Mercy’s sleep was fitful, tossing, turning, and burning. She felt things clawing at her chest, threatening to drag her under swirling waves. Black waters haunted her dreams, swirling around her body, menacing her night and day. Secret waters of untold truths and guilt unprofessed.

She felt something inside her room. A presence that was not meant to be there, yet familiar nonetheless. Someone had strode into her house in the dead of night, and now sat on her mattress, laying a loving hand on her shoulder. Gentle fingers squeezed with a mother’s love.

Or a sisters.

Maria? she thought through the foggy haze of sleep. But it could not be! Could it?

Let me in, the voice hissed. I don’t know how long I have.

The voice was unmistakable! Maria was whispering in her ear, her soft voice carrying through the fog of dreams. How was that even possible?

Please, her childhood friend pleaded.

Mercy opened her mind, she did not know how she had done it, but in an instant she was wide open, naked before her friend’s gaze. A rush of emotion welled up within Mercy. She felt terror, suspicion, agony, and a glimmer of hope. Familiar feelings, foreign situations, all flooded through Mercy. There was something more.

A plea for help and a place. Phillips Mortuary, Oak’s Spring.

A sudden panic gripped Mercy. A rush of discomfort, a realization of secrets tucked away now laid bare. If I can feel her mind… Can she see mine?

Does she know?

#

Maria felt like an invader, a molester. She had no place within Mercy’s mind, but she had no other choice. She began her message, pouring as many thoughts and images of her ordeal into a package, repeating Phillips Mortuary, Oak’s Spring over and over. She could only hope that Mercy would understand, that her message would come through, clear, ungarbled, and believed.

As she touched her friend’s mind, other thoughts and memories seeped into Maria’s essence. Long-buried memories within Mercy seeped out, mixing with Maria’s own memory. Guilt long-hardened and wounds still fresh all glowed before Maria, but one memory stood out. Maria knew that she should look away, but the singular glimpse had drawn her in, pulled her attention and held.

She drew closer.

Mercy lay in bed, sweat matted her wild hair, and strong arms caressed her. Fingers ran along the swell of her breast, cupping her cheek between long, longing kisses. She moaned and pushed, ground and thrust. She sighed with pleasure, forbidden and intense. She howled with ecstasy, each thrust deeper than the last.

Maria was a voyeur, an unwelcome spy in the most intimate of moments, but she couldn’t look away. Something felt familiar. The touch was known, the musk was intimate, the sensation… hers. Recognition flooded her mind, but it had to be false. Didn’t it?

Mercy kissed the man’s chest, biting his nipple with a playful nip. A familiar voice cried out in sharp pain, then burst into a rolling laugh.

The rocking, orgasmic movement grew more urgent. Intense.

Familiar.

Mercy’s body tingled with anticipation, with lust, with infatuation. A dark voice in the back of her mind screamed that what she was doing was wrong, betrayal, cruel, but it felt right.

It felt amazing!

Her lips parted, a moan escaping her lips, ”Brian!”

Maria staggered back, severing the connection. Her heart was shattering, her mind reeling, her thoughts profaned. Her soul felt pierced, lanced, gushing. How could Mercy have done this to her? How could Mercy have been the one that-?

Hot tears stung her cheeks, miles away in Wyoming her husk cried out in audible anguish. She felt shattered, broken, lost. She repeated over and over, it can’t be true, it can’t be true. It had to be a fantasy, some unacted wet dream of attraction unfulfilled, but Maria knew it was a lie. Every piece that seemed missing from the puzzle of Brian’s betrayal fell neatly into place. It made sense, the picture complete.

The two people that she loved most in the world had stolen her heart, thrown it to the floor, and stomped on its shattered pieces. And now her life rested in one of their hands.

A grip of certainty filled her aching heart. One, undeniable fact filled her mind, ringing truer than anything had in years.

Maria knew that she was going to die.

#

Maria forced herself into her bed, catching a scant one or two hours of sleep before Mother came. Maria knew it was the witching hour. The moon glowered, its silvern rays reflecting off the untainted white of snow.  Coyotes mourned in the distance, their plaintive cries carrying across unmolested desolation. The air was stiller than death, and Maria could hear each floorboard creak and moan under Helena’s approach, wearing Dennis’s skin.

Black eyes stared out from his haggard face. His lips were drawn in a horrendous, loveless smile. Crimson robes were draped over his naked body, and a pentagram was drawn on her forehead in blood.

“Up, girl,” said Mother through Dennis’s lips.

Maria did not bother pretending to be asleep. She did not bother pretending to fight. She rose, trembling.

“Come.”

Maria followed Mother out of her chambers. She padded down rotted floorboards and tried to ignore the swelling terror within her heart. She looked down the hall to see Kane, leaning against the wall with arms folded over his chest. A dark look filled his face, and she immediately wondered if he was there as moral support, or if he was planning her untimely demise.

“You’re not meant to be here, Halcourt,” Mother hissed.

Kane shrugged, “What can I say. I like the kid.”

“Do not try to interfere,” Mother said, pointing with a earth-stained finger.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kane said, shooting Maria a wink.

The ritual room loomed ahead, reminding Maria of the River Styx, guarding the entrance to the underworld. She could only hope that Charon had a token for her to pay the toll. The air was humid, the tub already filled with steaming water.

Mother gestured and said, “Strip.”

Maria hesitated, but complied. The frigid air rushed over her bare skin, raising rows of gooseflesh that prickled and tickled. She fought off a shiver as she padded towards the steaming water. Sliding in, Maria flinched. It was hot, hotter than before, almost scalding. Her flesh took on a distinct rosiness, and she squirmed in discomfort.

Mother – clothed in the rags of Dennis – shirked off her crimson robe, standing naked before Maria, arms outstretched. Strange, runic symbols had been painted over his newly-shaven flesh, some familiar, others foreign. Still, even the sigils she had never seen before seemed familiar, like some form of pseudo-memory had taken hold of her.

Kane stood in the doorway, watching with a vulture’s eye. He glowered at Mother, making no effort to hide his disdain for the wicked woman, or the son who she now possessed. Murder dominated his gaze, as he spat an ethereal glob onto the polished floors. Still, he made no move to intervene.

Mother turned her back to Maria, facing the unseen moon. Crossing her arms over Dennis’s chest, her feet pressed together like a soldier standing at attention. Her voice flint, she began her incantation:

“Goddess of the Moon, Lord of Hades, You have been known by many names in many lands across many times. You are Universal, Constant. In the dark of night, You shine down upon us and bathe us in Your light. Oh, Divine One, honor us by joining with your humble servants. Allow your presence to be felt in our hearts.”

She turned to Maria, her eyes glinting in the dim light, her legs spreading, her arms raising up to welcome some unseen guest. Maria watched from the swirling waters, and she felt the air change. A tingling, electric current danced around her head, coursing through the water. The fire glimmering in the fireplace flared, spitting plumes of sparks into the air, dancing embers swirling around the room.

“I am the Mother, the One who watches over. I am the wind of the Heavens, the flames of the Pit below. I am the river that dances and flows. My body, a seed of the Earth, I offer up to you.” Looking to Maria, Mother’s face twisted. Dennis was gone, completely. Only Mother’s face remained, only Mother’s spirit, only Mother’s power. “Here is your vessel, from which all things spring forth. Honor her, my anointed one, with your heart! Remember her acts of love as testaments, her acts of pleasure as rituals, and honor her this night before your silvern moon.”

“Honor this one, Maria Martinez. For, she is the Maiden. She is the Mother. She is the Crone. She lives within you!”

The flames flared brighter, burning hotter than the belly of Hell, the forges of Vulcan. Maria squirmed in the tub, feeling as if something was forcing its way underneath her skin. Unseen snakes slithered around her legs, tails rattling, coiling around her very soul. Something tingled between her legs, warm, orgasmic, unwanted. Maria writhed in the water, feeling its heat swirling around her like a lover’s embrace, charging her, arousing her, terrifying her.

She screamed.

Mother watched, her lips twisted in a satisfied, demonic smile. Kane looked on with disgust, his muscles drawn taut, coiled to act, but barred from action.

Tears streaked down Maria’s cheeks, uncontrollable. Sorrow tore at her heart while laughter bubbled within. She thrashed under the water, watched the turbulent surface glimmer in the firelight, the warmth consuming her. She felt herself, her soul, and yet she felt foreign, as if she were an invader within her own body.

“Will you give yourself unto me, girl?” asked Mother.

Maria paid her no mind. She moaned and screamed. Thrust and thrashed. Floated and sank. Inside, she howled in revulsion and terror unbridled.

Mother sneered, looking down with power and fury, the look of an animal cheated of its dinner, but within her black eyes glimmered a faint thread of hope. A hope to live once more. To steal Maria’s being and walk the Earth until time immemorial.

“I look down upon the sands of the desert and crash tides upon the shore,” Mother bellowed, above the popping, cracking firelight, the splashing, screaming Maria. “I shine on mighty trees of forests wide, and watch with joys as Life continues with each cycle.

“Be true to me. Honor that which I create, and I shall be true unto you. Oh, Mother of All, take this girl, cleanse her, and I beseech that you give her unto me.”

With that, Mother turned away from Maria, back towards the unseen moon She spread her arms, basking in its unseen glow. As if on cue a silver glow appeared on the far wall, as if the moons beams were penetrating the thick wooden walls, pouring throughout the house, and piercing into the people within. Mother basked, Kane shrunk away, and Maria writhed, her skin tingling, burning, peeling.

Maria’s breath came in sharp bursts, her back arching and twisting with each pulsating sensation. She tried to force herself out of the tub, but something seemed to hold her in place. She felt wrong, she felt violated. Something had been where it had no business being, something had taken her.

She hated the presence in the room. She hated Mother. She hated Dennis. She hated Brian.

She hated Mercy.

Somewhere within the deepest reaches of her soul, something snapped. Some dark, hard, malevolent pearl crystalized in her heart, along with it came one certain revelation:

She would destroy them all.

Maria was yanked back to reality as Mother lifter the knife overhead. It had been sitting atop a table at the bathside, out of reach and out of sight, only now did Maria notice it. It was ornate, wrought in gold trimming, and decorated from tip to hilt. A goblet of pure onyx was on the table as well, a floral pattern of glimmering silver danced up its stem, wrapping around the bowl with a flowery grip.

The blade glinted in the firelight, Mother slicing deep into her palm. Crimson blood dripped from the wound, dribbling into the waiting maw of the goblet. Mother winced, but did not cry out. She squeezed, allowing the blood to pour from her hand with a steady drip, drip.

Picking up a long sheet of linen, Mother began to bind her palm with a steady, almost reverent turn. Her wound bound, she turned to Maria, cup in one hand and dagger in the other.

“Drink.”

Maria’s stomach churned, pitching with revulsion. She shook her head.

Mother scowled and shoved the cup forward. “Drink!”

Maria shied away, scrunching her face tight. Mother stooped down, twisting Dennis’s face into a wretched scowl. She screamed, spittle flying from her lips, spattering on Maria’s flesh, “Drink!”

“No,” Maria spat, her hand shooting out to grasp Mother’s wrist. She twisted, the dagger slipping from Mother’s loose grasp, tumbling into the water.

Maria scrabbled for the blade with her free hand, fumbling wildly in the misty waters. Mother struggled against Maria, allowing the cup to clatter to the floor, spilling blood across the wood. Maria hissed, driving an elbow upwards, catching Mother in the face.

Her nose – Dennis’s nose – erupted in blood, cracking. She staggered backwards, gripping at her wound.

Maria shoved both hands into the bath, patting around frantically. A sudden pain screamed out from her hand, the unseen blade slicing deep. A cloud of blood spread throughout the scented waters, hues of lavender, sage, and iron clinging to her nostrils. The oils in the bath stung her palm and she wanted to release her grip on the blade, to pull back and hold her injured hand.

Instead, she tightened her grip and lifted the blade from the water. Red-tinged waterfalls descended from the glimmering steel, and Maria’s face twisted in delight.

She had it!

Kane’s eyes glinted, his lips twisting in a malice-filled grin, but he still did not interfere.

His words rang in her ears, One good cut, and… Well, I’m just saying it’s better to choose your own time. Isn’t it? His words were true, but she was not ready yet. Not ready to roll over, show her belly, and die like a good little girl. Not ready to give up. No, there would be no surrender.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt and her arm tensed.

She drove the blade upwards.

The blade flew towards Dennis’s throat, it’s tip piercing the skin, drawing a small droplet of blood. Her arm stopped. Mother’s eyes burned out from Dennis’s skull, his vise-like hands clamped around Maria’s wrist. A thin stream of blood trickled down Dennis’s neck, but Mother paid it no heed.

“Drop the knife,” Mother said, fury trembling in her voice.

From his corner, Kane groaned. “Dammit! You should’ve gone for your own throat, kid!’

And then, Kane acted. He stormed forward, smashing into Dennis. The large man staggered back, the grip on Maria’s knife-arm loosened then dropped away.

Mother flew out of Dennis’s body, Kane’s hands wrapped around her spindle of a neck. Dennis stumbled, his eyes wide, searching. As the specters fought, Dennis tried to regain his bearings, asking, “Where… Where am I?”

Maria, knife in hand, lunged from the bathtub.

The blade glinted in the dim firelight, flicking across Dennis’s stomach. He barely managed to leap back in time.

“Wait!” he howled, confused eyes wide with fright.

“Fuck you,” Maria screamed, swinging the knife again.

Dennis shied from the arcing blade, holding up his hands in a feeble defense. The blade missed his head by inches, instead shoving through his large hand.

He threw back his head, howling. Blood sprayed across the room, as he dropped to his knees, cradling his decimated hand like a newborn.

Maria tore towards Dennis, the knife still embedded in his hand. The whites of his eyes shone in the firelight, wide and manic like an injured doe. His naked form cowered before her, shivering in the cold air.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maria saw the two ghosts battling. It was a strangely physical scuffle, throwing punches, grappling, even biting. Like the manifestations of injury, Maria could not help but wonder if their battle was a residual memory of corporeal form.

Maria’s leg lashed out, and she felt the jolt of her small toe snapping run all the way up her leg.

Dennis’s cheekbone cracked, and he fell. He lay still, moaning incoherent on the bloodstained wood.

Mother’s voice began to howl, her arms outstretched. “In the name of the Goddess! May the power be on my right, the glory on my left. Fire before me, wind behind me. Above me the presence of She who is most holy. I banish you, and bade you return to the shadows whence you came!”

Maria could see Kane’s form shimmering and twisting. His face twisted in untold agonies, and he clawed at his flesh. Maria skidded to a stop, petrified by the sight before her.

Kane’s form grew ill-defined, his howls inhuman. He looked to be melting in place. Shaking herself from her daze, she spun and began to run.

Tearing from the ritual room, her bare feet pounded down the hall. The water was slick on her naked skin, but she did not care. She tuned out Kane’s screams and Dennis’s howls, ignoring Mother’s chanting mantra of spiritual destruction, and launched herself down the stairwell.

“You tried this before,” Moriah cackled, standing on the landing. Her young, beautiful face was a mask of loathing, a sneer of malice. “How did that work out last time?”

Maria did not bother responding, she took the stairs three at a time, leaving the shade of Moriah Alcot in her dust. Soon, she was skidding onto the first floor, the layout fresh in her mind. The labyrinthine twists would not falter her this time, the moaning creaks of the walls would serve as no distraction. Something told her that the door was unbarred, her exit unblocked. Why would it be locked? After all, it was death to brave the sub-zero temperatures outside, the snow deep, the winds brutal.

Maria did not care.

In the foyer, Jeb sat cross-legged. He was twiddling his thumbs with the vacant boredom of a child. Looking up, he locked eyes with her and asked, “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” Maria said with a smile, skidding to a halt before the great door. It was unchained, and she thanked her luck. Or Kane’s forethought. She hoped that they didn’t hurt him too badly. Placing her hand on the doorknob, Maria looked at Jeb. “I’m going to burn these bastards to the ground.”

Jeb smiled, a weary, knowing smile, and nodded.

The rafters were shaking with Kane’s screams, Mother’s shouts. Dennis’s sobbing undercut the bedlam of the banishing, injured, confused. Maria almost felt guilty for stabbing him. Almost.

Taking a deep breath, Maria threw open the door.

A gust of brutal, frigid wind raced around her body, cutting through her flesh and freezing her heart.

Exhaling, Maria raced out into the night.

#

Mercy awoke in a cold sweat. Her stomach lurched and pitched inside her. She felt dirty, like something – or someone – had forced its way into her skin, then rolled her around in mounds of pig shit.

Rolling from bed, Mercy felt an insistent pounding in her skull. Her gut lurched again, and sent her reeling for the bathroom. Staggering and reeling like a drunken sailor in the middle of a squall.

She made it to the bathroom in the nick of time. Her dinner upended, meeting its untimely demise in the mouth of her porcelain idol.

Damn Chinese food, she grumbled. What was this? The third time that place has given you food poisoning?

Standing up on queasy legs, Mercy shuffled back into her bedroom. She stood in the center of her room and stared down at her inviting bed, with warm covers, and soft pillows. Her gut twinged, but not from the bad food. There was guilt inside of her, gnawing at her. She remembered Brian laying on that bed, twisted in her sheets, staring at her with lust in his eyes and betrayal in his heart.

She couldn’t bring herself to lie on that bed of lies.

Turning, she snatched her cigarettes off of her dresser, stepping out onto her balcony for some cold comfort. The wind was blowing, its chill cutting through her tank top, sending her skin standing at attention. For a moment she considered slipping back into her room for her jacket, but instead she lit the cigarette, allowing the smoke to swirl in her lungs, enclosing her in its soothing cocoon.

Something felt off, unfinished.

A memory clung to her, like the tar clinging to her lungs, unseen, yet refusing to relinquish its grip. An internal weight that was invisible and ever present. A voice, echoing in the back of her mind. Familiar, intimate even. Desperate.

Whose voice had it been.

Shaking her head, she pitched the rest of her smoke, watching it spiral through the air, sizzling in the snow below. Bad dreams, she told herself, that’s all.

She pulled open the sliding door and stepped back into her room. She pulled back the covers, feeling the bed’s warmth envelop her, soothe her, comfort her. She forced herself to smile. She forced herself to say that everything would be okay. She forced herself not to think of Brian’s stolen things, the last remnants of his life, stuffed unceremoniously under her bed, hidden away like a dirty secret.

She forced herself to close her eyes.

Oak’s Spring! Maria’s voice howled, tearing out of Mercy’s subconscious. I’m in Oak’s Spring!

Mercy bolted up in her bed, wide awake, covered in sweat. She was trembling, terrified, yet certain that she was not imagining the feeling. Maria had been in her room, Maria had spoken to her.

But where the fuck is Oak’s Spring? Mercy thought, laying her head back on her pillow, but she could not find sleep. With each passing second she grew more certain that she was not crazy, not imagining. With each passing second she knew that she had to do something.

Forcing herself back out of her bed, she padded silently to her computer. Its dull, blue light filled her room as she typed in her password. The screen came to life, revealing a background photo of her, Brian, and Maria. They were laughing, smiling, happy. Better days, unpolluted by drama, lies, and bullshit. Mercy longed for those days.

Shaking her head, she pulled up her browser. She typed OAKS SPRING into the search browser, Google found everything. From oak trees to spring water, the results came pouring in. Her eyes scanned each heading, her mind swirling. She had to narrow down the search. She had to think of something, anything to get her closer to an answer.

There was something else. Another pair of words floated in the back of Mercy’s mind, but they meant even less. Phillips Mortuary. Still, it gave her a little more.

OAKS SPRING, PHILLIPS MORTUARY.

Mercy hit the ENTER key. The screen flashed and she found a long-dead website, one that became a fossil shortly after the dawn of the internet. Mother and son establishment, family run, reliable and caring, blah, blah, blah.

Grunting, she hit the next link. It was a wedding announcement off of some old news archive. 1952, Gloria Donnovan wed Dennis Phillips in Wyoming, the proud proprietor of the Phillips Mortuary. Nothing strange, nothing telling. She almost closed the page when she spotted the photo. It was a couple in their mid-thirties. She was dressed in white, him in a tux. They were smiling, happy, in love. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until Mercy noticed one glaring detail lurking in the background.

A hearse. Black, and new, but it would have been in 1952.

She drew a short, pained breath, staring slack-jawed at the photo. Then she released her breath, almost laughing at her foolishness.

Dude owned a mortuary. No shit he had a hearse. Weird to take it to your wedding, but shit, Mercy. The dude has to be like… a hundred years old now.

She backed out of the page, returning to her Google results, with no idea how close she was. No idea that the house turned mortuary lingering in the background of that photo was her friend’s prison.

She went back to the top bar and changed her search:

OAK’S SPRING, WYOMING, DISAPPEARANCES

Her patience was running thin. Her eyes burned and she was beginning to feel dizzy, overwhelmed. She had no idea how to do this kind of research. Research, books, the Dewey Decimal System, that had always been Maria’s thing and Mercy had been more than happy to ride Maria’s academic coat-tails. After all, when would she ever have to search for dusty, old articles in the real world? Without thinking, Mercy kicked her shin under the desk.

Dumbass, she thought, looking to the next article. Even looking at the site name: HAUNTEDWEST.ORG, Mercy knew it was going to be a bust, but some morbid curiosity pulled her in and made her read.

Phillips Mortuary and Crematorium

Founded in 1938, the Phillips Mortuary and Crematorium was built on the homestead of the McMannon family, a mysterious group of Oak’s Spring residents. The mortuary ran until 1982 until the death of its owner, Mr. Dennis Phillips. The property remains in the Phillips family to this day.

A note to our fellow hunters: The property has a highly enforced NO TRESPASSING rule. We discourage any potential excursions onto the premises, for the obvious reasons of not getting themselves shot.

Disclaimer aside, this site has been the spring-board for many local rumors and legends.

In 1982 a Greeley, CO native, Kane Halcourt (18), went missing from his grandfather’s funeral. A fellow mourner swears by God’s Holy Bible that she spotted a hearse at the graveyard that very day. A hearse labeled PHILLIPS MORTUARY AND CREAMATORIUM. Now, no one thought much of the hearses presence at the time, but with a little digging, we find that the mortuary was closed that year. Before young Mr. Halcourt disappeared. Of course, the police thought nothing of it, and didn’t much like the idea of driving ALL the way to Wyoming on a fool’s errand. But to this day, Kane Halcourt has never been found.

Of course, Kane Halcourt is far from the Phillips Mortuary’s only ghost. Passersby have mentioned seeing strange lights, especially in the second story windows. A few reports of specters wandering the property line have trickled in, along with reports of shadow figures in the windows. But who are all these strange ghosts lurking in the shadows?

My best guess is that it has nothing to do with the mortuary itself, and rather the ground it was built upon. The McMannon clan – the previous landowners – were a secretive bunch. They lived in Oak’s Spring since the 1890’s, and there were rumors that the family were Satanic worshipers. Reports of torture, strange rituals, and even human sacrifice poured in from neighbors, concerned citizens, and even a few lawmen.

The matron of the clan, Helena McMannon…

“Christ,” Mercy grunted, “What a load of shit.”

She shut her laptop, and stood, stretching her aching back. As she had guessed, it was a bust. Still, something tugged at the back of her mind, telling her that she was closer to the truth than she could believe. Somewhere in the back Mercy’s mind, Maria’s voice still called out: Phillips Mortuary, Oak’s Spring, over and over again.

Might be worth checking out, Mercy thought, stumbling back to her bed. She lay her head on the pillow, deciding that the likelihood of Maria being held for a satanic ritual in some ghost-town was staggeringly low. Still, she would drive up to Oak’s Spring, or whatever was left of the town, in the morning. If anything it would do a bit to alleviate the growing feeling of uselessness that was clawing at the back of Mercy’s mind.

In the morning, she thought, allowing herself to drift back into the tumultuous clutches of sleep.

#

The snow stabbed between Maria’s toes as she scrambled through the drifts. The fields of ice dipped and rose in the moonlight like ocean waves frozen in time. Drifts rose up to her waist, sending tingling chills across her bare flesh. Droplets of bathwater still clung to her skin, now tiny domes of ice, cracking and popping with each rippling movement as she raced across the field of snow.

Her breath was heavy, misting clouds in the frigid night, mixing panic with exertion. The cold sapped her strength, slowing her headlong marathon into a sluggish limp. She took small solace that the winds had subsided, leaving only the faintest breeze to rustle through her hair.

Chancing a look backwards, she saw the trail of bloody footprints. She cursed, The cold must’ve cracked my feet. She could only hope that no one spotted the trail in the snow. Suddenly, she wished the wind would come back, if only to disturb the clear, steady prints of crimson, leading from the front door to her.

The lights in the house were all on. Shouts came from the lower floors, curses and urging pleas. They would be after her soon, hunting her like an escaped convict. Already, Maria felt like she had been running for miles, in reality she was no more than six-hundred feet down the lane.

Gritting her teeth against the cold, she began to jog. Pain lanced up from her shredded soles with each icy step forward. Her muscles burned, her injuries screamed, even the cold did nothing to numb the steady, throbbing pain that filled her entire body.

She tried to blot out the memory of Dennis’s words when she first arrived, but they returned with a fearsome edge… And before you go getting any funny ideas. It snowed a helluva storm last night, and there ain’t nothing for fifty straight miles but desert and below freezing cold.

The words taunted her, sneering and laughing at her plight. Fifty miles stared back at her, fifty miles in knee-deep drifts and sub-zero temperature. Fifty miles with shredded feet, no clothes, and madmen hunting her. It was not a pretty picture, but she had to try something. Mercy was not coming, Maria was certain of that. She was a traitor, selfish, lying, whore. She was not going to be of any help, even if Maria hadn’t found out about Brian. Even if-

That’s no help, Maria, she told herself. Just walk.

And walk she did, putting one foot in front of the other, trembling and shivering, her jaw chattering with each step. Part of her knew that this was as good as signing her own death certificate, but part of her clung to a shredded, stained hope.

She ducked, staying low to the ground, crouching against the barren canvas of stark white, hoping that no one could see her.

The house’s front door slammed, a gunshot ringing out over the bleak horizon.

Instinctually, Maria threw herself to the ground. The burrowed her face into the snow, the cold lancing through her, a million pinpricks of pain covering her bare skin. She wanted to roll over, to stand up, to rub a semblance of life back into her flesh, but she didn’t dare move.

“Missy!” Dennis called out over the horizon. “You don’t stand a chance in this! You’ll freeze. Just come back.”

He waited, eyes scanning the horizon. Thankfully, he seemed blind to Maria’s prone figure, unnoticing of the bloody footprints. Growing impatient, he spoke again, “Look, if you make me come out there lookin’ for you… Well, it’ll end bad for you. Real bad. Do you hear me?”

Maria pinched her eyes shut, trying not to cry. Tears would freeze, tears would hurt. Biting her lip hard enough to draw a narrow trickle of blood, she remained silent.

“Shit,” he spat.

Heavy boots crunched on the fresh powder, then stopped. Dennis groaned, turning back towards the house. “Naw, I was figurin’ I’d run out there on foot! Christ, Mother. Do you take me for a damned fool?”

Usually, Dennis apologized after yelling at Mother. Usually, he would bow his head, sufficiently cowed. Tonight was not a usual night. Tonight, Dennis snapped, tonight, Dennis screamed. Tonight, Mother would just have to deal with his abuses.

Maria lifted herself up from the snow, shivering. Whatever Dennis was trudging towards was certainly not going to help her. He strode through the snow towards a shed nestled beside the house. He began fiddling with a large padlock, and Maria turned away. Her legs trembled underneath her, her heart thundered in her ears.

She forced herself to run.

To the west and south were fields, gently rolling fields of crystalline white, glinting in the faint night light. They offered nothing in the way of cover, not even brush thick enough to hide a body. There was no use heading that way.

Eastward gave her the faintest glimmer of hope. A stream cut through the fields of ice, bubbling from the mountains, working its way towards becoming a river. Across the stream was a thicket of trees, they looked to be aspen, but Maria was not certain. It was not a large thicket, and it wasn’t near as dense as she would have liked, but it was better than nothing.

She ran hard, forcing one foot in front of the other. Her bleeding feet moved faster, pounding hard against the jagged crystals of ice, tearing deeper with each searing footfall, but she refused to slow. Her strength was waning, but still she spurred herself onward.

Behind, an engine sputtered to life, a dragon’s roar cutting over the dead silence of the barren, frozen plain. Sputtering and growling, discontent and revving for pursuit.

Chancing a look over her shoulder, Maria spotted the floodlights of a snowmobile cutting over the white wastes of winter. A faint smile parted her lips, discovering that her luck was holding out. The sledge was pointed the wrong way, the beams of light looking out over the western plains.

For how long?

That question put a fresh shot of adrenaline into her heart. She put on the steam, her bare legs pumping harder, barreling forward on her mad dash towards the grove.

Ahead, she could hear the steady babble of the stream as it tore its way along banks of ice. It spoke in whispered, secret tones that no one could hear. It spoke, as if urging Maria on, encouraging her in her desperate flight.

Reaching the bank, she lunged. The air raced below her, and for a moment she was flying, hovering, floating towards the temple in the Heavens. Then she was arching downwards, descending towards the opposite bank, reaching out with her leg, hoping that her leap would not come up short.

Her foot caught the edge of the bank.

The ice slipped.

Maria found herself teetering backwards, her arms windmilling, like a character in the Saturday morning cartoons. The world tilted, and she bit back a full-lunged scream.

She tumbled.

Water splashed.

Cold water rushed up around her, covering her, and chilling her bones. The stream rushed past her nude form as she sputtered and shook like a wet dog. She bit back on a sneeze and forced herself back to her feet, stumbling towards the steep embankment.

Teeth chattering, she began to climb. Rock and ice dug into her palms, grit working its way into the cuts and splits on her feet, blood seeping into the river, carried away downstream without a second thought.

Reaching the top, she looked west. Her luck was holding, Dennis hadn’t heard her fall and was still circling westward, working out a tight, precise search grid.

For a desperate moment, Maria wondered if she had miscalculated. If Casper was westward after all, and the only thing to the east was hundreds of miles of unforgiving desert. Time enough for that later, she thought, wheezing.

Forcing herself back to her feet, she looked down at her shredded palms, slick with blood. She could not feel the pain, not even a dull throb. The faint drifting breeze caught the frigid waters covering her skin, chilling them until she felt like she was being whipped with a cat-of-nine tails. Pain or no, she would not slow.

Staggering away from the brook, she darted into the trees.

She had developed a limp, each step a fresh torture from her demolished feet and aching legs. She absently wondered if she had sprained her ankle, but she refused to relent. The trees began to close in around her, edging in from all sides, crushing inwards to meet her like old friends, or a new tomb.

The world was swimming before her eyes. Solid shapes became fluid, the ground began to sway and swell, a ship on open water. Her legs wobbled, her eyes drooped.

She no longer hurt. She no longer felt cold. All maria felt was tired. So very tired.

She allowed herself to sit, repeating in her mind, Just for one minute. She could feel her mind slowing, jammed gears in a clock. Her teeth chattered less, finally becoming a steady, agonized grind.

Her eyelids were almost closed as she allowed herself to lay down. Her arms wrapped around her shoulders like an absentee lover, a long lost comfort.

Darkness folded over her form. The brook babbled and the snowmobile grumbled in the distance, but they were both fading.

They won’t find me here, she said to herself as sleep began to fold over her. It was a warming cloak, a loving embrace. She no longer noticed her hands and feet seeping blood onto the virgin snow. She no longer noticed the icy clutches of hypothermia closing bony fingers around her. Nor did she realize that the snowmobile had stopped.

A light hovered overhead. Beckoning, welcoming, warming.

The face of her abuela smiled down upon her, beckoning her home.

“Ah, shit, Missy,” said a familiar voice. “You ain’t in a good way at all, are you?”

Maria’s heavy eyes shot open. The light overhead was not the welcoming glow of Heaven. It was the cold stare of a LED flashlight, its blinding glow searing her retina. Beside the glowing orb of static, surgical light was a face. It was not the face of her grandmother, not the face of an angel.

Dennis Phillips had found her.

She did not have anything left to fight with. She could not even budge as strong arms wrapped around her bare flesh. She could not struggle as she was lifted with ease, carried forward.

Boots crunched through the frozen crust of snow. Water sloshed as he waded through the babbling stream, that had minutes before threatened to consume her.

She felt her dead weight set gently upon the metal frame of a snowmobile. She heard the sputtering engine fire up, the dragon’s roar cutting over the dead scenery. Victorious.

Ahead, the lights of the Phillips Mortuary and Crematorium shone out, glistening off the snowy banks, illuminating the crisscrossing tracks of the snowmobile’s search pattern.

Dennis glanced back, his voice distant, “Just hang in there, Missy. We’ll get you right as rain.”

Something in his voice sounded comforting. Something about the glow of the building seemed welcoming. She was going back to her prison, but in her frozen haze that didn’t seem so bad.

The basement would change her mind. 

Next Chapter: Part Eight: The Hermit