He stopped back by the bed, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead. "I love you," he said.
And then he was gone.
A moment later, Megan followed, hearing his car as he revved it, then sliding the bolt to make sure that the house was securely locked.
Andy Markharm woke in a cold sweat. One more night.
Then it would be All Hallow's Eve.
His small apartment was in a rooming house right in town. He seldom used the old Ford pickup that was so far gone was almost an antique, just like him. But in the last few days, he had begun to feel a greater fever than ever.
There was no traffic in the night. In a matter of minutes, he had come to the cemetery. He parked the old pickup. He'd brought a lantern, but that night, he didn't need it. The moon appeared almost as full as it would in two night's time. Despite the heavy green canopy of the trees, there was illumination.
The ground was more heavily trodden now than it had been just a few days before. He could see it, as he could see the remnants of candles, recently lit.
There were no cars where he had parked, yet as he pulled his pickax from the back of the old Ford, he felt a chill. There were sounds on the air, of course. Leaves rustling in the breeze that swept through such a copse. Just leaves, whispering…
He made his way through high grasses, over the broken stones set by the families of even those who had gone to unhallowed graves. The leaves seemed to be sighing, whispering, and then… it was as if there was music. Something that touched the air.
Like the blue fog.
Low, swirling, following him, there, wherever he walked, wherever he turned.
Andy, Andy… Andy!
The rustle of the trees seemed to call his name.
With greater determination, he moved on.
As he walked, he felt his sense of purpose become a sense of power. Yes, he knew, and by his knowledge, he would be the one to rise!
He fell to his knees before the broken marble statue.
The sound rose…
Andy, Andy, Andy!
He staggered to his feet, raising his ax, aware, suddenly, of the movement behind him.
He turned, roaring out. He looked into the sea of the night, and all that moved within it.
He raised the pickax…
And again, his cry rose in the night, but the chanting of leaves and breeze rose with the sound, and in time, all was silent.
It was late when Finn returned to Huntington House, nearly four in the morning. In the time he'd spent at Martha's, he'd forgotten his vow to the children. Understandably.
He hadn't felt so good since…
Before they'd come here, that was definite.
But as he slipped quietly through the front door, he cursed himself for his negligence, despite his deep sense of euphoria and satiation.
He hadn't needed to return earlier.
He was worried about more than checking out what the kids had seen.
Fallon was a scary man. Certainly not in the physical sense. He just seemed somewhat like a lurking crow. And if he did think that he was cooking up some kind of spells, then he wasn't all there. Then there was Susanna—the Wicked Witch of the West. She had just reminded Finn of an old-fashioned and very dour old maid.
She could not be accused of being overly pleasant.
The house seemed totally quiet when Finn came in and closed and locked the main door behind him. He stood still for a minute, listening, but the house was silent. After a moment, he walked through the foyer, into the dining area, and then to the parlor, or sitting room, beyond. The place was nothing more than a ghost town, empty and eerie in the silence and shadows caused by the numerous little night-lights.
He walked through to the kitchen, but it, too, was empty, with no sign of any manner of activity going on.
Copper pots and utensils hung from the walls. The gleaming stainless steel sink and counter area—a concession to the modern day—shone in the dim night light. The great hearth, a fixture of the original seventeenth-century house, held a low burning fire, nothing but ash and embers and a bit of glowing red here and there.
Within the next few hours, the fire would be stoked, because apparently, a fire burning in the kitchen—
where guests seldom dared wander—was supposed to be part of the hospitality of Huntington House.
Soon, Susanna would be up, getting breakfast ready for her early risers.
Finn walked on through to the side of the house with his lone guest room. He let himself in with his key, closed and locked his own door behind him, and held still for a moment, wondering what was wrong.
Then he saw that one of the fragile curtains drifted slightly and he walked over to the balcony area, pulling the curtain away. The doors here were wide open.
A chill of unease shot through him. He stood there for a long moment, remembering that he had closed and locked the balcony entrance. No great mystery. The day maid had certainly come in and opened the doors to air out the room. She had forgotten to close them. Careless on her part, but since it hadn't appeared that anything had been stolen, certainly no big deal. He hesitated, then closed and locked the doors, and, just to be certain, began a complete search of the bedroom and bath. All was empty, even though he grit his teeth with a mixture of dread and anticipation as he wrenched back the shower curtain.
Nothing.
He walked back out and assured himself that the balcony doors were secured, then dropped the borrowed cape he was wearing and sat to pull off his boots. He dropped his socks as well, and had started on the buttons to his shirt when he was suddenly certain that he heard a noise from the main house. He hesitated, then rose, barefoot and silent.
He crept back through the house, glancing at his watch as he did so. Four-thirty. Too early for Susanna to be up.
But as he traveled back to the main area of the house, he again heard noise. A soft sound, like a cabinet being carefully closed.
He padded through the dining room, and held still there for several seconds, just listening.
There were voices coming from the kitchen. So soft they might have been imagined—except that they weren't.
He steeled himself, gritted his teeth, and walked toward the kitchen. The heavy old wooden door between the kitchen and dining room—which had stood fully open before, was closed now. Finn set his hand on the antique knob and twisted quietly. To his great relief, though old, it was oiled, and did not screech as he slowly turned it to fully open, and pressed carefully upon the door, bringing it just slightly ajar so that he could observe what went on within.
The great hearth had been stoked back to life; the dark embers were fiery red, and laps of flame were reaching up to touch the huge kettle that was set on a cast iron swing bar.
Susanna was not present.
But old Fallon was certainly there.
He was on his scrawny knees before the huge kettle and burning fire, chanting to himself as he cast powders or herbs into the kettle from a carved wooden casket in his hands. His words were low, very low, but he cast some of the casket's contents into the kettle as he moved his lips, then spoke the same words louder, casting some of the powder onto the fire.
Flames leaped and embers scattered. Fallon kept chanting.
Finn felt his jaw lock so tightly he was afraid he'd soon snap bone. He pushed open the door fully and stepped into the kitchen, angry, and also uneasy, and more irritated with both himself and Fallon that he could be made uneasy by such a display of ridiculousness.
"What the hell are you doing?" Finn demanded.
Chapter 15
Startled, Fallon cried out, dropped the casket, and jumped to his feet, staring at Finn with alarm.
Then his look of fear turned to one of anger and resentment.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded huffily of Finn. He pointed a bony finger at him. "Ruining everything you fool! Ruining everything."
"Mr. Fallon, it's obvious you're concocting some kind of evil spell—"
"Don't be ridiculous, you young fool!" Fallon said with such energy that Finn was almost taken aback.
"You're not concocting some kind of spell?" Finn said accusingly.
"Of course, I am. I'm a Wiccan, young man, which is none of your business. And if you listened to anything said, you'd know that Wiccans do no evil—they can't. Evil comes back threefold on a Wiccan, and therefore, true Wiccans would never do evil!"
Finn was amazed to see how sincere and passionately earnest Fallon seemed to be.
"Mind if I ask just what you are doing then?" Finn said.
"Yes, I mind, it's none of your business," Fallon said. But he stared at Finn and shook his head. "A spell, yes. For protection."
"Protection?"
"From the dead, and those not of this earth," Fallon said. Turning away, he hunched back to his knees.
He cast something else—green in color, an herb of some sort—into the cauldron. And as he chanted this time, Finn heard the words.
"Potion of magick, have thou the life,
Save us from the evil strife,
Blessed be all those living, and those deceased,
From pain and agony released,
Sorrow and fear have now ceased,
Let them help save us from the beast,
Keep from us the wicked, strong and rife,
Let them not know this life,
Grant us safety, grant us peace
Upon a body, give no lease,
As it is willed, so mote it be."
Finn wasn't sure if he imagined it or not, but it seemed that sparks rose from the simmering cauldron, or from the fire beneath. Fallon kept his head down as if he remained in humble prayer. Then he stood, staring fiercely at Finn.
"If you had a whit of sense in your head, young man, you'd be on your knees."
"Mr. Fallon, I'm not a Wiccan."
"Not a Wiccan, eh? And that would keep you from prayer? I'd thought at first that maybe you had something extra, something special about you. That you were strong, strong enough to keep evil from rising. But you're a fool. Not a Wiccan! So get yourself into one of the churches, or temples. There are but two powers in this world, and you may call the great and the good by the name of a supreme being, a god of all gods, or you may look for peace and kindness in a slew of gentle entities. Evil is the master of the other side, and by what name you call evil, it matters not, it's all the same. Can't you feel it coming, boy? Haven't you seen the fog? Don't mock me, just be glad that I create potions and prayer, and keep this house from evil!"