Forsaken Read online

  “Here,” Thad said. “Let me see.” He took her hand and began wiping away at the blood. “What did you do?”

  “I…I don’t know,” she muttered. “Is it bad?”

  Thad shook his head. “I don’t think so; I think it’s already stopped. There was just so much blood…”

  Until now, she had fought the urge to look.

  In the dimly-lit room, she raised her hand to the thin beam of moonlight trickling in from the window. She forced herself to examine the small red marks spanning her palm from top to bottom, the trail leading from the base of her hand up through to her index finger, pink and swollen.

  The pain came, and she winced.

  “It’s like a bunch of paper cuts,” Thad stated, examining her wound in the light. “I’ll see if I can find something to wrap it in—is the first aid kit still in the kitchen?”

  Rachael nodded her head. “In the drawer next to the fridge.”

  Thad disappeared through the bedroom door, heading for the stairs.

  From within her came the dull ache of the baby’s kick—it had been kicking a lot lately. She wasn’t the only one getting little rest tonight.

  She reached for the sore spot, carefully massaging her belly just as the baby kicked again, this time even harder than before. “Shh,” she told her child. “Rest now. You’ll be getting out soon enough.”

  Outside, lightning flickered across the night sky; the gnarled hands of an ancient oak crept over the wall, a crazed shadow reaching with desperation into the room.

  The clock beside the bed read 5:13 a.m.

  It would be morning soon.

  Rachael wanted it to be morning. She wanted that more than anything right now, but even as the clock changed to 5:14 a.m., the night seemed to close in tighter.

  Her hand was throbbing now, and in the back of her mind she still felt the cold metal binder of her husband’s journal biting at her. She still heard the strange clicking fingernails of the woman who had invaded her dream.

  Rachael’s heart pounded heavily within her chest.

  Three days, the woman had said.

  Three days.

  Her good hand wrapped around her unborn child.

  Thad came back into the room, wanting nothing more than to just help her, a silly grin across his face. “Okay, let the doctor work.”

  “You’re so sweet,” she said.

  “You don’t remember how you did this?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe I got up in the middle of the night and cut it on something trying to steady myself. I’ve been so clumsy. I keep tripping over my own feet. My balance is all off. I feel like a giant Weeble.”

  “You look wonderful,” he said, kissing her neck.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  He sighed. “I was already up. Tomorrow’s trip, the book, the chance at another movie… My mind won’t shut down long enough to sleep. If this deal plays out the way Del says it will, we’ll be set. The numbers he’s throwing around are ridiculous,” he told her while dabbing at her hand with an alcohol-soaked ball of cotton. “We can sell this place and upgrade. It’s time, right? A mansion in L.A., maybe an old Victorian on the cliffs of Maine overlooking the ocean. Maybe both. Whatever we want, wherever we want…no limits.”

  Setting the cotton aside, he picked up a roll of gauze and began wrapping it around her hand. “Nothing but the best schools for Ashley and the baby,” he went on. “When we first met, I told you I’d give you the world. Now it’s all ours, prime for the taking.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Cutting the gauze, he taped the end and held her hand up to his lips, gently kissing it. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Day 1 – 5:30 a.m.

  CARVER STEPPED FROM HIS van into the thick rain and lifted his gaze to the cloud-filled dawn. “My, oh my, what a wonderful day!” he exclaimed quietly, shielding his eyes. “What a wonderful day, indeed!”

  He had driven straight from Maine, and his tired old frame was aching to stretch.

  The McAlister house stood in silence before him, dark and lost behind the weather. Only the light of one second-floor window crept out across the dissipating night. “Good morning, McAlisters,” he smiled.

  Reaching back into the van, he pulled out a small glass jar and a garden shovel from the side compartment before quietly closing the door and locking it in place.

  Carver glanced both directions down the winding road. When satisfied he was alone, he crossed their lawn with a shuffle, favoring his bad leg.

  He reached the old oak and ran his hands over the thick bark. “You are a tired soul, aren’t you? Hundreds of years under that belt of yours.”

  Carver knelt at the base of the tree and dug a hole about six inches wide and twelve deep, then reached for the jar at his side. He removed the lid and poured out the contents.

  “Eko, Eko, Azarak,

  Eko, Eko, Zomelak,

  Eko, Eko, Cernunnos,

  Eko, Eko, Aradia,

  Zod ru koz e zod ru.”

  The white powder glowed for a brief second before it absorbed into the earth. Carver replaced the soil, rose to his feet, and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Keep her safe, my little friends,” he said, and ambled back to his van. He eased into the driver’s seat, tossed the empty jar and shovel into the rear, and picked up his phone, pressing the speed dial button.

  The line rang twice before a woman picked up. “Is it done?” she asked.

  “You bet,” Carver told her.

  He disconnected the call, started the van, and drove off into the morning gloom, whistling quietly to himself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone

  THE DAY BEGAN DARK. Thick gray clouds rumbled low in the sky; the air was heavy and quiet. The stillness nipped at my bones, creating an ache from deep within. Pulling the collar of my coat tight around my neck, I quickly shuffled across the cobblestone square to the church. Its doors were opened to the morning, yet darkness swelled inside.

  Thoughts of returning home entered my mind; I missed the warmth of my bed. I am not denying that such thoughts came to me, but I did not return. Instead, I crossed the square to the chapel’s mouth, pausing at the font; the holy water was icy against my skin.

  “We expected you earlier,” a voice grumbled to my right.

  I turned and studied the figure in the dim light. “Your Magistrate,” I said with a slight bow. “The hour is young enough for the likes of me.”

  “Sleep eluded me, I’m afraid. Thoughts of today’s trial weigh far too heavy on my mind,” he replied. “Come. I’ll show you to your seat.”

  My eyes adjusted to the light as we walked through a dark corridor and entered the nave. He pointed me to a small table to the left of a desk that had been placed beside the pulpit for the magistrate. “We will begin shortly. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  The gallery filled quickly. Faces known to me all my life entered in nervous silence, finding seats beside loved ones and neighbors. I nodded hellos to those who passed while noting their names in the official log. When the magistrate reentered the room, he was wearing his wig and robe. The town elders followed, each taking their seats at the high altar.

  Together, we then waited.

  Waited for her to arrive as the morning fog burned away.

  —Thad McAlister,

  Rise of the Witch

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Day 1 – 7:00 a.m.

  “WHY CAN’T YOU STAY home, Daddy? I don’t want you to leave,” Ashley pouted, scooping up a spoonful of soggy Lucky Charms and leaving a prominent trail of milk on the kitchen table. “And it’s Sunday. You are not allowed to go anywhere on Sunday. That’s the rule.”

  Thad had made a point of getting up early this morning, as he did every Sunday. Sunday was father/daughter day in the McAlister household—a tradition he cherished deep in his heart. At eight years old, she was grow
ing up so fast. He wanted to preserve each moment, capturing them in a jar he could open years from now to relive.

  They had a little game. Every Sunday, the last one out of bed made breakfast for the other (always a bowl of cereal—Lucky Charms being his daughter’s current entrée of choice). The winner would get to choose the activity for the day. Reading, playing a game, or watching TV—it didn’t matter; only that they did it together. He had grown up without the love of his parents; he never wanted his daughter to know the emptiness he carried inside. She simply meant too much to him.

  Thad had gotten up at a little after six (not that he was able to sleep after Rachael’s nightmare last night), and quietly made his way downstairs like a child on Christmas morning. He tiptoed past his daughter’s door, pausing to take a wide step over the third stair (which always creaked) before descending down the remainder to the first floor.

  He found Ashley wide awake and planted at the kitchen table, browsing through the comics like an investor might hover over yesterday’s market activity.

  Her face grew brighter still at the sight of him. He couldn’t help but smile back—his little angel.

  I beat you again, she had said with a laugh.

  I beat you again, sleepyhead!

  Thad didn’t remember the last time he had actually won their little game. Sometimes he wondered if she slept at all.

  Last night when he had told her he had to go to New York, she hadn’t taken the news well and he considered backing out of the trip before dismissing the thought. He had too much riding on it. With the new book came a new contract and most likely a film deal; his third, if this one panned out. It was a turning point in his career, one that would surely seal his place among some of the best writers in the business. Sure, the money was great; but to be thought of on the same level as Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or Jack Stevenson—that’s what he had always wanted.

  The new contract spanned five books; he already had three written—a fact he had carefully omitted while speaking to Del Thomas, his agent. He had learned early on to keep him wondering when (and if) the next book would come; he then worked the one he had in his hands as his last, squeezing every drop of blood from the project. Three finished books with any agent might make them soft. Thad wanted him at his best—one hundred and ten percent, as Coach Johnson used to say back in his high school football days.

  Every game’s the Super Bowl, dammit!

  Play to win or warm the bench…

  Del Thomas did not warm the bench; he had scored some of the most lucrative deals in the industry over the past few years, but Thad didn’t believe in letting others run his career. When Del had said he was going to be in New York to finalize the film rights, Thad had to be there— even on Sunday—not to step on anybody’s toes but to keep them on theirs.

  He had wanted to deliver the new book in person anyway. He didn’t trust e-mail or the post office.

  To date, he hadn’t allowed anyone to read this one, not a single page—not Del, not his wife, and certainly not his publisher, but not because the novel was not ready to be read. No, that wasn’t it at all. The story was too disturbing to be read.

  In all of his years as a writer, Thad had never found himself reluctant to share something he had worked so hard to complete. Even now, as the finished manuscript rested comfortably in his briefcase, he couldn’t help but consider replacing the tome with one of the other three he had on standby. Who would know?

  He would.

  He would know.

  This book deserved to be published—no, needed to be published.

  The book was filled with his sweat, his time, his life, his fears. His fears—what an understatement. The lead character represented what he feared most, what crept through the darkest corners of his mind, the crispy little voice he heard when alone, the bump in so many sleepless nights. He had to publish this one, put it behind him. How else could he possibly move on with his life?

  He had written many stories in the past, but no other had frightened him so. Only Her story kept him up at night.

  “If you stay, I’ll clean my room,” Ashley interrupted his thoughts, her big blue eyes staring up at him. “I promise I will.” She had milk trickling down her chin and Thad couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I wouldn’t tell your mother; she seems to be under the impression you’re supposed to clean your room anyway,” Thad said, running his hand through her soft blond hair. “I’d stay home if I could, sweetheart, but some very important people want to talk to me about making a movie out of one of my books. You like movies, right?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll make it up to you. I promise,” he told her. “What do you have planned for your daddy-free day?”

  Ashley shrugged her little shoulders. “I wanted to go to the zoo, but Zeke thinks it’s gonna rain.”

  “Oh he does, does he?”

  She nodded. “The zoo is no fun in the rain. All the animals hide and the smells are really bad.”

  Zeke was his daughter’s invisible friend.

  From the start, Rachael had discouraged their daughter from talking to or about Zeke at every opportunity, but Thad had always been a firm believer in invisible friends; God knew he had had his share growing up. He saw Zeke as nothing more than a way for her to express her emotions through a redirected source (a definition he had proudly stumbled upon in one of his many pop-psychology books). Imaginary friends were healthy and normal (the same book told him). Rachael felt otherwise but had kept it to herself, hoping Ashley would grow out of this phase (sooner rather than later, Thad imagined). Thad also had a sneaking suspicion Rachael was more upset over the fact their daughter’s little friend was a boy instead of a girl. He had told her once this too was common (same library, different book), but she didn’t want to hear it.

  “So how’s ol’ Zeke doing these days?” Thad asked her.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she replied in her big-girl voice. “We’re not speaking today.”

  “But he told you about the rain today?”

  “I’m not speaking to him,” she said with a frown.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because he was being mean last night. He was making all kinds of noise and would not let me sleep,” she said. “It was all very rude, if you ask me.”

  Thad chuckled. “Why wouldn’t Zeke want you to sleep?”

  Ashley frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe he was scared of the thunder and didn’t want to be alone.”

  “That was quite a storm last night.”

  She nodded.

  “Lots of thunder and lightning.”

  She nodded again.

  “The wind howled, too. It sounded like an old dog—awrooo, awrooooo.” Thad hopped off his chair and padded over to her on all fours. “Awrooooo,” he moaned.

  “Ashley, why don’t you let your father out? I think he has to go,” Rachael said as she waddled into the kitchen, her hand wrapped around her round tummy, her eyes on the coffee she couldn’t have.

  Ashley giggled. “I’m in charge of Buster. Daddy belongs to you!”

  “Wanna trade?” Rachael replied, pretending to scratch Thad behind the ear.

  Buster came bouncing into the room and went straight for Thad, slobbering all over his face—it wasn’t often they were on the same level, and he didn’t seem willing to pass up the opportunity.

  “Buster, stop—” Thad cried, trying to turn away. “That’s gross!”

  “He luuuves you!” Ashley clapped her hands.

  “Come on, Buster—you wanna go outside?” Rachael asked.

  Buster’s tail excitedly flapped back and forth as he scrambled to the back door, his nails clicking loudly on the wood floor.

  “Come on, Buster!” Rachael repeated, reaching for the lock. The heavy door squeaked on its hinges. A rush of damp air filled the kitchen. Damp air and—

  Buster came to a stop at the opening and tensed. A soft whimper escaped his throat. His tail dropped between his legs and he slowly back
ed away.

  “Buster, what’s wrong?” Ashley asked him.

  The dog fell silent.

  “Thad, come here. Look at this,” Rachael said, staring outside.

  Thad rose to a stand and made his way over to the door; his wife’s hand found his as he reached her side.

  “What happened?”

  Thad stepped out. His wife reluctantly released him from her grip, remaining just inside the threshold.

  Their entire lawn was dead.

  Every single strand of grass.

  His stomach twisted as the scent crept into his lungs.

  Not only dead; their lawn was rotten.

  “Could it have been the cold?” Rachael asked him.

  Thad shook his head. “I don't think we dropped below fifty last night—cold can’t do this, not overnight, at least,” he told her.

  “Look over there—” She pointed at the Nelson’s house.

  Thad noticed, too.

  Their lawn was dead, and only their lawn. The Nelson’s, the Gargano’s, and the Barstoke’s beyond them, all were untouched. Only theirs. Not just the lawn, either. The large oak which had towered over their home for years was dark and bare, leaves dry and brown, lying lifeless at its base. Thad didn’t need to inspect the tree up close to know the branches were brittle with death—he could smell the rot from here.

  “What happened, Daddy?” Ashley said.

  “Why don’t you wait inside, honey?” he asked, his eyes following the strange line of death, which seemed to end directly at their property’s edge. “I’ll be right in.”

  He shook his head. “I watered yesterday. Everything looked damn near perfect—I don’t get it,” he mumbled.

  “Maybe you should come back inside,” Rachael said.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “What if it’s some kind of poison?” she asked him. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

  “I don’t think. . .” Thad’s voice trailed off as he knelt down and ran his hand through a small pile of dirt.

  He saw another to his left, and another a few feet beyond the first. As he scanned the lawn, he realized they were everywhere.

  They smelled of rot and decay.