by Mark Souza
Sentries rushed from their posts, muskets drawn. Men trotted from the barracks across the parade ground toward the commotion. The door to the Commandant's cabin opened. Rebecca fixed her gaze on her husband. Jonathon strode toward her, buttoning his coat, his jaw set. “Rebecca, what are you doing? Release that girl.”
“She's a witch,” Rebecca insisted.
“Stop now. Don't force me to have these sentries take you away.”
Rebecca pulled Libby toward the door and jammed her head close to the lantern. She tugged the mirror from her coat and held it to Libby's face.
“She has no reflection,” she yelled. “No reflection. She's a witch.”
The men gasped. Murmuring swept through the ranks. Jonathon's mouth hung open in disbelief. He pushed through the crowd and stared at the mirror. He passed his hand in front of it and looked again. He pulled Libby from his wife's grip and shoved her toward a sentry. “Put the witch in chains.” He searched the crowd and called out for Reverend Jones. The minister stepped forward. “What do we do in a case such as this?”
“She should be marked and then either burned or drowned,” Jones advised.
Jonathon gazed at Libby and swallowed. He looked like a man tasked with destroying a precious work of art. “Take her to my quarters.”
“What are you doing?” Rebecca begged. “Please no. Don’t protect her, she’s a witch.”
The sentry dragged Libby across the corner of the parade ground to the door of Rebecca's cottage.
“Place her on the table,” Jonathon ordered. Two soldiers lifted Libby and pinned her down. Jonathon ripped open her blouse. He stepped to the fireplace and pulled the andiron from the fire.
“Don't,” Libby begged. “It's not my fault. A white man made me this way.” Jonathon hesitated. She continued, “Don't do something you'll regret. Let me go and I'll be yours and yours alone. Please, Jonathon.”
Jonathon lowered the iron and pressed it to her flesh. Her skin bubbled and smoked. The smell of seared meat filled the room. Libby thrashed and bucked. She bared a pair of inch-long fangs. Jonathon scrambled back in shock. Terror registered on the faces of the soldiers holding Libby down. She snarled, “I will never forget. I will hunt you till the end of time.”
Jonathon turned the andiron and pressed down again to form an 'X' on her chest. Libby's eyes narrowed with hatred.
“Take her down to the bay,” he ordered.
The sentries loaded Libby on a buckboard and drove her through the gates. The crowd followed on foot carrying torches and lanterns. They unloaded Libby at the beach, chained her hands behind her back, and filled her pockets with stones. They dragged her into the surf and sat her down. Waves crested over her head. In the troughs between, she screamed and cursed.
“I will come for you, all of you.” Libby denigrated every man she'd slept with by name, shouting details of their personal shortcomings, the stream of bile interrupted only when waves crashed over her head. According to Libby, a child’s thumb was bigger than Howard Leeds. And Benjamin Cooper was done before he began, and so it went. The officers remained motionless, eyes looking straight ahead as their names were called.
Some of the enlisted men turned to stare, grins on their faces as weaknesses of the officers were revealed. Some snickered. The wives took their lead from their husbands, pretending they’d heard nothing. But of course they did hear. They heard every word. And from the intimate details the Indian girl spewed, they knew it was all true. Rebecca waited for her name to be added to the list with her head tipped down and her eyes closed. She dreaded the moment the crowd would shift its attention toward her. She would be a social leper afterward.
It took an hour for the tide to come in and cover Libby completely. She never got the chance to castigate Rebecca. The crowd wandered back to the fort. Rebecca joined her husband on the seat of the buckboard and clung to his arm. They didn't speak for the rest of the night.
Rebecca assumed things would return to normal after the witch was gone, if that's what she was. However, things seemed far from normal. She supposed the past could not be unwritten, but with time, she and Jonathon would move past this. They all would.
Rebecca awoke the next morning after a fitful night of sleep. She turned for Jonathon. He was already gone. It was seven o'clock on Sunday and he hadn't had breakfast. Rebecca dressed. She stepped outside into fresh snow. The parade ground was empty. She checked the walls. No sentries marched watch. The gates stood open and the buckboard was missing. The fort was empty. Maneuvers? On a Sunday? But there were no tracks in the snow.
Leanne looked into the glowing eyes of her girls as Ellie told the story. She had them waiting on her every word. Leanne didn't know that Ellie had omitted the seduction of Rebecca Smythe for the sake of her children.
“Rebecca Smythe walked down the road to the harbor,” Ellie said. “She feared the worst. Was Libby dead? Would her body be where they’d left it?
“The tide was out when Rebecca reached the shore. Standing in formation facing the beach, up to their necks in water, were three-hundred dead soldiers, faces the whitish-blue of glacier ice. Standing at the front as if leading his troops, was their Commander, Jonathon Smythe.”
“Is that a true story?” Lisa asked, her braces glimmering in the floodlights of the parade ground.
Ellie nodded, “It's all true. Are you glad you took the tour?”
The girls jerked their heads up and down. “What happened to Rebecca?” Jenny asked.
“She returned to England carrying Jonathon's child. Years later, she returned and settled in Virginia.”
Leanne interrupted, “Okay girls, it's late and we've imposed on poor Ellie long enough. Back to the cottage. I want you ready for bed in fifteen minutes.”
The girls frowned.
“It's no imposition. I had fun,” Ellie said. The girls smiled expectantly hoping Ellie could sway their mother.
“Go,” Leanne ordered, “it's past your bedtime.”
The girls grumbled as they trudged back to the cottage. Leanne watched them until the door close. She turned back to Ellie.
“Thank you so much for the tour. That was wonderful.” Her gaze drifted to the 'V' of skin above where Ellie's blouse was buttoned, and then up to her eyes. “I noticed your scar. You like to put a little of yourself into the story, don't you? Was there really an Indian prostitute at the fort?”
Ellie brought her hand to her chest and fingered the X-shaped scar. She smiled impishly. “You caught me. Sometimes I can't help myself.”
“I guess it doesn't really matter,” Leanne said. “It was very entertaining and the girls loved it. Thanks again. Good night.” Leanne glanced at her husband. Stu was ogling Ellie like a schoolboy with a crush. She nudged him. “Say good night, Stu.”
“Good night,” he said.
Ellie returned to the reception desk while Leanne led Stu to their room.
By morning, the fire had burned itself out and the air inside the cottage had turned chilly. Leanne awoke wrapped tightly, burrito-style, inside the comforter. Sunlight brightened the room. Poor Stu must have spent the night blanket-less and shivering. She glanced over. No Stu. His side of the bed was empty. She called for him. The girls poked their heads into the doorway. “Have you seen your father?”
The girls shook their heads. Perhaps he'd gone for a jog. He could definitely afford to drop a few pounds. She showered, dressed, and packed her things.
Stu still hadn't returned and her concern shifted to fear. Where was he?
She went to the reception desk. A man with 'Robert' printed on his name tag was busy restocking a display of brochures. “Hi, I'm Leanne Brown. My family is staying in the Commandant's Cottage. You haven't by chance seen my husband Stu, have you? He's missing.”
Robert smiled meekly, his expression a mix of sympathy and helplessness. Leanne knew the answer before he spoke. “No ma'am. I haven't seen anyone.”
“How about the girl who works nights, Ellie? Could you ask her?”
> He stepped back; an incredulous look on his face. Was it too big an imposition to make a simple phone call? Her husband was missing. Didn't he get that? “Ma'am, we don't have a girl working nights, nor anyone named Ellie on staff.”
“You must be mistaken. She checked us in, and gave us a tour. She's Native American, maybe twenty-five, pretty with a scar on her chest.”
“No ma'am, nobody like that.” Robert slid behind the counter and typed something into the computer. “Did you say your name was Brown?”
“Yes.”
“We show a reservation for Brown. You reserved the Commandant's Cottage for last night, but never checked in.”
“It's wrong. It's got to be.”
“I'm sorry ma'am. Do you want me to call the police?”
Leanne nodded. A dreadful thought occurred to her. She didn't want to acknowledge it was a possibility, yet something told her to check. She left Robert punching numbers into the phone and pushed open the door. She stood in the cold of the parking lot to get her bearings. At the end of the lot, she found a trail leading down to the beach. She hoped she was wrong.
The Comfort Shack Tidbits
I have always been fascinated by the way the past ripples into the present. How atrocities from centuries ago boil over into war despite generation s of peace. It‘s as if echoes of evil can never be silenced. The horror is that it’s so often true, as witnessed by the genocide in Serbia and Rowanda.
I wanted this story to have that unstoppable, Carrie White’s hand thrusting up from the grave feeling. The Comfort Shack originally appeared in the Pill Hill Press anthology Fem Fangs. The theme for the anthology was strong female vampire characters. I took it a step further and made all the female characters in this story strong.
At first I wasn’t interested in writing a vampire story. The call came too close on the heels of another vampire story I’d written, and I thought I was vampired out. Then I saw the cover artwork and knew I had to get a story into that anthology. It had the distinctive look of Alberto Vargas, and was reminiscent of racy detective and men’s magazines from the forties and fifties.
About the Author
Mark Souza lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, two children, and mongrel beast-dog, Tater. When he’s not writing, he’s out among you trying to look and act normal (whatever that is), reminding himself that the monsters he’s created are all in his head, no more real than campaign promises.
Upcoming Titles
My novel Robyn’s Egg will be released in the spring of 2012
A collection of my short stories, Try 2 Stop Me, will be released in September of 2012
Other FREE short stories coming soon:
Cupid’s Maze
Murphy’s Law
Appliances Included
The Diary of Horatio White
Second Honeymoon
Connect With Me Online:
My Website: http://www.marksouza.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/souzawrites
Second Honeymoon Excerpt
By Mark Souza
Jack Duncan grumbled as he cinched his robe. The knocks at his door as people stopped to offer condolences were becoming tedious. A stream of familiar faces had filed into his home to deliver an awkward moment and a story about how wonderful a woman Marianne had been, and to comment on how she’d be missed. He’d had his fill of pity and Marianne stories by the end of the first day. Privacy is what he wanted most – that and the insurance payout.
A stranger stood at the door smiling. The man looked unremarkable: average height, middle aged with a slight paunch, meaty face, curly salt and pepper hair. He wore a navy suit, red tie, well shined black shoes, and carried a matching briefcase. He looked like a salesman.
After opening the door a crack, Jack asked, “Do I know you?”
The man’s dimples deepened. “Mr. Duncan, I’m Tova Burke with Gemini Insurance. I’m visiting to discuss your wife’s policy with us. May we speak?”
Jack noticed the blue panel van at the curb with GEMINI painted across the side in large gold letters. He glanced inside his house then at Burke. “Can I get dressed first?”
“Of course.”
Jack closed the door just as Burke started to raise a finger. Perhaps it was a precursor to the question, “May I wait inside?” Better to just shut the door in the man’s face than have to answer no and appear even ruder. He rushed to the master bedroom at the back of the house. While he pulled clothes from the dresser, he admired the form in his bed. Half covered by a sheet, Abby Meacham lay sprawled out spread-eagle taking up most of the king-size mattress. Her hair sprayed a flaxen arc across the pillow. Her proud buttocks pressed high against 700-thread-count, Egyptian cotton. And what a magnificent backside it was. A tiny grin played on Jack’s lips before he lightly smacked Abby’s rear. She jerked and moaned.
“Get up sleepy head,” Jack said, “The insurance man is here.”
“Wha’?”
“No time for questions, darling. It’s payday. It won’t look good if he finds you here. You need to skidaddle.”
Abby sat up and stretched. “What time is it?”
“Just get dressed. We can talk later.” Jack pulled on a pair of jeans and buttoned them closed. He topped his ensemble off with a polo shirt.
“You’re getting your money – so soon?”
“Maybe.” Jack found Abby’s clothes in a heap on the far side of the bed and tossed them in her lap. “I need you out of here before I let him in. Slip out the back and either hide in the garage, or use the back alley to walk home.”
“I don’t like all this sneaking around,” Abby said as she slipped into her clothes.
“Don’t worry. Once I cash the check and sell this dump, we can go somewhere nice and start over. No more sneaking around. I promise.”
“Vegas?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Jack waited until he heard the soft click of the back door before he ushered in the insurance agent. His time on the front porch had wilted Burke’s dimples. Burke took a seat on the couch and left enough room for Jack to join him. He set his briefcase down on the coffee table and released the latches. From it, he pulled a stack of documents and placed them down.
“I’m so sorry to hear of your loss. What happened, if I might be so bold?”
“No, it’s okay,” Jack said. The story, his subdued tone, stern expression, clenched teeth; all affectations he’d rehearsed and mastered well before Marianne’s death. It all had to be right each time he told it, whether to first responders, the police, friends, relatives, or now to the insurance adjuster. He couldn’t afford to get it wrong and raise suspicions.
“We were camping. She went down to the river for a dip while I set up camp. The current was strong. I warned her, but she thought she was up to it. Search and Rescue found her body a quarter mile downstream pinned under a tree.”
“Tragic, truly tragic,” Burke said. Burke’s expression mimicked the sorrow Jack had worked so hard to perfect. Jack wondered if Burke, too, had rehearsed. He must have. It was practically a requirement of his job.
“Perhaps I can brighten your day just a little,” Burke said.
“You have a check for me?”
Burke stiffened and his mouth hung open. Jack could tell he had caught him off guard. Perhaps the question was a bit crass and a bit callous.
“Check?” Burke sputtered, “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding. There is no check.”
At first what Burke said didn’t register. Then the words no check burned into Jack’s consciousness like molten lead. “Excuse me for being so blunt, Mr. Burke, but I’ve been through a lot over the last few weeks. The misunderstanding is on your end, I assure you. I bought life insurance through your company covering both me and my wife. It pays out two-million dollars should one of us die. I know because we both signed it, and I’m the one who wrote the premium checks to your company every month.”
Burke frantically shuffled through the pile of docum
ents. “Your wife changed the terms of the policy. Here it is.” Burke handed Jack a page from the pile. “She opted for our clone option instead of a cash payout. See, that’s her signature and it’s dated just weeks before her death.”
Jack took the page Burke offered. The writing was Marianne’s. He felt the way he had the first time he’d been punched in the face: dazed, unable to react, defenseless, his brain locked in a numb tingle.
“A clone?” he finally sputtered.
Burke responded to Jack’s shock with concern. “You didn’t know? It’s a beautiful gesture, really. No amount of money can replace a loved one, don’t you agree?.”
“That’s not legal, is it, one spouse changing the terms of a policy without consulting the other?”
“It is. See, she only changed the terms with regard to the payout on herself. The terms covering you are unchanged, two-million dollars. No, if she had tried to change the terms regarding your coverage, it wouldn’t have been permitted. It sets up a situation that might create incentive for one spouse to take rather lamentable actions against the other, if you know what I mean.”
“Is she…,” Jack hesitated. He fumbled to straighten his thoughts before locking his eyes on Burke’s. “You have to understand, I never thought I’d see her again. This is a bit overwhelming.”
Burke nodded. “I understand. Gemini realizes the magnitude of this kind of event. That’s the reason for my visit. I have training as a counselor to help with the transition.”
Jack gazed at the wall as if he could see through it all the way to the street. “Is she in your van?”
Burke’s face broke into an understanding grin. “No, no, that would be a bit much for one day, don’t you think? We’ll drop her by tomorrow. That’ll give you a little time to adjust.”