Witch Island (10 page)

Steve was a low-key type of person, and didn’t care for the spotlight or attention, which included surprises. He hardly ever raised his hand in class, even when he knew the answer. He was a go-along-with-the-group sort of guy, a blender. And he liked it that way. Amongst his friends, he came out of his shell a little. He still wanted to know what they were all up to. Could they really be bringing a girl for him to hook up with? He wasn’t ugly, nor was he a stud, so what made them think he was going to score? They were just making sure he was prepared, he guessed. Or maybe they had all pitched in and really were bringing him a hooker, a real, paid for, woman of the night.

Yeah, genius, that’s what your friends did. They all chipped in and got you some possibly disease-ridden whore, because that’s what good friends do for those without a partner.

Looking at the clock on his nightstand, he saw that the time was 5:30 pm. His phone was charged, he had some cash in his pocket and…wait. Something was missing. The chips! He was in charge of bringing the chips, pretzels and any other snacks he thought everyone might want. There were none of those items in his house either, so he’d have to stop off at the store.

Steve did the shopping at home, his mom always too out of it, tired, or blitzed to even get up from the couch in front of the television. If his friends had wanted microwaveable dinners and canned goods, he had plenty of that crap. His mother lived off alcohol, but when she did eat, it was soups and TV dinners. Steve never bought his mom booze, but didn’t stop her from buying it herself, the local liquor store having a delivery service.

Steve drank, but only on the weekends after work and only when there was a party going on. He saw how his mother was and didn’t want to end up like her. For all he knew, alcoholism was in his genes, so limiting his drinking was a smart move. His friends knew better than to ask him to bring anything from his mother’s stash. The woman was a drunk, sloppy and careless, but she always knew when a bottle was missing, or if water had been added. He’d learned firsthand not to touch his mother’s supply.

One night, he’d been at a get-together with some of his ex’s friends—Jim and the gang not invited—and the alcohol supply was running low, the stores closed for the night. His ex suggested taking a bottle from his mother’s stash, and he complied, thinking she’d never know.

The next day, his mother came into his room. She went crazy, tossed his things around, broke his Xbox gaming system by stomping it to pieces, cut up her feet pretty badly too.

“You’re a thief and fucking liar,” she said, after he denied taking a bottle. “You’re just like your father, a no-good loser son of a bitch.” She grabbed the trophy he’d won for archery at the Black Rock Gaming Club and threw it through one of his closed windows. He found the trophy outside, broken in pieces. To make immediate matters worse, it was the middle of winter and he had to board up the window with plywood until he could afford to get the glass fixed.

She demanded the money for the bottle of alcohol he’d stolen, then went back downstairs. The next day, she acted like nothing had happened, only saying the window was his to fix, his punishment for stealing.

His mother was usually docile, as long as she wasn’t provoked, which seemed to revolve around her canned goods, TV dinners and the booze. Steve made sure he stayed away from those things.

Standing in his room now, he was ready to leave. He’d go downstairs, grab some dinner, then head over to Stack’s Grocery and grab some goodies.

On his way out of the room, he paused. The ring. For some reason, the family heirloom had just popped into his mind. He thought about what his mother used to tell him, before she had become a drunk.

When he turned twelve, his mother came to him and gave him the ring as a present. She said it had been in the family for decades. It was worn by anyone who went to the lake and said to protect against Margaret Rivers, the witch of the island.

As a boy, the tale had scared Steve, and when his mother had given him the ring, it frightened him even more. He wore it constantly until he met Kelly. After they started dating, she went down the list of things he needed to change about himself, starting with the ring.

“Yuck,” she said. “Leave that hideous thing in the box it came in, then bury it where no one will find it.”

Of course, he didn’t get rid of it, just tossed it into a drawer and forgot about it. The ring was a family heirloom, maybe valuable, though it didn’t look it, and had a great story to go along with it. Thinking back, which he was doing a lot of lately, he should’ve stood up to his ex, instead of taking her shit and being such a
good little boy
, as she put it.

Steve opened the top drawer of his dresser and fished around for the box containing the ring. Picking it up, he opened the container and removed the antique piece of jewelry, then slid the ring onto his middle finger, but not because he believed in the legend of Witch Island, or because it was what his mother had wanted—she’d lost all privileges when it came to that. He wore the ring because he wanted to. He’d always thought the thing was cool, like something found in a tomb or cave.

Staring at the ring, focusing on the strange emblem on the top, he said, “Fuck you, Kelly,” and smiled, feeling good about himself, something he hadn’t been able to do for a while.

Chapter Ten

Interlude

Salisbury Mills, 1904

Eshram Vogel was a protection specialist, a warden. People swore he had the ability to look into a person’s soul. His dark eyes had a spark to them, which caused most that looked upon him to glance away. He was muscular, and had a defined figure. His dark hair flowed to the middle of his back. The many necklaces and earrings he wore were made of rare jewels and blessed bones from various animals, each item a ward against specific evils. His muscular arms were tattooed with tribal markings, also protection against things that meant him harm. He stood over 6 feet 5 inches and was an imposing figure. He was often viewed as a heretic or savage, until he announced himself, and then people knew what he was.

He had been called in by various people, from all walks of life, including churches, synagogues, secret organizations, villages, only to name a few. Most of the specialists, witches, sorcerers, magic dealers, etc., were charlatans, performing their rituals for profit and nothing more, hoping to get out of town before the truth was found out.

Eshram was informed of Salisbury Mills’ situation, how a witch had been burned at the stake, but not properly vanquished. She had supposedly cursed the town, specifically damning the ones who put her to death. She threatened to return one day and take her vengeance on the kin of those who had wronged her.

Eshram wished to have had the chance to see where the witch lived, get a sense of her power, what he was up against—if she had been a witch at all—but the ignorant villagers had burned her abode to the ground.

Most of the time, when dealing with a supposed witch, it turned out that the accused had been innocent, Eshram finding no evidence of the sort. An innocent woman killed by ignorance and stupidity and ridiculous superstition. As with most things, the few evil creatures that were in the world made people wary of anyone who was different, whether by appearance or practice of religion.

When Eshram arrived in town, Salisbury Mills hadn’t received a full time replacement for its original priest. Father Donovan was still on call, serving to keep the town in order and assure the people that all was well.

Eshram had been informed that the witch’s husband’s body had burned to a crisp when the house came down. His remains were given a proper burial and set at the far end of the town cemetery. He asked Father Donovan why this had been done, for it wasn’t often that the mate of a witch was treated so well.

“Only the woman was of the Devil’s consortium,” Father Donovan said. “The man was weak, sickly even, and obviously under the witch’s spell. He was nothing but a living zombie, tormented to serve the witch and act as a loving husband.” The priest tapped the side of his head. “Messed him up inside, she did.”

Eshram smirked. “A man can be just as evil as a woman, Father, and a witch no doubt. They are called by another name—warlock.”

“It was the woman who possessed the power,” the priest insisted. “She is the one who shot and killed men when they simply wanted to talk to her. She was the one who cursed the town and its people.”

How little commoners understood
, Eshram thought, shaking his head. Most witches were good people, harmless. They only wanted to be one with nature, and were simply misunderstood.

Eshram stayed in a room above McSorlee’s Pub. He was given food and drink, but not spoken to for more than necessary. The people of the town, although they were grateful for his presence, feared him, and wanted him gone as soon as possible.

When the moon was high and the townspeople were fast asleep in their homes, Eshram grabbed his bag of herbs and brick dust, snuck from his room, and made his way to the graveyard. It wasn’t difficult to find John Rivers’s grave marker, the dirt freshly turned before it.

He stood over the grave, held out his hand, palm down, and closed his eyes. His flesh did not grow warm, indicating that the man’s remains were not haunted, and that his spirit had moved on.

With the first task taken care of, Eshram returned to his room and went to sleep.

The following morning, as the sun breached the horizon, he met Father Donovan in front of the pub.

“Good morning, Father,” Eshram said.

“Morning,” the holy man returned. “But good? We’ll see about that once you’re done with the business at hand. The entire town is worried. People won’t go near the lake, and fishing is a large part of this community.”

“After we eat, we can get started,” Eshram said, rubbing his belly.

“Yes, of course.”

“I smelled something delicious being cooked when I awoke. As I came down the stairs, my mouth watered, and my stomach spoke of hunger. I beg to know what is cooking.”

“I’ve had eggs, bacon, oatmeal and coffee prepared for you.”

“You won’t be joining me then?” Eshram asked, knowing the man would not dine with him. Almost no one ever did when he was among traditional Westerners. He was needed and paid by them, but treated as if diseased. He found this comical, yet sad.

“Err,” the holy man said. “No, no.” He held out a hand, then smiled. “I have to see to something before we set off for the island. Let’s say we meet here at the next chime of the church bell?”

“I shall eagerly await your return.”

Though expected, Eshram never got used to how people relied on his services, yet were afraid of him, found him unsettling, as he’d been told once.

Eshram sat at the bar, his salivary glands pumping away as the aroma of food filled the air. The barkeep set down a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a rare and fine drink for these parts. The food and coffee arrived soon thereafter.

“My name’s Belvin Winbrook,” the barkeep said, with a smile. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” He was a burly man with a patch over his left eye, and didn’t look the least bit bothered by Eshram’s presence.

“No, thank you. Everything looks delicious.”

“I don’t mean to be a pest,” Belvin said, leaning his elbows on the bar, “but do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Eshram was somewhat surprised by the man—not the question, but the fact that the man wanted to do more than simply serve him and be gone.

“Not at all,” Eshram said, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“How is it you do what you do?”

This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a question. He figured most people were curious, but it was rare that anyone bothered to speak to him. He had no idea why he possessed the abilities he had, or why the spells worked when his kind practiced them, while with ordinary folk, spells were nothing more than superstitious activities and words. The spells Eshram practiced he had learned from his father and mother. The spells had been passed down by his grandparents, who also learned from
their
parents. One day, when he had a son, he would teach the boy the ways of his people.

“I don’t know,” Eshram said, answering honestly. “I was simply born this way, as my parents, brothers and sisters were too, though not all take to going to the route of a Spirit Warden. The ways of the West are powerful—money and fame—and very much catch the eye of all humans.”

“And you can sense true evil?”

“In a living or dead body, yes.”

“Could you take a look at my wife then?” Belvin asked with a straight face, then burst into laughter.

Eshram nearly choked on his food, he laughed so hard.

“All kidding aside,” Belvin said, “I’m curious about such things.”

Eshram finished chewing before he spoke, then wiped his mouth and said, “When I’m near evil, I can sense it.” He held up his hands. “My palms grow warm, sometimes hot. Spells and charms have been made and blessed by my people, passed down through the ages. It’s my job to take care of such matters, like the one you’ve got here in town. My people believe they are just one of the many forces put on the good earth to battle evil.”

Belvin looked to his right and left, then leaned in. “To be honest, I never had a problem with the Riverses. They seemed like nice people, even the missus. Then again, I guess evil can do that, you know, act good and all.”