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“You better keep your whore mouth shut.”

It was easy to retreat into her mind and let
the assault end. If she closed her eyes and sang a song to herself,
the end would come eventually – it always had before. The little
girl she’d been for years was always with her, waiting to help
comfort her through moments like this. Just sing a song, Alma, and
the pain will stop. Hum and focus on something nice.

No more songs.

She thrust her fist into his abdomen, the
keys like knives between her fingers. He gasped and staggered back
as he gripped his wound. He checked his hand for blood, but there
was none. Her punch hadn’t cut him, but seemed to have hurt him
enough that he thought it had.

The taste of his oil stained hand was still
on her lips.

“You want a fight, old man. Let’s do this.”
Her stilted, terrified tone belied the courage of her words. She
was on the brink of tears.

“
I didn’t kill
Ben.”

She expected him to attack, but he paced in
the parking lot instead. She kept the keys in her fist and was
ready to defend herself, but her father wasn’t willing to fight
anymore. He stared up at the night sky as he walked back and
forth.

“I know what you think, and what your mother
thought, and what everyone else thinks, but God knows the truth.
God and me, we know, I didn’t hurt that boy. Some devil did
it.”

“Why are you here?” asked Alma. Her father
lived two states away and she never told him where she’d moved.

“To warn you, you dummy.” He spoke as if
chiding a friend instead of threatening his child. “I want to keep
you safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He took a step toward her
and she stiffened at the approach. “You might not believe it, but I
love you, Alma. I always have.”

“You had 24 years to prove that to me, and
you fucked up each and every one,” said Alma. “Now get in your car,
or bus, or however the hell you got here, and get out of my
life.”

He looked sad for a brief second, but then
grinned. His meth rotted teeth and sunken cheeks were a wicked
sight, accentuated by raw sores on his chapped, cracked lips.
“Darling, I’ll never be out of your life. We’re family.”

“Do your family a favor and die,
asshole.”

He whistled and shook his head. “Look at
you, girl. Acting like a tough one now? You’re no tough one. You’re
a pretty little flower. You’re my pretty little flower.”

“This pretty flower has thorns.” She jangled
the keys in her hand for emphasis.

Her father chuckled and shook his head.
“Listen to you. You’re a toughie now, huh? All right, all right.”
He held up his hands and backed away again. “Nothing but love for
you, girl. Swear to Christ, nothing but love. I’m here to protect
you.”

Alma found that hilarious and couldn’t help
but guffaw. “You, protecting me? That’s rich.”

“I’ll never stop protecting you,” he said,
his skittish mannerism helped turn his promises into threats. “I’ll
always be there for you. I’ll always watch out for you.”

Alma saw Rachel through the window of the
restaurant. The reporter had just noticed the confrontation in the
parking lot and was rushing to help. She stopped at the entrance,
her hands pressed against the bar that would open it, and looked at
Alma. She was uncertain if she should come out and was looking to
Alma for approval.

Alma nodded to her and Rachel opened the
door a crack. “Call the police,” said Alma.

Her father turned and yelled out at Rachel,
“Stop! Don’t do that.”

Rachel closed the door and ran back into the
restaurant, screaming for the owner to call the police. Alma saw
Stephen standing near the door, and Rachel’s panic alerted him to
the gravity of what was happening outside. He rushed to action.

“Get away from her.” Stephen burst through
the door, causing a rapid tintinnabulation as the bells above the
entrance bounced. He didn’t wait for Alma’s father to comply and
ran into the parking lot, ready to fight.

“Stay out of this,” said her father.

Stephen stopped for just long enough to get
into a tackling stance. He bent his knees and lowered his shoulders
while keeping an eye on his target. Alma almost expected him to
extend his right arm and touch his fingers to the ground like a
defensive lineman, but Stephen bounded forward before he got that
low.

“Stephen!” Rachel screamed from the
restaurant entrance.

He was already crashing into Alma’s father.
He lifted the thin man into the air and Alma heard her father’s
breath escape in a sudden huff. She dashed to the side as Stephen
rammed the old man into the Subaru. Stephen didn’t hesitate after
impact and brought his right arm up to Alma’s father’s throat. He
pushed at it as if trying to pop the man’s head off.

“Stephen, let him go,” said Rachel as she
ran forward.

An older Asian woman appeared at the door
and gasped when she saw the altercation. “Oh my gosh. You need to
go. Get out of here. I’m not going to have this in my parking lot.
Get out of here. Now!”

Alma enjoyed watching her father squirm. She
couldn’t help but smile as Stephen choked him.

“You need to leave,” said Stephen. “Take
your junky ass back to Pennsylvania and leave your daughter alone.”
He released the old man, but then grabbed Michael Harper’s shirt
and pulled him away from Alma.

“Don’t go with them,” said her father as he
rubbed his throat. He staggered away, walking backward as he stared
at his daughter. “Let it die, girl. Bury it.” He turned and ran
into the night.

Stephen panted and looked prideful, his face
flushed and eyes wide from the adrenaline rush. He smiled at Alma,
expecting her to thank him. Instead, she scowled.

“How did you know he was my father?” Alma
looked from Stephen to Rachel. “How did you guys know he was from
Pennsylvania? Did you bring him here?”

“No,” said Rachel. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” asked
Alma.

“We met him first, when we were doing the
story of the haunted house,” said Stephen. “We knew he was accused
of killing his son, and that he was tied to Widowsfield. We got a
hold of him to see if he’d be interested in taking part in the
story.”

“How did he end up here?”

“He must’ve gotten here on his own,” said
Rachel. “We didn’t bring him.”

Alma tried to grasp the situation, as well
as her emotions. She was furious, but knew that the two hadn’t
meant any harm. Alma’s family had kept the discord between them a
secret. Stephen and Rachel couldn’t have known what their meddling
could cause, but that did little to keep Alma from hating them for
it. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a nightmare.” She laughed
nervously. “And I was having such a good day.”

“I’m sorry about this, Alma,” said Stephen.
“I really am.”

The restaurant door opened again and the
Asian woman frowned even as she spoke. “I called the police.
They’ll be here soon. Get out of here, now.”

“Can I go in and get our things?” asked
Rachel. “I still need to pay for the food.”

The woman reluctantly moved aside to let
Rachel in and then glared out at Stephen. She pointed at him and
said, “You get out of here, jackass. Don’t come back.”

He saluted her and snickered. “That sucks. I
liked this place.” He inspected the dent in the side of the car as
Alma unlocked the door. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

“That’s okay,” said Alma. “I don’t care. I
just want to go home.”

“I’m sorry for all of this,” said
Stephen.

Alma got in as Stephen stood beside the car,
holding the door open. She turned the car on and music blared
before she had a chance to turn the volume down.

“We can help you bury the past,” said
Stephen as a last ditch effort to get Alma to agree to the
trip.

“You’re off to a hell of a start.”

She was prepared to leave and reached out
for the door’s handle.

“I know about Chaos Magick,” said
Stephen.

Alma halted. She didn’t even breathe as she
looked at him.

“I know about 314.”

She pulled the door away from him and
slammed it shut. She turned the music up until the speakers
crackled. Her tires squealed as she raced away.

CHAPTER THREE

Rekindled

Widowsfield

March 14th, 1996

“Hey there, Claire,” said Nancy as she came
into the office. It was only a few minutes until her shift started,
and she’d already been reprimanded for being late three times in
the past month. The last thing she needed was to lose another
job.

Claire was already in her seat with her
headset on. She had the cubicle closest to the front door, which
she said she liked because it gave her a chance to smile at
everyone as they got to work. The sweet old woman tapped on her
watch and smiled at Nancy.

“I know, I know, but I’m here, aren’t I? I’m
not late.”

“You’d better hurry up and get to the time
clock,” said Claire. She was a rotund, cheery old woman whose
husband was a train conductor, a fact that Claire talked about
endlessly. She was anxious for him to retire so that they could
move to their ranch in Wyoming. Nancy had heard all about it,
several times, since starting her job at the Widowsfield County
Emergency Services Center.

Nancy threw her purse onto the desk in her
cubicle across from Claire. The two of them sat with their backs to
one another, and had been working the late shift together since the
recent merger with Alden County. “Back in a minute,” said Nancy as
she pat Claire’s shoulder.

“Get a move on, sweetie,” said Claire as
Nancy ran down the hall to the break room where the time clock was
located.

Nancy pushed past Darryl, who danced away
with his coffee cup held high as he whistled at her. “Cutting it
close, princess.”

“Shut up, Darryl,” said Nancy. She was a fan
of coffee, but there was something amiss about the smell at three
in the afternoon. Darryl was always drinking it, and the scent
threatened to reset Nancy’s internal clock, convincing her that
they were like everyone else and started their work day in the
morning instead of late afternoon.

“Testy, testy,” said Darryl. “What was it
this time, Nancy? A train? A funeral? An earthquake? You know Mike
told us to clock in ten minutes early. Doesn’t matter if it’s not
three yet, you’re already late.”

“Seriously, Darryl, shut it.” She dropped
her card into the machine mounted on the wall and heard the robotic
crunch as it stamped a hole in it. She breathed a sigh of relief
when she pulled the card out and saw 2:58 printed on it. She waved
the card in the air as if it were a Poloroid and then dropped it
back into the metal sleeve beside the door. “Made it.”

“Like I said, you’re still going to get
bitched out.”

“Well, whatever. Mike can go fuck himself. I
had to deal with a sitter for my kid because something happened at
the school and they shut down the afterschool program for the day
at the last minute. My mom can’t pick him up until four, so unless
Mike wanted me to let the kid wander the street for a half hour
then I really didn’t have a choice. Now did I?”

“I don’t care about your sob story,
darling,” said Darryl. He was a tall, obese man. He had no chin,
and his neck seemed to extend from his chest to just under his lip.
He had a beard, and tried to shave it to help make it appear as if
he had a chin line, which just accentuated his turkey wattle.

“Then why’d you ask?” She slid past him, out
of the break room and back into the hall.

He followed behind and sipped his coffee.
“Just being nice. You should try it sometime. Doesn’t hurt to be
affable, you know.”

“Thanks for the advice,” said Nancy as she
got to her seat.

Darryl grumbled as he walked to his cubicle
on the other side of the room.

“Don’t let him bug you,” said Claire without
turning.

“I’m trying. He’s just so…”

“I know, I know. Some people get their
jollies pushing other people’s buttons.” Claire finished logging
onto her computer and then swiveled to look at Nancy. “I’ll tell
you the best advice I ever got. It was from my grandma, way back in
the dinosaur years when I was a kid. She sat me down after I got in
a fight with a girl that made fun of my dress. We didn’t have much
money, and I had to wear the same clothes for weeks at a time. My
shoes had holes in them that we taped up, and baths were a once a
week affair. No kidding, we were poor. Anyhow, this girl was giving
me the what for, getting all the other girls to call me names, and
I went and popped her. I got in pretty big trouble, cause back in
those days us girls were supposed to be dainty little things. Not
me, though. I was a firebrand for sure. Anyhow, my granny told me
that there’re two different types of people in the world.” She held
up one finger, “You’ve got the doers,” she held up a second finger,
“and you’ve got the doubters.”

“Okay,” said Nancy as she faced away from
Claire to log into her computer. She wasn’t trying to ignore the
old woman, but she wasn’t exactly paying attention either. The
station had been befitted with a new login system that utilized a
faster modem, but it still seemed to take forever, and Nancy hadn’t
gotten used to the interface yet.

“The doers are the people that give it a go.
You know the type, the ones that get out there and make things
happen.”

Nancy just nodded as Claire talked. The old
woman rarely went five minutes without telling a story. It was a
habit that had taken Nancy several months to get used to, but now
the incessant chatter was actually something she looked forward to.
On nights where the county stayed quiet, and no crimes or accidents
were called in, it was nice to have someone like Claire, with a
wealth of tales, ready to spin a yarn at a moment’s notice.