The Hag

by Erik Henry Vick

  He couldn’t see Greg anywhere—which meant only one thing.

  Joe left the house, letting the door slide shut in silence behind him. He turned toward the back of the house, toward the gravel road and the woods beyond, and slipped down to the corner. He peeked around the edge of the house in time to see Greg slip into the woods. “Greg!” he called.

  Greg dashed into the woods without looking back.

  “What in the hell?” Slinging the M1 over his shoulder, Joe sprinted across the gravel road, trying to keep Greg within sight. Greg’s legs were much shorter than his, but Greg was eleven, and Joe was seventy-three. Even so, he should’ve been able to catch him.

  “Greg! Come back!” he called. That Greg had heard him wasn’t in question—he saw the telltale twitch in the boy’s shoulders at the sound of his name. What the hell is he getting up to? Joe kept on his trail, trying to increase his speed. “Greg!”

  Greg kept darting looks over his shoulder, but he wouldn’t meet Joe’s gaze.

  “What are you doing, Greg?”

  “Go back!” Greg’s voice sounded flat amidst all the moss-covered trees. “Don’t let her get you!”

  Joe faltered a step, confused by Greg’s words, by the emotion in the boy’s voice. He looked around, but they were alone in the woods. He kept on, following Greg as fast as his old legs would carry him.

  When Greg sobbed, Joe was close enough to hear it.

  7

  Stellan could no longer think, could no longer plan the best route around the trees and roots that all seemed to reach for him. Branches slapped against his face leaving streaks of blood and hooked his clothing. Brambles stabbed at him. He felt it all, but at the same time, he was numb from head to toe.

  His breath shrieked from him, sounding almost as he imagined a jet airplane might. He wobbled from side to side as he ran, and the things that chased him closed in. Some ran to his left and right a few yards away, and others nipped at his heels or licked the bottoms of his feet.

  Somehow, he found the strength to keep running. He lifted his feet, he put them down, lifted them, put them down, up, down. He ran and ran and ran.

  But it was no use. The things that chased him were tenacious and determined.

  Say now, sport. You’re not giving up already, are you?

  Stellan didn’t—couldn’t—speak. He had no more energy for actions that did nothing to keep him in front of the pack of demon dogs on his heels.

  Champ, it’s been fun, but I think you’re as close to done as a boy can get this side of the grave.

  Stellan wanted to shake his head, wanted to deny the voice speaking in his mind—the voice of his imaginary friend, but could lie to himself no longer. He tried to dredge up more energy, even glancing back, trying to scare himself into running faster, but it was no use. Stellan was spent, lifting his feet just enough to shift them forward, arms and hands flopping at his sides as if boneless.

  When he stumbled, the pack of dog-things swarmed him. In the distance, a basso laugh like that of a demon in a horror movie rang through the trees.

  It was the last thing Stellan Stensgaard ever heard.

  8

  Gary Dennis jolted alert as he saw the Canton boy jog across the gravel road. His hand was on the door handle when Joe Canton sprinted through the gravel after his grandson, slinging an M1 carbine across his back as he did so.

  Gary got out of the car in a hurry, his other hand on his service weapon. He watched Joe run a few steps. “Dammit!” he grumbled and leaned inside the car to grab the microphone. He told the dispatcher he was out of the car and going after Joe in the woods. Joe and Greg.

  He ran to catch Joe’s trail. He had to sprint to keep him in sight, and even then, he was hard-pressed to stay with him. Joe might be an old guy, but he could move when he wanted to.

  The forest had turned spooky. The mist had settled amongst the boughs of the trees, blocking the direct moonlight, and casting an unearthly pall over everything. Things seemed to lurch at him from the corner of his eyes, but Gary kept his gaze on Joe’s back.

  Ahead, Joe called after his grandson, and his grandson answered back, but Gary couldn’t make out the words. For a moment, he thought he saw a dark figure chasing the boy on a path parallel to Joe’s, and he opened his mouth to yell a warning but stumbled over a tree root and fell headlong into the underbrush. When he regained his feet and searched for the dark figure, Gary found nothing. Trick of the darkness, a shadow or something, he thought and started running, sprinting to make up lost distance.

  They ran for what seemed a long time, but given his own age and state of health, Gary knew it couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes. They weren’t far into the depths of the forest, but far enough that the only sounds that reached Gary were the thudding of his footfalls, the thumping of his overworked heart, and the strange whistling of his breath through his throat. Too old for this, he thought. But he imagined Joe running in these woods alone, maybe confronting a madman, and he found the strength to go on.

  Ahead of him, Joe shouted something at Greg and snapped the M1 carbine to his shoulder. Bam-bam-bam! The reports ripped through the early-morning silence. Gary’s already fast pulse accelerated, and he jerked his service weapon out of his holster. His breath rasped in and out, in and out, and his footfalls thundered on the forest loam beneath him. His pulse raged in his temples, and his vision seemed to throb in synchronous rhythm.

  Moments before he reached Joe’s position, the old Marine yelled, “Greg, no!” Joe sprinted ahead, leaving Gary behind once more. With grim determination, Gary increased his pace, ignoring the telltale tunneling of his vision. He opened his mouth and panted, exchanging hot, used air for sweet, cool night air. His respirations sounded off—arrhythmic and harsh—but Gary ignored that, too, forcing one step after the next. He grunted as a deep stitch flared in his left side, but he refused to slow his sprint.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  2007

  1

  I have to risk it, thought LaBouche as he sat in the branches of a mulberry bush next to the Oneka Falls Town Hall parking lot. I have to talk to Chaz without the safety net of an in-between. What Scott and his damn friends have been up to…that information is too important to trust to someone as worthless as Sally McBride. Instead, he’d told McBride to call Chaz and tell him there was an emergency that needed his attention.

  Dawn broke in the east, and dew glistened on his ridiculous yellow plumage. Meeting with Chaz in his current form—from a place of weakness, rather than a vantage of strength—was a significant risk, with little probability of a matching reward. At best, Chaz would take what he said at face value but stop listening to his suggestions about what they should do—he would assume complete leadership. At worst, Chaz would seize the opportunity to send him packing once and for all.

  But still, the threat from Scott and his merry band was too high. If they had extracted certain information from that weakling in the north, there was no telling what they could do. If they know about the Passage…

  But that didn’t bear consideration. If they knew, there was nothing he could do, one way or the other.

  Chaz’s car screeched into the parking lot, roared to the door, and slid to a halt. Chaz threw the door open and lurched out of the car, his head snapping first one way and then the next. “Where’s the goddamn emergency, Fuck-it-up? If this is some kind of prank…”

  It’s no prank, Chaz, sent LaBouche.

  Chaz’s head snapped around, and he sank into a defensive posture. “LaBouche? Is that you?”

  Yes. Who else?

  “Where are you? Come out and speak face-to-face.”

  That…that wouldn’t be prudent. But what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. The humans who killed Herlequin…they’re not content with their crime.

  Chaz glanced around in the brightening early morning. What? Why don’t we go inside? You can explain it all to me in there.

  I’
ll stay where I am for the moment. But, listen to me, Chaz. One of the humans is my old partner…Scott Lewis. He’s a New York State Trooper. Another is the one we feared existed…the one who’s been hunting and killing demons for a decade.

  That old myth? Chaz scoffed and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Look, LaBouche, I’m going inside. Coffee. Plus, I feel like an idiot, standing out here in the parking lot and having a conversation with someone I can’t see. I don’t understand your need for secrecy.

  Brigitta…

  Yes? What about Brigitta?

  He didn’t want to elaborate. He didn’t want to tell Chaz about his shameful condition.

  Chaz sighed. Look, if you want to talk, I’ll be in my office. It’s too chilly out here for this silliness. He turned toward the town hall, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

  If he could have slumped his shoulders, LaBouche would have. Instead, he swooped down through the town hall before the door could slide closed.

  Chaz stood next to the reception desk, watching the door. He erupted into roaring laughter, raising a hand to point at LaBouche.

  If he could have blushed, LaBouche would have. I know, he sent.

  “Isn’t this special! Did Herlequin assign you that form, or was it Brigitta?” He gave LaBouche an appraising glance and smiled. Brigitta.

  LaBouche bobbed his head in the closest approximation to a nod he could muster.

  “What did you do?” asked Chaz before dissolving into laughter again. “I’m trying to imagine what you must have done to piss her off this much. I can’t come up with anything.”

  Look, Chaz, the humans—

  “No, tell me what you did. I have to know. The curiosity is killing me.”

  It’s not important! But these humans have—

  Chaz flapped one of his big scaled and clawed hands—it looked extraordinarily silly to LaBouche. “I will deal with the humans, LaBouche. What kind of threat can they possibly represent? They were aware of Herlequin because he victimized them and let them live. I’ve established a rule against such behavior going forward. ‘Kill your food when you’re done playing with it.’”

  They’ve kidnapped one of the weaker demons living to the north. Scotty and his friends interrogated him in his own dungeon. They—

  “What did they hope to learn? Why would they take such a risk? Plus, you assume that they know there are more demons in the world than Herlequin.”

  Certainly, they know about Brigitta. And don’t you think they suspect you?

  “Me? Why would they suspect me?”

  If he could have sighed, LaBouche would have. You don’t think your behavior surrounding Play Time would have raised the eyebrows of your police chief? It would have concerned Scott I can promise you. It would’ve raised suspicions. You were foolish, you—

  “Enough!” roared Chaz. “That will be enough. I am your sovereign, LaBouche, and you will treat me with respect.”

  We are partners, Chaz. That was the deal.

  Chaz worked his face into a moue. “That was before I understood about your…disability. You are not fit to rule us, LaBouche. Not even as my partner.”

  You are reneging on our deal?

  Chaz sniffed. “A deal made under false pretenses is not binding.”

  We need not decide this now. Right now, we need to—

  “I’ll decide what we need to do, LaBouche. You will carry out my orders.”

  If you believe I’m going to roll over and—

  Behind him, the glass doors leading to the parking lot creaked open. “Ah, Fuck-it-up. How appropriate that you would join us at this moment.”

  LaBouche took off and flew in a little circle. Sally McBride stood in the open door, mouth agape, eyes wide open. Her pale pink skin had bleached even paler.

  “Mr. Welsh, I—‍”

  “No, Fuck-it-up. We are no longer friends. Not after I’ve learned of your complicity in this scam.” Chaz took a step forward and swatted at LaBouche but missed. “On your knees!” he roared at McBride.

  If he could have fought him, LaBouche would have, but he couldn’t, so he took the coward’s path and ducked out the open door, leaving McBride to face Chaz’s wrath alone.

  2

  Mason Harper walked to the end of his weathered and deteriorating dock, an ice-cold Bud in one hand, and an unfiltered Camel dangling from the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the Canton’s lake house, and a smile stretched his lips at the memory of what had happened there. They had abandoned the house after that summer back in ’86.

  After his grandmother passed away—with a little help from Mason—and he’d inherited her cottage next door, he’d winterized it and moved in, and the house had served him well as a year-round base of operations. He brought a lot of “friends” back there, and the memories of his exploits in the cottage stretched his smile.

  After that summer in 1986, things had changed. The atmosphere around the lake was different, as though something was missing. And something had been missing…the Lady in the Lake. Oh, she dropped by for visits from time to time—especially when he was entertaining—but he’d missed her full-time presence.

  He turned and stared out at the still water, at the reflection of the setting sun dancing in the center of the lake, and his expression flattened into the blank mask he showed the outside world. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a memory—a feeling.

  A slow smile dislodged his mask. She’s back, he thought with excitement burbling in his veins. He didn’t know how he knew it, but know it, he did.

  With a wide grin on his face, he turned back to his cottage. He had a mess to clean up inside, but his smile didn’t dim at the prospect of hours of tedious work.

  Brigitta—the Lady in the Lake as the locals call her–is back!

  3

  Anger thrummed through LaBouche’s diminutive form. His ridiculous bright yellow wings beat against the air, but it wasn’t as satisfying as using thickly muscled arms to beat against someone’s weak flesh, and it didn’t do much to ease his mood. The shame of it…the humiliation of being trapped in the body of a magpie, of having to run from battle as a magpie was almost more than his mind could bear.

  But now I have something. I’ve got a bargaining chip, and I can make that foul bitch change me back.

  He flew and flew, high in the air out of the reach of pesky things such as shotgun pellets and bullets, out of the reach of earthbound demons. LaBouche had an idea of where she would be. He imagined he knew where Brigitta would go to lick her wounds.

  Lake Genosgwa.

  He wasn’t sure what her deal was there, but she had some sort of gig running with the locals—a prebuilt legend that fed her. Perhaps not her preferred food, but fear sustained them all. It would work in a pinch.

  Plus, none of Scott’s asshole friends know anything about it. No, I’m sure. That’s where the foul bitch will be—no doubt buried in mud at the bottom of the lake. Soaking, sulking.

  Anger boiled in his blood—not only at the indignities inflicted on him but because Brigitta was now their leader. As if she deserves to be anything other than a slave!

  He imagined the others whining and sniveling in her presence…and even he would have to play that part. The idea of it turned his stomach, but if he made a move against her in their present circumstances, the others would come down on him hard. They might even be able to send him back…

  And he didn’t want to go back. None of them wanted to go back. Ever.

  No, it took far too long to break free of— LaBouche cut that line of reasoning off in a hurry. It wasn’t safe to even think of them. Even thinking of their collective name might alert them to his thoughts, might call one of them…and more than anything in any of the worlds, LaBouche wanted to fly under their collective radar.

  He shook his tiny head and tumbled in the wind for a moment. Dammit! It’s too hard to remember all the stupid rules of aerodynamic flight.

  LaBouche wasn’t known for subtlety. He preferred brutali
ty. Can’t play this that way, more’s the pity. No, now it’s time to be subtle, tactical…strategic. Despite his preference for direct action, LaBouche was a master tactician. Few among his kind could match his strategic planning, his trickery, or his deceit.

  I should be the one to lead! he raged. Because she has Herlequin’s blood—that’s the only reason the others will look to her. But she will set that bastard Chaz Welsh straight in a heartbeat. The thought warmed LaBouche and smoothed his hackles. I wish it were possible to confront her, to challenge her…but they wouldn’t let it be a fair fight. And he couldn’t fight them all, not all at once.

  Not to mention the fact that if he killed them all, there would be no one left to rule.

  Lake Genosgwa opened beneath him—a dark black smear against an otherwise lush green tapestry. LaBouche folded his wings and pointed his stupid little beak at the surface of the lake, way out in the middle.

  He streaked toward the lake, his feathers ruffling like mad as the wind tore at his plummeting body. He didn’t give one second’s thought to the impact of the water at the speed with which he fell. What did it matter? It’s not as if it could kill him. Not really.

  LaBouche impacted the surface of Genosgwa Lake with a bone-snapping crunch, but the pain was brief, inconsequential. Magpie bodies weren’t suited to swimming, but he did the best he could, pushing himself deeper and deeper into the black maw of the lake. He could almost sense her, could almost hear her muttering, sobbing. How can she be so weak? Herlequin always said she was his daughter, but no daughter of his would act this way.

  He gave up on swimming and willed his body to sink. The restriction Brigitta had imposed on him rankled more than ever. That she would do this to him over the feelings of a mere human filled him with murderous rage.

  Get it together. She will see that in you if you’re not careful. He tried to twist his mind away from what she had done to him, but it was hard…after all, he was a magpie.