Southern fury, p.15
Southern Fury, page 15
“And what’s the truth about you?”
With a shine in his eyes, Drummond said, “I refuse to give up. Even though every day of my life there’s a pull on me — every single day.”
“A pull?”
“It’s like a crush. You know? When you’re young and you have a crush on a girl and every part of your day there’s this feeling inside of being drawn to her, of thinking about her, of wanting to be near her, of thinking about what life would be like with her.”
“Like a stalker?”
“Like a crush. Don’t be a jerk. Now, this feeling — I feel that every day but not for a girl. I feel it for the urge to move on. I’m not supposed to be here with you guys. You know that. Don’t you remember? I could have moved on, but I chose to stay back.” With a wistful note unusual for Drummond’s voice, he added, “I did move on for a short period. Got a taste of it. I told you it was boring. And that was true. But also, it’s beautiful. That’s why I feel it every single day.”
Max thought about all the years they had spent with Drummond. He tried to imagine moments in their past with this new layer of information. Times when Drummond endured pain and suffering to protect his mortal friends — did he feel the pull then? When Max got the better of him with a sarcastic comment — did he wish to move on?
Drummond continued, “Don’t you understand? I fight to stay here, all the time, for you, for Sandra, and heck, now even for those boys — and I don’t even like kids. So don’t give up. Your wife needs you, the boys need you, and I’m admitting to it right now — I need you.”
Don’t listen to him, that little voice said. He’s no better than Don Quixote. You want to go off to fight windmills? Even if you summon the strength for the fight, you’ll lose anyway. Might as well just sit back and let the world do its thing. As you’re going to die anyway, and the world will go on without you.
Max locked eyes with Drummond. “I ... I want to fight, but I’m tethered to my body and all I know is that William Crutchfield isn’t here.”
Drummond winked. “But I’m not tethered.”
It was a small statement. Nothing to it really. But having his last shred of a defeatist argument tossed away so simply, brought Max — the real Max — rushing back. He shot straight up, his eyes focused as he thought. “Madame Ti cast a spell on us. When she shot us out of the building. She made us depressed.”
“That’s right. You fight it.”
“She made us convince ourselves that we had already lost.”
“But we haven’t. You only need to get your brain back here and we’ll fight.”
“I did. I’m here. We need to go find William Crutchfield and save our family.”
Drummond smacked his hands together. “There’s my partner.”
Max put out his hand. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. Now let’s get to work.”
“Just one thing. Can we never mention this spell and the things we said ever again?”
Drummond tipped his hat back. “I thought that went without saying.”
Chapter 22
AS THE EFFECTS of Madame Ti’s spell wore off, Max’s brain fired into life. While this spell that created a defeatist attitude had weakened in a short period of time, Madame Ti had cast it rather quickly. They would have to be careful around her. And should Max survive the night, he would have to research this witch and where she came from.
The back of his head pulsated where the voice had been. Not exactly a headache but more like a remnant of a hangover. A glance at Drummond suggested he felt much the same.
Drummond put his hands in his coat pockets and hunched over as if he could contain the grim anger heating up. “How do you want to do this?”
“Just because I’m screwed by this curse doesn’t mean Sandra and the Sandwich Boys have to be. Not that we can trust Cecily Hull, but I think she’ll honor her word to this extent — she won’t hurt the boys if we do what she asked. At least, this time. Once she’s got what she wants, all bets are off.”
“So, we find William Crutchfield?”
“Since I’m still tethered to my body, I need you to go off in the woods towards all those lights. See if you can find him there.”
“You got it. And don’t worry. There’s a very good chance Crutchfield is out there. Those lights are definitely ghosts. I should know.” Drummond gave Max a final squeeze on the shoulder before heading off into the dark woods.
Max paced a tight circle and worked over the details of the Walker case once more. If Cecily Hull told the truth, then Walker had been simply an unfortunate pawn. If he still had contact with the corporeal world, and if he had the time, Max could have gone to the library to research Mary Goins. But the more he thought about it, the more he decided that Mary and her husband would produce nothing useful. They were normal, everyday folks. Even if she had lived, from the little he learned of her story, Max did not think she would have joined up with either the Magi or the Mobley coven. Possibly wouldn’t have believed the witches in the first place. And because she had no contact with Crutchfield beyond her murder — a notable point in her life but not one that created any knowledge of the killer — Max decided that any key to locating Crutchfield would not be found there.
No surprise. But he wanted to be systematic in his approach. That always provided the best results.
He glanced toward the second floor of the pest house. Beyond those walls, Mother Hope and Grandma Mobley continued their face-off. Every minute that did not result in an explosive burst of supernatural energy meant they were a minute closer to that exact thing happening. He had no idea how long those two old women could play out their game, but he could feel the clock ticking away. Feel it in his bones and hear it in the back of his head. At some point, one of them would make a mistake, fail to react to the possible spell of the other, and that would be it. Everything would go off.
Rubbing his temples, he leaned back. Mr. Derby and the rest of the pest house ghosts remained attached to the dome, longingly gazing at the house. They were like moths stuck to a screen door, straining to get closer to a light inside the house.
“One of you could be Crutchfield,” Max whispered. Heck, Mr. Derby could be Crutchfield. Max had no clue what the man he sought actually looked like. A new voice spoke up in his head, but this one he knew well. His own little reminder when his brain thought he had found the right path to follow. It did not sound strong or confident at the moment which suggested that he needed more information. That would be easy enough to solve — the magic dome above him had a bunch of primary sources striving to get inside.
Pushing off the ground, an unnecessary motion for a ghost, Max lifted skyward. Off to his right, he spotted a bony gentleman with a mustache that would rival any modern-day hipster. The man’s sunken eyes and shallow chest pointed to the ravages his body had suffered before dying.
“Excuse me,” Max said as he neared the man. “I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to find somebody who has been here for a long time. I guess you all have been here for a long time, but this one particular man joined in the early-1900s. His name is Crutchfield. You know him? Heck, are you Mr. Crutchfield?”
The man did not respond. Did not even look in Max’s direction. He only had eyes for the pest house.
Further up the curve of the dome, Max came upon a portly woman with dark veins snaking along her face. Stains from popped blood vessels in her eyes darkened her expression.
“Ma’am? Could I have a few moments of your time? I’m looking for someone. It’s important. It’ll help save two young boys and a sweet woman.”
The woman rolled to the side, turning her back on Max, and drifted away. Max wondered if she responded to him or if her turning away had been an accidental answer. He thought about earlier in the attic — felt fairly certain the ghosts did see him. But they clearly didn’t want have anything to do with him.
He tried to recall things Drummond had said about the ghost community. A long time ago, there had been a ghost on the street corner near their original office. Drummond refused to talk to the guy because the ghost had been cursed. Or perhaps it was the other way around — that the ghost refused to talk to Drummond when Drummond was cursed. Max shook off his confusion. The point remained the same — regular ghosts and cursed ghosts didn’t get along.
And I’m a cursed ghost. Well, a half-ghost anyway. Still, a curse was a curse, and regular ghosts did not want to get too close to those damaged by such things.
Max caught movement from below. At his vantage point, he could see the battlefield with the clarity of professional cameramen at an arena sporting event.
Even from high in the air, Max could see how the tensions played out. The Magi had taken a new position far closer to the Mobley coven. Four of the Magi had broken away and slinked around the back of the house. It looked to Max like preparations for a flanking maneuver — for when the time came.
The Mobley coven had also split its group but in a much different fashion. Nine of the women had stepped away from the large circle around the fire. They formed a wide half-circle facing their enemy. Each witch stood forward, hands spread wide at their sides. In the middle of the half-circle stood Lena Mobley. As intimidating as this could be, Max caught the real threat lingering behind by the fire. Three Mobley sisters continued to prepare spells at that location. But with only three, a circle around the fire was difficult to make. Rather, they joined hands to make a different shape — a more triangular shape.
Max saw clearly their intent. Each Mobley sister in the half-circle had prepared a spell earlier in the circle. Maybe even two spells. They now stood at the ready, armed with those spells locked in their heads, energy flowing, waiting to be released. Lena Mobley had spells too, but being more advanced, Max suspected she could juggle more in her head. And the three women preparing their own deadly spells by the fire — they were the equivalent of the Magi’s flanking maneuver. A secondary attack from an alternate position.
If he did not find Crutchfield soon, take the man’s finger, and deliver it to Cecily Hull, the chances for a peaceful resolution to any of this evaporated. Not that Max thought the chances were high to begin with, but anything would be better than letting these two groups loose upon each other.
For a flashing moment, Max wished he had been pushed back by the energy dome like the pest ghosts. At least then he could smack his hand against its hard surface. He could kick it. He could let out his stress no matter how futile the gesture.
He surveyed the pest ghosts, searching for anything that might clue him in on which one could possibly be Crutchfield. Clothing styles would have helped, if Max knew the difference between a 1904 men’s suit and an 1897 men’s suit. But they all looked rather old-fashioned and stuffy to him. Then his eyes fell upon Sick Girl looking directly at him.
“Hey you,” he shouted.
With utter terror on her face, the girl spun away and flew off like a thief evading the police. Max tore after her. She moved fast as she skimmed the surface of the dome.
Though Max had become more adept at moving as a ghost, he could not match the girl’s agility. However, he could do something she could not — he could go through the dome. Dropping towards the pest house, he cut across in a strong straight line towards where he expected her to go. As long as she didn’t notice his intentions and change direction, he would beat her.
Thankfully, her fear kept her on course. He saw her just above. She checked behind a few times but did not slow down. What had frightened her so much? Could it be as simple as the fact that he was cursed? He didn’t know enough about ghost culture on a personal level to understand.
Over the final ten feet, Max spread his arms and lowered his shoulder. He burst through the dome right at the point when Sick Girl crossed his path. She hollered as he tackled her from beneath. His speed tossed her out into the air, and her hollers mutated into excruciating screams. She reached back toward the dome, toward the pest house, and her struggling made it difficult for Max to keep hold of her.
“Okay, okay, I’ll take you back.” With a gentle turn, Max slowly brought Sick Girl to the dome. When he placed her against the energy field, she pressed her face on it as if it were a life preserver and she a drowning victim.
But Max did not let go of her completely. No way would he afford her the opportunity to run away again. “I know you can see me. We both know you can feel me. And from the way you’re looking at me, I know you can hear me. My wife and my boys are in danger, and you are all I have right now. So, I hate to do this, but I’ve got no choice. Either you tell me everything you can about William Crutchfield, and better still, point him out to me if he’s here, or I’m going to grab you and throw you so far from this dome that your screams will never be heard again.”
He wished he could say he had been bluffing, but part of him was not so certain. Regardless, the girl certainly believed. She still felt enough social pressure to look around at who might be watching, but self-preservation overcame the possibility of ghosts ostracizing her.
She lifted one hand, her pasty skin hanging as if it wanted to separate from the bone. With haunting eyes and without warning, she thrust her hand against Max’s chest.
The world dipped around him as a disturbing sensation rippled within. His eyes kept shifting directions. He couldn’t focus. He tried to speak but his mouth had trouble forming the right shapes in order to create words. The smell of burnt toast permeated the air.
Am I having a stroke?
He had to remind himself that he no longer had a body. No body, no stroke.
The girl pressed against his chest harder. Like a bulb brightening before it burned out, the night sky turned white. Blinding. Max tried to shade his eyes, but the painful light surrounded his hands.
It all vanished.
He floated in the pest house attic. Mother Hope and Grandma Mobley were no longer there. Neither was his body. Instead, the pest house had been repopulated with cots and patients.
Sick Girl also hovered nearby. Along with several other ghosts, including Mr. Derby, they lingered in the air. The smell of rotting flesh, fouled bedsheets, and unwashed bodies created a vile stench.
Sick Girl focused on the scene below. Max followed her gaze to a young man wearing a stained white shirt and suspenders that held up plain brown pants. Max quickly surveyed the others, paying closer attention to details like their clothing, books they read, a newspaper. Most of the clothes were dark and plain — practical. He spotted three books — a bible, The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton, and Sandy by Alice Hegan Rice. He could not read the small print of the paper, but the style of the layout spoke volumes.
Max understood. Sick Girl was showing him a memory. But she was not walking the floor and not in a cot. This must have happened after she died. Floating on the ceiling, as she probably had done for decades, she watched along at what she wanted him to see.
Two figures climbed up the ladder and entered the attic. They wore dark hoods with robes that fell to the floor. On their faces, they each wore a crow’s mask — a horrifying filter meant to protect the wearer from any infectious diseases, it looked like a long-beaked, big-eyed crow. Though he could not see their faces, Max had no doubt in his mind who stood beneath him — Grandma Mobley and Mother Hope.
The shorter of the two figures — Mother Hope — stepped forward and raised her hands. “We are looking for William Crutchfield.”
The few patients with the energy to give Mother Hope their attention turned away. The others continued to stare off into space.
Grandma Mobley pushed Mother Hope to the side. “We know William Crutchfield came through here. If he’s dead, show us to his grave. If he is alive, show us to him. You best do as we say, or we can make things very unpleasant for you.”
From the back corner, a large man laughed — a harsh, wheezing sound. “Look around you lady. We’re all in Hell waiting to die. You think you got something to threaten us with?”
He laughed again, this time his chortles turned to a mucous-filled cough. Mr. Mustache rested in the cot next to the large man. He only had the energy to smile. A few other patients chuckled, and even Mr. Derby made a noise that had a hint of amusement.
At first, Max thought they were all protecting Crutchfield for some reason. But the longer he watched them, the more time he spent observing their sickly faces, the more he understood that they didn’t know or didn’t care about Crutchfield. They certainly didn’t care about the two women asking for Crutchfield. The concerns of each person in the pest house centered on survival, on finding comfort, on managing pain and suffering through the next minute. If they survived that, then the next hour. And for the lucky few, the next day.
But the witches would not see it the same way. They were focused on hunting down a witch hunter. Anybody standing in their way — or in this case, lying down in their way — had to be working against them. While the laughing man in the back had been right to suggest that everybody in the pest house had more problems than worrying about empty threats, he had been wrong to think those threats had no bite. Because even if the witches could not harm the dying, they could certainly harm the dead.
The two crow-faced figures huddled together by the attic ladder. A moment later, the one Max pegged as Grandma Mobley crouched to the floor and, with a piece of chalk she produced from within her robes, she drew a circle. Mother Hope walked in front of the circle as if an entourage’s bodyguard. Nobody challenged her. Nobody had the energy or even the interest. At least half of the residence rolled onto their sides and attempted to go to sleep.
After a short time, once Grandma Mobley had the spell set, Mother Hope raised her voice. “Your final chance — tell us where to find William Crutchfield.”
“Crutchfield, Crutchfield, Crutchfield,” the large man in the back said. “Nobody cares about him. Nobody wants to hear from you. Go away.”
Mother Hope reached high with both hands. “Then we curse you all. We curse you and this house. Not even death will bring you peace. You will suffer for eternity.”
