LAST WEEK: A grandmother who was a witch, killed by a demon. That grandmother’s apprentice, come to escort her from her home before that demon can find her there. Renna struggles to digest everything Job has revealed to her, when life seemed so normal earlier that morning.
Read the previous installment here. See all installments here.
A warm summer breeze parted the tips of the pine trees, allowing moonlight to slip through in its wake. Far down below, amongst thick trunks and twisted roots, anyone taking a midnight stroll could look up and catch the edges of constellations shimmering between the needles and cones. As animal instinct overtook the human brain, which it tends to do in this kind of wild darkness, they could make their way along the paths with their heightened natural senses. The adrenaline would fuel both the confidence of a predator and the ever-wary fear of prey.
And then, as they moved along, they would feel something strange.
Their spine would tingle, their hair would stand on end, and the animal brain would make a quick retreat, bringing back a very human fear of the dark and the unknown within it. They would strain for something that they could neither see nor hear, but that they could feel in every nerve of their body.
Overhead, the warm breeze had suddenly taken on a harsher edge; it was rank and slithering, like the stale air that a long-sealed door exhaled when cracked open. It clawed at the branches, rattled the bark and yanked on the pine cones as it hissed through. A few birds, slumbering moments before, vacated their nests to get out of its path. The eggs left inside turned rotten instantly. The disturbance passed as quickly as it came, but it left the peace of the evening rippling like a broken reflection on a lake. If anyone were passing through the forest that summer night, they would have the foreboding feeling that they were not alone.
Some miles away, a house sat on the edge of this forest, just a stone’s throw from the tree line. It was an old, distinguished house, proudly made from the wood that grew before it. Standing on the wide porch was its owner, equally old and distinguished—and one would be forgiven if they thought her to be made of wood as well. Her body leaned forward like a lithe willow tree as she watched the dark forest intently. Her thick, sturdy hands were curled like two more burls around the head of the weighty staff that supported her. The incoming wind stirred her long white hair across the shawls she had draped over her back, wisps of snow encroaching on the mantle of autumnal colors. After a short time, she whirled about and retreated past the threshold, releasing her held breath inside the room.
The space was filled with things made for living simply and well—heavy wooden furniture sat upon rugs woven with beautiful linear designs, and bundles of herbs and dried flowers were piled upon each surface, infusing the room with scents from the fields beyond. All of the windows were fully open to the summer night, letting moonlight and cricket song in.
The woman moved through the room with purpose, snatching the shutters and pulling them closed, then bringing down the sashes. No lamps were lit within the house, so darkness followed in her footsteps; but she didn’t break stride, gliding through her domain effortlessly and sealing all apertures.
“Mab?” A muffled voice came up through the basement door that had just been shut.
Mab didn’t answer, but carried on with her mission. She had already closed everything on the first floor of the house when the basement door creaked open again.
“Mab? What’s going on? Why’s it so dark up here?”
This youth was only a couple awkward years away from adolescence—they still carried some of their childish pudge, especially around their face, which was framed by a mop of towheaded curls. Far less used to the darkness than Mab, they stumbled forward and made a quick tumble to the floor, nearly leaving the imprint of a chair arm on their forehead.
Mab was suddenly at their side, snapping the door closed behind the child’s tripping feet. “Up, Job, no time to waste! Run upstairs and close every window. Bar them if you can.”
Anxiety bubbled within Job’s stomach, but they hurried to follow orders. They managed to feel their way to the banister and used it to climb the winding stairs, up to a second story that had yet to have the moonlight expelled from it. For as long as they had been in this house—nearly four years now, if they were counting right—they had never seen a window barred or a door locked (save for one). Nature had always been allowed to come and go freely, like a kindly neighbor known for many years. Nevertheless, Job went now, yanking shut the old shutters and pulling down petrified sashes, cringing at the sharp noises they made. It sounded like the house was in pain, being strained in ways it was not used to.
After the task was complete, Job dropped down onto their bed, puffing and sweating. From the doorway of their room, they saw a candle’s light bob up the stairs. Mab’s weathered face came into view, the shadows finding shelter in its decades of aged lines. It was never a face that Job had been frightened of; for as long as the youth had been there, they had felt safe under Mab’s tutelage and care, regardless of how strict she could be at times.
Mab scanned the wide oaken beams that made the ceiling, as if checking each crack. Job tried to ask again.
“Mab, what—”
“All accounted for? Good. If this house can hold anything else half as well as it holds dust, we should have little to worry about.”
“Mab, what’s going on? Why are we closing everything?”
Mab finally looked directly at Job; her eyes held a curious warmth that almost outshone the candlelight. “Preparations, Job. We’re making ready. And now it’s time for you to go.”
Job’s perplexity mounted. “Go? … Where?”
“Away.” Mab was hastily stuffing a travel bag from a nearby closet with an assortment of items. “Take this candle, go downstairs and gather up all your work. Bind it all together tightly, and don’t forget the things in the basement.”
Job accepted the candle and paused at the doorway. “But what am I supposed—”
“Hurry yourself now. We’ve only got a little time before it gets here.”
In less than a little time, Job and Mab were standing at the front door, peering out at the forest beyond. The wind had started to pick up a bit, causing Job to shiver in spite of themself. Mab’s hand was on their back, guiding them out onto the porch and then securing the straps of their overstuffed travel pack while also giving them instructions.
“You know the old forest path well enough to follow it in the dark. Take it to the main road, then head south until you get to the neighboring farm. That’s where you’ll start to be safe; from there, make your way into town.”
Job managed to hold their ground at the front steps. “Mab! Please tell me, what’s this all about? What’s coming?”
At that moment, something from the direction of the forest made the both of them turn about sharply, muscles tensed, a reflex with no apparent trigger. Mab put her thick, gnarled hand upon Job’s shoulder, massaging the tightness out of it.
“A bad visitor. Reeking of sulfur and forgotten hate.”
***
The old woman watched the shadows of the forest path swallow Job’s small form, until they couldn’t be distinguished from the fireflies.
She tried to take in a calming breath, but the air was already beginning to smell foul. She slid back inside and headed for a collection of aged wooden chests and cabinets that dominated one corner of the house. Out of them came bundles of dried herbs, paper packages wrapped with twine, and foggy glass bottles with browned, washed-out labels. Mab filled her arms and carefully climbed the stairs; decades of traveling feet had worn a unique sound into each step, and Mab took precious moments to savor them.
The mistress of the house reached the landing and followed the hallway to its terminus, where she came to a door, the only one that was ever locked. It was painted a deep, proud shade of red, its mullions lined with gold. In comparison to the rest of the house’s quaint humility, this door felt like the eccentric adopted member of a family. Mab produced a key and presented it to the lock, and the door opened into a room that was decorated sparsely, yet with solemn purpose. Mab stepped delicately between the maze of chalky lines drawn on the floor, around the candles standing like soldiers at attention, to the one piece of furniture in the room: an old rocking chair facing the now-open red door. She emptied the contents of her arms into it and hurried over to the room’s solitary window. She tugged on the sash to lower it, but it was just as resistant as the others to being suddenly forced closed. An errant gust slipped between the sash and sill just before they met; it sent the rocking chair into a creaky fit, depositing its load all over the sigils that covered the floor.
With an extra hmmph of strength, Mab snapped the window shut. “Not yet, creature. ‘Tis rude to come early to an event held in your honor …”
As she shuffled about the room, gathering up the items again, she found her fingers twitchy, and her joints creaked as they did in the cold, despite the summer night. In response, she stoked the coals of her ancient voice and tended the flickering flames into a quiet but resilient verse. It was one that she had recited to Job many times as they fell back into dreams, commonly after they had awoken from a dark terror. They said they never quite understood the meaning behind the song, but it had always managed to soothe jittered nerves. It did so for Mab now.
Left, right, left and a right
straight in a row now darling child
so long as your feet fall fairly
safe you’ll be from garden fairy
tip, toe, tip toe and tap
let not one twig underfoot snap
lest they hear, lest they see
found and captured and taken you’ll be
queendom of fairies, kingdom of elves
in which so many children lose themselves
only those darlings with purest heart
far from home they will never be.
The song’s warm comfort faded with Mab’s voice, and the unfamiliar chill seeped back in with a vengeance. Time no longer remained, the last guest to flee the house. Finally, Mab closed the red door again, then stowed her weary body in the rocking chair. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. The air was still now, the pressure dropping out—the calm before the storm.
And then, it was here, all at once and terribly angry.
The front of the house was slammed with a tremendous gust of wind, making the windows tremble in their frames and flinging the accoutrements of the front porch off every which-way. It made a couple laps around the house, tearing up the grasses and pawing at each secured shutter.
Mab managed to not react when it inspected the window right behind her; even with it tightly closed, the stench of sulfur managed to creep in. It moved on, back to the front of the house … A few moments of tense silence. It sounded a bit further off, back near the tree line again …
But then it found the door.
From upstairs, Mab could hear the doorframe being splintered and crunched as it pushed its way in. The first floor was being thoroughly searched; furniture was smashing, windows were shattering, even the ceiling underneath Mab’s feet was being scarred and torn up; she could hear it, like rusty scythes being dragged across finished wood. It found the stairs and devoured them, riser by riser.
At the landing, it knew where to go; it was at the red door. It gave pause; the door shuddered a bit, not admitting the intruder any further. The portal had a familiar essence, one that belonged to the same world it did. But it would not be stopped, since the entrance was not sealed. The fool within had voided its protection.
And so it entered.
Its presence was overwhelming; bulbous and thick, like a shadow glutted on despair. It took up all the light, all the air; its very self invalidated the pure souls of the living. But its profane work could not be wrought in this room; the candles flickered to life, the bells chimed, and the mantra that rose from Mab awoke the spell drawn upon the floor. Suddenly, the intruder found itself trapped.
Mab cackled. “How does it feel, beast? This is a pain you recognize, no? Old magic from a Craft long since forgotten, like you.”
It shuddered and squealed in response, disdainful of this new balance of power.
“Wretched thing. And men of cloth thought our kind to be comrades. No, we witches were never your wives nor your slaves. Since the beginning of time, you were one more thing we fought against, because our souls are our own.”
The room had begun to quake with the indignation of the demon, which was exerting all its force to free itself, possibly by destroying the space that contained it. Mab took up the gnarled staff that she had left by the side of her chair, twirling it around in her hands. “It’s no use! So long as this house is rooted to the ground below, you’ll do no more evil in this world!”
It did not like that. As long as it existed, it had evil to do. And while a spell may bind it fast, its dark wrath knew no earthly bounds. And so it screamed. And thrashed. And hated.
***
“Hold the damn camera still, Archie.”
The woman finished checking her makeup in the lens of a TV camera, steadied by a man she accused of being Archie. Once she was done, she pushed open the back doors of the van and hopped out onto the soggy dirt road, peering into the woods next to where they were parked.
Archie followed her out. “Desiree, this address is probably just an empty plot. No one actually lives this far out, except maybe a yokel with his meth lab.”
Desiree wiped the mud from her boots onto the wet grass beside the road. “It’s here. We’ve got two separate yokels telling us she lives right up here. The driveway’s probably pretty overgrown, she’s old, y’know, old people don’t take care of their property.” She turned to face Archie, now momentarily confident her outfit was on point. “Look, all the other stations are already crawling over that story, there’s nothing left for us. Massive house fire, fourteen people dead except for a toddler? That’s huge.”
“That’s a tragedy, too,” grunted Archie.
“That’s news.” Desiree scowled at him through the camera’s viewfinder. “We are reporters. You have that camera for a reason. And I am the rising star of Channel 8—I don’t need help from amateurs who are gonna waste my talent by whining all over the place. Shape up or ship out, Archie. You know the deal.”
“Didn’t mean nothin’ personal,” Archie muttered. “But you know what happens to reporters who come off as insensitive to the viewers. I got no problems handling my camera, but I don’t like filming gaffes.”
Desiree had finished their conversation halfway through Archie’s mumbling and was now stalking down the road, searching on either side. Archie sighed and trudged along after her, and had just suggested they head back to town for better directions when Desiree let out an excited shout.
“Here it is! Wha’d I tell ya, the driveway looks like a hiking trail! Jeezus! Not getting the van in here. Hurry it up.”
The pathway leading into the forest past the faded sign marked “48 Bruja Road” was crowded by slim saplings. Desiree swept back the branches blocking her path, and Archie took them in the face, preferable to the staggeringly expensive camera lens.
She shouted back to him as they walked. “Right, so remember, this woman’s supposed to be the only nearby relative of the family that died in the fire. The kid who survived, I think she’d be her granddaughter. This lady lives so hardcore Walden-like she might not have even heard about it yet, so we’re gonna have to be delicate. But also make sure to get her genuine reaction.”
By this time Desiree had turned around to talk at Archie and was walking backwards, fixing her hair each time a branch brushed it. “We’re gonna be sad, she’s gonna be sad, it’s gonna be a sad, intense moment. I’ll probably have to hug her or something, but then I’m gonna be like, BAM, don’t worry, your darling grandkid is still alive. If she’s religious, we’ll go with that angle, chalk it up to a miracle from God, hit that Sunday-morning demographic real hard. Then—”
“Desiree, stop.”
“Archie, I told you already—”
“No, Desiree, stop walking now!”
Desiree did and noticed Archie’s face, which she had simply been throwing information at before. It was even more slack-jawed and confused than usual. Then she turned around and found herself breathless. But she was a professional reporter; it only took a few seconds of stunned silence before she motioned to Archie, whispering, “Get the camera. Get the camera up. Oh my God. I can’t believe this … This is a whole ‘nother level.”
They had indeed come up on an empty lot, as Archie had suspected. But where there had once been a cabin, old and distinguished, just like the woman who lived in it, there was nothing. Nothing and a hole. A giant, gaping hole, nearly fifty feet wide, that opened into the earth and dropped into darkness.
Hear the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
MetaStellar fiction editor Geordie Morse works primarily as a personal language coach, developing curricula and working with clients remotely. His first book, Renna's Crossing, is out now. His various other projects are cataloged on his site Arnamantle.