The bathwater was scalding as it closed around Maria’s legs. This time she hadn’t protested Mother’s demands. She stripped and stepped in without uttering a word.

As she lathered soap on her flesh, she could almost taste Kane’s lurking presence as he paced around the edge of the wide, circular room. She wanted to look over at him, to make sure he was holding up his end of the bargain, but to look would be to warn Mother, and all of this hinged on getting past her.

“The key is under the globe,” Kane had said with a dark chuckle.

“And you will do it?”

“Sure, I like the idea of fucking the old bat over, and if anyone’s got the balls to pull this off… Well, that’d be you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rest of these fuckers cowered when Dennis took ‘em, but you, you kicked the bastard in the face, and then tried it again with that damn ritual. Yeah, I’d say you’ve got cojones, smarts? maybe not, but no one’ll deny you’ve got stones.”

He stood, preparing to leave her room. Pausing at the door he had said, “We’ll play it your way. For now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to off you next time.”

He gave her a devil’s smile and walked through the wall. Maria knew then and there that the man – ghost – was not lying. Kane would kill her, without a moment’s hesitation, but at least he was honest about it.

Better the devil you know, Maria thought, lying back in the bath. Hot water swirled around her body, scented with lavender and sage. The smells were almost intoxicating, soothing her nerves and muscles alike.

Mother hadn’t spoken since Maria entered, she hadn’t needed to. That was more than alright with Maria, she had no intentions of poking the beast. She stretched in the hot water and continued lathering. Downstairs, she could hear Dennis pacing relentlessly, a nervous scuffing accompanying each step. Something still seemed off with him. He was edgy, cold. He had seemed that way since Mother took his body for the ritual, he acted violated, like he had a relentlessly sour taste in his mouth. He was curt when he fetched her, pushing her into the library/bath chamber with surprising, almost violent force. Without a word, he left her, with only the corpse to keep her company.

Soon the scuffing footsteps blurred into the other constant noises of the house. The gurgle of ancient pipes, the scurrying of unseen mice, and the constant growl of the generator. As the presence downstairs faded, Maria felt an overbearing presence of loneliness. A woman and a corpse, one bathed in a tub, the other sat in a wheelchair, but otherwise the room was barren, even Kane dared not set foot in Mother’s sacred space. The living and the dead, two souls.

Maria chanced a glance at Mother, running her eyes over the sagging, rotted flesh. The soul still clung to the decayed trappings of life, but Maria could see no signs of life. There were no telltale traces of anything resembling movement or breath, no signs of humanity clinging to Mother’s remains.

Is she asleep? Maria wondered, questioning if her window had just opened.

She chanced a glance to Kane who stopped his pacing and gave her a quick shake his head. Mother was still awake.

Maria returned to her task of washing, allowing her the chance to savor the warmth, to relax her aching muscles, even unclenching her hollow stomach. Kane watched for a fleeting instant before returning to his own nervous pacing. His ethereal stomping footsteps matched pace with Dennis’s pounding boots, creating a strange mimic that filled Maria with an otherworldly dread. She wished Kane would go away and allow her this temporary moment of peace, but she needed him to stay.

The pacing continued, relentless. Mother watched with hollow eyes and the world’s best poker face. The steady trickle of time seemed to slow, grinding to a reluctant drip. Maria felt the dead weight of her eyelids growing, an overwhelming tiredness coming over her. The wait for Mother’s slumber was fast becoming a battle against her own aches, her own sleeplessness.

Was this Mother’s plan all along?

Her head began to bob, her mind began to drift, caught up in an unconscious current. She began to ride the ebb and flow of time, eddying currents of memory whisking her away to places she had buried long ago.

She was screaming at Brian, or she had been. They stood in the living room of their two-bedroom apartment, she was on the attack, spewing fire and brimstone, accusation and speculation, but he would not meet her eye. She wanted to – needed to – know where he was going that night. He had left her alone so many nights, and she never had thought anything of it before. But one telling, and accidental phone call with Brian’s boss had transformed all his “late nights at the office” into wide open holes in his schedule. “Business trips to North Carolina” became fiction, and the ring around her finger grew weighted with doubt and disbelief. She had started screaming, he hadn’t said a word.

Brian hung his head with tears in his eyes and took the punishment. He listened to each searing word but returned nothing in defense or offense. It was his penance, his contrition. It was bullshit. She threw a plate and watched it shatter against the walls that they had just repainted, sharp daggers of china sprayed across their kitchen, skittering across the linoleum floor. Shaking her head in a mixture of disgust and frustration, she stormed out the door in a white-hot rage.

The last words he said to her were, “I love you.”

The last words she threw back were, “Go fuck yourself.”

The door slammed and she climbed into her car. She drove. She rolled down her windows to let the cold midnight air blast against her cheeks, drying the frigid tears that rolled down her flushed flesh, but nothing could soothe the inferno. She still loved him, underneath the raging turmoil the conflict the self-doubt, she still loved him.

“Fuck!” she screamed to the uncaring night’s sky, her voice carrying out the window and loosing itself upon the wind.

Halfway down I-25 to Denver she dialed Mercy. A familiar voice picked up on the other end, slogging through the hazy clouds of sleep. Maria unloaded, pouring out an onslaught of emotions, but her friend sounded distant, removed. Tired.

After twenty minutes of Maria howling over the speaker, Mercy said, “Then dump his lame ass! You deserve better.”

There was wisdom in the words. Maria heard the logic, and agreed. Maybe, reconciliation was possible, maybe. Right then and there, Maria only wanted to see his hurt, to make him hurt the way she hurt. Rage festered into vengeance.

She tore through the emergency vehicle exit, ignoring signs boldly plastered with DO NOT ENTER. Dust kicked up behind her wheels, her tires skidding on the dirt median. Soon, she was heading north again, back to their house, back to tell him it was over, back to tell him how bad he fucked up.

She never got to.

“Hey,” Kane hissed, cutting into her meandering memories of hurt and agony.

Maria’s head shot up from its perch on her chest, her eyes wakeful. She looked over, locking eyes with the phantom. She had drifted off, collapsing into her subconscious and floating in the alternatingly comforting and torturing arms of sleep. She had slept and Kane hadn’t drowned her! It was progress, to say the least.

“She’s asleep, move!” he grumbled in a hoarse voice.

Maria looked to Mother, her motionless corpse, but the spirit is what moved. The spirit is what worried her. Any second the floating void that held Mother’s soul could awaken, any second and Maria’s entire plan could be blown to smithereens. Any second.

Move, she thought and lifted herself from the swirling, soapy waters. Still, she hesitated, looking to Kane for some form of reassurance. Anything.

”Hurry,” Kane huffed, throwing up his hands. Despite his exasperation, his eyes never wavered from the motionless specter of death, not once.

Maria slid from the tub, wincing at the sloshing of the waters with each movement. She reached for the towel but hesitated. A wet towel would be a clue, a sign that she had snuck away. As would a soaking wet trail of footprints. She had to decide, and she had to decide quickly.

A towel could be explained, a trail could not. She snatched the towel and dried off, quickly. Wrapping the comforting cushion of fabric around herself, she padded barefoot across the room. The polished floor was slick underfoot, and the frigid air chilled her skin, each droplet feeling like an icy pinprick on her shivering flesh.

Maria held her breath, wishing that she could – at the very least – hear the steady breathing of Mother’s slumber, or see the constant rise and fall of the corpse’s chest, anything to confirm that the wicked woman still slept. But all she had to rely on was Kane, the man who had tried to drown her, and seemed to take great pleasure in informing her of his plans of executing her in her sleep.

She passed the first bookshelf, her eyes locked on the voluminous, leather-bound tome sitting on a small corner-desk across the room. It was the same volume she had seen during the ritual, weathered and emblazoned with the strange sigil that still sent shivers down her spine. She resisted the temptation to race across the room and tear open the book, to pour over its contents and delve for the answers she craved.

She tore her gaze away. Reminding herself, That will come later, as long as you get that key.

Maria tiptoed towards the antique globe nestled between two of the overflowing shelves. The surface of the world was etched out on yellowed ivory, mounted to a wooden stand by gleaming brass brackets.

The key is under the globe, Maria repeated in her mind, repeating it as a sort of mantra. For a fleeting moment she wondered if Kane was having her on, like a predator playing with its food before the inevitable kill. She wondered if she turned to look at him, would she see the salivating grin of a hyena?

She forced the dour thought from her mind and padded towards the globe. She winced with each creak and every moan elicited from the floorboards, while the room itself was immaculate, the struts beneath the floor shared the decay of the house, sagging and creaking with each subtle movement. The room was a façade, a mirage of repair in the midst of decay.

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the corpse move. She froze, her panicked doe-eyes flashing back to Kane. He chanced a glance at her, shooting a wicked glare and waving her on. Time was growing short, Mother was growing restless, nearing the brink of waking, any second disaster could strike.

She had to move.

Maria padded faster across the icy wooden planks, finally reaching the antique globe. Kneeling, she lifted the base.

The ivory mass was heavy, the weight straining her tired muscles, weakened from lack of food and sheer fatigue. For an instant, Maria could not help but wonder if Mercy or her parents would even recognize her when she escaped.

If you escape, she reminded herself, lifting with all of her might. A creaking moan came from the floor as the edge of the globe lifted, her heart leaping.

She snaked a hand underneath the wide base, her fingers dancing out of sight. She fumbled blind, searching desperately for the key. She couldn’t find a thing! Again, she began to wonder if this was all a sick prank, if Kane was toying with her, or if Mother was using him as part of one of her terrible, twisted ploys.

She felt metal.

Rough and twisted, the rusted ring slid out from under the base, clutched in her trembling hand. Holding onto the keys, she lowered the glove into place.

She retraced her steps, cautious to keep the keys from touching on the ancient ring. One jangle of metal was all it would take. With one little jingle, Mother could snap awake, and what then?

What they’ve got planned for you… Well, that’s worse, she heard Kane say. They don’t want you dead, they want you broken. They want you, y’hear?

She reached her discarded pile of clothes, fumbling for her pants. Turning them right-side out, she slid the key into her pocket, hoping that Mother wouldn’t notice the change, the minute, yet altered detail to the scene. But it was too late to go back.

With gentle care, she lowered herself into the cooling waters, laying back again. She chanced a final look to Kane. He seemed pleased, a wicked grin spreading across his face, a triumphant ‘fuck you’ to the jailors of the Phillips Mortuary and Crematorium. He shot her a quick nod, and vanished into thin air, as if he had never been there at all.

Steeling herself, Maria took a deep breath and spoke: “I’m finished.”

There was a sudden chill, a featureless cold that filled the room as Mother returned from the void. Maria could feel the chance, she could feel the waking presence even before she heard the words, “So you have.”

“May I ask you a question?” Maria asked.

“You may,” replied a coy, almost playful voice.

“What did you do to me? That night with the book?”

“Why, I prepared you, girl. I prepared you as a living sacrifice to the Gods. Or, more accurately, I began to prepare you. There is still so much work to do.”

Maria could feel nonexistent fingers sliding through her damp hair, she could feel the bony chill running down her spine as the ghost brushed her hair as a mother combs a daughter’s.

“But when I finished,” the disembodied voice continued, “you will be beautiful. Perhaps perfect.”

“What… what for?” Maria asked, her voice choking.

“For me,” came the chilling reply. “Now, go to your room. I am finished with you tonight. Tomorrow, you will bathe. Sleep until then, Dennis will lock your door in a few minutes.”

“May I eat?” Maria asked, allowing a tremor of pleading to enter her tone. Mother was the type who liked to be begged, who liked to have the power.

A chuckle pierced the air, followed by, “No. You must fast, but you will eat soon, girl. Now, go.”

Maria felt the presence leave, the room reverting to its usual chill, but Maria dared not count that Mother had truly gone. She knew the old woman was a trickster, she knew that the specter could be waiting just out of reach, waiting for Maria to pull some kind of funny business. But this time Maria had pulled the trick. She had discovered that there would be no ritual, not tonight. Tonight she would use her newfound prize.

She just had to play it cool until then.

#

The sun was drooping low in the sky, kissing the crests of the distant Rocky Mountains, when Maria sprung from her cot. Dennis had locked the door hours before, but hadn’t entered. She listened to his heavy steps pad away and forced herself to remain patient, to play the part of the defeated prisoner. The last thing she needed was for her captors to realize that they had a coiled viper caught in their trap. No, she would play the part of the timid cub before unleashing the corrosive venom that lurked within.

First she kneeled at the loose floorboard, prying up one end. As she peeled up the plank, she prayed that she hadn’t been discovered. Closing her eyes, she calmed herself before moving the wood aside.

Inside her treasure awaited her. A smile cracked her somber expression as she extracted the tarot card and the loose leafs of paper.

She then lay her new find atop her small cache, smiling at the sight of the key and the pages. Her hovering hand moved, snatching up the only entry she hadn’t yet poured over. The page was weathered and scrawled in a deep brown in part of Maria knew to be blood. The handwriting was cleaner than the journal entry, the looping letters flowing together with a steady, masculine touch. The I’s were topped with solid dots and the T’s were crossed with short, perfunctory bars. It looked like the hand of a football jock, the kind of guy she went to high school with who had letter jackets, sneering eyes, and perfect hair, the kind of guys who never gave her a second glance until college. It was hard for Maria to picture one of those broad shouldered behemoths sitting prisoner in this very room, scrawling out messages in his own blood and praying for release, but Josh Turner had done just that.

She read:

I can’t believe I’m trying this, it is madness, but I’m running out of ideas. Mamma would call it blasphemy, unholy, wicked, and I suppose it is. I’ll probably burn for trying the Devil’s work, but I’ve run out of prayers, and the angels haven’t come for me.

I snuck out of my room last night, through a hole in the wall. Splinters stabbed into my arms, but I couldn’t bring myself to care, at least this pain was real, at least this pain was self-inflicted, not coming from the fucking doll! I couldn’t help but wonder why they never bothered patching the hole, but I suppose that the woman’s got other things to worry about, her son, for starters.

I got into her library, and I got a good, long look at that devil book. Grimoire, I’m pretty sure that’s what she calls it. For a moment, I considered lugging the whole damn book out with me, but I knew better. She’d miss that book in a heartbeat, and then I’d be up shit creek. So instead of nicking it, I memorized it. Papa would roll over in his grave to know I have a knack for something other than counting cards!

The son’s ghost is moaning in the other room. I think he knows he’s dead, and I think he’s afraid that he’s not going to wake up. There are others too, roaming around the house, moaning in the night, but I can’t see them as well. I think one of them is a kid, and the other’s a girl. I think she’s a little bit younger than me, but I can’t say for certain.

I need to get this down before I forget:

Here’s the kicker, I need free time. The book said an hour, uninterrupted, but I don’t even know when I have a minute. The crazy bitch checks in on me at all hours, and the boy’s ghost walks though the damn walls! I think he’s lonely, but I really don’t give a shit. Still, beggars cannot be choosers, so I’ll make do.

Next up, I have to perform the Qabalistic Cross, and pray to my ‘guardian spirit.’ I ain’t sure what the hell to pray about, or who my spirit is, but at least I know the cross. It is as follows:

Touch forehead, then gut, right shoulder, left shoulder, and end the maneuver standing like Jesus Christ pinned to the Cross. That simple. I suppose I’m supposed to imagine a ‘all-consuming white light’ around me, but I’m not sure what the fuck that means, so I’ll skip it.

After the Cross, you study the card. I picked the thing at random and got the Fool. I guess it’s accurate enough, after all, I’m a goddamn fool to be stuck in this mess in the first place. Christ, why did I ever think a smoking doll like her would want a guy like me? (Of course, she was a smoking – albeit a little old – doll BEFORE she turned in to a psychotic cunt, but you can’t win them all)

Her ritual book says to ‘sink into the abstract ideal of the card.’ Once again, what the hell does that mean? Stripping out the mumbo jumbo bullshit, I’m guessing that it means to figure out what this hunk of cardboard means to me, then fixate on it.

I feel like a moron even writing this, but remember: If it gets you out of this, it’s worth it!

Here’s the hard part. Remember: This is where the visions start. Give in, DO NOT RESIST.

If all goes according to plan, I’ll be walking through walls, just like them…

Those fuckers won’t even see me coming!

Maria read with rapt attention, she could not help but feel a welling mistrust. Something about Josh’s words seemed wrong, fabricated. Still, as he had eloquently pointed out: beggars cannot be choosers. It was worth a try, even if she felt like a moron doing it.

She was about to set the page aside when she noticed the postscript, small letters in the very bottom corner, an afterthought. She read, and was unable to contain a quiet laugh.

P.S. Don’t forget to come back!

She timidly crossed herself, Catholic rather than Qabalah, and picked up the card.

The bug-eyed fool stared back at her, spread eagle in a field of gold. What do I focus on? she mused. Behind the figure, overlaying the golden glow of the backdrop, she noticed a blue curtain. It was emblazoned with coins, each coin inscribed with a different sigil. She did not recognize the symbols, nor understand the supposed ‘symbolism’ of the cloth, but something about the blue curtain called to her.

It brought her back to her childhood home. Her mother had hung blue drapes shortly before Maria’s eleventh birthday. They flapped in the light breeze and beckoned her. They waved to her, welcoming, homey, and the young Maria waved back. She danced before them, giggling without a care in the world. She longed for that girl.

A smile cracked Maria’s worry-laden face, travelling psychically to happier days. She dreamt of her parent’s house, her younger self, a purer, truer version of who she was. The girl she was before the world turned to shit, before Brian, before funerals, before death.

Maria had sat underneath those flowing, blue drapes and listened to her abuela’s stories. Stories of the old country meandered in and out of Catholic mythology, and her grandmother’s own history. Tales of a mystic culture and a storied past that enraptured the small girl’s heart, sending her on unseen flights of fancy. Maria felt a deep, agonized longing for the old woman, and the old woman’s stories. She felt cheated that she would never sit at her abuela’s feet. She felt betrayed, like she would never again feel safe.

Steadily, a strange white light began to fill the room, surrounding Maria and filling her with a touchless warmth. A warmth that Maria thought she had forgotten. Something ethereal began to tug at her, pulling her upwards. Panic welled up within her, and she began to cling to the ground, to the certainty and comfort of gravity. Her heart pounded in her chest and the steady, magnetic pull began to weaken.

Then, she smelled her grandmother’s perfume. It wafted down from the heavens to cradle her nostrils. Tender, weathered hands lay atop Maria’s shoulders, squeezing gently. Without thinking, Maria preformed her prayer, without realization, she had called her guardian.

Maria began to float.

She hovered in midair, the room shifting and moving around her. Her vision began to flicker, reality seeping away to be replaced by an artistically stylized version of her world. She was in a medieval tapestry of some kind, with hard lines and cartoon-like details. The third dimension began to flatten, growing shallow, sense of light and shadow all but vanishing. The light of her room took on an otherworldly glow, a photograph exposed a few scant seconds too long, washed away, pale.

Shadowed outlines floated throughout the room, trailing residue of spirits who had traveled before her. She could hear their voices and cries echoing throughout the vast, seemingly shifting labyrinth of the house, seeping up from the damned corridors of the basement, and the dark room at the center.

Looking down, she ran her gaze over herself, her body sitting bellow. She sat on the floor, her legs crossed, staring at the card sitting between her toes. Her face was lined, gaunt, haggard, her eyes sunken and bagged. Tired, worn, empty.

Suddenly, Maria yelped, terror gripping her lungs as she realized that she was out of her body. She had departed, floated away, lost her grip. She had read about out of body experiences before, but never did she think she would experience one, let alone bring one about. She began to struggle, to thrash, tearing away from the relentless upward pull. Her stoic, unmoving body began to twitch, listening to unheard commands.

I want to go down, she thought.

You must rise, mija, her abuela’s voice said, a comforting glow surrounding Maria, caressing her, kissing her cheek.

I am afraid, Maria called out.

And I am with you, her abuela responded, taking Maria’s hand in her own.

Maria looked over, coming face to face with the glowing visage of her grandmother. She looked much as Maria remembered, but stronger, younger, vibrant. She radiated golden hues, the light dancing off her ancient green dress.

Come, the old woman said.

Maria followed, unquestioning. Upwards and outwards they drifted through the ruined attic of the decrepit house and into the sky. In a blink of the eye, Maria found herself hovering above the house, far over the windswept and snow-pummeled landscape. She stared down the crumbling manor-turned-mortuary, its ruined sign flapping in the breeze. It was so far below that Maria was almost certain that it was a model.

Maria gasped, turning to her grandmother with wonderment. The cracks in the old woman’s face were creased with silent laughter, a wide smile plastered in place at her grandchild’s marvel.

Amazing, is it not? she asked in broken English.

Maria had no words to respond with, they had been snatched from her lungs and thrown upon the four winds. Instead, she nodded, wide-eyed and mute, a child who once again believed in magic. She looked to her grandmother and smiled, wild and unbridled, youthful.

They floated.

The heavens gave way to a vast gothic temple, radiant and shadowed intermittently. As they approached, the structure’s ethereal outline grew rigid, concrete. A lush green landscape jutted up around the golden masonry, vines intertwining the stained glass. A wide pathway wound up the rolling green hills, towards the marble steps that led into the great temple. Just before the marble stairs, the path forked, a second, narrower pathway leading down a long passage, twisting down into unseen darkness below, terrible depths of sheer black. Maria did not know where those twisting steps led, but she was certain she did not want to find out. Jeb’s words rang in her ears:

I’m pretty sure it’s hell.

A fearsome roar cut over the docile landscape, thundering and trembling. Maria’s heart leapt, looking upwards. Her jaw dropped.

Coiled around the tallest spire of the temple, a massive green dragon oversaw the world. It lifted its head, staring through yellow, crocodile eyes, fixing on her. It growled, an echoing rumble that filled her with unfathomable dread, but it made no move to attack. In fact, it nodded, as if beckoning Maria and her abuela onwards.

They entered the massive doors, stretching up hundreds of feet, wrought with golden fittings, and made from rare, polished woods that Maria could not identify. They stepped through, their footsteps echoing off the brilliant emerald floors of the main hall. Golden pillars jutted up into infinity, the ceiling obscured by a white fog that clung to the upper reaches of the stonework. In the center of the room stood a great statue of the Fool. His horns glistened in the stained light, his wide bulging eyes seemed to follow each step Maria took with rapt attention.

Then, the Fool spoke.

“What is your name?” he asked, smiling.

Maria staggered back, eyes wide, stammering.

“Do not fear,” the statue said, its great jaws moving with each syllable. “You are welcome here. Now, what is your name?”

“Maria…”

“Maria. A lovely name. And who comes forth as your guardian?”

Su abuela, Maria’s grandmother said, stepping forward.

“Welcome, Maria and welcome mi amigo,” the statue said. “I am one of many names, some ancient, some new, some known, most unknown, but for now, call me Perceval. Does that suit you?”

Maria nodded, awestruck.

“Now, what do you seek in my palace, child?”

“I…” Maria trailed off, wondering: Why am I here? Christ, I don’t even know where here is. Finally, she said, “I need to speak to someone, someone who I cannot speak to in life.”

 “You seek to cross the Veil?” the apparition asked, pensively. “That is a task for masters, and you are but a novice, child. But if you insist on such a path, you must seek out my brother-card, Death.”

“Not in death, in life!” Maria spat out. “I need to get a message to someone, but I can’t speak to her in person. I am a prisoner, I seek-”

“Escape?” laughed the Fool. “You seek to use power that you do not understand for your own petty ends? Without offer of obeisance to the one who carried you to Their temple? Without so much as the offer of a trade, a bargain? And they call me fool!”

“Please,” Maria cried, stepping forward. “I am desperate!”

“And God helps those who help themselves, child. Take the message yourself.”

“I can’t!” Maria shouted. “Please, if you could just-”

Wake up! Kane’s voice screamed I her ears.

They’re coming.

#

Maria shook free from her trance. Her mind was groggy, as one freshly awoken from a deep, dream-filled slumber. She blinked to find herself staring into the steely eyes of Kane, wild with fright. He grimaced, jerking a thumb at her treasures lain out on the floor at her feet.

“Hide those. The ritual in the baseboard, shove the others under your mattress. Now.”

“Why does it matter where-”

“Don’t ask. Just do it,” he hissed, looking around the room in a panic. “Fuck. I’ll try to stall them, but… just hide that shit, and don’t look at it again! Fuck!”

“What about-”

“Shut up and do it. If they realize you can… Look, trust me!”

With that, Kane raced through the wall, barreling down the hallway on astral legs. Maria wondered what he was planning, but she knew better than to tarry. Someone was on their way, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

Maria obeyed, pushing her questions and her maddening doubts aside. She shoved the ritual back under the loose floorboard and then shoved the rest into a hole in her mattress just large enough for her card and papers. She had found the hole a day after she had made her first discovery in the rotted-out walls. She cherished that hole, her small hidey-hole that was hers and hers alone.

She had just finished setting her mattress back in place, spinning to sit atop the lumpy cushion when her door swung open.

Dennis stood in the frame, or more accurately his body did. The eyes were black, cold, savage. Mother.

“I see you met Kane, girl.”

Maria nodded. There was no point in lying.

“I’d suggest you avoid that one, he is a bad egg. Did you know, he was the one who tried to drown you?”

Maria feigned shock, shaking her head.

“You look out of breath,” Mother said, feigning concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

Maria was far from alright, she was starving, perpetually cold, and beginning to wonder if death would be a welcome sight. She wanted to scream, she wanted to rage. Instead, she nodded, even scrounging up a winning smile.

“Good,” Mother snapped, spinning towards the door. She paused. Dennis’s head turned, creaking on his neck, straining past a point that could be considered natural. She said, “Don’t you worry about Kane tonight. He has been sent back to the basement.”

The basement, again! Maria felt a savage chill run through her, certain that she could hear the large ghost’s anguished cries from the floor below. She could hear the pain and terrors of the sprites of Phillips Mortuary and Crematorium leaking up through the floorboards, and trembling up through the rotted framework.

Maria’s door closed, the lock clicked, and Maria was alone.

The key in her pocket seemed to weigh thousands of pounds. Her trespass, once holding so much promise, now felt like a one-way ticket to the basement, to Hell. Already her hope was fleeing faster than a routed army.

As the heavy footfalls receded, Maria released a trembling breath. Her chest felt tight, her heart raced, her mind awash with terrible prophecies and horrendous portents. Panic raced through her, clutching her in its rotted, bony grip. Kane’s final words to her ringing hollow in her ears:

If they realize you can… Look, trust me!

Something about his words rang with the wisdom of a seer. Something about his panicked flight from her room held evidence of an unseen truth that Maria could not quite grasp.

She had a distinct and unshakable feeling that she had been played.

#

Maria started awake, soaked in sweat and shivering. She wondered how long she had been adrift, floating in the clutches of thoughtless slumber. How long had she been wasting time, precious moments that would never be returned?

Forcing herself from the warmth of her blankets, she padded across the frozen, wooden floor to the barred window. The night had cleared, the icy shell of yesterday’s snow glistening in the pale moonlight. Gauging off of the moon, Maria estimated it to be a little past three in the morning. The witching hour.

She hoped that one particular witch was sleeping, rather than cavorting with Devils and trading barbs with Demons. Maria could only hope that this witch was clutched by slumber, her gaze turned away from the mysterious book and her sacred room.

Fingering the key in her pocket, Maria felt the nervousness swelling in her chest. She was alone. Last time she had braved crossing Mother, Kane was beside her. This time she would wander the shadowed corridors solo, with only the moaning walls and skittering mice for company.

Slipping off her shoes, Maria tiptoed to her door. Pressing an ear against the frigid wood, she listened.

The house’s pipes rumbled, the mice darted through crumbling walls, but nothing else stirred. No footsteps thudded along rotted floorboards, no voices trickled up from below, no screams wafted up from the hellhole below.

It was now or never.

The key clicked in the keyhole, the door swinging open. The corridor beckoned with open, menacing arms. The point of no return, the fabled gates of Hades.

Taking her time, Maria placed each step carefully in front of the other, easing her way down the derelict halls. Snow had forced its way between the fractured cracks in the siding, flecks dusting the hallway underfoot and collecting in corners. Each footfall crunched on the light coating of ice. Maria wished that the house had been carpeted.

Step by aching step, she inched towards the ritual room. Her head swiveled like a panicked animal searching for a stalking predator, listening for any telltale signs of spies or patrols.

Ahead, Jeb sat in the center of the hallway, his expression somber. She found his melancholic expression disturbing, especially on a child so young. Again, she had to remind herself that the boy was likely older than she was.

He locked eyes with her, astounded. “How are you out here?”

Maria pressed a finger to her lips, whispering, “I stole a key.”

The boy smiled, it was a wicked smile, Kane’s smile. “Whoa, only Josh managed that before, and that was before they built this place,” he gestured to the house. “How?”

“I had some help,” Maria said with a sly wink. “You won’t tell them, will you?”

He shook his head.

“Stay safe, kid,” she said, instinctually ruffling his hair, shocked when her hand passed through his head.

“You too,” he whispered, turning his gaze away.

Padding ahead, Maria wandered the twisting, meandering corridors. Twice, she was certain she had taken the right path, and twice she discovered herself in completely foreign corners of the sprawling compound. Again, she could not help but wonder if the walls were shifting around her, as if the space within the house was an ever shifting maze. If she was the Minotaur of legend, cursed by an unloving father to wander aimless for all eternity. She turned back, retracing her steps to Jeb.

This time the boy gave her a sad smile, then pointed. Wordless directions to her end-goal.

The third time was the charm, soon Maria found herself standing outside the cavernous ritual chamber. The fire was a smoldering remnant of hot coals and ash, its faint light too weak to reach the towering ceiling overhead, giving the room the distinct feel of endless shadow hanging over Maria, hungry and gaping. The shadows along the floor were long, unnatural fingers reaching out to grasp at her, to pull her in and never let go.

Maria shivered, as much from the terrible feel of the room as the unbearable cold. Her heart begged her to retreat, to run from the frightful cold and the clutching shadows, back to her room, back under her blankets.

The room. The blankets, she reminded herself. It was dangerous to allow herself to begin to regard any part of this place as home. This was her prison, not her life.

An ember of rage within her caught, bursting into a towering inferno within her soul. She would not turn back, she would not be cowed by the machinations of Mother. This was her life, and she would be damned before she gave up her right to choose her own path.

Slinking across the cool, black-as-night floor like a thief in the pre-dawn, Maria made a beeline for the desk, for the book. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, filling her with a newfound drive, pushing her forward as quick as she dared.

She slipped around an old pile of musty books, darting between a weathered chair and a discolored candelabra. She prayed that Mother’s ghost wasn’t roaming the halls, sleepless. She pleaded to God that Dennis wouldn’t wake with an urgent need to use the bathroom. She pleaded with forces she could not begin to understand, and only half-believed in, for safe passage through this Hell on Earth.

She hoped that someone heard.

The old oaken desk and the ancient ivory globe came into view. The ancient book lay on the desk, closed. Despite the clinging shadows, the sigil on the cover seemed to glow. The tome seemed a thing of power, of magic, filling her with a deep, unrelenting foreboding. Still, it was her best – perhaps only – shot at understanding why she had been taken, and what was in store for her. She had to try.

Reaching out, she touched the cover. Her fingers tingled as a strange sensation twisted through her wrists, running up her arms. Jitters, she told herself, but knew it to be a lie.

She opened the book, hearing the leather crack with age, the pages bristling to her touch. Two passages were marked with an ancient, threadbare strand of violet velvet.

TRADES: BALANCE and SACRIFICE.

Neither word lent her a feeling of “escape” or even “explination” so Maria flipped on. The second passage was familiar, in fact, it was a detailed and elaborately descriptive version of her own blood-written ritual, penned by Josh Tanner.

ASTRAL PROJECTION.

She flipped through the pages, reading long-winded descriptions of the Tarot, along with deeper delves into the meanings behind each card. She gazed upon the rough trace of the Fool, standing out upon the weathered page. Perceval. She read about achieving bodiless ascent, the same journey she had taken. She was beginning to wonder if she had made this trip for nothing. If she had risked her own safety for a long-winded and meandering version of something she already knew.

Then she came across a subheading, her eye gleaming and her heart leaping:

THE BODY OF LIGHT ON THE MORTAL COIL.

Maria’s rigid mouth cracked in a maddened smile as she began to read. Her eyes flicked from line to line, pouring over the material, absorbing what she could. There was a chance, a long shot, unlikely chance, but it was better than where she started.

Part of her pled with her to read the entire book, to spend the remaining hours of night to pour over the tome and take all her newfound knowledge into battle, but she knew that time was growing short. In a matter of hours – minutes? – the light would be peeking out from behind the horizon and the Phillips family seemed to rise with the cock’s crow.

Closing the book, she peered into the long shadows of the ritual room for anything more, any more clues that could inform her of her location, of the Phillips’s true identities, or their motivations for taking her.

Put the key back.

A voice hissed through the room, whispering into her ear. She could not tell if it was a ghost, or her own intuition. She could not be sure, nor could she be sure if it was good advice. To put it back was to lose her trump card, to give up the ace slipped up her sleeve. To keep it was to risk exposure, to risk all she had accomplished so far, to foil any means of escape. Still, she hesitated. To put back her key was to surrender the scant power she had managed to steal for herself.

Her fingers wrapped around the rusted metal in her pocket greedily, shoving it deeper in.

She moved to the bookshelf, ancient and over-stuffed. The books ranged from religious tomes to occult manifestos to dime-back novels. Never before had Maria seen Aleister Crowley and Tom Clancy share a shelf, the sight was almost absurd. Her eyes darted past the Book of Thoth and Patriot Games, the Cipher Manuscripts leaning up against Cather in the Rye. Weathered books with cracked spines, well-worn pages, dog-eared and oft-treaded.

But one book stood out from the place. A prefect, un-creased spine, glittering, untouched lettering. Out of place. Fake.

TOM SAWYER.

The spine was wooden, the pages unturned. A latch?

Maria reached out to the book with trembling hands. She moved to pull it, feeling it stick. Trying again, she felt give at the top, grunting with surprise.

It’s a lever!

“Tom Sawyer was always my boy’s favorite,” came a scratchy, all-too-familiar voice.

Maria spun, her heart skipping three beats.

In the doorway, hovering before her, stood an old woman. The figure’s skin clung to her bones, her fingers long and bony, a corpse walking. But her eyes were far from sunken. They were dark, glowering orbs of sheer power and intangible malice. Her wispy hair jutted out from a skull lined with varicose veins. Her floral-print dress barely clung to her emaciated, skeletal figure. High cheekbones suggested a long-lost beauty, now unseen, and the smile that graved her once-full lips had once stopped hearts.

Maria had seen the figure before, rotted and sitting in an antique wheelchair. Now, the figure stood. Now, the figure spoke. Now, the figure was alive.

Now, Maria stared at Mother in her true, astral form.

The wicked, intelligent eyes fixed on Maria. The lips tweaked in a sly, sadistic smile. She spoke, “Now, girl, tell me why you are out of your bed?”

Mother took a step forward, cackling.

Maria wanted to scream.

#

Mercy shot up in bed, pulling out of her monstrous dreams, awash in a cold sweat.

Maria had been screaming. Maria had called out her name.

Maria was gone.

Guilt clawed at Mercy, shouting accusations as she slid her legs off the side of her bed. It gnawed at her insides as she shuffled to her bathroom, the steady drip-drip of water coming from her faucet. The wind outside howled its charges of wrongdoing, chilling the air and rattling her shutters.

Mercy closed the door and sat on her toilet seat, fighting tears that begged for release. Blame and fear intermingled, clutching at her, shouting at her, pointing their fingers and taunting her. Reminding her of all the things left unsaid, the rotted and secret wounds of their friendship left to fester. Mercy knew she was the reason Maria was up in that god-forsaken place, buried in seclusion, her epitaph written in Brian’s blood. Fear gripped Mercy, refusing to relent, telling her that she would never hear Maria’s sparkling voice again, that she would never get the chance to make things right.

She could hear Mister and Missus Martinez snoring in her guest bedroom. They sounded peaceful, or as peaceful as could be expected, considering the circumstances. They had not stopped since arriving back from Los Angeles. They had left DIA and gone straight to the police, from the police to the field, from the field to the print shop, from the shop to Mercy’s for a minute of shut eye, come morning they started again. They had made signs, organized searches, delved through mountains of similar disappearances, and harangued the local police. Of course, the cops were reeling from their own losses, and a dead cop always trumped a kidnapped woman. Mercy doubted there would be much help from the boys in blue, but that didn’t stop the Martinez’s from camping out in the station’s lobby for two hours every day, or until the Chief would pull them into his office with solemn words and comforting gestures.

Mercy hoped they were able to find at least a minute’s peace in slumber. She hoped that Maria’s parents dreams were filled with happier times and sunnier days. She hoped that for at least six hours every night they were able to remember the good and forget the terror.

She doubted it.

Mercy stood, leaving the bathroom and padding onto her second floor balcony. The wind rustled her hair, chilling her skin. It was unpleasant, but so was the steady ache growing in her chest. She lit a cigarette. She had given the habit up about two years back, but after the madhouse week she’d been through, she figured no one would mind a few broken promises. She felt the heavy cloud fill her lungs but did nothing to empty her brain. It ran wild, rampant, holding to its destructive, wicked course that dominated everything else. She had hoped the old habit, the reminder of happier times could pick her up and whisk her back to simpler days, days when Maria was safe, days when there wasn’t a growing hollow between them, days before either of them had heard the name Brian Silverstone.

The foggy wisps of burning tobacco swirled around her head, dancing an uncaring dance, devoid of all recognition or emotion. Blue clouds of smoke prancing on the frigid breeze. In some ways it was almost beautiful, ethereal, spiritual. Of course, Mercy figured that was the tendrils of her faint nicotine high. There were no mystic threads tethering her to a great unknown, and she hadn’t heard Maria scream in her dreams.

She released the smoke swirling within her lungs. She hoped that the cloud would take the weight with it in some kind of physiological transference. Instead, her lungs felt heavy, tar-covered and bogged down, matching perfectly with her soul.

She hoped Maria wasn’t dead.

She tossed the butt of her smoke into her snow-filled gutter, and slipped back into her room. She wanted to sleep, but her racing mind would not release its grip on her. She padded towards the kitchen.

Wandering her shadowed halls by touch, Mercy heard Mister Martinez snoring with deafening intensity in her guest bedroom. She wondered if the man’s snores could, in fact, wake the dead, eliciting a dark, humorless chuckle, that echoed through the dark hallways and petered out in the dead night.

Tiptoeing down her stairs, she heard the ice-maker in her fridge kick on, clacking away in quiet labor. Framed photos dotted her walls, family and friends filling frames with smiles plastered to their faces, most featured Maria, some in the center-frame with a cheery grin, in others she lurked in the background, a candid snap of an unknown moment. She was ever-present, eternally bound to Mercy. Sisters.

A sister betrayed.

Sliding into the kitchen, Mercy began to pour a tall glass of water. The flow of the faucet filled her ears, until the water lapped the rim of her glass. She shut off the faucet, but the steady hiss continued.

It came from her living room.

Strange, she thought and made her way into the room.

Missus Maya Martinez stared at the gray and black fuzz that darted across Mercy’s old television. The hissing of static filled the room with its constant din. The old woman’s sleepless eyes stared forward, peering into the depths of the static in her own form of mental slumber.

Mercy was almost afraid to call out. She was afraid to shatter the illusion, to remind the aging mother of her loss, her terror, her certainty.

“I couldn’t sleep,” came the tired voice. Mercy could hardly recognize the voice of her friend’s mother. The youthful vibrance had been sapped, replaced by a heaviness that Mercy could not begin to describe.

“Yeah,” Mercy said, sitting down beside Maya. “Me neither.”

Neither of them spoke, they did not need to. They sat in melancholic silence and listened to the hypnotic hiss of the old tube set. Each of them were lost in their own private thoughts, orbiting around the missing woman. Consumed by certainty that the whole situation was their fault. 

Next Chapter: Part Five: Lust