

  “Judgment, Sophia. I crave only judgment.”

  I studied her for any tells, any clues that would betray a lie. Her face was a fortress, inscrutable, and I was swimming once again in deep waters. I reflected on her words, and in a flash, my life preserver presented itself. I changed tactics and crossed my fingers it would work.

  I sat back in my chair, assuming a relaxed posture, legs crossed. I calmed my mind, emptied myself of external thoughts, quelled and tamped down my anxieties. I concentrated on slowing my heartbeat, seeking a Zen state in which to dance with this psycho.

  “Okay, Catherine, you win. I’ll play it your way.”

  I removed her mug shot photo from my briefcase. I hadn’t planned to need anything other than my files so I had to improvise quickly. I untied the thin satin sash on my blouse and unthreaded it from the loops. Catherine’s expression betrayed her curiosity, and she leaned forward, interested. Her features rapidly changed to horror and anger as I methodically began to wind the sash around her photograph, and intoned:

  “I bind you left

  I bind you right

  I bind you Catherine

  With all my might

  I bind you now

  I bind you day

  I bind you night

  With this bind I vow

  An it harm none, save ye

  So mote it be.”

  She sat, stunned, as I completed the binding ritual, slipping the wrapped picture into my pocket, my blouse hanging loose around me. I saw fear in her eyes and I felt a fierce bolt of triumph shoot through me. I could tell she thought she’d just witnessed me out myself as a witch, but I read as much as I could about the occult, both as a kid and for my job. I sought answers to questions Nonna left unanswered, information for news stories I wrote. I was never a true believer. I had no compunction about using it against Catherine, however. She was a true believer, I could see it swimming in her strange eyes, and I was glad that the playing field was a little more even.

  “So what do you say, Catherine? Should I leave now? Or are you done fucking around?”

  Her eyes turned cold, her tone brittle. Her voice rang out loud and clear, dancing around in the empty chamber. I slipped my hand in my pocket where the voice recorder lay nestled against the bound photo and clicked on the record button.

  “The first two were the Lovers. I drew their card on a bright sunny day two summers ago. The Goddess had forsaken me but the dark one gathered me into his bosom and whispered all the secrets of the world into my ears. My life’s goal, he said, once completed would ensure my place in his kingdom and cause my name to live forever.”

  “You sound like a religious wingnut zealot, Catherine. Your drama classes are showing.” I had no idea if she’d taken drama classes but I calculated her sense of theatrics hadn’t come from a vacuum. She glared at me, and I knew I’d hit the mark.

  “Do you want to tell the story, Sophia?” she snapped.

  “By all means, please continue.”

  She stared at me in hatred for a few minutes and then continued.

  “As I said. The first two ravens were the Lovers. The dark lord has his own Tarot, did you know?”

  “I did actually. However, the Lovers is part of the classic Rider-Waite deck, as I’m sure you know. And Rider-Waite has twenty-two cards in the major arcana, not seventeen, so if you’re correlating your crimes to the cards you’re off by a few. Your story is not matching up, Catherine. Are you a witch or a Satanist?”

  “Thank you for the occult lesson, Sophia. I forgot you are the expert here. By the way, you are sadly mistaken if you think your little binding spell is going to work on me.” She was haughty again, all confidence returned, smiling that irritatingly coy little smirk and cloaked in her sense of superiority. “As I’m sure you know, Wicca is a belief in balances, both light and dark. The Goddess’s consort, the Green Man, is also called the Horned God. When she would not hear me, I turned to him and he has shown me my path, paved in sacrifice and blood. The Lovers card chose two sinners, two who perverted love, people who used drugs and defiled themselves, throwing the God and Goddesses gifts in their faces. Wretches whom no one would miss.”

  “So you are a vigilante, is that is? Taking out the poison in the world so you could buy your way into the good graces of your chosen gods?”

  She completely ignored me, caught up in her own tale. “Bums. Drug addicts, the scum of the earth. Even though the Goddess has turned from me, the dark lord and I serve her, in all ways. They were an abomination to love, disgusting and offensive to the eye. Love should be beautiful.

  “I found them in the forest, these lovers, fucking in t
he leaves under one of the Goddess’s trees. Their bodies were unwashed, unwholesome. They reeked of methamphetamine, and left their trash strewn all about their campsite. The man’s beard was black, bristling and ugly by the light of their campfire. I came upon them while they embraced, naked and writhing against each other.

  “I prayed to the Horned God to guide my steps, to grant me silence and lead my blade to its true home. The woman was on top of the man, her fleshless body undulating like a snake. Her greasy brown hair hung down her back in a filthy curtain, swaying with her movements. Both of them were so wasted on the drug there was barely anything left of them and they appeared as two skeletons rubbing their bones against each other. I worried that they were too poor of specimens for the special sacrifice, but the dark lord whispered on the wind, light as raven’s wings, assuring me they were perfect, for a start.

  “I raised my dagger and crept closer, naked too, so that no whisper of cloth could betray me. They were so entwined with one another that they could not hear me. Their eyes closed in ecstasy, they did not see me. I waited until the woman’s cries frightened the animals into silence, and I placed my blade at the base of her skull and pushed as hard as I could, my dark lord giving me strength, and she spasmed both in sexual release and release from her mortal coil. I knew only rapture as her hot blood spilled over my hand.

  “Her man knew nothing out of the ordinary until I shoved her aside, disengaging her from his sex with a disgusting sound, taking her place on top of him but not for the sex act, no, never that. Something much more visceral, more real! Before he could gather himself, I plunged my bloody knife into his chest over and over, his blood spraying my face and breasts.

  “My arms grew tired, so I ceased my hacking of his corpse. The man’s eyes were open and the surprised expression on his face amused me so much I laughed aloud.

  “Finally, I dragged the two of them to a small area I’d cleared of leaves. I arranged them side by side, arms around each other, foreheads touching. It was so tender, seeing them that way. I cried then, a little, and thanked them for their sacrifice. I assured them their lives were worth something, now. I cast my circle and offered them to the Horned God. He accepted, sending messengers on the air to witness this, my first act of devotion. I completed the ritual, bathed in their blood, and drew forth my own blood to complete the ritual, tracing the dark lord’s raven symbol upon their chests to anoint them.