Kane’s face was haggard, worn. His already pale complexion had grown sallow, pallid. His eyes were sunken, his lips cracked, his hair a disheveled mess. He looked like a man who had just clawed his way out of the bowels of Hell.

“What happened to you down there?” Maria gasped, her mind racing for answers. What terrors lurked in the basement, what terrible sway could Mother hold over those who were already dead?

He merely shrugged, “Do you believe in Hell, girl?”

Maria thought for a moment, pouring over her faith, her doubts, her indecisions. Finally, she nodded.

“Then you know there are things that can be done to a soul worse than can be done to a body,” he said with a dark, humorless laugh.

“Is that what she does to Jeb? To keep James on her leash?” Maria asked, her voice wavering.

“She don’t have to,” Kane coughed. “She did it to him, and once was enough to make him terrified for the boy.”

Maria nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy for James. Shaking her head, she reminded herself that he was the enemy, whether he was coerced or not. “What about Moriah?”

“Her?” Kane scoffed. “If she had the mojo she’d be worse than Helena herself. No, that bitch is selfish. The rest of us range from broken to lunatics, but only James works with them.”

“Good to know,” Maria chuckled, but she could not help but wonder if Kane might be part of the scheme. Could her would-be-murderer turned ally be in on it all? Could he be goading her along towards whatever heinous goal the Phillipses – McMannons, she reminded herself – have in mind?

If you mistrust everyone you’ll go mad, she thought, then asked, “Why would James tell me about those hidden pages?”

Kane spat, “I warned you off that mystic shit, didn’t I? Mother wants you to be able to pull off projecting yourself, she wants you to do the hard work for her. Sometimes I wonder if she let Josh find her book, if she let him write those pages just to make her own life easier. Of course, the rest of us only went to the temple and find some peace… That trick you pulled?” he laughed. “Well, you might make some waves with that.”

Kane’s lips twisted in a wry smile and Maria returned the look. It felt good to have a leg-up on Mother. It felt good to-

A sudden pain wracked her body. She twisted, collapsing to the floor. Her bones and organs felt like they were shifting in place, twisting, liquefying, mutating. She writhed as her flesh burnt, eyes watering, nose running, a pained squeal escaping from the inferno that had once been her lungs.

The smile melted from Kane’s face, his lip trembling. Finally, he spoke, “Fuck. If she’s playin’ this hand… Well, girl, you’re time is running out. Whatever she does, no matter what she does, do not let her find out you can leave your body. Do not tell her a thing. You hear me?”

Maria could not respond, she had thought the pain was the worst she had ever felt, yet somehow it had worsened. Her insides were tearing apart, her ribs and spine shattering. Her fingers clawed at the wooden floor, digging up splinters, but she could not feel the wood lodging under the nails, she could not feel anything but the horrible, coursing pain.

“You hear me?” Kane hissed.

Slowly, through the agony, she forced herself to nod.

“Good,” he said with a curt nod. “Just hang in there. Okay?”

And with that, Kane was gone, darting through the wall and vanishing. Heavy boots thudded on the wooden floors outside her door, marching down the hall with a sure step. The boots were Dennis’s and so were the shoes, but the gait was not his. The gait was regal, methodical, Mother.

The door to her room swung open and the body of Dennis entered, the eyes of Mother glowering out from underneath furrowed brows. A wicked, devil smile twisted his lips and a voice issued forth that was not his own.

“Are you feeling alright, girl?” she spat.

Another flood of pain smashed into Maria. Tears streaked her cheeks as she tried her best to brace herself, to weather the storm. Watery eyes ran up and down the invader, trying to place how Mother was doing this.

Maria’s gaze settled on the doll in Mother’s hands. It was the same doll she had seen before, sitting on her bedroom doll. The same effigy that she was certain represented her. It was gripped in a white-knuckled clenching fist, the cords of Dennis’s muscles bulging to apply the pressure. A leg was twisted up over the head, an arm pulled out between two fingers. Mud-covered fingernails dug into the doll’s sides, threatening to pop the fabric.

Ribs, back, leg, arm, burning on the sides… Every pain that was haunting her.

Mother’s voice cackled out of Dennis’s mouth. “You know what this is, girl?”

The grip released, air flooding back into Maria’s lungs. She choked, gasping, forcing desperate lungfuls of air down her dried out throat.

“I asked you a question,” Mother hissed.

Maria shook her head, rasping out, “No.”

“This,” Mother said, shaking the doll, “is what folk call a poppet. You ever heard of poppets before?”

Maria shook her head, spitting up a glob of blood.

Mother took no note, striding over to Maria’s bed and sitting down. The frame creaked ominously under Dennis’s weight, sagging and moaning. Mother ran a finger through the effigy’s hair, and Maria felt a cold, gnarled finger running through her own.

“The word ‘puppet’ comes from the same root. Funnily enough, in England ‘poppet’ is considered a term of endearment, particularly for a young woman… a woman like you. Of course, this is something far different.”

Mother’s dark eyes gleamed, wicked and clever. She was enjoying the strange history lesson, enjoying holding her knowledge over Maria’s head.

She continued, “You’ve seen voodoo dolls in the movies? Don’t bother answering, I know you have. We all have. A poppet is much the same, but the magic is older, stronger. It can be made from anything, a potato, a root, grain, corn, anything, but it is imbued with magic, usually sympathetic magic, but in this case, a hex.”

She chuckled, again stroking the hair. Maria cringed as she felt Mother’s fingers twisting her own locks.

“The key is to imbue it with a part of the person you want to link it with. A shirt, maybe,” Mother smiled and Maria remembered her clothes, her missing shirt, the black scrap of cloth making up the doll’s torso. “Or maybe some hair…” Mother lifted Maria’s favorite hairbrush out of Dennis’s pocket.

How did they get that… I left that at home. Maria’s throat closed up. Oh God! They’ve been back to my house.

“The point is, I can do anything to this poppet,” Mother said, suddenly gripping the doll in both hands and bending.

Pain shot up Maria’s spine. She collapsed back to the floor, her airflow cut off, her spine popping wickedly. She spasmed as the agony took hold, sobbing against the cold, wooden floor.

The pressure let up, Mother cackling, “And it happens to you.”

Realization hit Maria like a ten ton dump truck. This was how the spirits in the basement were tortured. Agony of the mind, not the body. A true, twisted case of mind over matter.

She scowled at Mother, but did not offer up a word.

“Anything I do, you will feel,” Mother said. “I can kill you, over and over, but you will not die. You will suffer with no hope of release… Unless you are honest with me. Do you understand?”

Maria glared.

Mother twisted the doll again, sending Maria back into her twisted pretzel position. Twitching, sobbing, but holding back her screams. She would not give Mother the pleasure.

The pressure released, and Mother asked again, “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Maria rasped.

“Good,” Mother said, rising to her feet. “Now I want you to leave your body. It doesn’t have to be for long, but I want to see if you can.”

“Leave my body?” Maria asked, hoping the surprise in her voice sold.

“Yes,” Mother said calmly. “I know you found those pages. I know you know what I am talking about. Now, I want you to do it.”

“I… I can’t,” Maria said.

“I think you can,” hissed Mother, her fingers digging into the poppets sides. Maria’s ribs erupted into fire. “I think you can, and I think you are lying.”

“I don’t even know how,” Maria cried out. Inside something felt like it broke. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but still she would not budge. “I don’t even know if I believe-”

She cut off as Mother twisted the poppet’s head one-hundred-and-eighty degrees around. Maria’s neck cried out and she felt like she was doing her best impression of Regan in the Exorcist.

“Liar!” Mother howled.

“I swear,” Maria pleaded, feeling her insides twisting. “Please, I swear…”

Mother stopped twisting, fixing Maria with a black, spiteful stare. She sucked at her bottom lip, her arms trembling. Slowly, she began to chuckle, shaking her head.

“You truly don’t know a thing, do you?”

Maria shook her head.

“Hm,” Mother grunted, standing from the mattress. With a methodical effort, she took the pages and the card. “I suppose you won’t be needing these? Will you?”

With that, Mother left. Maria remained curled on the floor, trembling, feeling the remnants of pain coursing through her. Her throat was dry and ragged, her limbs flaccid, her bones feeling as if they had been put through a meat grinder. But she hadn’t broken.

That brought a wiry smile to her lips, a grin through the pain. For an instant, she believed that she had won. Then Kane spoke again.

“She knows.”

Maria spun around, searching for the spirit. No one was in her room, not visibly. She forced herself to sit upright, gritting her teeth as her bones ground together. Finally, she forced words from her lips, “Where are you?”

“I’m here,” he responded. “She won’t be back. Not today.”

“James?” Maria asked.

“With Jeb, I’m keeping an eye on them. If you’re going to do something, I’d do it now.”

She nodded, forcing herself to empty her mind. Doubts ran rampant through her, but she could not rise up from her body. Her mind was racing, her heart pounding, terror reining supreme in her thoughts. Downstairs, she could smell Dennis cooking, the wafting scent of food taunting her aching stomach. She could smell searing steak, baking potatoes, steaming vegetables. Her mouth watered, her stomach grumbled, and she remained tethered.

She was not sure how much time passed before she shook her head. “I can’t. Not now.”

Kane growled, displeased. Then he stopped, his voice softening. “I understand. Get some sleep, we’ll try again.”

She did not see him leave, but she knew that he was gone. The room suddenly felt empty, the winter’s chill felt colder. She was alone, left with nothing but her pain.

She did not even rise to go to her bed. She curled up on the floor and shut her eyes. At least she had one escape that Mother couldn’t touch. Or so she hoped.

#

Father Matthews put on the appearance of a concerned mentor. His brow furrowed at the right moments, his responses tinged with a calculated sympathy, but Mercy recognized horseshit when she saw it. Twice he had begun with “God’s mercy,” and twice she had politely changed the subject. She could not see why the old preacher was worth keeping in the loop, as far as she could tell he was less-than useless. He kept promising the ‘flock’s’ help, but so far Mercy had not seen a single member of the church show up to scour the countryside, not a damn one showing up with a homecooked meal and a kind word. The faithful flock stayed at home, they sat by warm fireplaces with full stomachs and called in their condolences. The preacher was the same way.

“Has Maya spoken at all about…” he paused, hesitating. “About arrangements, should the worst come to pass?”

“No,” Mercy said, her voice flat.

“I don’t want to insinuate-”

“That Maria’s dead? No, no, that’d be coarse, wouldn’t it?” Mercy snapped.

“It’s just that… Mercy, she has been missing over a week. The statistics say that-”

“Yeah, fuck the statistics,” Mercy said, rising to her feet. “Now, I’m going to head back out there and look for her, if you don’t mind. And I’m going to bring her home.” After a moment, she added a quick, “Alive.”

“I understand,” he said rising to his feet. “Please understand, I only want to help.”

A hundred responses flashed through Mercy’s mind, not one of them kind. Instead she gave him a curt nod and muttered, “See you, preacher.”

With that she stomped through the doors, back into the cold mid-afternoon air. The breeze tugged at her hat, kicking the faint trickle of snow into a flurry. She scuffed her boots along the cobblestone walk, lost in her thoughts.

The Father thought that Maria was dead. He didn’t say it, but he did everything but say it. Part of her wondered if he was right. It wasn’t looking good, whether the cops wanted to admit it was connected to the murdered cops or not. She had snuck a look at the Sheriff’s case file and saw enough. Within hours of a gunfight on her front steps, Maria had gone missing. Whoever had killed those cops on Maria’s doorstep drove an old hearse. Meaning, whoever had taken Maria most likely was driving said old hearse. And that is where the luck dried up. No hearse found in all of Northern Colorado fit the make and model. The Sheriff was looking, but the trail was growing cold.

Hurling open her door, Mercy climbed into her car. She put the keys in the ignition but she did not turn them. She stared blankly at the church and fought back the march of tears. She had gone to this church for the first fourteen years of her life, she had met Maria in this church, smoked joints in the graveyard, laughed in the playground across the street. Now, with Maria gone, it felt hollow, as if the memories had been stripped away and only the bitterness remained. She missed when life was simple, she missed riding her bike with her best friend, she missed going to church on Sundays and believing the big man in the sky still cared. She missed the town she knew as a little girl. But the town had changed, grown up alongside them until now she could hardly recognize it. Mister and Missus Martinez had moved away when Maria moved in with Brian, Mercy had run off to the hustle and bustle of Denver, their friends had run off to new horizons or old habits, and the town had forgotten them. Good Riddance, is what Mercy had thought, but somehow the town had sucked her back in. When she moved back after Brian’s suicide it had only been to be closer to Maria, to check in. So much for that, she thought bitterly, cursing and turning the key.

She listened to her engine sputter, noting that she’d need a new battery soon, hoping that the car trouble would help her forget. It didn’t. 

She jammed the car into gear and booked it. As the streets flashed by, she began to loosen. Her mind stopped fixating on the past, on the town, on Maria, and focused on the simple task of driving. She felt free, as if chains circling around her throat had been – at least momentarily – lifted, and she was free to run wherever the wind would take her.

Red taillights shone ahead and Mercy stomped the brakes. Her tires grumbled on the irregular asphalt and her brakes squealed, needing maintenance. She jerked in her seat and found herself listening to the steady, low bing of the railroad crossing. A train, there was always a train in this town.

Engines puttered, people fidgeted, and railcars rumbled by, and Mercy found her mind wandering again. She hated the trains, always popping up in the worst spots, causing delays at the worst times. They were a day-to-day occurrence in this damn town. A constant irritant to remind Mercy how badly she wanted to escape, to run away once more. But now she had a mortgage, she had a job, she had a best friend who needed her. She had tethers, and the town had its hooks sunk in.

She was so tired, so damn tired. She was tired of trains, she was tired of monotony, she was tired of lies. She was tired of waiting for Maria to open Brian’s things up, she was tired of dreading Maria discovering the truth. She was tired of holding Maria’s hand when the tears came, she was tired of Maria’s guilt. Maria didn’t have a thing to be guilty about. If anything, Mercy-

She stopped that train of thought at the crossing. She tried to push the guilt and pain from her mind, but with each bing of the crossing, they returned with a vengeance. They drug her back into melancholy, back into hopelessness. Out of the din of accusation came one thought that resounded above the others.

Maybe she is dead.

The tears came. How can you even think that, girl? Mercy asked herself. How can you even say something like that?

But underneath her screaming protest, there was a darker truth. In some way, some way Mercy did not even recognize, the thought brought her relief. It brought her hope. It promised escape. Escape from the town, escape from being the eternal shoulder-to-cry-on, escape from it all.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Mercy watched the bars raising, the train rumbling on towards an unknown destination. Mercy could not help but wonder where it was going. She couldn’t help but wonder if she might follow it.

She put her car back into gear and resumed her drive home.

#

The sun was sinking low on the horizon when Maria woke with a start. The aches from Mother’s poppet remained, a dull throb permeating her bones, yet she forced herself from bed. With a grunt, she forced herself to her feet, padding silently to the window of her room.

The air was frostbitten, but she had grown accustomed to the cold. Her window was fogged, a thin sheet of ice clinging to the glass. Running a palm along its surface, she created a streaked porthole to view the world. It had not changed, the snow still glistened in the waning sun, windswept and beautiful in a distant and unknowable way. A few more bootprints had materialized around the house from Dennis’s chores, but the rest remained unsoiled, unchanged. There would be no rescue coming. Not anytime soon.

She stretched, and turned back to the room. With a start, she froze. Kane leaned up against her door, staring at her with an unreadable gaze. “You’ll have to move fast.”

“But I-”

“No buts,” he said. “Mother is downstairs with Dennis.” The man’s face twisted into a scowl. “No doubt engaging in their… depravities. James is still missing. If you’re going to make a move, you’ve got to. I don’t know how much more time you have.”

“Why?” Maria asked, her voice trembling.

“Because Mother knows. I don’t know how, but she does. Once she knows,” he shuddered, “it’s only a matter of time before they move you downstairs. And once you end up down there, well, I ain’t letting them hop into another body. Either of ‘em. So you better work fast.”

Kane turned, walking halfway through the door before pausing. “I’ll keep an eye on them, but you best not let any of the others see. They don’t guard their tongues. Now go.”

With that, Kane was gone.

Maria scrambled to a crosslegged position on the floor, trying not to think about the depravities going on downstairs. As if flipping switches in her mind, she turned off her hunger, she turned off her pain, and with significant effort, she turned off her thoughts. Her aching mind wanted to drift, but she knew she had to stay focused. Time was running short, and Mother’s patience was running razor thin. Maria had to act.

Allowing herself to drift upwards, Maria let go. Soon, she was hovering over her husk, tethered by the golden cord. Taking no time to marvel at the feat, she slid through the door, racing down the hallway.

With each hurried step she was certain that Mother, or James, or Dennis would round the corner. Their eyes would widen, their mouths would open, and they would scream out. In one fleeting instant her cover would be blown, everything would be ruined. She held her breath, ducking from open doorway to alcove, back to open doorway as she darted along the corridor. Her head swiveled back and forth, checking all exits, both ends of the hall, even the walls for prying eyes. Near as she could tell, the hallway was empty, and for that she uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

Reaching the ritual room, she ducked in. Her breath caught, her heart froze, and she swore quietly.

The secret doorway hung open, a dead giveaway.

How could you be so stupid? Maria kicked herself, darting across the room to shove Tom Sawyer back into place. The shelf swung shut with a dull click, but questions raided her thoughts. Had someone seen it open? Had Mother put two and two together? Was the torture for show, not discovery? Was this all some kind of elaborate trap?

She couldn’t waste time with such thoughts. Not right now. She had work to do, she had to see what was written in the secret book. With that, she darted through the bookshelf and through the darkened passage. Padding on silent, ethereal feet, she reached the room.

The shadows loomed long, twisting around her non-corporeal form as she made her way to the pedestal. The book lay where she had left it, undisturbed. She hoped that was a good sign. Heartbeat pounding in her ears, she opened the ancient tome, flipping to a random page, she began to read:

12/11/1919

Mother is getting sicker. That cough is coming every night now, and sometimes her spittle is stained with blood. The doctor rode up from town last night, but he said there ain’t much for me to do. “Make her comfortable,” that’s what he said, and I know what that means.

Mother’s going to die, and I’m going to be alone.

The doc said to hire a maid, someone to keep the house straight in these final days, since Mother can’t do it no more. She’s still as stiff-lipped as ever, my Ma, and she’s insisting on coming to town to meet the girl.

I ain’t sure why that thought scares me but… Christ, she looks strange when she talks about hiring a maid.

She looks hungry.

-   Dennis.

­Something about the entry seemed off. The handwriting seemed familiar, with its quick and definitive lines, its particular slant. Where have I seen it before? she wondered, flipping a few pages forward:

12/25/1919

Christmas. It was a happy evening. We sent the girl to her room and shared a dinner. Just my son and me. The way God himself intended. Still, I cannot help but feel there is some unspoken weight between us, a veil that has been hung across my sight, barring me from seeing my boy’s heart.

It is her. It must be.

Dennis is keeping his wits but I think he already knows what I need. It is unfortunate that he’s grown attached to the whore. She is a pretty little thing – it is why I chose her – but I do see the way he looks at her.

I can’t help but wonder if I am still enough for him. If after all this time he wants – he needs – more than me.

I am certain he will not want to help with what must be done. He made me promise I would not do this again, he still hates what happened to the boy. But what must be done will be done.

I will not allow God to tear me away from my boy. My only boy. And if God has forsaken me, I will take a different path.

-Helena

Maria trembled while reading Mother’s entry in the shared journal. The words, while on the surface innocent love for a son, seem steeped in an indescribable evil. A selfish sneer permeated each word, punctuated by an unspoken plan to defy God and man, to defy every law of nature in order to continue on.

Maria turned the page:

1/2/1920

Mother died last night.

She went in her sleep, peaceful-like. At least, that is what the doc tells me. Moriah has been real sweet since Ma passed. I think she could make a man a real happy husband one day. She said that God called Mother back to his bosom, but I don’t think that God had much all to do with it.

Sometimes I think Moriah’s lookin’ at me with that special look a woman gets for a man. That look makes me burn in places that I know I shouldn’t be burning. That belongs to Her, even in death it belongs to Her. The Preacher says it’s a sin but…

How could it be a sin to love?

I ain’t thinking straint.

Dennis hadn’t signed the entry, but it was unmistakably his writing. His voice. Maria shivered at the connotation of his letter. Had Mother corrupted her son’s mind so much that he could feel nothing for anyone, anyone who wasn’t Helena?

The next entries were scrawled, the script increasingly unhinged, larger, looping, slanted. The words were hurried and mad, the entries short, sometimes incoherent.

1/10/20

Woke up in basement. Mother’s clothes. Didn’t remember changing, didn’t remember leaving bed.

Barely made it to my chambers before Moriah woke to start breakfast.

What is happening?

1/20/20

Saw Mother in my room. She tried to speak, but heard no words. She looked wrong… She looked crazy. She looked rotted.

Am I going mad?

1/22/20

She came again! She spoke. She told me what had to be done.

I can’t.

It’s hideous. Terrible. Wrong.

My nights are lonely, my days unbearable, but I cannot do what she asks.

1/23/20

I MISS her.

My heart aches for her. Pines for her. The price is terrible. It is Satan’s work, I ain’t read much of the good book, but I know it will damn me. I will burn if I do what Mother asks.

She says I will never see Hell.

I cannot help but contemplate what she wants. I cannot help but wonder if I owe her this.

I-

The entry trailed off. Maria wondered if the book ended, but she flipped the page, finding an entry that chilled her to her bones:

2/5/20

Moriah is chained in the basement!

Mother was in the room, she told me what had to come next.

She wanted me to get the poker from the fire and…

Christ! I can’t hurt Moriah. She ain’t been nothing but good to me. But Mother says it’s the only way. Mother says she did it for me, and now it’s my turn to do it for her.

She says the price is steep, but it’s fair. She says that she knows best.

I’m afraid to go back downstairs, but the poker is in my hands, its tip is burning hot.

I know what I’ve got to do.

Maria snapped the book shut, short of breath, covered in a cold sweat. The story was horrible, beyond her wildest imagination, yet it rang true. Death came, but they had found a way to cheat it. And they wanted to use her for that same nefarious ritual. Her stomach pitched, knowing that they did not want her. They wanted her body.

And she had abandoned it, left it sitting in her room, vacant.

She felt queasy, used, tricked. She began to run, racing towards her room, her blood pounding in her ears. Then came another feeling, a dirty, malevolent feeling. She felt invaded, molested, like something had crawled up inside her and laid eggs. Something had taken control of her body, each twitch and motion communicated down the golden umbilical cord, each feeling coming through in high definition.

She felt the tingle, the sensation of arousal, the sweet dampness taking hold. She cried out, trying to jump back to her body, but something had barred her, banned her from her husk. Panic welled in her throat as hands, her hands, began to touch her, stroking over her skin, raising gooseflesh.

Her lips parted, a moan escaping, but it was not her voice.

She tore down the hallway, barreling forward at superhuman speed. Panic turned to betrayal turned to rage. Whoever she found inside her body, she would tear them limb from limb. Why hadn’t Kane warned her?

Kane stood before her, tilting his head. “What’d you find?” he began to ask, but she tore past him. He had been looking out for her, but not in the way she had needed. Damn.

“Where are you going?” he called after her, but she did not respond. She skidded to a halt before her door, bolting through the wooden slab.

Her body lay on her bed, spread eagle and wearing nothing but her underwear. She sat up, no, her husk sat up, staring with a the guilty expression of a cheating lover.

“Just a little longer,” the husk said with Moriah’s voice.

“Get out,” hissed Maria, her stomach pitching.

Moriah crossed her arms, giggling, “What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll tear you apart,” Maria growled.

Moriah rolled her eyes, laughing.

Maria lunged.

She tore into her body with full force. She felt the other presence immediately, the parasite, the invader. Screaming with unbridled rage, Maria grasped at the spirit. As their ethereal bodies touched, Maria felt everything. She felt wet with anticipation, lust, love, hope. She felt the joy of feeling again, after years of nothingness. Then, she felt chained, broken, loathed, lost. She felt the encroaching shadow of the basement, the gnawing hunger of starvation, the sandy thirst of dehydration. She felt her body twisting – No, Moriah’s body twisting, Maria forced herself to remember – as gnarled hands twisted at the poppet, Mother’s voice rasping, Do you offer yourself and your body up freely?

Yes, she heard Moriah say, her voice cracking, desperate. She felt the great emptiness beyond, the gaping maw of the opening void. She felt her agonies melt away, but she felt something rawer, terrible. Loss, complete and utter, hopeless and final.

Loss of self.

Now you see, Moriah said through their shared link. I won’t go back, not to that!

Get out!

Please, just let me stay… I’ll share… I can-

OUT! Maria howled, clawing and gnawing and pushing with all her might, psychic and otherwise.

A blowing wind filled the room, a swirling tempest of pure energy. The shutters banged against the wall, the pillows on the bed bursting into a blizzard of feathers. For a moment, the entire house seemed to quake. And then she was whole, sitting on her bedsheets, wearing nothing but her underwear, her skin covered in gooseflesh, her hair matted with sweat, panting.

She stared into the eyes of the spirit of Moriah Alcot. Green and flecked with blue. Blonde and beautiful with full lips, supple breasts, and long, creamy legs. The ghost’s stunning features were twisted into a mask of hatred and pain. Tears rimmed her eyes and she hissed, “I’ll tell Helena. I’ll tell her what you can do! Then you’ll be sorry!”

“I don’t think so,” Maria spat, calling Moriah’s bluff, hoping that is was a bluff.

“You’ll see, I’ll tell her and you’ll be in the basement too,” cackled Moriah, madness seeping from the wild-eyed girl, a twisted lunacy from years of hopeless existence. “You’re going to wish that you had let me stayed! You will! I’m going to tell her and-”

“You won’t have to tell me a thing, Miss Alcot,” Mother said, her voice cold, calculated, victorious. “Now leave us.”

Maria spun, her face ashen. Standing in her doorway was the spectral figure of Helena McMannon, Mother Phillips. The entity stepped into the room on translucent legs, seeming to glide over the wooden floor. She sneered and Moriah, flicking her wrist. The girl flinched, her lips trembling plaintively as her body shredded, tearing apart like leaves on the wind, scattering and vanishing. The air grew frigid, Maria’s breath misting.

Mother laughed, “You lied, girl.”

Maria did not respond.

“Don’t be shy,” Mother said, “I knew you were lying, but I am surprised. Most of them take weeks… That whore took a full month to do half of what you just did.” Mother shook her head and continued, “I misjudged you. You must have real potential, potential I could use.”

Mother’s eyes grew cold and she locked her gaze with Maria’s. “That, or you have been touched by death, marked. Answer me, which is it?”

“I don’t know,” Maria stuttered, even as an image of Brian floated through her mind. Pale and blank-eyed, wrists slit open with a rusted boxcutter, cooling to the touch. A bathtub overflown with crimson water, bloody waterfalls staining the floor. Death.

“Don’t you,” Mother asked, but the suspicion faded back to elation. “Tonight, we will perform the final cleansing. Tomorrow, we will begin the real work.”

With that, the ghost left the room, the temperature returning to its usual winter chill. The door hung open, inviting, tempting, but Maria knew there was no escape. Not that way.

Pulling her legs to her chest, trembling. She had nothing to go on, nothing at all. She forced her mind to calm down, to mull over everything she had come across that day. The journal, while enlightening, gave her nothing to use in her escape. Kane had no way of helping her, and he’d likely be trying to kill her now. James was a spy, and everything he said had to be taken with a grain of salt, and-

Wait! She stopped her train of thought. Something James had said stood out in her mind, taunting her on the fringes of her thoughts. He had let something slip, something important.

But what?

Try as she might, Maria could not recall what he had said. She wanted to meditate on his words longer, but a cold voice tore her out of her thoughts.

“Sorry, kid. I really thought you had a shot,” Kane said, materializing before her. He looked disappointed, he looked horrifying. His haggard, sunken face was twisted in a mask of pain and violence. He did not move, but she knew that he was there to kill her.

“There’s still time,” Maria insisted.

He laughed, hoarse and humorless. “Look, there ain’t any leaving the basement. You ain’t walkin’ out, you ain’t projecting out. I told you, once you get sent there, you don’t come back.”

“So that’s it?” she spat back. “You’re just going to kill me?”

He shook his head, “Nope.”

Opening his shirt, he showed her a bloody sigil, carved deep into his chest, dripping ethereal blood, the flesh raw and pussy, as if an infection had taken hold. “The bitch carved this when I woke up. It’ll heal, but ‘till it does, I can’t touch a damn thing.” he snorted. “I suppose she played us both.”

He sighed, thinking. “Of course, you could end all this.”

He met her eyes, his gaze cold, and telling. She knew what he wanted her to do.

“Are you saying I should-”

“I’m saying you should consider it,” he replied. “That she-bitch uses a pretty fucking sharp knife for that ritual, and you wouldn’t have to get ahold of it for long… One good cut, and… Well, I’m just saying it’s better to choose your own time. Isn’t it?”

The words rang in her ears. She had seen them before. They were scrawled at the bottom of a note, a note written in Brian’s hand. The damp paper sat beside a blood-filled tub, tear-stained and apologetic. Better to choose your own time, than allow your sins to catch up.

She set her jaw, fixing Kane with an angry stare, “You do what you’ve got to do. And I’m going to do what I have to do.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips and he shrugged, “Suit yourself, kid. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that, Kane was gone, and Maria had the feeling any hope of assistance had vanished with him. She was on her own now, and her time was running short. The ritual would begin late, but it would mark the end of her stay upstairs. The basement waited below, a terrible, salivating mouth waiting to devour her.

A plan was forming in her mind, but she needed to know where she was. Nothing would work if she couldn’t figure that much out. The answer was in James’s words, but still it eluded her. His story had meandered. He told her about his brother’s disappearance. He told her about his search, decades-long and fruitless. He told her about tracking down the McMannons. He had said…

It weren’t ‘till nineteen-thirty-six that I hear about a couple livin’ about fifty miles out of Casper, out around Oak’s Spring.

Oak’s spring! Fifty miles out of Casper! She had a town, she had a radius. She could point the cavalry to her and wait. She just had to let the right person know. She just had to tell someone who’d believe her, no matter what, no matter how far-fetched. The right words to the right person and she would be free inside of a week!

The door was open, beckoning her to step through.

Steeling herself, she decided to try that night.

#

Maria woke from her nap. Her sleep had not been restful, but she felt a faint tingle of energy that had been missing hours earlier. The setting sun was fire in the sky, blood-tinged rays seeping in through her window as she forced herself to her feet.

Her eyes were dry, her lips were parched. She felt weaker than she did after breaking her leg in middle school. She felt lonelier than she had the first nights after Brian’s funeral. She felt more lost than the day her grandmother went to join God in heaven. Still, there was hope in her heart as she watched the last rays of daylight fade from the sky.

The plan was fixed in her mind, her last-ditch effort at escape. If this failed…

She stopped her thoughts. She could not allow herself to think this would fail. The ritual loomed ahead, the final step before she landed in the basement. She did not want to know how long she would last down there. How long before she joined the spectral figures, roaming the derelict halls, pining for a body long turned to dust?

She knew she was going to find out, and she knew that her ordeal had only begun. The only glimmer of hope left for her to cling on to was that an end was in sight. With any luck her message would get out. With any luck her parents and Mercy would be leading the charge to save her from the madwoman and her son.

With any luck.

She forced herself off of her cot and down onto the cold, wooden flooring. Her knees creaked as she stooped, her back popping with displeasure. She was in bad shape. The days of abuse and hunger were beginning to take a permanent toll. She wondered what she looked like, how much she had changed since they had taken her. She wondered if Mercy would recognize her.

Crossing her aching legs, she began to focus on her memory of the tarot card, conjuring an image from her mind until the piece of cardstock seemed real, as if it were floating in the center of the room, rotating gently with each electric firing of her neurons. She could picture every facet, every nuance of the Fool, folding inward as she stared into his bug-like eyes.

She was flitting along the curved pathworks surrounding him, dancing alongside butterflies and birds. Golden light descended to caress her in its warmth, tugging her upwards. She pulled away.

As Heaven pulled her up, she moved sideways. She drifted from the light, darting across snow-swept landscapes and over ice-covered side roads. She sped ahead at speeds she never thought possible outside of an airplane. Decaying towns flashed by, with boarded up shops and buildings long gone to rot. She passed truckers on their ninth hour, zipping past cross-country commuters on their way to destinations unknown.

Snow began to descend from the nights sky, dots of white covering a blanket of black, glistening in the moonlight. She could see the state-line lingering on the horizon, a green sign welcoming her to Colorado smiling against the darkening sky. She tore past it at a million miles an hour.

The lights of the city glowed in the twilight, the glow of her hometown polluting the night’s sky, blotting out the twinkle of the waking stars. Soon she was on familiar ground, darting around buildings she had watched go up, and tracing streets like old friends. She passed Wilox and remembered her childhood home, small and cozy, nestled between the suburbs and the downtown bustle. She remembered nights spent playing with Mercy, nights spent annoyed by her kid brother, nights spent annoying her parents. She remembered the playground a few blocks over, the lazy days spent lounging on toys she had outgrown, and smoking her first joint on the swingset. She remembered the hidden lot behind Seven-Elven where she had made love to Brian for the first time, crammed into the back of his parents Suburban. This was home, forever and always.

She hoped that she could would be able to walk these streets again. She hoped that this wasn’t goodbye.

Mercy’s house was halfway across town. It had belonged to her grandfather, and always smelled of mothballs and Fireball whiskey. The old man had died the year they had turned nineteen, and for some inexplicable reason he chose to leave it to Mercy. It had laid barren until shortly after Brian’s death, when Mercy quite suddenly decided to move back home, saying she was sick of the bustle of Denver. Maria knew it was a lie. It was no family heirloom full of beautiful memories, it was exactly what Mercy called it a money toilet. Everything that wasn’t broken was breaking, and the handful of things that weren’t breaking were on life support. Nevertheless, Mercy had come back, always saying that her plan was to fix up the house and use the money to go back to Denver. Deep down, Maria knew that Mercy was lying. Deep down, Maria was certain that Mercy was afraid to leave the comfort of their home town.

Drifting through memories and dreams, Maria wandered the meandering path towards Mercy’s house. Each place held a memory, a glimmering hope of times long past. Maria wanted to stoop and pick up each pearl of the past, examining it, cradling it, before storing it away. She looked up, seeing the moon rising well over the horizon, the threat of the night’s ritual returning full force.

Kicking herself, Maria leapt back into fifth gear, cursing herself for delaying. She tore down the old, cracked asphalt streets, ignoring STOP signs and streetlights. Ahead, she could see her final destination. The siding cracked, the shutters sagging, the pavement walk split and decayed. Mercy’s house.

She stumbled, faltered, grinding to a sudden halt. Her jaw went slack, and she cried out.

Her father stood on the porch.

He paced in front of the old house, speaking in hushed tones, his phone pressed against his ear. She could hardly recognize her old man, for the first time he truly looked to be her old man. His hair seemed grayer, the sparkle in his eyes had faded to a dusty glimmer, his wrinkles had grown pronounced, and his usually squared shoulders had sloped in defeat. He looked a shell of the man she knew, the man she looked up to, the man she called when everything seemed to be falling apart.

“Dammit Tommy,” he sighed, leaning against the porch’s railing. “She’s your sister! I don’t know how long but… If your mother could hear you now, she’d…”

He listened for a second, a blaze of fury filling his eyes. “Christ!” he shouted. “Damn you, Tommy. Damn you.”

With that, he slammed a thumb onto the red button, terminating his call. He spat into the dirt, blinking fast. He would not cry, she had never seen him cry, but she had seen him fight back the tears. Twice. Only twice.

Maria’s heart was breaking. She cursed that this had been brought down upon her family. She cursed that she had brought this down on them. She cursed her little brother for being a selfish, self-centered prick. She cursed that she couldn’t be there for her mother and father.

Reaching out, she tried to brush her father’s shoulder, to let him know that she was there. She tried to whisper in his ear, to tell him that everything would be alright.

Her fingers passed through his shoulder, her words no more than a gust of wind.

The old man shivered and pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, letting out another belated grunt. He did not turn at the sound of the door opening, nor at the sound of soft footsteps padding on the creaking wooden steps.

“Come inside, mi amor,” Maria’s mother’s voice said. “Please.”

Her father turned, forcing a smile. “Coming Maya. Just give me a minute.”

“Did you get a hold of Tommy?”

Maria’s father forced a hopeful smile and lied, “Not yet. He must be busy. I’ll try once more before coming in.”

His words lied, but nothing could hide the sorrow in his eyes. The sorrow that his son was not coming. The sorrow that his son would only be coming for a funeral.

Maya nodded, not contesting the lie. “Mercy turned in. She said that there is food waiting for us in the fridge.”

“She didn’t have to bring us food,” Mister Martinez said. “She’s done more than enough…”

“Don’t stay out too long,” Maya offered with a smile.

“I won’t,” Mister Martinez replied, forcing another smile.

Maya went back inside, the door closing with a soft click. Maria felt like crying, and two-hundred and seventy-seven miles away tears began to stream from her body’s eyes. She could feel the warm, salty water flowing down her cheeks, and she felt the spasms in her muscles as her shoulders trembled. She mourned with her parents, wishing she could do something, anything to relieve their pain, to let them know that she was alive. She silently screamed at her brother, wondering how he could let their parents go through this ordeal alone. She wondered how he could abandon her without a second thought.

She pushed through the door, leaving her father alone with his thoughts. She passed her mother, reheating a lasagna in a aluminum pan, and she headed up the stairs.

Already her hope was fading. She had touched her father but he could not feel her, he could not see her, he could not hear her. How could she hope to tell any of them where she was? She would try Mercy and hope that her friend was more receptive, more attuned to Maria. She hoped that Mercy was the answer.

But hope was fading fast. 

Next Chapter: Part Seven: Seven Discs