Deadly Rising

by Jeri Westerson

  “Young lady, I done said my piece on that. You’re gonna have to take it up with the pastor. I don’t go letting strange people wander around the hall.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Reverend Howard himself, wrapped up in a parka with his collar peeking out, strode up to the both of us.

  “Kylie, how are you? Daniel, what can I help you with?”

  Daniel Parker jerked a thumb at me. “This’un wants to go into the hall, sneaking about. Ruth Russell done warned me about the likes of her.”

  “Now Daniel, that isn’t Christian of you at all. Kylie’s motivations are entirely honorable. She’s the nice young lady that opened that tea shop in town. It’s bringing traffic from the highway. We’re all grateful for that. And the Lord wants us to greet our neighbors with civility. So what can I do for you, Kylie?”

  “Reverend Howard, I wonder if I could walk with you. Have a word?”

  “Why, certainly. I’ll see you later, Daniel.”

  The reverend led us away, but Daniel stood where he was, staring. What curses would I be subject to now, I wondered.

  “You’ll have to excuse Daniel,” said Reverend Howard. I had to maintain a brisk pace to keep up with the tall, long-legged man. “He’s been at this parish a long time and I daresay he comes with quirks. He’s been here far longer than I have.”

  “Longer than the church maybe,” I muttered.

  He laughed. “You might be right. But it didn’t seem polite to ask. By the way, I was sorry to hear about what happened to your shop. The sheriff has had his hands full with his younger brother.”

  “Thanks, but it’s all mended now. The shop, that is. Ed and Doug have a long way to go to mend their differences.”

  “People tell me that you and the sheriff are getting mighty tight.”

  “People do talk, don’t they? But we are. We are seeing each other.”

  “Well, that is nice. Ed is a good friend to the church and a heck of a nice guy. And if you don’t mind my saying, you two make a lovely couple.”

  My face warmed at that. I thought we did too. Of course, my thoughts shot immediately toward Erasmus, who was waiting in the car…or was he? He said he couldn’t go on hallowed ground. But how far did hallowed ground extend from the church? Did the hall count?

  “Listen, Reverend, I have a rather strange request of you. I would like to take a look in the church hall for only a moment. It won’t take long.”

  “Why? Did you lose something the last time you were here? We do have a lost and found box in the rectory…”

  “No, nothing like that. You’re going to think it’s awfully weird.”

  “In this town? Even out here in the wilds of Maine, I’ve seen it and heard it all, I can assure you.”

  “Well, all right. Um…how well do you know Daniel Parker?”

  He looked back and so did I. Parker had finally begun heading wherever it was he was heading with his trash bags…full of body parts, no doubt. We veered toward the hall as we walked. “As I said, he was here before I came to the parish, some ten-odd years ago. Daniel’s harmless. His only vice, as far as I can tell, is to smoke the worst-smelling pipe tobacco. He doesn’t seem to drink, doesn’t gamble, doesn’t carry on with the ladies. He keeps to himself, does his job, and never complains. Never married and no children. Why?”

  We reached the door of the hall and I gestured for him to open it. He took out a full set of keys, found the one he wanted, and fit it in the lock. The door creaked open. Inside was cold and dark, with those same smells of cabbage and spaghetti dinners still lingering within its walls. He flipped a wall switch and the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered to life.

  The parquet floor was open like a school gym, with tables folded and stacked against the far wall. I made a beeline for the kitchen doorway. Its café window was closed and barred with metal rollup doors, but to the right was the custodian’s closet. I yanked the door open and flipped on the light. Mops in roll-around buckets, brooms, rolls of butcher paper, boxes of foil and cellophane in industrial sizes, along with cleaning supplies of sponges, sink cleanser, floor cleaner, and ammonia.

  But no pentagram.

  “It was right here. Right here on the floor.”

  “What was?” He peered over my shoulder, nose crinkling at the strong smell of cleaner.

  “A pentagram.”

  “What? On this floor?”

  “Yes. I saw it. I know I did. Of course, it was over a week ago.”

  “You think our Daniel is practicing Wiccan rituals here in my church?”

  “I don’t know. But…Look. You’re a pastor. You believe in the supernatural, don’t you?”

  “If you’re talking about God and angels, yes.”

  “And demons.”

  “To a certain extent.” When I gave him a questioning look, he pressed on. “My theology, and that which I preach, is more, well, modern. We profess our love of God and accept His Son, recognize Heaven and sin. But it’s a bit murkier when it comes to demons and Hell. Hell, as such, isn’t necessarily a place, but the absence of God’s divine love. And the demons from the Bible, well. Is anyone ever really possessed by demons anymore? We know that all sorts of chemical and psychological afflictions could have been interpreted as demonic possession in a less enlightened era. So if you’re asking if I believe in a Wiccan spirituality, my answer is…to a point. Doc Boone’s style of Wicca is about wholeness with nature and one’s own spirit or soul, and that I can get behind. But ‘summoning’ demons and spirits? I leave that sort of thing to Hollywood filmmakers.”

  “But might certain of these practices cause harm to humans who interact with them?”

  “Psychologically. Are you talking about black magic practitioners? That’s a slippery slope. It can lead to all sorts of bad behavior. And as far as I know, Doc Boone’s coven would never—”

  “I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about maybe another group nearby. Doc and his coven are the good guys. What they do protects the village. But there are others out there who are doing it for their own gain. And it’s very dangerous.”

  He got in close. “You aren’t talking about…some of these missing people, are you?”

  “Not…necessarily.”

  He seemed taken aback by my vagueness, that I hadn’t ruled it out. He rubbed a hand over his face. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Some of these people doing black magic…I wasn’t a believer before, but I am now.”

  “People do and say a lot of things, and I have to admit that a lot of it is, well, just in their heads. It’s one thing to believe in the higher power of God and His presence, but it’s quite another to believe in the power of tarot cards or demonic possession. I’m a practical man, after all. Thoroughly of the twenty-first century.”

  “Yeah. I can see that. I apologize for this wild-goose chase. I’m normally not like this. But I have to say, I’ve seen some things lately and…Forget it. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No, no, Kylie. Obviously, something has caused you anxiety and I would like to help if I can. I know you’ve been seeing a lot of Doc Boone’s coven. My advice to you? Perhaps…stay away. Try not to fraternize with them quite so much. They are nice people, don’t get me wrong, but you might be, well, how should I put this? Impressionable. Being alone here and all. It might not be the best influence on you.”

  “I see what you’re saying, Reverend, and I appreciate it. But if you do see anything here at the church, will you give me a call?” His expression seemed a little uncertain. “Well. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”

  His cell rang. “Would you please excuse me? I have to take all calls. I’m a man with a calling.” He grinned and took out his phone. “Yes, Mr. Waterman. No, of course it’s not too early.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “You can let yourself out. And don’t fret, Kylie. Everything will be fine.”

  He walked down t
he dark hallway toward a distant door, talking in the phone all the while.

  I glanced into the closet once more. It was too much to expect the pentagram to still be here after a week. Parker saw me in there, after all. He probably got rid of the evidence as soon as he could. But the question was, what was he up to? I turned to go when I spotted it. Under one of the roll-around buckets. A chalk mark. I moved the bucket and saw clearly not a pentagram but a circle with weird markings in it. It almost looked like a circuit board. I pulled out my phone and took a picture. What sort of hocus pocus was Daniel doing? And right under the pastor’s nose!

  I wouldn’t have noticed the little bag if I hadn’t been snooping, but there it was, nailed inside the closet on the top of the door jam. A velvet bag of midnight blue. I yanked it off its nail and pulled on the drawstring. A feather, a sprig of herbs tied with a white string, and a tiny bottle filled with a white powder. I decided to swipe it and show the Wiccans, see if they knew what it was. Stuffing it quickly into my jacket pocket, I turned off the light, closed the door, and hightailed it out of there.

  When I got into the car again, Erasmus appeared. “What did you find?”

  “Well, this, for one.” I showed him the bag.

  He frowned and sniffed it. “This is for protection. It keeps people away, creates a barrier. This phial contains crushed bone. Human, presumably.”

  I took it back gingerly. Eww.

  “And then there was this.” I brought the photo up on my phone and showed it to him.

  He paled and grabbed the phone, staring at it.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “Let us leave this place. Now!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “It is the seal of the demon Andras,” said Erasmus tightly, staring at my phone as I drove. “His only purpose is to sow discord…and kill when necessary.”

  I was headed toward Alderbrook Lane without thinking. “Someone is summoning this Andras? Is that what that is, this seal? Why would the janitor be doing that? Who does he work for? Shoot. I forgot to ask where he lived. I bet it’s Hansen Mills.”

  “I am very concerned, Kylie. Andras is in an order higher than mine. I do not know, if tasked, whether I can defeat him.”

  I glanced at him with an encouraging smile. “If it comes to it, you will.”

  He gave me a look as if I was out of my mind. “No, I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. You’d be fighting for me, right?”

  He didn’t reply and kept staring at me as I drove to Alderbrook Lane and made the turn. “Kylie…”

  Hesitancy looked strange on him. His hands fidgeted. He looked like he wanted to explain something to me, something unpleasant. And I just wasn’t in the mood.

  “It doesn’t matter, Erasmus.”

  “But—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not now anyway. Let’s just do this.”

  He said nothing more, his hands in his lap.

  We traveled up the road, past the tree and the windmill. The house looked far less scary during the day. But it was still a sad sight, abandoned as it was.

  I got out of the car. Erasmus was right beside me this time. We walked up to the porch together and the door opened easily for us.

  It was just as Grandpa had left it, only under layers of dust and cobwebs. A house that looked like it deserved to be haunted.

  “Grandpa?” I called out timidly.

  Nothing. I was oddly relieved.

  Hands on hips, I took inventory. Quite a mess really. “Now where would Grandpa hide a journal?”

  “Look here.”

  Erasmus pointed to something tucked against the door frame. Another little bag like the one I’d found at the church.

  “Another spell for protection?”

  He shook his head and I approached, studying it. I reached for it but he grabbed my arm. “I wouldn’t do that. I think this is the very spell that prevents anyone from remembering. I think it wise that you do not disturb it. And tell as few people as possible about your grandfather.”

  So that was why there was never a search for heirs. This spell to forget the Stranges. And it had kept vandals away all these years, too, preserving what was here. Though once mentioned to people, the spell appeared broken, at least to that individual.

  “That’s probably a good idea.” I walked through the archway to the dining room and looked around. “The kitchen jar.” I pushed hard on the kitchen doors and the hinges whined in protest. They hadn’t been oiled in two decades, after all. I went straight for the shelf above the refrigerator, which looked much like an icebox from days of yore, and reached up to the jar that was still there. It had seemed as high as Everest when I was six. Now I merely had to stretch to grasp the green milk glass jar with its matching top. Amazing things had come out of that jar; dimes for ice cream, peppermint sticks, stamps, paperclips…it was a most magic jar. Cradling it in my arm, I pulled off the lid…but there was nothing inside. Even the secrets of the green jar would remain secrets.

  I set it carefully on the kitchen table and thought. Had to be upstairs in his room.

  All the while, Erasmus watched me curiously.

  “I’m going to check in his room upstairs. Coming?”

  I grasped the banister. It was so familiar. The worn wood, the round finial on the newel post. Erasmus’s gentle footsteps followed me, missing every creaking riser. The hallway had an old-fashioned niche for the telephone. There was still a dusty push-button phone in the alcove, sitting on top of an old phone book from 1994. But no other book was there. I moved down the hall, memories pinging in my mind of the sights and sounds of the house: my own running footsteps, my mother calling after me not to run inside, Grandpa laughing and telling her to let me be.

  The door to his room was open. The quilt—whatever color it was—lay muted under dust and dirt. There were framed photographs on the side table. I vowed to take all the photos I could find and bring them home. I rummaged in the side table drawers, the dresser…still filled with folded clothes. Nothing.

  When I turned, Erasmus stood in the doorway, holding a stiff piece of paper. It was something I had painted as a child for my grandfather. “This is your work,” he said, pointing to my uneven signature scrawled at the bottom. “It isn’t very good.”

  I slapped his shoulder, which always seemed to surprise him. “I was only five! A child.”

  “Oh.” He set it aside and gazed at me steadily. “I was created just as you see me now many thousands of years ago,” he said quietly. “I never had parents or a childhood. But I can tell…that this is very difficult for you. I am…trying to empathize.”

  “That’s…very good of you.” I looked him over. “You really had no parents, no childhood? You were born…fully grown? Like this? Leather duster and all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m trying to empathize with that. I wonder if your existence is kinder, never having to lose those that you love.”

  “I do not think…it is kinder.”

  “Hmm.” I offered a smile. “I guess you’re right. I think I’m still glad I knew them, even for a brief time.”

  Before sliding by him I reached up and kissed his cheek.

  He put a hand to his face and stared after me.

  “Something has to be here,” I muttered. When I reached the bottom floor and the kitchen again, I leaned against the doorjamb. “Now wait a minute. I remember he used to write his accounts in a little book. And I think he kept it in here somewhere.”

  Erasmus had recovered from the kiss and was by my side, pulling out drawers. “A book…like this?” He pulled something from a drawer of desiccated towels: a notebook no bigger than his palm.

  “That’s it!” I snatched it out of his hands and thumbed through it. There were household accounts carefully scrawled in there in pencil on the narrow lines, lists of things that needed repairing, but way in the back, after a…pentagram…were notes written in a strange language.<
br />
  “Is this Latin? No, Greek. No. I don’t know what it is.”

  Erasmus gently took it from my hands and studied the page. “It is Enochian. The language of angels…and demons.”

  “How did my grandfather know that?”

  “A pity you did not know him better.” He read silently for a time.

  I tapped my fingers impatiently against my thigh. “Erasmus. What does it say?”

  “Much that we already knew. It seems that your grandfather was fully versed on the book. As fully versed as a mortal can be. But he was not a Chosen Host, so much was still a mystery to him. He had never seen it, of course. It says he did not know where it was but only that it was close. Wait. He mentions you. I shall endeavor to translate it as close to English as possible. ‘Kylie cannot know, cannot understand, what her role is to be. Even I am not quite certain. But it is clear to me that Rupert never said anything to her mother, and so she doesn’t know either. Must keep them away from here in the fall. Not until the proper time.’” He looked up from the notebook. “He never told you?”

  I dabbed at the tears in my eyes. “No. He died suddenly of a heart attack. I was six. All I remember is sadness and longing for him. But that was a long time ago.”

  Erasmus went back to the notebook. “Apparently, the foundations of this house were built long, long before his time, for a much older habitation than this one. The natives of this area once had a lodge of some kind. It sits at the conjunction of several ley lines—but we already knew this. And that it is protecting the village…no.” An ironic smile drew up one edge of his mouth. “‘Village’ in this sense means ‘the world.’ That it is protecting the world from destruction. And that the curse that has befallen the Strange family is to guard the gate at any cost. The book is one of many gateways, though it also serves as…” He stopped.

  “Serves as what?”

  “The writing is smudged here.” He eyed it closely, bringing it closer to the window to scrutinize it. “Serves as…a key? Hmm. Interesting.”

  “Wait. The Booke isn’t just some stupid parlor trick created by long-dead Ancient Ones? It has a greater purpose than just letting creatures out to wreak havoc?”