The baseboard groaned. The old, rotted wood bent with her steady pull. Maria winced as the splintered surface dug into her palms, leaving tiny pinpricks of blood. She gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt, but did not relent in her attack.

The smell within was foul and wet, rank and rotted. It came pouring from the crack in the siding and spilled into her room. It took all Maria’s power not to gag, not to shove the plank back into place and forget the whole affair. Instead, she forced herself to lay prone on the sagging floor, and pull, her face inches from the noxious crack.

Finally, with a sudden and ear shattering crack, the wood split in half. The dark hole complete, ready for inspection.

Maria could see pinpricks within the darkness, like eyes glaring out at her. She heard the scurrying in the walls, the relentless patter of small, rodent feet. The floor behind the wall was covered in small, brown pellets of rodent shit, and slimy splotches trailed around, she was terrified to contemplate their source.

There was something else. Something with mass profaning the flat black of the hole in the wall.

Something was folded up in the clutches of shadow, tucked away from prying eyes. Curiosity welled up within her, but she could not find the courage to reach inside the terrible gap in the wall. Already she could feel the sharp, pin-like teeth digging into her exposed flesh.

She slowed her ragged breaths, forcing a sense of calm to grip her racing heart. The shadows still swirled and the hidden mice still scratched, but slowly a peace floated over her. Slowly, she found the fear trickling out from her, as if it were leaving to search for a new, fresh host.

She forced her hand into the shadows. The fear came racing back, curling up within her and taking hold with razor-sharp claws. She bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to howl with terror. Her heart pounded in her chest with a drummer’s intensity. The stench was overpowering, searing the insides of her nostrils and playing nasty tricks on her stomach.

Still, she reached.

Her fingers brushed the object – now she could tell it was paper – but she could not find a hold. She pressed her shoulder against the wall, feeling it push against her weight, and forced her arm inwards until the socket burned and her fingertips tingled. She stifled a groan and pushed the pain away, forcing her arm to reach.

Her trembling fingers wrapped around the ragged parchment.

With tenuous care, she extracted her prize. She was overwhelmed with the sudden, and overpowering thought that her prize could easily be some discarded receipt, a crumpled up poem. Something completely, and utterly useless.

The folded parchment sat in her lap and for a moment she could not bring herself to look. She was gripped with an sudden sense of distrust and unease, as if the folded page held secrets best kept in darkened corners, looked upon only by the eyes of mindless rodents.

Don’t be silly, she told herself. With a deep breath, she unfolded the paper.

The page was filled with hastily written letters and blotted with ink, stained with a deep brown substance that she could only assume to be blood. Falling from the page was a smaller, typed page and a card. They fell to the floor, staring upwards at her.

THE TAROT OF THE EGYPTIANS was typed across the top of the page, along with two bold headings that stood out from the rest of the type: BAPHOMET, and SUMMARY.

“What the hell?” Maria whispered, moving to pick up the card.

She had seen tarot cards before, but this looked like none of the cards her friends had brought to parties and drunkenly predicted the future with. On this card a green-clad man with golden skin was spread eagle on a glowing golden backdrop. In one hand he clasped a flaming pinecone and in the other a silver geometric shape. Two curved bull-like horns protruded from either side of his head, and a cone of white light ascended from his crown. Overlapping circlets surrounded the figure, air-like. A dove and a butterfly danced along the narrow, silver trails. An alligator hovered underfoot, and a golden tiger clung to his leg. The figure’s wide-eyed stare seemed to pierce into Maria with wide, narrow-pupiled eyes.

The card read: 0. THE FOOL.

Setting the card aside, she felt an involuntary shiver run thought her, despite the tremor, she did not feel fear. No, she felt an indiscernible psychic pull that drew her towards the strange god-like figure. She tore her eyes from his bug-eyed stare and turned her attention to the page.

Scanning more than reading, she slogged through a long-winded diatribe about the mystic symbolism of the strange art, but she understood little to nothing of what was said. Deciding the typed page would be no help to her, she turned her attention to the scrawled page. Reading:

It has been three weeks in this place. I finally managed to sneak into the library. The bitch keeps her boy’s body on the kitchen table. It’s starting to stink, but the rats won’t touch it. It’s like even their bodies are corrupt, detestable. It lies there and stares at me with those dead, rotted eyes.

Once a week, she comes to me. It’s always in the dead of night, shaking me from slumber. Always the same, I find myself bound to my bed and there she stands with that knife clutched in her damn hands. I don’t want to think about what the ritual is for, even writing about it makes me feel… I don’t know, dirty.

Once a day, or sometimes every other day, she makes me bathe. She sits in her chair and she watches. At first, I thought she was a damn pervert. Some bitch who got slick watching fellas bathe, then flick her bean to it later. Mamma would have a goddamn heart attack to hear me refer to ‘sinful’ acts as ‘bean flicking,’ but I don’t think Mamma finding out will be an issue.

I don’t think I’m going to survive this.

I stole one of the pages from those blasphemous books. I don’t know if it will help, but I have to try something… Anything. The kid says that the power is in the cards, but what does he know, he’s like… ten! But I figured ‘what the hell,’ it’s not like it’ll hurt at this point.

It paid off! There’s a trick, a way to get out of here. It’s temporary, but I’ll settle for any escape at this point, anything to slip away from her rituals, and baths, and that rotting corpse that was her boy.

The trick is in one of the really old books she keeps. I can’t steal that book, she uses it in that damn ritual, she’d sniff me out in seconds if that book goes missing. No trouble, I memorized the damn passage. I’m writing it down and hiding it with my journal, and the card.

I will keep them under the floorboards. I just hope she doesn’t find them.

The entry was labeled JOSH TANNER, dated 1935.

Second page? Maria wondered. Still, the hurried, scrawled words sounded too good to be true. The promise of escape? Temporary. She wasn’t even sure what those words meant, but it was still the best shot she had.

She dropped to her belly, looking back into the shadowy hole in the wall, the original hiding place of her new-found treasures. Or junk, that part had yet to be determined.

Squinting, she could see shadows darting about in the hollow behind the wall. A trick of the eye? or mice carrying every disease known and unknown to mankind? Either way, she could not find the courage to force her hand back into that darkened crevice.

From her prone position, she could hear voice carrying up from the floor below. Through the moaning pipes, she could hear conversation in the kitchen. It was one-sided, but she understood the tone.

“Kane? He really tried to kill her?” Dennis shouted, but he did not sound angry. He sounded afraid.

A pause.

“He’s getting stronger,” Dennis responded. “And fighting him… Mother, you can’t use your energy like that! It could kill you.”

Another pause, longer.

“I know, Mother. I know you need her… We, yes, we need her.”

Pans clattered, then. “How can he manifest, though? I thought only a trained body of light…?” He trailed off, listening.

“And what about the kid? He’s spoken to her… Sure he doesn’t know much but… Yes, Mother.”

Another pause, then.

“I don’t want to leave you. Not like this.”

A pause.

“There? That’s suicide, Mother! I ain’t going!”

A longer, angrier pause.

“I know you need it, but you’ll just have to find another way. Any other way… Damn it, Mother. Fine.”

Another pause, followed by silence. Whatever Mother had said it was definitive, final, no more questions to be asked.

Maria stood, stretching her back and looking at the scraps of paper sitting on the floor. What am I going to do with these?

“I’m glad he didn’t hurt you.”

Maria spun, coming face to face with the boy. “How did you get in here?”

He laughed, “I get around.”

She paused. What she was thinking was insane, foolish. Impossible! Yet she still asked, “You’re a ghost. Aren’t you?”

The boy flinched, “I don’t like that word. It sounds dirty.”

“I’m sorry,” Maria said. So you are a ghost, she thought. Or I’ve gone madder than a hatter… I guess only time will tell.

“It’s okay,” the boy said, scuffing his shoe against the floor.

Maria stooped, picking up the card. “Do you know what this is?”

“Oh, that? It’s a card, a parrot card. It was the mean lady’s, then it was Josh’s. She was real mad when it went missing, but I think she forgot it. That was a long time ago.”

He couldn’t mean the same mean lady, could he?

She did not ask, instead she changed tracks. “Do you know what a body of light is, Jeb?”

The boy laughed, the way a child does when they know something that you don’t. “Me! And Kane. And the mean lady. And Josh, and the others. You too, but you have a home… We don’t got homes no more.”

He hung his head, as if mourning some unknown and unspoken loss. For a moment he did not look like a boy. He looked like an old man at his wife’s funeral, hunched and sniffing in the billowing rain.

“What’s in the basement?” Maria asked.

“The mean lady says it’s our home, down there. My brother says she’s right, but I think he’s just broken. And I think she is lying. It ain’t my home… I’m pretty sure it’s hell.”

“Hell?”

Footsteps were marching down the hallway. Heavy. Powerful. Dennis. Jeb looked around the room, frightened. “I got to go!”

“Wait,” Maria hissed, reaching out for the boy.

“Don’t let them see you’ve got those,” he whispered, pointing to the card and note. “They’ll be mad.”

He turned on his heels and darted through he wall. 

Maria stood, shocked. One minute Jeb had stood before her, the next he had vanished, darting through solid wood like it had been thin air. It wasn’t possible. It was…

The sound of jingling keys pulled Maria from her shocked stupor. Her mind raced for answers, suddenly terrified to be discovered. The golden fool watched her with his bug-eyed stare. Taunting her.

Her eyes settled on the matress. She scooped up the papers and card, shoving them between her lumpy pillow and the rusted frame. It was far from secure, but it would have to do.

She spun around, flopping down atop her bed.

The lock clicked and the door swung open.

Dennis stood in the frame, he looked tired, haggard, his eyes hiding a reluctance of some, indeterminate source.

Only then did Maria realize she had forgotten to replace the floorboard.

Dennis did not need to ask, his eyes shot straight to the missing chunk, narrowing. He looked hurt, confused, betrayed, like a master whose dog had bitten them at mealtime.

He turned his sad, accusatory glare onto Maria.

She tried to look innocent, saying, “There was a smell… I saw the board was loose, so I looked.”

“Smell?” he asked.

She nodded, “Really bad.”

Dennis sniffed the air twice and scrunched his nose. “Christ, that’s bad. Here, let me look.”

He knelt before the hole, peering into the shadows. Maria weighed the idea of jumping him. His back was turned, he was low to the ground. She might never get another chance. No, bide your time. Don’t blow it all, not yet, she told herself.

Wincing, Dennis rose. “Damn mice are in the walls again. Ain’t much I can do now, but I’ll put out some more traps before I go. I’ll close up the hole when I get back, alright?”

“Get back?”

“I’m taking the truck into town, got an errand to run. I won’t be gone too long,” he said, refusing to betray more. Finally, a faint smile cracked his lips and a belated chuckle escaped. “Next time, tell me before you go tearing up my baseboards, alright?”

“Okay,” she said. As he was turning to leave a question flew through Maria’s mind. Before she could think better of it, she blurted it out, “Dennis? Who was Josh?”

Dennis turned, slowly. A strange look seemed to consume him. What was it? Guilt?

“Don’t go talking to Jeb, Missy,” he sighed. “It ain’t safe to get too attached to the dead.”

With that, Dennis left. The lock clicked into place and Maria sat back onto her cot. She stared at the blank face of the door, Dennis’s words running circles in her mind:

It ain’t safe to get too attached to the dead.

The cute little boy and the murderous Kane were both dead.

Bodies of light, she realized. Hearing Jeb’s words: We don’t got homes no more.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Maria?

She lay back on her cot, closing her eyes. Outside she heard the engine of the pickup truck sputter to life, tires kicking up gravel as Dennis departed. She lay there, turning over the day in her mind until sleep came.

She slept for nearly an entire day, but it was not a peaceful rest. No, throughout her tumultuous nap Maria dreamt of death and souls without homes. She dreamt of basements and gnawing rats crawling over each other in inky shadow, hissing and biting in the dark. Echoing through each dream were Jeb’s veiled, ominous words:

I think that place is Hell.

#

Dennis had no trouble on the slick, unplowed roads. Four-wheel drive ensured an easy and quick trip. What had taken nearly four hours in the hearse – a damn fool car to take out in the dead of winter – had taken just under three in the truck. The wind was blowing in Colorado, gusts of icy air picked up rivers of snow, sending them swirling across the black-top pavement to create currents across the darkness.

He hated the idea of going back, there of all places, but for Mother to work her mojo she needed things, personal things.

The heavy tires and four wheel drive in the truck took the gravel roads with ease. What had sent the hearse pitching and rocking was no more than a slight bump to his pickup. Country western played lightly over the sound of the V8 engine’s roar and the steady pop and crack of the gravel below. Hank Williams crooned about a Cold, Cold Heart as his guitar rasped underneath. It calmed Dennis, and he’d take all the calming he could get before walking into the proverbial lion’s den.

The house loomed ahead, looking just as he had left it. Almost. Scant details had changed, telling details that did nothing to alleviate his concerns. In fact, they kicked his already racing heart into overdrive, a steady gallop that cut over his thoughts and throbbed in his head.

The woman’s door hand been closed and police tape adorned the entrance. DO NOT CROSS. The broken window upstairs was boarded up with plyboard and two-by-fours to keep the winter snows and drifts from entering. Someone cared enough to keep the house repaired, someone was out there, searching for the girl, hoping to see her again.

A pang of guilt raced through Dennis, but he stifled it, smothered it with a pillow and left the carcass for the dogs. Mother needed the girl. Mother was there for him, she was counting on him, after all she had done for him, he could not let her down.

He shoved the truck into park and leapt out. Better to rip the bandage off quickly, better to get what was needed and leave than to linger. To risk capture or cowardice, neither were options.

The fresh snow cracked underfoot as he trudged up the path. Flashes of that day, that horrible day, ran rampant in his mind. The look of horror on the cop’s face, of judgement. They had been judging him and Mother for a long damn time, but those looks of horror and disgust still pained him. He remembered his heart sinking as the girl fell from her perch, hope shattering. He remembered elation when he saw she was still breathing. He remembered panic, loading her into the coffin and hearing sirens, miles off but sounding mere inches away.

He remembered swearing to never come back.

Here he was, trudging up the same path, opening the same door, and ducking under the police tape – that part was new – to stomp up the same stairs. He wondered why any old lock of hair wouldn’t do, but he knew better than to question Mother’s ways. To remain ignorant was better, for every time Mother showed him how what they did was done, he felt his stomach pitch and vomit push up in the back of his throat. No, it was better to leave the thinking to Mother, he would stick to running errands – even the ones he could not comprehend.

The second-to-top stair creaked, and he could not help but laugh. Without that creak he may have searched the downstairs for minutes more, without those minutes the police might have arrived, if the police had arrived…

Well, that didn’t warrant thinking about.

He walked quickly to the bedroom, his eyes taking everything in. There were posters on the walls, bands he did not recognize. There were books on a shelf in the corner, mostly paperbacks with well-worn spines. There were a thousand remnants of the girl’s stolen life, but he only needed one.

The bathroom held his prize. He lifted it and cradled it close to his chest with a faint smile gracing his lips. His prize – priceless in his mind – could not have costed more than five dollars, it was made entirely of plastic and was covered in tangled and ragged tufts of discarded hair.

A hairbrush had never before held such weight.

He was turning to leave the room when a sound froze him in place. Tires crunched on gravel and brakes – badly in need of replacement – whined. Someone else was here.

He was fucked.

#

Mercy looked up at Maria’s grandmother’s house. It had been Maria’s for quite a while, but somehow Mercy still thought of it as belonging to her grandmother. In many ways much of Maria belonged to the old woman. The kindly, wrinkled woman who baked them cookies and told them stories of Mexico seemed to hold sway over her granddaughter, even in death. Her kind, gentle laugh echoing through years without her, warming Maria’s heart, but holding her back, keeping her from moving on. In some ways Mercy felt like Maria lived in the past and held everybody there alongside. Of course, even the thought sent wracking pangs of guilt racing through Mercy.

She wasn’t quite sure why she was here, but now that she sat in her car looking up at the empty hollow where her best friend should be, she felt the tears returning.

Still, she had a job to do. She felt dirty even as she slid from her car. She felt like a criminal, returning to the scene of the crime to steal away a key piece of evidence overlooked by the cops, but no less damning. She felt selfish, knowing she was stealing away an important piece of closure from her childhood friend. Despite these overwhelming feelings, despite her conflicting emotions running rampant through her chest, she knew that she was sparing them both untold agony, untold loss. When Maria came back – and Mercy knew she would come home – she would need a sense of security, of peace. She did not need demons from their past crawling out of the woodwork.

It had to be done.

Mercy was so lost in her thoughts, her misgivings, her personal agonies, that she did not notice the fresh boot prints in yesterday’s snow. Nor did she notice the loosened police tape, that had been taut when the police put it in place. As if in a daze, she entered her best friend’s home.

She began to trudge up the stairs. She thought about the mud covering Maria’s floors, trampled in by strangers, and policemen, and Mercy in a panicked rush. For a minute she considered cleaning the house, but knew better. It was still a crime scene, even if the cops were done with it. Truly, she was breaking the law just by being here. If a cruiser was passing by and they happened to notice her car it was one quick call, one quick arrest, one quick trip to the station before Mercy was suspect number one. Then if they found what she had come back for… well, it would take a great lawyer and a hell of a lot more money than she had to convince anyone that she didn’t have something to do with Maria’s disappearance.

A creak ahead snapped her from her thoughts. A terrible, sudden creak. Her body grew cold, as if someone had placed the cold, serrated edge of a knife to her throat. Someone was in the house! What if the killers had returned? What if – just like her – they were here to collect a key piece of evidence, previously overlooked? What if they were waiting around the corner, with a pistol used to kill two police officers? What if…

No! she thought. That’s impossible. You’re hearing things where there’s nothing. Nerves. That’s all.

She pressed on.

At the end of the hallway, Maria’s door hung open. Her room stood waiting, staring back at Mercy with an accusatory stare, as if to say: I know what you’re doing. Mercy had the urge to take the ten extra steps and slam the door shut, to lock out the accusing stare and the guilt it brought. No, she knew better. The police had pictures of the scene, and to move anything, to change anything was to clue them into the fact that someone had been here.

Instead, she gripped the pull cord to the attic, and allowed the ladder to drop.

The attic was dark and filled with cobwebs. She had brought a flashlight, but the small window on the far wall allowed enough light into the dreary room that she could see without its assistance. She began rummaging through boxes, relics of Maria’s past, unpacked and – mostly – forgotten. Photo albums from high school sat beside stuffed animals from childhood. Science fair awards lay atop short poems penned by a heartbroken romantic. Relics.

Downstairs, she heard movement. A brief flurry that sounded like shuffling footfalls. She froze. Her breath stuck in her lungs and she listened with twitching ears. She was sure that she had heard it. Someone had to be in the house. Someone had to be watching her. But who? The kidnappers had no reason to come back, the police had no reason to come back. Who?

Maria? No. That was almost as ridiculous as the other two notions. What about her grandmother? Was the kindly woman watching Mercy, with sorrow in her eyes, knowing the deceit in the younger woman’s heart?

You’re freaking yourself out, Mercy, she told herself.

The house remained silent.

Mercy resumed her search. Within minutes she found her quarry. A box tucked into one of the darkest, most cobweb riddled corners. A box labeled in neat Sharpie: BRIAN.

Feeling like a thief in the night, Mercy grabbed the box and made her way back to the ladder. She had just put the trap door back in place when the front door slammed.

She froze, dropping the box and scattering the contents of a dead friend’s life. Photos, his phone, his wallet. They all came tumbling out. But her mind was not on the spilled contents. Someone had been in the house.

Who?

That all-consuming thought racing through her head, she raced to the guest bedroom, staring out across the desolate landscape, the snow-covered waste.

A pickup truck parked at the end of the property fired up, skidding out from where it had parked. A man sat behind the driver’s seat. Shaggy haired, and wearing a flat-cap. The license plates were obscured with mud, the same mud that covered the paint so thickly that she could not make out its color.

The truck sped off down the dirt road, and Mercy knew – she just knew – that it had to have been the kidnappers. She had to call someone. The police? Maria’s parents? Who?

She raced out into the hall, haphazardly throwing the spilled remnants of Brian’s life back into its receptacle. She hoped that she hadn’t missed anything, but that seemed of secondary importance.

The box under one arm she tore from the house, making sure to close the door behind her. Already a cover story was forming in her mind, already a plan to cover her own misdeeds. She felt dirty, but she also felt safe.

Once the box was safely stowed in her trunk, she dialed. The officer in charge of Maria’s case answered immediately. She had been there to check for external damage, feeling antsy and helpless, she wanted to help fix Maria’s house while they waited on word of her safety. It was plausible enough, and the cop bought it… Or at least she hoped he did.

She saw a pickup, going north on Maria’s road. He had been parked on the property. What did he look like? A man, long, messy hair, wearing a flat-cap.

The cop said he was sending a unit, and putting out an APB. He thanked Mercy for the tip, then warned her to stay away from the scene until he gave her the all clear. Then hung up.

Mercy set her phone on the seat next to her, breathing a long sigh of relief. She was safe. For the first time in months, she was truly safe.

Her car sputtered to life, old punk tunes ebbed from the radio, and everything was alright in the world. Everything save one, glaring omission.

Her best friend was still missing.

#

Dennis gunned the truck down the road, knowing better than to try the interstate. No, back roads would have to do. Whoever was in that house had seen him. He didn’t need to be psychic to know. He had been spotted, blown, screwed.

Already he could feel the dragnet closing in, and the police scanner wasn’t even on, yet.

He ran a mental checklist. The plates were covered, muddied. The truck was so muddy that no one could get a good read on the color, or even the model – not unless they really knew cars. Of course, the things to keep him from being immediately traced, could also serve to get the vehicle immediately recognized.

He’d have to act fast.

First, he ditched the flat-cap. He tossed it straight out the window. It pained him to throw out his favorite hat, his lucky hat, but he had others. Next, he changed course, heading into town. The maneuver was risky, but also unexpected. If he pulled this off, he would be free and clear.

His eyes darted to the hairbrush in the passenger seat. He sighed, heavy and belated. The damn thing better have been worth all this, Mother.

The car wash advertised a five dollar wash, in reality it was ten, but Dennis wasn’t concerned with the price, not this time. Two minutes later the truck was sparkling red, Wyoming plates gleaming in the daylight, up-to-date and registered to one Dennis Phillips. He felt exposed, naked, obvious, but he knew that now he was just another legal driver, another commuter from up north traveling to find work in the bustling hub of Fort Collins, fifteen miles south.

Free and clear.

In three hours – should his luck hold – he would be back home. He would be able to deliver this damnable brush to Mother and take a long, nice shower.

Should his luck hold.

He pressed his foot to the accelerator, and sped ahead.

#

Maria woke. The day had ebbed on and night was approaching but the truck was still gone, Dennis still missing. She was not rested, in fact, she felt worse than she did before closing her eyes. Her body was tense and her lungs ached from her near-drowning. She longed for a bite to eat, wishing Dennis had left her a little more stew before he left, like an angel of mercy during slumber.

Something about the large man seemed odd. She had seen him kill in cold blood, he had taken her, he had smashed her head against a doorframe hard enough to need stitches. At the same time, he seemed kind. He was willing to risk Mother’s wrath to bring her food, despite being strictly forbidden. He was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt about the torn-up floorboard, when Mother would have certainly searched the room and found some terrible punishment for the deed. He was a man who looked to be nearing fifty, yet sometimes he still seemed a boy in his actions – the opposite of the older-than-his-years Jeb. Dennis was a mystery, a conundrum, one that could save her, or kill her depending on the mood.

She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and went to look out the window. The sun hung low in the horizon, kissing the tips of the Rockies. She could not help but wonder if she had been reported missing yet. She wondered if her face was on the news, along with plaintive cries from her friends and family for any news on their missing Maria Martinez. She wondered if anyone had noticed at all? She was a bit of a shut-in, she had been since…

No, don’t think about that!

But here all she could do was think. Here she could see his blood on her hands. She could see the bathtub overflowing with crimson water, spilling over the lip to stain the white tile floor. Here she could see his eyes, vacant, staring upwards. Suddenly, the weight of the diamond ring on her finger felt heavier than lead. Suddenly, her future seemed a whole lot dimmer, and the past felt a whole lot brighter. Suddenly, her whole world had changed.

Then the bathroom was gone.

In its place was a green field, filled with concrete stones. A crowd clad in black surrounded her, but their faces were black. All face-less heads were downturned, and one face-less thing in a preacher’s collar emitted a low, mournful drone. The hole before her was deep and crumbling, a jagged cut in the pristine grass that resembled a new, bloated scar. The drone was growing louder as she stared at the rich, oaken lid of the long box within the scar. Tear rimmed her tired eyes as she whispered her final goodbyes.

Then, the box began to overflow. Crimson water seeped out of the crack. The same way that it seeped over the bathtub’s rim.

Maria screamed.

Maria sobbed.

Maria moved into her grandmother’s house, and did not leave.

Maria disappeared.

No one was looking for her. No one had checked in. No one knew she vanished because she had vanished months ago. She had been buried alongside Brian Silverstone. Her spirit now resided in the old ranch house, forgotten and alone. A ghost.

She was alone.

#

Maria lost track of time as the sun began to descend to kiss the jagged tops of the Rockies. She listened to the hypnotic scurry of paws in the walls. She watched the melting snow trickle from the roof and past the bars of her window. Instead, her thoughts turned inward.

They turned to the strange note and the tarot card. She longed to bring them forth, her strange treasures, if only to break the monotony. She couldn’t risk it. Dennis could reappear at any time to fix the broken floorboard. Or Mother could summon her to another degrading bath. No, Maria did not dare look at her strange find. Not now.

Her thoughts turned toward the missing, second page of Josh Tanner’s strange journal. The “…way to get out of here…”, Maria was not sure what the words meant, but they held potential. Maria had to find the page, for a fleeting instant she wondered if Jeb could find Josh’s spirit. No, she decided, it was better to trust no one at this point, even if they seemed no more than an innocent boy. She would have to manage on her own.

She began to contemplate the scrawled passage by her predecessor. He had been stripped and bathed, just like her. He had been held in this room, cowering from the towering Dennis and dreading the presence of Mother, just like her. But he hadn’t mentioned Dennis! she realized. Dennis, Mother’s boy, was dead. Rotting on a table… how?

The same way a dead kid keeps sneaking into your room, she thought. The same way a dead woman speaks to you, and holds you prisoner. Nothing in this place makes sense! Except death.

Her melancholic thoughts drew her in, but she kept sifting. Within the granules of darkness, the overwhelming hopeless sands there were kernels, clues to the underlying purpose of why they had taken Maria, evidence towards an end goal, nefarious or otherwise. There was mention of a book, a book that Mother kept close, kept guarded. A book she used in…

A ritual!

A shiver coincided with that thought, running down Maria’s spine, up and down like the hands of an unwanted masseuses, an invader. She remembered movies she had watched in her youth, stories of witches, hokey and schlocky, but they had terrified her childhood. They stooped over cauldrons and whispered bone-chilling rhymes, they cackled and cavorted with diabolical powers, hooked noses and black cloaks. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble…

It boggled the mind, but she knew – in some dark, mystic place within – that the Phillips’s were a coven of some kind, a family of dark magic. Was that why they needed her? It would explain the strange symbols carved into the walls, or the massive shelves lined with ancient tomes. In some sick, horrific way, it made sense. Still, it seemed wrong.

Why? What do they have to gain from me?

Mija, her grandmother had said, everything is balance. Demons and angels, water and air, wickedness and righteousness. To take from one, you must give to the other. This is the way of God, this is the way of our people’s gods. The way of life.

Her grandmother – her abuela – had a strange hodgepodge of beliefs, Catholicism conflicted with Chicano Revival, both dueling with the rising hippy movement of the sixties and their New Wave mentalities, crystals and dreamcatchers mixed with crosses and reliefs. Nevertheless, Maria could hear the ring of truth to her grandmother’s words. Magic, or devilry, had its price. And if you’re the price, Maria, she wondered, what are they trading you for?

Maria needed the answers. In many ways, she already knew that her very survival depended on the answers. Sordid or dark as they may be.

Find the second page, a voice said. For a fleeting instant, Maria was certain she had said it to herself. For another instant, she was certain the house had spoken to her. For another, it was her abuela’s voice, echoing from her place in heaven, or Omeyocan depending which of her dueling beliefs had won out. Either way, the voice was right.

The only problem being the complete absence of a second page, Maria fumed. There was the “really old book” that Mother kept, but where would Maria even start? Was there a spell? Maria knew it involved projecting (but what?) and she knew the Tarot was involved (but how?), but that carved out a wide swath of options, and no time to explore them in.

Find the second page.

Her mind awash in horrors, Maria lay back on her bed. There was a throbbing behind her temples, her stomach rumbling as it devoured itself. She stared upwards, following the cracks running along the water stained ceiling for what felt like hours. She shut out the insistant scratching of the things in the walls, slowly becoming convinced that the sounds were spirits as much as mice. She tuned out the pitching rumble of the generator down below, and focused. The focused her entire essence into a plan, anything to give her a leg up.

The sun had sunken low beyond the mountains when she finally snapped up. The sunset cast her entire room in a golden-red glow that seemed both ethereal and horrible at the same time. The clouds had begun to pile up along the Front Range, a second snowstorm all but inevitable.

These things did not concern Maria Martinez. A plan had fallen into place, even though the very thought of it terrified her.

She knew what she had to do.

#

Night came with sluggish certainty. The fiery haze in the sky was a mere remnant of flames, a smoldering charcoal when she heard the truck’s engine rumble, its tires pulverizing gravel. A door slammed, and boots stomped up the snow-covered walk. The front door moaned open and the boots stomped along the creaking, rotting floors. Maria could hear something solid hit the table with a resounding thud.

Then, “There. I got the damned thing. Happy?”

A pause.

“Don’t talk then. I’m going to take a fucking shower.”

The boots stomped, then paused. “I know, I didn’t mean it, Mother. I just wanted to see if you were awake.”

The laugh that followed was hollow, devoid of humor, but no remark followed. There was another long pause.

When Dennis spoke again the terror in his tenor was palpable, the tremor in his voice unmistakable. “Not tonight, please. I just want to take a shower and… No, it makes me feel… wrong.”

Another pause. Then, “Fine. Do what you will.”

After a long moment of silence, Mother began to whistle, wheezing and tuneless. The heavy stomping moved around beneath Maria, shuffling cloth and pounding hammers. What they were doing was impossible to determine, but something told Maria that she did not want to know what was going on below.

Instead, she turned her eyes through the barred, vine-covered window to watch the final hues of daylight give way to the gray fist of dusk, eventually turning to the inky shadow of night. No stars marred the velvet sheen, no wind coughed up fresh torrents of fresh snow to profane the pitch black canvas. The moon was obscured behind a deep mask of clouds so that not even a glimmer of its silver glow could dance across the barren painting.

A dark night. A mystic night.

Maria waited with bated breath as the seconds ticked on, she listened to the rustling below and tried not to dwell on what was happening, what horrible import Dennis’s strange errand would entail. There was no means to tell the time, but Maria was certain that hours had past. The house finally grew silent, save the scurries of mice and the relentless groan of the ancient structure. Then, she heard the elevator doors grind open.

The wheezing squeaks of an ancient wheelchair rolled within, and the doors ground shut.

Again, they opened, and the wheels rolled down the decrepit hallway, growing louder by the second. The bitch was coming.

The chair moved slow and relentless, drawing nearer with each aching second. The spirit of Mother Phillips was drawing close, wheezing, coughing breaths escaping ragged and worn lungs, grunting with exertion with each arduous turn of the wheels. Soon, the chair sat outside the door, her hollow eyes staring at the knob, the folds of her threadbare dress rustling, and the ancient, rusted keyring jingling.

The lock turned.

Maria forced her eyes shut and ordered her body to breathe. Slow, regular, steady, each breath a forced part in her false act of slumber. On the outside she slept as a babe, on the inside she was primed, ready. She had already tempted fate with Dennis, but now she’d see how well the bitch fought.

The chair’s squeal was uted, as if the spectral invader was attempting a stealthy entrance. A Mother afraid to wake her slumbering child, but chancing a final look. Slow, steady creaks overcut the shifting moans of the rotted floorboards, grumbling over the tiger rug, the soft steps of an invader, knife in hand and murder in the eyes.

The chair stopped, a book was opened. The ancient parchment rustled stiffly as the figure flipped to a specific, well-traveled page. Then came the croaking voice:

“Hail Ra, he who goest in thy bark, into the caverns of Dark.”

The voice sounded strange, like Mother but there was a second, softer voice hiding underneath. It sounded like a man’s voice, raspy and hollow, disembodied. The folds of cloth rustled and Maria could feel the presence leaning over her. The hollow eyes bore into her, hungry, salivating.

“East of my Altar see my stand. With Light and Music guide my hand,” with the words a bell was struck. Its tinny ring clattered throughout Maria’s room, but she dared not budge. She forced her breathing to stay regular as the bell rang again, again, and again. Maria lost count.

“I strike my Bell and I light my flame…”

The sound of lighter being struck was followed by a steady, flickering light that bathed the entire room in its steady glow. Still, Maria held her eyes shut.

“I say the mystic name: Shemhameforash!”

The bell, again.

“And now, begin to pray…”

Now! Maria thought, spinning in her bed. Her hand lashed out, nails arced in makeshift claws.

The Zippo tumbled from the startled, robed figure’s hand, a small bell clutched in the other was released, clattering to the floor.

Maria lunged, clawing and kicking.

The figure howled, Mother’s voice twisting alongside the man’s, creating a strange cacophony of rage and frustration.

Her strikes met with surprising resistance, as if she were punching solid muscle rather than decaying flesh and brittle bone. Two vise-like hands clamped down upon her wrists, drawing her in close, as the body seemed to double in size, from the hunched, frail figure in the wheelchair, to a towering behemoth.

The hood fell back, revealing Dennis’s face, but it was not the Dennis Maria knew.

The eyes were blacker than night, the lips pulled back in a taut grimace that looked more akin to the corpse in the kitchen than the man who brought Maria breakfast in secret.

“Blasphemer!” howled Mother through Dennis’s mouth. “Whore!”

She (or he?) hurled Maria back into the wall. Maria’s head struck something heavy, solid. Piercing.

Her vision flashed white.

She collapsed, staring up into a familiar face with the devil’s eyes.

Her vision faded.

She sank.

#

Maria’s eyes fluttered open. Trying to sit, she found herself bound to the bed, spread-eagle and completely at the mercy of her captors. She tried to scream, but a gag was tied around her head, gutting into her cheeks and digging into the open wound in the back of her head.

Her pillow was wet and warm under her head. Her lifeblood had drenched the case, staining the feather within. The flickering light of the Zippo filled the room, staining the walls in its umber glow.

The twisted face of Dennis hung over her, but it was not his face, it was Mother’s. Sallow, sagging skin, a sunken nose, and black voids in place of eyes. Cracked, haggard lips, pulled back in a humorless grin, baring rotting teeth that smelled of putrid death, decay, rot.

On the bedside table, a cake of unleavened bread burned, releasing fragrant fumes into the small room. Dennis’s hand held a long, curved dagger, as his lips (now hers) muttered with manic intensity:

“…I burn the incense-cake, these adorations I proclaim in thy name…”

Dennis’s arm tensed, the dagger trembled in Mother’s hands.

Maria flinched, already feeling the jagged tip piercing her flesh. Tears streamed from her eyes and fear clenched her soul, tightening its wicked grip.

Then, slowly, the dagger twisted, turning inwards.

It dug into the bare flesh of Dennis’s chest. It dug through his curling, dark chest-hair, thick and matted. It carved deep, blood seeping from fresh incisions, laying atop ancient scars, dripping down to baptize the struggling Maria.

She clenched her mouth shut, trying to keep the dripping fluid from her lips. She turned her face, feeling the warmth dribbling down her cheek. She tasted the iron, feeling the wet slick spreading over her, soaking into her clothes.

“Please see,” Mother shouted through Dennis’s lips, “this bleeding breast of mine, gashed with the sacramental sign…”

The dagger dug deeper, marring the pink striations of previous self-mutilation with fresh crimson. It traced a wide circle over Dennis’s heart, a cross within, each line touching the circle.

Blood flowed faster, the rasping voice speaking quicker:

“I staunch my blood, the cake soaks if up, and the High Priestess invokes!”

A second, unleavened cake of bread was slapped to the wound, blood soaking into the bread. The face of Dennis twisted with pain, but the grimace was a mere flicker, gone before it came.

Watching the unleavened loaf turning deep crimson sent Maria’s already overworked heart into a frenzy. It pounded in her breast faster, the breath catching in her throat, terror welling up within her already petrified soul.

The robed figure brought the cake to her (or was it his?) lips and consumed. Blood dribbled from the taut, rotted-toothed mouth, a smile spreading across the gaunt face.

The whole scene seemed unearthly, unholy, blasphemous.

“This bread I eat,” the figure said, between mouthfuls, gagging, accepting mouthfuls. “This oath I sweat as I engorge myself with your prayer. There is no grace, there is no guilt. This is Law: Do what Thou Whilt!”

The face of the man melted away, leaving only the haggard visage of the corpse, of Mother. She sat in her wheelchair, her chin covered in blood, her hollow eyes staring intent on her prey. Behind her cloaked figure stood eight shadow figures, they loomed around the room, each with a different build, a different stature. One was a boy, one was a towering man, a few woman and a few other men, but none stepped forward. They stood as silent witnesses to the ritual sacrifice, to the mad witch’s rite.

The figure, still bearing the face of the dead, leaned over Maria. Rotted breath seeped from between blackened teeth, and one word hissed from decaying lungs: “Sleep.”

Maria’s eyelids began to flutter, watching with tired eyes as the stooped woman (or the towering man?) closed the ancient book in her lap. There was no word on the cover, only a strange symbol. Three overlapping circles intercut by a crescent moon lay atop a seven-pointed star. The number “666” emblazoned along the bottom. The leather book seemed to snap shut with a definitive note, the sound of a mousetrap, its broke-baked prey in the figurative noose.

Maria’s eyes closed.

The strange symbol seemed to be seared into her as sleep overcame her. Deep sleep, dreamless.

Death.

#

When she awoke, Maria was unbound and ungagged. She lay on her thin cot, coiled in blankets, as if the night before had been nothing but a dream. Shutting her eyes, she willed her memories exactly that – a dream. She willed her tempest-like thoughts away, forcing them to become nothing but an ill wrought nightmare. When she opened her eyes, the illusion shattered, the stark daylight of reality shining a blinding light onto fantasy.

Small droplets of blood danced across her pillow, a light winter’s snowfall. Her heart leapt into her throat and formed a tight lump that threatened to cut off her airflow, suffocating her. One imposing certainty looming in her mind:

It had happened.

She glanced at her small bedside table, the char on the wood left from a burning unleavened cake, smeared with blood, from Dennis or her, she was not sure. On the table sat a doll, bound in black cloth and staring with buttons for eyes, tufts of black hair – her hair – jutting up from its skull. It looked barely human, more like a small child’s after-school project, but Maria knew that it was her, in that there was no question.

Faint sobs came from across the room, bleating sorrow and pulsating pain. She looked over to see Dennis sitting against the far wall, his legs pulled up to his chest, tears streaking down his gaunt cheeks and seeping into the collar of his button-up shirt. A hammer and nails lay beside his limp hands, and a new baseboard had been firmly secured in place, shutting of the cubby that once housed the journal and card she had found.

Noticing that Maria had awakened, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his face reverting to its grim mask. Standing to his full height, Maria could not help but notice the blood seeping through his plaid shirt, forming a static-like image of the sigil that Mother had carved the night before.

“Morning, Missy.”

“Morning,” Maria responded, her eyes flicking back to the strange doll, staring at her with hollow eyes. Mother’s eyes.

“She didn’t… She didn’t hurt you too bad? Did she?”

Maria felt a strange pang of sympathy for the man, but remained silent.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing at the doll.

“Mother said it’s a poppet, but I don’t rightfully know.”

“Is it… Is it voodoo?”

He shook his head, “Mother says voodoo is bullshit… ‘course she didn’t say ‘bullshit,’ but that’s what she says it is.”

“What did she do to me?” Maria asked, her eyes still locked on the doll.

Dennis shrugged, his eyes unknowing, yet haunted by truth’s best ignored. “It’s Mother’s magic, not mine. Though she don’t like to call it magic, she calls it ‘ripening,’ but I don’t know what that means neither.”

“And what was in that book?”

“Don’t ask me about that book!” he hissed, but there was no rage lurking in his eyes, only incessant, lurking terror that spread to Maria like a bad case of the plague. There was something dark, something wicked within that book, something that scared even Mother’s right hand.

“I don’t like those books,” he continued. “None of them. There’s something… wrong with them, and when she uses my body to… Well, when she does those rituals, I feel dirty. I fell wrong!”

The tears were pressing at his eyes, begging for release. Maria could see his lip trembling, despite his best efforts to fight it off.

“Please, tell me what-”

Dennis stormed forward, towering over her. Rough hands dug into Maria’s shoulders as he lifted her from the bed, holding her face to his. His eyes blazed with a fire, an animal choosing fight over flight. Maria had never before felt so small.

“Don’t ask.” His voice was stern, but the crack underneath was unmistakable. Dennis Phillips was scared, shitless.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Maria said, her voice scarce more than a whisper.

Setting her back down, Dennis backed off. Something akin to shame washed his face, and he said, “It’s alright. Just don’t… don’t go looking too much at what Mother does. It’s dangerous.”

With that, Dennis left, grabbing the doll roughly as he walked to the door. Maria felt a strange tinge in her back, she could swear it was precisely where Dennis’s thumb was pressing into the doll. Dennis reached the door and threw it open, moving into the hallway.

The lock clicked into place and the pain subsided.

Maria’s mind began to churn. She had to get a look into those books. The answers she pined for lay buried, treasure in the strange library begging to be found. All Maria had to do was dig. But how?

Maria was in her room – the room, she reminded herself again, though with weakening fervor – and the books were out there. She was trapped, rats for company and spirits for conversation. Should she manage to break free from the confines of her cell, there was Dennis and roving spirits to contend with, sentinels guarding her prize, Mother’s eyes and ears.

Frustration welled up within her, escaping in the form of an audible growl. On a furious whim, Maria brought up her leg, bringing her heel down onto the rotted floorboards.

The board gave way.

It did not snap, it bent. It popped out, one end pushed inwards, the other popping upwards, teetering on a fulcrum in the center.

Shocked, Maria dropped to her knees, peering underneath the hidden compartment. Excitement welled up within her, as she reached down. A paper lay in the small compartment, folded with gentle precision and tucked away for future use. Could it be the second page? The one that Josh Turner mentioned in his strange journal? Could this be her ticket out?

Steel-toed boots raced up the stairs, pounding down the hallway towards her door. The noise had attracted her jailor, and she knew she had to act fast.

She grasped the tarot card and the two pages she had hidden in her mattress, shoving them into her newfound cubby.

Sliding the board back into place, she tested it, making sure it would stay secure underneath any errant footsteps.

Rolling to the side, she grasped at her knee. She twisted her face into a mask of pain.

The door slammed open. Dennis stood in the frame, confusion mounting on his face.

“What was that sound?”

“I tripped,” Maria responded, straining her voice.

“Are you okay?” he asked, the crack of concern real.

She made a show of turning her ankle, stretching her leg. Inside, her stomach churned, her heart pounded. He was going to see through her act. He was going to find her stash. Her whole plan was going to die before it birthed. She knew it.

Still, she had to follow through. She put on a sheepish smile and said, “I think all I did was bruise my ego.”

That actually pulled a faint laugh from him, “Just be careful, Missy. We can’t have you hurting yourself, can we?”

He hesitated, “Can I get you anything?”

She did not want to ask, she did not want to beg, but her stomach’s screams won out, “I could really use some food. I feel like I’m dying.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, averting his eyes. “Mother said you need to fast before your next ripening. I’m… I’m sorry.”

He left again, the lock again clicking into place. This time, Maria waited with bated breath, hanging on to each footfall with bated breath. The lingered, pacing outside her door, as if her act had not been the stellar success she had hoped. She had piqued his suspicions, and now they – and he – lingered, hoping for a second chance to catch her in the act.

She waited, heart pounding, lungs aching. She waited as she waited in the coffin, hoping her ruse had won out, hoping that she hadn’t blown her chance. This time, hoping he would not look. She waited.

Laying back on her cot she began to relax, she had to relax. He pacing grew faster, then slower, gradually evening out to a persistent tapping, a methodical and hypnotic pulse. Without realizing it, Maria’s eyelids began to feel heavy, the fitful sleep of the previous night catching up to her, and clutching at her, threatening to pull her into its weightless abyss.

She would not fall asleep. Not now.

She pinched, digging her fingernails deep into her flesh, drawing small droplets of blood. There was too much to be done. Her fast – painful as it might be – had bought her a night free of ritual. But what were they trying with her?

Thoughts of the strange book loomed large in Maria’s mind. The sigil emblazoned with 666 burnt into the warm leather, the way it snapped shut before allowing her to sink into slumber, the strange power it seemed to exude, holding her in its thrall. She had to get a look at the book, even now it whispered to her. It promised answers, it promised escape.

She tried to fight, but already sleep was descending past the pain. Already she felt the specter of dreams forcing its way into her, lulling her and cradling her.

Her eyes fluttered, and she drifted.

She drifted away, unaware of the looming figure standing over her. Cold eyes and a gaunt face staring down.

#

Mercy stood in the cold, rubbing her gloved hands together. Her breath misted in the winter air, creating dense clouds that danced in the breezeless sky.

Mister and Missus Martinez were across the field, howling for their daughter at the top of their lungs, combing the plains and wooded thickets that dotted the landscape east of their daughter’s house. They yelled their voices raw, and Mercy alongside them, to no avail. Maria was not here, Maria was nowhere to be seen. Maria had been taken – maybe by that flat-cap wearing bastard, or maybe he was just another looter, someone who saw a missing girl on the news and decided to raid her house while she was absent.

A raider in the night. Just like Mercy.

She kicked a rock and screamed out her best friend’s name, trying to turn her brooding thoughts from the sordid act of subterfuge she had carried out days before. How long had Maria been gone? A day? A week? A month? No, not a month, but it had to have been over a week. In some ways it seemed like yesterday they had last spoken, in other ways it seemed like years had trickled by, stolen by a malignant trickster in the sky.

What had started as a throng of worried faces trudging through the grama grass, carrying poles and howling Maria’s name, had trickled into a few close family friends, the shit-heel priest, and a couple obsessive neighbors. The call to arms had died out, the police had cooled to Maria, preferring to focus on their own loss, and now only the Martinez’s carried the torch for their missing daughter. Though, not all the Martinez’s. Maria’s little brother hadn’t shown, he was still out in L-fucking-A, smoking dope and being a good-for-nothing lay-about. Mercy had called him, Mister Martinez had called him, and in differing ways the youngest of the Martinez clan had asked them to fuck off.

In the distance, Mercy could still see the house. It loomed over her, staring with accusatory eyes that seemed to pierce into her. It pointed a hooked finger in blame, hissing its mantra of betrayal. It bade her confess, but she refused. To confess was to admit Maria was gone, to confess was to shatter the illusion. To confess was to admit that nothing would ever be the same.

Mercy would not confess. Not today.

Today she would call out to Maria.

Today she would storm the grama grass.

Today, she would hope.

Today was one week since Maria vanished.

One week, and counting.

#

Maria pushed herself from the bed. Her fast had continued for two days… or was it three? Keeping track of time had become a difficult task. Days blended with night, days brought baths, and nights brought the fear of Mother’s ritual – though she had not returned once, not yet. Maria hadn’t dared look at her secret stash. Every day she feared Dennis barging in and discovering the pages. She feared that her only hope – and a thin hope at that – would be snatched away by his calloused hands, quashed before it even began. She did not want to die here, alone save the ghosts and her sad-eyed jailor.

She felt weak, her bones creaking in ways she hadn’t thought possible. Her gnawing hunger had dulled into a constant throb, the feeling of inward decay. She knew that if she did not get food or sustenance of some kind soon, she was bound to waste away. What were they waiting for?

With that thought a deep chill ran through her. It marched through her bones like a conscious force. It did not come from the drafty windows, nor did it leak down from the gaps in the roof. It felt as if a force had been conjured and marched through her with a definitive purpose. As if a sentient being lived in the air, choosing that particular moment to step through her body.

Jeb?

Mara looked around the room, focusing on a figure by the door.

Only the face wasn’t Jeb’s.

Dennis Phillips stood before her, or his ethereal doppelganger. Same build, same shaggy hair, same crooked nose, even the same beaten flat-cap, but the eyes were different. These blue eyes were steel flint, cold and sharp. These eyes took in their surroundings with a cool, calculated indifference. These eyes lacked Dennis’s warmth, his child-like nature, his madness. These eyes were dark, dangerous, terrible. But not wicked.

“I wanted to tell you that there ain’t no hard feelings,” the man said in a rumbling, low-pitched voice.

When Maria did not respond, the ghost laughed. It was a cold, hollow laugh, devoid of hope, of love, of mirth.

“I mean for trying to drown you,” he said. “I don’t hold a grudge against you for that.”

“Oh?” Maria asked, feeling a welling sarcasm she hadn’t felt before. “You aren’t mad at me for trying to drown me? Generous.”

“I ain’t going to say sorry, if that’s what your fishing for,” the man said. “I’m not. Simple truth is: I’d do it again, if there’s a chance. I don’t hold you no ill will, lady, but I know what their plan is for you, and I ain’t going to let them do it. Not again. They need to end, and if that end takes you with it… Well, so be it.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Dennis?” It had to be Dennis. Another one of Mother’s tricks.

The man stepped forward, hissing like a cornered viper with venom dripping from hidden fangs. “Don’t you fucking call me that, girl. Don’t you never call me that!”

Maria flinched. Terror gripped at her, the twisting visage of the enraged ghost gripping her soul, and squeezing.

“My name is Kane, dammit! Kane Halcourt. I ain’t Dennis no more than that rotted whore is Sylvia! They wear our skins, they live our lives, but they are not us! Don’t you fucking forget that! Y’hear me?”

“I don’t-”

“Understand?” he asked, his voice a mocking, cracking mess. His face seemed to fluctuate, flesh sinking into bone and then springing outwards. His lips trembled as he continued, “You don’t need to understand shit, lady. Just get this: You best off yourself while you’ve got the chance. What they’ve got planned for you… Well, that’s worse. They don’t want you dead, they want you broken. They want you, y’hear?”

Maria nodded, but she did not understand a word he had spat.

“And next time Mother takes a nap,” he said, his voice ice. “Well, you might not get so luck as you did in the bath. I’ll do what needs doing. The dead need to stay dead.”

He stormed towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He looked back, the rage gone, replaced by a small, sad smile. “You know, I almost wanted to root for you, lady. You’re smarter than most of ‘em, but that ain’t going to help.”

He pressed forward, vanishing through the door, swallowed by the bowels of the house.

Far away, the generator clicked on, sputtering and pumping. She heard the grumble of the water heater, and the rattle of pipes filling. The bathtub down the hallway began to fill.

Mother would be coming soon, dressed in Dennis’s skin. She would be coming for Maria, to begin yet another cleansing, another step towards whatever nefarious goal Kane feared.

An idea ran through Maria’s mind, sending an excited wave coursing through her. It was a chance, though she did not like the implications. It would mean trusting him, and she did not want to trust. She was terrified of the man who had just left her room, the man who had tried to drown her.

But she needed him.

“Wait,” she hissed as loud as she could risk. “Kane! Come back.”

She hoped Kane agreed to her plan. Batshit as it was.

She hoped that he wouldn’t betray her. 

Next Chapter: Part Four: Seven Swords