by Sara Clancy
The image of Maxwell with spiders burrowing out of his flesh.
Not Maxwell, he told himself. It just made itself look like him. Maxwell is fine. Spiders don’t do that.
Images of twisting, hairy spider legs flashed across his mind. Bile burnt the back of his throat as his stomach roiled. The helicopter rotated at the same moment. Sunlight found the box again, glinting off it to create a blinding glare that jerked him from his spiraling thoughts.
Instinctively, his fingers tightened around the box until his bones hurt. He began to slowly twist the cube back and forth, letting the sunlight dance off the polished sides. His brow furrowed when he noticed that the constantly moving puzzle pieces never pinched his fingers. A small quiver rattled the innards.
Was the demon I saw the same as what’s trapped inside this thing?
Ice entered his stomach as another question tore its way into the forefront of his mind. It’s ‘trapped,’ but it can do that. What else can it do?
What scared him was the possibility that, at some point, it could have all been real. Physically real. That he could have touched that grotesque sight. That it could have touched me. With a visible flinch, he forced his gaze back to the sea of foliage, desperate for some distraction.
There’s so much of it. The woods stretched out to the horizon in every direction. A thick blanket disrupted only by the deep grooves left by passing streams. Without warning, the dense trees gave way to farmlands. Fields of crops and cattle zipped by within an instant, and they were left hovering over the small township of Black River.
The thick stream the place was named after divided the town in two. Even from above, the conscious effort to keep the town’s rustic aesthetic was evident. The few undeniably modern buildings scattered about tried their best to camouflage themselves amongst the antique architecture. An old chapel still held the place of pride atop the only distinctive hill in the area. Made of black wood and spearing the sky with a single steeple, it was the largest building in the whole town.
Ozzie’s pilot had to circle the area twice before he found the small patch of land subbing for an airport. Black River didn’t have a real airport. What they had was the local sporting ground that hadn’t had anything else going on that day, and was grateful for the large donation. Lush green and well-tended, the short grass whipped violently as they landed. With Percival settling things with the landowners, and his parents handling the final matters with the pilot, there was nothing for Ozzie to do but get out and study the alien surroundings.
Black River wasn’t like anything he had ever seen. While his parents liked to travel, it had always been to places like Italy, Rome, Las Vegas, or the Bahamas. Places designed to meet their needs and entertain them with an endless array of wonders. This place, while having a quaint charm, was about as far away from his norm as he could imagine. It left him feeling both larger than life and insignificantly tiny at the same time.
With a sudden rush of clarity, Ozzie realized he was completely out of his depth.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even been camping! They’re all going to know I’m useless. I’m going to get everyone killed.
Ozzie turned, instinct demanding he get back onto the helicopter and get out. A lump of pure dread crystalized in his stomach as he was left to watch the helicopter rise into the clear sky.
“Where’s the car?” Ethan asked over the sound of the chopper’s blades, then caught sight of his son.
Concern wrinkled his brow as he studied Ozzie’s face. He didn’t say anything, though, just placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
The harsh wind died and the retreating engine left them to the mercy of the early morning silence that lingered over the town. Time seemed to hover, broken only by a breath of wind that made the distant leaves whisper. Ozzie shivered and inched closer to his father.
Percival stalked over, casually adjusting his overcoat. “What was that?”
“The car?” Ha-Yun prompted.
“I didn’t hire one,” Percival replied. Noticing the looks of his companions, he added, “Black River doesn’t have the infrastructure to handle the influx of the four families. Not to mention the tourist season. It’s just quicker to walk.”
Ozzie hurried to fall in step alongside the much taller man. Can’t wait for my dang growth spurt. The passing thought caught him off guard. It was strange to think that, even while his brain was breaking under the weight of the new information, there was still enough room left for his regular self to slip through. In a strange way, he found it rather comforting. It was a small bit of normalcy that he desperately clung to.
“This place has a tourist season?” Ozzie asked.
The short look Percival threw him made him stammer.
“I’m not saying your hometown isn’t pretty. It’s nice. I’m sure there’s a crowd who would love to come out this way. I hear a lot of people like to travel to see the leaves change color. I mean, that’s,” he paused as he winced. We’ve talked about this Ozzie. If you don’t know how you’re going to end a sentence, don’t start it. “A thing,” he stammered.
Percival’s tense expression was softened by a smile he fought to smother. “I wasn’t born here, Oz. Even if I was, I’d still hate this place.”
“Oh. Then, what’s up with…” Again, he didn’t have a way to end it, so he swirled a finger out to indicate Percival’s vanishing smile.
“As a Sewall, it’s our duty to hate the tourist trade here.”
“Why?”
“No one’s coming here to see the autumn aesthetics, Ozzie.”
It still wasn’t clicking in Ozzie’s head, and he glanced back to his father for some help. Ethan fell into step on Percival’s other side and asked the question.
“Then what’s the real reason?”
Percival kept his gaze locked straight ahead. “The Witch.”
Ozzie longed to be able to meet his parent’s eyes and see if they were just as confused as he was. Unfortunately, he also didn’t want to be so obvious about it as to jog forward and peer around his godfather, so he was stuck doing nothing but shifting his fingers over the box.
“People come to see Katrina?” Ha-Yun asked.
Percival paused mid-stride. Instantly, he had everyone’s unwavering attention.
“Don’t call her by name. Not around here.”
Ha-Yun’s eyes widened and she leaned closer to whisper, “Does it heighten her powers?”
“No,” he snorted. “She’s essentially a serial killer who’s specifically preyed on our families for close to two centuries. Hearing her name, well, for the people you’re about to meet, it’ll be like moseying into Waterloo and bringing up John Wayne Gacy.”
“But she’s a tourist attraction?” Ethan asked.
“Her legend is,” he replied, evidently bitter. He started walking again. “In and of itself, her life wasn’t much to write home about. The whole world is full of psychopaths systematically ruining random people’s lives. After death, however, The Bell Witch became one of the most documented cases of poltergeist activity in the world. To this day, there’s barely a case that measures up to the number of eyewitness accounts, collected evidence, and spirit photography.”
“They had cameras back then?” Ozzie asked.
Percival was so caught off guard by the question that he forgot to cover his laugh.
“What? No, they didn’t. But people came out here after cameras were invented. They still come out here. I−” He choked on his own words and shook his head. “How is this confusing you?”
Ozzie shrugged, keeping his mouth shut. Eventually, Percival went back to what he had been saying.
“She’s also a witch. Some folks are into that kind of thing. That interest has allowed Black River to build a tourism industry somewhat like Salem. Or the Amityville Horror house, depending on who you talk to. Some come for the tragic history while others just want to see a ghost.”
It didn’t take long for t
he group to be confronted with numerous examples of what Percival was talking about. Halloween had invaded the town. Old fashioned decorations clustered around the buildings and lined the streets. None of them were the flashy, plastic things Ozzie was used to. Draped sheets fluttered in the crisp morning air, looking like formless ghosts. Scarecrows released small creaks and groans as they swayed on their spikes. The bulbous sides of fat Jack ‘o’ lanterns distorted their frozen grins into sinister smirks. But it was the witches amongst them that sent stray shivers down Ozzie’s spine. They clung to the lampposts, filled the windows, and dangled from the skeletal arms of the trees.
Ozzie protectively cradled the box to his stomach as they continued down the street. The further they went, the more evidence he found of the town embracing their home-grown urban legend.
It seemed every street corner had a folding board advertising a different ghost tour or Witch Wood’s hike. Most of the businesses they passed were a play on puns or direct references, most notably the distance café called Witch’s Brew. The lampposts had originally been fashioned to look like the old gas burning kind. At some point, someone must have suggested that changing their tops into pointed black witch hats would be hilarious. Even the town’s library had a few cackling, black hatted crones pushed up on their windows.
Black River wasn’t a town that opened up their Main Street early. Most of the businesses remained closed and dark as they made a beeline to the Witch’s Brew. The welcome sign was still switched to ‘closed,’ but the door wasn’t locked, and Percival didn’t hesitate to push his way through.
Nighttime shadows lingered within the café. Chairs were stacked upon the rounded tables and, every now and then, Ozzie caught the sterile scent of floor cleaner. A small silver bell affixed above the door announced their arrival. It didn’t take more than that soft tinkle to have the unseen back doors slam open.
An instant later, the swinging door behind the counter opened to unleash a flood of people. Their chatter filled the space like an approaching storm. In seconds, they were surrounded. Everyone was talking at once. Introductions came hard and fast until Ozzie couldn’t recall a single person. All he knew was they were all Sewalls. My relatives. It was overwhelming. Crammed into this room alone were more relatives than he had ever had with both of his parent’s families combined.
Swept up in the retreating tide, they were ushered around the corner and out the back door. Working together in a whirlwind of limbs and well wishes, they bundled him through the kitchen and out the back door. Somewhere along the line, he was handed a glass of lemonade and a plate piled high with chicken fresh off the grill.
The sudden shift in both mood and location left Ozzie stunned. He found himself constantly looking back over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been transported somewhere.
We were just on Mainstreet.
He was sure of that. And the building itself wasn’t too large. Crossing its innards wouldn’t have brought them back out to the woods. It seemed he was standing in someone’s rural backyard.
It was spacious, with the curve of the road behind them mirroring the bend in the river. A flat patch of earth separated the back of the building from the riverbed, with enough room to comfortably fit a bonfire and numerous large tables. Strings of lights hung in scalloped rows from tree branches that were heavy with bright foliage. They dangled loosely, offering a rather useless glow that couldn’t compete with the early morning sunlight.
There were more leaves on the ground than trees to account for them. They created a thick and squishy mulch blanket.
The Black River lived up to its name even while drenched in sunlight. It was impossible to judge its depth. Here and there, the glassy surface broke against a stone, giving the appearance the stream couldn’t be more than a few inches deep. At other points, the still, dark waters seemed bottomless. It lay like a sheet of polished oil stretching out for about thirty feet before giving way to the woods. A heavy stone, covered in orange moss and evergreens, jutted out toward them from the far side. Ozzie hated the sight of it.
The people who had welcomed them soon bled into the swirling crowd. It looked as if they had just walked in on a celebration. Tired but happy faces. Drinks still flowing from the night before.
Ozzie clutched his music box tight, jabbing it against his stomach and twisting his wrists into painful angles in an attempt to cover it as much as possible.
Was this all a prank?
Before him was an ocean of happy faces. Laughter and the scent of barbeque hung heavy in the air while children ran about in giggling swarms. Confronted with all of this, it was hard to think it was anything but a sick joke. Ozzie desperately tried to pinpoint which of his more ridiculous but organized friends could pull something like this off.
“What is this?” Ethan demanded, his voice sharp but his volume low.
“This is my family. I told you they’d all be here waiting.”
“They’re having a party?” Ha-Yun asked.
Percival tipped his head to the side. He seemed to find that more dignified than a shrug. “Wouldn’t you?”
“If everything you’ve told us is true,” she stressed, “then all of these people know someone could die.”
“And they know, at least this year, it’s not them.”
Ethan stammered. “So they celebrate? That’s sick.”
“What would you have us do? Ensure the last few hours the Selected gets to spend with their family is full of dread and tears? To send them off into hell with the knowledge that no one expects them to return? That’s sick, my friend. We make sure they have a few more happy memories to cling to when things get bad. This isn’t supposed to be a funeral. It’s a celebration of life and displaying absolute confidence the Selected will make it through.”
“Still.” Ha-Yun shivered and inched closer to Ozzie. “Don’t you see this as a little twisted?”
No one had expected Percival to laugh at that. “My family has had this curse hanging over them for generations. And we’re still here. Broken. Defiant. Flourishing. And sane. A huge part of the reason for that is that we embrace life. We celebrate it. Especially when things are bad.”
Ha-Yun opened her mouth, but Percival quickly cut her off.
“When your family has been cursed for centuries, you can decide how you handle it. This is a Sewall matter. And you’re not a Sewall.”
A delighted squeal announced the arrival of a woman an instant before she threw herself into Percival’s arms. After a tight hug, the questions started to flow, quick and random. She barely had confirmation this was, in fact, ‘the’ Osgood before she was asking about kitchen renovations and the state of affairs in Washington. Every so often, she would bounce back to Ozzie. But she never lingered. The moment her straying eyes fell upon the cube Ozzie kept tightly gripped in his arms, she would jerk away and force a smile.
“Don’t take it personally,” Percival whispered to him as the woman retreated, checking once again to make sure they weren’t following her. “Some find it harder than others to deal with the reminders.”
Ozzie swallowed thickly. Everything he wanted to say got trapped in his throat when he noticed the pain that quickly crossed his godfather’s face.
“So, the hair loss situation is a family thing, huh?” Ozzie asked with as much playfulness as he could muster.
A loud bark of laughter escaped the older man. Ozzie wasn’t ready for the pat on the back Percival gave him and lurched forward with the contact.
“Sorry. It’s in the genetics.”
“Great.”
“Hey, a lot of people think it looks dignified.”
Ozzie had just straightened himself again when another person knocked him from behind. This time, the box almost slipped from his hands. His heart lurched as he struggled to keep his fingers around the smooth surface.
“Basheba, sweetie, aren’t you still underage?”
Ozzie jerked straight again. The speaker held no interest for him. Every ounce of attenti
on he was capable of latched instantly onto the girl in front of him. Having pushed past him, Basheba had intercepted the beer an older man had brought for Percival. Condensation trickled from the beer bottle to clean thin trails on her mud-streaked skin. She didn’t pause in guzzling down the amber liquid, only lifting one finger to keep the questioning man at bay for a little while. It allowed Ozzie a few moments to try to get his thoughts in line. Despite his effort, the first thing that popped into his head was, she’s tiny.
She was at least two feet shorter than him. Her face had grown a little plumper than it had been in the photograph, and her legs were a little too long to be called stocky. The flannel shirt she wore was basically a dress. It hung limply over the miniscule frame, torn, muddy, and stained with blood. Leaves clung to the knot of hair bundled on the crown of her head. The layer of dirt wasn’t enough to dull the golden sheen, though. Only after she had swallowed the last drop did she suck in a deep breath and address the man.
“Why, yes, Lucius, I am,” she said, her voice as sweet as honeysuckle. “Do you have another?”
“I don’t think your uncle would like that,” Lucius replied.
Basheba smiled. A pretty expression on a pretty little face. But there wasn’t even a hint of warmth to it.
“And, of course, his happiness is the sole focus of my existence.”
Lucius opened his mouth, closed it, and turned to Percival for help. A single nod was all it took to send the man scurrying back toward the picnic tables. Basheba watched him go, her expression unchanging but ice forming within her gaze.
“How are you, Basheba?” Percival asked it like it was completely natural for her to show up in such a state.
Apparently, that was the correct move, because her mood instantly shifted. She looked like the living embodiment of a spring day as she said, “The Witch is a bitch.”
Percival snapped his fingers, “I’ve had my suspicions for years.”