by Denise Dietz
I knew I was drinking too much, but this was a special occasion; a Jewish agnostic about to witness a mock Christian mass.
Before leaving the duplex, I used the bathroom again, just in case the Black Massers didn’t have a Port-a-Potty handy.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Yoda’s gas gage read EMPTY; my first omen.
I stopped at a gas pump and had one hell of a time inserting the nozzle into Yoda’s gas tank.
As it turned out, that was my second omen.
Had I seen the handwriting on the wall ‑‑ or in this case, billboards ‑‑ I would have hung a U-turn, squashed Yoda’s accelerator against the floorboards, and hightailed it back home. All the way to Manhattan.
Cat Sands had scribbled the Black Mass address on a piece of paper. I had shown the paper to Rick, who gave directions like a New Yorker. Thus, I soon found myself parking Yoda along a Godforsaken road, near a fenced pasture inhabited by horses and bordered by a fortress of trees.
Sunset battled Night for dominance. Before Night won, I was able to make out the name and address of the pasture owners ‑‑ Daniel and Aretha Pearlstein ‑‑ printed on the mailbox that squatted atop a wooden post at the entrance to a gravel driveway. Strung above the mailbox were black balloons, just in case one of the witches had misplaced her reading glasses.
Cresting a hill was an edifice that could have been an illustration for Grimm’s Hansel and Gretel. I wondered if Pearlstein’s aggrandized gumdrop foundation, Nestle’s-Crunch-stucco walls, and red-licorice roof harbored a demon. If yes, implementing Grimm’s termination technique would prove virtually impossible, since the demon would surely emerge from Pearlstein’s oven.
Not that I planned to kill anything. I just wanted to watch and listen and learn. Only half fibbing when I told Bonnie I’d use my reactions for the Asmodeus possession scenes, I knew there had to be a perfectly logical explanation for the mirror, fireplace and deck episodes. Maybe the Black Mass would be an eye opener; an “Occult Visine.”
So far, my reactions were trepidation, anxiety and dread, and my sane self told me to re-start Yoda and drive away like a bat out of hell! My right sneaker hovered above the accelerator pedal while my left sneaker pressed against the clutch ped --
Get a grip, Frannie. Pretend you’re auditioning for Macbeth.
I pulled my feet back, placed the rim of the Thermos against my bottom lip, and chugged down its contents. With luck, any booze-induced false courage would last through the Mass. Plus, I’d found a treasure trove on Yoda’s back seat: a small Styrofoam cooler with a couple of six-packs; Coke and Coors.
A loud screech shattered the silence. Had the sacrificial portion of the Mass begun?
Nope. From inside the house, a CD player blared at the top of its electronically-generated, stereophonic lungs. In all honesty, I expected my eardrums to be detonated by That Old Black Magic, a demonic rap song, or even the cast album from Phantom of the Opera. But the Pearlsteins liked Elvis. And/or teddy bears.
The house seemed to burp, and thirteen satanic worshippers emerged from its mouth, which in this case was a doorway.
My throat felt dry, my heart knocked explosively against my ribs, and I damned Madison for his ill-timed meeting. I needed Bonnie’s pragmatism and Cat’s caustic humor.
Employing Elvis (now singing gospel) as their background music, the black-robed, scarlet-shod witches marched down to the pasture, single file. From a distance, they looked like an October thirty-first kindergarten class on its way to recess.
I couldn’t pick Tenia out of the pack…coven?…because I couldn’t see faces…or hear voices. Damn, I’d have to leave Yoda and wend my way closer!
One of the Pearlsteins killed Elvis and turned on a radio or TV. I heard the crack of a bat, followed by cheers, and remembered that the Mets were playing the Astros, a twilight game. Had I been in New York where I belonged, I’d be sitting in Shea Stadium, spending grocery money on indigestible hot dogs.
Since there was no accessible hot dog vendor, I thumbed open a Coors and poured half down my throat.
Yoda’s yellow exterior was out of sight, sheltered by a weeping willow. But a hot, electrified breeze had whipped up, and the willow’s oscillating branches made a weird noise, akin to a rustling wail.
It sounded like a warning.
Ignoring all portents and premonitions, I chugged down the second half of the warm Coors and stepped out of the car.
Now what?
I reminded myself that I didn’t believe in witches, and anyway, these witches weren’t expecting a gate crasher. I scratched my brain, trying to picture every war movie I’d ever seen. I was in pretty good shape; without actually dieting I’d lost excess pudge; and, there was no reason why I couldn’t slither across the pasture like Audie Murphy or Tom Hanks, using my elbows and knees for propulsion and, hopefully, momentum. The loose sleeves of my jacket would be an impediment. I took the jacket off and left it in the car.
Circumventing steamy piles of horse shit, scraping my elbows on bare pasture patches, thanking God for horses who didn’t want to use me as a hoof-stool, I crept closer and closer. Only to find that the witches were gone. Mashed grass and a trail of Almond Joy candy bar wrappers extended into, and doubtless beyond, the fortress of trees.
Bad news, good news, I thought. Totally exhausted, I’d have to slither again. However, a tree or foliage might conceal my slacks, tee, and Stetson. Stetson? No way. I took it off and hung it from a fence post.
My pores sweated like a lawn sprinkler. Not that it was especially hot, or even humid. In fact, an icy chill permeated the forest.
Providentially, a fat oak stood sentinel, as if it had been planted a hundred years ago, just in case Frannie Rosen wanted to watch a Black Mass and remain undetected.
Forget Alice and her rabbit hole; that was New York. I’d landed inside a Gothic novel. As a kid I used to love reading about the naïve but gutsy governess who explores the dark, dank cellar. My shaky hand would try and hold my flashlight steady as I propped my book against the pillow and played the part of Jane or Mary or Miss Whomever, prim and proper on the outside, brimming with courage on the inside.
Crouched behind my oak shield, feeling the moist darkness settle around my shoulders like a Jane Eyre cloak, I didn’t brim with anything. Because this semi-feminist didn’t have Lord Bigdick fidgeting in the wings, dying to rescue her derrière.
Vodka and beer lay heavy in my stomach, probably the reason I had to go potty again.
The Mets-Astros game had ended. I didn’t know, nor did I care, who’d won. After a rousing rendition of Jim Morrison’s Wild Child, all din from the Pearlstein house had abruptly ceased. And yet my ears still strained to hear something, anything, as the words silent as a tomb reverberated inside my head.
I took a deep, unsteady breath, peeked around the tree trunk, and saw Tenia.
She held a slender black candle whose glow illuminated her round, café au lait face. Instead of a long brown skirt and proverbial T-shirt, she wore a long black robe, decorated with esoteric symbols. Instead of a pet-carrier-constrained snake, she was shadowed by a gray, white-mittened cat.
Tenia and her fellow witches stuck their black tapers into a couple of menorahs ‑‑ at least they looked like menorahs to me ‑‑ then emptied three pillow cases. I couldn’t make out all the items, but I saw twigs and ashes, a mirror, a small lamp, a drum, bones (hopefully chicken, not human), something that could have been a bird’s wing, and a baggie filled with mud. Or feces.
I wanted to leave, but it was too late. I wasn’t at all certain I could slither backwards, especially with a full bladder.
Twelve witches sat helter-skelter, but Tenia stood.
“If I command the moon,” she said, “it will come down. And if I wish to withhold the day, night will linger over my head. And if I wish to embark upon the sea, I need no ship. And if I wish to fly though the air, I am freed from my weight.”
For some reason, probably nerves, that last line st
ruck me as funny. Tenia had to weigh over two hundred pounds. What a terrific diet, I thought, picturing a late-night Infomercial. All you have to do is call 1-800-SORCERY, agree to pay four installments of $29.95, give the operator a credit card number, and adopt witchy precepts.
Trying to prevent a terminal case of the giggles, I clamped my mouth shut and bit my tongue so hard I drew blood.
The urge to giggle didn’t help my desire to pee. In another moment I’d wet my pants, so I really had no choice.
As my body begged for a chiropractor, I used one of my agnostic emergency cards and prayed to God.
God apparently considered my request legit. I made it, unseen, to a small patch of ground, encompassed by leafy saplings and flat rocks.
First, I spat tongue-blood. Then, I pulled down my pants.
I had witnessed enough, nothing beneficial, and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge!
Contemplating a return slither through the pasture, I heard castanets.
Chapter Thirty
Click. Click. Click-click-click.
Something lurked within the tangled underbrush, and it wasn’t Tarzan! Wishing my head could rotate like that girl in The Exorcist, I looked left and right, up and… “Oh my God,” I whispered, holding back a scream.
My spit dried up, my hand clutched at my chest, and a newspaper headline swam before my eyes: ACTRESS FELLED BY HEART ATTACK!
A snake!
A rattlesnake!
A diamondback rattlesnake!
One of my high school buds, Artie Borst, had evolved into a fashion photographer. He asked me to pose for a calendar titled “A Day At The Zoo.” I postured in front of lions and tigers and bears, oh my, and then we entered a dimly-lit Snake House. Artie ran out of film. Stepping outside to reload his camera, he left me alone….except for a gazillion snakes. Reminding myself that Snake House visitors were protected by glass, I didn’t really believe it. When the rolls of film were developed, every post-snake photo included a pair of haunted eyes, filled with shock and terror. Arthur re-shot the calendar, using a professional model, and last I heard it was out-selling the Sierra Club.
As I brought my attention back to tonight’s coiled horror, I silently warned myself that I should remain perfectly still; no tremors, no tics.
The rattlesnake looked startled, too. It probably hadn’t expected a New York “ecktriss” to pee near its rocks.
I recalled my chat with Bonnie, inside the mermaid rest room. Could this be the rattler whom Cat had christened George W?
My legs ached. If I continued to crouch motionless, would the snake slither away?
No, damn it. The snake stayed put, flicking its forked tongue.
My tongue hurt even worse than my legs, and I wanted to spit.
Instead, I swallowed blood and a second scream.
The interlocking joints at the end of the snake’s tail made a threatening click that was actually louder than castanets.
I swallowed my third Jamie Lee Curtis scream, not wanting to alert Tenia and her fellow witches. I truly doubted they’d come to my rescue, but if perchance they did, they might have other nifty tortures in mind; for example, human sacrifice.
Maybe the snake was a witch. I’d heard or read somewhere that a witch could disembody herself and --
The rattler’s mouth gaped open and two long, slender fangs appeared.
I’d squeezed my eyes shut during Indiana Jones, and that was just a movie. Now I thought I’d lose it; nose-dive toward the diamondback’s fangs. Activating every memory cell, I tried to revive the dream spider’s dicta. I was fairly certain the ancestor bit wouldn’t work, so I decided to give one of the alien phrases a go. “Palas aron azinomas,” I said.
Which had no effect whatsoever on the snake.
I’d have to make a run for it, or shriek at the top of my lungs, or --
The ghostly apparition from my New York City apartment walked through the saplings. Literally.
He had the same luminous quality, the same shape, the same hazy, imperceptible face, and the same red-tipped cock.
This time I couldn’t hold back a scream. Except, I suddenly felt so cold my teeth chattered, so my scream emerged as a throaty hum.
In New York the apparition had stuffed beetles inside his body. Now, his weightless foot pinioned the rattler.
As I watched, mesmerized, he wound the snake around his neck like a lozenge-patterned stole, then simply walked away.
After several deep breaths, I decided I couldn’t get enough air, and blacked out.
When I came to, my head felt lighter. Dizziness aside, my brain told me I’d dropped a few ounces from my skull.
Glancing around, I saw human hair on the ground. Next to the hair was a pair of scissors. Slowly, I raised my hands.
Shorn. I’d been shorn. Well, technically, I’d been trimmed. My own fault. After all, who’d put the damn scissors in my pocket?
The question was, who’d taken the scissors out? And why?
Had the owners of the house, Daniel and Aretha Pearlstein, found me and cut my hair? Was this the way they treated trespassers in Texas? Or had I slipped into a fugue and cut my own hair? The uneven strands beneath my fingers suggested that might have been the case.
Too frightened to cry, I staggered to my feet.
The hot electric breeze had died down, but now a stronger wind, a gust actually, propelled me toward the witches. I fought the gusty wind as hard as I could, digging my heels into the ground, windmilling my arms. Then I just…gave up.
I’m dreaming, I thought with profound relief. I passed out from too much beer and vodka. I’ll wake up in the car, and my hair will be uncut, and I can tell Cat and Bonnie that I skipped the Black Mass.
Except…I hadn’t skipped the Black Mass!
The relentless special-effects wind swept me behind my original oak shield, and I suddenly knew the reason for my shorn hair. Earlier, the moon had been hidden by clouds. Now it shone brightly and the shimmer of my long, pale gold hair would have been a dead giveaway.
Obviously, I had failed to catch some of the incantations. But to my eyes, the gathering looked like Girl Scout camp. The witches sat around a small campfire. In another moment they’d toast marshmallows and sing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”
Whoa. There were only nine witches. Maybe the other four had to pee, too.
I couldn’t have been more wrong!
When the missing witches returned, three had their arms draped around number four, who was either drunk or drugged. Slumping, her head sloped downward, as if it were attached to a Slinky toy. Her mop of hair, tangled and twig-infested, was a dull auburn, and the knotted strands veiled her features. She wore a robe, but something seemed out of sync. My gaze traveled down to her feet. No scarlet shoes!
The stupefied woman’s robe fell from her shoulders, and I stifled a gasp. Forget shoes. How about no clothes at all?
“Tenia, I’m freezing,” she slurred.
Tenia rose to her feet and said, “Shut up.”
Then she slapped the naked woman’s face, and all but one witch laughed. The witch who hadn’t laughed said, “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
Tenia said, “Do you want to take her place, Aretha?”
When Aretha shook her head, Tenia picked up a goblet and pressed it against the naked woman’s lips until she opened her mouth.
“For Satan’s sake, drink it down, it’s an aphrodisiac,” Tenia said.
I remembered Bonnie saying that Madison was enthralled by Tenia and I wondered why. I also wondered why I had been so frightened.
Because this wasn’t a Black Mass. This was a Black Comedy. For Satan’s sake? Give me a break!
The three non-drugged witches lowered the dazed woman to the ground, not far from the campfire. After some rearranging of lethargic limbs, her arms and legs formed the shape of a cross. Tenia placed two candlesticks next to the nude woman’s outstretched hands. The candlesticks held flaring black tapers.
Disg
usted by the whole charade, I desperately wanted to leave, but someone or something wanted me to stay. I felt chained to the oak, as if I played freaking Houdini shackled to the wooden bars of a jail cell.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only person who’d experienced revulsion. Aretha refused a sip from a second goblet, filled with an aphrodisiac, or crushed quaaludes, or whatever. Then she and another witch stood up, moved away from the campfire, and sat down. They were only a few feet from my oak, within hearing distance, and I struggled to control my wheezing breath.