Malevolent

by David Risen

  Her eyes narrowed shrewdly and she sat back. “No, you won’t. You need to know what happened to your wife as much as I need to expose them.”

  Rider thought of slamming his fists on the table, but instead, he sat his hands flat on the smooth beige surface.

  “Listen lady, my wife did little other than work all the time and blame me for my daughter’s death. At least with her gone, I can now self-destruct in peace. I have no emotional need to find out what happened to her!”

  She shook her head. “Have you discovered anything else useful?”

  Rider sat back and gave her a smug look. “Matter-of-fact, I did. While I was at the Library, I did a little checking up on this Sister Claire Jacobs. Some of the stuff I found was very intriguing.”

  The woman calling herself Ruth Hunter stood, grabbed her little, tan purse, and gave him a shy smile.

  “I’m sorry I involved you in all this, and if I were you, I wouldn’t do any further searches on the internet pertaining to the sisterhood or its members.”

  And she left.

  Rider couldn’t believe it.

  Rider wipes the fog from the bathroom mirror and looks at his reflection.

  With a new haircut, clean-shaven, and freshly bathed he somewhat resembles the clear-headed kid that he once was.

  A kid that went to UNC on a football scholarship, managed to amass over 50 interceptions, 4,000 yards, and 19 touchdowns.

  He came out the other end with a degree in journalism, a 3.6 GPA, and his choice of jobs. He could have gone with ESPN as a sports correspondent, or any number of other major networks, but to do so would have required too much traveling.

  Rider loved his new wife.

  He took a newspaper job in Bridgeton, but he quickly found writing about sports unrewarding and embittering. He became a freelance investigative journalist, and inside of a year, AJC was knocking on his door with a sweetheart deal.

  The man looking back at him from the mirror has none of the qualities the other man had.

  The long scar across his left cheek is the result of shrapnel when the Freightliner tore his Escalade in half. The Frankenstein stitch scars on his left shoulder and hip originated from doctors having to rebuild his left elbow and hip joint.

  Getting through a rainy day now involves a steady supply of pain pills.

  The problem is that he likes them a little too much.

  The man looking back at him from the mirror is nothing more than an aging thug who might beat the hell out of someone for a snide comment if he has too much to drink or too little narcotics.

  Rider dresses himself in a tee shirt, a blue polo shirt, and jeans. Just as he prepares to walk into the hallway, he hears the front door of his house open.

  He stares wide-eyed at himself in the mirror.

  Quiet footfalls in the den.

  Gently, he pulls the drawer open beneath the vanity sink, and slips out one of the nine guns he isn’t supposed to own. Then he eases the bathroom door open and creeps down the carpeted hallway. He stops just short of the den and peers beyond the square opening.

  He sees nothing beyond but the dark, diagonal hardwood flooring, and a few of the bottles he’d kicked over on accident before the power came back on.

  He points the gun around the corner.

  Someone gasps inside the den.

  He barges around the corner, and stops cold in his tracks as he realizes who his visitor is.

  Lauren throws her hands up and backs away from him.

  Rider shudders with the knowledge of what he may have done. He flips the safety to the on position, and drops his hand. Then he glares at Lauren.

  She wears an unzipped brown, leather coat with an off-white knit scarf. Khaki slacks with burgundy flats, and a matching Khaki blazer over an alabaster blouse. Her sandy hair is pulled up in a bun on the top of her head, and she wears her thick, dark purple-framed glasses.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he snaps.

  She looks down at the gun in his right hand.

  “Weren’t you supposed to get rid of all of those?”

  Rider shakes his head.

  “This house is trashed! Did you go on a binge or what?”

  He scowls. “They cut the fucking power off when I couldn’t pay the bill! I just got it turned back on today.”

  “I’m your wife, not your mom. It’s not my job to pay your way through life.”

  Rider grinds his teeth. “How ‘bout you give me some goddamn answers? What’ve you been doin the last three weeks?”

  “Did you get the note I left you on my computer?”

  He shakes his head. “I have half the State of Georgia lookin for your sorry ass. I thought....”

  She steps toward him looking concerned.

  “What did you think?”

  He gapes at her. “This crazy broad came by the house last night. She said that you were doing some research on a group of very dangerous women, and that they might have done something to you.”

  She nods. “Ruth Hunter?”

  He snarls. “If that’s what we’ve decided to call her.”

  Lauren squints at him. “Not who she says she is, huh?”

  Rider shakes his head.

  She paces off to his left. “I was at St. Michael’s doing what she asked. I thought I might be on the verge of a good study, maybe even a book. But it turns out that everything she said was erroneous.”

  Rider stuffs the gun in the back of his pants and leans against the wall.

  “The Divine Sisters are not witches. Maybe before the inquisition, but the group of nuns now operating under that moniker are very devoted, strong women who run a residential drug rehab and a shelter for battered women and children. It turns out that the time I spent there wasn’t a total wash. I learned a lot about the problem of treating addicts, and the brokenness of the system.”

  “I figured.”

  “Did you find out who she is?” She asks.

  Rider furls his brow at her. “What does that have to do with the price of beans in China?”

  Lauren shakes her head and eyes the Lay-Z-Boy that served as Rider’s bed for the last several weeks.

  “She’s obviously disturbed, and she needs help before she becomes a danger to herself or others. At the very least, there’s a paranoid delusion going on.”

  “She said her name was Sister Ruth Hunter, but Sister Hunter went missing in 1972 along with five other nuns. They never found them.”

  Lauren’s eyes flicker, and she stands in place by the Lay-Z-Boy as if in deep thought.

  Rider draws a deep breath and releases it.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he growls.

  She steps in front of him. “I meant what I said in that letter. The only reason I came back here was for my clothes.”

  Rider’s eyes well up, and he turns his head away and peers down at the hardwood floor.

  “I get it,” he says.

  “No, you don’t. I talked to Sister Jacobs about you a lot, and she pointed out that your sleep disturbances, rage disorder, recurring nightmares, and your drug abuse all point to Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.”

  Rider bunches his lips. If he weren’t pinned against the wall, he would back away from her.

  “You should go to St. Michael’s and explain your situation to Sister Jacobs. Convince her that you’re ready for treatment, and she’ll put you in their rehab.”

  Rider shakes his head vehemently. “I can’t function without the pills.”

  “I know,” she says backing away. “But there are better alternatives than the ones you’re taking. You and I both know that you could get away with a lot less.”

  Rider huffs. “You don’t know squat! Half of your body isn’t held together by stuff you buy at a hardware store.”

  “You wouldn’t even listen to your doctor when he started listing non-narcotic options. You went to three different doctors before you found one who would refer you to a Pain Clinic.”

  Rider bites his lip.<
br />
  “Go to St. Michael’s. Agree to rehab. Graduate their 12-month program. I’ll go to Nar-Anon meetings, and when you get out, we’ll see what we have left.”

  Rider wipes his eyes with his forearm.

  “You really need to wake up.”

  Tears blur the lower half of his vision.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Wake up, Rider.”

  He sighs. “You weren’t in the car with her. You didn’t see her bloody, little arm reaching for you.”

  “Wake up.”

  Sister Hunter’s face hovered inches from his.

  He sat up fast and pushed her way. He realized that he must have fallen asleep on the Lay-Z-Boy after the shower. He lay on his back wearing his green and blue striped boxers.

  “What th’ hell? Ever heard of a doorbell?”

  Sister Hunter stood up. “I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I came in thinking something was amiss.”

  Rider stared at her dumbly, still trying to process it.

  “I just had the most vivid dream I can remember.”

  Sister Hunter frowned. “Tell me.”

  He looked at the baseboards across the room.

  “I dreamed I was getting out of the shower when I heard someone come in. I got my gun and went into the den, and Lauren was here.”

  Her eyes bulged. “What did she say?”

  Rider studied her. He wondered what kind of paranoid nonsense she had brewing this time.

  “She told me that she volunteered at St. Michael’s in order to study the nuns like you asked, and that she found nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Her eyes bulged. “Did she ask about me?”

  Rider grinned humorlessly. “Relax, it was a dream.”

  “Did she?” she pressed.

  “Yeah. She wanted to know if I found out who you really are.”

  “What did you say?”

  Rider shrugged. “I told her that I found out that the real Sister Hunter disappeared with five other nuns in 1972.”

  “Get up,” Sister Hunter commanded.

  “What’s with you?” he growled.

  She sighed with frustration. “Please stand up.”

  Rider stared at her for a moment, and then he lazily grasped the handle on the right side of the recliner and pulled it – the footstool receded and the chair pushed him upright.

  Dull throbbing pain shot through his left hip and arm. The cold of the day numbed the pain up until now, but with the heat working again....

  He pushed himself up with his right arm wincing at the sharp pain in his left hip and leg as he exerted pressure.

  Sister Hunter didn’t waste a moment. She stooped and flipped the recliner over on its back exposing the floor beneath.

  A pentacle with an inverted pentagram drawn in chalk on the hardwood floor – just small enough to hide it beneath the recliner grinned back at him.

  In the center of the circle lay a pouch made of thin fabric sewn together.

  Sister Hunter backed away from it as if it were a poisonous snake.

  “What the fuck is that?” Rider said.

  Sister Hunter craned her head around and peered at him. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy.

  “We’re not safe here. We have to leave now.”

  Rider shuffled his feet and smirked. “What exactly are you suggesting? They hacked into my head?”

  She gave him a tired look and turned her head to face the pentacle again. “What you just bore witness to was the least of their capabilities.”

  Rider rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”

  She didn’t respond. He stared at her a moment and then limped through the hallway and into the bathroom.

  When he reached the bathroom, he realized that he didn’t recall sitting on the recliner after he showered. His damp towel still lay in a heap by the toilet on the back wall. The blue Polo and jeans he set out for himself on the double-basin vanity disappeared.

  He looked at the mirror to find that what remained of the condensation in his dream remained on the mirror accept for the arch-shaped area that he wiped away with his hand.

  Now confusion settled in.

  He peered into the mirror and linked it together. He hadn’t taken any pain meds today, and he took his Xanax just before getting in the shower – a normal dose. Rider never took a shower without first gathering his towel and his clothes. This was part of the discipline regimen his mother pounded into him from the time he was old enough to go to school.

  Then he saw the figure standing behind him.

  An old woman wearing a hooded cloak – so old that her loose skin hung off her face in wrinkled folds. Her hood fell away from her face revealing gray, dead eyes.

  He spun around.

  Empty room.

  He turned back around to face the mirror to find that it spider webbed like safety glass.

  “Hey!” he called.

  He heard the pounding of her footfalls across the hardwood of the den and then the dull thud of her boots down the carpeted hallway.

  Sister Hunter poked her head into the bathroom.

  Rider said nothing, he simply pointed at the shattered looking glass.

  She stepped inside the bathroom and stared at it.

  “We have to leave, now. Get dressed and gather a few toiletries.”

  She stood in the den as he gathered his things, and she felt nothing but relief when he appeared through the archway from the hall with a gym bag. She passed him her keys.

  “We’ll take my car, because they’re not watching it.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll meet you out there. I need to look around to be certain that there are no personal items here they can pilfer to use against you.”

  She closed her eyes and focused on him as he walked past her and into the foyer. Rider wasn’t like most people; she could hear most of his thoughts without even trying. Just now, he was more than halfway convinced that it was she who stole into his house and drew the pentacle beneath his chair, and that she was responsible for his bathroom mirror as well.

  But Rider was a tough guy. And like all such individuals, he met his opposition head-on. He planned to play along with her until he found the underlying cause of it.

  There were a few things that Rider couldn’t know about her. Unlike the Divine Sisters, she need not rely on elaborate spells to command power. All of her abilities were active.

  She felt him sit down in her gray Lexus and shut the door – his left shoulder yelping in pain as he contorted his body to fit himself in the car.

  She pulled away from him and looked about the empty house. She lied to him. The sisters could use any personal objects against him – that included the house itself and everything within.

  She focused on the Lay-Z-Boy, and it erupted into flames. Then she eyed the carpet in the hallway, and it flared as if she doused it with gas and threw a match at it.

  She turned out of the house and speed-walked to her car.

  Rider said nothing for at least ten minutes.

  The Lexus ES 350 slogged down the icy roads lit only by the amber streetlights, and he noticed that she was sticking only to the backroads.

  The more he considered it, the more he realized how ridiculous the thought was that a group of people he never met on whom he performed the most rudimentary of investigations would want to harm him.

  The driver of the Lexus who still wouldn’t tell him her real name was the cause of today’s mischief, and if something indeed happened to Lauren; she was also the most likely culprit. The simplest explanation is usually closest to the truth.

  The deeper he dug into his own musings, the angrier he became. He slapped the dashboard three times and glared at her.

  “Will you please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  She glanced at him.

  “I’m sorry I involved you and your wife.”

  Rider shook his head tightly and looked forward.

  “You do realize
that there’s more than a passing chance that Lauren simply left me, right?”

  The woman beside him sighed with frustration. “I understand that you have shared a prolonged time of struggle with her, and in my experience, struggle usually drives a couple closer together rather than apart.”

  “Not this kind of struggle,” Rider growled.

  They passed through the red-light district of Bridgeton now – an area about four blocks long full of strip clubs, bars, and nightclubs – all catering to the college crowds.

  Rider looked at her. “She blames me for our daughter’s death, and I guess she’s probably right. Then there’s the other problem, too.”

  She peeked at him again. “Are you referring to your alcohol problem?”

  He nodded. “That and the system and Lauren are all convinced that I also have a pill problem.”

  “Do you?”

  Rider bunched his lips together and shook his head.

  “They don’t know what I have to go through just to get out of bed in the morning. I’ve got so much hardware in me that I’m practically a bionic man, and every time I lay my head down at night, I wake up to the sound of my little girl shrieking.”

  She nodded. “Real love for another person is hard. It puts you in situations that you would otherwise not endure, and sometimes it transforms you into something you never intended to be. Particularly when the object of your love has passed away, you’re faithful to them, because the despair is far preferable to the thought of being dissevered forever.”

  Rider’s eyes welled up and he peered out the passenger’s window at a pink neon sign that announced, “Live Nude Women.”

  “Whatever the fuck you just said, don’t ever say it again.”

  She flipped her right blinker on and reined the car into a parking deck.

  Rider smirked. “Are you planning to unwind by throwing a few deuces at some nude chicks?”

  She rolled her eyes. “We’re changing cars.”

  Rider gave her a look of disbelief. “What?”

  She glanced at him. “In my time hiding from these women, I’ve learned a few valuable lessons the hard way. First, forget your real name. Take no jobs that require you to use social security numbers, cut up all of your credit and debit cards, close your checking accounts, never use the same toilet twice, use no electronics that are registered to you, and if you think they may know what you’re driving, change cars.”