by Jaye Wells
It was too late for do-overs or regrets.
She threw bundles of sage into a canvas bag, and tossed a box of matches on top of those.
“What are you doing?” Sissy demanded.
“Gotta go to town to take care of something.” She turned away from her work to look at the girl. “I need you to stay here and take care of your sister.”
“I want to come with you.”
She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “I know you do, darlin’, but this is work for grownups. Now, do you know how to shoot a shotgun?”
Sissy’s eyes widened and she smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s real good.” She pointed to the shotgun by the front door. A box of shells sat on a table next to it. “If anything tries to get in the house before sunrise, you shoot it.”
“Any . . . thing?”
She nodded. “If for some reason, they get into the house, you go out the back to the shed. There’s a root cellar underneath. Hide in there until sunrise.”
“If who gets in the house, Granny?”
“The haints.”
Sissy reared back. “Ghosts?”
“Not exactly. You’ll know ’em when you see ’em, though. The shotgun can’t kill ’em but they’ll sure think twice about trying again. Point is, you gotta hold ’em off until sunrise.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna go find Ruby and see if we can stop them from taking over the town.”
Since it was too late to do the proper rites, all she could do now was minimize the damage. Protect those who deserved it, and get out of the way while the others paid the piper.
“I hope Ruby is ready.” Even as she said it, she knew the truth. None of them were prepared for what was coming. Even she’d been in too much denial to act on the early signs.
Sissy launched herself at her legs. “I’m scared, Granny.”
She closed her eyes and lowered her cheek to the girl’s hair. How many times had she done the same thing to Rose, and how often had she taken the simple gesture for granted. Now she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Sissy’s hair smelled like strawberries and warm sun, like all the good things. Tears burned her eyes. So much time wasted and now it was too late to linger. “I know I haven’t been there for you, but I love you, Sissy.”
The girl’s hands tightened around her waist. “I love you, too, Granny.”
With a sniff, she backed away because she didn’t want to lose her nerve. “I need you to be brave. Can you do that for your granny?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jinny ran out from the kitchen, where she’d been coloring. “Where you going, Granny?”
“Just gonna run to town real quick.” She knelt down. “You mind your sister, now.”
Jinny sent a resentful look toward her sister, but said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She hugged her real hard and quick. “That’s a big girl.”
She whistled to summon Billy. A swishing sound accompanied his entrance through the dog door in the kitchen. The slow click-clack of his nails on the linoleum followed. Then, finally, he lumbered into the living room.
Her joints popped and groaned as she knelt to talk to him. From her pocket, she removed a small red bag that smelled of bay leaves and black pepper. Billy snorted and shied away from the scent.
“You wanna scare off evil, you gotta smell worse than it does.” She patted his head and straightened his collar. “Now, you keep an eye on my girls, you hear?”
The dog dipped his head under her chin and whimpered.
“None of that.” But she gave his ears extra skritches. “Granny needs to go. There have already been two thunders.”
With one last look at her two granddaughters and her Billy, she grabbed her bag of tools and her trusty dowsing rod, and stepped out onto the porch. “Lock it behind me,” she said to Sissy. Then she closed the door.
On the front steps, she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. Then she raised her hands and faced north. “Gods of the North, where the cold winds blow, lend me your ear. I, your humble servant, am in need of protection and guidance.” She turned to the east. “Gods of the East, land of the sun, hear me.” She turned again. “Gods of the Southern waters, heed my call.” Finally, she faced west. “Great mountain father, hear your daughter, and know that you are heard in return. Have mercy on the sky god’s children.”
In the distance, thunder rolled for the third time since sundown.
She placed her hands over her galloping heart. “Please don’t let me be too late.”
As the sun dipped low, the demon some called “Jack” entered the cemetery. It stood on white pebbles spread over the graves and paths to keep the souls anchored. The fools did not know souls fled before bodies cooled. Humans were so fragile, so simple, so corrupt.
The demon raised its hands toward the pregnant moon. “Return to your flesh, mountain sons. Return to your bones, mountain daughters. There is work to be done.”
No humans could hear the words of the demon’s song with their ears. Yet, the dark crawled under their skin and caused gooseflesh and made them say things like, “someone walked over my grave.”
About that, at least, they were right.
A few moments later, the first blue lights circled down from the sky. The tiny dots came together and swirled around the demon.
“Now,” it spoke in an ancient tongue too low for the human ear.
The lights dispersed. Charged from the energy, the demon’s vision turned red. All those dots like droplets of blood spatter flying through the air. Each orb found its home and disappeared beneath the rich soil.
The demon listened to the wind, and heard the girl’s pleading voice.
Please talk to me again. Tell me what to do.
The demon placed a cigarette between its smiling lips. “As you wish.” It lifted its mangled face to the sky.
Lightning arced out of the cloudless sky. It branched like an electric nervous system, striking every grave in the yard and lighting the demon’s cigarette.
The demon sucked the delicious carcinogens into its black lungs. It lifted its head to the sky and exhaled thunder.
The ground rolled beneath its feet. The vibrations shook each grave until cracks formed in the earth. When the first skeletal fingers emerged from the soil, the demon let the cigarette dangle from its gray lips and clapped its blood-caked hands.
“Welcome back, sons and daughters of Moon Hollow,” it said. “The time for revelation has come.”
51
Restless Villagers
Peter
By the time Peter made it back to town, the dizziness had passed but not the anger. His car was totaled, he knew that much. The chances of him luring a tow truck up the mountain after dark were slim even without the road torn up from a phantom lightning bolt. He was all but guaranteed to spend another night in town.
He limped past the diner’s window. The majority of Moon Hollow’s citizens gathered around the counter and the booths. No doubt they were gossiping about the canceled Decoration and speculating what would happen to Cotton. Hell, Reverend Peale’s murder was probably the biggest thing to happen in the town’s history.
Edna was holding court behind the counter. He’d never seen someone look more excited to be in mourning. He couldn’t stomach the idea of entering that circus parading as a wake, so he continued walking.
Up ahead, the church’s warped cross curled up toward the moon, and for the first time he thought it looked sort of like an extended middle finger.
He’d sort of liked that car, too. It wasn’t as fancy as the one he’d sold to pay for his divorce, but it had been dependable and solid during a time everything felt unstable. Now, the car, like his marriage, was totaled—the damage too extensive to be worth the trouble of fixing it.
He was in front of the library when a loud bang behind him made him stop and turn around. People spilled out of the doorway of The Wooden Spoon. Edna and Junior led the pack, an
d everyone was talking over each other. The only thing missing from the tableau was pitchforks.
Edna had already spotted him so there was no use trying to hide.
“What’s happening?” he asked once they reached him.
“Justice, that’s what,” Junior said.
“For whom?”
“Reverend Peale!” several people shouted in unison.
“Isn’t that the sheriff’s job?” Even as he spoke the words, he wished he could snatch them back and swallow them before anyone heard. But he couldn’t stop them, and so he had to listen to the gasps and withstand the searing heat of their angry glares.
“What are you still doing here anyway?” Lettie asked from the center of the crowd. “Thought you’d left already?”
He touched his forehead. “Ran into a bit of trouble.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, but Junior interrupted. “We ain’t got time for more of your tall tales, author man.” He elbowed past, holding his shotgun high, like a war flag.
Lettie flashed him an apologetic look before she followed Junior. Edna and the others trailed after them.
Bunk, who’d been at the back of the group, hung back. The old man removed a toothpick from between his lips with his pincers and sucked air at his teeth before speaking. “Might want to get moving along, Peter. Things are ’bout to get out of hand, I’m afraid.”
“You should go, too, Bunk. Go lock yourself in your house until it blows over.”
Bunk smiled a sad smile. “Afraid I can’t do that. Someone got to speak some sense to these fools.”
“I—my car, it’s totaled. Lightning came out of nowhere and hit the road in front of me.” He touched the wound at his forehead again and his fingertips came away wet with blood. “I’m stuck.”
Bunk put the toothpick back in his mouth and reached into his pockets. He grabbed Peter’s hand and placed his keys in the palm. “Take my truck.”
“I can’t take—“
“Don’t start with me, son. I’m old and ornery. Take the truck. See if you can find Sheriff Abernathy and send him this way. If not …” He shrugged. “Just get yourself away from this place.”
“I can’t just leave you here. If it’s as bad as you’re predicting, you’re in real danger.”
“That’s my risk to take,” he said. “These are my people so they’re my problem. But this ain’t your business or your fight. So take them keys, get in my truck, and get the hell out of here.”
Metal cut into his palm. Moon Hollow was on a crash course with its own destiny and he couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop the earth from rotating or the moon from causing the tides.
Still, of all the folks he’d met in town, Bunk was his favorite. Bunk and Ruby, he amended. Where was she?
He looked toward the church. Lights along the street pointed up toward the bent cross, which loomed over the heads of the crowd marching up Main Street.
“Ruby’s in there,” he said.
Bunk’s placed his prosthesis on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll look out for Ruby. Make sure she’s not punished by the town for the sins of her father.”
The implication that Bunk believed the town had the right to punish Cotton unsettled Peter. The metal pincer on his shoulder took on new weight, and now, he could see the oddly anticipatory gleam in his eyes.
“Time to go, Peter.” The metal tips bit into his flesh.
His conscience balked, but he knew the score. If he stayed, he’d be as much of a target as Cotton. It was only a matter of time until someone tried to connect the trouble to his arrival.
Yes, it was time to leave. This wasn’t his battle or his story.
He held out his right hand to Bunk. “See you around.”
Bunk smiled, showing lots of crooked, yellow teeth. He lifted his pincer from Peter’s shoulder and slapped his good hand into Peter’s palm. “Probably not.” The punishing handshake was not menacing—just overly eager in the way men had of showing affection through pain.
He shook the keys. “And thanks for the wheels.”
Bunk nodded. “Whatever you see in that rearview you keep going, you hear?”
Emotion rose in the back of Peter’s throat. He wasn’t sure if it was premature grief or delayed fear or both. But it meant all he could do was nod a final farewell at Bunk before he jogged away toward the battered blue pickup parked in front of The Wooden Spoon.
52
Angels
Cotton
He’d never felt so hopeless. Until the lightning changed everything. Until the flash showed him that his new friend hadn’t forgotten his promise.
Never in his whole life had he felt so relieved to see a face. ’Course the deacons acted like little girls, seeing that face. Sure, it was a little banged up. Sure, the flash of white light had played tricks across its planes until they seemed sort of threatening. But he knew better. His new friend didn’t mean no harm. He just wanted to make things right in Moon Hollow, and as far as Cotton was concerned, things hadn’t been right in that town ever since his Rose had left him all alone.
But that was all about to change.
He sat up straighter and waved at his new friend and the beautiful angels who stood behind him, like a heavenly choir.
“What the hell are those things?” Smythe yelled.
Cotton whispered, “Friends.”
The other men ignored him and started fussing with each other. They sounded scared. They should be. But not him. He’d never been so happy. He rocked back and forth because he couldn’t contain all his joy. As he moved, he chanted in time to his movements, “Roseroseroseroserose.”
“Shut up!” Earl yelled.
Pain exploded at his temple, but he laughed. Earl stepped back and looked at him as if he were a snake. He laughed harder.
“Enough, Cotton!” The big deacon this time. The big cheese. He wouldn’t be actin’ so big when he met Cotton’s new friend.
“She’s coming home to me.”
“Who?”
“Rose.”
Deacon Fry shook his head, as if Cotton was the crazy one. They was the ones pretending not to see the angels. The angels who brought his Rose home to him. “Amen,” he said.
“Forget him,” Deacon Fry said. “We got bigger trouble than him for the moment.”
“We locked all the doors and windows, right?”
Cotton laughed. “Can’t keep the angels out of church, silly.”
They continued as if he hadn’t just spoken the truth. “No,” Deacon Fry said. “We need to get word out to the others about … whatever those things are.”
“Angels.”
“Hush up, Cotton!” Smythe’s screech sounded like air escaping a balloon.
Thought they had old Cotton trapped, but they weren’t as smart as they thought. Nothin’ gonna keep him from his Rose, no sir. Besides, Deacon Fry was gonna git his before it’s done.
“There’s a couple of shotguns in the storeroom,” Deacon Fry was saying. “And extra shells. Earl, go make sure we got every door and window the first time. I’ll start calling around.”
“What about him, boss?” asked Smythe.
He rocked and smiled up at them. Roseroseroserose.
“I’ll keep an eye on him. You just make sure this place is locked up tight.” Deacon Dickhead turned to address Cotton in a voice that reminded him of his daddy’s right before he whooped him. “Now you sit there and behave or I swear to the good Lord I will tie you to a chair.”
He shoved his hands under his rear end and rocked and rocked and rocked, silently chanting to himself soonsoonsoon.
Deacon Fry issued one last warning look before walking to his desk. After Cotton’s new friend first appeared, the deacons had pulled curtains across the big window. But he knew the angels were still out. Could feel them out there, calling to him to come join them. To see his Rose.
“Come on, pick up,” Deacon Fry said. “Who’s this? Bubba Oglesby, why are you answering the phone?”
/> Cotton? Cotton, we’re waiting for you.
He stopped rocking to listen real hard. The voice in his head sounded like his friend, the new Jack.
Come on out. Rose is here.
His heart just about burst in his chest. “She is?”
Deacon looked over his shoulder at Cotton in a way that reminded him of old Mrs. Murphy, his second grade teacher, who would shake him hard when he couldn't sit still in class. She’d been a real bitch—just like Deacon Fry.
She’s here, Cotton. Come on out. Use the door at the back of the church. Do you know the one? By Reverend Peale’s old office.
He nodded because speaking would only earn him more looks from Mrs. Murphy. Maybe she’d shake him real hard too and his teeth would snap together like a gunshot. Bitch.
Quickly, Cotton!
Deacon Fry’s back was still turned. The office door was to his right. About ten feet. If he was real quiet, he could make it over there and out into the hall before Mrs. Murphy called the diner.
“ … They what? Coming here? Listen to me, Bubba—no, leave him, yes come quickly—”
Now, Cotton!
He rose from the couch and tiptoed toward the door. The outer office door beyond was open. Muted shouting came from the chapel down the hall. He ran the opposite direction. The only light in the dark passage was from an exit sign that cast the passage in a bloody glow.
Somewhere behind him, Deacon Fry was still hollerin’.
Cotton passed the exit door and continued to the end of the next hall. His friend Jack said he should go out the door by Reverend Peale’s office. It felt right, too, since old Reverend Peale had given his life so Cotton could have his Rose back. “Rest in peace.”
The hallways all looked the same now. All dark except for the red, all empty. He had a sudden feeling like he was moving through a heart, like blood itself. “There’s wonderful power in the blood,” he sang tunelessly.
Cotton.
“I’m comin’,” he said to his impatient friend.