Witch-Water
Author: Edward Lee
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Demons; Witches; Witchcraft; Occult & Supernatural; satanic; Erotica; Horror; Fiction
Description: SO SPAKE THE MAGISTRATE, "EVANORE WRAXALL, WHO SO OF THINE OWN FREE WILL HAST EMBRACED SATAN AND HIS IMPS, AND HATH WITH GLEE FORNICATED WITH DIVELLS IN NO HUMANE SHAPE..." Welcome to Haver-Towne. The sedate colonial resort is the perfect place where Stew Fanshawe can get away from it all for a while. But instead finding tranquility and self-reflection, Stew finds something much more unique: a town that was once steeped in a quagmire of witchcraft, satanic debauchery, and centuries-old occult science. Indeed, Haver-Towne has a most colorful history: "...AND DIDST ON MANY A TYME PERPETRATE DEVI
Publisher: Crossroad Press

1Witch-Water
by Edward Lee

Smashwords Edition

Necro Publications

— 2012 —

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WITCH WATER

© 2012 by Edward Lee

Cover art © 2012 David G. Barnett

This Smashwords edition © 2012 Necro Publications

ISBN: 9781452471518

Cover, Book Design & Typesetting:

David G. Barnett

Fat Cat Graphic Design
http://www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com

a Necro Publication

5139 Maxon Terrace • Sanford, FL 32771
http://www.necropublications.com

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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DEDICATION: For Don D’Auria. Thank you for making my professional dreams come true for the past ten years. I owe you bigtime.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Foremost, I must acknowledge the great British horror writer M.R. James (1862-1936) whose work, as many times as I’ve re-read it, continues to entertain me in a way that I can only describe as superlative. The bulk of James’ work, I believe, demonstrates something very close to a model of perfection in the field, while there are numerous of his scenes which I deem as among the scariest ever written. (If you haven’t read James, do.) This humble novel is my contemporary tribute to Mr. James, wherein I’ve taken the liberty of, in a sense, sequelizing my two very favorite stories by him, “A View From A Hill” and “Mr. Humphreys And His Inheritance.” Personally, I rank James as second only to H.P. Lovecraft as the most unique, influential, and important author to ever wield a pen in the horror genre.

Next, I must acknowledge the following for their loyalty, support, help and encouragement with regard to my career: Don D’Auria, Wendy Brewer, Dave Barnett, Bob from Melbourne, Larry Roberts, Sergeant Andrew Myers, Bob Strauss, Corie Fromkin, Robert Price, Thomas Bauduret, Greg James, Qwee, reelsplatter, Joey Lombardo, Scott Berke, Alex McVey, Sandy Brock and Tony, Kyle N., Sheri Gambino, Tastybabysyndrome, Shroud Magazine, Monrozombi, Zombified420, sikahtik, rhfactornl, wm ollie, Konnie, Dianna Busby; Gorch; Jeff, Rose, and Carlton at Deadite; Ashton Heyd, Bob Chaplin, Southern Blood, Hexsyn, KK, Kim, Jan, Bartek Czartoryski, Michael Preissl, K in D, TravisD, Dancingwith2leftfeet, Dathar, eubankscs, brownie, and mypaperpast, Big T, brownie, drunk yorkshireman.

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CHAPTER ONE

(I)

Like stepping from one world into another, Stewart Fanshawe mused. Manhattan was hours behind him now, and the turnpike’s monotonous panorama of asphalt, concrete, and flurries of cars had suddenly lapse-dissolved into a scape of plush foliage, hundred-foot-tall trees, and shaded, curving forest roads. Fanshawe had to catch his breath from all that green, green that seemed bright to the point of surreality. The more distance I put between myself and New York, the better… His black Audi glided around each tree-lined road, with brilliant sunlight bursting in through myriad leaf-laden boughs. Gorgeous out here, he reflected. All this stunning scenery made it difficult to keep his eyes focused on the road, yet he welcomed the distraction.

Distractions kept his mind off the memories.

The car sucked down to the clean pavement through each deep, winding turn. New Hampshire, indeed, was another world.

Fanshawe was fifty but looked forty, which he attributed to good genes, exercise, and a prudent diet. He was also, either by luck or aptitude, phenomenally wealthy. His eyes widened behind the leather-sleeved wheel. I’ve got everything any man could want, so why…

He didn’t allow the thought to finish itself. The truth was, Fanshawe felt haunted by ghosts of himself. Who would know looking at me? he asked his reflection in the rearview. Every involuntary glance to the mirror was escorted by a hostile invective: Pervert! Scumbag! And the worst: Peeper! He was letting his ruminations turn sour against his will. His expression transformed to outright stolidness as his eyes continued to re-find themselves in the silver oval of glass.

He muttered this to himself: “Remove yourself from the purveying environment…,” and at once he recollected his most recent appointment with Dr. Tilton who, in spite of her well-tended good looks, seemed always to have a reserved cast to her face, as though she were keeping too many thoughts unvoiced. Fanshawe could never figure that out: she was either captivated by him, or disgusted. This was how she always regarded him from behind her desk, and with that stiff, clinical aura about her head. Fanshawe himself lay on the proverbial “couch.”

“Addicts,” she began, “even in the arena of paraphilic addictions such as yours, see the best recovery statistics when they willingly remove themselves from the purveying environment.”

“Purveying? Paraphilic?” Her terminology never ceased to irritate him. “Give it to me straight, Doctor.”

“Paraphilia, Mr. Fanshawe, as we’ve discussed, is a fetish syndrome that’s become advanced enough to have destructive repercussions.”

“I just hate the sound of the word. It makes me feel like a pervert.”

The ink-black hair shimmered in a slice of sunlight from the window. She was probably his age but at this precise moment, when a constrained smile came to her lips, she could’ve been teen-aged; he could easily imagine her thinking, That’s because you ARE a pervert, Mr. Fanshawe. You ARE a pervert… “The fact that your obsession cost you your marriage is proof of its destructive properties—”

“It cost me more than that, it cost me millions in settlement money. Not to mention what my own shylock lawyers fleeced out of me.”

A berating smirk reverted the chisel-sharp woman back to middle age. “And, as we’ve also discussed, it’s your good fortune that your ex-wife agreed to settle out of court rather than taking the matter public. You’re luckier still to have been able to engage the lawyers who got you acquitted criminally. It seems to me that you can hardly argue with their competence.”

Fanshawe’s sigh conceded to her. “I know, you’re right. I’m lucky that I had the money, and that I’ve made something of myself.”

“Yes, and you’d do well to remember that. It could’ve been much worse. Instead, your therapy has gone well, you’ve defeated your paraphilic tendencies, but now…”

“I can’t come to a shrink for the rest of my life.”

The woman’s immaculately manicured nails strummed once on the desktop. “Correct. It’s time to move on, to remove yourself from the…” She raised a finger, like an elementary school teacher attempting to goad answers from her students, to test their attention. “From the what, Mr. Fanshawe?”

He almost sputtered. “From the purveying environment—”

“Exactly. In other words, the environment which provides you with the target-objects of your…problem.”

“That might be tough. My companies—”

“Your companies run themselves, you’ve said so many times. You don’t need to be in the city anymore, Mr. Fanshawe. My advice? Now? Go somewhere far away for six months at least, someplace different, someplace therapeutic.”

“Okay. But where?”

And here was the where, as he now drove on roads he’d never seen, through a state whose sheer beauty nearly shocked him. Yes, he’d been in the city far, far too long, while his constant business trips of the past had taken him to still more cities—all the same, just different names. He felt abstractedly naked for once not being surrounded by skyscrapers and urban rush hour. Dr. Tilton’s voice seemed to trace behind his mind: Where? Somewhere you’ve never been, the country perhaps, fresh air, the great outdoors. Someplace where your former demons can no longer tempt you into a relapse…

A half an hour later, the large wood-stained sign greeted him: WELCOME TO HAVER-TOWNE, NEW HAMPSHIRE - POP. 154 - EST. 1641. “So I guess this is it,” he told himself, idling the Audi over Main Street’s paving of intricate cobblestones. Quaint shops and cafes lined either side, all surprisingly new for a town founded so long ago. Progress, he figured. It’s just another tourist town. I’ll bet there’s even a Starbucks, and at the exact moment he’d thought that, a Starbucks did indeed come into view; and next, a Travelodge. Down the road, however, a meeting hall could be seen, and a church of painted clapboard; its steeple lacked a bell, sporting instead a figure of Christ with outstretched arms.

For whatever reason, Fanshawe wished that at least some of the town’s structures went back to older times, and now his wish was being granted. BACK STREET, announced the sign at the next turn; Fanshawe followed his Mapquest printout, then marveled at the difference. Here shops were called “Shoppes,” old brick rather than new ones comprised walls, while several antique dealers sat in a queue, boasting storefronts that could’ve been a hundred years old. There were even old horse-posts and feeding troughs, probably fabricated, but Fanshawe still liked the feel they rendered to the town at large. He smiled, then, when he passed a tavern called YE OLDE DRAUGHT-HOUSE. It was all for show, he knew, but any appearance other than the metropolic was the appearance he craved.

Metropolises were rife with windows, more than the eye could count. Fanshawe knew that windows were, to him, what drugs were to the addict…

Sedate pedestrians strolled along the sidewalk, passing shops that one would expect in such a place: candle shops, a glass-blower, Colonial prints, “Georgian Era” furniture, a tobacconist’s, a chocolatier’s. More horse-posts passed him, then an elevated “town-crier” pedestal complete with a dummy crier. Next, he slowed to eye what appeared to be an authentic pillory, imagining some poor petty thief centuries ago on humiliating display and a target for rotten tomatoes. Behind it sat several old men chatting in rocking chairs, one of whom unbelievably smoked a long, thin-stemmed meerschaum pipe.

“Here it is,” Fanshawe verified to himself. Shadows crossed his face, and then he parked before a manse-style, four-story hotel built with an impressive cross-gable. Next he noticed the old-fashioned swing-sign: THE WRAXALL INN - A HISTORIC HOTEL, yet a smaller sign beside it read: WELCOME TO THE SALEM OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.

“The Salem of New Hampshire, huh?”

He got out of the Audi, then peered down the street, noticing that virtually no residential buildings or other hotels could be seen from this vantage point. Any other time, the discovery would have irked him but now it brought relief.

“Not a lot of windows for prying eyes…”

He’d long ago discarded his mini-binoculars and other voyeur’s gear, vowing to never own such instruments again.

The hotel’s pre-Revolutionary decor pleased him a great deal, in spite of its being a bit exaggerated. Greeting him in the small, cozy atrium was a six-foot high oil painting of George Washington in full military accouterments, standing proud next to another officer.

“No, Washington never slept here,” a crisp, crackly voice declared behind him. Fanshawe turned to face a stout, amiable-appearing man with a bald head and visor like an old bank teller. He looked in his sixties. “But the man next to him did, General Nathanael Greene. Greene kicked Cornwallis right in the tail, he did. Turned the tide of the war.”

“I’m afraid I’m not up on the Revolution,” Fanshawe said, “but it’s quite an imposing painting.”

“And though Washington never stayed here,” the man continued, bemused, “he did get drunk in the Draught House after the surrender. They still have the same stool that he sat on.”

Fanshawe doubted it but he was entertained by the thought. “I’ll have to sit on it sometime, and feel closer to history.”

The bald man let out a crotchety laugh, then extended his hand. “I’m Bill Baxter. Would you be—”

“Stew Fanshawe,” Fanshawe said and shook hands.

“Glad to have you, Mr. Fanshawe. Follow me up and I’ll show you your room. I hope you’ll be pleased—when you booked online, the suite you wanted was unavailable—”

“Yeah, but that’s no big deal,” Fanshawe said and began to follow Baxter’s stout frame up a curving stairwell.

“No, but I was about to say, the man who’d booked it previously…left earlier than we expected, so the room is yours.”

“That’s great,” but Fanshawe had detected something odd about Baxter’s revelation, a pause, a hesitation that seemed undue. Why didn’t he just say the guy checked out early?

The heavily carpeted fourth-floor hall stood as rife with antique furniture as the rest of the hotel. Ensconced marble busts seemed to take brooding stock of him as Fanshawe passed. Baxter led him through an immaculate nine-paneled door into a plush two-chamber suite which could have passed for the rooms of a Colonial governor or eighteenth-century plantation owner: aged paneling, a carven-mantled fireplace, faux candles in genuine Sheffield holders, ornately tasseled throw carpets, etc. A wood-stained armoire occupied one corner, with fine brass fixtures. The bed was a great high four-poster without veils.

“This really is something,” Fanshawe complimented. He felt already at ease by the place. A glance through a dormer window showed him sharp sunlight bathing the cobblestones and store-faces below, while a cushioned bow window on the wall perpendicular revealed mellow green hills, a grassy rise of hillocks, and, beyond, the fringe of the forest belt. The sights calmed Fanshawe faster than a Xanax. “I couldn’t ask for a better room,” he finally said. “It’s just the change of surroundings I need.”

Baxter grinned, thumbing out of date suspenders. “A city fella, I take it?”

“New York, New York.”

“No surprise, sir. Lotta city folks come to Haver-Towne for a quick weekend getaway. No rat race here, no road rage, none of that nonsense. Just quiet nights, fresh air, the great outdoors…”

Fanshawe smiled involuntarily. “You sound exactly like my therapist, Mr. Baxter.”

“We ain’t got those here either!” the proprietor laughed, but then his voice quieted. “Oh, and don’t worry. We’re very tight-lipped here. Your secret’s safe with us.”

Fanshawe’s eyes snapped to him; he gulped. “Secret?”

“Well, I read Forbes, the WSJ, and such, and see your picture on occasion, yes, sir. It’s exciting to have someone famous choose our hotel. Just want you to know that your privacy will be respected like nobody’s business.”

Fanshawe released a relieving breath. What had he been thinking? Buddy, if you knew MY secret, you’d probably call the cops and have me thrown out on my ass. ”Thanks very much. But I wouldn’t exactly call myself famous. I’m just a financier, not a sports star.”

“Oh, we get them too, ’specially in the winter. That man A-Rod, I don’t care what the papers say, he’s a dang nice guy. Now, if you’d care to give me your car keys, I’ll have someone bring up your bags.”

Fanshawe relinquished the keys. “It’s the black Audi. Thanks.”

Baxter turned for the door. “If you need anything, just ring the desk. And be sure to have a look at our relic displays downstairs once you’ve settled in.”

“Relic displays? What kind of r—”

But Baxter had left faster than a blink. Relics? He must mean Colonial knickknacks. Fanshawe took a slow walk through both rooms, maintaining approval. He ran his hand over a lyre-back chair, then peeked through more rich, velvety drapes over the bedroom’s most westward window, to see still more luxuriant hills: a comforting vision. “Thank God,” he whispered, his face to the curtain-edge. “Not a single window to be seen. No target-object access…”

More of the room’s details stole his attention. A miniature wheel-clock ticked from a relief nook in the wall; a statuette of a Minute Man stood poised, bayoneted musket at the ready; a small vase spouted delicate roses fashioned from paper-thin curls of crimson glass. Cool, he thought. But next he was eyeing a framed engraving, or maybe it was an old tintype: a rather creepy manor house drenched in moonlight. Fanshawe moved his face closer, for it seemed that a thin, bent figure was climbing into a first-floor window. Was there also the tiniest image of a nude woman inside, screaming at the figure’s appearance?

No…, because he blinked and saw that the “figure” was just an oddly shaped bush. There must’ve been dust or something in Fanshawe’s eye.

He wasn’t sure what impelled him to look upward, but when he did, his eyes found an oblong panel in the ceiling. Trapdoor? he wondered. More than likely, either an access way or an attic. Next, he found himself scanning an in-wall bookshelf, noticing the gilded spines of tomes that appeared to be very old but actually weren’t when he took some out. They were merely “classic” editions of Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorn, Edgar Allen Poe, and the like, made to look old. However, lower on the shelf…

Hmm…

The next book he picked was no “classic” but instead a calfskin-bound smaller-format book with a faded cover. Ye Witch-Tryalls of Haver-Towne. Fanshawe’s eyes narrowed when he carefully flipped to the copyright page and found the printing date: 1699. Immediately, he felt an abstract wallop nearly like a physical blow. This is REALLY old. It must be quite valuable, so why was it sitting here? He flipped through pages fine as rice paper, noticing the tight, antique type-style of the day, with all nouns capitalized and very often the word “ye” used for “the.” One page was an elaborate engraving, with the heading: “Ye Arrest of Jacob Wraxall by High-Sheriff Patten.” The plate depicted a stout man with a star-shaped badge and a tri-cornered hat, solemn-faced, escorting a thin older man toward a Colonial gaol-house. The prisoner wore buckled shoes, knee breeches, and a pleated tunic front; the expression on his Van Dyked face could only be described as sinister.

Fanshawe couldn’t guess why the engraving had so captivated him. He sat down on the bed to examine the plate more intently. In the rendition, the prisoner’s wrists were shackled behind his back…

Fanshawe stared open-mouthed but it was no longer the plate he was seeing, it was his not-too-distant past, when he himself assumed a position similar to that of the prisoner. It was handcuffs not shackles which immobilized his wrists, and a police cruiser, not a gaol-house that he was being shoved toward. “You have the right to remain silent,” he was told by the New York cop who grasped his arm too hard. Venom hissed out with the universal words, a repressed disgust. “I got more important things to do than waste time on a pervert.” Fanshawe was jammed into the caged back seat; the door slammed in his face. He couldn’t recall his precise thoughts at that time, only a harrowing numbness. When the cop drove out of the alley, faces scowled at him from several lit windows. Fanshawe felt boneless sitting there.

The cop grimaced over his shoulder. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Successful guy like you pulling a scumbag move like that? I just don’t get it. What the hell is wrong with people?”

Through the passenger window, Fanshawe saw several homeless men standing around a garbage can. One of them looked right at him and grinned.

“Too bad times have changed. Thirty years ago, you would’ve gotten a go-round—the good old night-stick shampoo. I’ll bet it was a little girl you were peeping on,” the cop said, “or a little boy.”

“No!” Fanshawe blurted. “It was…a woman, an adult woman.”

“Oh, so I guess that makes it all right, huh? I need to be busting crack dealers and guys pulling bank jobs, not fucking around with pieces of shit like you.”

The cruiser pulled out onto Amsterdam Avenue; suddenly a million lights seemed to blink in Fanshawe’s face. He sat forlorn, his wrists aching. Yeah, he thought. A piece of shit like me…

The grim vision shattered at the click of the door. Fanshawe glanced up abruptly at the attractive woman smiling at him from the doorway. Her shoulders slumped from the weight of his luggage. “Mr. Fanshawe, I presume?”

“Yes—oh, here. Let me get those. The big one’s pretty heavy. I thought he’d be sending some brawny bellhop.”

“Oh, don’t bother, sir. Believe it or not, I like hauling luggage. At my age I need all the exercise I can get.”

The comment seemed odd or self-conscious. Fanshawe doubted she could be more than mid-thirties. “I’m Abbie, Mr. Baxter’s daughter,” she told him and hefted the larger of the bags up on the bed. As she did so, hair which at the same time seemed blond and auburn danced before her face. She dressed casually in faded jeans, sneakers, and a plain blouse, yet under the nondescript apparel, Fanshawe sensed a curvaceous and even exotic physique. Don’t eyeball her, you scumbag, he groaned at himself, for when she leaned over to situate the big suitcase, his gaze zoomed in on ample, fresh-white cleavage. He snapped his eyes away.

“Well, thanks for bringing the bags, Abbie.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Fanshawe—”

“Stew,” he corrected and shook her hand. Her shake was firm, her hand delicate yet mildly callused, no doubt from her share of hard work. He found the dichotomy bizarrely arousing. The graceful hands revealed no signs of wedding rings. When he attempted to tip her, she refused.

“I hope you like our hotel. We go out of our way to offer guests something a little more interesting. Most places these days are kind of stiff and sterile.”

“It’s gorgeous. The furniture, the treatments, that whole Colonial feel.”

“Um-hmm.” Next, Abbie raised his laptop case to the bed but she flinched when a magazine flipped out of a side pocket. “Oops.” When she bent to pick it up, Fanshawe’s eyes darted once more to her cleavage. He bit his lip.

The magazine was Fortune 500, and on the cover was Fanshawe’s face. “Stewart Fanshawe: Miracle Man” read the cover line.

Abbie smiled, and replaced the magazine. “Don’t worry, your—”

“My secret’s safe with you,” Fanshawe tacked on. “Yes, your father said the same thing and, believe me, I appreciate it.”

“I’ve seen you on TV a few times, that stock program that runs all day on cable. You must get recognized a lot on the street.”

“No, not really. Financial folks stay pretty much under the radar. In New York, everyone’s on constant watch for movie stars, not ticker jockeys or CEOs.”

“Well, it’s really cool to have a big financial guy stay with us.”

Really cool? You should see my psych profile. Fanshawe laughed. “More like a big lucky guy. All I did was consolidate some failing tech companies, and they turned into winners. Then I branched out from there.”

“That’s quite an achievement.” She seemed delighted to add, “Oh, and my father owns some of your stock.”

“God bless him!”

Now Abbie was slowly walking about the bedroom, touching up with a dust cloth. “What brings you out our way?”

Fanshawe didn’t feel the least uncomfortable answering, “I’m on what my therapist calls a respite. Just looking around at first, trying to find a place to relax for six months or so.”

“Well, most of our guests love it here, mostly tourists but we also get lots of visitors from Boston, New York, and Manchester, and some smaller conventions and business conferences.”

“I just happened to run across an article about Haver-Towne in one of the travel mags—” but then a reminder seemed to blare in his head. “Oh, yeah. I wanted to tell you”—he picked up the old book he’d been flipping through. “This must be here by mistake. I couldn’t believe it when I looked at the copyright date.”

Abbie squinted, took the book, and showed recognition. “Oh, that’s right. We usually keep it downstairs in one of the display cases but very recently a guest asked to borrow it.”

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“Not as much as you think; it’s in pretty poor condition. But it’s much more valuable here because it deals with some of the history of the town. More and more, people seem to be interested in things from the old days.”

“Witch trials?” Fanshawe questioned.

Abbie mocked an ominous expression. “The first major witch trials in America happened here. They pre-date Salem by twenty years.”

“Ah. That explains the ‘Salem of New Hampshire’ line outside.”

“Well, that was my father’s idea, but, yeah, exactly. Look here—”

Abbie took him to the front room and steered him toward one of the windows. She held back the curtain for him; Fanshawe saw the main drag out front. “See the pillory?”

“Yeah, I noticed it when I was driving up.”

“That’s one of the originals, and a lot of people spent some hard times in it.” She vaguely touched his shoulder as she led him to the westward bow window with the cushioned seat. “And there…” She pointed.

Fanshawe peered, noticing the rise of hillocks and their most prominent elevation. He made the deduction based on her previous remarks, “Let me guess. Hangman’s Hill?”

Abbie sounded mirthful. “Close. Witches Hill. No one was hanged there, or burned at the stake. But that is where all the witches and warlocks were executed.”

“How charming!”

Abbie made to leave with the book, smiling over a shoulder. Her eyes sparkled, a lavish dove-gray. “I have to check in more guests now but I can tell you all about it later if you’d like.”

“I’d love that, thanks. And what’s this relic display your father mentioned?”

A sharper, almost mischievous grin. “It’s a little museum that showcases torture devices and witchcraft paraphernalia… ’Bye!”

She drifted out of the room, leaving some vague but erotic shampoo-scent in her wake.

“Torture devices.” Fanshawe chuckled. Meeting Abbie left him upbeat. He went back to the bedroom to unpack but he hadn’t even gotten the suitcase open when that unknown impulse revisited him, goading him to look up…

At the trapdoor in the ceiling.

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CHAPTER TWO

(I)

Later in the afternoon, Fanshawe meandered downstairs, aiming to have a stroll about town. But first, he thought and searched off the now-noisy atrium, noisy due to an influx of guests waiting their turn at the front desk. But from the plush atrium, small coves branched, each lit by the familiar bow windows, and furnished with leather arm chairs. It was in these coves that the display cases were found: great shining intricate cases with gold-painted frameworks, curved glass, and mirrored shelves. The cases alone looked fabulously old and valuable, but then so must be the relics and books they quartered. This place really IS a museum, Fanshawe thought, stooping before a case. Each object was displayed upon trivet-like pedestals, and bore an information label. First, a pair of iron rings the size of medium hose-clamps, each fitted with a hand-forged screw whose turning-head had been hammered flat. THUMBSCREWS, 1649, the label notified. When Fanshawe imagined his thumb within the tiny contraption, his stomach flipped. Next was a narrow metal spike with a wood handle: BODKIN DAGGER, 1669. And next, a pair of crude pliers: TOOTH-BREAKERS, 1697. Worst of all was a contraption akin to a tiny, jawed animal trap but with a handle on one end like a spade: TONGUE-PULLER, 1658.

The contemplations dizzied him. People must’ve been nuts back then. Believing in witchcraft was bad enough, but then to actually use these things on people… Fanshawe shuddered when he imagined it: the amount of aberrant will necessary to do something like that, to break someone’s teeth, to pull out their tongue. Did they really believe the victims were witches, or were they just sick in the head? What had attracted Fanshawe as a mere novelty now left him disturbed, and the effect doubled when he realized that all of these morbid tools had most likely been used for the precise purpose indicated. More, even nastier-looking implements sat in the case, but Fanshawe turned away before discerning what they were. He didn’t want to know.

So much for that…

But in another cove, he found a case free of such heinous devices and filled instead with time-worn books. It was here that Abbie had obviously replaced Ye Witch-Tryalls of Haver-Towne, next to The Diary of Jacob Wraxall, Tephramancy: the Magick of Gems & Ashes, and The Slate-Writings of Jacob Wraxall, among a host of others of similar themes. Jacob Wraxall? Fanshawe questioned, but then he remembered the engraving in the first book, of the poshly-dressed nobleman with the Van Dyke, being shackled by the town sheriff. For a billionaire, I’m pretty damn dense, he thought when the obvious struck him. The name of the hotel was the Wraxall Inn; it had taken him till now to put two and two together. This place is NAMED after this guy, but…why? Given the titles of the books and their insinuations, Wraxall had clearly been arrested for witchcraft. Why would somebody name their hotel after someone like that?

A small plaque read: PLEASE HANDLE BOOKS WITH CARE. Fanshawe was astonished; he would expect lock and key. In a New York hotel, books this old sitting out like this would get ripped off in two seconds. But he saw no harm, so he opened the case and removed a volume larger than most. Compendium Maleficarum, the spine informed, yet when he opened the book, he found it full of tight, double-columned type too monotonous to read. One section, however, seemed devoted to warlocks, and Fanshawe amused himself by scanning the various engravings of somber-faced men in queued wigs and ruffled collars, holding scepters or crystal balls. The more Fanshawe perused the book, the more foolish he felt. I guess people really did believe in this stuff back then. He put the book away, noticing a damp, vaguely rotten fetor.

Boredom shadowed him. He wandered to a third cove to look out the window. The main thoroughfare stretched quietly off in clean cobblestones while invigorated tourists began to window-shop. When he craned his neck—

He frowned.

—for here, at just the right angle, he noticed apartments sitting atop the street-level stores, all older-style architecture but clearly being lived in. On a balcony, an elderly man sat reading in the sun. Fanshawe’s eyes widened. Damn. He hadn’t noticed these residential windows previously. Thank God they’re not facing my hotel room. In one such window, a curtain swayed—Fanshawe saw a woman look outside for a moment, then disappear.

He wrung his hands.

When he turned from the bowed panes, his eyes lowered to yet another display case. No instruments of cruelty were present, just old pocket watches, compasses, quill pens and standish-style ink-wells, and the like. However, on the bottom shelf…

Fanshawe gulped.

At first he thought the object was a “ship’s glass,” that is, a portable telescope designed for hand-held use, about a foot long, with a collapsible draw-tube. It shined, evidently made of brass and possibly silver fittings. Then Fanshawe read the label: WITCH-WATER LOOKING-GLASS, MADE BY JACOB WRAXALL, CIRCA 1672.

Witch-Water? he wondered. What the hell? He imagined Wraxall himself gazing at the heavens at midnight and contemplating astrological formulae. But the image, once formed, snapped to something else against his will: it was no longer the flamboyantly attired Wraxall he saw…but himself; and in his hand he held not an antique looking-glass but top-of-the-line binoculars.

Just another flashback to his jaded past, for Fanshawe had strolled the Upper Westside streets of his own neighborhood too many times to count, ducking into an alley whenever he spotted a “promising” window, and raised the binoculars to his eyes…

“Ah, Mr. Fanshawe. You’ve found our displays, I see,” Mr. Baxter said, slipping into the cove.

The flashback corroded just as Fanshawe had zoomed in on a naked woman in the window of a brownstone on W. 66th Street.

His heart had quickened as though he’d been caught red-handed in the fantasy. The portly Baxter smiled, thumbing the suspenders.

“It’s, uh, quite a collection…”

Baxter chuckled. “Some of ’em are a little on the morbid side, a’course.”

“Can’t argue with you there, but I guess those were morbid times.”

“Just different, times, Mr. Fanshawe—was only morbid to those who made it so. Probably a lot to be said for livin’ back in those days.” His eyes scanned some of the relics. “Speakin’ of all these geegaws, though… Well, it’s all kind’a dumb tourist stuff if you ask me. But you’d be surprised how folks take an interest in it nowadays, ’specially the witchin’ and warlockin’ items, and a’course the implements that were used to counter all of that silly drivel.”

Fanshawe nodded, still unconsciously eyeing the looking-glass. “Yeah, Abbie pointed out the pillory.”

“We got several about town. Pillories were for minor offenses: stealin’, adultery, lyin’ to the church council. It was pretty commonplace back then. For harder crimes, there were the whippin’ posts. Now we’ve got detention centers with cable TV, conjugal visitation rights for convicted murderers, and tax-dollar-funded rehab. Kind of makes you wonder. The shenanigans we’ve got going these days were seldom seen back in Colonial times. Deterrence meant something back then, and the law meant business.”

Not if you can afford the best lawyers, Fanshawe thought, though he didn’t know if he agreed or disagreed with Baxter’s insinuations. Fanshawe avoided ideological conversations at all costs. “So I take it this man Jacob Wraxall was some kind of magician or wizard? There are a number of books here about him.”

“He fancied himself a warlock, not a magician. Come round here, and I’ll show you.”

Fanshawe’s curiosity urged him out of the current cove to the next one that Baxter strolled to, this one being windowless. Immediately, Fanshawe looked up and said, “Wow.”

The elder man indicated an elaborately framed oil painting which occupied half the wall. A lenient light shined down from a bracket on the ceiling. “Sunlight can damage it, so we keep in here ’cos there’s no window; that special bulb up there won’t make the paint fade. The canvas and frame are over three hundred years old…”

Within the painting posed the same Van Dyked man from the engraving, in the extravagant attire of the day. Sage-like, he held a feather-pen, and about his neck, over the ruffled bib, hung a pendant of stars and a sickle moon. Thin pale lips turned up into the faintest smile that could be thought of as condescending. Well, hello there, Jacob Wraxall, Fanshawe thought. What is the big whupdeedo with you? A shorter woman stood stern-faced at Wraxall’s side, much younger than the painting’s central subject, with long flowing hair that too similarly matched the color of newly spilled arterial blood. Fanshawe’s stomach tossed.

The woman posed in a velvety blue dress with billowed shoulders; a plunging neckline made no secret of a robust bosom. Fanshawe at once felt jarred by her image: she looked tantalizing, voluptuous, densely erotic…and atrocious. Her narrow face and thin lips suggested a hereditary connection, and so did the high cheekbones. His daughter, not his wife, Fanshawe supposed; and, like Wraxall, she was not without some occult regalia: several rings on her raised right hand possessed geometric designs of an astrological bent. Standing well behind Wraxall, however, was a dark-haired, clean-shaven man whose dark sulk and heavy jaw suggested subservience. Large eyes and a rather wide face were the subject’s most salient features.

“They were quite a trio, I’ll tell ya,” Baxter remarked.

Fanshawe felt particularly taken by the painting’s indeterminate visual effect: dark, dark colors made darker by age seemed on the other hand queerly bright in certain details. The woman’s rings, for instance, seemed painted with such exactitude they could’ve been photographs; the same went for Wraxall’s pendant, and the same, too, for their eyes, a stunning sea-green. But the background existed in such sheer murk that nothing at all could be made of it, and the more Fanshawe peered, he thought that other faces might lurk there, as if in smoke or shadow.

“That’s Wraxall there, and his daughter Evanore,” Baxter explained. “And that unhappy looking fella standing behind is Callister Rood, the family man-servant.”

“But why name your hotel after Wraxall, of all people?” Fanshawe asked.

“Wraxall built this house in the 1650s, and lived here till his death. It’s all been refurbished, of course, but the outer structure has barely been touched—didn’t need to be. It’s all mortised oak, and sealed with insect sap, the best kind of weatherproofing. They built houses right back in them days. Wraxall was a well-respected member of the community…for a while.”

Fanshawe peered at the hesitation, which may have been deliberate. “For a while?”

“Until the town found out the truth about him.”

“His occultism, in other words?”

“Oh, yeah, all that and a good deal more.”

For whatever reason, Fanshawe felt intrigued. His gaze kept switching back and forth between Wraxall’s eyes and his daughter’s. He was about to ask for more details, but a bell from the front desk rang.

“That’s for me, Mr. Fanshawe. Hope you enjoy your stay!”

Baxter lumbered off to tend to more guests, leaving Fanshawe mystified amid a flurry of questions. He examined the painting for several minutes more before he finally left the cove.

They must be having a convention here or something, he guessed of the next crowd of patrons waiting to check in. They were mostly older men, dressed in suits, but many bearded and long-haired. Immediately Fanshawe thought of academicians. He glanced down another short hall, then felt instantly enthused. SQUIRE’S PUB read a transom sign, and within he could see a small but neatly appointed hotel bar bearing the same decorative motif as the hotel.

Behind the bar top, Abbie was polishing some glasses; she smiled at him and waved, silently mouthing, Hi, Stew.

Her eyes glittered. Man, she’s attractive, Fanshawe thought, and she DID promise to tell me more about the town’s history. It seemed a perfect excuse to go in, but just as he would do so, at least a dozen guests beat him to it and filled the bar in only moments. Damn it, he thought. Guess I’ll go for a walk instead. I can talk to her later when there aren’t so many people in there.

He walked back toward the entrance, paused, then ducked into a cove. He wasn’t aware of what induced him to do so, yet next he found himself looking back down at that bottom shelf, at the shiny optical device.

He re-read the label: WITCH-WATER LOOKING-GLASS, MADE BY JACOB WRAXALL, CIRCA 1672.

Witch-water, he reflected. What on earth could that be?

(II)

Sports jacket over his shoulder, Fanshawe strolled around town, first the older, quainter Back Street, then Main. Most of the shops, buildings, etc., were single-story; he forced his eyes away from the few that weren’t. I’ve just got to be careful, I’ve just got to be strong. How much strength must it take to choose not to be a “peeper?” The arcane question always baffled him, but then Dr. Tilton never ceased with her reminders that he was not a typical man; instead he was plagued by a “deep-seated paraphilic addiction.” Though Fanshawe appreciated seeing attractive women as much as any natural man, merely witnessing them did not kindle his strange obsession. It was seeing them in a forbidden way, seeing them when they didn’t know it. Somehow, that was the unreckonable key to…

To my sickness, he confessed.

But he was here to forget about all that. He hadn’t peeped in a window for over a year, as difficult as the resistance had been. That’s strength, isn’t it? he tried to reassure himself.

He was often prone to self-condemnation, but then he felt he deserved it. He’d done outrageous things made even more outrageous considering his financial and professional status. It sounded incredulous: a business mogul, a financial genius, and a small-scale billionaire…who was also a voyeur or, worse, to use Dr. Tilton’s unwelcome supplement, “a clinical scoptophile.”

Jesus…

“Forget about it all, forget it,” he whispered to himself, clenching a fist. When a shapely, sable-haired woman passed him on the sidewalk, her curvaceous body seemed to slide around within her silk top and shining chiffon skirt as though her garments were actually some magical liquid that served to highlight her physique as enticingly as possible. Her eyes met his and she smiled. “Hi,” he said too quickly, and then she was gone. But on the street like this, her upper-class beauty was only generic: she’d only truly be beautiful to Fanshawe if looked upon unaware through a private window…

Forget about it! He was supposed to be “cured” by now; Tilton had said so.

Instead he let his mind wander. What do normal people think about when they walk around in a neat little tourist town? He blankly eyed passing cars, various street signs, the herringbone-style pattern of the brick sidewalks. When he stopped before a flower shop, he focused on the colorful bouquets, then realized he felt insensible about them in spite of their arresting colors and fascinating scents. Tourists passed this way and that, mostly elderly couples, but several families with chattering children; Fanshawe felt unseen, like a ghost, amongst them. Regular people living regular lives, he thought with more of that same self-condemnation. Every observation he made—and as hard as he tried to feel positive—left him barren-minded. Snap out of it. You’re just in a bad mood, and financial tycoons have NO RIGHT to be in bad moods. Finally he passed one of the pillories and snorted under his breath, smiling. Back then? They would’ve put ME in one of those things.

He crossed the meager intersection, scarcely aware of what he wanted to do. More tourists milled about here, eyeing restaurant menus or simply absorbing the town’s impressive architecture. From the mouth of a curving alley, two women in polyester shorts and mid-waist T-shirts emerged, hands fisted as they jogged, talking briskly with their eyes straight ahead. One’s tight top read YALE, the other’s, HARVARD; both had headbands, ponytailed hair, and toned, lissome physiques. The Harvard woman seemed more robustly breasted, while Yale’s nipples jutted like diminutive teepees beneath the tight fabric. Fanshawe watched them both as if hypnotized; they bobbed up and down on silent sneakers, bosoms bobbing as well, in perfect synchronicity. Knowing that they weren’t aware of his glances left him tingling in some abstract visual fervor. They jogged on, and when he pulled his eyes off them, he gave a start because the first thing he saw next was a display in a curiosity shop window: a mounted skeleton whose yellow-boned hand held—of all things—a pair of binoculars to its face. Fanshawe frowned. He hoped the grotesque thing was artificial but had the edgy notion that it wasn’t. Who the HELL is going to buy that? Next was the Starbucks—Some things never change, he thought—and, next, an information kiosk tended by a spry, elderly woman with a crown of frost-white hair. “Just out for a gallivant, sir?” she piped up in surprising British accent. “Yes,” he said, still distracted, “I just arrived. Not really sure what to do.” “Well, sir, if you’re of the type to fancy such things”—she pointed across the street—“you might have a look in the waxworks, but if you’re easily dispirited, be forewarned to steer clear of the back hall,” yet she pronounced “hall” as ’all. Fanshawe followed her finger to glimpse a pair of Revolutionary War soldiers “guarding” the wax museum’s entrance. At first he thought the pair were living actors in costumes but in a few moments their perfect stillness betrayed them as mannequins, lifelike to an unnerving degree. That’s pretty good work, he realized, though he’d never been particularly impressed by waxworks. He was amused, though, by the elder woman’s reverse psychology. She’s daring me to go in. “I don’t know if I’m easily dispirited,” he said, “but I guess there’s a torture chamber and the whole witchcraft theme.” “That there is, sir,” she replied. “It’ll give you a case of the creepers, it will.”

Fanshawe smiled. “And, of course, a lifelike mannequin of Jacob Wraxall, hmm?”

“’Tis nothing more than the truth, ole limb of the Devil that he was, and that wretched daughter of his. Oh, the carryin’ on they got up to? Heavens!”

But Fanshawe had had enough of Jacob Wraxall for one day. “Thanks for the information,” he said, glancing at the town map. On the index, he spotted the words: FORTUNE TELLER, and its numbered code indicated it to be close to the waxworks. He looked back across the street and saw it. LETITIA RHODES - PSYCHIC, announced the small window sign in gaudy neon. PALMISTRY, CHARTS, TAROT. It occurred to Fanshawe that he’d never had his palm read.

“I see you’re eyein’ the palmist’s, sir. Well, I can only speak like what my heart tells me and say you’re a-better off passin’ that one up.”

“Oh? Why’s that, ma’am?”

“An odd card that Letitia Rhodes is, sir, yes, sir, not that I’m speakin’ ill, mind you, not one word of it. But one day I was just havin’ me my stroll to the tea shop, and I passed her, I did, and she look me right in the eye and say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Anstruther”—that bein’ my name, o’course—Anstruther, Delores, Anstruther, sir. So I say back, ‘What loss might you be referring to, Ms. Rhodes?’ and then she go all white in the face and eyes big ‘round as saucers, and she rush off, apologizin’ under her breath. I just took her to be daft, I did, but then when the daily post come I get a letter from Merseyside sayin’ me brother died a week before. A massive stroke it was he ’ad, on his way to the train.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Fanshawe said for lack of anything else, but now he saw that she was merely using her previous trick, daring him to test the palm-reader’s authenticity. “But I don’t think having my fortune told is on my to-do list today, Mrs. Anstruther.” Nevertheless, he enjoyed the old woman’s lively candor; and the accent was a hoot. “What do you recommend, ma’am?”

“Well, sir, if’n you’re in want of some exercise, you can always rent a bystickle down at Mr. Worby’s shop, and if that ain’t to your likin’, sir, you might find it pleasin’ to ’ave an amble ‘bout the scenic walkaways.”

The idea immediately appealed to him. A good long walk might get rid of this lousy mood. “That sounds perfect, Mrs. Anstruther.” He turned the map at an angle, trying to get a bearing. “But where are they exactly?”

“Just cross the cobbles out front of the Travelodge, sir, and you’ll gander the signs hard by. Next door to impossible to miss ’em”—she smiled—”unless you’re in your cups.”

“Thanks very much—” A tip jar with several dollar bills in it sat on her booth shelf. Fanshawe put in a ten.

“Why bless you, sir, and thank you from the bottom of my heart! A pleasure it’s been a-meetin’ you, and may it be a lovely day the Lord ’as comin’ your way.”

“The pleasure’s been mine,” and Fanshawe headed away. That woman is a TRIP, he thought. I’ll bet the accent is fake, she’s probably from Jersey. He laughed when he thought one of the Revolution soldiers flinched, then he found himself looking again at the palm-reader’s parlor. It was just a narrow rowhouse of old, faded brick, with interesting pediments and stone sills. He wondered what the palm reader looked liked—Probably older than Mrs. Anstruther—then he ground his teeth when he glanced up the store front to the second floor.

Windows, always windows…

He scanned the map some more, then passed the Travelodge, the two-story structure forming an L-shape. A splash turned his gaze. Bright beneath the summer sun extended an outdoor swimming pool. It was mostly older children wading around with their parents, tipping over rafts or volleying inflatable balls. A tanned, muscular lifeguard sat bored up in his chair: The Thinker in swim trunks with a whistle around his neck. Fanshawe noticed a fair number of attractive women in hats and sunglasses, stretched out on lounge chairs, all agleam in suntan oil. He gave them a bland glance, but then caught himself looking much more intently at the rows of sliding-glass doors facing the pool. He barely heard the sound of frolic from the water.

Damn it. There I go again. He could not resist roving his gaze across all those windows. Then his eyes locked on. In one window, a woman crossed his view in a spare, orange bikini…

He winced and pulled his gaze away.

He stalked off fast, crossed the cobble road as the British woman had instructed, then loosened in relief. SCENIC NATURE PATH, the sign read with an arrow pointing.

He followed the arrow.

He tried to ignore the guilt that came along with him, like another stroller several steps behind. The Travelodge had bothered him, and so had the immediacy with which he’d scanned all the tempting windows. In New York, after a year of therapy, he never succumbed to the same temptation. Why here? Why now? He walked faster, lengthening his strides as if to out-pace his disarray. Soon his outrage at himself bled over into despair, and he felt lost.

I am NOT going to relapse…

But he felt better the more he walked, through winding gravel paths up into low hills. It was a smorgasbord of natural beauty for as far as he could see. Butterflies floated over the high, sweeping grass. Wild flowers of every color seemed to shift with some manner of sentience, begging his eyes to appreciate them. Fanshawe walked for some time, each step loosening another tight stitch in his malformed mood…

The paths, he saw, comprised a web-work about the hillocks, and would’ve served as a tricky maze had there not been wooden, plaqued maps at every fork. When he glanced over his shoulder, he was taken aback by how high he’d ascended, and when he strode atop a risen nob, the view of the countryside pilfered his breath. The hills seemed to extend to endlessness, loomed over by the ghost of a distant mountain. There was a baby-blue sky and blazing sun; sparse clouds seemed to exist in a whiteness more perfect than he could conceive. Fresh air, and the great outdoors, the rigid Dr. Tilton had instructed. Well, it doesn’t come any better than this…

But…where was he?

He stepped down off the nob to discover a rest stop with an ornate bench and another map on a plaque. One dotted guide-mark read THE WITCHES PATH, then after a few more steps, another sign announced that he’d reached it.

The more the hill rose, the higher the grasses on either side seemed to grow. Fanshawe followed the path, intrigued without knowing why. More tourist stuff, and he mocked, The Witches Path? It’s just a friggin’ path!

But as he approached what seemed to be the most elevated of the hills, he stopped. Facing him now was a sign larger than the others, as well as a clearing in the grasses, leaving only bald dirt. Engraved letters on the sign began: WITCHES HILL: IN JULY, 1671, THIRTEEN WITCHES WERE…

Fanshawe, eyes intent, read the words aloud. “Witches Hill. In July, 1671, thirteen witches were executed here, including Evanore Wraxall, the notorious coven leader. Dozens more practitioners of the Black Arts would be executed on this very hill for another fifty years…” Fanshawe chuckled without much mirth. Sounds like somebody needed a hug.

But he tried to contemplate the gravity of the words. What I’m standing on right now was the Colonial equivalent of a gas-chamber. People—witches or not—but living people had died on this very ground over three hundred years ago.

He shuddered at the cruelty of it all, and the madness, then turned to leave. But at a break in the grasses which rimmed the clearing, his eyes widened. This hill was, as he’d thought, the highest around, and through the break he could see the entire town down below. Perfect as a picture on a postcard, he mused, drinking up the view. Yes, he’d been in New York too long. New York didn’t have views like this, just incalculable skyscrapers, ubiquitous scaffolds and window-cleaning platforms, and monolithic apartment buildings consuming entire city blocks. Gazing at the little town now, it occurred to him that too much of his life had passed since he’d experienced such a monumental sense of wonder.

The faintest breeze brushed over his face, and hidden within it, he heard, or thought he heard, a sound just as faint. Just a drift of something, like a word spoken by someone too close to a rushing surf. Yet, a word it had seemed to be, in a feminine tenor. The word was this: “…lovely.”

Fanshawe paused to identify the direction from which it had arrived: just off from the break in the grasses, where a lone tree stood entwined by leafy vines.

Then two more words, even fainter: “…love you…”

Before Fanshawe had stuck his head fully out from the tree, he saw with a jolt that he was not alone. Just below the immediate rise of the hill lay a lower elevation surrounded by flanks of unkempt bushes, while two t-shirts draped over a bush left a clue: HARVARD and YALE. The joggers, Fanshawe remembered. Indeed, the two women were lying together in the lower clearing, sunbathing on towels, and after a moment of peering, Fanshawe recalled their headbands and well-toned bodies. Both women were topless, yet they’d also rolled up the edges of their running shorts as much as the fabric would permit. Fanshawe stared without breathing.

Their age could not be determined, though he suspected they were well out of the groves of higher learning. One, Harvard, lay flat on her back, eyes closed, with a tiny grin touching her face, while Yale lay on her side, on one elbow, to gaze down in apparent adoration. “I love you,” came another drift-like whisper, and Harvard replied, “I know,” and grinned with more obviousness. They kissed daintily, then Yale ran a hand up her companion’s belly and across her breasts in a single, fluid motion. Harvard’s nipples erected, at once, to dark pink plugs of sensitive flesh. Then Yale assumed her friend’s supine pose. There they both lay now like a passionate secret, smiling, basking in brilliant sun, their hands joined.

It was only when they both lay still that Fanshawe’s emotions began to simmer. He gulped, his mouth going dry. His gaze rolled over their enticing bodies like drool. His eyes would not close.

No, no, no, words scarcely his own pleaded. I can’t be doing this, I MUST NOT DO THIS… His groin fidgeted, he snatched a breath through his teeth as he continued to stare.

No…

His hand moved against the command of his conscience, and slithered across his crotch, but just as he would prepare to masturbate—outright, oblivious—he gnawed his own tongue and dragged his eyes off the fleshy spectacle like nails being dragged out of a plank. It was all he could do not to moan aloud in anguish spliced with self-disgust.

Pervert, scumbag, peeper…

Moments later he’d forced himself well back from the tree. Tears lay in the grooves of his narrowed eyes. He stepped back and back and back until he nudged the large wooden sign; and then he leaned there for a several minutes, regaining his breath and his senses.

This isn’t supposed to be happening…

What if somebody else had walked up and seen him? Or one of the women themselves? What could he say? What excuse could he give?

Nothing. Because his intent would’ve been obvious to anyone, anyone in the world.

He leaned against the sign for some time. He felt jittery, like someone who’d lived on nothing but coffee for a day. Was his heart beating irregularly? Soon he was slumping in place. His mind felt dark, hollow, and blank, but in time he realized he was looking at something with some focus, something he hadn’t noticed when he’d first come up onto the hill. It sat by itself, just before the wall of grasses, at the clearing’s edge.

A barrel.

It was a large one, four feet high and three wide, encircled by two rusting iron bands. Riled by termites and creviced by water-damage, the grayed slats suggested that the barrel was very old, but a closer glance showed him that a heavy coat of some water-resistant resin covered the entire vessel, no doubt a more recent application. A lone antique barrel sitting on this history-laden hill struck Fanshawe as odd, yet he next made an odder observation.

The barrel had a single ten-inch-diameter hole in its side.

He looked perplexed at it. What the hell’s an old barrel doing up here? Perhaps it was an original-era rain barrel, preserved for its value as a relic. But if so? What’s with the hole? A hole in the side of a barrel kind of defeats its purpose.

He shrugged and turned to leave. The temptation raged: to steal a departing glance at the near-naked joggers, but after a wince, he resisted and strode back toward the path that would lead him out. Before he could fully leave the hill’s perimeter, however…

A shock riveted him, and he spun back around.

He’d heard a sound that couldn’t be denied. A crisp, guttural growl, unmistakably that of a large dog.

Wild dog… Fanshawe’s hand came to his heart. His eyes darted for a branch or stone, something that might serve as a weapon, but when his eyes pored back over the clearing he saw that there was no dog to be seen.

— | — | —

CHAPTER THREE

(I)

The sun was just beginning to wester when Fanshawe made it back to town. Recession be damned, he thought. If anything, more tourists were apparent now, more cars in various lots, more strollers enjoying the town’s quaint shops and atmosphere. As a financial maven, he was pleased to see that people had vacation money to spend. It also pleased him that some resolve seemed to be filtering back into his conscience: he’d resisted the impulse the pass the Travelodge and its alluring windows and sunbathers, and instead had taken a more circuitous route via a street farther off, mostly residential. He walked casually now, more at peace with himself. He spotted several empty beer kegs stacked behind the tavern; they made him think of the unlikely barrel on Witches Hill. I’ll have to ask Abbie about that, he ventured. Later, he came around the back of the Wraxall Inn. Not once did he look up at the windows of the upper floors. Back in New York, when his sickness had been at full spate, the city’s endless trove of windows had caused him to brim with something like feverish delight. At night he’d walk the posh Upper West Side, to duck into tactical alleyways and raise his mini-binoculars at the gem-like glass frames that too-often presented the merchandise that his warped mind shopped for. His office, with the door locked, served as a veritable voyeur’s outpost on the countless nights he’d tell his wife he’d be working late, and for this he possessed a high-powered pair of Nikon field glasses and even a compact telescope, both fitted with digital cameras. Worse, he’d gone on to purchase a mini-van with custom one-way window-inserts; at night he’d park in strategic lots and manipulate a small Zeiss-brand spotter scope at the windows of the best condominiums.

Whacked in the head, he thought. And for years, his poor wife had never known, and never known either that whenever they made love, Fanshawe’s mind was stuffed, steamy, and delirious with the images of other women he’d viewed so discretely and pervertedly. The inconceivableness of his addiction struck even Fanshawe himself: a man of extraordinary financial success enslaved by this lowly and risky crime. At least Dr. Tilton understood—all too well—and he was encouraged to know that she’d treated others suffering from his own diagnosis of chronic scoptophilia. “For sure, Mr. Fanshawe, yours is a disorder that is rather commonplace in a general realm but oh so uncanny in particular regards to you.” “Pardon me?” he’d asked, prickled by her insinuation. “You are most certainly an unrepresentative peeper”—and at this, Fanshawe winced—”in that your bounteous wealth retails little mollification at all.” “I don’t even know what that means,” he snapped. “For $1000 per hour, could you please speak English?” And then she’d smiled in that tiny, barely discernible way of hers, a way that made him feel even lower. “A man of your vast financial solvency could certainly enjoy the pleasures of the most beautiful call girls and strippers available, but you’ll have none of that, hmm? Instead, you skulk around alleys, or hide in your van to slake your dismal and pathetic need from a distance.” He’d wanted to walk out then and there, until he admitted that she was quite right, and that this observation proved her clinical competence. The highest-class strip clubs and the most preeminently attractive call girls did nothing for him. “It’s no good, is it, Mr. Fanshawe, unless the lecherous images with which you quench your craving are stolen, from victims, not whores, from unknowing targets, not willing and morally oblivious pole-dancers? You must steal from them, Mr. Fanshawe, you must look at them in your unrestrained lust without their permission, otherwise the satisfaction is useless, no better than a heroin addict injecting tap water.” Fanshawe stared right back at her, insulted, humiliated, but realizing that his hatred for her was just camouflage for his hatred of himself. He croaked his reply: “You’re absolutely right…”

Weird, weird, he thought now. Of all the addictions to be cursed with, Fanshawe had been cursed with this.

When he slanted around the back lot of the Inn, he saw that the closest half of it was filled with cars while only one car sat far off in a space in the farthest section. It was an old black Cadillac Deville; Fanshawe knew that the year was early ‘60s because his own father had owned a similar vehicle when he was a child, yet this one had been restored to almost show-room condition.

He heard a slight scuff, then saw that the trunk was up. A stooped, stout-bellied man placed a suitcase inside, then thunked the lid closed and walked back.

The man was Mr. Baxter.

He reentered the hotel through a back door. Did the Cadillac belong to Baxter? And was he going on a vacation of his own? Why park the Caddy way out there? Fanshawe wondered.

He walked around front, then paused to stand a moment, taking closer notice of the old inn’s architectural style, which he guessed would be called some manner of “Georgian,” for England’s King George. The imposing cross-gable made the basic structure seem even more classically timeworn; it gave the sprawling mansion the form of an uncapitalized “t.” The building’s roof segments were steeped at uncommonly high angles. Fanshawe thought himself a modernist when it came to architecture, yet, since he’d come here, he’d grown more and more fond of all this historical archaicism. This used to be a family house, a patriarch’s, he reminded himself; hadn’t Baxter referred to Wraxall as an upstanding resident? Talk about going downhill fast.

He mused over what life must have been like so many years ago. Cutting your own woodslats, digging your own wells, chopping wood every day of your life… Evidently, Jacob Wraxall had been the equivalent of a wealthy country squire; hence, it had been his personal taste behind the mansion’s layout. But…an occultist? Someone who believed he was a warlock? If he believed that, then surely he believed in the Devil. Fanshawe wondered what went on behind these baronial walls when the rest of the town slept unaware.

A large double glass door had been installed, but the rest of the building’s front face couldn’t have appeared more authentic. A pillared portico surrounded the entire house, while narrow lancet windows marked the second story; of the third, Fanshawe noted small circular windows marking the hallway, and wide bow-windows set into the faces of the extending cross-gables. The gable he peered at now would offer a “peeper” a bull’s eye view of the Travelodge and some of the Back Street upper windows. Thank God I didn’t get THAT room…

A stunning, multi-colored dusk bloomed behind him when went back inside. The inn stood cozily quiet, save only for the methodic ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. He sighed happily; the lengthy walk had helped him unwind just as he’d hoped. Now, a meal might be in order. He walked down the silent hall, stopped for a moment, then went on. He knew he’d been about to re-enter the display cove containing the bizarre looking-glass, but…

Why do that? Why remind myself? The idea made about as much sense as an alcoholic looking at ad signs pasted in the window of a liquor store.

But I’m NOT an alcoholic, he asserted. Across from the cove, the sign reminded him: SQUIRE’S PUB; then a quick peek inside showed him that the bar was empty save for—

Abbie…

And there she was.

Fanshawe felt a butterfly in his stomach.

“Hi, Stew!”

He looked to the bar to be confronted by a smile that hit his eyes like a strong, white light. God, she’s beautiful… He tried to seem casual as he approached the modest bar but instead felt hopelessly nervous. “Hi, Abbie. I meant to come in for a drink earlier but the place was packed.”

She was putting up glasses in an overhead rack. “Oh, I know, and that was some crew. The New England Phenomenology Society have their annual conference here every year.”

Fanshawe winced. “The Phenoma—what Society?”

“Phenomenology,” Abbie chuckled.

“What is that?”

“They explained it to me a dozen times but I still don’t know. Some kind of philosophy. They’re mostly professors from Ivy League colleges.”

Fanshawe nodded. “Now that you mention it, they did look like a bunch of professors—”

She made an expression of incredulity. “Yeah, but they drink like a bunch of students. If we had a chandelier in here, those guys would be swinging from it—party animals, I’ll tell ya. I’m not complaining—they tip great—but it’s not easy getting hit on by a couple dozen sixty-year-old eggheads.”

Fanshawe tried to think of something clever to say but stalled when Abbie placed another glass in the overhead rack. Her posture when she’d reached up accentuated her figure and thrust her breasts.

He cringed and pried his gaze away.

“So what did you do today?” she asked.

He pulled up a stool. “Checked out the shops on Main and Back Street, looked around, then went for a long walk.”

She grinned. “Witches Hill?”

“You got it. I couldn’t resist the signs. It was Mrs. Anstruther who recommended the trails.”

“Oh, now there’s a character—” Abbie leaned over and whispered, “Every now and then she comes in here and gets crocked, drinks Boiler Makers, and she’s in her late-eighties! You wouldn’t believe the stories she has.”

“Somehow…I think I would. She practically dared me to go into the wax museum, as if it’d be too much for me.”

“It’s plenty realistic, that’s for sure.” Now she was restocking the reach-in coolers. “The torture chamber can be a little over the top—definitely not for kids. Some of the sets gave me nightmares when I first saw them.”

Fanshawe diddled with a bar napkin. It was difficult diverting himself from her presence. “But you guys really do pump up the witch-motif, huh?”

She paused, a bottle in hand. The label read: WITCH’S MOON LAGER. “Well, sure, we exaggerate it all, for the sake of the tourists.”

“It’s good business. Market-identification.”

“My father thinks it’s silly. Silly drivel, he calls it—”

“But he owns the place, doesn’t he?”

“Yep. My grandfather bought the inn in the fifties, and when he died, my father inherited it. We’ve been running it ever since.”

“But if he thinks the witch theme is silly, why does he push it?”

She splayed her hands. “Because he knows it can make a buck, but he still thinks it’s—and I quote—silly drivel.”

Fanshawe asked automatically, “You don’t?”

Now her pause lengthened. “In a way. But it’s also history, and that’s interesting. These things really happened back then, when our culture was in its infancy.”

What is it about her? Fanshawe was hectored by the thought. He struggled for more to talk about. She turned her back to him for a moment, to arrange strainers and jiggers, then was agitating something in a shaker. Her reflection stood beside herself, while Fanshawe’s eyes had no choice but to fall on her back and buttocks, on the figure beneath the simple blouse and jeans: a figure of perfect curves. His eyes adjusted, to glimpse her face in the reflection as she looked down at the counter. For an indivisible instant, her own eyes flicked up and caught his in the mirror—

He gulped.

She turned. A sound—clink!—and then a shot glass was set before him.

Abbie was grinning. “On the house.”

“Thanks…” Fanshawe squinted. Some dark scarlet liquid filled the glass.

“It’s our drink special,” Abbie announced. “Could you ever guess?” and then she pointed to the specials board which read: TRY OUR WITCH-BLOOD SHOOTER!

Fanshawe chuckled. “I barely drink at all these days but with a name like that how can I resist?” He raised the glass, peered more closely at it, then looked back to Abbie. “Wow, this really does look like blood…”

Abbie laughed and tossed her hair. “It’s just cherry brandy mixed with a little espresso and chocolate syrup.”

Fanshawe downed the chilled shot neat, then raised an approving brow.

“Not bad at all.”

Abbie grinned. She grinned a lot. “Just what you need after a trip to Witches Hill.”

Fanshawe felt, first, the liquor’s chill, then the delayed bloom of heat spread in his belly; it seemed quite similar to his “butterflies” when he’d first seen Abbie behind the bar. “You know, tourist gimmick or not, it was pretty unnerving, standing in the middle of a place where executions occurred.”

“Oh, they occurred, all right—wholesale. Thirteen in one day, and a over a hundred more for decades after that. In truth, there were far more folks executed for occult offenses than criminal offenses. Some claim to fame, huh? Did you see the graveyard?”

“No. I didn’t know there was one.”

“Well, there is, believe me, and it’s ten times creepier. Half of it’s unconsecrated ground; it’s on the western end of the hill. Unconsecrated burial grounds are always located to the west or north of a town’s church.”

Fanshawe opened his small map on the bar. “I don’t remember noticing it on this—”

“There,” she said, pointing. Her fingertip touched next to a minuscule cross on the colorful map.

“No wonder I didn’t see it, it’s tiny,” but then he looked up, his eyes following the line of her arm. It was an unconscious tactic for any “scoptophile” or voyeur: Abbie’s blouse—as she leaned down slightly to address the map—had looped out between two buttons. Fanshawe glimpsed part of a sizable breast sitting within a sheer bra. A ghost of a nipple could be seen through the light fabric.

Oh, God… “I’ll check it out tomorrow,” he recovered.

“And there aren’t many regular tombstones, either,” she went on. “Just splotches of this stuff called tabby mortar.”

“Tabby mortar?”

“Yeah. It’s like low-grade cement. The convict’s name would be written in this stuff by someone’s finger—you’ve got to see it to know what I mean.”

Fanshawe had trouble concentrating on her words, still too hijacked by her image, by her simple proximity. Whatever shampoo she used didn’t help; the soft, fruity scent affected him aphrodisiacally. But when he recollected what she’d said, he wasn’t sure if she spoke with genuine interest or— Is she just laying a bunch of tourist crap on me? Same as the old lady? “I guess it’s just more of the motif, that and the power of suggestion. But it was a good marketing ploy to name the hotel after”—he faltered, for the name drew a blank. “Jacob… What was his name?”

“Jacob Wraxall, one of the founding members of the town. He lived here with his daughter, Evanore—”

Fanshawe remembered with some unease the old portrait and Wraxall’s thin, sinister face. The rendition of the daughter, however, struck him with an even more ominous impact. Evanore… Her fresh-blood-colored hair sent a butterfly of a far less pleasant type to his belly. Fanshawe felt a momentary whooze…

He shook the image out of his head, then looked back up at Abbie. The clean, guileless good looks made him whooze again—sexually, though. He cleared his throat. “Jacob Wraxall, yes, and his daughter Evanore. Your father pointed out the portrait in one of the coves.” He tapped a finger on the bar, half-remembering a blank face half-submerged in shadow. “And there was a third person too, wasn’t there? A yard-hand or something?”

“Um-hmm. Callister Rood, but he was more than a yard-hand. He was the family apprentice necromancer.”

“That’s some job title,” Fanshawe tried to jest, but it didn’t come off.

Abbie’s voice lowered, either as if she were playing her description up for drama’s sake, or she was genuinely unsettled. “It was in this very house that they solicited the devil.”

The devil, Fanshawe thought. But the notion of devil-worship, and even the name—the devil—was so hokey he had to smile.

Abbie’s smile had disappeared. “They practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town never knew.”

“Well, someone must’ve known—”

“Of course, but a lot of time went by before anyone found out. Evanore was the one who got caught first.” She leaned closer against the bar, her voice nearly fluttering. “She and the coven were all condemned to death.”

“Evanore but not her father?” Fanshawe asked logically. “Why didn’t Jacob get nabbed too?”

“Jacob was abroad in England at the time, and Callister Rood had gone with him. But when they returned, his daughter had already been executed and buried.”

“But Jacob must’ve been into witchcraft even more than her. I didn’t see any books in your display about her, only Jacob.”

Abbie stepped away, as if to separate herself from something that had fazed her. She began to arrange the fruit cups in the service bar. “Jacob Wraxall was the most notorious heretic of his day. But that shows you how smart he was. Nobody suspected him until much later, after so much damage had already been done.” Finally, her grin returned. “You’re staying in his room, by the way.”

Fanshawe gave a start after the words registered. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” but then she winced. “I’m sorry I mentioned it—sometimes I get a little carried away with this stuff. But no one’s ever complained about the room, Stew—it’s the best one in the house. I mean…if it bothers you, I’d be happy to put you somewhere else—”

“No, no, that’s not it. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything like that. The room is great, but there’s just something…odd, knowing whose it was…” Suddenly the most gruesome possibilities occurred to him; he looked up, sheepish. “Please don’t tell me he boiled cats and made blood-sacrifices up there.”

“Nope. The only thing that went on in that room was…” She turned quickly to clean more glasses in the triple-sink, and yet again the image of her slammed into Fanshawe’s senses. She pumped the soiled glasses up and down on two pointed brushes sticking up from the sink. This activity, of course, caused her to lean over, highlighting her cleavage.

Fanshawe repressed an audible sign; he had to force his eyes anywhere but on her. He knew she wasn’t doing it on purpose.

Then his attention snapped back on. “Wait—what? The only thing that went on in that room was? You never finished.”

She smiled, aloof, tossing a shoulder as she plunged two more glasses into the sink. “It’s nothing, Stew. I shouldn’t be talking about it—”

“Come on,” he urged, almost raising his voice. “You can’t start to say something, then stop. It’s not fair.”

She poured him another shot, then whispered. “My father would kill me if he knew I was telling you all this.”

“Why? All you’re doing is talking up the witch motif. You even told me the sign out front was your father’s idea.”

“He’d just get really pissed at me. Some people are turned off by that sort of stuff. I don’t want my father thinking I’m scaring off guests.”

Fanshawe couldn’t imagine why he even cared, but— “Abbie, I’m the one who asked.”

She stood upright at the sink, her hands wet. “All right. You want to know what Wraxall did in that room? I’ll tell you.” She tapped a foot. “No one would’ve suspected in a million years, because Wraxall regularly attended church—”

“But I thought all witches and warlocks did that. If they didn’t, then they’d be suspected instantly.”

“Exactly. But Wraxall was also a bigwig in the town. He built the roads, he built the first schoolhouse, he loaned money to farmers. Everybody loved him. Only his diary revealed was what really going on in that room upstairs.”

Fanshawe stared. “Abbie? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Now she seemed outright uncomfortable. She let out a long sigh. “There was…quite of bit of…you know…”

“No. I don’t know. That’s why I asked ten minutes ago.”

“Quite a bit of incest went on in that room for quite a while.”

Fanshawe blinked. Seconds ticked by. “Oh, you mean with Evanore.”

“Uh-hmm. Pretty icky stuff, and it didn’t end until Wraxall was well into his seventies, and, well…” She caught herself, then stepped away. “Be right back, I forgot the bar towels.”

She disappeared into a side door.

Fanshawe chuckled, shaking his head. The old Keep A Jackass In Suspense Routine. He couldn’t figure her. Any other time he’d suspect that she was only trying to spark to his sense of curiosity, and was embellishing detail for the sake of it. But—

I don’t think so. I can always tell when I’m being played.

Another scarlet shooter sat before him, which he’d scarcely noticed. He sipped it this time, thinking. Incest. Terrific. At least Wraxall was a bigger pervert than I am, but that was hardly a consolation.

Through the window, full darkness welled. Beyond, dim wedges of light from streetlamps cut Back Street up in a fuzzed luminescence. Fanshawe saw undefined figures wander into and out of the light, like content specters. Some were holding hands. When was the last time I was doing that?

He didn’t answer himself; the realization was too dismal. The normal people are out there…

Where am I?

So much for sipping his drink; what remained went down in a gulp. When he looked back up, his eyes found the mirror again; in the reflection, behind his shoulder, he saw a face disappear. Had someone been standing behind the bar entrance, peeking in? Fanshawe thought so, and he turned.

It looked like Mr. Baxter, he thought.

But why would Mr. Baxter be frowning into his own bar?

No one stood in the entrance when Fanshawe turned. A shadow fluttered, or seemed to. “Mr. Bax—” he began, but then shrugged it off.

“I’m back.”

He traversed on his stool to find Abbie hanging up towels. “I forgot to ask. Would you like to see a menu?”

“No,” Fanshawe said good-naturedly. “I want you to finish saying what you were saying about Jacob Wraxall.”

She opened a menu before him. “The Lexington-Concord soup is out of this world, or try the Valley Forge Pan-Seared Crabcakes. I’ve never had better, and I’m not just saying that ’cos my father owns the place.”

Fanshawe closed the menu. What does Valley Forge have to do with a friggin’ crabcake? “It all sounds great, Abbie, but all I want is for you to finish what you were saying.”

She was a fragrant dervish behind the bar. Now her back was to him again, but she returned an instant later, to place a third Witch Blood Shooter before him.

Fanshawe laughed to himself. “Trying to make me forget the topic won’t work.”

She grinned. “What topic is that, Stew?” and the she turned again, to lean over a reach-in. Fanshawe’s next words were lost; he was staring at her rump in the tight jeans.

He took a deep breath and looked away. “Jacob Wraxall’s room. Incest.”

“Hmm?”

“The tone of your voice implied that things other than incest took place in that room. Worse things.”

The act was over. She leaned again the service bar, facing him, and pursed her lips. “You really want to know, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s gross, Stew. It’s lousy bar talk.”

“I love lousy bar talk—I’m from Manhattan.”

She slumped. “I just told you that Wraxall and his daughter had incestuous relations well into Wraxall’s seventies. It’s not that hard to figure out.”

He thought back to the grim portrait in the other room; in it, Wraxall appeared to be in his fifties while Evanore looked more like late-teens. And the old warlock was doing it till his seventies… That’s a long time for a guy to be hobknobbing with his daughter.

Then—Moron!—the answer snapped into his mind. It dismayed him how someone so instantaneously analytical could be so thick-witted when it came to the plainly obvious.

“They had…children?” he said more than asked.

“How did you ever guess?” she shrilled, amused, then the amusement leveled off to stolidness. “They had a lot of babies.”

“Well, then, what happened to the family line?”

The amusement drained fully. “The Wraxall family line died when Wraxall himself died, in 1675.”

Fanshawe leaned forward, piqued. Suddenly, this morbid curiosity overpowered his attraction. “What do you mean? If the line died with him, then what happened…,” and the rest of his query melted like wax on a hearth.

“What happened to all those babies?” She crossed her arms just under her breasts and in a voice almost gravel-rough said, “Nobody knew for sure until after Jacob’s death, when they found his diary but…from time to time over the years, Evanore would disappear. So when the townsfolk asked Jacob where she was, he’d say she was traveling.”

“I’m not scoring high marks for perceptiveness today, but I’ll take a wild guess and say she probably wasn’t really traveling.”

“No. She wasn’t. She was in the house the whole time for…nine months at a time, if you catch my drift.”

“So none of the townspeople would ever know she was pregnant,” Fanshawe reflected. Then the rest kicked in. “Oh, don’t tell me—”

“Right again, Stew. Evanore wasn’t traveling, she was pregnant, with babies sired by her own father, but the babies were never seen by anyone, ever. Not to spoil your night completely but—hey—you asked.”

“That I did.” He knew he had the rest, but he needed to hear her say it. For this, he merely looked at her in morose beseechment.

“It wasn’t cats Jacob was sacrificing for his occult rituals.”

Fanshawe downed his drink as he went pale at the bar. “On that note…could I have another shot, please?”

««—»»

Fanshawe spent the next hour avoiding all conversion relative to Jacob Wraxall, witchcraft, warlocks, and the like. Instead he made small talk, which was much nicer, and unique because only then did it occur to him that he hadn’t sat in a bar in a long time, much less talked to a woman who wasn’t either his wife or someone connected to one of his businesses. He learned that Abbie had grown up in Haver-Towne, had attended a local community college for a certificate in hotel management, and, after spending a year in Nashua—”I thought I’d test the water in a small city before plunging headfirst into a big one, like New York”—she’d opted out of a shot at the glitzy metropolitan hotel bizz and decided to stay right where she was at. “I’ve never been much of a carrot-chaser,” she’d said. “A lot of people spend their whole lives wanting things they don’t need.” Why leave when she was happy here? “Better to help run my father’s place, which he’ll pass on to me some day.” In truth, she’d never even been to New York, and had never felt a desire to see it or any other big metropolis. “Slow-paced, peaceful, no rat-race—I know myself enough to realize that’s the only kind of life I really want to live,” she’d said. “So what if the money’s crummy?” His fetishist’s attraction notwithstanding, Fanshawe discovered that not only did he admire her for her polar-opposite ideals, but he envied her. Look what lots of money and the big city did for me, he thought. I’m a super-rich clinical pervert in recovery. I lost my marriage and even went to jail. What a great guy, huh? What a winner. He knew she’d be disgusted to know the truth. Billionaire or not, her father would throw him out of the hotel.

But he also learned that not only was she unmarried now, she’d never been married. No kids. She’d had a few inert flings in Nashua, but the only serious relationships she’d had had been with local men who’d turned out to be “a bunch of crud-heads and moochers who didn’t want to work a job.” Instead, she’d accepted her slow-paced, simple life in her home town, figuring “whatever happens, happens, and whatever that might be, it’s a great life and a beautiful world.”

Fanshawe could see in her eyes that she meant it. There was something shockingly refreshing about that.

But what am I really thinking?

He didn’t know. He felt weird in a way he couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was the alcohol—he rarely drank, and the only reason he was doing it here was because of the circumstance. This is the first time I’ve been away from people in—damn—I can’t remember when. His professional life involved his being constantly surrounded by underlings or other financial whizzes. His front office bosses had objected to no end when he’d told them he was going off on a long vacation by himself, as though he were some volatile political figure with enemies around every corner waiting to pick him off. His personal manager, Arthur Middoth, had practically had a panic attack. “Stew, please, a guy like you can’t just drop everything and go for a road trip. Lemme get’cha our best driver and a good vehicle,” the man had suggested with some angst in his voice. “I have a car, Artie, a bunch of them, and I don’t need a driver. I want to go by myself—that’s the whole idea.” Artie pushed his fingers worriedly through his hair, even though he didn’t have much. “Well then lemme send a couple of our guys in a second car.” “A couple of our guys?” Fanshawe laughed. “I’m not a mafia don, Artie. I just need to get away for a while, six months, maybe a year,” and then he’d added, “Period.” What could any of them say? Fanshawe owned them in a sense. Nevertheless, he felt skewed now, his insides diced up and shuffled around like something in a wok. First time out of the office and I don’t know which end is up. Then he looked back at Abbie.

He wanted to say something but couldn’t. Their eyes locked, and several moments passed, but those several moments seemed to Fanshawe like full minutes.

Abbie grinned again. The grin couldn’t have been more full of a joy of life. “What?”

Fanshawe felt like someone speaking in a cavern. “Can-can I take you out to dinner when you get off work?”

Her pause seemed like shock. “I can’t. I have to close tonight; we stay open till two when we have a convention.”

“Oh.” He’d had no previous idea that he was going to ask her out. Idiot. What was I thinking? I’m fifteen years older than her probably, maybe twenty. I’m the OPPOSITE of her. He struggled for something to say next, but then—

An uproar poured into the bar with no warning; Fanshawe turned, startled. The professors, he realized. At once the bar was filled with mostly long-haired, bearded men ranging from their fifties to their seventies. Where earlier they’d been wearing suits, now they wore jeans and T-shirts, and the T-shirts were all emblazoned with prints of dour faces, presumably philosophers. The men lined up at the bar, ordering drinks in chaos, waving dollars bills in their hands. They’re like spring-breakers, Fanshawe thought, only…old. But one thing he didn’t like was loud groups.

And he was embarrassed. Abbie had turned him down.

Part of himself was oddly impressed, because she already knew he was rich. But still…

It was past ten already, and his fatigue from the long drive was taking its toll. “This is a little rowdy for me,” he tried to tell her.

“Huh?” She was juggling bottles for squawking customers, pouring two drinks at once. “Not to be born is best!” someone howled; then someone responded, “Sophocles!”

“I’ve got to go,” he attempted again. “Can you just put my drinks on my room bill?”

“They were on the house,” she raised her voice over the revel, smiling as she was now operating several bar taps simultaneously.

Fanshawe got nudged by a bearded gray-hair whose T-shirt read TRANSCEND YOURSELF! and showed a print of St. Augustine. “Pardon my Dasein,” the man said, then barked to Abbie. “A Witch’s Moon Lager, please!” Pardon my WHAT? Fanshawe wondered, aggravated. He left twenty on the bar as a tip, looked once more to Abbie, and saw that she was swamped with demanding customers. “See ya later,” he spoke up, waving, then slipped out of his seat. She hadn’t heard him. I can’t even say goodnight to her it’s so damn crowded. How can somebody as successful as me have karma this bad? As he was shouldering his way out, he noticed two attractive women chatting with some of the professors, long-legged, vivaciously breasted. Their eyes glittered in a mild buzz. It took a moment to realize he’d seen them before, but in running apparel, not evening dresses. Harvard and Yale, he recognized. Tan legs shined; the slopes of their breasts visible in their gowns seemed to flash at him. What flashed next was the image of them nearly naked as they lay hidden on the hillock; but he pulled away, just as some drunk yelled, “The human self is the only thing that can be known and therefore verified!” and someone responded “Bullshit! There is no objective basis for truth!”

This is some weird party, Fanshawe thought. Finally, he broke out of the crowd under the bar transom, almost desperate now to flee the sudden tide of raucous drinkers. He turned toward the elevator, but before he could stride away—

“Wha—”

A hand grabbed his arm with some insistence; he turned around to see that Abbie had trotted after him. Her face was beaming as more drunk professors shouted objections behind her. “I’ll be right there!” she yelled to them, then turned back to Fanshawe. “You didn’t give me time to finish before all those old eggheads barged in. Day after tomorrow, I get off at seven. There’s a great Thai place on the next block.”

Fanshawe was subtly rocked. She hadn’t turned him down after all. “That’s great. Seven o’clock it is, day after tomorrow.”

“So it’s a date. Just meet me here.”

“Sure thing, Abbie, but I hope I see you before then.”

“So do I,” she said, then seemed surprised she’d said it so abruptly. “But where are you going now?”

“It’s late; I’m bushed from the long drive. And after four Witch-Blood shooters? I definitely need to go to bed.”

Her grin amplified. “Not going to the graveyard?”

The graveyard… “At night? Are you kidding?”

From the bar, the professors were banging their fists on the bartop, yelling “Barkeep! Barkeep! Barkeep!” in unison.

“You better get back in there,” he advised. “I think the professors are about to riot.”

“Good idea.” Her hand slid down his arm, an inconsequential contact, yet Fanshawe felt electric. “See ya! Oh, and remind me to tell you about the Gazing Ball.”

“The what?”

But Abbie was already bulling her way back into the bar. The professors began to applaud.

I hope she’s got earplugs, Fanshawe regarded. And…what did she say? Gazing Ball? But as he waited at the elevator, he realized he was brimming; she’d agreed to go out with him. The elevator took him up, and he saw his own smile warped in the stainless steel siding.

What’s the big deal about a financial mogul going on a date? he asked himself, but he knew, and he knew what Dr. Tilton might say. The situation was unique because it represented his re-emergence into “the regulated societal stream”—which was her way of referring to the everyday, normal world. For most of his adult life, exceptionally attractive women had made themselves all too available, with sexual implications all too apparent. Fanshawe had never been interested; they did not exist at the other end of a telescope or pair of binoculars; therefore, the were unexciting. Even in the year since his marriage had detonated, he had not been interested. Tilton’s right. Now that I’ve removed myself from the “purveying environment” I WANT to go out with a woman, not lust after her through a window. True, he’d felt the pangs during his walk through town, but since he’d been in Abbie’s presence at the bar, those old demons had barely reared their heads.

Any other time, he’d be itching to go on a “peep.”

Maybe I really am getting cured…

Half-tipsy, he walked down his hall which stood in total silence. The elegant tulip-shaped lamps branched out from the flower-papered walls; they looked a hundred years old, and added to the inn’s rich authenticity. He frowned when he reached into his pocket for his card-key and found a twenty-dollar bill. Unbeknownst to him, Abbie had slipped his tip money back, a pick-pocket in reverse. Classy, he thought.

He went to bed and fell asleep instantly, something that hadn’t happened in a long time.

But it would not be a sound sleep.

— | — | —

CHAPTER FOUR

(I)

The silence stretches like the neck of a decomposing corpse on a gibbet; the darkness brims. And through it, images rise and fall akin to chunks of unclassifiable meat bubbling in a horrific stew. Fanshawe’s dreams whirl slow, putrid: he sees women in windows through the infinity-shaped viewing field, beautiful women, nude, sultry, and, best of all, unknowing. Their sexual features are pinpoint-sharp, focused to a preternatural clarity. One is exercising; one seems to be talking to herself as if in argument, anger coning her nipples. Another lay flushed on a couch, her tight stomach sucks in and out as she masturbates with a peculiarly curved rubber phallus. But then the women clump together, squashed to nauseous misshape, and drain away into a swirl of liquescing breasts, navels, and pubic triangles, to be replaced by more images: faces. The disgusted face of the police officer, the agape stares of residents in lit windows as red and blue lights throb, the vision of pock-cheeked drug addicts, winos, thieves, and, likely, rapists, child-molesters, and murderers. One of them buckles over to vomit, hitching in silence. Some of the vomit splatters noiselessly on Fanshawe’s thousand-dollar shoes, for he sits there with these men in the deplorable holding cell, being appraised by the scum of the earth. A man standing hip-cocked in the cell’s corner looks at him with a smirking grin and mouths You’re MY bitch tonight… Then more faces, a parade of faces: Artie’s face when he bails Fanshawe out, the judge’s face at the arraignment, the faces of the lawyers at the pre-trial conferences…all expressions of blank disgust. But the last face to haunt his dreams is the worst: his wife’s, Laurel’s, a face whose expression radiates heartbreak, outrage, revulsion, and hatred concurrently. She stares as the nightmare stares back. I hate you, her lips speak without sound. You make me siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick, yet after a moment, the face warps as if before heat-waves on asphalt, then mutates and grows, not like a balloon expanding but instead a tumor or cyst in aberrant hyper-development, and just when the throbbing mass seems about to erupt, it collapses into a black void…

Fanshawe cannot close his eyes against the dream’s blackness, which goes on for what seems hours. He hears nothing save for his anguished breaths and thudding heart. Then—

A voice, echoic, as if speaking in a rock-hewn grotto miles deep.

Abbie’s voice.

“Jacob Wraxall, one of the founding members of the town. He lived here with his daughter, Evanore—”

Fanshawe sees what he believes is the great portrait again, until its subjects move. Wraxall and his tantalizing yet somehow obscenely visaged daughter are taking slow steps up a dark, narrow stairwell, the elder in coattails and ruffled bib, his pendant of stars and sickle moons glittering, the sibling with her blood-red hair and plunging bustline, the smooth stark-white flesh nearly luminous in the plunge. They each hold a candle whose flickering light turns their eyes into green-crystal pools. Jacob’s expression is solemn as an undertaker’s, while Evanore’s is one of deep, intractable rapture. They enter a room…

A black fog sweeps over Fanshawe’s vision, thickens, then dissipates, and now— Wraxall stands in a hooded cloak of sackcloth, in a plank-boarded, windowless room. He reads silently from an old book with a cord holding in the folded sheets in place rather than a typical binding. Candlelight wavers, throwing light that seems leprous; smoke rises from the eyeholes of a skull serving as a censer, a baby’s skull.

Evanore now stands bereft of clothing; her lambent skin shines either in sweat or oil. Fanshawe can feel himself trembling as he looks at her in the dream: the slim, curvaceous body, long white legs, breasts so deliciously swollen she could be lactating yet her abdomen shines lean and flat. It’s a jarring contrast: all that glistening skin, white as fresh snow, shimmering below the dark-crimson hair. Indeed, her hair is combed back wet now, rendering the appearance of actually being dipped in blood; the tuft at her pubis shines similarly. She is reciting words of some unhallowed prayer that Fanshawe remains deaf to. His gaze stays riveted to her stimulating physique until something unsought drags his eyes down to show him that the nude woman is standing within a queerly angled pentagram inscribed on the bare wood floor. The inscription has been fashioned with some black substance akin to char. Immediately he notices the sticks of burnt bones lying aside.

The candle-lit spectacle recedes, to reveal a dozen other cloaked figures looking on from the background…

Abbie’s reverberating voice continues, “They practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town never knew…”

The black mental fog creeps back, then disperses.

The room is gone. The night seems to seethe as Fanshawe is looking at a clearing deep in a woodland where trees hulk like dryadic miscreations. Their knotted arms outstretch, soon to be mimicked by Evanore, now dressed in her own hooded gown, and the remaining twelve in her coven. In gangrenous moonlight, they stand in a circle in the clearing, some bearing torches. But as Evanore raises a newborn babe in her hands—

Chaos unfolds.

More torches plunge into the circle, these held by townsmen with stern, determined faces. Other townsfolk wield pitchforks, and others, muskets. Male coven members are butt-stroked in the face; the women are dragged to the ground and stripped, then slapped dizzy by hard opened palms. The black mass had been encircled without anyone ever knowing, and as remaining members try to flee, they are beaten to the ground by still more men in tri-cornered hats, then hog-tied. Several armed deputies part, allowing the stout and basilisk-eyed Sheriff Patten to enter the scene; he is followed by the black-cassocked town pastor whose large silver cross flashes in torchlight. The infant which had nearly been murdered is delivered to the pastor’s hands. Patten looks this way and that, then his gaze seems to find what it seeks: Evanore Wraxall. She’s already been stripped naked, and stands defiant as one deputy keeps her in place by elbows pinned behind her back. The sheriff pauses to stare at the white, raving body, but then the pastor’s reproving glance reminds him that lust is a grievous sin.

Patten crosses himself. Duly shackled now, the other heretics are being roughly led out of the wood, but three of the sheriff’s raiding party hold several torches together, boosting the potency of their flame, and into this flame, four branding irons are held. Minutes pass.

The pastor nods consent; Patten stands, arms crossed, the fire-light in his eyes. Four of the deputies pull the irons out when they’re smoking hot, then they turn them toward Evanore…

The witch’s nude body seems to relax, even in what she must know awaits her; the guard behind her holds her fast.

The branding irons are each formed in the shape of the cross.

One iron is pressed into the front of the right breast, then another is pressed into the left. Flesh silently sizzles. A third iron burns into her white abdomen, cooking the flesh. But the fourth is handed to Sheriff Patten himself. He whispers a prayer, then approaches, then sinks the iron into the abundant plot of pubic hair, searing first the hair, then the private flesh beneath. Only after an extended allotment of time is the iron withdrawn, leaving a smoking indentation in the shape of the Savior’s symbol.

But Patten’s lower lip twitches as if he’s secretly infuriated, while the pastor’s face seems made of stone; for not once through the agonizing ministration did Evanore scream or even flinch. Instead, she simply smiles back at her persecutors as the brand-marks continue to effuse smoke.

More black fog, then the field of Fanshawe’s nightmare shifts, to that of a quiet hillock webbed by footpaths and askew brush. A gray sky yawns over all, low clouds shedding drizzle, as the queue of shackled heretics, now dressed in rags, is led up at musket-point. The sheriff and his deputies take their places about the hill’s crown; so do the town’s citizens. The pastor reads from a Bible, then closes it.

Sheriff Patten steps toward the stoop-shouldered captives. He reads from a scroll…

Abbie’s voice echoes back through the dream’s black blood: “Evanore and the coven were all condemned to death…”

Now, a horse-driven carriage pulls into the town square. Jacob Wraxall gets out with his personal attendant, Callister Rood. Rood bears a large suitcase, then takes a crate down from the coach. A town man immediately rushes over to tell them something silently. Jacob’s reaction is one of alarm. And next?

Jacob is standing in the cemetery, looking solemnly down at some graves.

“Jacob and Callister Rood were abroad in England at the time,” Abbie’s voice wavers; however, a long silence follows, broken only by the sounds of Fanshawe’s quickening breaths. “But when they returned, Jacob’s daughter had already been executed…”

(II)

Was it the sound of a growling dog that Fanshawe woke to? He churned irritably out of his sleep, then sat up.

He grimaced.

At once, the long smear of nightmare poured back like reeking slop through his mind. His subconscious had concocted imagery to accompany Abbie’s grim recital of Wraxall and his daughter. Christ… The dream’s aftermath left him feeling faintly sick; the moderate hangover didn’t help. But then he winced, recalling what had roused him out of his sleep.

A growling dog? He rubbed his face. His eyes ached; they felt dry. I thought I’d heard a dog growling yesterday too, on the hill… But outside, then, he heard a rudely loud motorcycle in the distance. There’s your growling dog…

His brows shot up when he noticed that morning as well as most of the afternoon was already gone. Jesus! How could I have slept so long? For years—for decades, actually—he’d risen at four-thirty in the morning. Now I don’t have to anymore. The Wall Street pressure-cooker was finally behind him; perhaps his body was taking back the rest it had been robbed of after so many years of ceaseless thinking, speculation, buy-outs, and re-organizations.

But this?

He’d slept sixteen hours. Maybe I’m getting a cold… Could the faint headache be a cold coming on rather than too much alcohol last night? But either way… So what? he thought. If I want to sleep sixteen hours, I can. I can do anything I want; I’m on vacation…sort of.

But he felt worn out even with the extra sleep. The dream… Why would a dream—unpleasant but not excruciating—cause such exhaustion? The Witch-Blood Shooters, he suspected. Smart move, Fanshawe. At least the window promised spectacular weather. Now, if I can only enjoy it without feeling like shit… A cool shower helped a little, plus more casual dress, including a lighter sports jacket. Downstairs, he noticed no sign of Abbie or Mr. Baxter. An older woman he hadn’t seen before was preparing to open the bar, while a pair of college-aged waitresses set tables in the dining room, in preparation for the upcoming dinner hour. The Professors, he thought next, noticing several of them browsing the display coves. The long hair and beards were the giveaway. Bloodshot eyes were a giveaway, too, that at least their hangovers must be worse than Fanshawe’s. He heard the elevator open and close, then came a soft, regulated pattering as Harvard and Yale walked briskly down the carpeted hall and across the atrium. They wore blank, midriff running tops today, with no designation, but he thought he saw Harvard glance once at him, then say to her companion, “Where have I seen that guy before?” They jogged out into blazing sunlight and were gone. Fanshawe’s hangover pulsed at his temple. For an instant he thought of inconspicuously following them, to see if they repeated yesterday’s topless coddling at the hidden nook, but then rebuked himself for even considering it. He grabbed some complimentary candies off the check-in desk, then milled around the displays. It was not his own volition that guided him toward the display with the looking-glass, but when he found it—

Hmm…

The Witch-Water Looking-Glass lay in a different position from when he’d first seen it. He couldn’t imagine why he would take note of such a thing, yet he was certain. The instrument was inverted; the eyepiece end faced toward the front desk earlier, whereas now it faced toward the Squire’s Pub.

Mr. Baxter must’ve taken it out of the case to show someone, he reasoned, a perfectly sound explanation.

So why would he even stop to consider it?

A cove away, one of the professors could be heard talking heatedly on his cell phone—an argument no doubt with his wife. “Oh, so that’s why you want a divorce. Great. Work my ass off thirty-five years, now you decide you don’t want to be married anymore, decide you’d rather just take half of everything I worked for, for us!” Fanshawe slipped away, feeling for the man. Welcome to the Divorce Club, buddy… But the situation caused him to think of one of Dr. Tilton’s insinuations several months ago. “You’re lucky your wife didn’t take you for half of your net worth, Mr. Fanshawe—that’s what usually happens.” “She got twenty million and a house in the Hamptons,” he detailed, but then she asked a question he would never have expected: “Are you…still fond of her?” “I love her!” he blurted. “I miss my wife, but I don’t expect you to believe that, considering what I did.” Her cool eyes thinned on him from behind the shining desk. “Did you try to get back with her?”

“Yes. I begged her. I told her I was in therapy, told her that it was working. I-I told her I hadn’t…gone on…a peep, in over six months.”

“And what did she say in response?”

Fanshawe had felt dizzy with nausea. “She didn’t say anything, but…well, her response made it clear that she’d never give me another chance.”

Dr. Tilton touched her chin with the tip of her finger. “I don’t understand, Mr. Fanshawe. If she didn’t say anything, on what do you base her negative response?”

Fanshawe had gazed back at the sterile-voiced psychiatrist, his mouth open. “I…just hung up. Her response was the sound of vomiting. Just hearing my voice made her physically ill.”

It had been the only time he’d witnessed the following expression from Tilton: pity.

Fanshawe groaned at the recollection, then quickened his pace out of the hotel.

More than a sparse number of tourists strolled the town’s streets. A slim woman in a furniture shop leaned over to inspect the panel-work of an armoire. Fanshawe’s eyes locked on her body, imagining it nude, but when some inkling of being looked at caused her to glance up at him, the fantasy collided with his shame. Shit! What am I doing? He quickly pretended to be looking at an umbrella stand right next to her. I’m eyeballing women in broad daylight! He walked off, hands behind his back, as if he hadn’t noticed her returning stare. But no sooner had he crossed the block he caught himself staring up at rowhouse windows.

His self-disgust raged. What the hell’s wrong with me? I just got a date with a really nice girl but I’m out here…doing this.

“Top’a the day to ya, sir,” the easily recognized voice cut into him. Mrs. Anstruther smiled at him from her kiosk. “Out for a stroll, are you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Anstruther. It’s quite a day for it.” But was there something sly about her smile? It lifted wrinkles on her face to something mask-like, which made him feel as though a cunning assessment were being taken of him. He knew it was pure paranoia on his part, to think for even a moment that she’d guessed his intent when looking up at the windows.

“Quite a day, yes, sir, a lovely day, indeed. The acme of summer’s what we’d call a day like this back home.”

Fanshawe smiled at her pronunciation of the word “summer.” It had sounded more like soomer.

“Garnerin’ up your nerve, perhaps? To have a peek inside the waxworks, sir?”

“Not today, Mrs. Anstruther.”

“Nor the palmist’s, hmm?”

“Not likely. I think I’ll take another walk around the trails. They were really interesting. And Abbie mentioned an ancient graveyard.”

“Oh, there’s an ancient graveyard, there is—a marble orchard’s what we’d call ’em back home, but that phrase don’t seem to ’ave catched on in the States. Not that you’ll find much marble in the graveyard of what you’re speakin’. ’N’fact, the west end don’t got nothin’ in the way’a markers, sir, ’cept for some splotchy stuff what they wrote the name’s of the dead in with their fingers.”

This woman can RAMBLE, Fanshawe thought. “Yeah, Abbie mentioned something about that. Tabby, I think she called it. Low-grade concrete.”

“Right she and you is, sir. And as for the little boneyard as what you was mentionin’, least the unconsecrated one, it’s sure as His Majesty King Charles were buried in Windsor that Jacob Wraxall and his ’orrible daughter was buried there. But it’s the daughter’s grave, sir, Evanore Wraxall’s, that you’ll likely as not find the more queer.”

“Queer?”

“Yes, sir. It ain’t like what you’d expect.”

Fanshawe showed her a snide glance. “Queer in what way, Mrs. Anstruther?”

She tittered with a wave of a bony hand. “Oh, best I not spoil if for ya. Best you’d find out yourself, yes, sir.”

Up to her old tricks again. “I see,” he said, chuckling. “Well, I appreciate your consideration.”

“Oh, but, sir, please pardon my makin’ mention of it, though I did happen to spy a pair of birds, not more than a minute or two ago—no, it couldn’t’a been more than that—two rather smart looking birds which seemed to be ’eadin’ same way as you.”

Fanshawe’s brow creased. Birds? but then he figured her vernacular. She means two women.

“Quite smart, yes, sir, quite smart, indeed, all dressed in some downright scant exercisin’ apparel.” She winked at him. “Handsome man like yourself? You might want to have a look round for ’em.”

Fanshawe stood still. Oh, she means Harvard and Yale, but before he could reply, she prattled further, “And please don’t be put off by my sayin’ so, but seein’ as it’s obvious you’re not sporting no weddin’ ring, you just might be doin’ them a kind service to chat ’em up a bit.”

Fanshawe sighed. Now she’s a matchmaker. Great. “Actually, ma’am, a walk is all I’m looking for today.”

“Oh, sir, yes, sir, and what a splendid day it is to be about a walk. The weather couldn’t be more propitious, er, what I mean is favorable. In fact, a day like today’s what we called the acme of summer where I come from”—she faltered. “Or…might I have already mentioned that, sir?”

“No, ma’am,” he lied. “It’s an apt description.” Fanshawe couldn’t resist; he put a ten-dollar bill in her tip jar.

“Gracious me, sir, and blow me down! ’Tis a higher place in Heaven which awaits men of a generous heart, yes, sir. Says so in the Bible, it does. And a heart generous as yours, sir? ’Tis likely the size of a bloomin’ haggis.”

Fanshawe could’ve reeled at her antics now.

“Thank you, sir!”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Anstruther, and have a great day.”

He stepped away, amused by her continued outpouring of gratitude in the outrageous accent. But in just moments he found himself strolling by the Travelodge, and he felt his shoulders slump. Don’t look, don’t look, he begged himself. Frolic was heard, shrill summer laughter, and splashing. He was passing the pool, with all those enticing windows running behind and over it. He could hear his teeth grinding as he hurried away, so wanting to look, but demanding of himself that he do no such thing. When he was safely past, he was shaking in place.

God, I am SO screwed up…

But his resistance didn’t make him feel better once he’d outdistanced the temptation. He found the signs, then the trails themselves almost unconsciously, and was wending upward in a daze. What was it? Passing what was surely a bounty of bikini-clad women by the pool? Knowing that somewhere among these dirt- and gravel-scratch paths the two beautiful joggers lurked?

He walked more quickly, trying to empty his mind.

His feet took him higher and higher up the grassy hillocks until he found himself close to the highest peak, peering between the hulks of two unruly bushes. The bushes’ smelled foul. Yes, he was peering…

Oh, for God’s sake…

He was peering back toward town. In the blaze of sun, the buildings—and their scores of windows—blazed back at him. A change of angle next, then the pool threw white, wobbling light into his eyes. When he squinted, he detected the tiny shapes of swimmers and sunbathers, and when he raised the squint…

He cursed himself.

Even at this distance, he could make out the rows and rows of first- and second-floor windows at the Travelodge. On the balconies of several units, the tiniest human shapes became evident. Fanshawe’s conscience felt split down the middle, one half relieved that he was too far away to see anyone in detail, the other half enraged that he no longer carried any of his erstwhile optical devices. He stepped away from the useless vantage point.

Stray walking occupied the next quarter of an hour. First came the peak of Witches Hill…and along with it a shimmy in his gut. Next, he found himself again examining the odd rain barrel at the clearing’s fringe, and its ten-inch-wide hole which made no sense. With less conscious thought, though, he drifted over to the meager stand of trees that he knew overlooked the lower clearing—the clearing where he’d spied on the topless joggers. There’d been no sign of the women among the trails, and no sign of them now continuing their secret embrace: the lower clearing stood bare.

Minutes later, he discovered the next sign, one he’d missed on his first expedition. HAVER-TOWNE CEMETERY, the sign informed. EST. 1644. Its layout was long and narrow, and girded by a crude and well-rusted iron gate. The farthest perimeter was studded with teetering tombstones whose inscriptions were barely legible from the sheer passage of time; some of the stones’ actual edges had abraded as well. With some effort, Fanshawe made out dates from the seventeen- and sixteen-hundreds. But the stones seemed rather paltry in number, then he remembered Mrs. Anstruther’s comment about a sparsity of them. In all, the word decrepit seemed an ideal description of the place.

But most of the perimeter within the gate lacked any extruding markers at all, which leant the cemetery a bizarre disproportion. Where’s this tabby stuff Abbie and the old woman were talking about? he wondered. The position of the sun led him into the western portion of the graveyard. Sure enough, as he looked down into sprawls of weeds, he made out the crude patches of cement on the ground with names and dates finger-grooved in them. Another sign told him: THIS IS THE WEST END OF THE CEMETERY, THE UNCONSECRATED END. COUNTLESS WITCHES, HERETICS, & CRIMINALS HAVE BEEN BURIED HERE…

Fanshawe shuffled around the patches. Bodies down there, skeletons, he thought. Images formed in his head, images of the long-buried. He took extra care not to step on any of the patches. Many of these were even less legible than the bonafide stones, but in a moment he had stopped, gone down on one knee, and peered.

One patch read: JACOB WRAXALL, 1601-1675 CONVICKT’D OF SORCERIE, DEVILTRIE, & INFERNALL PROPHESIE. And the next patch: EVANORE WRAXALL, 1645-1671 CONVICKT’D OF WITCH-CRAFT & DIABOLIK CONSORTE. Four-year difference, Fanshawe calculated. But he was already jarred by his most immediate observation. What have we here?

At the foot of the patch that marked Evanore Wraxall’s final resting place, there was an oblong hole, as if the coffin had collapsed…

…or been exhumed and removed.

Fanshawe tweaked his chin. So this was the answer to Mrs. Anstruther’s cryptic comment, referring to the grave plot as “queer.” For sure, in the area of space below which must be occupied by the corpse, there was a distinct indentation, almost as though that particular spot of ground had eroded, nearly like an old sinkhole.

There was nothing else to presume other than the body must have been removed a very long time ago.

So much for a decent burial.

Several crows screeched at him from a high tree, but the birds looked sickly, bare patches showing. Large pink circles surrounded their tiny black eyes where feathers had fallen out; Fanshawe thought of negative omens. But his previous absent-mindedness returned; he was walking without thinking. Could this be the better part of his conscience blocking more thoughts of voyeurism? Next thing he knew, he’d entered another clearing not far off from the graveyard. He stood still, his eyes addressing a stone pedestal of some sort, about four feet high, and tapering as it rose. At first he guessed it might be a more elaborate grave-marker but then found no plaque or chisel-work to identify the interred.

Sitting atop the pedestal was a tarnished metal sphere.

It was slightly smaller than a soccer ball. Fanshawe’s impression was that the sphere was brass, for age had tarnished it to a deep patina over which a tracery of whitish incrustation had developed. This reminded him of the calcium deposits that frequently accumulate around faucet spouts. Cleaned of its patina the object would be impressive to look at; now, however, it was an eyesore. I wonder what… Oh, this must be the ball that Abbie mentioned last night when I was leaving the bar.

What had she called it? A viewing ball? A gazing ball?

He stepped closer, leaned down, and was able to see markings on the pedestal: swaths of geometric shapes, such as stars, circles, crescents, as well as fairly tiny lines of writing in some language other than English. He took a wild guess and thought Hebrew. But some of the geometric shapes reminded him straightaway of Jacob Wraxall’s brooding portrait and the features of his pendant. To the touch, the pedestal itself must be marble.

But then he rose to inspect the sphere.

Beneath the pallid green tarnish and webworks of crust he thought he noticed outlines of shapes, however faintly. At first he thought the sphere must be a geographic globe depicting the continents, but then he realized that the shapes didn’t correspond at all to anything global.

Fanshawe touched the encrusted orb and found it cold—strangely so, for brass or any similar metal would’ve surely conducted heat from the sun beating down on it all day…

Weird. He stepped back for another more distanced look, tried to figure what purpose lay behind the object, then could only draw blanks. But Abbie had promised to tell him about it, hadn’t she? Tomorrow, he thought with a pleasant twinge, when I take her to dinner. Just then, he allowed himself the luxury of letting Abbie’s image enter his head: her trim shapeliness, the incandescent dove-gray eyes, the exotic alliance of her hair color: auburn with blond. He stood dreamily, musing over the normalness of it all; just a simple dinner date, true, but simplicity and normality were elements that had always eluded him, either that or had been rendered moot by the involutions of his secrets. Just then, the brilliant blue sky seemed to welcome him to a new state of mind…

Then the moment shattered.

Fanshawe twirled in place at an adrenalin dump. It had been the unmistakable sound of a growling dog that had invaded his muse. Not this again! He stood still, eyes darting left and right, poised to flee. It had been much louder this time, as if the animal lurked distressingly close. He’d thought he heard the same sound on this hill already, then he’d even dreamed the sound, hadn’t he? He knew that he could not be mistaken this time.

Careful. Don’t look at its eyes…

His vision pored over the high weeds and tangles of bushes, but in just a few moments, again, he could discern that there was no dog. Next, he walked around the brush for a closer inspection, then found what he’d found previously: nothing. No dog.

What the hell?

Was he hearing things? There had to be some reasonable explanation. Perhaps some other hotel guest was walking their dog, and it happened to snarl along another trail. The idea seemed like an absurd excuse, given the snarl’s tonality but—

All right. Enough. There’s no dog this time, either.

Fanshawe took a final glance at the senseless pedestal and globe, chuckled at this next mishap of hearing a dog that wasn’t there, then turned to continue through the trails, when—

The skin of his face seemed to tighten like shrink wrap, while every tendon and muscle in his body turned taut as stretched wires. This fright doubled that of the imaginary dog-snarl, and he broke into a sprint at this next sound that had caught him so unawares.

There could be no mistake, nor any idle explanation.

What he’d heard was this: a long, high, blood-curdling scream, indisputably that of a woman…

(III)

Fanshawe thought of a plum with its skin chewed off.

A half hour after he’d heard the scream, the manic scene that he’d rushed into became a circumstance that could only be described as funereal. The ambience here seemed to leech power from multiple sets of throbbing red and blue lights. A crowd had formed quickly; the scream had been so shrill it was heard even by those even at the fringe of town. Blanch-faced EMTs were preparing the gurney, while an equally blanched coroner stood aside, signing papers on a clipboard. Several county police officers kept the crowd back; others were cordoning the perimeter, and in the center of all the activity stood a tall, fiftyish county captain who was trying but not quite succeeding in looking stoic. Silence, and a semi-tangible grimness, had settled over everything. Clearly, events such as this never occurred in an area such as Haver-Towne.

Fanshawe’s knees still wobbled from the sight.

“Well, jumpin’ Jesus, I just can’t believe this,” Mr. Baxter muttered next to Fanshawe. “Of all the crazy things to happen.”

“I still can’t quite believe it myself,” Fanshawe said. The aftermath left his throat dry as old leaves. “It seemed more like a dream.”

“So it was you who stumbled onto him?”

Fanshawe shook his head and pointed to the pair of joggers who now looked winded not from exertion but shock. One stood by wide-eyed while the other nervously recited details to a scribbling police officer. “Those two, they were jogging the trails.”

“Aw, yeah. They been here for the convention last couple of years—associate professors I think they are. And what a thing for a couple of gals to run into…”

And run into it they had, literally. Fanshawe had followed the scream to a lower hillock. Evidently the woman in the lead, the bustier of the two, had tripped over some object just protruding from the high grasses that walled the trail. It was her friend who’d seen it and screamed. Fanshawe had arrived just as the first woman’s eyes were rolling back in her head—then she’d fainted.

The obstruction had been a man’s head and shoulders, the rest of the body still concealed in the brush.

Fanshawe had called 911, then helped revive the unconscious jogger. But the image of that victim lying in the brush seemed to sink into his brain like a stone in watery silt, that man…

No details could be made of the man’s face, for he no longer had a face. What sat instead upon those shoulders was little more than a skull stripped raggedly of most of its flesh. The majority of neck muscles were gone as well, as if torn away. Only mere scraps of blood-mucked skin remained. Ears, nose, lips?

Gone.

The eyeballs were intact, but lidless, transforming what had once been the man’s visage into a grinning, staring mask.

Upon seeing this, Fanshawe’s mind swam in a hot panic, fragments of thoughts bursting through. Murder? He doubted it. An animal attack seemed most likely. But if it were the former, couldn’t the perpetrator still be near? The jogger’s ceaseless, whistle-like screams only shattered more of Fanshawe’s concentration. What kind of an accident could account for this? And if the victim had indeed been savaged by a wild animal, why was his coffee-brown suit untorn, and his hands untouched? These and other questions only had time to half-solidify in Fanshawe’s mind. When the second woman had finally stopped screaming, the three of them could only stare open-mouthed at one another. Several police cars and an ambulance showed up sometime later, using the GPS on Fanshawe’s cellphone.

Fanshawe shuffled his feet as he stood with Mr. Baxter. Baxter seemed disconcerted by something more than the presence of the corpse. What’s he got cooking in his head? Fanshawe wondered but didn’t feel he knew the man well enough to ask. Eventually, the police had finished questioning the joggers; they walked shakily back toward town. My turn, Fanshawe realized. The questioning officer approached, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses in which Fanshawe saw his own face. The county captain came over, too.

Fanshawe felt interrogated. He explained his presence on the trails along with his chronological observations once he’d heard the scream, and answered rather typical if not irrelevant questions. Then came questions like: “Can you remember seeing anyone here or in town who struck you as suspicious?” and “Do you recall seeing a man dressed similarly to the decedent at any time today?” and “Did you notice any things—articles of clothing, for instance, disturbances in the brush, money, credit cards—while you were out here today?” to which Fanshawe answered in the negative. But then the captain, who seemed self-reflective, interrupted, “Oh, so that’s why your name’s ringing a bell. You’re one of those finance geniuses I’ve seen on TV.”

Fanshawe knew the comment was incidental yet still his paranoia construed something smart-alecky about it. “I’m semi-retired now,” was all he said, but was surprised a particular question hadn’t been asked. “I did happen to hear something out of place—I mean, I think I heard something.”

“What’s that, sir?” asked the cop with the clipboard.

“A dog growling, a large one by the sound of it. I suppose it could have been a wolf.”

The captain shrugged. Was he repressing a smile? “There’s been no wolves here in ages,” and with that the man didn’t seem interested in the least.

“I just thought I’d mention it; this does look like it could be a wild animal attack.”

“A wild animal wouldn’t likely snatch a man’s wallet,” the captain enlightened, then the cop added, “No change in the victim’s pockets, either, no pens, no handkerchief, no keys…”

Fanshawe contemplated the surprising information.

As if to change the subject, “In town long, Mr. Fanshawe?” the captain asked. It seemed intimidating the way he crossed his arms.

“I’ve been here two days but may be staying several weeks or even months. Not sure yet. I’m kind of …on vacation.”

The captain’s brow jigged. “Kind of?” but then the officer caught himself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fanshawe. Vacation or not, it’s none of my business—”

Good, because you don’t WANT to know why I’m really here, Fanshawe thought.

“—but it’s our conclusion that this man here”—he took a grim glance to the now covered corpse—”is a homicide victim.”

“It would seem so. No wallet, no keys,” Fanshawe said, confused.

“Just want you to know it’s a pleasure to have someone of your influence staying here in Haver-Towne,” came the captain’s next odd remark. Now he seemed not to be aware that a dead man was in proximity. “Sorry a nasty thing like this had to happen. What I hope you can understand, sir, is there hasn’t been a murder here in, well, since way back when. Right, Mr. B?”

“Not since Colonial times,” Baxter accentuated, but then that discreetly troubled look grew more pronounced.

“Something wrong, Mr. B? Looks like you got something on your mind.”

“Aw, yeah…” Baxter glanced again to the covered corpse—the facial region of which was revealing blood spots through the white fabric. “Aw, damn, captain. I guess I could be wrong here, but I don’t think so. See, I think I know who this man is…”

— | — | —

CHAPTER FIVE

(I)

Fanshawe heard the entire speculation twice, first as Baxter recited it to the police, then again when he walked back to town with the man.

“Eldred Karswell,” Fanshawe repeated. That’s some name. “So he’s the man who booked my room before I arrived?”

“Yeah. That was definitely the same suit he was wearing last time I saw him. Don’t see many brown suits nowadays, do you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Don’t know anything about the guy ’cept that he had money and seemed like a nice fella. A bit stiff, but…nice.”

“How old do you think he was?”

“Sixty, sixty-five, he looked. Always dressed good too, kind of like you.”

Fanshawe didn’t like the portent of being compared to a dead man. “Retired?”

Baxter looked up. “Didn’t say, but he struck me as a history buff. Asked to look at some old books at the inn.”

Well, Fanshawe thought. The history buff is now history himself.

But Baxter seemed agitated, as though he’d done something wrong. “Damn, I guess I should’ve notified the cops when Karswell never came back to the hotel that night, but, hell…”

“You couldn’t have known. He was a guest, that’s all. How could you know that he didn’t go to visit a nearby town, or maybe had some friends stop by and go somewhere else. He’d already booked the room.”

“Right, for seven days, and six of ’em were already up when he disappeared.” Baxter’s face crinkled. “Just don’t like the sound of that. Disappeared.”

Now, he’s RE-appeared… “If you’d reported him as missing, the police wouldn’t have done anything about it anyway. Enough time hadn’t passed.”

“Right. And what else could I do? He doesn’t show up on the last day he’s booked, and then you arrive for an indefinite time, so…I moved Karswell’s stuff out and gave you the room ’cos it’s the one you wanted in the first place.”

It was between Baxter’s words that Fanshawe got the gist. Now matter how much money this Karswell man is worth, I’m worth more. He bumped Karswell for a more lucrative customer, just like airlines bump discount passengers for people who’ll pay more. Happens every day.

“Like you said,” Baxter continued, wringing his hands. “I thought he went someplace else for his last night, with a friend or something. He left his car, left his belongings and his suitcase, even left his keys.”

“Oh, the Cadillac I noticed parked behind the inn— That’s his, I suppose.”

“Right. I moved it myself, then put his suitcase in the trunk. The cops probably think I’m some kind of a dunderhead. Man leaves his car, his keys, and I don’t do a thing…”

Fanshawe recalled seeing Mr. Baxter stowing the suitcase just yesterday. “You’re fretting for nothing, Mr. Baxter.”

Baxter continued, still distraught, “I figured if he came back at the last minute, I’d give him his stay for free.”

“Anyone else would’ve done the same thing. You don’t have an obligation to inform the police that a private guest might be missing, and it’s certainly not your job to guess that someone may have been murdered,” Fanshawe offered.

“Yeah, yeah… But I knew it was him the minute I saw the suit that corpse was wearing.” Baxter let out a long breath. “Jumpin’ Jesus…”

Fanshawe could sympathize with the proprietor’s duress. A hotel guest getting murdered—getting his FACE cut off—won’t do wonders for the inn’s reputation… They entered the inn and its rush of cool air. “I gotta get my tookus back to work, Mr. Fanshawe, gotta food delivery out back,” Baxter said. He tssked. “I’m just dang sorry somethin’ like this happened to ruin your stay.”

“It’s not ruined at all, Mr. Baxter—bad things happen everywhere.” At last, the remnant adrenalin since the scream began to drain from Fanshawe’s blood. He tried to end their discourse on a witty note, “If you think this is bad, try Central Park,” but it didn’t work. In the back of his mind, the grisly image flashed: Eldred Karswell’s faceless skull…

(II)

“I don’t know what it was,” Abbie was saying during the early-evening lull, “but he just seemed—” She looked right at her father. “Weird?”

“Karswell?” Baxter questioned. “Maybe a bit of a stick in the mud, but I wouldn’t call him weird. Was nice to me, I’ll tell ya that.”

Abbie placed more margarita glasses into the overhead rack. “You just liked him ’cos he spent a lot of money. Come on, Dad. He was weird. His eyes looked…calculating. Like he knew something he was keeping secret. He was creepy, Dad. Even his name is creepy. Seriously—Eldred Karswell?”

Mr. Baxter didn’t look at his daughter as he rang out the bar receipts from the last shift. “A man just died horrible, and you’re calling him creepy. Talk about speakin’ ill of the dead…”

“Sure, Dad—what happened to him was horrible”—she leaned closer to him, and lowered her voice even though no one else was in the bar—”but don’t tell me you’re not thinking the same thing I am. Don’t even think about telling me you’re not.”

Mr. Baxter’s lower lip rippled, as if repressing a torrential rage. He clenched a fist till his knuckles whitened. “I know what you’re tiptoin’ around, girl, so you just hear me, and hear me good.” For a failed effect, he even thumped his fist on the bar-top. “Not one word of that to no one!”

“Come on. How Karswell died is an incredible coincidence. Even you have to admit it.”

“I don’t have to admit no such thing, missy!” Now Baxter roughly grabbed a towel and bottle of cleaner, and began to wipe down the bar. “And with all the commotion today, I ain’t even had the chance to get on your case for that blabber-mouth stunt you pulled last night.”

Abbie straightened her stance, her frown turning into a half-smile. “Blabber-mouth stunt? You’ll have to explain that one to me, Dad.”

Baxter pitched his finger back and forth. “Don’t act like ya don’t know what I’m talkin’ about—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“—because I heard every word of it last night,” and then his face seemed to smolder at her.

Now Abbie appeared bewildered. “Last night? Every word of what?”

“Ain’t ya got no sense at all? Don’t be telling folks all those gory stories about Wraxall and his daughter, especially a guest as important as Mr. Fanshawe.”

Abbie’s smile returned, and she slowly nodded. “Oh, so that’s what’s stuck down your craw. He’s a customer, Dad, he’s a guest, and he asked some questions. What am I supposed to do, say, ‘Sorry, sir, but my Daddy told me not to talk about it’?”

“Don’t get smart!”

“He asked me, so I told him. And you’re the one who pushes all this witchcraft jive to the tourists.”

Baxter’s eyes sprang open. “Mr. Fanshawe’s no ordinary tourist! He’s worth a fortune, and he’s the type of guest we want to accommodate so he can spend some of that fortune here! Just last month, Fortune 500 put him on the friggin’ Billionaire List, and here he is stayin’ at our humble little hotel. Damn, girl! I can’t believe you told him the room he’s taken used to be Jacob Wraxall’s!”

“He seems to have an interest in the hotel’s history, that’s all.”

“That’s all? I also heard it when you blabbed about Wraxall’s incestuous affair and the babies he sacrificed! For goodness sake, girl! Somebody must’ve switched your brain for a loaf of pumpernickel!”

Abbie chuckled, commencing to stuff olives with bleu cheese. “Relax, Dad. He’s very interested in the local lore. In fact, he also said he was going to have a look at the graveyard soon. I told him all about it last night.”

Baxter’s face began to pinken. “That’s probably what he was doin’, when he and them women found Karswell’s body. If you hadn’t told him ‘bout that damn graveyard, he wouldn’t even have been out there today! Holy hell, girl, he’ll be hightailing it out of here for sure, and probably’ll go straight to the Travelodge!”

She squealed a modest laugh. “Billionaires don’t stay in Travelodges, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t stay here, either, but we’re fortunate enough to have him anyway. It’s pure gravy. But after all that gross-out ballyhoo you jib-jabbed to him last night, you’ll wind up giving the man nightmares. We’re hoteliers, Abbie. It’s our job to cultivate our guests, not scare ’em off.”

Abbie put the stuffed olives away, then began to cut celery on a board: snap, snap, snap. “You’re impossible. And what’s the big deal? I told you, Stew’s fascinated by the Wraxall legend.”

Baxter nearly gagged. “Stew? Where’re your manners? It’s Mr. Fanshawe, girl. We treat our guests with every courtesy, ’cos that’s what they expect!”

“He told me to call him by his first name, Dad.”

Mr. Baxter paused, mulling a consideration. “Really?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Baxter leaned closer. “Hmmm…well, now. If he told ya that, then why don’t you turn that little light bulb on in your noggin and get ta usin’ your brain for more than skull-filler, huh?”

“What?”

“Don’t ya think it might be a good idea to maybe, well, make some eyes at the man a little?”

Now Abbie bubbled over with shrill laughter. “You’re priceless! Make eyes at him?”

“You’re actin’ like a dizzy blonde, and you’re not even blond. For Pete’s sake, girl—all that money?” The elder suddenly turned flustered. “But, no, I don’t suppose my brainchild daughter would ever consider that.”

Abbie shook her head. “Dad. Stop. He already asked me out.”

Baxter nearly gagged again. “You joshin’ me?”

“No, I’m not joshing you.”

Then a look of total dread came over the man’s face. “You said yes, didn’t ya, Abbie? Please. Tell me ya said yes!”

Abbie fidgeted. “Well, I wanted to, Dad, but I really don’t know him that well, so I said I’d take a rain check—”

Baxter stared, veins suddenly pulsing in his neck. In a stalled instant, his shoulders slumped. “Aw, Abbie, how could I raise such dumb bunny for a daughter?”

Abbie broke into more laughter. “You’re so easy to dupe, you know that? Of course I said yes. He’s taking me to the Thai place tomorrow at seven.”

Baxter stomped his feet and hooted out loud. When he did so, several guests out in the atrium shot glances into the bar. “Well, hot damn, girl! That’s the best news I heard since that Neal Osborn fella walked on the moon!”

“Armstrong, Dad. Not Osborn.”

Baxter was frantic. “What are you going to wear? That’s very important on a first date, you know. Hmm, let’s think. You gotta wear something nice, of course. How about that snappy green evening dress with the shiny razzle-dazzle things on it?”

Abbie sighed. “It’s just a date, Dad, not New Year’s Eve. Besides, I think that’s a little too low-cut, don’t you? A little showy?”

“Depends on what you’re showin’”—Baxter leaned an elbow on the bar. “It can’t hurt any to let the man know you’ve got some attributes, if you catch my drift—you’re not gettin’ any younger, you know.”

Abbie fastened a button on her blouse. “Oh, I catch your drift, all right,” Abbie said snidely, “and thanks for the Not Getting Any Younger line.”

Baxter ignored her. “Oh, and wear those high heels, too, the ones you got in Manchester. He’ll like them.”

Abbie shook her head and smiled at her father’s folly.

Baxter looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Hey, why are you even working now?”

“I’m filling in for Hester; she wanted to go to a concert.”

Her father scowled. “You should be in bed, you need to get plenty of rest for your big date tomorrow—”

“Oh, I get it, a woman like me, who’s not getting any younger, needs her beauty sleep?”

“That ain’t what I meant, missy—”

“It’s only ten o’clock, and I told Hester I’d work till close. Those professors always come in for a late round.”

“Poppycock. I’ll take care of those beard-o-lookin’ late-timers, so you get your bee-hind straight to bed this instant.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

Baxter grabbed her shoulders and urged her out from behind the bar. “Not another word, girl! Up to bed! Oh, and maybe get your nails done in the morning at that fancy salon”—he shoved some cash at her. “Can’t hurt.”

“You’re a nut, Dad…”

“That’s all well and good but I’m still your father and I’m still the boss.”

Abbie dismissed her father with a laugh, then left the bar, but only a few moments later several bearded patrons came in, bringing plenty of loud chatter with them. Baxter manned his post, but he did so in a dreamy, distracted state. No, sir, he thought with a smile. It’s not every day my daughter gets asked on a date by a billionaire…

(III)

The abrupt vision of seeing a savaged murder victim left Fanshawe in a strange daze. He’d thought he was over it but the image, however momentary, lingered like a flashbulb spot. After he and Mr. Baxter had parted, he’d begun to wonder the most grotesque things. Jesus, the guy had no face left. So…

Where was the face now?

If stripped off with a knife…where were the pieces? Had the police taken them? But, no, Fanshawe had been there before the police, and he’d seen no evidence of pieces or collection.

God Almighty. What happened to Karswell’s face?

The daze followed him into early evening, and he found himself almost unconsciously re-inspecting the hotel’s display coves. His eyes landed on one book, The Unsearchable Way, or England’s Danger and Dealings with Anti-Christ, by R. Crome, Rector; then another, Newe Angle-Land & Its Witcheries & Tragick Worshipp of Divells in No Human Shape, by Rev. A. Hoadley. Wonderful, Fanshawe sputtered to himself. Various paintings came next. He stood before the large, old portrait of Jacob Wraxall, his daughter, and their surly manservant. Why do I feel so dizzy? Gem-green eyes looked back at him, Evanore’s rather lustily, but her father’s eyes looked absolutely foreboding. Something seemed to emanate off the unpleasant likenesses; Fanshawe closed his own eyes for a full minute—not knowing why he’d chosen to do so—but a superimposition seemed to remain, with Wraxall smiling at him, smiling as one smiles in approval. Fanshawe thought absurdly, Looks like ole Jake likes me… It was fanfare, though—Fanshawe knew this. When he re-opened his eyes, Wraxall’s portentous scowl was unchanged.

What did I expect?

More dazed steps took him through more display coves. Why am I so ragged out? He felt unsteady on his feet. Now he realized he was looking at the ornate case which housed the peculiar looking-glass. Someone had moved it the last time he’d seen it—of this he was certain. But now…

Fanshawe squinted down. WITCH-WATER LOOKING-GLASS, MADE BY JACOB WRAXALL, CIRCA 1672, the familiar label read. Now, however, he saw that the device hadn’t merely been moved again, it was gone entirely.

The observation troubled him as he decided to go back outside. Why should that thing bug me so much? But he knew. It reminded him of his own Bad Old Days, which were not too far behind him. Of the object’s disappearance, any number of explanations were feasible. Mr. Baxter had probably loaned it to a guest interested in looking at the area’s panorama, or perhaps someone interested in such relics—an antique dealer or antiquary—had purchased it from Baxter.

Still, the notion itched at Fanshawe. His immediate impulse was to suspect the glass had been stolen, though…

Why would he think that?

Once he’d exited the inn, he’d walked around toward the building’s rear—once more, via an urge more unconscious than anything…

He was standing directly before Karswell’s old yet pristine black Cadillac. What am I doing NOW? He had no idea, and no idea further when he took out his cell phone and called his office manager.

“Hi, Artie, it’s me.”

“Oh, nice of you to give us a call,” came some obvious sarcasm. “Are you all right?”

“Of course—”

“So where are you? Hagerstown?”

“Haver-towne,” Fanshawe corrected.

“Oh, I’ve heard of it! Are you all right?”

“No assassins have knocked me off yet.”

“Funny. You know, you could at least touch base with us once a day. You’re turning our hair gray.”

“You’re already gray, Artie—prematurely. No offense.”

“Oh, none taken!”

“Look, I’ve got a wild bug up my—”

“Really? You?”

Fanshawe chuckled. “I want you to have the research people check something out for me. I want to know about a guy named Eldred Karswell—”

“Who’s he?”

“Just…a guy. He drives an old black Cadillac,” and then Fanshawe read off the vehicle’s license plate number.

Artie sighed through a pause. “Got it. Not gonna tell me the deal with the guy—this…Karswell?”

Fanshawe smiled. “No. Just run a make on him because…well, because I’m the boss.” Fanshawe didn’t want to reveal that Karswell had actually been murdered, or at least killed, if the police were wrong. Artie would go ballistic… They would find out soon enough.

“I’m hearing you loud and clear…boss.”

“Good. Just ring me on my cell when you’ve got it, okay?”

“Sure. Say, aren’t you going to ask how things are going with all your astronomically successful businesses?”

“I don’t have to ask, because I have the utmost confidence in you.” Fanshawe liked Artie but he just didn’t feel like talking right now. “Thanks, Artie. Take the office out on the company card tonight. Anyplace you want.”

“Uh…”

“A simple thank you will suffice.”

“Uh, thanks, boss!”

“Later, Artie.”

“Yeah, sure, I—”

Fanshawe hung up, feeling satisfied in some inexpressible way. He couldn’t imagine what goaded his curiosity about Karswell, but then there were a number of things he felt intensely curious about in Haver-Towne, things that wouldn’t ordinarily pique him. It’s because my life has changed now…for the better. I’m essentially retired; my managers run my businesses, so I need new interests, and with that he began to walk. He’d done lots of walking since he’d arrived, and he found that he liked it. It cleared his head…

He began to walk back toward the trails.

It occurred to him that police might still be around. I hope they don’t think I had something to do with it… Still, he felt like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. But he couldn’t quell the urge to see the trails again, and the scenery off the most elevated of the hillocks. He didn’t think for a minute there was a subconscious motive, the joggers, for instance. After what they saw today, they’ll NEVER come back out here. Before he knew it, he was ascending the hillocks.

No surprise there, he thought when he saw that the trail where Karswell’s body had been found was cordoned off completely with yellow tape. Only when he discerned that the police had left did he realize how unwise coming here might be. Whoever killed Karswell might still be out here…

But how likely was that?

At any rate, Fanshawe wasn’t convinced it had been murder, missing wallet or not. The Wild Animal Theory seemed much more plausible; then someone coming along afterward (someone disreputable, of course) could easily have taken Karswell’s wallet after the fact.

I don’t know…

The sun was descending, drawing smoldering orange light across the horizon. The vision was spectacular, and he realized then it had been ages since he’d seen such a sunset—just one more of nature’s wonders he’d been deprived of in New York. They’re all back in the Rat Race, but here I am, watching the sun set on Witches Hill… It almost seemed funny.

Sometime later, once darkness had drained into the hills, Fanshawe had turned.

Toward town.

That daze he’d felt earlier only magnified. It was as though the glittering lights of the Haver-Towne had puppeted him, had made him turn, like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. Fanshawe’s guts sunk; he knew what was behind the impulse.

The windows.

Was it this perverse desire that had been brewing in him all day, without his conscious recognition? In the past, too, he could remember times when his obsession had taken him out with seemingly no volition of his own. His eyes locked on the Travelodge, and its neat, enticing rows of picture-glass windows. Useless, he reminded himself. The joke’s on me. Even if he had come up here with the subconscious intent of peeping, he already knew he was too far away to see anything.

Then a noxious question slipped into his mind. Yeah, but what would I do—right now, right this second—if I had a pair of binoculars on me?

His guts sunk further when still another impulse fed his hand into his jacket pocket. In a hushed shock, his fingers touched something, then gripped it.

He grit his teeth, his eyelids reduced to slits, when he withdrew his hand and found it gripping the looking-glass from the inn. He held it as though he were holding a rancid body part. It felt heavier than it should, like a bar of solid metal.

Oh my God, my God, what have I done?

There was only one way to explain the device’s presence in his pocket…

I put it there, without ever realizing it…

After all, he had been looking at it over the past few days. How would I do that and not remember it? Am I that oblivious? Indeed, it seemed that his id had overruled his conscious will and prompted him to steal the instrument. He didn’t have to wonder what for…

His hand shook as he held the looking-glass. I’m not crazy, he convinced himself. I KNOW I’m not crazy. I’m just a little wrung out, that’s all. I’m in a strange place where I don’t know anybody, and now I’m suffering from some delayed-stress thing… His chest felt tight when he raised his hand and stared at the looking-glass.

I WANT to scope some windows, but I’m NOT going to, he determined. What I’m going to do instead is go back to the inn and put this damn glass back in the damn display case.

He turned on his feet, then began to walk back down the grass-lined path which would lead him back to the inn. In twenty minutes I’ll be in my room, he thought, and this ridiculous looking-glass will be back where it belongs.

That’s when his will began to fade. He sensed himself continuing to walk, but was cognizant of nothing else. He heard his feet crunching gravel on the trails, and he sensed some aspect of excitement but he couldn’t grasp that aspect’s nature, save that it seemed very far away.

As the night-sounds of crickets gained dominion over his surroundings, a drone entered his head…

Next thing he knew, his heart was racing, and his right eye felt dry from being open so long. The most delicious images swirled in the back of his mind. No, Fanshawe had not returned to the hotel—

Instead, he’d gained a better vantage point for the intent he’d failed to admit to himself.

He was standing at the highest point of Witches Hill, spying on the town with the looking-glass. The drone in his head amplified. He could not turn away from what he was doing…

In the glass’s viewing circle, he scanned the Travelodge pool, which now wobbled extra-dimensionally blue with its underwater lights. Mostly children waded about but several attractive mothers accompanied them. Fanshawe found that a ring on the glass would zoom the image surprisingly close. Oh, God… One woman’s breasts filled the circle now, water droplets glittering in her cleavage. Through the wet bikini top’s baby-blue fabric, he could see the darkened plugs of her nipples. Fanshawe swerved the glass, to another unknowing mother climbing out of the water. The contrast of this one’s black bikini against the luxuriant white curves of flesh left him breathless. She turned, standing still to talk cheerily to someone in a lounge chair; Fanshawe exploited this as any competent voyeur would, and scanned her entire body from her neck to her toes.

He raised the looking-glass then, to the upper-level windows…

Time turned to a smear along with Fanshawe’s free will. He only vaguely noticed his watch beeping, signaling eleven p.m. From this point on, he floated on a squalid euphoria, as myriad images found their way into his famished psyche; it seemed as though the looking-glass itself were injecting the hot crush of glimpses deep into the substance of his brain, like marinade into the middle of a rump roast: shapely women in underwear or less striding across rooms; a melon-breasted college student stepping out of the shower; a man and woman having rowdy intercourse on their bedroom dresser-top, and a half-dozen more, all commingling into a single, inflamed kaleidoscope that existed solely to stoke Fanshawe’s idiosyncratic lust.

He couldn’t imagine how long he’d stood there sampling so many visual delicacies; time didn’t exist, only the most vivid, lascivious succession of images. When he’d exhausted the Travelodge windows of everything his eye could pilfer, the drone in his head swelled, and he moved the hoary spyglass to the Wraxall Inn.

Silence shrouded him. Had the incessant night-sounds ceased, or had his craving shut them out? Indeed, like last night’s dream, all he could hear were his own heated breaths and the quickened thuds of his heart.

And through the elaborate windows of the inn, Fanshawe’s smorgasbord marched on, a visual feast the likes of which he’d not experienced in over a year. People are naked a lot, his thoughts broke through his fever, when they don’t think anyone can see… He started at the top floor, then slowly moved the glass one window at a time from left to right. The window of the corner suite stood dark—of course, it was his own—but next to it a slightly overweight woman with robust curves and shining blond hair stood nude before her open closet, hunting for the desired nightgown. Eventually she turned, showing all that plush, soft flesh and the exorbitant substance of her bosom, just as Fanshawe zoomed in to scrutinize in every detail. Oh, Christ… On the next floor a window displayed a bed that was empty until a clearly excited male suitor approached with his nude girlfriend or wife—her feet wagging aloft as she silently giggled—dropped her into the middle of the bed, then slid briskly on top of her. The man’s mouth moved from one nipple to the other; evidently, he was biting, for the woman’s back arched, and she clenched, but the look on her tense face was one of pleasure, not discomfort. The man disappeared for a moment, only to return with handcuffs and a blindfold, but after applying these things to his lover, he turned off the lamp, leaving only ghostly television light. More pay-dirt, thought Fanshawe, for deeper along the floor, a shimmering sight slammed into his eye: a svelte woman, nude, on her belly with her legs wishboned. Her skin shined from an obvious application of oil, while another naked woman, just as shapely, straddled her and slowly massaged her back. Fanshawe’s hands shook when he crudely zoomed the glass close between both women’s legs. The motherlode, he thought.

When the sultry masseuse leaned for the bottle of oil, he caught the sides of her breasts, like a model in one of the classier men’s magazines, but he also saw enough of her face…

Harvard, he realized. And they’re about to…

—after a few moments, the masseuse hopped up, laughing, then quickly closed the curtains as if her partner had casually mentioned that it might be a good idea. How’s that for some bum luck? Fanshawe thought, frustrated and now painfully aroused; he grew light-headed when he considered what he’d be missing. But at least the pair of lovers seemed to have recovered from their gory shock on the trails.

Now his crude excitement left him disordered. I’m such a scumbag! he yelled at himself, but only continued to manipulate the glass. Through a careless curtain gap, he zoomed in a young brunette wearing only panties; she stood before a narrow, full-length mirror, and seemed to be grinning at what she saw: wide hips and a flat stomach; long, sleek legs; small breasts that swooped upward, topped by dense nipples. The woman’s grin deepened; next, she drew her hands up her abdomen, cupped her breasts, then began to vise each nipple between forefinger an thumb…

Fanshawe made an aggravated fist with his free hand, his self-disgust simmering. Scumbag… Pervert…

He moved the viewing circle past several dark windows on the second floor, then stopped when the last of them went alight. He held the glass fast, waiting, heart thudding. No movement revealed itself, yet Fanshawe seemed to sense that patience, as far as this window was concerned, would be well rewarded. The room appeared smaller than the others; he thought he detected heather-green carpet, then walls papered in flowery, neutral tones. In a split-second, then, a shape strode past. Fanshawe only made out jeans and a light top, but he knew it was a woman.

Patience, patience, he insisted.

The shape returned, and a hot breath suddenly seemed trapped in Fanshawe’s chest. Now the woman was bereft of jeans and top, and was skimming off her panties and bra. Of all the women he’d spied on tonight, this woman possessed the most exorbitant curves. But her back was to him. Was she getting something from a closet?

He couldn’t tell, and the lower angle blocked all detail of her from the shoulders up; he could only tell her hair was not blond but lighter than brunet.

It was then that she turned, offering a delectable side-glance. At once Fanshawe’s wooziness doubled. The woman’s breasts were heavy but high, her waist fatless. A tuft of butterscotch public hair showed. Next, she turned only a trifle, such that Fanshawe could see the large, dark circles of her nipples and the jutting papillae. He zoomed only to be astonished to near disbelief. These optics are incredible.

It was uncanny how closely the looking-glass could bear in on an image. Just then, the unknowing woman’s nipple nearly filled the viewing field. Every detail was there before his eye, the stark demarcation of the nipple’s rim against the white flesh of the breast, even the finest hair follicles, and even the papilla’s lactation ducts. It was akin to microscopy… But—

Was she about to lean over?

Fanshawe backtracked the zoom to bring the entire window back into frame.

Yeah… Contact lenses…

The woman was leaning slightly, finger on one hand widening her eyelids while those of her other hand slipped out the lenses. It was during this pose that Fanshawe received his most vivid shock of the night. The woman was absolutely voluptuous, and now he could see her face.

It was Abbie.

The sudden noise spun him abruptly around like someone caught by surprise on a barstool. He’d heard a dog growl.

He stood frozen, staring into the clearing. What he noticed first was the old rain barrel, but it almost looked as though it were shimmering. Some aspect of the moonlight seemed to over-substantiate details much in the same way as the looking-glass. Everything he saw—the high grasses and wild flowers, the small stones on the ground, and even the dirt’s grit—looked excessively crisp. As for the barrel, even from yards away he easily detected the pits and water-damage grooves of its body beneath its protective coat.

But as he might expect, there was no dog.

Not this shit again.

It hadn’t sounded as precise as when he’d heard it earlier that day—just before the scream. It only took a few moments for him to feel sure there was no dog, but remembering how Eldred Karswell’s body had been found didn’t afford much relief. What IS this? he wondered, close to being angered. I’m hearing growling dogs, for God’s sake. But there’d be other evidence of a dog in the vicinity, wouldn’t there? Panting, moving through the brush, etc.? There’d been none of that. I CAN’T be hearing things, can I? He could only hope that the sound had carried from far away, via some fluke he didn’t understand. When he was fully convinced that no dog was present, his lust took him back to previous activities.

Abbie…

He lined the glass right back up on her window, but—

Damn it!

It stood dark now.

Here, his id railed. Naked, she’d proved even more alluring that he’d imagined; her body had stunned him; the prospect of looking at her again filled him with an edgy thrill. But even before he’d seen that her window was now dark, the more decent side of his character groaned at him, How low can I get? I’m peeping on a woman I’ve got a date with! Some force tried to urge him to put the looking-glass away, but he never quite got to that point. I’m a scumbag peeping-tom loser… He noticed several other windows still lit, but as he would put the glass back to his eye—

The minuscule alarm on his Brietling watch began to beep, signaling midnight.

More self-scorn rained down on him. My God, it’s midnight already. I wasted the whole night up here. Looking in windows, eyeballing nude women behind their backs. What a piece of shit I am. When he considered Dr. Tilton’s reaction, he couldn’t have felt more crushed. He could almost see her ice-cold face hanging right there before him like a semi-palpable shadow, not frowning but simply blank, which was much worse.

He presumed to leave at once, his watch still beeping its electronic tolls. But then he was wincing, struggling against the beggardly temptation. Leave! Leave this hill right now and never come back! Only low-lifes do this, only perverts and dirt-bags! but even as this bleak truth socked home, his hand raised the looking-glass to his eye—

All right, damn it… This is it, just one more minute and then I go back to the hotel, and I will never do this again…

There were two odd things that he immediately recognized, but the order of the recognition reversed. In only that short period of time, all the remaining lit windows of the Wraxall Inn had gone out, almost as if they’d been extinguished simultaneously. A sweep of the glass showed him that the rest of the town, too, seemed much darker than before…

The toll of midnight drew on, but not via the electric beep of his watch…

It now sounded as a deep, sonorous bell.

I haven’t heard bells ringing here, have I? He felt certain, in fact, that the town’s church had no bell.

When he momentarily lowered the glass to think…the beep of his watch continued.

And the bell-peals disappeared.

What on earth?

He put the glass back to his eye, then felt a chill, for the peals somehow revitalized themselves. Each toll, though heavy, deep, sounded oddly brittle as well, the way bells sometimes sounded on still, hot nights.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Then silence. His attention, splayed as it may have been, switched back to the visual: the town.

His mouth fell open.

What he saw now was impossible, yet he saw it just the same…

The town was different.

Haver-Towne not only appeared darker in the sheen of moonlight, it appeared smaller. A power failure? he considered. A brownout? But no, half the buildings on Back Street weren’t there, and those that were did not coincide with his memory. And were there no street lights burning at all now? He zoomed and squinted, then with an incredulous realization saw that there were no street lamps. And the light in the few windows that remained lit shone duller, less intense, and somehow flickering, like…

Like candles, he realized.

Looking again to the inn, he scrutinized the walls, the gables, and the roof. This is crazy… The once-clean white walls looked streaked now, shoddy, as if whitewashed or painted with inferior product. Flaws, splits, and cracks were apparent in the wall-slats, and on the roof…

The shingles were definitely not the same as they had been.

Fanshawe squeezed his viewing eye shut, rubbed it, then shook his head as if to dislodge some cerebral misfire. I’m tired, I’m burned out, he forced the idea. And I’m pissed off at myself for relapsing. Certainly the stress of such things combined could urge eyes to play tricks on their owner, that and the crisp blocked out shadows that the bright moonlight generated about the town.

He took a heavy breath. I’ll look again and everything will be normal—

He looked again.

Fanshawe’s heart seemed to squeal, like some small, agitated animal in a trap. The town did not look normal.

Impossible…

Haver-Towne looked corroded now. As Fanshawe stared, he let his eyes adjust, then could’ve sworn that Main Street was no longer paved, and in it a lone figure walked slowly, hesitantly, holding what had to have been a candle-lantern. Fanshawe trembled in place, then homed the looking-glass again on the Wraxall Inn.

Abbie’s window hung dark now, but then some peripheral light elsewhere urged his instincts to raise the glass, to the top floor. Another window was indeed alight when it hadn’t been a moment ago. The bow window on the end…

That’s not…MY room, is it? No, no, that’s impossible. He was sure he hadn’t left the lights on. Why would he? Next, Fanshawe froze.

A part in the curtains formed a wide cleft of light in the window; Fanshawe was sure that these curtains were darker and more ragged than the curtains he knew the room to have. And it was candlelight—he was sure—that wanly filled the cleft.

Suddenly the back of a naked woman appeared in the window—his window. He focused closer and thought that her hair was a shimmering deep red. When she turned, he felt a jolt. The woman’s large, bare breasts jutted—more voyeur’s pay-dirt—but he scarcely paid the image mind, for there was something else much more paramount that he’d noticed first.

The woman was pregnant, very pregnant, undoubtedly close to term.

Her great, white belly stretched out pinprick tight, the navel inverted like a button of flesh. Was she talking to someone in the room? Her movements indicated an anxious expectation, though Fanshawe couldn’t imagine why he believed this. Moreover, he couldn’t believe any of what he was seeing.

How could he?

I must be dreaming, he tried to convince himself. Though nothing of the past few minutes seemed at all like a dream. The looking-glass’s eyepiece felt connected to him now. As he continued to stare into the window that could only be his, the pregnant woman began to crudely caress herself, and then—

The window turned pitch dark, like a candle being blown out.

Fanshawe lowered the glass; he was too afraid to look anymore. What he’d seen, or thought he’d seen, made his mind feel like it was shredding. He shoved the looking-glass back into his pocket and stalked away down the path.

I think there’s something seriously wrong with me…

(IV)

His eyes felt peeled open when he returned to town. Both Back and Main Streets stretched out charming and quaint as always. Only a few passersby were about, evidently on their way to or from the tavern, or one of the late-night cafes. What bothered Fanshawe most was the vibrancy of the street lamps—

Street lamps that weren’t there a little while ago. But his unease toned down in a moment. He was a logical man, so there had to be a logical explanation.

Unsure steps took him back into the hotel. He crossed the near empty atrium, thought of putting the looking-glass back into the display case—though he still didn’t remember ever taking it out—but changed his mind when a pair of professors loped drunkenly out of the pub. I’ll put it back tomorrow, he resolved, and I better make damn sure no one sees me. A quick glance into the pub showed him Mr. Baxter, not Abbie, idly tending the bar, but then he remembered seeing her: undressing, getting ready for bed. Yep, I’m a scumbag, all right—peeping on a girl I’ve got a DATE with tomorrow… He thought of stopping in to say hello but realized that conversation was the last thing he desired just now.

What the hell was I seeing back there?

He hastened for the elevator, hoping Baxter hadn’t noticed him. What a day. A dead body and now…this… He couldn’t have gotten to his room faster; the hall’s muffled silence seemed to chase him inside like a pursuer.

The pursuer, he knew, was guilt.

Not too long ago, he’d been spying on some women on this very floor.

He locked the door behind him, then sat on the high bed with a nervy sigh. Only now did a flattened sensation at his groin tell him that he’d masturbated on the hill. Disgust drew lines in his face. Probably while looking at Abbie. What a sick slob. Ordinarily his mind would be swimming in all those delectable images, but now his anguish sabotaged them. Other images struck him now, images not of Abbie or the other women he’d seen, but images of the town.

Fanshawe took out the looking-glass, noting again how heavy it felt for such a small object. Acid trickled in his stomach.

Images of the town. The town…changed…

Yes, just after he’d spied Abbie naked in her room, her abundant breasts so apparent as she removed her contacts, his eyes showed him that the town had indeed changed. And it had seemed to change at the precise stroke of midnight—

From a bell that doesn’t exist.

He dropped the glass on the bed like something that nauseated him.

Ridiculous. He shook his head, then put his brow into his hand. I’m not cracking up, am I? Now his watch—not a distant bell—beeped once.

Just go to bed…

He began to undress but found his eyes oddly lured upward, toward the ceiling. The trapdoor, he thought, staring at it. In a moment he was standing on the bed— feeling ludicrous in his boxer shorts and Gaultier shirt—reaching up. He pushed on the board, slid it off, then stood on tiptoes and patted his hand around just inside the egress. There, he thought, feeling something. He pulled it out: a rope ladder.

Why am I doing this? the question drifted but it never solidified. He hopped off the bed, slipped a penlight in his shirt pocket, then grabbed the unstable rungs, ignoring the rope’s sheer age. Carefully but with determination he couldn’t fathom, he climbed up. Eventually he was standing stooped in a long narrow wood-scented chamber. There were no dormer windows or vents—nothing to offer light or air; in seconds he was shedding sweat. He aimed the penlight around, finding nothing of interest, just several boxes—reading in Magic Marker XMAS DECORATIONS—and piles of what appeared to be old drapes. Dust lay an inch thick on the floor but his light showed him the footprints of someone else. They appeared very new.

Had someone been up here recently? Probably Mr. Baxter, putting the decorations away after Christmas.

But Fanshawe couldn’t figure why he’d come up here. What did he expect to find? I’m just getting nuttier and nuttier, I guess. Still, he walked down the narrow space, fanning his light. Tree sap—more than likely cooked out of the rafters and wood slats from hundreds of years of hot summers—hardened like tinted glue everywhere he looked. When he made it to the chamber’s end, he stopped, sniffed. He wasn’t sure but he thought he smelled—

Old cigar smoke?

But the fetid odor was gone just as he thought he’d detected it.

Enough Nosy Parkering for me. He climbed back down and replaced the trapdoor, shaking his head at himself. Snooping in other people’s business wasn’t like him, but then he laughed and frowned at the same time when he realized the outrage of that impression.

I’m a voyeur, a peeper. I’m the worst kind of snoop.

He went to bed, baffled by his actions. But at least the trip into the attic, if only temporarily, had freed his mind of the impossibilities he’d glimpsed—or thought he’d glimpsed—on the hill.

Some time later, he was sinking into sleep—sinking, as if in a trench of slime. He twitched under the sheets; the darkness clotted around him.

He dreamed…

««—»»

A bright window comes into focus through a familiar binocular frame. A beautiful woman is undressing, in seeming slowness, but once she’s nude, she turns toward the window, showing all—

Behind him a voice trumpets: “Freeze! Police!”

Fanshawe is slammed against the alley wall, his cheek rubbing bricks. Snap! Snap! and next his wrists have been handcuffed behind his back. “How do you like that shit? A peeper…” Red and blue lights pulse blob-like within the alley.

Next, Fanshawe sweats on the pay phone in the booking section of the chaotic police station. “Artie, it’s me. I’m in big trouble. Call the lawyers and get me bailed out…,” and then he tells his confidante what he’s been arrested for, his voice tinted by shame. Artie’s initial reaction is only a guttural silence, as though he were choking on the information—

Next, Fanshawe stands haggard in the foyer of his luxury brownstone, his shirttail out, his hair mussed. A Tiffany clock on the mantle chimes three a.m. as Fanshawe’s silk night-gowned wife stares with a look that’s half-outrage and half stupefaction.

“You-you…were arrested for what?”

“I—”

Next, she’s haphazardly dressed in the spacious bedroom, her head a blond blur as she maniacally crams clothes and toiletries into a suitcase. When she slams the case closed, tears fly off her face.

“Laurel, please,” he croaks. “Let me ex—” but the words die as if his lungs have collapsed.

“You think you know someone,” comes her shrill sob, “you think they love you so you give your life to him, and then you find out he’s a pervert!”

“Honey, I’m sorry, I—”

“You’re sick!” she shrieks.

He pleads now not to her but into his hands. “I’ll get help, I go to a counselor—I don’t know how to explain this to you because I don’t even understand it myself—”

Laurel’s face has contorted into a pink mask stamped by every conceivable negative emotion. “Explain what? That you’re a pervert? That you’re a common criminal who gets his jollies looking at women in windows?” but then the rictus deepens with a worse thought. “They were women, weren’t they?” She is teetering in place. “Or were they really children?”

Fanshawe feels flattened, like the ceiling has just collapsed on him. “No, no, I swear, it wasn’t anything like that.”

Laurel spins round, grabs her purse and keys, then the suitcase. She doesn’t believe him. “Don’t ever speak to me again. Do you have any idea how much this hurts?”

Fanshawe sobs himself now. “Please don’t leave. I love you. I swear, I’ll never do it again. I-I…I just have this problem…”

“You’re sick! And that’s what you make me: sick! I want a divorce!”

The whole room concusses when she flies out and slams the door. Their wedding picture on the wall falls down and shatters.

Now Fanshawe sits on the couch in Dr. Tilton’s sterile office, and looking at him from behind the big desk is Dr. Tilton’s sterile face. “—a sickness, Mr. Fanshawe, a chronic paraphilic fixation that has reached a transitive state. This isn’t simple voyeurism, it’s an extremity of late-stage obsessive disorders such as Scoptolagnia and Parascopily…”

He feels as lost as one sitting in an electric chair. When he rubs his face, he feels sand-papery stubble. “What’s wrong with me?” he drones.

“You’re ill,” she snaps back. “You need treatment. Otherwise you’ll never be able to function normally in public… All your money and lawyers may keep you out of jail, but you’ll always be a pervert in society’s eyes—always, unless you stop right this instant…”

“I will!” he pants, “I will!”

The doctor’s elegantly manicured finger raises up to touch her chin. “But I’d like to ask you something rather pertinent, as—and don’t be offended by this—most patients suffering from such anti-social habituations as this generally lie to their psychiatrists initially, but…are you being honest with me when you say that it was a woman you were spying on?”

Fanshawe glares.

“Not a child? Not an adolescent?”

“No, no, no!” he yells and wishes just then that he could crush his own head in his hands—

««—»»

—and that was when the clot-like darkness seemed to force its way down his throat, almost like someone’s hand, and when Fanshawe began to gag, he sprang awake.

Jesus…

Sweat sopped him like glue, drenching even the sheets beneath him. His open eyes jiggled in shock. Another nightmare, he thought; he grimaced when he dragged his forearm across his brow to wipe off the chill sweat. The final dream-fragment stuck in his head like a shard: Dr. Tilton’s stony face as she so wanted to imply that it might be children he’d been scoping all these years. The notion made him sick—sicker than he generally was of himself. It made him hate her.

The moonlight streaming in seemed lightened now, pale. Dawn was not far off. He sat for several minutes to catch the breath that the dream had robbed him of. It was with a determined force that he struggled not to think back to what he thought he’d seen on the hill, but the harder he pressed that force, the more the images leaked in. Not the sultry joggers nude in their room, and not even Abbie and her stunning physique—it was the other images, those that arrived later: the corroded town, the wild forest surrounding it—a forest that was not there now—the lampless streets, unpaved, not black-topped or brick-lined; the handful of windows dimly lit by candles, not electric bulbs. It’s almost like I was seeing the town as it looked hundreds of years ago… Then the final marauding image: the nude woman, red-haired, standing heavy-breasted and pregnant as if to burst…

“For God’s sake,” he muttered. He must have dreamed all that, and just gotten confused. Yeah… The pregnant woman must surely be a product of his dreaming mind—some oblique reference, no doubt, to Evanore Wraxall, a witch kept pregnant by her own father.

He jerked around in bed, close to yelling, when he suddenly heard—

That damn dog again!

Enraged, he leapt up. Yes, he was sure he heard a dog barking, not too distant but not too close, either. It didn’t come from within the hotel.

Outside.

He rushed to the sitting room which faced the street. What the HELL is this? Now Fanshawe was not as bewildered as he was mad. He’d heard a dog several times during his stay but had seen not a single one. He threw back the drapes, glared down into the street…

The street stood still in the vestiges of nighttime. No people, no movement or traffic of any kind.

No dog…

He could tell dawn was fast approaching. It seemed impossible that the night had already passed—the dream had seemed to last for hours. But perhaps, still groggy, he’d been disoriented, and had misplaced the location of the dog’s barks. Behind the hotel, he thought and hurried back to his bedroom. He grabbed the looking-glass and immediately pointed it into the rear parking lot—

Fanshawe’s throat seemed to shrivel in on itself.

There was no dog.

There was no parking lot, either.

But, beyond, he could see the hillocks which formed the natural pedestal for Witches Hill. The hillocks looked different: wilder, overgrown, more heavily treed, and he could detect only one trail, not the webwork he was used to. Then…

Movement.

He stared into the looking-glass, more acid dumping into his stomach. He could see several people stalking up Witches Hill in the distance, and one of those people was walking a large black dog that barked viciously.

No…

He lowered the glass; he was shaking. He could hear the animal’s continued barks but now his head was filled with that same disorienting drone that had overcome him earlier. Thoughtless, he stumbled back into the sitting room, and re-aimed the glass through the window and out into the street.

He heard a moan, and he saw…

The looking-glass was zoomed in, as though it had adjusted itself. He knew this—like everything else—was impossible, but now he was looking at an abrupt close-up image, that of a woman in the shabbiest clothes locked by wrists and neck into the authentic pillory out front. Filthy hair hung down in strings; she’d been egged, for Fanshawe could easily detect the presence of eggshells stuck to her hair, while more shells and apparently rotten fruit lay on the street. Several men in the strangest attire lingered behind the woman. “Be quick about it!” shot one man’s hot whisper, for another seemed to be crudely fornicating with the woman from behind; his face, like his cohorts, was kept blacked out from the shadows of oddly shaped hats. Now Fanshawe could hear the woman’s sobs as she hitched in the cruel wooden brace. Still another man said “‘Tis no transgression to defile a strumpet whose very life defiles our Savior,” and another, “May we stay in the favor of the Lord thy God when we acteth out against His adversaries.” “Offenses against the offender bespeaks a blessing.” They both came around the front and began to expectorate on the woman’s head; then they began to urinate on her. Fanshawe made this out very clearly, even with the men standing with their backs to him. It was the looking-glass, demonstrating the most precise clarity; Fanshawe could see the streams of urine. Then, only to intensify the foulness of what took place, the pair of men stepped closer to the woman. Fanshawe didn’t have to speculate that they were masturbating on her.

Eventually the group sulked away, leaving the abused woman drenched and hitching in her misery.

Immediately, Fanshawe thought, Rape. Strange talk or not, some transients must have abducted the woman, put her in the antique pillory, and raped her. Fanshawe pulled on his robe, grabbed his key, and dashed out of the room.

Barefoot, hair sticking up, he took the elevator downstairs, burst through the atrium, and ran out the inn’s front door.

I should’ve known…

Before he’d even gotten halfway to the pillory, he saw plainly that it was unoccupied. No spit, fruit, eggshells, or other debris was in evidence. The pillory and the street beneath it was clean.

— | — | —

CHAPTER SIX

(I)

In the blaze of noonday sun, Fanshawe looked both ways up and down Main Street, and when satisfied that no one stood within earshot, he sat down on a bench and hunted for the number on his cellphone. Out of the corner of one eye, however, he saw the town church. There was clean white steeple but—

No bell in it, he re-verified.

He’d thought he heard a church bell last night.

Hmm. He let the idea slide by, hoped it would leave his head.

But it didn’t.

Earlier, just after daybreak, he’d slept off and on in his room’s lounge chair, but awoke around ten feeling even less rested. His mind raced.

Then he showered, dressed, and let his daze take him out to the town square. Being in public made him feel safer from his own thoughts—

And his fears of what he might see.

His hand shook holding the phone. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Tilton, please. My name is Stewart Fanshawe; I’m a patient of hers—”

A receptionist told him in crisp monotone that Dr. Tilton was not available.

“I need an emergency phone consultation,” his voice rose, desperate. “You have my credit card number in my file—I’ll pay whatever you want, but, please, get me Dr. Tilton. I need help.”

“One moment, please,” and then music drifted over the line.

Fanshawe waited, hunched over on the bench with his foot tapping. Minutes seemed to tick by; his paranoia made him think they were doing it on purpose. Eventually the line clicked, and Dr. Tilton’s voice came on.

“Hello, Mr. Fanshawe—I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was tending to a chronic patient in need—a unipolar depressive suffering from delusions of morbidity and suicidal ideations—”

Fanshawe ground his teeth. Was she trying to make him feel guilty for bothering her. I don’t care who you’re tending to—I’m paying more. Before he could speak, she added, “I’m very much hoping that you’ve successfully removed yourself from the—”

“—from the purveying environment, yes, I have. I’m in some out of the way town in New Hampshire, a tourist spot, and-and…”

Her voice sounded dry. “Yes?”

Fanshawe’s nervousness rose up in a sudden wave. “I…had a relapse, I— Shit!”

“That’s astonishing, Mr. Fanshawe, and quite disappointing especially considering how well your out-patient therapy has gone thus far. Don’t tell me you actually purchased a pair of binoculars…”

“No! I didn’t, but then—my God—I found a pair, here. It was in this display—”

“Display? What are you talking about?”

Fanshawe could only release what seemed a string of ordered babble. “This town, it’s…kind of odd. There’s this Colonial theme or something, and a bunch of witchcraft stuff, you know, for tourists like in Salem.”

Somehow the image of the woman’s stern expression slipped through with her words. “Mr. Fanshawe. What does witchcraft have to do with your problem? Not only were you supposed to remove yourself from the purveying environment, you were supposed to banish any implements—such as binoculars—from your proximity.”

A lump appeared in his throat. “I-I found them in this display full of old relics, and-and…I borrowed them…”

“You stole them?”

“I-I—” He winced and ran a hand through his hair. “I—yes, I guess I did, but, I swear, it wasn’t conscious, I don’t remember doing it. I felt like I was in some sort of trance, and next thing I knew it was in my pocket.”

Tilton’s voice sharpened. “It’s called an appositive fugue-state, Mr. Fanshawe, which is a result of undue stress factors as well as other more nebulous things. This led you to drop your conscious guard. Seeking out the implements of purveyance is no better than willingly putting yourself into a purveying environment. We’ve discussed this.”

He looked up, glimpsed some attractive women crossing the street, then grit his teeth. “I know, I know. I just…lost control. I couldn’t help it.”

“That’s a loser’s excuse. Addiction therapy only goes so far. There must come a time when the patient must harness his own free will if he truly wants to reclaim his life. You will return the binoculars immediately—”

“Actually, they’re not binoculars—it’s a looking-glass, like, er, a ship’s glass, I guess you’d call it. One lens, like a miniature telescope. It’s very old, and—”

“Don’t circumvent the subject, Mr. Fanshawe; it won’t lessen my extreme disappointment in any way. The exact nature of your object of purveyance means nothing. You will resist the impulse to solicit your paraphilic symptoms. You must make this effort, Mr. Fanshawe, and you must make it now.”

“I will, I swear.” He felt ludicrous, pathetic. “I just…needed someone to talk to. Christ, it’s not like I can talk to just anyone about-about…this.”

“I should think not. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for this mishap. It’s all up to you. If you fail, there’s only one suitable recourse left: chemical intervention.”

Fanshawe gulped.

“You’ve already been caught once,” the doctor reminded, “and I’m sure that was an experience you’d just as soon not repeat. You’re like a gambling addict, Mr. Fanshawe. Some irregular synapses in your brain have habituated you to whatever thrill it is you get from looking into innocent women’s windows…”

“You would put it that way.”

“At this point, the only thing besides drugs that can potentially correct this synaptic anomaly is the positive reinforcement of learned behavior. You must relearn your mental health by making a concerted commitment via your free will. I’d think it would be rather easy for someone like you.”

Suddenly he felt steaming in angst. “Someone like me? You mean a pervert, I guess, huh? A peeper?”

Tilton laughed, a rarity for her. “Goodness, no! Someone like you: a good man, an attractive man, not to mention a very successful man. Most patients with your problem have nothing going for them, but you? You have everything.”

“Gee, I guess that’s a compliment—”

“Not much of one, Mr. Fanshawe. The best way to relearn your normalcy is to do what normal people do. But if you’re unwilling to pursue this avenue, I think it would be in the best interest of both of us for you to find another therapist.”

“I’m filled to the brim with confidence, doctor.”

“You need to be, otherwise, you’ll probably wind up back in jail, and how much confidence can you expect to have there?” She paused, perhaps deliberately. “Is there anything else, Mr. Fanshawe?”

He cringed where he sat, struggling with a thought. “Well, yes, uh, a question. Do people with my problem—”

“Chronic paraphilia? Scoptolagnia?”

He frowned. “Yeah. Do they ever have…you know, hallucinations?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

Suddenly, no force on earth could make him tell her what he thought he’d seen last night. He was afraid of her reaction. “Well…it’s nothing. I just had a bad dream last night, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Fanshawe, but that’s neither here nor there. When you’re ready to tell me whatever else it is that’s bothering you, then call my office.” Another pause. “Mr. Fanshawe? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I’ll…I’ll call.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Fanshawe.”

“Yes. Uh, bye.”

Fanshawe put his cell phone away, his face pulled into a fierce smirk. “Fucking behaviorist. Why do I continue to pay to be insulted by that woman?”

But moments later, as he began to stroll the quiet street, he did feel better. Around one corner, he spotted the Travelodge pool but winced and turned away.

He sputtered. Dr. Tilton had said he was a “good man.” He didn’t feel like a bad one but… Would a “good man” want to look in windows? Would a good man do what I did last night on the hill? Maybe I just think I’m a good man—a defense mechanism—but I’m really a bad man…

His hand drifted to his jacket pocket, and felt that the looking glass was still there. Shit…

Good man or bad, he couldn’t lie to himself. He wished he could flee to the hillocks right now and peep at all those tempting bodies at the pool; and stare, stare, stare into all those windows.

Hunk of shit. Just when he’d started feeling better, here came these waves of contemplations, to bring him right back down again…

And next?

He passed the pillory.

He smiled falsely at a middle-aged couple, waited for them to move along, then bent to inspect the ancient punitory device. There was nothing there, on the wood or the pavement below, to indicate that the device had been sullied or occupied in any way. An elderly man walked by with a cane, perhaps one of the professors. “God, that thing makes me sick to my stomach. They say it’s real, been here hundreds of years. God knows how many men and women were tortured in it.”

Off guard, Fanshawe stood up straight. “Yes. I guess the good old days weren’t that good.”

“Disgusting to think the authorities back then put people in that blasted contraption. It’s evil if you ask me.”

Well, I didn’t. Fanshawe was annoyed. “Yes,” he faltered. “Things must’ve been pretty hard back then, and hard measures were the result,” but he wished the old man would go away. Believe it or not, mister, I saw a woman get raped in this thing just a few hours ago, by men in Colonial clothes. He could imagine the elder’s reaction.

The gentleman uttered a few more gripes, then ticked away on his cane.

An ACLU supporter, I guess. Fanshawe stared back at the pillory, and also recalled all he’d thought he’d seen through the looking-glass. It was all just a bad dream. It HAS to be…

“Eyin’ the ole pillory, are ya, sir?” piped up Mrs. Anstruther’s cockney voice. She’d just turned the corner, on her way to her kiosk.

Damn. “Yes, ma’am. It’s…something, all right.”

“Somethin’, indeed. Would ya fancy a picture?”

“Pardon me?”

“What I mean, sir, is I’d be pleased to take a photo of ya in it.”

Fanshawe’s brow ruffled. “What, the pillory?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” and then she lifted the pillory’s top slat. “Quite a few tourists ’ave their pictures took in it. Makes for good conversation, don’t ya think, sir?”

Fanshawe figured she was angling for a tip—today, he wasn’t in the mood. But it would almost be funny if he did have his picture taken in the archaic device. I could send it to Dr. Tilton. “I don’t think so, Mrs. Anstruther, but thanks for the offer.”

She looked at the pillory as if with fascinated interest. “Perfect punishment these buggers was, sir, for folks who was tarnished, as you might say. Steal a gobbet’a meat from the butcher’s? Well in ya go for a day at least. And ladies caught sellin’ thereselfs”—now she whistled—“well, now, those poor things could get up to a week, and with just bread’n water, sir. And blokes got even more’n that for rabble-rousin’ on a Sunday or cheatin’ on their proper wife or sayin’ untruths to the Sheriff. Late on your land rent? In ya go! Why, they’d put a fella in this here pillory for long as they saw fit, even for takin’ a peek in a bird’s window!”

The last bit of information fogged Fanshawe’s mind.

“Anyways, sir, I must be off to me work, but I hope your day’s a jolly one!” She made to leave, but her frail formed paused. She lowered her voice. “And if you’re in want of exercise today, sir, you might be wise ta stay off’a them trails you’ve grown so fond of amblin’ on. Don’t know if ya’ve ’eard, but”—she leaned over—“there been some dirty-work, I’m afraid. Some poor man was murdered on them trails, he was, just yesterday, sir—a man who was stayin’ in your hotel.”

Karswell, Fanshawe thought. Not just my hotel, but my ROOM. He could have done without the reminder. “Yes, I did hear, ma’am,” he said, avoiding the rest. “What a terrible tragedy.”

“Oh, yes, sir, to be sure. So you’re best to keep your distance”—a thought seemed to perk up her tone—“and if you got your steel up, sir, you know you can anyways have a go at the waxworks,” and then she walked off with a smile.

There she goes again. She seemed to be daring him to investigate the wax museum. Why?

The deadpan stares of the Revolutionary mannequins seemed directed specifically at Fanshawe. A short line of tourists waited at the ticket booth. Maybe it’s pretty good, he considered. It might get my mind off all this bullshit. He got in line, paid for his ticket, then cool darkness invited him to enter a faux-stone hallway with an arched ceiling.

Other patrons with their children appeared to be enthralled by the staged displays of old-time figures: smiling women in sack dresses working spinning-wheels and washboards; motionless toddlers playing with hand-crafted toys; an old crone bent over a hearth oven. One corpulent dummy in tri-cornered hat and buttoned vest displayed a starred badge over his heart. He held a roll of paper, and had a flintlock pistol on his hip. SHERIFF PATTEN read a plaque. The sculptor proved his or her skills by incorporating an all-too-realistic bad complexion on the officer, and a nose like a rotten strawberry. They probably didn’t have Stridex back then, Fanshawe thought and moved to the next stage.

He found the exhibits to be very competent but far less interesting than the slow-moving lines of other patrons seemed to believe. Several varieties of soldiers, clerics, farmers, and wood-workers came next. But Fanshawe’s stiff lack of interest suddenly left him feeling—

Anxious?

Why should he feel like that?

Next, like a carnival horror-house, a short corridor festooned by rubber cobwebs drew him into what could only be—

Ah, the torture chamber…

First, a sign said NO CHILDREN, PLEASE, and all at once—and for some reason he couldn’t guess—Fanshawe’s boredom was transmuted into a dusky thrill. Abbie had said this particular exhibit had given her nightmares; now Fanshawe understood why. The rictus of a slatternly woman in an iron maiden couldn’t have been more realistic, while the expression of the rustic man chained into a chair with a wood fire under the grilled seat made Fanshawe’s innards clench. Several cloaked witches stood in a circle listening to a grim, hooded figure who read from parchment, a pentagram about his neck. Fanshawe felt a chill when he looked closer at the figure’s face and saw that the artisan had blended into the features of a human face some characteristics of a skull. Did the eyes of the witches themselves glow with the faintest traces of scarlet light? Next, a woman in a bustle-dress cringed as inquisitors stretched her on a metal rack; her mouth locked open in a silent scream. A man shackled to a brick wall projected a look of perfect horror as he was approached by a stooped witch-finder bearing an iron rod with its end red-hot. A proverbial shirtless man with considerable muscles grinned as he held a great curve-bladed ax above a headsman’s block; the victim with his neck on the block seemed to have tears in his eyes.

Fanshawe was unnerved by the grueling authenticity of the figures, but what actually stopped him in his tracks was the next presentation: a blond woman hung off a whipping post, her face in absolute turmoil. Her dress-top had been ripped open to reveal her bare back, while the torn material strategically hung to block the sight of her breasts. The voyeur in Fanshawe tempted him to reach over the velvet ropes that bordered the display, to see how detailed her breasts had been rendered, but, of course, he didn’t. Even if he was alone in this section, there might be a security camera; he could picture himself on some World’s Dumbest Criminals show.

Pervert, the thought hissed. When I’m not spying on women in windows, I’m spying of wax dummies. Get a life.

However, the blond victim’s oppressor—a staunch-faced man wearing a buttoned vest and a cross round his neck—stood poised as he lay a cat of nine tails across her back, the lengths of the whip actually frozen in mid-air. Fanshawe blanched at the streaks of bloody scars lain into her flesh.

Good Lord, this is some realistic stuff.

Suddenly he was itching to move on even though the tour of the chamber seemed to be complete. The several patrons who milled about with him seemed visibly shocked by the displays, as if they’d seen enough, but they turned into the next fake-brick-walled corridor. They all stopped at the final exhibit.

There they are, just like Mrs. Anstruther promised…

Two figures that looked very much alive stood arrogantly in a cove made to represent an occultist’s hideout. Ancient books lined several old shelves; a row of skulls adorned the top. An astrological chart hung on one wall, with another chart full of circles and symbols like Hebrew and others that must’ve been Latin. These characters immediately made him think of the strange pedestalled ball off the trails.

Then his gaze locked ahead.

A disturbingly realistic likeness of Jacob Wraxall seemed to contemplate Fanshawe and the others, with green eyes full of amused mockery. He wore black knee stockings, buckled shoes, and a ruffled tailcoat: an aristocrat of the late-1600s. The wax-worker had even hung a similar sickle-moon pendant around the warlock’s neck, and in his hand he held an ancient book.

Fanshawe stared. The Van Dyked patriarch seemed alive enough to lean back and laugh.

“Oh, that’s the guy who built the original inn,” a man remarked to his wife. “How’d you like to pull back the shower curtain tonight and find him standing there?”

“Oh, stop it, Charlie!” his spouse replied, gripping his arm. “Let’s get out of here. The woman is even ghastlier!”

The woman—yes. Evanore.

The likeness of Wraxall’s daughter wore—instead of the fineries of the day—a dark hood and cloak, which would’ve been trite had it not been for the look on the dummy’s face. It was a look of enchanted hatred and hideous knowledge. The more Fanshawe stared back at the replica the more significantly the drone refilled his head, like a faint, inanimate groan. Had his jaw dropped at the three-dimensional image? The waxen mannequin looked so real he thought sure that its flesh would yield if he touched it.

Another couple stepped up; they seemed intrigued. “They look so real!” exclaimed the wife, marveling at Wraxall’s pompous replica, but it was the dummy of Evanore that hijacked her husband’s attention. “Yeah, too real,” he remarked. “They’re people in costumes”—he shot out his hands without warning toward Evanore, to startle the person he presumed was masquerading as her, but the figure did not move or even blink. Aside, his wife frowned; she could see him glancing more than incidentally at the dummy’s thrusting bosom. His brows rose, then he smiled and elbowed this wife, lowering his voice. “Hey, do you think they put nipples on her?”

“Come on!” the wife yelled and dragged him out.

Their exit left Fanshawe alone.

He could’ve been standing on the edge of a cliff as he evaluated the figures. Beneath each, information plaques were mounted, citing data similar to what he’d read on Witches Hill. He felt foolish when he focused his glance on Evanore’s bosom, but the man’s comment had piqued him. I guess he’s a pervert, like me. But it did appear that the life-like dummy had been fashioned with nipples; he thought he could see them jutting against the crude cloak fabric.

Suddenly, Fanshawe’s hand itched. He wanted to reach out, pull the cloak’s V at the neck, and peek down…

For God’s sake, I’m not really going to…

PLEASE DON’T TOUCH THE REPLICAS, the sign blared at him.

But no one was in the chamber with him, and he didn’t hear anyone behind him. What the HELL am I thinking? No cameras could be detected, either. I must be going off the deep end…

Was he really going to touch the mannequin and examine its breast? Was he really going to molest a wax dummy?

But he’d already raised his hand, had already begun to reach out…

No!

He squeezed his eyes closed, ground his teeth, but just as he would propel his hand forward to touch the replica’s breast, he forced himself to freeze. Disgusted, he struggled through the drone, was about to turn and leave but—

Now it was his heart that froze.

His eyes remained closed when he felt a warm hand grasp his wrist. It squeezed.

He heard words then, in a woman’s voice…

“I’m most elated to avail myself to you, sir. I know you espied me last even, with Father’s looking-glass…”

Fanshawe couldn’t move, couldn’t open his eyes.

“Look for me again, any time thou art inclined,” the voice issued on, only now it was edgy with excitement. “After midnight, sir—”

Then a chuckle resounded, the chuckle of an older man, then words like gravel grinding, “Ascend, if thou dost have the heart, and—ay—partake in the bounty that ye hast earned.”

WHAT? Fanshawe thought through the madness.

“—and, sir? Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle—”

Fanshawe tore away from the display; the fingers clasping his wrist slipped off. He deliberately kept his eyes closed through the motion and only opened them when he was safely turned away. The bridle? What the HELL? He dashed for the dim corridor that would lead him out. The drone still pounded in his head; he could barely even think the most basic thoughts. He took several long strides toward the exit sign, but it seemed an effort against his will when he stopped, turned around, and then began to walk back…

Don’t do it…

He returned to the exit and found his fingers wrapped around the doorway that led back to the stage. No sounds could be heard from within, no…chuckles, no voices. In grueling slowness then, he inched his face toward the doorway’s edge, paused to moan, and peeked back inside.

The grotesque forms of Jacob and Evanore Wraxall were both smiling now, smiling directly at him.

(II)

What am I SUPPOSED to think? he wondered, sitting crouched at an end table of a fussy café. De La Gardie’s, the place was called. All the outdoor tables were filled—with patrons a bit too chatty for his liking—except for this minuscule table on the end. He didn’t like being so close to the sidewalk, for those strolling by passed right next to him. One woman—a bit too heavy for the body suit she wore—waltzed by with a small poodle; the hyperactive dog yelped repeatedly at Fanshawe. Was it his imagination or did the woman grimace at him? Fat rolls jiggled when she tugged the dog away without a word, her chin up. Take that mutt to the pound where it belongs, he thought, and take yourself with it.

Last night and this morning’s visions haunted him, and now this business at the museum. When he could think again, his head was throbbing. No doubt about it now, I’m having hallucinations.

He could conceive of no other explanation. The cellphone in his hand could’ve been a talisman; he turned it over repeatedly in his palm. Instinct urged him to call Dr. Tilton immediately, but—

His shoulders slumped at the table. What would I tell her, for God’s sake? I was about to feel up a dummy in a fucking wax museum but it grabbed me and started talking?

He put the phone away.

Relearn my normalcy, relearn my normalcy, the words kept circling in his brain. Tilton had seemed assured that this would soon happen…so why hadn’t it? I’m out of control—it’s even worse than in New York…

Why was this happening now, and here?

Because I HAVEN’T relearned my normalcy. He patted his jacket pocket, felt the narrow bulge of the glass. Was the presence of the glass—a symbol of his sickness—the impediment?

How the hell would I know? The six-dollar coffee tasted like nothing, and that’s what he felt like just then: nothing.

Incognizant, he stared at a bric-a-brac shop across the street, but all he saw were thoughts that seemed pathetic. All too often, Tilton’s words kept slipping back as if to mock him. The best way to relearn your normalcy, she’d said, is to do what normal people do.

Was it that simple?

He hoped so, for all he was worth, because if it wasn’t…

Just as he felt like collapsing, lost, beneath the table, a twinge of something like hope sparked in him.

Down the sidewalk, heading his way with a smile that lit her entire face up, was Abbie.

Fanshawe jerked upright, to gaze wide-eyed at her.

“Hi, Stew!” she said. Her enigmatically colored hair shined like exotic spun tinsel. Up on one shoulder she held a rather large box. The sight of her made Fanshawe feel like a famished person just being offered a banquet, and he knew at once it was not lust that goaded the sensation. He was simply thrilled to see her.

He jumped right up to his feet. “Hi, Abbie. Let me take that box for you—”

She stopped at the ornate rail which marked the café’s border. Her eyes beamed with nothing more than a happiness to be alive. “No thanks. It’s just lightbulbs, weighs almost nothing.” She lifted the box with one hand, as proof. “How’s your day been?”

“Fuh”—he stammered at the question he could answer only with a lie. “Fine, fine. Each day, I like this town more. It’s really beautiful.”

A mix of luxurious scents drifted off her curvaceous form. “That’s why I left Nashua after only a year. I know I’ll live here the rest of my life.” Her smile homed in on him. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide to do that too. What’s New York got that we haven’t—besides skyscrapers, off-track betting, and multiple millions of people?”

“I’m not arguing with you there.” Just the bit of small talk felt therapeutic to Fanshawe. Her smile, voice, her overall proximity worked as an antidote to the mental turmoil he’d been wracked by only moments ago. Thank God, thank God…

“Have you been to the wax museum yet?” she asked.

“Yuh”—he stammered again, impacted as if by a shout. “Yeah, it was pretty interesting, pretty realistic,” he replied, trying to block out the rest. If you only knew. “Now I’m just kind of moseying around”—he looked right at her. “I want to work up an appetite for our dinner date.”

Abbie sighed in relief. “I was so afraid you’d forget, or something else would come up.”

“I didn’t, and nothing has.”

“Good.” She beamed at him again. “I gotta go now; my father’ll have a conniption if I don’t get back and change these bulbs.”

“See you at seven, Abbie.”

“Not if I see you first,” and then she laughed and glided away with her box.

Yeah, he thought, watching her cross the street. Just before she’d entered the inn, she glanced once sexily over her shoulder.

That’s my cure, all right. My normalcy. A sudden thought made him think of going after her, to ask if there was any more word from the police about Eldred Karswell but then realized the downer topic might darken her day. However, Fanshawe felt rejuvenated. Just the few minutes of talking to her pushed everything back—even as serious as “everything” seemed to be.

He pushed all of his worries to the back of his mind. He couldn’t wait for seven o’clock.

(III)

Abbie looked stunning; he’d even told her that when she’d met him at seven, and in after-thought he hoped it hadn’t sounded fake or corny. She wore a summery lilac dress with strap shoulders. Her bare arms and shoulders glowed healthily; her labors at the inn had left her sleek and well-toned. She also wore high heels—not too high but just right. With every ticking stride to the restaurant, those long coltish legs flexed in more radiant feminine health. Best of all Fanshawe found he wasn’t tempted to stare at her perfect bosom when she wouldn’t notice.

Was some factor of Abbie allowing Fanshawe to relearn his normalcy?

I can only hope…

In the restaurant, he realized it was impossible for him to focus on anything but her. The waitresses and many female patrons were far above average in looks, but Fanshawe barely took notice of them. Instead, Abbie magnetized him as she leaned slightly over the table to talk. Before Fanshawe knew it, dinner was done and nearly an hour and a half had passed. Much of their conversation was comprised of either Abbie talking about her life in Haver-Towne or Fanshawe reminiscing (not very positively) over New York. It felt so comfortable in this situation, so—

Normal, Fanshawe marveled.

Just going to dinner with someone he liked, and talking the way regular people talked. I can’t remember the last time…

Not once throughout the course of their meal had a lustful thought entered his head. Not once had he thought of peeping.

The waitress’s brows fluttered when Fanshawe paid the check with his black American Express Centurion card. Then he was walking on the cheerily lit street with Abbie.

It seemed that whenever he was in her presence, his sense of observation changed. He felt grateful for all that was around him, and intrigued: the glow of the streetlamps, the brick-paved road, the old-time architecture. It’s so different, he thought. So honest.

Abbie grinned at him as they strolled Back Street. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “You seem very…enchanted by something.”

Yeah. You. He hadn’t even realized that he was holding her hand. “I guess I’m thinking about how easily I’ve taken things for granted. You’ve made me realize that.”

She seemed astonished. “Me? How so?”

“Just the way you look at things. It’s like you’re the one who’s enchanted, with everything around you, every minute.”

“Well, that’s how I feel most of the time.” Her smile just seemed more and more radiant. “Every day is a blessing—even if it rains, even if my car insurance goes up or one of the toilets breaks and I gotta fix it.”

“I need a bigger dose of your outlook. I’ve lived in New York most of my life, and it’s taken me till now to realize the cosmopolitan world isn’t an honest world—it’s built on greed, deceit, and one-upmanship—but places like this are honest. When you live in the city long enough you become oblivious to the fact that most of our culture evolved out of small little burgs like Haver-Towne.”

“All towns have their veneers, and we have ours. But it’s really only a tourist town on the outside. Deep down it’s pretty genuine, and so are the people who live here. I never realized that until I’d spent that year in Nashua—and that’s not even a big city, really. I’m so glad I came back.”

I’m glad you did too, otherwise I never would’ve met you. “Like what you were saying yesterday. The witchcraft motif and all that. Take out those corny connotations, and it’s just another reminder of our history.”

Abbie squeezed his hand as if enthused. “Finally! You’ve seemed so interested in that since we met but you hadn’t mentioned it all night. I was afraid to bring it up.”

“What, the witchcraft stuff?” he said innocuously, but then remembered what he thought he’d seen at the pillory this morning. “And Jacob Wraxall?”

“Sure!” Her hair tossed as she strode along. “I’ve been dying to ask. What did you think of the graveyard?”

Fanshawe chuckled but the humor behind it seemed dried out. “It’s a doozy of a graveyard, all right. Why is there a very suspicious hole where Evanore Wraxall’s body should be?”

Was she teasing him? “Oh, I didn’t tell you that part, did I?”

“No, you did not.”

“Are you sure?”

Fanshawe simply scowled at her.

She appeared more enthused now than ever. “Okay, here goes. It was exactly 666 days after her execution”—her long eyelashes fluttered—”when Jacob Wraxall dug Evanore up and ran off with her remains.”

Fanshawe’s pace slowed. “Uh, do I want to know what he did with the body?”

“Well, there was no embalming in those days, Stew. She was nothing but bones by then. Wraxall used the bones for black magic.”

“Warlock dad digs up witch daughter. No Father of the Year Award for him, huh? And what’s with the old barrel on Witches Hill?”

“Weeeeell, do you really want to know?”

By now there was no doubt that she was using the subject to toy with him. Toy with me all you want, he thought. “Yes, I really do. You know, it’s not fair for you to keep stringing me along.”

“They called it barreling,” she said abruptly, slowing down a little herself.

Fanshawe didn’t understand. “Barreling? What—”

“The method of execution, I mean. It was called barreling.”

Fanshawe wondered. They drowned the witches in barrels? “What ever happened to good old hanging, decapitation, and burning at the stake?”

“That was old hat by then. And, remember, witchcraft, sorcery, and heresy were considered the worst crimes in those days. So those convicted got—”

“Barreled… Now I get it. They put the witch in the barrel and fill it with water till she drowns—”

Now Abbie’s refreshing smile turned grim. “Oh, no, Stew, it’s much worse than that. In fact, barreling was about the worst form of capital punishment that the witch-finder counsels ever thought of. Did you see the hole in the front side of the barrel?”

Fanshawe reluctantly nodded.

“They’d put the witch in the barrel, pull her head out through the hole and keep it in place by sliding this thing called a U-collar around her neck.”

Fanshawe made a face, trying to picture what she’d described. “Oh, like a pillory only…with a barrel?”

“Well, sort of. See, after they did that…they’d bring out the dog—”

Fanshawe’s eyes narrowed as if leery of something. How could he not think of those times he’d thought he heard a dog barking, not to mention the dog he thought he’d seen through the looking-glass just before dawn?

He felt the heat of Abbie’s hand in his, hoping he wasn’t sweating. “The…dog?”

Just at that moment, a dog began yelping from across the street. Fanshawe stopped with a jolt, and jerked his gaze.

“Nervous, Stew?” she laughed. “Suddenly you’re on pins and needles.”

He frowned across the street, at the same annoying poodle that had snapped at him this morning. Its overweight master frowned back almost as an accompaniment with the animal’s hostility. That little fucker again… The poodle strained against its lead, barking directly at Fanshawe. God, I hate little yelping dogs. “I like dogs,” he explained. “Just not that dog.” But the distraction snapped. “And what were you saying? Something about barreling…and a dog?”

“Don’t worry, Stew,” Abbie allayed. “The kind of dog I’m talking about was nothing like that little pooch.” Abbie maintained her cheery composure even in the luridness of what she was about to detail. “After they locked the witch’s head so that it was sticking out of the hole in the barrel, they brought in the dog. It was always a big one, like a Doberman, Irish Wolf Hound, like that. But they’d also…” She let out a warning breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this right after dinner?”

“You must think I’m a real light-weight,” he said, yet still baffled by what she was taking so long to describe. “I’m from New York, remember? People—usually stock brokers—jump off of buildings every day. The local crime page in the paper is worse than a slasher movie.”

“All right, you asked for it. They’d starve the dog for several days first, and they’d rile it up, and…well…”

“What?”

She let out another abrupt breath. “The dog would attack and…eat the flesh off the witch’s head.”

Holy shit… Fanshawe nearly stumbled. “Hello! Me? I’ll take hanging any day!”

“Hanging was considered letting them off too easy,” Abbie said. “They had to pay for their crimes against God. Oh, and that’s not some mock barrel up there. It’s the one they really used.”

Fanshawe recalled the details he’d noticed of the barrel, how the clear resin completely covered the old wooden slats: a perfect preservative. But the grotesque verbal portraiture created its own images, which sunk deep into his mind’s eye. They’d sic a starving dog on the witch’s living head… His stomach seemed to turn inside-out. “You know, after all that happy talk, I need a drink. How about I treat you to a Witch-Blood Shooter?”

Abbie’s smile, as always, shined like a bright light. “You’re on.”

— | — | —

CHAPTER SEVEN

(I)

It was just after nine p.m. when Fanshawe and Abbie entered the Squire’s Pub. The comfort he felt by being with her—the idealism of a first date notwithstanding—continued to ease the turmoil he’d been dwelling on all day. Additionally, he was pleased by how easy it was to slip his arm around her waist; he could tell she was glad he did that. Closer now, her subtle perfume and shampoo scents were driving him nuts, to an arousing degree, yet not once had he even re-framed the vision he’d stolen last night, when he’d peeped on her and seen her utterly naked.

Several tables full of loud professors took up the pub’s rear section; Fanshawe noticed the two joggers, too, who didn’t seem to be having quite the raucous time as their inebriated elders, which was understandable.

Most of the bar, however, was empty. Perfect, Fanshawe thought. Mr. Baxter stood in attendance, and at first Fanshawe was worried what the proprietor might think of him walking in with his arm around his daughter. The instant he spotted them, though, he seemed to perk up, as if somehow energized by their entrance. Fanshawe let his hand slide across the small of Abbie’s back when they parted for him to pull a barstool out for her.

“Well, hey there, you two,” the older man greeted, a crackle in his voice. “How was dinner?”

“Excellent, Mr. Baxter,” Fanshawe said, then sat down next to Abbie. “A perfect meal for a perfect evening.” He wondered if he should take Abbie’s hand so quickly in front of her father, but before he could finish the consideration, she took his.

“Oh, yeah, Dad, it couldn’t have been better,” she augmented, “and Stew says the curries are as good as the Thai places he goes to in Manhattan.”

“Your daughter has great taste in cuisine, Mr. Baxter.”

Baxter, thumbing his suspenders, failed to restrain an amused frown. “That she does, but not such good taste in what she chooses to let come out of her mouth. I’d like to put my boot to her behind for telling you all that gory baloney about Wraxall and his daughter.”

“Listen to Dad,” Abbie mocked, looking at Fanshawe. “You should’ve seen how excited he was when we found all those black-magic relics in the basement. ‘The Salem of New Hampshire!’ he said. ‘We’ll make a fortune from all these sucker tourists!’”

“Mind your mouth, girl…”

“Well, it’s true, Dad. For someone who thinks witchcraft is just a bunch of ‘silly drivel,’ you sure jumped all over it.”

“You did a little jumpin’ yourself, missy,” Baxter replied, wagging a finger. “So don’t ya go puttin’ it all on me in front of Mr. Fanshawe.”

Abbie laughed and drifted off her stool. She went behind the bar, to make drinks.

Fanshawe smiled through the vocal volley. “Well, it certainly looks like it’s working; you’ve got a pretty solid business here. But tell me, Mr. Baxter. It can’t all be baloney and drivel, can it?”

Baxter scoffed mildly. “Oh, I’m sure a little bit of that religious mob-law stuff went on,” and then he threw a hard glance to Abbie, who was adding ice to a silver shaker, “but it wasn’t nothin’ like the witch-killing free-for-all that my mouthy daughter here claims. It was just mostly folks gettin’ a little carried away.”

Abbie rolled her gray eyes. “What about the tens of thousands of people who died at the hands of the Inquisition, Dad? Just folks getting a little carried away?”

Fanshawe interjected, addressing Baxter. “But, seriously, did the legal authorities of this town really sentence heretics to death by barreling?”

Baxter stiffened up. “Aw, Abbie, ya didn’t tell Mr. Fanshawe all that morbid nonsense now, did ya!”

Fanshawe laughed. “Don’t blame Abbie, sir. I was the one who insisted she tell me.”

Baxter made a gesture of frustrated resignation. “Oh, jeez. I suppose there’s a hint of truth to it, but there ain’t really no official record.”

Now Abbie began to work the shaker, speaking over the clatter of ice. “The unofficial record, Jacob Wraxall’s diary, testifies that almost a hundred were executed in that fashion, including his daughter, Evanore.”

“Abbie, why do you insist on fillin’ Mr. Fanshawe’s head up with all that grisly poppycock?”

This was the first time tonight Fanshawe felt sexually distracted by Abbie: the way her breasts tossed slightly as she shook the iced tumbler, and suddenly he seemed hotly intrigued by the graceful slope of her neck, the hollow of her throat, her gleaming bare shoulders and skin above her cleavage. Fanshawe could’ve winced when the friction of Abbie’s bra from the shaking seemed to provoke her nipples to hardness.

Jeez… Eventually, he dragged his way back to his focus. “But I am curious about what Wraxall’s diary revealed. You’ve actually read it?”

“Oh, sure,” Abbie admitted. “I’d be happy to show it to you sometime.”

Baxter flapped a hand of disregard. “You can look at it all you want, Mr. Fanshawe, but you’ll be hard-pressed to make out a word of it.”

“It’s true that most of it’s not legible,” Abbie added. “First of all it’s written in a very old style, and the majority of the lines are blurred—”

“Oh, water damage? Silverfish?” Fanshawe presumed.

“Nope. It was mostly because back then the inks of the day were high in iron oxide content—I actually researched this. Proteins in the vellum stock that they used for paper interacted with the iron molecules. It would look great for a hundred years or so, but longer than that the ink would blur and turn yellow. A lot of the books here are like that unfortunately.”

“But you said that most of the diary’s illegible,” Fanshawe pointed out. “Most means not all.”

Now Baxter butted back in. “There’s a tad you can still make out, but you’re guaranteed a whopper of a headache from eyestrain.”

Abbie began to pour the drinks, looking at the shot glasses as she spoke. “Overall, there was a lot of verification of some of the mysteries of the day. There was a spate of missing persons—mostly children and teenagers—but no one suspected that occult ritualism had anything to do with the disappearances. Instead they were blamed on small scattered tribes of Indians who wanted revenge against the Colonists for killing so many of them when the area was first settled.”

“But?” Fanshawe goaded.

“Wraxall’s diary gave the real reason. It was him and Callister Rood, plus the coven members. Every so often they’d snatch a kid to sacrifice as an offering to the Devil. There were also entries about certain seasonal rituals they’d perform in the woods at night, on All Hallows Eve, for instance, and Candlemas, and the last day of April, called Beltane Eve. And the rest of the legible stuff is mostly what I told you about the other night”—she hesitated—“you know, about the incest and the sacrifice of Evanore’s newborns—”

Mr. Baxter groaned, a hand to his head.

“And he did go into some detail about some of his rituals and coven meetings,” Abbie added.

Fanshawe now fell unreservedly prey to Abbie’s sexual aura when she slid him his drink. Damn… Her breasts seemed to lift and then taunt him when she raised her own glass. “To Jacob and Evanore Wraxall,” she proposed with a laugh.

Baxter’s face corrugated. “I ain’t drinkin’ to them!”

“Just kidding! Um, to the Witch-Blood Shooter. Cheers.”

The three of them clinked the tiny glasses.

Fanshawe felt the sweet concoction slam into his stomach. The liquor blended with the sight of Abbie coming back to sit with him made him feel light-headed.

She re-took his hand immediately, which appeared to buff off some of her father’s displeasure with all the “grisly poppycock” she’d revealed. I guess he doesn’t mind his daughter going out with a billionaire, Fanshawe thought cynically. “Oh, what was I going to ask next?” He slid his stool even closer to Abbie and was suddenly luxuriating in her scents and exotic warmth. He looked right at her, helpless. Oh, God, she’s so beautiful…

“Stew?” She was grinning. “What were you going to ask?”

He could’ve twisted his own ear. Idiot! You’re acting like an airhead! “Oh, yeah. You said Wraxall dug up his daughter’s bones—”

“Six-hundred-and-sixty-six days after she was executed,” she reminded with an elucidating finger raised.

“What ya got to understand about my daughter, Mr. Fanshawe,” Baxter stepped back in, “is she likes to over-dramatize things.”

“Whatever,” she sniped.

“I’m just curious,” Fanshawe continued, “as to what Wraxall did with the bones, like…exactly.”

Abbie’s cocky smile challenged her father outright. “Dad, why don’t you tell Stew what Wraxall did with Evanore’s bones.”

“I’ll do no such thing, girl!” Baxter railed. “It’s all a bunch of hokey codswallop anyways.”

Fanshawe went with Abbie’s flow. “Come on, sir. I’d be interested in hearing your interpretation.”

Baxter stewed in reluctance, then resigned to the task. “Aw, well, if ya really wanna know… What he done was he made witch-water out of ’em.”

Of course, the term witch-water rang a loud bell. The glass, he thought. The caption called it a “Witch-Water” looking-glass… But he pretended to be unfamiliar with the term. “Witch-water? What’s that?”

Baxter, not enthused to be coerced into the line of talk, poured himself a beer. “Wraxall, see, he boiled them bones of his daughter’s. In a big cauldron—’least that’s what it looks like in his dairy.”

“Boiled the bones for what purpose?” Fanshawe asked.

“Well, after boilin’ ’em, he used the water. Called it witch-water.”

“The water was supposed to have occult properties,” Abbie augmented. “It’s said to be an invention of the Dark Ages. Witches, warlocks, and heretics used the water for all kinds of things: anointings, incantations, channeling with the dead—”

“—which proves it was all made up,” Baxter insisted. “In that silly diary, Wraxall claimed that he performed these rituals in the attic. Said he had a pentagram on the dang floor, written in blood. He also said he had a bunch of big cauldrons up there, and a whole lotta witch-water stored up in bottles from bad folks he dug up over the years. But ya know what?” In his pause, he smiled in self-satisfaction. “It was all a bunch of bull hockey. When the authorities busted into the house in 1675, they searched the entire place, including the attic, and found nothin’ of the sort. No cauldrons, no witch-water, no nothin’.”

“It does seem that Wraxall exaggerated some things in the diary a little,” Abbie accepted.

Baxter crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “He didn’t exaggerate, missy, he lied. He made it all up ’cos he was a nut. Hell, we been up in that attic a hundred times and looked high and low, and under the floor planks too. Pentagrams in blood? My tookus. There’s nothin’ up there like what Wraxall claimed, not now, not then.”

You’re right about that, came Fanshawe’s private thought, since I was up there myself. But, “How interesting,” he said. “Eye of newt and toe of frog, sure, but I’ve never heard of witch-water. And…” Several cogs turned. He knew he had to be very careful making references to the looking-glass. They must not even know it’s missing… Of course it wasn’t missing.

It was stashed upstairs in Fanshawe’s room.

“Does anyone know what the water from the boiled bones has to do with looking-glasses?”

“It wasn’t clear in the diary,” Abbie said, “since that section was so blurred out. But my guess is that Wraxall filled the inside of the looking-glass with the witch-water, and this would somehow produce an occult effect.”

Fanshawe struggled to sort her words as her sexual presence continued to blare. Suddenly a consideration broke through: Maybe that’s why the glass is so heavy. It’s FILLED with the water. “But I assume you don’t know what that effect was.”

“’Cos there ain’t no effect,” Baxter insisted, then parted to serve several patrons who’d come up to the bar.

Abbie shrugged. “We can only assume, but my assumption is that when filled with the water, the glass might reveal something supernatural if you looked through it.”

Fanshawe stilled, but Baxter barked from the bar’s other end, “Which proves even more that it’s just a bunch more silly drivel. I looked through them glasses myself, Mr. Fanshawe, and so did Abbie. And you know what we saw?” He shot a half-smirk, half-smile to his daughter. “Jack diddly, that’s what.”

“I can’t deny that either,” Abbie confessed.

But Fanshawe could, couldn’t he? Holy shit… It took him a moment to recover and seem unimpacted by this information.

IF I saw what I THOUGHT I saw…

He’d seen the past. He’d seen Evanore Wraxall herself, in the window of the room he now occupied—a woman dead for over three hundred years.

Sounds supernatural to me…

Abbie jumped up, and said excitedly, “Let me go get it—”

Fanshawe threw off his contemplative daze. “Get what?”

“Why, the Witch-Water Looking-Glass, what else? We keep it in one of the display cases…”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Fanshawe interjected. Change the subject! Quick! “It’s just kind of interesting, like a lot of this witchcraft stuff. But that’s the other thing I wanted to ask you—”

Abbie ceased her gesture to leave the bar and fetch the glass.

Fanshawe felt relieved. “The other night just as I was leaving the pub, you said I should remind you to tell me about—what was it? The gazing ball?”

Her already bright eyes brightened more. “Oh, yeah! It’s just off from the graveyard.”

“Yeah, I found it but what is it?”

“I only mentioned it ’cos it’s kind of mysterious, and—just our luck—that portion of Wraxall’s diary is illegible too. But it’s interesting because it was one of the things Wraxall bought on the trip he took to Europe in 1671.”

Fanshawe nodded at the recollection of the excursion. “Yeah, I remember you saying that he was abroad when Evanore had been convicted and executed.”

“Right. But the point is who he visited with during the trip—”

“Aw, Abbie, would ya please stop boring Mr. Fanshawe with all that witchcraft bunk!” Baxter pleaded while serving more customers.

“He visited a number of like-minded folks—”

“Occultists?” Fanshawe presumed. “Other guys who thought of themselves as warlocks?”

Abbie nodded. “And from these people, Wraxall not only learned to sharpen his own skills, but he bought things, things he couldn’t get in the new colonies.”

Fanshawe studied her. “Do I want to know what things he bought?”

“No, he does not!” Baxter insisted.

“It was mostly books about necromancy,” she continued without pause, “and other things that witches and warlocks used. Crystals said to possess certain powers, hex-charms, pendants and bracelets made from metals smelted to special specifications for the purposes of protection, and of course, ritual ingredients.”

“Ingredients?” Fanshawe smiled and repeated his previous reference. “So he really did need eyes of newts and toes of frogs—”

“Nope, none of that. Try vials of elixirs, suspensions, and distillations used for soothsaying, alchemy, divination, stuff like that. The dried blood of virgin gypsies was big back then, oh, and in the diary Wraxall said he bought a lot of aborted fetuses.”

Fanshawe gaped.

“Warlocks and witches would burn the fetuses in a crucible and inhale the vapors, supposedly to see the image of Lucifer himself.”

“Abbie!” Baxter barked, “if you don’t stop talkin’ all of that bucket-of-blood claptrap, I’m gonna—”

“But it wasn’t the things Wraxall bought on his trip that were so important,” she talked right over her father’s objections, “it was specifically the people he went to talk to.”

“So you’ve said,” Fanshawe pointed out. “He went to see other warlocks.”

“Yes, a number of them, but there was one—above all the others…”

Fanshawe waited, tapping his fingers on the bar and knowing she enjoyed stringing him along like this. “And?”

“This guy was the Mount Everest of warlocks,” she said in a hushed tone. “His name was Wilson—I forgot his first name, but it was something unusual. There’ve been whole books about him. He was regarded as the most powerful sorcerer in England; he even turned lead into gold, and became very rich.”

“The only thing he turned lead into,” Baxter piped up, “was baloney.”

“Wraxall bought the Gazing Ball from him, but when he got it back to Haver-Towne, he told the residents it was like a wishing well. That’s the baloney, if you ask me. Why would someone like Wraxall, at the least a devotee of the occult, go all the way to Europe to consult with other occultists, then, on his last stop, visit someone as notorious as this man Wilson, just to buy some weird variation of a wishing well?”

“That explanation does sound fishy,” Fanshawe agreed but still he was nagged by the sudden distraction of Abbie’s beauty. I went all through dinner without lusting after her, but now it’s bowling me over. The calamities of last night and this morning, then the wax museum and his fears of becoming hallucinatory, and now this revelation about the looking-glass supposedly being possessed of supernatural characteristics? Everything mashed into his head like a logjam, and leading the jam, all of a sudden, was his steaming attraction to Abbie.

I need to think straight…

“There was another rumor that supposedly goes back hundreds of years,” she added, “that the Gazing Ball, instead of being a map of earth, was a map of hell—”

“Know what I think, missy?” Baxter chided. “I think it’s a map of your backside, showin’ my foot kickin’ it!”

Abbie just chuckled and shook her head.

“I couldn’t see that it was a map of anything,” Fanshawe offered. “There were some markings on the pedestal but as for the metal globe itself—”

“Right. It’s so tarnished you can’t make out anything.”

Fanshawe’s observations began to settle down. “It’s just another thing about Wraxall that’s curious.”

“Yeah,” Abbie said. “Intercontinental travel was no easy feat back then. It was dangerous. One out of every twenty ships either sunk due to poor maintenance or went down in storms. It would have to be important for Wraxall to make a trip like that.”

Baxter was beginning to enjoy his chastisement of Abbie. “And you’re gonna go on a trip to the moon if ya don’t stop all this witchcraft ballyhoo. Damn, girl, why can’t ya tell Mr. Fanshawe about the nice things we got in this area? Mount Washington, the Fire Quacker Festival, the steam-train tour?”

“There’s lots of time for that, sir,” Fanshawe informed. “I think I’ll be staying awhile.”

Both Mr. Baxter and Abbie seemed pleased by the remark and the change in subjects. Fanshawe asked for a soda water next; he didn’t want to look like a lush. But as Abbie helped her father tend to a sudden rush of customers, Fanshawe wound up recollecting his hallucinations at the museum…

Ascend, if thou dost have the heart, and—ay—partake in the bounty that ye hast earned, the mannequin of Wraxall had said.

Then the mannequin of Evanore: Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle—

Fanshawe stroked his chin. What did she mean by that? but then he sighed at the ridiculous thought. She didn’t mean ANYTHING, you dunce, because it was an hallucination! Dummies don’t really talk!

When Abbie returned, she put her arm around him and hugged. “What are you thinking now? You seem lost in thought.”

I’m lost in thought a lot, I guess, because I might be nuts… He wanted to ask her if she’d seen anything in the diary about bounties or bridles but refused when he realized he’d be taking the mirage seriously.

That didn’t happen.

“I’m thinking about how much I like this town,” he fibbed. He turned but had no choice but to be faced by her bosom, since she was standing. He could’ve melted.

“I’ve got to turn in now, Stew,” she said, leaning against him. “Early day tomorrow. The guy who runs this joint cracks a big whip.”

“I heard that missy!” Baxter barked

But Fanshawe rushed to rise.

“Don’t leave just because I am,” Abbie said. “Hang out, have another drink—”

“I gotta turn in too,” he fibbed again. “I’ll walk you.” He bade goodnight to Mr. Baxter, then walked hand in hand with Abbie.

In the elevator, she sighed and leaned her head against Fanshawe’s shoulder. “Thanks, Stew. I had such a nice time tonight.”

“Me too.” He felt suddenly vibrant, gripped her waist tighter. He was about to turn and kiss her but the door slid open on the second floor.

“Here’s my stop,” she said, but her voice seemed edgy, nervous.

Their eyes met, and the moment stretched. Without forethought he was kissing her, and felt dropped into some scintillant esoteria of lovely scents and warmth. The kiss drew on, seemed about to get fervent, but then Abbie reluctantly pulled back.

“I really like you, Stew,” she whispered. Her face was flushed.

“I like you a lot too.”

“I so much want to ask you into my room but…”

Fanshawe smiled. “I know. It’s too soon.”

She hugged him and gave him a final, quick kiss on the lips. “Thanks for not being like most guys.”

“Go out with me again. Soon.”

“I’d love too.”

Her grin could’ve lit up the elevator when she pulled away. Their hands separated as she back-stepped out into the hall.

“Goodnight, Abbie.”

“Goodnight…”

She didn’t budge, and her soft grin remained as the doors slid shut.

Fanshawe leaned against the elevator wall, dreamy. The compartment rose to the top-floor hall; he seemed somnambulant walking out…

In his room, he felt gently giddy at the division of impressions: This has been one hell of a couple of days. I relapsed to voyeurism, I steal a looking-glass without even being aware of it, several times I hear an invisible dog barking, then I stumble on the dead body of some guy named Karswell, and later I peep on Abbie with the glass but then see the town turn hundreds of years old before my eyes and I even see Evanore Wraxall herself naked in her window, then, if that doesn’t take the cake, today two wax dummies talk to me in the museum, and after aaaaaaaaaall that…

He gazed at the wall

…I have this wonderful dinner date with a girl I’m crazy about…

He shook his head, actually chuckling as he rubbed fatigue out of his eyes.

He poured himself a glass of water. It struck him that the subject of Karswell, the dead man, had never been raised along with all the other ghoulish talk at the bar, and just then—

His cellphone rang.

“It’s me,” Artie said over the line. “Sorry to call so late, but I finally got some poop on your man.”

“Karswell,” Fanshawe uttered.

“Yeah, Eldred Karswell. Sixty-seven years old, resident of Ellicottville, New York. No criminal convictions, no old dockets, no arrests, not even a traffic citation.”

“Clean as a whistle on all counts, is what you’re getting at,” Fanshawe presumed.

“Mmmm, well, there’s no dirt on him but—let’s just say some weird stuff.”

Fanshawe laughed in spite of himself. “I’m getting quite accustomed to weird stuff, Artie. What’ve you got?”

“First, the guy was a Protestant minister in the seventies, but he was dismissed from active pastoral license by the Diocese of New York.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me for molesting kids—”

“Nope. It was after a series of theological controversies between Karswell and something called the Board of Informatory Regents of Episcopacy.”

Fanshawe’s lips pursed. “What?”

“It’s some kind of doctrinal regulatory commission, the bosses of the church.” Artie paused as if entertained. “You ready for this?”

“No, I’m paying you to jerk me around.”

“The Diocese essentially defrocked the guy for advocating and practicing Christian mysticism.”

Fanshawe’s speculation chugged to a near halt. “Of all the oddball things.”

“Tell me about it, boss, but that’s not all. Karswell’s also a published author, and it’s not just books about mysticism that he writes about—”

Fanshawe’s eyes widened.

“—the dude’s written books about witchcraft, demonology, devil worship, the history of human sacrifice—”

Fanshawe gulped.

“—he’s had over a dozen books published, all stuff like that. Last year he published a book with Montague University Press called The Magic of St. Ignatius, and his most recent publication was a paper that came out a month ago in some off-the-wall religious journal called The Anglican Scholar. The title of the paper?” Artie chuckled over the line. ‘The Thinking Christian’s Guide to Thaumaturgology.’”

Fanshawe almost spit out the sip of water he’d just taken. “What the hell is that?”

Artie laughed. “That’s just it, I don’t know! The word wouldn’t even Goggle! Your man’s into some goofy shit, boss. He’s got a house worth one-five, and property tax out the yin-yang, never paid late. Top-flight credit rating, two other cars plus the Caddy—a new Merc and a loaded Yukon, plus he’s got his own office and staff.”

“So he’s got money. From the books?”

“Can’t say for sure but I doubt it. He’s never been on a bestseller list, and there’s very little about him on the web.”

“Then how’d you find out about his books?”

“The research goons found his titles on some online book auctioneers, and there’s a tiny bibliography at a European booklist site. My opinion? I think Karswell writes for some fringe underground specialty market. Can’t see there being a lot of money in that.”

“Family money, then, the lottery—who knows—” Fanshawe chewed a lip. “—and who cares? Is that all?”

“Come on, boss, I’m better than that, ain’t I?”

“You tell me.”

“He’s got an agent, some woman named Reobek, office in Scarsdale. I actually talked to her a little while ago. Wouldn’t give me Karswell’s direct contact info, but she gave me his office number. Said he’s out of town for several weeks. Christ, the woman’s got a Bronx accent so thick I wanted to jump out the window. But, anyway, she did say he’s in New Hampshire for the time being.” An intended pause. “How’s that for a coinkydink? Same place as you.”

“Guess you left the old thinking cap at home, huh?”

Artie didn’t get it, but since he often worked ten- or twelve-hour days, Fanshawe gave him a break. “But I saved the laugher for last. She said one more thing… She said Karswell was working on a book about a warlock…”

Fanshawe caught his stare sticking to the wall, and thought with instantly: Wraxall.

“That’s the scoop so far. I’ll try his office number in the morning; maybe they’ll give me his cell number in case you want to talk to him.”

“He wouldn’t be very talkative, Artie. He’s dead.”

“Say again?”

“Karswell is dead”—the image of the dead man’s face resurfaced like a bellow. “No doubt about it.”

“You sure about that, boss? His name wasn’t on the Social Security Death Index.”

“That’s because there hasn’t been time. He died yesterday. Just so happens that he was staying in my hotel.”

Suddenly, distress seemed to come through with Artie’s next pause. “So that’s why you wanted to know about him. How…did he die? Heart attack or something, right? Natural causes? Please, boss, please—don’t tell me it was murder—”

“It was murder, Artie—”

“Shit, Stew! Get out of there right now! You’re not Little People, you know. Out of six and a half billion folks walkin’ the earth, only five hundred are billionaires and you’re one of them! I’m sending up a car and some of our guys to bring you back—”

“Forget it,” Fanshawe sluffed. “The police think it was murder, but they’re kind of Keystony around here. I think it was a wild animal attack—”

“I don’t like this, Stew. You’re too fuckin’ important to be near fucked up shit like that.”

“I guess you picked up the fine language in Harvard Yard, huh?” Fanshawe laughed. “Don’t worry about it, all right? But do me a favor and get research to hassle the agent again, try to find out the name of the warlock Karswell was writing about.”

Now the line’s silence seemed to remotely convey Artie’s lengthening face. It was a long silence. “Oh. So you’re up on warlocks, are you?”

“Just do it, Artie, okay?”

Artie groaned. “Sure, find out the name of the warlock, you bet…”

Fanshawe put the cellphone away, thinking. Karswell. Writing a book on a warlock…

And now he’s dead.

At once he was glancing abruptly upward, as though some inner monitor of his subconscious had so directed him. Why?

Yes, he was glancing upward, at the trapdoor…

Again: why?

He’d already been up in the attic, and had found—just as Mr. Baxter had—nothing out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, next, he was standing once more on the bed, reaching up, and unprizing the trapdoor. Moments later, he was standing stooped in the warm, wood- and dust-scented space. He swept his penlight to either side, and if anything—

This place is even duller than it was when I first came up…

Why he paid this second visit to the attic he couldn’t guess. He came back down, now sweating and irritable, and replaced the panel in the ceiling.

He undressed, presumed to prepare for bed but now…

Same as the impulse to return to the attic, he found himself standing before an opened dresser drawer. He was not conscious of the reason he’d chosen to do so, but then he looked down and saw…

…that damn looking-glass.

He couldn’t even remember opening the drawer that he’d stashed it in. Why haven’t I put it back where it belongs? What might Baxter and Abbie wonder if they discovered it missing, so soon after Fanshawe had asked about it?

Tomorrow! he charged himself, I’ll put it that thing back in the case and never touch it again! Enough screwing around!

Once in bed, Fanshawe found it easy to ignore his previous aggravation, by thinking about Abbie. He smiled in the darkness, sinking into the pillow. My first date in ages… He fell asleep knowing that he couldn’t wait to see Abbie again.

Wouldn’t it be nice if he saw her in his dreams?

(II)

He doesn’t see her, but he hears her, as he did so recently during his first nightmare in the Wraxall Inn. Her voice echoes like drips in a cavern as the black mental fog seeps away to show him a mob of irate townsfolk in colonial dress forming a riotous half-circle on Witches Hill. Two more townsmen drag a distraught young blond woman into the clearing’s center-point. She’s in shackles and dressed in rags, smudge-faced, and beaten.

They drag her to the barrel with the hole in it.

When the blond convict sees the barrel, she silently screams; her face reddens in horror as the townsmen lower her into the barrel.

“They’d put the witch in the barrel,” Abbie’s voice repeats, “pull her head out through the hole and keep it in place by sliding this thing called a U-collar around her neck…”

A townsman’s hand reaches into the hole in the barrel, then pulls the woman’s head through. Someone else immediately locks her head in place with the horse-shoe-shaped collar. The woman’s eyes bulge each time she tries—and fails—to dislodge her head. She looks as though her very spirit is being wrenched out of her.

“Like a pillory only…with a barrel?” Fanshawe hears himself repeat the question he’d asked only hours ago.

“Well, sort of. See, after they did that—”

Sheer horror causes the whites of the blond woman’s eyes to turn scarlet, for she sees something approaching…

“…they’d bring out the dog—”

A husky colonist steps out of the parting crowd, leading a slavering black Doberman on the end of a cord. The animal is gut-sucked, its ribs showing from the time it has been deliberately denied sustenance. Foam flies each time it barks in silence.

The townsman has trouble keeping the animal back, yet he seems amused, as does the crowd, each time he scuffles forward, letting the beast come only an inch from the screaming convict’s face, only to pull it back to prolong her torment. Back and forth, back and forth—he does this for several minutes, until the sullen minister nudges the sheriff. Then Sheriff Patten nods solemn-faced to the dog’s master.

The Doberman is released, and it lunges toward the barrel.

Abbie’s voice seems to spiral away: “The dog would attack and…eat the flesh off the witch’s head…”

The wide-open eye of Fanshawe’s dreaming mind watches the Doberman’s jaws close over the top of the woman’s head—until it yank-yank-yanks off most of her scalp, woofs it down, then goes back for the ears, then the cheeks and lips, then the—

—Fanshawe awoke as if shaken violently by the shoulders. The heart-hammering fright bolted him upright—he actually feared someone was in the room but then he blindly snapped on the bedside lamp, and as he did so his mind raced: what might he use as a makeshift weapon?

Of course, no one occupied the room besides Fanshawe, but he checked the door as a formality, which was still locked. Just what I need. Another whacked out dream. Was it some mode of tactile nightmare that made him feel the impressions of fingers on his shoulders? Did such a type of hallucination actually exist?

It must’ve been backwash from the morbid dream.

creeeeeeeeeeek—

He’d heard the noise the instant he’d returned to the bedroom. It’s just a house noise! he insisted. Old rafters settling! There’s no one in the friggin’ attic!

Still…he had no choice but to look up to the trapdoor.

DAMN it! Not convinced by his own common sense, once again, Fanshawe was standing on his bed, pushing out the panel, and extracting the rope ladder. Penlight in hand, and glazed in sweat from the nightmare, he climbed back into the attic.

The warm, steep-roofed chamber seemed smaller, more narrow than earlier, and hotter even though the temperature had dropped with the sun. Nothing differed about the sight that greeted him: dingy storage boxes, piles of threadbare drapes, and lots of cobwebs. Fanshawe aimed to step into his previous footprints in the dusty floor, but as he looked closer, he noticed prints that couldn’t have been his own from previous visits; they were smaller. He’d thought nothing of them the first time, presumed they were Baxter’s…

But he didn’t think that now.

Hmm…

They seemed to lead an entire circuit about the attic’s outermost walls—and seemed to stop at various places.

At the back of the chamber, his nose crinkled. A faint but unpleasant odor like old cigars revealed itself. Fanshawe recalled smelling it the first time he’d been up, and now he saw why: a fat cigar butt sat in the corner. Using thumb and forefinger, he picked it up and examined the band, but why he was inclined to do so he couldn’t imagine. MONTE CRISTO # 1, the band read. HABANA.

This is a good cigar, he thought. He knew this only because Artie was very much imbued with the current rage of elitist cigar-mania. Yuck, he thought and dropped it.

Of all his bewilderment lately, Fanshawe was conscious of this: what bewildered him most was himself. What am I DOING up here? He felt silly now, underwear-clad, dripping sweat. He leaned back against the bare-wood panel and sighed—
click

Fanshawe felt the wall behind him…give.

He turned, sweeping his light up and down, and found the wall-frame cleverly hinged. Not a wall, a door…

A hidden door, evidently.

Ancient rust grated when he pushed the wall frame back, paused, then stepped into another attic chamber even longer and more narrow than the original. Well, what could this be? Beyond, dust lay inches thick, with no evidence of prints. Where the accessible chamber smelled “woody,” this one smelled interminably stale, such that he gagged. Garlands of cobwebs stretched across his face as he proceeded; he had to push through the webs to make out any details at all…

But there were details.

Long tables, sets of shelves, then rows of wide cylindrical objects too festooned to be identifiable. He waded closer through fetid dark, then began to clear the mass of cobwebs off the arcane objects…

Big cans? he guessed, but they were open-topped and felt thick. Pots?

Or—

Cauldrons!

Even in the trickling heat, Fanshawe felt a refreshing excitement. Here was the cove that Jacob Wraxall had written of but had never been found—The place he performed his rituals in. No wonder the authorities never found it—it’s been hidden all this time…

Next, his hand plowed through more and more webs, revealing rotten shelved books. There were dozens. In the corner, he swept off a hoary cast-iron wood stove with an exceedingly long exhaust pipe. The pipe led all the way down the center ceiling beam, then branched into the back of the chimney. Fanshawe studied the pipe’s trek with his light, thinking. Why not just put an exhaust pipe up through the roof above the stove? It would’ve been easier and cheaper. But maybe…

Had Wraxall deliberately gone to the extra trouble, to conceal the fact that there was a stove in the attic? No one would ask questions about chimney smoke…

He pulled out several decrepit books, some of which nearly fell apart in his hands. Close examination with his light revealed titles either too eroded to be deciphered or simply non-existent. But another book, larger than most, lay in a wooden traycase; he carefully set it on the dust-cloaked table, lifted the hinged lid, and made out: DAEMONOLATREIA, presumably the title, and presumably in gold leaf. He gasped to find the Latin text inside unflawed and the condition of the paper nearly mint. There was another gasp when he looked at the copyright page: Lyons, 1595.

Other books lacking traycases were severely worm-holed, some with pages that had turned soft and tenuous as cheesecloth, but the last one he pulled out…

Holy shit.

Fanshawe squinted in the tiny light-beam. This was no printed book; the coarse off-color pages revealed ghostly blurs of what had to be hand-written lines.

Wraxall’s writing?

Another diary. Each passage was prefixed by a date between 1670 and 1675—The last five years of Wraxall’s life, he recalled—and was followed by tight identical script.

29 Aprill 1670 - ‘Twas enraptur’d in Contemplation, and reckon’d ye Impression as if ye Prince of Air himself sat betwixt myself and ye Clutterham Girl, read one line. It smote me like a blow ye intellection that Master into mine Ear whisper’d thus: ‘Yea, never must thou scruple to render Expression of their Ilk, though thou sit with them at Service-Time. Instead, forbear such Trifles, for Trifles they are, and let come into thy head Blasphemies, not Altruisms, extreame Evillness, not Generosity; muse of Murther and Unwilling Consorte, not Charitie, for this sarve as Poyson to ye God of Sheep. In Hell, thou shalt be touch’d by ye Truth of Grand and Infernall Reward. A God of Sheep I am not, but a God of Promises Kept. Embosom faith, and I wilt shew thee.’ Aye! to my Mind then verily it was come to Understand’g! Forsooth, their God is such an One like ours, onlie Lighte, not Dark, only soft of Heart, not sturdy of Will. For such kindly Sheep, Lucifer hath naught. ‘Tis in thy Holy Darkness that we must needs to esteem ye Darker Visions and - shout out Praise! - our true Intendment! As ye porridge-faced Parson qouth Scripture, I mused upon ye Image of severing ye Clutterham Girl’s head from her Bodie whilst ravaging her of ye Loins.

Fanshawe’s wince couldn’t have been more intense; he didn’t know what to make of such scribbling. His penlight scanned down to another line, which he eventually decrypted. 2 Maye 1670 - To-day with ye Post deliverie arrived what I have so long desir’d: ye missive from ye most laudable Wilsonne in Wilsthorpe, grant’d license most pleas’d that he shou’dst receive me. When my trust’d Rood was at an end of smothering ye Poor-House Boye in ye Attick, I order’d him to assemble all necessarie Appurtenances for ye Long Journie across ye Great Sea.

This reference was recognizable to Fanshawe. Wilson, Wilsonne, he thought. Has to be the warlock Wraxall went to Europe to meet with—the man he bought the Gazing Ball from…

He flipped forward several leafs, and let the penlight beam fall on another entry. 25 December 1671 - With Spayd and Mattock myself and Rood, at a graven Hour, un-interr’d ye Bones of one Rose Mothersole, Grandam of a Witch of some Repute in Regions nere Castringham. These Bones we stole away downe the Verge, in Fish-Baskets so not to allarm ye Working-Men on their waye to ye Woode next morn. ‘Twas a heady Brew we boil’d said Bones into - yea, a most stout and pungent Draught of Witch-Water yet. ‘Shall I be grant’d Privilege of espying through a Looking-Glass, my lord?’ ask’d ye loyal Sarvant Rood, and I answer’d, ‘Thou shalt, but not this Daye and not with this Water. For ye next Glass I hath deemed it best to use ye thus unprepar’d Water from ye Bones of mine own Beautiful and Horrid Daughter, whom we shall un-entomb at the especial tyme, and split me if I lie.’ Which after Rood made Inquiry, shew’g extream fervor. ‘What, then, Master, is ye Thing we shall venture by this Witch-Water hither?’ No long Time expir’d when the virile Rood’s Answer was at Hand, for I engaged the Mothersole Water in the Affordment of a Channell with ye Dead and so call’d up ye Soul of a sartain Wretch’d Wizard and Chymist of skille once hail’d of Old Dunnich, one Harken Whateley, whom Wilsonne much impress’d was utmost Important, and, indeed, ye Wizard answer’d with Ghoulish Lighte hard by and a Stench to cause a Corpse to Gust, and grant’d what It was I most ask’d in mine Mind - yes! - the second of ye Two Secrets, just as was Wilsonne’s Pledge! I told Rood that our Time would soon be next to us - whereat Lucifer be prais’d!

The second of the Two Secrets? Fanshawe questioned. What’s the first? A chill that was somehow hot made him recoil; his head ached from the constant squint. I’m the first person to see this in over three hundred years, and the first to even set foot in this place since then… Without forethought, he felt obliged to tell Abbie and Mr. Baxter about the discovery—he was certain they’d be avid about it—but when he mulled the prospect over, an obvious frustration made him sigh. How would I explain coming up here in the first place? I’m technically trespassing. Booking the room doesn’t give me the right to rummage around in their attic. Would they even believe him if he told the truth, that he’d heard a sound like a footstep creaking on old wood? I wouldn’t believe it, so why should they? And what would Abbie think of such an explanation? She likes me, and I like her… She’d probably think I’m full of shit, a crackpot…

Fanshawe knew he’d have to give it more thought. The discovery of the secret room and its contents were distracting him; he was too excited to think with circumspect. This additional diary alone was quite a prize. He flipped through more leaves but found most pages blurred to illegibility. He put it away for now.

What else is up here? His heart thumped at the consideration. And…

What was it Baxter also said?

A pentagram on the floor. A pentagram drawn in blood.

Fanshawe held the penlight between his teeth now, as he went to his knees and began to crawl about. His hands ploughed away the drifts of dust, to disclose bare, very dry wooden planks that so many centuries had turned ashen gray. He swore at the pricks of several splinters, and sweat from his brow dripped to the floor, leaving dark spots, but when one such spot appeared two-toned…

He leaned down closer.

Yeah, there’s something…

A strip of something darker seemed to emerge from his efforts, a curved strip. Fanshawe turned frantic, sweeping the dust away in the direction of the marking’s layout; the action raised a gritty fog that made him cough. Christ, what if a guest in another room hears me? but the fear of that vanished when he realized he was uncovering a circle on the floor.

Unbelievable. They were right.

A few minutes’ time was all it took for Fanshawe to sufficiently clear the intended space. Marking the wood was a circle, six feet wide, and within the circle was a crude but obvious five-pointed star. Now, if he leaned any closer, his nose would touch the floor. It wasn’t paint that crafted the diagram, but some manner of stain.

The passage of so many years had dimmed the stain, of course, but Fanshawe knew it was blood.

Just like Baxter said.

Several other unidentifiable characters, geometric shapes, and letters had been drawn within the pentagram’s inner spaces, similar to those he noticed on the pedestal of the Gazing Ball. They reeked of occultism. Furthermore, at each of the pentagram’s five points he found what might be accumulations of wax…

Fanshawe was up and about, searching all the more. Everything he’d found thus far verified what Baxter had said so cynically: that Wraxall’s diary claimed the existence of cauldrons, ritual paraphernalia, and a blood-forged pentagram in the attic, none of which had ever been found until now.

But there was something else, too.

Shelves toward the end revealed several cabinets. When Fanshawe opened the first one, the door actually fell out when the rusted hinges gave way, but he caught it, stifling a surprised shout. More books here, only better preserved than those he’d found previously. One archaic folder with a cover made of runneled sheet metal contained more parchment of Wraxall’s tight handwriting. Fanshawe could barely make out what headed the top sheet: Copy’d & Transcript’d by J.Wraxall, Esq., from ye Latin - Al Azif, pps. 713-751. Next he unwrapped a tome draped in an old white cloth with cross embroidered on it in red. Inside the folder were countless sheets of manuscript copy, all in different hands, and apparently torn samples of hand-scrivened Bibles eons old. There were also drawings and engravings whose subject matter was obvious: crouched and smiling demons, cloaked monstrosities, smoke-belching pits just revealing wan faces in torment. The images unsettled Fanshawe to the point of faint nausea; they even made him feel watched, but he alternately interrupted his inspection with quick turns of his light as if expecting to find a face in the chamber’s dust-veiled darkness, a grimacing face, a dead face.

A final bordered drawing amongst the stolen pages showed a scene that to even Fanshawe—now, and given his unease—came as no surprise: a hooded wizard in a surplice of shining jewels, standing in a pentagram with candles burning at each point. But the smoke of the candles contorted into thin, lurid figures like vexatious phantoms; some had warped faces that seemed to evaluate Fanshawe directly. Nude, sultry witches cavorted about the circle, some with fangs, some with horns, some with bloody grins; the artist’s skill hid no details of their physicalities. Below the scene read PENETR. AD INTER. MORT. - NEK. SEPT. WILS. Of this, Fanshawe could decipher nothing, but why did the “Wils.” make him think of “Wilson” or “Wilsonne,” the name of the warlock Wraxall conferred with in England? And the “Nek.” must be an abbreviation for “Necromancer.” Whatever the case, the artist’s rendition of the subject showed only thin, baneful eyes peering beyond the hood. The warlock’s left hand grasped a limp loop of something—entrails?—while the right hand held, of all things, a looking-glass. And in the background?

An erect, orbed object very similar to the Gazing Ball on the hillock.

This is unreal, Fanshawe thought. The hot chill returned, along with the conception that this room was steeped in evil, the byproducts of a man who truly believed himself to be in league with forces contrary to all things decent. Fanshawe entertained that a malignancy hung in the air as thick as the centuries-old dust that he’d raised. These were not logical things to think but he couldn’t escape the notion. He put the books away, his mind racing along with the apprehensions that kept rising with the dust. He had the impression that the cabineted books were those which Wraxall valued above the others. His most important reference material— Several more books and folders rested in the cabinet’s age-scented maw, most protected by fabric wraps half decomposed. He couldn’t wait to examine these as well, in good light, but there was something else that further fanned his excitement, however dark it may have been.

He nearly retreated when a second cabinet offered a sack full of mummified hands. Fuck! he thought, but then deeper in the cabinet he found a several other small sacks, but these were full of bones—bones that were beyond a doubt human. Wraxall boiled them, for his rituals, for his…witch-water… In a third cabinet he found delicate wooden racks of corked glass cylinders that reminded him of overlarge test tubes. Could these contain the witch-water Wraxall had supposedly said was here?

Oh, God—

A gulp and a shudder told him no, for when he held a tube up to the penlight’s beam he detected a diminutive form in the bottom of the tube, a form suspended in murky liquid the color of honey. Fanshawe paled and put the rack back. The form was a human fetus.

Wraxall purchased aborted fetuses, he remembered. He ground them up and burned them for—

But why finish the awful thought?

One last cabinet sat against the end wall. When he opened it, the hinge keened so loudly he feared it might be overheard, but… I’ve come too far to stop now. He opened the cabinet fully.

More verification of what Baxter scoffed at sat neatly stacked before Fanshawe’s eyes. A dozen exact duplicates of the looking-glass down in his room.

He picked one out, and a ridge formed on his brow when it realized its duplicity wasn’t quite exact.

A lot lighter than the other one, he told himself, hefting it. Then he noticed that it had no lenses in place.

The explanation was obvious: These looking-glasses aren’t filled.

Because that’s what Wraxall did. Abbie implied that “witch-water” had multiple uses for the practitioner of the witchcraft, but her words drifted back into his head: …my guess is that Wraxall filled the inside of the looking-glass with the witch-water, and this would somehow produce an occult effect.

No, these glasses weren’t filled but the one Fanshawe had stolen was. And when he looked through that same glass last night…

An hallucination? Or an occult effect?

He deflected a coughing fit from the dust when he rummaged further, but what he hoped to find wasn’t far to seek. Several shelves on the bottom of the cabinet were lined with glass-stopped flasks—much like hip-flasks—sealed in black wax. Here it is…

His light showed him that yellowed labels adorned each flask, and on each label someone—probably Wraxall—had written tight, cursive initials.

J. C., S.O., E. H., and several others. The initials were obviously people—whose bones Wraxall had culled from their graves. Fanshawe immediately picked up a flask, knowing what it contained: water.

But not just ANY kind of water…

He dusted the flask off and shined his light through it, finding its contents almost but not completely clear.

Wraxall boiled the bones of witches and THIS is some of that water.

There could be no question: the occultist had planned to fill these glasses with the water in these same flasks, and then look through them.

What would he see?

And what did I see when I looked out last night?

Hunching lower, he quickly examined all of the flasks, twenty in all. Three of them had been labeled E.W.

“Evanore…”

When Fanshawe reset the hidden door and went back to his suite, he already knew he wasn’t going to tell Abbie or Mr. Baxter about his discovery, at least not right away.

There was something else to do first.

— | — | —

CHAPTER EIGHT

(I)

Crickets throbbed; even a few bats flitted. Overhead the near-full moon projected down so much radiant white light, Fanshawe felt apprehensive that someone might see him, but…

Who would be on the trails at this hour?

It was half-past eleven now. After alighting from the attic he’d immediately gone downstairs. The inn was dead-quiet save for dim television squawk. He peeked around the hall from the elevator and saw the night clerk watching a baseball game. Eventually, the lanky man muttered, “Damn Red Sox,” then rose as if irked. When he turned toward a coffee pot, Fanshawe slipped past and out the front doors.

Now he stood amongst the hillocks, gazing back at the inn through the looking-glass. Yeah, who would be on the trails at this hour…besides me?

He felt consumed by the nighttime, as though it had somehow incorporated him into its essence. He rationalized that he wasn’t “peeping” this time; instead, he’d engaged himself in this final experiment before he returned the glass to its proper place and never touched it again. His revelations in the attic had confirmed everything Mr. Baxter had said about it.

Except for this…

It wasn’t quite midnight when he began his “experiment” in earnest. He swept his one-eyed gaze across the town’s panorama. The streetlamps of Main and Back Street shone bright, yet few people were seen strolling the streets, and only one couple had an outside table at the café he’d visited yesterday. He noted the pillory closest to the corner—empty, of course. Again, Fanshawe felt impressed by the archaic optics of the device; something about the lens—or was it the cryptic water behind it?—seemed to magnify all available light to an effect of hyper-concentration. He could see the grid-work of storm screens, smudges on windowpanes, the actual patterns of rust on a ridgepole. Fanshawe focused on an ash tree spiring in the middle of the town square, and could count its individual leaflets. The blade-sharp acuity of the looking-glass made Fanshawe’s mind jiggle.

But the Travelodge windows revealed not a single parted drape tonight, nor any late-night swimmers. Over at the inn, Abbie’s window stood dark and so did those of the joggers, while another window offered only a withered old man—regrettably naked—who stumbled in and out of view. Probably one of the professors, Fanshawe concluded, after a few too many Witch-Blood Shooters. The window blinked out.

“Nothing tonight,” he muttered under his breath, but that was good, wasn’t it? No fuel to stoke his disease. And that’s not why I’m out here anyway…

Of course it wasn’t. He’d come to see if the looking-glass would actually “work.”

As it had seemed to last night.

The town and all its details were as they should be. So it WAS hallucination or a dream… Next, he had to ask himself if he’d genuinely believed that Wraxall’s three-century-old glass might possess occult properties. After all, he’d found the pentagram with its borders of blood, he’d found the other glasses as well as flasks of the witch-water, he’d found bones.

But that doesn’t mean that these things would really show me the town in Wraxall’s time. It was only the possibility that they would, reinforced first by his coincidental dream-mirage last night and, second, by the power of suggestion via the paraphernalia in the attic’s secret room.

Foolishness, he knew, for a fool like me. Who am I kidding? I can’t even kid MYSELF. I came out here to scope some windows, and I used all that mumbo-jumbo bullshit as an excuse…

Just then, Fanshawe’s exorbitantly expensive watch began to beep: the alarm, signaling midnight.

Look for me again, any time thou art inclined, he’d actually believed Evanore’s waxwork had said. And she’d said something else—

After midnight, sir—

“Midnight,” he whispered.

The mirage he’d thought he’d seen last night had only been viewable after the stroke of midnight. Initially, he’d felt sure that’s when the town had changed…

Midnight. The Witching-Hour. Isn’t that what they called it? Fanshawe stood among the brambles, pasty-faced in the moon’s gauzy glare. The looking-glass seemed to grow warm in his hand, as if daring him to raise it…

He determined not to do that, but a moment later he did it anyway.

And stared.

The town, now, stood as it had last night: smaller, dark, dilapidated, its outskirts impoverished; it seemed to huddle in on itself as if against some unspoken fear. A lone horse and rider moved slowly along the dirt-paved Main Street. Another man, with a lantern swinging to and fro, walked in the direction opposite; a long-stemmed pipe in his mouth showed a luminous orange dot that alternately brightened and dulled.

Did Fanshawe hear a faint but desperate mewl?

The pillory he’d previously seen at the corner now displayed the head and hands of some unfortunate woman, not the blonde from his last look, but someone with longer, darker hair. On the ground lay eggshells and husks of rotten fruit where rats frolicked, but the rodents scattered when the lantern-bearer came close. After saying something to the pilloried woman, he laughed and emptied one nostril into her hair by thumbing the other closed, then stepped behind her. Fanshawe anticipated another rape but such was not the case. Instead, the man raised the woman’s tattered skirt and tapped his pipe out on her bare buttocks. The woman bucked in her wooden brace; a shriek wheeled high into the air.

Another sound—like a splattering—urged Fanshawe to incline the glass. At a farther corner yet another woman hung in a pillory, vomiting.

He veered back to the lantern-bearer, who was just turning into the front door of the church. The lantern vanished but reappeared a minute later up in the steeple’s belfry.

Then the bell began to toll.

Fanshawe had heard it last night, the deep sonorous peals that were somehow deep but strangely brittle.

The bell was tolling midnight…

Something rustled behind him; Fanshawe turned, but he turned with the glass still to his eye. It was within a much more distant hillock that he spied the moon-lit crush of naked bodies churning, squirming, and writhing all amongst each other as though they were a single entity of their own.

You’ve gotta be shitting me…

It was an orgy taking place in the clearing, its participants exploring every sexual position conceivable—and some not conceivable—as a taller almost block-like figure looked on from between two trees. Was it this figure they were performing for, or their own unreserved lust? Both, Fanshawe felt sure. Women’s backs arched in orgasmic release, their breasts thrust, while men proceeded like animals in rut. Sweat glazed the mass of fervent bodies, moans rose up, and shrieks of diabolic glee shot out into the hot night. Had cryptic markings been crudely painted on backs, bellies, and faces of the orgiasts? Markings like those he’d seen on the Gazing Ball’s pedestal?

One grinning woman—painted all over with upside-down crosses—allowed her nipples to be pricked by a knife, after which men and women alike took turns sucking out blood. Another woman, staked spread-eagled to the ground, pleaded to be taken time and time again, harder, faster, more, over and over, and there was no shortage of suitors to answer the plea. A woman hanging by a tree-strung noose shrieked gutturally as a man fornicated with her while standing up. Her legs were wrapped about his hips as he deftly thrust, and at special moments he’d lower himself on his knees, to semi-strangle the woman during the process. Each application of the technique caused the woman’s face to bloat and pinken, but it was not a look of horror that came over her expression; instead it was a look of a glutton’s glee. Aside, two more women squirmed panting in the dirt as they alternately slipped their hands into one another’s sex.

Fanshawe’s heart beat faster and faster.

Strange censers of incense eddied trails of greasy mist about the vista of hidden carnality; while men, obviously spent by their previous trysts, re-aroused themselves by applying unidentifiable balms to their genitals. Yet another woman traversed along on dirty hands and knees, to fellate every man in vicinity. Eventually, she made her way to the watchful figure between the trees, and provided the same ministration. The figure stood still as a wood carving, yet its evident orgasm so overpowered the woman that she collapsed in the dirt, a gush of fluid flowing from her agape mouth. Two men rushed up then, grabbed her by the ankles, and pulled her back into the copulative fray, conscious or unconscious—it hardly mattered…

Fanshawe’s mind swam at the sights. The visions stoked his sickness like a bellows to a coal bed; he stared and stared and stared, reveling in every perverse image. He was so intoxicated by the sights that he’d forgotten his purpose, his “experiment.”

He didn’t care.

Eventually, the debauchers slowed, then flopped to a halt, drained of all energy; they collapsed upon one another in a sweating, lust-sullied pile. Fanshawe let the looking-glass’s circular field trail upward. Where the block-like sentinel had stood between the trees, there was now just a drift of sooty smoke that only seemed to adhere in a vague semblance of the figure’s shape.

Did the smoky area where its face had been smile?

Fanshawe was not himself now. He felt black inside, he felt drugged by what he’d seen—

And I want to see more…

In the distance, a dog barked, but Fanshawe didn’t care. He moved to a lower hillock with a more direct view of the inn. All the windows were black, save for one.

Mine, he realized.

In the light of many candles, Jacob Wraxall sat at a desk, writing with a quill pen. A shadow slinked across the back of the room but Wraxall remained intent on his writing. Then, hands landed on Wraxall’s shoulders from behind—small, graceful white hands, connected to lambent white arms; the contact sufficiently surfaced the Van Dyked man from his writing muse, and then he turned.

He turned to embrace his naked daughter.

Evanore moved around into view; she was naked, glittering in a mist of sweat. Her breasts seemed inflamed, nipples jutting conspicuously as pink rivets, which Wraxall leaned upward to take into his mouth. The witch’s long, shining hair spilled over her bare shoulders like blood. Her eyes closed to slits as she focused on her father’s tendings.

Fanshawe zoomed in closer, in spite of the impossibility of what he was seeing.

He’d seen porn movies less overt. Evanore’s curvaceous form turned, leaned, and then she brushed her father’s sheets off the table.

Then she traversed, facing him as he remained in his chair. Her thighs parted automatically, and then her fingers clasped behind her father’s head, urging him forward and down.

Her stomach sucked in and out, her breasts heaved. Wraxall performed oral sex with the voracity of an animal eating…and apparently with some exactitude. The younger woman’s head rolled around, her body grew more and more tense from the waves of pleasure. Then, as the crescendo approached, she locked her ankles behind her father’s neck, lifted her buttocks off the table, and…

Fanshawe heard her shrieks of release all the way up on the hillock.

This can’t be…but it is…

Finally, he allowed the impossible truth to consciously occur to him: I’m watching a warlock go down on his daughter three hundred years ago…

Evanore lay back flat, hanging off the table; Wraxall seemed pleased in the aftermath, and slowly glided his hands adoringly over his daughter’s body, which lay out before him like an opened newspaper. Eventually he rose, leaving Evanore immobile and quite sated. Aside, he poured himself a glass of wine.

What’s going on now, I wonder, Fanshawe thought, his eye glued to the glass.

Wraxall had looked upward, and called something out. Behind the desk, then, a rope ladder fell into view, and down the ladder came another man, much younger than Wraxall, dark-haired and clean-shaven. The man, like Evanore, was naked; he was also obviously aroused from some activity in the attic, yet Fanshawe didn’t want to think why he was aroused. Callister Rood, Fanshawe realized. Wraxall’s apprentice. But whereas Evanore’s body was glazed in sweat, Rood’s was splattered in blood.

Wraxall, with his glass of wine, stood back in the attitude of a spectator. At once his gaunt face was overcome by the lewdest grin. No words were spoken; Rood acted through the instinct of experience. He stepped up to the table where Evanore lay worn-out, placed her ankles on his shoulders, and—

No holding hands in the park for this guy…

Rood’s rough, automatonic intercourse revitalized Evanore to her former promiscuous self. She squirmed on the table, back arching, her hands smearing the splatters of blood across Rood’s muscled chest. Each hard thrust vibrated the woman’s breasts and inched the table across the floor. Wraxall’s mouth was moving—was he giving verbal orders to his apprentice? Corrupt delight filled his sharp green eyes and, next, he’d approached the writing-table with a candle, tilted it, and let scalding droplets of wax land on his daughter’s belly and breasts. Evanore was soon shrieking again, contorting on the table, her toes curling; Rood contorted a bit himself, his own back arched now, cords in his neck standing out. When his thrusts grew almost too brutal for Fanshawe to watch, they slowed to a halt. Rood fell into the chair behind him, exhausted. But Evanore only leaned up, grinning and licking her lips, and diddling with some final sensations with her own hand.

Fanshawe felt winded himself watching it all.

Yet there was still more to watch. The following effort seemed like something in concert: the blood-smeared Rood stood up, Evanore rose with him, then Wraxall himself came around. The three of them stood directly before the window.

They looked right back at Fanshawe and smiled.

Fanshawe wobbled in place and stumbled backward. The impact of what he’d glimpsed—those three grinning faces—made his heart skip beats; it took several moments to straighten himself and realign the looking-glass, but when he did so—

The trio had dispersed from their place at the window. Wraxall was now standing in the background, as if in supervision. Meanwhile, Rood was ascending the rope ladder, after which Wraxall tossed a length of rope upwards. The rope was snatched, then it tightened, as the now unseen Rood began to pull on it. Slowly, and in hitches, a slim, nude figure—a teenaged girl or boy—rose upside-down, gagged, tied up, eyes wide in horror.

Another verification. Abbie said the diary they have verified that Wraxall snatched local children… But was something different? Fanshawe wasn’t sure but it seemed that the candle light was darker now, and Wraxall’s clothes were different. Then he noticed another window—on a lower level—with a light on that hadn’t been on before. In the frame, Evanore could be seen fully clothed in a plaited dress with puffed shoulders. She was intently reading a large book.

Fanshawe took his eye away. Evanore seemed to have gotten dressed and moved downstairs very quickly.

He looked again. Evanore’s window was dark, and so was the window where Wraxall and Rood had been raising the abducted child aloft.

Logic, of course, did not register with Fanshawe now. How could it? How can I expect things to make sense when I’m insane? he was candid enough to ask himself. He lowered the glass, took a breath and rubbed his eyes, then looked again.

The scene in the room that would eventually be his shouted back at him. Instead of frenetic sex taking place on the writing-desk, a body lay sprawled, its ruffled shirt ripped apart, revealing a chest that looked rotor-tilled. The face of the corpse remained out of view, but great jettisons of blood seemed to have been fired against the papered walls. A bloodbath, Fanshawe thought. But who is it? Again he lowered the glass, to think.

What’s happening to me? Why am I seeing this? I HAVE to be insane, he thought, but he didn’t finish the rest of the intimation:

What if he wasn’t insane?

He got the gist now that each time he lowered the glass and then re-raised it, some shift in time took place—not time now but the time-period he was viewing. That would explain Evanore’s near-instantaneous relocation, and Wraxall’s different apparel so quickly after he’d been grinning out the window. Now Fanshawe saw Evanore naked in yet another room, on the far end, lowering herself into a wide-lipped bathtub, but in this glimpse, her breasts were even larger, and she was extremely pregnant. The next glimpse showed Wraxall himself strolling about the yard, pipe in mouth, as he contemplated the stars.

And the next glimpse?

He heard a creaking sound, yet all the windows of the house were dark. Fanshawe scanned the yard with the glass, then caught a slightly swinging form of some kind. It was in the back yard, where the parking lot existed now, and from a tree that was no longer there, a man hung from a rope around his neck. Fanshawe zoomed forward in the moonlit dimness. The hanged man was Callister Rood.

For shit sake, what IS this?

Fanshawe paced the hillock’s meager clearing. Beyond, and without the aid of the glass, Haver-Towne stood well lit in the sodium light of its street lamps. He picked one such lamp out and raised the glass to look at it specifically.

The street lamp disappeared.

He wasn’t even surprised now. One of Dr. Tilton’s “fugue-states?” He’d seen on TV once that a rare tick passed a virus that caused hallucinations, but at this he laughed even as he scanned the town’s three-hundred-year-old streets. Yeah, that sounds JUST like my karma, yes sir. A fuckin’ TICK-bite is making me see all this.

“Sir, pray allow me?” a soft voice drifted behind him. “Thou oughtn’t take away the glass if thou wish to fancy my aspect. You need only turn, and elevate thy gaze.”

Fanshawe froze in place at the sound of the exotic, accented voice. It was a voice he’d heard before—at the waxworks—but his disorientation blocked out the impossibility of everything now. Oh, what the hell? he thought, laughing. He followed the instructions.

Evanore Wraxall smiled down at him from the next hill; she wore a tight black cloak, and was no longer pregnant. The moonlight somehow made her green eyes look larger, like an erotic yet vampiric caricature—the image stole Fanshawe’s breath. Her crude gown stretched against the solidity of her curves; and the facial expression he’d previously noticed suggested a classical beauty jammed together with abominable knowledge and sick-in-the-head carnality.

The image mesmerized Fanshawe.

“Alight from thy deceptions on which thou hast been weaned, and arise to thy true self, sir,” the woman—or apparition—said. “Steel thee against the sheep and hypocrites and weaklings, and stake out the bounty and claim it as thine own—if thou dost have the heart…”

Fanshawe stared, shaking.

“—a heart so black as to be stygian, sir, a black blacker, too, than the very abyss…,” and then the woman began to peel the crude gown slowly down her body until she stood nude in the moonlight.

“A heart black enough to butcher babes, sir, babes in their cribs—yea, black enough to see the blood of the innocent without a falter, and to dis-entrench the corpses of your loved ones as they still lie ripe, and to do so smiling.” Her lips and nipples looked black in the moonlight, while her skin seemed luminous. “All this we do in ebullience, so to praise our Master and clutch our reward so devoutly earned.”

She pointed toward another hillock, a sudden breeze billowing her blood-red hair. Her voice flowed like some tenuous dark fluid. “Lower the glass, sir, and then look, to descry the quality on mine own heart…”

Mechanically, Fanshawe lowered the looking-glass, let a moment pass, then aimed it where she’d just pointed.

Flaming torches bobbed amid rancorous shouts as colonists stood crowded about the hill. Men in tri-cornered hats and canvas trousers wielded pitchforks and muskets. From the mob came salvoes of invectives: “Witch!” “Idolater!” “Fornicatress!” “The Divell’s concubine!”

Wedges of shifting light and shadow diced up Sheriff Patten’s badly complected face; his girth threatened to pop the copper buttons of his star-badged vest. Two other men held Evanore fast by her arms, forcing her to face her accusers. She’d been stripped, her initial punishment of branding having already been administered: blistered shapes of crosses showed on her breasts, abdomen, and pubis. Her eyes remained narrowed throughout, and her lips were set in a narrow smile that could only be described as mocking.

The dour-faced pastor approached with a small Bible, and when he began to read the Rites for the Condemned, she parted her thighs, pushed her groin forward, and urinated.

“Despicable harlot! Evil’s sarvant who lives and breathes to transgress the Creator! May thee be damned to torment eternal!”

Evanore answered in a throaty voice, “Drink thee of this, heartily,” as she urinated harder. “’Tis of youthful boys you dream, father. And do please enlighten your devout High Sheriff that his arousal wilt soon be betraying him—”

Patten nodded to a deputy, who promptly brought a knurled cudgel across Evanore’s jaw. After the sick smack! loops of blood and several teeth flew out of her mouth. The only reaction she provided, however, was a scarlet grin.

Patten opened a scroll of parchment. “Evanore Wraxall, child of God agone, who so of thine own free will hast embraced Satan and his minions, and his imps and his divells, this just Tribunal of Assizes, in the name of our Savior, and in service to His Majesty the King’s New Colony of Hampshire, I hereby administrate thy sentence.” Patten’s eyes seized the woman, flicking once to her bosom. “Dost thou have any words to descant in thy defense?”

“Thou shall take thyself of thy hand tonight, good Sheriff, and of my body thou wilt muse, just as have you many, many times before,” Evanore calmly said.

It was Patten’s good fortune that the shifting light hid his blush. “By decree I am so ordered to say thus: may the Lord thy God grant mercy on thy soul.”

Evanore shrieked laughter as blood drooled off her lips.

“Let’s be about this,” the Parson whispered with a grimace. “There be no Godly justice so long as this intercourse-soiled attendant of Lucifer doth live…”

Another directorial nod from Patten, and his deputies dragged Evanore to the side, where a wall of flinty-faced spectators parted—

Fanshawe’s heart seemed to hiccup.

—to reveal the barrel with the ten-inch-wide hole in it.

The mob’s commotion rose. Evanore didn’t resist as she was hoisted up and then shoved down into the barrel. A rough hand reached into the hole, snatched her hair, and yanked her head out. When the horseshoe-shaped collar was slipped over her neck, the crowd cheered.

Aw, no, aw, shit… Fanshawe knew what came next; impulse urged him to pull the glass away but when he tried, it was as though it had been glued to his eye. He detected, first, the hush of the crowd, then—

The growls of a vicious dog.

The parson exclaimed, “May thy death be as revulsive as thy abominable sins…”

A slavering snarl fluttered through the air; it sounded monstrous. Another flank of spectators parted. Fanshawe half-fainted when he saw the size of the Doberman that was then led through the divide. The stout-armed deputy holding it back on its chain could barely manage to keep on his feet. It’s the size of a small horse, Fanshawe thought in dread. The animal’s eyes looked insane, which was understandable since it had clearly been deprived of food for some time. When the beast spotted the barrel—and the head sticking out—it surged forward by instinct, paws kicking up great scoops of dirt. Just as bad as the anticipation were the looks on the faces of the townsfolk as they watched:

They looked giddy with excitement.

I can’t watch this, Fanshawe knew but, still, he could not take the looking-glass away. Enthused squeals rose up when the deputy lost hold on the leash, and—

Holy Mother of—

The dog was so large its jaws were able to take nearly all of Evanore’s head into its mouth in a single lunge. Ropes of foam poured from its black lips; the sounds were nauseating. Fanshawe managed a blink, after which his vision registered just in time to see the ravenous animal peel most of Evanore’s face and scalp off like pulling off a stocking mask. The animal deftly swallowed the macabre meal in reversed heaves, hair and all. The crowd “Oooooooo’d,” paused, then cheered.

Evanore’s head now existed as a skinned skull. It hung limp as the dog devoured what it had torn away but then—impossibly…

The head moved in increments—

Holy SHIT!

—and looked up.

The lipless grin and lidless eyes very slowly scanned the crowd.

Evanore’s fleshless mouth moved to laugh as blood squirted out of the space where her face had been. She laughed for a long time.

On the next strike, the dog’s jaws collapsed the convict’s skull altogether, then the creature began to snuffle for collops of brains, but many of the townsfolk had already rushed off the hill, too unnerved by Evanore’s laugh. One woman shouted “’Tis a curse the witch hath put upon us, a curse!” and then a man fretted, “Where is ye difference betwixt this and Divell’s work?”

Patten, the Parson, and the deputies remained, looking on with grim expressions as the great Doberman returned to pick scraps off what little remained of Evanore’s skull.

Fanshawe wanted to be sick; his vision faded in and out like a dimmer switch. “Eat with heartiness, Pluto,” the sheriff said of the dog. “Even as thou slake thy appetite on unholy flesh, God be finely appeased…”

By then, the deputies had hauled Evanore’s near-headless corpse from the barrel and let the dog eat to its heart’s content. The men wish-boned the corpse’s legs, then pointed to the furred groin, which was promptly ripped out and swallowed by the dog. The breasts were tugged off, then the arms and legs were attacked.

“When the beast hath reached its glut,” the parson directed Sheriff Patten, “I want the carcass of this diabolical bitch buried in double-quick time, Sheriff.”

“Granted, my lord, it shall be.”

Fanshawe seemed to feel something in the air, something like a bad portent, and at that identical moment, in the circle of the looking-glass, the Doberman abruptly stopped its rending of Evanore’s now-stick-like remains…and shot its gaze right at Fanshawe.

“Of a sudden, our animal hast grown listless with its meal,” Patten observed, “nearly as if…”

“Aye, nearly as if its senses, which be many times more acute than ours, hath detected a peculiarness of a kind,” said one of the deputies.

A concern stiffened the pastor’s posture; he looked sharply in the direction of the dog’s stare. “’Tis perhaps a black spirit, as such spirits be in specter-haunts such as this”—his suspicion lowered to an etching whisper. “Of mine own self, and though my eyes perceive nothing at odds, I swear verily that I too hath been made sensible of a most unnatural stir…”

The dog’s keeper—the largest of the men—took on a look of panic. “A black spirit, you say my lord? In our midst as we speak?”

“Aye, an entity most evil, son, and lacking all corporality…”

Now the dog’s ears stood up, and so did the short fur on its long, sloped back. Its eyes remained fixed…on Fanshawe.

Oh, my God, it can’t really—

The dog vaulted down the hill, releasing barks like gunfire. Each bound of the Doberman took up fifteen feet, as the men trotted clumsily down after it.

Fanshawe screamed, the glass still to his eye. Just as the dog’s snapping jaws would hit his throat…

“Behold, how it bounds!” Patten yelled, fat riding as he jogged forward, “as of at the thin air alone!”

“’Tis a spirit, yea!” snapped a deputy, “too foul to be observed by Godly men such as we!”

Fanshawe was knocked down like a hinged duck, the looking-glass flying off. When the back of his head slammed the hard-packed dirt beneath him, everything turned black.

— | — | —

CHAPTER NINE

(I)

Fanshawe groaned, feeling as though his face sat directly beneath a very bright heat lamp, and he groaned again when he heard a barking dog.

“Stay away, Winkly!” came a woman’s voice annoying as nails on slate. “It’s a dirty bum! He’s probably got lice and diseases that would be bad for a good little doggie like you!”

A slingshot-like reflex shot Fanshawe bolt upright on the path and pried his eyes open. Moving shapes formed in the block of blazing sun. Oh, no…

“Winkly! Stay!”

Fanshawe could’ve been rising from a coffin; the back of his head beat like an overburdened heart. When vision formed, a yapping poodle hopped around at the end of a taut leash. Frowning above it stood the woman in tights he’d seen before, but today the tights were rainbow-striped. Pocks of cellulite showed through the adhesive fabric, and so did rolls of fat around her belly as though tubes had been wrapped about her waist. I have a feeling this ISN’T a nightmare, Fanshawe thought. Over-mascara’d eyes looked down as if he were the lowest form of life on earth.

The poodle—Winkly—yapped and yapped and yapped, stretching its lead.

“Do you need help?” she asked with distaste. “Are you drunk?”

Fanshawe could imagine how he appeared. The annoying voice pounded in his head. “I…fell down last night, and hit my head,” he murmured.

“Fell down drunk, you mean. I guess I should call an ambulance—I don’t want to be liable…” She flipped out her cellphone but paused, her irksome expression turning more bitter. “Oh, I remember you, making faces at my poor little Winkly, scaring him out of his wits!”

Fanshawe was more irate than embarrassed. He got up, praying he wouldn’t stumble. Take a look in the mirror, then call the ambulance for yourself, he wanted to say. Suddenly he smelled something unpleasant, then noticed that Winkly, who’d stopped yelping, was now laying lines of stool very close to Fanshawe’s feet. Was the little dog actually grinning at him?

Fanshawe snapped. “Lady, if that dog shits on my Norvegese shoes, I’m going to turn the little motherfucker into the world’s first barking kickball.”

The woman burst into tears, scooped up the dog, and shuffled off. “Don’t you hurt my dog! Don’t you hurt my dog, you-you hobo!”

“Hobo, huh?” He took out his black American Express Centurion card and waved it at her. “How’s this for hobo? And by the way, you look like two hundreds pounds of cottage cheese in a hundred-pound sack. Get some of that liposuction, why don’t ya?”

The woman clopped away on wedgelike high-heels, crying outright.

Fanshawe recomposed himself when she was gone. Did I really say that? It wasn’t like him to be hateful, even when someone was hateful to him first. To do that was illogical. She’ll get over it. He felt half-cooked in his crumpled clothes, tried to brush himself off, but then noticed a flash like a sliver of light.

The looking-glass lay in a clump of grass just off the trail. He picked it up, pocketed it, then took the trail down back toward town.

It occurred to him how calm he was as he walked.

Calm?

How could he be calm, after all he’d seen last night?

Back in town, he righted his hair via his reflection in a shop window, then slipped into the café and washed up in the bathroom. The ache in his head receded. His watch told him it was ten in the morning.

He took his coffee to an outside table, and sat down, to think. It only took a few moments for him to realize why he hadn’t freaked out the instant he remembered his visions through the looking-glass: I was afraid I was hallucinating, I was afraid that I’d gone insane, but now? He let every impossible experience thus far flow across his mind’s eye.

I’m NOT insane.

No, he wasn’t hallucinating, he wasn’t suffering from some organic brain defect or some stress-related aberration or a “fugue-state.” It was none of that. Aside from being a voyeur, I’m perfectly normal.

Which could only mean…

The looking-glass was for real, and so was the witchcraft of its origins.

He took the glass out of his pocket and looked at it under the table. He stared as much at the implication as the object itself. It works. The damn thing WORKS…

The only explanation that made any sense was this: the looking-glass was an optical device that displayed the past.

And it means that Jacob Wraxall really was a warlock. And his daughter was a genuine witch.

Fanshawe had no more believed in the supernatural than he believed the world was flat. I’ve GOT to believe it now, he thought, with more of his previous calm. Suddenly he felt just like he had when he’d made his first million in the market.

“Why, if it ain’t the good Mr. Sir!” an all too familiar voice greeted him, “and a pleasant mornin’ it is I hope you’re a-havin’.”

Fanshawe looked up from his coffee. “Hello, Mrs. Anstruther. And, yes, I’m having a very pleasant morning.”

“A pleasanter one couldn’t be asked for, I dare say,” she said, looking up into the sun. She wore a frumpy white dress with black animal prints on it—Fanshawe’s cheek ticked when he spotted a Doberman. But suddenly she took a look at him that seemed concerned. “But, sir, I do hope you’re feeling chipper.”

“Chipper? Uh, sure…”

“I only mean—if I may say it—is you don’t appear the fresher for your night’s rest.”

Fanshawe laughed. That’s because I slept on Witches Hill. “Tossed and turned all night, couldn’t get a wink—too much coffee, I guess. But since you’re here, can I get you a cup?” he offered.

“How kindly you are, sir, but as I’m just off from me break, I’m afraid I ’aven’t the time. Much obliged, sir, much obliged, what of your generous offer. Oh, but since you just ’appen to be stayin’ in the same lodgings”—her voice lowered—“might you have ’eard anymore ’bout that poor man got done away with on the trails, done away so ’orrible like?”

“No, I haven’t, ma’am,” Fanshawe replied, and then the weight of the coincidence hit him. How come that didn’t occur to me before? Eldred Karswell had been found dead with all the flesh stripped off his head. Almost as if he got barreled…

He shrugged away the coincidence for what it was: impossibility. People don’t get ‘barreled’ in this day and age. And Mrs. Anstruther’s question reminded him, I wonder if Artie and the research guys got anymore info on Karswell. I better call him later. “But sometimes I wonder, Mrs. Anstruther. Maybe the horror from one era is no better or worse than the horror of another—it just seems to be.”

The elderly woman reflected. “Why, I never me-self thought on it that way before, sir, but I think it could be you’re right. Might be that our natures are inclined to think things is worse for us than they was for those before us.”

Fanshawe had to mention. “The wax museum might be a good case in point.”

She seemed thrilled. “Oh, so ya finally took yourself a peek in there, did ya?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did, and you were right about it—it gave me a case of the creepers. But, you know, it also showed me—the torture chamber in particular—that humankind has quite a capacity for cruelty.”

“That it does, sir, that it does.” She raised a bony finger. “And maybe if we’se wise, we can learn by what went on back then to make things a sight better now.”

“We can only hope.”

Her voice piped up, and a gleam entered her eye. “And isn’t it amusin’, sir, to consider how folk’d behave if they was able to learn from the past but also from the future?”

Fanshawe didn’t follow her. “You’d need a time machine for that, Mrs. Anstruther, or a psychic—” but then he got it. Jesus, she’s persistent. “Still trying to get me into the palm reader’s, huh?”

She feigned innocence. “Oh, no, sir. I was just bein’…what’s the word? Suppositional! That’s the word, sir, to a T: suppositional, yes, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, ma’am.”

The woman shrieked laughter. “Oh, my word, sir, you’re quite the quipster, yes you is!”

“You must get a kick-back for every person you send over.”

“On my honors, sir, nothing could be more untrue. But seein’ ’ow you’s already bucked yourself up for the waxwork, why not give the palmist’s a go?”

Fanshawe looked at the woman. She’s nuttier than a can of Planter’s, but… He stood up. “You know what, Mrs. Anstruther? I think I’m going to take you up on your dare.”

“Smashing, sir! ’Tis the kind of man God most admires who don’t dither ’bout havin’ a look-in on his destiny—”

I doubt that God admires me very much right now, Fanshawe thought, almost laughing.

“—for God, too, looks quite high on a bloke with a true heart.”

Fanshawe wasn’t comfortable with all the references to ‘hearts’ lately. If thou dost have the heart, Evanore had said, emphasizing the last word. It seemed that her image from last night was daring Fanshawe to confront something, just as the old lady was.

But…confront WHAT? he wondered.

Knowledge, the idea struck him, but that could mean anything.

Or maybe it means nothing. Maybe it’s just a bunch of bullshit she’s talking, so she can get her commission from the palm-reader. “Well, I’m on my way, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Aye,” she said with a strange emphasis.

Fanshawe crossed the cobbles to the redbrick row house whose neon OPEN sign blinked on and off in the window. The bricks could’ve used a sandblasting, and the trim didn’t look like it had been painted in decades. Browned flowers stood crisp in the planters just outside the first-floor windows. Kind of a dump… But he paused before he knocked on the scuffed Federal Period door. First, the address, No. 13, struck a bad chord. Fanshawe rarely believed in omens, good or bad, but after last night?

Maybe I better start.

The next bad chord came from the doorknocker. Mounted on the door’s center stile was an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. It seemed morose, even foreboding.

Fanshawe actually considered turning back. He glanced over his shoulder—You gotta be shitting me!—and saw Mrs. Anstruther watching him, waving.

But what was he afraid of?

Nothing, he thought and rapped on the creepy knocker.

He expected someone marmish—like Mrs. Anstruther—or a foreigner, but instead the door was opened by a tall, gaunt woman—late-thirties, probably—with jet-black hair cut so severely across her bangs and neck it looked like a helmet. She seemed dull-eyed and blanched. A baggy kaleidoscopic T-shirt that read CHISWICK RECORDS hung limp on her shoulders, covering small unbra’d breasts; she also wore a black-denim skirt hemmed by safety pins, and clunky black boots. Fanshawe found the woman gawky, awkward, nerdish, yet interesting in some way. Thick black glasses made her a hybrid of a librarian and an over-the-hill punk rocker.

“Are you here for a reading?” she asked in a reedy voice.

“Yes.” He had the idea she was rattled by him being there. “But if it’s inconvenient, I can make an appointment and come back later.”

She yipped a laugh. “In a recession? Are you kidding? I’m just shocked to have a customer this early. Come on in.”

Fanshawe entered an old-style parlor crammed with old portraits, old furniture, and smoke-stained wallpaper. He liked the cliché. A bumper sticker over a transom read CHIROMANCY IS SEXY. Fanshawe guessed this was another name for fortune telling. “So I guess you’re Letitia Rhodes?”

“Yes, and—” She turned quickly to glance at him. Her eyes looked absurdly large behind the thick glasses. “And you are…well, your first name either starts with an S or an F, but I’m leaning toward the F.”

He remembered the word PSYCHIC in the window. A con, he suspected. She could easily have found out my name. “Better to lean the other way.”

Her shoulders drooped. “Aw, well. Can’t get ’em all.” Her long white hand bid a scroll-couch of some loud red velvety fabric. “Have a seat…S.”

“It’s Stew, Ms. Rhodes.”

“Just call me Lett.”

Lett… He sat down, waiting for her to close her eyes, touch her forehead, and suddenly divine his last name, but she didn’t.

“Sorry it’s so warm”—and she rushed to a wall unit and turned it on. “The damn power company—they raise the rates for no reason.”

“They’ve been known to do that.”

She sat down across from him and pulled out an antique wooden box the size of a toaster oven. She smiled at him, but Fanshawe got the vibe that she was unsettled. By me? One way or another, though, the smile was manufactured. “What kind of reading are you interested in?”

“Well, the palm-reading sounds all right—”

“I can do charts, too,” she added quickly. “Costs more but—” but the rest fell away.

“Let’s try with the simplest first,” Fanshawe said.

Another stiff smile. “That would be palmistry, which is probably the oldest form of fortune telling, and the most widespread. It’s twenty…dollars per palm”—she fidgeted through a pause—“but there’s a summer discount! Fifteen?”

Fanshawe needed to break some ice. She’s not very good at making herself credible. “I’ll pay the twenty…if it’s good.”

“Well, I can’t promise you a favorable reading, but I can promise an accurate one.” She didn’t even look at him when she continued, “More accurate than any reading you’ve ever had.”

“I appreciate confidence,” he said, “and I’m sure you’re right. I’ve never had a reading before.”

She peered at him, obviously doubting him. “No? Never? Never in your life?”

Then it dawned on him. “Oh, yeah. Coney Island, when I was a kid.” Am I supposed to think that she sensed that? He crossed his legs, hoping he didn’t look too disheveled after spending the night on the hill, but at the same moment, she quickly got up, came over to him, and brushed off his shoulder.

“You’ve got some grass there,” then she offered another crumpled smile and sat back down. “Did you sleep in the woods?” she added with a giggle. Fanshawe frowned. Actually—yes. From the box, she withdrew a fancy square of ornately fringed linen that had a sandalwood scent, and spread it on the low table between them. Fanshawe squinted; sewn into the fabric were letters and designs like he’d seen on the Gazing Ball’s stand, and in the portrait of Wraxall and Evanore.

“So other than Coney Island, you’ve never had your fortune told in any way?” she asked, still puttering a the table.

“Nope”—he tried to make a joke that turned out not to be very funny. “Just at my stock broker’s.”

Letitia grumbled, and muttered, “Fuck…”

Fanshawe peered at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “The reason I’m sucking wind is because of this damn recession. Every time I think about all those stock brokers and CEO’s and bank presidents and mortgage lenders who caused this because of their own greed—I wish I could put an exsanguination hex on them.”

Fanshawe laughed a bit too loudly. “A what hex?”

“Oh, I’m just bitching. It’s a medieval curse that makes corrupt people bleed from all their orifices. The bastards. They’re all like that jackass Madoff—could care less about who they destroy as long as they fill their coffers.”

Fanshawe, still chuckling to himself, at least felt sure he was not one of the “Madoff’s” she referred to. I never ponzi’d or short-sold. I never cheated investors, did I? No, no way. I earned my money the old fashioned way: I gambled on long shots and got REALLY lucky.

Lett sprinkled something like dull glitter over the linen. “Seramef dust,” she said. “It jacks up the psychic ambience, kind of like using higher octane in your car.” When she looked up, she started, then gawkily went “Oooo! You have a very pronounced aura. But don’t ask me what color it is. I never tell.”

Fanshawe sighed. “Come on.”

“Nope. Sorry.” She shrugged. “It’s low class.”

Aura, huh? “All right, Lett, then tell me this”—Fanshawe had to know. “Does Mrs. Anstruther get a cut of your fee if she sends someone over?”

Lett’s face tensed in a displeasure. “That old biddy! I told her she was hard-selling people too much!” Then her lips pursed. “Yeah, I pay her five bucks for each customer.”

“I knew it!”

Lett made a single, silent clap. “She’s a kick in the tail, I’ll tell ya, but I guess I shouldn’t complain; she does bring in some business.” Still, the woman seemed flustered. She exhaled hard. “All right! We’re ready! You said both hands, right?”

“I didn’t say, but let’s do both.”

Very quickly, she grabbed his left hand. “It’s best to start to your dominant hand.”

Fanshawe was left-handed…, But she could’ve determined that by watching me, he knew.

“Left-dominant people are more subjective, and they respond more deeply to intellectual stimulus and ethereal provocation.”

Fanshawe winced at the latter term.

“They’re also more sensitive to spirituality and para-naturalism.”

Fanshawe could only stare in response.

“And…they’re more attuned to non-physical realms.”

“Jeez, I thought you’d look at my lifeline and tell me how long I’m going to live,” he said, expecting the usual clichés.

“That’s a misconception.” Now she seemed to be inspecting the undersides of his knuckles. “The lifeline has nothing to do with how long a person lives. Palmistry isn’t about one’s death, it’s about one’s life.”

Fanshawe opened his mouth to speak, but then she seemed to notice something important on his hand. “Now this I don’t see very often, you’re part Aqua Hand and part Fire Hand; it means you’re energetic but shift from one interest to another. Oh, and now I see why you’re not concerned about the summer discount.” She smiled down but not at him. “You’re very wealthy.”

Someone at the hotel could’ve told her that, he knew. And also, “You can see that by the watch.”

She glanced at the five-figure timepiece. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t notice, but left-dominants are always skeptical.” A pause as she squinted closer into his palm. “Not only are you successful in your business, you—well…wow. You’re probably a genius in your field.”

Fanshawe shrugged. “Let’s get to the good stuff.”

She giggled. “Okay. Let’s see… Mmm, yes, great heart line, and an interesting fluctuation of your Girdle of Venus. It means you’re passionate and unselfish—”

Fanshawe took exception. “You could say that about anyone and they’d find a way to agree with you—”

“It also shows me in detail that you love your wife but you’re either divorced or separated. It’s a severe injury to you…that she…” Her lips closed quickly.

“That she what?”

“You already know, so why would you want me to repeat it?”

“I’m paying you,” he pointed out. “So tell me.”

Her eyes glanced down. “Your wife hates you. She’s disgusted by you for some reason.”

The words dulled his vision; he could’ve been staring a mile off. But how could he not be impressed? There was no way she could she have known that. After a few moments, he said, “You’re right.”

“But here’s the good news!” she chirped too quickly. Her voice lowered. “There is someone else on your romantic horizon. She has more in common with you than you think, and she’s nuts about you.”

Abbie, the name unfolded in his mind. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered. I need someone to be nuts about me…

“And”—her black eyebrows shot up—“she’s here? Here in town or nearby?”

For all Fanshawe knew, Letitia might be friends with Abbie, who could easily have mentioned their date. He made a rolling gesture with his right index finger. “Just…keep telling my fortune, okay?”

Finally, a genuine smile appeared on her face. But just for a moment; she isolated one finger. “Truncated finger pad tridents, and…” She blinked. “You have a weakness—”

“So does everybody.”

“—a weakness that’s considered anti-social? Hmm. You want to be a good person but your weakness keeps you thinking you’re not.”

Fanshawe’s face seemed to turn to granite.

“It’s a weakness that nearly ruined you—not occupationally but, well…”

“Personally,” he said.

Lett clearly sensed the dark note. “But, there’s more good news!”

Fanshawe’s shoulders slumped. “Please…”

“You will soon reduce this weakness to nothing.”

He considered this. Probably EVERYONE could say they’ve nearly been ruined by a weakness or fault. This is all gray area. “You’re not being specific,” he said as if in defense. “If you can’t be specific, it’s all suggestion versus interpretation.”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I’m not sure specifically, but… Want my hunch?”

“Sure.”

“Something visual, something about seeing,” and that was all she said.

Fanshawe’s lower lip trembled.

“Something—”

“That’s, that’s fine,” he cut her off. He faked a laugh, trying to joke.

She perked up again; in fact she seemed relieved to. “But you will succeed in defeating this weakness, and the conduit to this success will, in part, be your new romantic partner.”

“In part? What other ‘parts’ might help me?”

Instantly, she answered, “A revelatory interest—”

“Revelatory?”

“Yes. Lately you’ve become interested to the point of obsession with something totally foreign to you, something you wouldn’t ordinarily be interested in at all.”

The words popped into his head without any conscious prompt: Wraxall and Evanore. The occult. Witch-water… “Why do I get this idea that you’re genuinely psychic?”

“Because I am sometimes. And sometimes I’m all wrong. Just…not today.” Her attentions returned to his palm. When his eyes flicked to hers she was looking right at him over her glasses, smiling.

“And you have a fascinating partial joining of your heartline and headline. The angles suggest a future change of the direction of your life, and it’s a drastic change.” Her expression squeezed up as if she were suddenly perplexed. “It has to do with what I said a minute ago, a sensitivity to para-naturalism and non-physical realms, meta-physics, even. Are you…” but again she didn’t finish, holding something back.

Fanshawe sighed, exasperated, and snapped, “Am I what?”

“Are you, well… Are you a student of the occult?”

He wasn’t sure how to take this, and he wasn’t sure what he even expected, but in a sense he was such a student. His sudden interest in Wraxall, and more especially the things he’d found in the hidden chamber of the attic, suggested that. He didn’t believe in such things, did he?

But did he believe in what he’d seen last night through the looking-glass?

He was about to admit that he had a slight curiosity about the topic when something on the wall was suddenly harassing his attention. Some pictures hung there, mostly photographs but one was a portrait that seemed as old as those at the hotel. Fanshawe’s eyes seemed to bloom at the image within the old carved frame. It was a clean-shaven, stark-eyed man in a Colonial hat. The man looked sullen and unexpectant, and had an overly large jaw.

Fanshawe pulled his hand out of Letitia’s, jumped up, and strode to the painting. “Hey, this is Callister Rood, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and why on earth would you…” Was she somehow fatigued by his sudden separation from her hand during the reading? “Oh, you must be staying at the Wraxall Inn.”

“That’s right. I saw the painting of Rood over there. Abbie and Mr. Wraxall claim he was a warlock who worked for Jacob Wraxall.”

Her eyes grew enthused. “So you are a student of the occult. But since when?”

“Since, well, a few days ago, I guess, but I wouldn’t call myself a student. It’s just kind of interesting to me.”

“Hmm. Well. Callister Rood was a fledgling, not a genuine warlock. And it was more than merely the occult they were interested in. It was deviltry.”

Deviltry. “I remember that word on Wraxall’s grave. It was one of the crimes he was charged with, right?”

“And found very guilty of, yes. The premeditated solicitation of the devil, to incur favor by making oblation, homage, and sacrifice to Lucifer, which, when practiced with faith, results in future actions in which the devil personally assists. This was what Wraxall, and in a sense, Rood as well, were up to. But Wraxall was the true sorcerer. Rood was his underling, and the muscle for Wraxall’s dirty-work.” Letitia popped her brows. “There was a lot of dirty work, trust me.”

Confused, Fanshawe looked back at Rood’s likeness in murky oil paint. “But why is his picture hanging on your wall?”

Now that the palm-reading session was in stasis, Letitia slouched back on the couch. Fanshawe remained standing when she began, “I don’t know how much of the story you got from the Baxters, but back then no one in town would’ve suspected Wraxall of having anything to do with the devil worship—”

Fanshawe remembered the explanation. “Because everybody loved him, right? He paid for the town’s improvements and loaned money to the locals.”

“Exactly. In fact, Wraxall’s character was so unimpeachable that the townspeople didn’t suspect him of heresy even after Evanore was executed.”

“Execution by barreling,” Fanshawe added.

“Yeah. Pretty groaty folks back then. But Wraxall himself built most of the town. He even built the church. He never missed a Sunday service except for a few times he was traveling abroad. Anyway, Evanore was caught red-handed with her coven, performing a conjuration, a ritual that required the use of the blood from newborn babies. So that was the end of her.”

“Right,” Fanshawe recalled. “But Wraxall himself wasn’t suspected of any heresies until years later—”

“Four years later, to be exact. In 1675. Some witnesses saw Wraxall performing a Black Mass in the woods, and after his death, they found his diary, which spilled the awful beans about what he and Evanore had really been up to since Evanore had entered puberty. Do you…” Letitia fidgeted. “Did anyone tell who how they got the newborn babies for their blood rituals?”

All Fanshawe could say was, “Yes.”

“Oh, good. I really don’t get a kick out of repeating that. But anyway, Wraxall’s diary—which was eventually acquired by the Baxters when their family bought the inn— implicated Rood as well. So Rood’s name was big time mud just like Wraxall’s. See, Rood’s relatives were so ashamed by the terrible things Rood did, they had to completely dissociate themselves. So they changed their name.”

Fanshawe looked intently at her.

“From Rood to Rhodes.”

“Ah. Your last name.”

She nodded. “Callister Rood’s parents built this house. I’m one of his direct descendants.” She held up her hands. “That’s why his picture’s on my wall. Not that I think highly of him. But I keep it there as kind of a curiosity piece for tourists who have questions.”

Tourists like me, Fanshawe thought. Unbidden, though, he needed to know, “Was Rood executed too?” All too well, he remembered his visions from last night. “Or did he commit suicide?”

Letitia’s gaze darted to Fanshawe. “He hanged himself. I didn’t think I told anyone that, including the Baxters, because I figured the inn’s history was grim enough. Old Baxter wouldn’t want guests finding out an apprentice warlock strung himself up on the property.”

“But the Baxters didn’t tell me.”

“Then who did? There’s no record of it. All the documents kept by the High Sheriff and the scrivener of the court were lost in fire in 1701.”

Fanshawe stalled, then lied, “Just a hunch.” What could he say? Oh, I saw Rood hanging by the neck last night with the Witch-Water Looking-Glass. See, I’d taken it up to Witches Hill to peep in windows because I’m a pervert…

“Just a hunch, huh?” Her smile crossed with a disbelieving smirk.

“Makes sense for Rood to hang himself in order to avoid the ‘death-by-barreling that Wraxal and his daughter suffered.”

“Evanore, yes, but actually, Wraxall himself didn’t die by barreling—”

Fanshawe rubbed his chin. “I could’ve sworn Abbie or Mr. Baxter said he was executed similarly…”

Suddenly Letitia slumped more on the couch. “If you really want to know about this gross stuff, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to repeat it to Abbie or her father. I’m on good terms with them, I guess, but I don’t really know them that well. They might get mad at me for not telling them everything I know. They might think I was smearing their hotel.”

Fanshawe cut to the chase, still standing in front of the picture. “I promise not to repeat anything you say, to anyone.”

She looked as though she barely believed him. “Wraxall died in the house. He’d been arrested once by the sheriff, put in jail, but somehow Wraxall escaped, probably with Callister Rood’s help. The same night of his escape, he died in the room with the attic trapdoor.”

Fanshawe gulped loudly.

“When the sheriff and his men went to re-capture Wraxall, they found him dead. His heart had been cut out.”

“Ooo,” Fanshawe uttered.

“After the witness reports, it was always believed that the townsfolk were so enraged over Wraxall’s blasphemous deceptions that they didn’t even want to wait for a trial—”

“So they took matters into their own hands?”

Letitia nodded. “And sliced him open and cut out his heart.”

“But you said it’s always been thought that that happened.”

“Um-hmm. I’ve already told you Wraxall left a diary—”

Fanshawe almost but not quite interrupted her to reveal that the warlock actually had two diaries, one of which he’d just found last night, but the desire to say so retreated back into him like a spring-loaded tape-measure.

“—but Callister Rood, my charming ancestor, left one too. Nobody’s seen it—”

“Nobody but you,” Fanshawe presumed.

The awkward woman touched her lip, appraising Fanshawe. “Would you like to see it?”

“I’d appreciate it very much.”

Letitia got up, disappeared into another room, then returned as fast. She passed Fanshawe a small book of mottled dark-blue leather whose binding was merely a string of tanned hide tied through the folded creases of parchment, just like Wraxall’s diary. He opened to a random page. Also like Wraxall’s diary, most of the stanzas of scribbling were blurred by the passage of time; however, unlike it, the diction was a lot less sophisticated than Wraxall’s, indicating a lower level of education.

Last nighte-time so did I kiddnap yung Ann Clark from her beddroom, a girl known to be thick of wit and slow of mind. Uncomely, she be as wel, but that matters naught, so spake the Squire. Afore this act, I lit ye Hand of Glory on ye threshold, which werk’d so potently that nevur once did Mr. or Mrs. Clark stir from their slumbering, potent enough in the fact that I—impatiently as is oft my wont—engag’d in karnel knowlidge with Mrs. Clark, and on my honur never did she wake dispite the vigur with witch I put my seed in her. Wearupon I next comence to abscond with yung Ann through whose mouth I ty’d a smitch of flannel to hold her tongue, and lash’d her wrists. Into ye Squire’s house I took her, where ye Squire stood in wait, seaming qwyte pleas’d. I rend’d ye girl in ye attick chamber and hall out her innards whilst Squire Wraxall reed especial words of intursseshuns for coming Rite of Beltane, which he dost call preeker-sory prayers.

Fanshawe realized, Rood’s describing the abduction of a child or young woman, for some Satanic rite that must serve as a precursor to a more important ritual. The bald acknowledgment right there on the page made Fanshawe feel frozen in place. He flipped forward, finding that many passages were even more illegible than Wraxall’s diary. Midway, though, he deciphered this: To-daye I ask ye Squire why no longer he partake of ye pleashures of Evanore’s loynes as dost he hath many tymes afore so to make ye babys for ye grist of our Master, so he spake bak to me: “Good sarvant Rood, ye evill prokreeayshun which so thralls our Benefactor is—yea—a yung man’s art, and a vital man’s privalige who mayest be one with Lucifer. Lo, in my long yeers, I mine own self am not anye longer so vital,” and aft’r shewing a calm countenance, he so explayn’d verily that in his age he hast lost his manly vitality, and that ye seed of his loyns ist like now that uv a palsy’d man, no longer able to act as once it wuz.

Fanshawe glanced to Letitia. “So Wraxall was impotent?”

“Toward the end of his life, yes. From what I gather, the last three or four babies Evanore gave birth to weren’t Wraxall’s; he was simply too old—started shooting blanks, couldn’t swing the bat anymore, you know?”

“What a way with words you have,” Fanshawe had to laugh but then reminded himself that incest and having babies for occult purposes weren’t laughing matters. He also reminded himself of another of last night’s images: Rood was having sex with Evanore… He read on: “How then, Squire,” I replie to this, “wilt we bring to us ye infants so desir’d to oblayte our Dark Mastur?” and he sayest unto me, “Loyal and virile Rood, from thence forth it shall be your seed which will make my wretched and luvely dawther great with chyld!”

Fanshawe shot another inquiring glance to the palm-reader. “And after Wraxall realized he’d become impotent—”

She finished the obvious. “It was my illustrious ancestor who stepped up to pinch-hit for Wraxall.”

“That’s a pretty earthy way of putting it.”

She chuckled. “That was some pretty earthy stuff they were doing.”

Fanshawe’s brows jiggled. He kept reading the passage. Lerning this, I felt no little joye in mine hart, and stirr’d about my groin, for such consorte wyth Evanore I hath long dreem’d, but then I feel lowlie in profiting by my Squire’s loss, so I speek unto him wurds of lamentation that his oncetime pleshures will be no more, and I say that his grater age having leeving him no longer able to sire infints doth make me sad to my marrowe. But then my mentor’s eyes come alighte, and I see no aspect of sadniss of his ownself, and he say, “Mere age, goodly sarvant, is no diffurent than tyme and space in that it maye be ply’d like clay or sculpt’d like woode! In wurds akin, age, then, ‘tis as chayngeable as thy cloak! As thy trousers, I say! But heed me in thiss, fine Rood, sutch chaynges be constrewed onlie when thy sarvants of our Dark Lord shew fayth mighty enough and—yea!—a hart black enough, for such arre ye admixtures of ye very thing! Forsooth, Rood, I shalt be vital again, for our Benefactor whisspers to me in ye manner of dreems of portent, and he sheweth that if so ever one’s fayth remane as stronge, then he shalt be bestow’d the knowledge which maye make away wyth the very prospect of deth itself!”

Fanshawe was amused by the last segment. “So the old warlock thought he would live forever, huh?”

“All warlocks thought that,” she said. “Same way as all condemned witches cast curses.”

Hard as the handwriting was to read, Fanshawe flipped through more of the scribbling.

Grayte Satan! Ye first chyld borne of my seed thrugh Evanore came this morn! My Squire very qwikly went up with it to ye attick to drayne its blud…

Another: Mine eyes did not lyke the waye Prudence Cattel didst look at me to-daye at Market Square. Thencesoever, with the Squire’s permisshin, I did saye ye Hex-wurds on payge five hundred five of ye Remigius writings and didst putt upon thiss woman ye burdin of nawseeating dreems and grate paynes at her womanly regions. In the even-time late I did heer her screeming from her beddroom window, and this didst make me very glad…

Another: Hath just reterned from ye Oldys cabin ware I bound and silenc’d and came away with their onlie son, a boye of ten and two yeers. Of his parents, I lash them to-gether and bury them—stille living—deep in ye woode, and of the boye, I so forc’d him to watche my burying of them, for it onlie magnify’d the horrour of ye deed which is mutch lik’d by Lucifer. So pore were ye Oldys, none will suspeckt mischief but instead beleeve them to have depart’d for elseware in hope of better harvest-time.

“Some wicked stuff here!” Fanshawe exclaimed.

“Yeah. Wicked. In this day and age, Callister Rood would rank high on the list of psycho-sexual serial-killers.”

In spite of his repulsion, Fanshawe kept hunting for legible entries.

Mine hart is made to sing by ye Squire’s aspect to-daye. Ye most reecint letter from Squire Septimuss Willsun in Angle-land leeve my mentor overcome with joobilayshun, being that we wilst soon be in possession of a Brydle—

Bridle? Fanshawe thought abruptly, but before he could ask Letitia what the bridle was, she came over and pointed to a particular entry. “There. What do you make of that?”

Fanshawe squinted. I must be firm by ye inwardness of what ye Squire say for me to do in ye ende.

“Hmm,” he uttered.

“Yeah, kind of makes you think. Like maybe it wasn’t the townspeople who killed Wraxall at all, but Rood himself.”

“Under Wraxall’s orders.” Next, his eyes caught a familiar reference. After we erlier boilt ye bones of ye womin from fifty yeers agone known as ye Fenstanton Witch, ye Squire fashion’d a look’g-glass and after midnighte’s peal, we peer through it and see ye land in ye witch’s time. Ye Squire’s suksess leeve me neerly in a swound yet ye Squire himself chukle and speek that this is a trifle when in compar’d to what he has in his mynd for future glass he endevers to make.

“What I was leaning to earlier,” Letitia said, “turn to the last page with writing on it. It sort of clarifies things.”

Fanshawe did what she said, and here were the final lines written by Callister Rood: I needs must admitt that my spiritt grows disorder’d bye feare in contemplayshuns yet to come, and ye Squire espies this as plain. He sayeth then, in a mannur most comfitt’d, “be disheartened not, frend Rood, for all which we worke for is now in playce, save for my final behest unto thee. Ye tyme be neerly beside us, and thee hath learnt well! Yet the corpulent High Sheriff and his bird-witted assizers be already suspecting of us. Best, then, that you giveth them not the satisfaction to do away with thee in their manner but instead cause thyself to cease to be, whilest thou knoweth what must be done upon me…

Fanshawe thought he understood. “I’d say this definitely clarifies that Rood killed Wraxall. Wraxall was instructing Rood to commit suicide once the sheriff and his deputies came for them.”

Letitia nodded. “But isn’t the end of the sentence curious?”

“Yes. That something relevant might be required of Rood,” Fanshawe figured.

Letitia nodded. “At least that’s how it strikes me. Rood killed Wraxall before he killed himself, and cut out his heart.”

Fanshawe hesitated. “What happened…to the heart?”

“Well, no one knows that, of course, but hearts were used in sorcery all the time, especially the hearts of necromancers.”

Fanshawe hadn’t thought of that. More occult ritualism, I guess. Didn’t the Aztecs cut out people’s hearts as an offering to their Gods? To solicit favor and immortality? He knew he remembered something like that from history classes decades ago.

But it was the passage just before the last one he’d read that most piqued Fanshawe’s interest. He was talking specifically about—

“What do you know about witch-water looking-glasses?” he asked.

Her expression was one of surprise. “Wow, you’ve really got the bug, haven’t you?”

Suddenly he felt self-conscious. The Baxters’ looking-glass was still in his jacket pocket. Jesus, if she’s really psychic, does she know I’ve got it? “Don’t know why,” he said, “but I’m finding all this witchcraft stuff pretty fascinating. I saw the looking-glass over at the inn, and they told me a little bit about it. Did Wraxall really believe that the water from boiled bones could be magical?”

“He not only believed it, he and Rood claimed many times that it was magical. Witch-water was fairly common in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds in Europe. Sorcerers would boil the bones of dead witches, warlocks, criminals, whatever, and the water would be used in ritualism, sort of like the antithesis of holy water. Supposedly Wraxall learned how to make the looking-glasses from other warlocks and ancient reference books called grimoires. In a looking-glass, witch-water was said to provide a view through the dead person’s eyes and in the era of that person’s life. The glass at the inn supposedly contains witch-water from the bones of Evanore Wraxall. We all tried it but—no surprise—it didn’t work.”

Fanshawe’s silence at the comment caused an awkward pause.

“This is really odd, though—coincidental, I mean.”

“What?” he asked.

“Last week some guy came in here and was asking about witch-water, too.”

“Eldred Karswell,” Fanshawe uttered. “That was his name, right?”

“He never said his name. Older guy, though, and nice enough, I guess. He paid well but he smoked the worst cigars.”

Fanshawe nodded. “Definitely Karswell.”

“So I take it you know him?”

“No, but—” Fanshawe deliberated over her exact words. Know him or KNEW him? “Didn’t you know that he was dead?”

Letitia’s face seemed to broaden in shock. “What?”

“His body was found two days ago, on one of the trails at Witches Hill.”

“The guy they found there was him? Holy shit. As of today, the paper didn’t give his name. I assumed it was just a transient or someone like that.”

“No, it was Karswell, the same man who spoke to you,” Fanshawe felt certain, “and he was no transient—he was rich.” Some psychic, he thought. Karswell was sitting right in front of her, but she didn’t predict his death. “Did you tell his fortune?”

“No, he just wanted to ask me stuff about Wraxall, said he was willing to pay for the information, which now that I think of it was kind of bizarre. He seemed to know a lot about the occult.”

“Well, he wrote about the occult; he was a writer, had a bunch of books published. He was also a Christian mystic.”

This took her aback.

“I have this feeling he was writing about Wraxall himself,” Fanshawe added.

“But if you didn’t really know him, how do you know he was an occult writer?”

Fanshawe gave the question honest thought. “You might say…I had some researchers pry into the dead man’s privacy.”

The look on her face told him: Why? Why would Fanshawe want to know anything about Karswell? “This is getting more interesting by the minute. I got bad vibes from the guy the minute he walked in here, and now I’m getting more.” She stared right at him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious about some things.”

“Well, I’m curious too, about this Karswell man,” she said in a drier and almost demanding tone. “Do you know how he died? The papers just said he was found dead, said it was a robbery-related homicide. His wallet was missing.”

“His face was missing too,” Fanshawe said. He watched closely at her reaction.

Her mouth fell open, then closed.

“I’m not trying to make you sick but…Karswell’s face, scalp, and most of the flesh on his head had been torn—or chewed—off, as if by a wild animal.”

“Almost like…”

“Yeah, almost like he’d been ‘barrelled,’” Fanshawe said.

Another silence followed. Their eyes met, then flicked away, but Letitia made no comment. Fanshawe used the now-unpleasant silence to feign interest in some of the other pictures on the wall. One was a picture of Letitia holding an infant. She didn’t look any younger in the picture than she did now. “What a cute baby,” he offered.

When she didn’t reply, he turned.

Her appearance had changed completely. No longer the off-beat, quirky “palmist,” now she looked wilted, crushed.

Oh, no, Fanshawe thought, his guts sinking.

“His name was George Jeffreys Rhodes,” Letitia said in a dark wisp. “He died in May, he was only eight months old.”

“My God, I’m sorry,” Fanshawe struggled. He wanted to kick himself. Yet he had to wonder about the dead infant’s father, since he saw no trace of him in the pictures.

He didn’t have to ask, though. “The biological father left when I told him I was pregnant,” she said.

Fanshawe’s tongue seemed to adhere to the roof of his mouth. This time the silence turned excruciating, and for all he was worth he struggled for something to say, but before he could—clack!—the lights and air-conditioner shut off. Letitia shrieked at the initial startlement.

“Just a blown fuse, I think.”

“I should be so lucky,” she said with a long smirk. “The bastards could at least have waited till the end of the month.”

“Forgot to pay your power bill?”

Letitia, smirking, picked up several letters on the end table, then flapped them back down. “Yeah, I ‘forgot’ to pay a bunch of them—a delinquent customer is what they call me after all these years of giving them money. I’ve got bills stacked up till Judgment Day. It’s this damn recession. When there’s a recession, the last thing on anyone’s mind is getting their fortune told.”

“Sorry to hear you’re so having such a tough time,” Fanshawe said.

“The power bill’s the least of my worries,” she remarked with some cynicism. “I’ll be kicked out of the house before long ’cos I can’t afford the damn property tax. The bastards assess this house for three times what it’s worth, and nobody’s buying houses now anyway, not in this economy, so I couldn’t sell it if I wanted to. But they don’t want to hear that, oh, no. I gotta pay taxes on what they say it’s worth, whether I like it or not. Bunch of pirates, bunch of damn blood-suckers.”

Now Fanshawe felt twice the bad luck magnet. First, he reminded her of her dead child, and now this. Shit… But he still had questions, about Wraxall, about Rood. Can’t ask her about all that now.

She got up in the dimness, tried to laugh. “Well, this sure turned into a bad scene.” She opened the front door. “I can’t expect you stay to have the rest of your fortune told when I’ve got no a/c or lights.”

“It was very interesting,” he said. He took out his wallet.

“No charge,” she said. “I didn’t even finish.”

“I got my money’s worth. I was mainly here for the information about Wraxall anyway.”

“Just like Karswell…”

He smiled. “Yeah, just like Karswell,” then he gave her a $100 bill. “Keep the change.”

She sighed in relief. “Thanks, that’s—wow—that’s very generous.”

They both went outside into the sun.

“I’ll come back again,” Fanshawe said, “when things are better for you.”

She laughed. “Yeah, when I’ve got lights. But these days all you have to do is listen to the news people talk about the recession to think it’ll never get better.”

“Well, I happen to know some things about capitalism and the free-market system. It’s cyclic, it has to be. We have to go through the lows to get to the highs.” He shook her hand, preparing to leave.

“I don’t know why but…you’re pretty inspiring,” she said with a smile, and after she shook his hand, she turned it in her own palm. She raised it to look at. “Just as I thought: a quad-bifurcation. Curious.”

“That’s not a disease, is it?”

“No. It means that you will give to and take from the same—”

Fanshawe was instantly confused. “Give to and take—”

“—in a way that’s, well, connected to something of a recent revelatory note.”

He didn’t have a clue what she meant; nevertheless, he thought: The looking-glass?

Her fingertip traced lower on his palm. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, dear…”

“What?” he said with some force.

“Here goes. The best news all day. Your riches will increase a thousandfold.”

I’m a billionaire already, honey, he thought. That’s enough for me. The remark seemed ridiculous yet, somehow, she didn’t. He took his hand away, more interested in his questions than his fortune. What immediately came to mind was the pedestaled ball on the hill, and how little he knew about it.

“If I can keep you another minute, do you have any idea what that bronze or copper ball is near the cemetery on Witches Hill? Abbie Baxter called it was a Gazing Ball to make wishes with but, at least to me, it looks very occult.”

“That’s because it is very occult,” Letitia told him. “It’s a totem that originated with the Druids and then got picked up by Satanic necromancers in the Middle Ages. No one really knows what their purpose is, because sorcerers were good at keeping secrets. A lot of the historians think it’s the Druid version of a Magic Circle.”

“And do I understand correctly that Wraxall went all the way to England—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “to buy it from an infamous sorcerer named Septimus Wilsonne. You can think of him as the Mack-Daddy of warlocks back in those times.”

Fanshawe pushed his hair back, frustrated. “Between Wraxall and Callister Rood, you’d think that one of them would’ve written about it in their diaries.”

“Well, it’s mentioned a few times, but no one explained exactly what it was.” For some reason, Letitia shivered as if at a chill in spite of the ample heat outside. “What you have to understand about witches and warlocks is that they went to great pains—and sometime would even die—to keep their secrets. And speaking of secrets, that was one of the most curious parts about Callister’s diary. Several times he mentioned ‘The Two Secrets,’ which I think had something to do with a ritual that Wraxall was planning in the future.”

“The Two Secrets,” Fanshawe droned. He’d read precisely of that in Wraxall’s second diary last night. …and grant’d what It was I most ask’d in mine Mind - yes! - the second of ye Two Secrets, Wraxall had written, information supposedly given to him by the spirit of a dead warlock. He cringed to tell Letitia this, but if he did, then he’d be admitting the liberties he’d taken at the inn. “But since warlocks were so good at keeping secrets, as you’ve just said, no one knows what these Two Secrets were,” he said more than asked.

“You got that right. My guess is it has something to do with the last ritual we know Wraxall was preparing for.”

“What’s that?”—he paused—“er, let me guess! The bones of his daughter?”

Again, Letitia seemed impressed with his insight. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going to say. So the Baxters told you the whole story?”

“Everything they know themselves, I guess. I know that Wraxall and Rood dug up Evanore’s bones 666 days after she was buried.”

“Right, and you and I both know what he was going to do with them—”

“Witch-water,” Fanshawe intoned.

“Sure, but that’s the $64,000 question. Witch-water had many uses, not just looking-glasses. Rood’s diary does say that the key to the Two Secrets was written down on parchment by Wraxall himself before he died.”

“Where’s the parchment—no! Don’t tell me. No one knows.”

“Not a soul. Wraxall hid it, either that or it simply got lost or confiscated by the court.”

Fanshawe’s brain started ticking.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I have a feeling that the Two Secrets have to do with Evanore’s witch-water and the Gazing Ball too.”

“Your psychic inclination, huh?” Fanshawe asked, not knowing if he was serious.

“Yeah.”

He knew it was time to leave but, still, his questions nagged at him. Leave her alone, he thought. Shit, I just reminded her of her dead baby. The last thing she wants to do is answer more of my kooky questions. However, he remembered Evanore’s hallucinatory remark in the wax museum, and he’d just seen the word a little while ago in Rood’s diary. Bad taste or not, he had to ask: “What does the word bridle have to do in an occult context?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I said that the Gazing Ball originated with the Druids—well, that’s what they called it. A bridle.”

Fanshawe wondered. “A bridle… I’d always thought that a bridle was something on a horse.”

“That’s right. It’s a strap that helps the rider guide the horse into a particular direction. But in an occult context? Think of it as an object that helps guide a warlock or witch into a particular direction, a direction that ultimately serves the Devil’s interest.”

Fanshawe looked back at her but didn’t seem to see her.

“I better go now,” she said, happily looking at the $100 bill he’d given her. “Maybe they’ll let me pay part of my power bill.”

“Wait,” he said. Without thinking, he was taking out his checkbook. Nor did he seem to be consciously impelled to say, “I’ll pay your entire electric bill and any late fees—”

“What?” she said. She winced.

“In exchange for information. What’s wrong with that?” He leaned against the door and wrote her name on the check, then signed his name. “I want to know one more thing.”

“And you’re gonna pay my whole power bill?” she almost gasped.

“Yes. I’m well off, but you already know that. And I’m also a very curious person when something suddenly interests me.”

“The occult? Wraxall? Sorcery?”

He nodded. “How much is your power bill, the total?”

“It’s eight hundred bucks! You can’t possibly—”

Fanshawe made out the check for a thousand, and gave it to her.

Her eyes went wide, but behind them there was the look of a heavy burden lifted. “This is crazy…”

“No it isn’t. I’m paying for your knowledge, just like Karswell. Consultation fee?” He thought of his own business and smiled. “People pay for information all the time. It really does make the world go round.”

“As much as I need it—”she looked longingly at the check—“I can’t take it.”

“Wouldn’t you be foolish not to?”

Moments ticked by; Letitia’s hesitation was nearly palpable. “What’s your question?”

He answered at once, as if it had been on his mind all along. “Earlier. You almost sounded amused when you told me not to ask you the color of my aura. Well, I want to know.”

She exhaled as if exerted. “Of all the questions, you would ask that.”

“Come on. I don’t even really know what an aura is, or even what’s it’s supposed to be if I believed in such things…”

Letitia seemed to squirm where she stood, still looking at the check. “An aura is a detectible emanation of a person’s life-force, or soul,” she said, exasperated. “Not everybody has one, but those that do—”

“Are what?” he jumped in, thinking the obvious. “Psychically inclined?”

“No. Just sensitive. The color of a person’s aura suggests their nature. Orange means passionate, red means quick to anger, blue means meditative, white means benevolent, like that. But some experts insist that it’s more than that. They say that the color of one’s aura reflects the true character of their heart….”

Fanshawe’s throat felt dry when he asked, “What color’s mine?”

“You don’t really have one,” she said. “But it’s something I tell anyone who comes to have their palm read. It sounds genuine. It puts customers in good mood, and when they’re in a good mood, they tip better.”

Fanshawe slowly shook his head. “Lett, I think you’re making that up just to close out the topic.”

Her posture drooped. “All right, I am! Jesus!”

“What’s the big deal?” he asked, astounded by her reluctance. “What, it’s some ethical thing, a palm reader’s creed? Come on.”

“Well, it sort of is. Doctors have their Hippocratic Oath, palm readers don’t tell people about their auras. It kind of…crosses a boundary, I guess you could say. It’s the mark of a jaded fortune teller.” She eyed the check again, moaned, then offered it back to him.

“You’re kidding me!”

“No. I wouldn’t feel right about it. Take the check back.”

Fanshawe chuckled, amazed. You sure don’t see this everyday. He was impressed, yes, but also…

Very disappointed.

“You really walk it like you talk it, Lett. Thanks for your time. And keep the check.” He turned and began to head down the sidewalk.

“Hey!” she called out.

He turned to see her fuming.

She pointed a finger right at him. “You asked, so don’t blame me! It’s black!” and then she ran across the street, check in hand, to the bank.

(II)

Black, he thought.

Black aura. Black heart.

Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle—

A heart so black as to be stygian, sir, a black blacker, too, than the very abyss…

Fanshawe’s reaction to Letitia’s parting words was nothing like what he’d expect. He felt neutral about it, not confused, not scared or foreboded. A psychic just told me I have a black heart—that’s not much of an endorsement, is it? The color black brought negative connotations: corruption, dishonesty, greed…

Evil.

He scoffed as he moved leisurely down the sun-lit sidewalk, then he laughed aloud to himself. I’m not any of those things, and I’m certainly not EVIL. However, as he thought more on it, the more irresistibly he found himself reflecting back on the entire meeting. She’d mentioned something revelatory, hadn’t she?

There’d certainly been revelations in her parlor.

The Gazing Ball was also called a bridle, something akin to a magic circle. It evolved from the times of the Druids, a very occult bunch. Last night he’d found a second and more secure diary of Wraxall’s, while today he’d seen a corroborating diary: Callister Rood’s. Rood himself had committed suicide, by hanging, while Fanshawe had seen the man’s image hanging by the neck last night. And Wraxall probably hadn’t been executed after all. He’d been butchered by Rood, his own apprentice.

Now, all that he’d learned began to swirl about consciousness, and when his elbow brushed his jacket pocket, he felt the tubular bulk of the looking-glass. The glass worked last night—I KNOW it did…

And if that were the case, everything else was real too, not superstitious invention.

It was real.

The acknowledgment of that brought the drone back to his head. I’m NOT crazy, so that can only mean…

But how could this be?

“Well, ’ow’d your session go at the palmist’s, sir?” greeted the enthused, elderly voice.

Fanshawe had been too wound up over his thoughts to even see that he’d just passed Mrs. Anstruther’s information kiosk. It took a moment for him to snap out of the daze.

“Ah, Mrs. Anstruther—yes, it was very entertaining. I appreciate your suggestion.”

The high sunlight filled the creases in her face so sharply with shadow-lines she looked like a grinning sketch. “Cheery news on your horizon, I hope, sir.”

Well, I’m told my riches will increase a thousandfold and I’ve got a black heart… “I think you could say that, yes.”

“And what might your estimation be of Ms. Letitia Rhodes? Hope ya don’t got the notion I steered you improper.”

The tiny drone remained in his head even as he engaged in the talk, as though his current concerns were being intruded upon. “Not at all. She seems very genuine, maybe even a bit too genuine, if you know what I mean.”

The old woman laughed. “Aye, but I do, sir. Just like I said to ya!”

Fanshawe’s mood darkened; he lowered his voice. “Yes, but I felt awful at one point. I saw the picture of her baby on the wall and made the mistake of asking about it.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s eyes turned instantly regretful. “Oh, dear me, yes! What a ’orrible, ’orrible thing to happen, I must say. The poor little tot, he caught hisself a fever so’s Miss Letitia, she rush him to the hospital but”—she crossed herself—“he die in her arms ’fore she got him there, not two months ago it was. Certain I am, though, sir, certain as I’m certain the day’s long, the Lord’ll bless ’is little soul. The tot was buried in the town churchyard, sir, and the entire town show up to show their respects,” and then she crossed herself again. “We all pitch in some to pay for the tot’s embalming and coffin and all, on account Miss Letitia ’erself were sufferin’ from empty pockets at the time.”

Died from a fever… The added information only made Fanshawe feel worse. My God, what a terrible thing to happen… “I can’t imagine what a blow it must’ve been to Letitia.”

“I don’t imagine none of us can. A dreadful thing like that? And not no one there to help her through it.”

“Yeah, she told me the child’s father abandoned her,” Fanshawe recalled. He didn’t want to be rude, but he couldn’t wait to leave and be back with his own thoughts.

“Ah, but did she tell ya any more about that scoundrel of a chiseler who walk off on her?”

“No, nothing else—”

“Well there’s more to that story, there is, a good bit more.”

She’s probably working me again, but— His irritation at being here collapsed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, I ain’t one to leave a gentleman twistin’ in the wind, so’s to speak”—but just then her own attention was highjacked. A smiling middle-aged couple approached the kiosk; the look on their faces said they had several questions for the elderly woman. “Pardon me a jot while I tend to these folks’ needs, and I’ll tell you all about it, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll go grab a coffee and come back when you’re done. Can I get you a cup?”

“What I fancy most is a cop’a tea, sir, if you please—the Earl Grey type, what they’s got—and I’m much obliged to ya, sir, much obliged.”

Fanshawe parted for the coffee shop. When he’d arrived he realized he’d walked right by the Travelodge and felt no temptation whatsoever to steal a glance at the windows or the pool. This perked up his mood. While he waited for his order at the cafe, he thought to check his cellphone and saw that he’d turned it off. Oh, a message, he realized, then listened to the voice mail.

“Hello, Mr. Fanshawe,” the passionless voice sounded. “This is Dr. Tilton. I thought I’d give you a call to see how everything is progressing since we last talked, and am hoping that you’ve set into motion what I suggested. I’d very much like to hear from you, so please call back at your convenience.” Fanshawe’s thumb hovered over the dial-back button, but then he hesitated. This was a call he didn’t really want to make; he was too intrigued by other considerations. And what would I tell her anyway?

Hi, doctor. I’m pretty much convinced that I’m NOT actually hallucinating. What do I mean by that? Well, see, that looking-glass I stole WORKS…

He still had to think about that determination, he knew, but didn’t want to bother with talking to her now. And when he thought to call in to his main office, his phone rang.

“Artie, I was just thinking about you,” he said.

“Good things, I hope. I wanted to get back to you so you wouldn’t think we’re sluffing.”

“I would never think that.”

“We got ahold of Eldred Karswell’s secretary, danced around some issues, and got her to tell us about your guy. The, uh, warlock he was writing about was named—”

“Jacob Wraxall,” Fanshawe said. “I already got that, Artie.”

“You make me feel useless,” his manager griped. “And that’s all she would say except for bibliographic crap. Nothing else about the warlock.”

Fanshawe appreciated Artie’s humorous emphasis. “I got the scoop already, but thanks just the same.”

“Well here’s some scoop you probably haven’t gotten yet. About five minutes ago the Prosser Fuel Corp stock split, and it skyrocketed just like you said. Congrats. You just made a couple million.”

Fanshawe’s eyes roved about the shops and passersby on the street, not particularly interested in what Artie had just said. “That’s cool, Artie, but—”

“Cool?” Artie sounded shocked or angry. “I just told you you bagged a couple mil on the side, and all you say is cool?”

Something in the back of his mind itched at him, and it was just that second that he knew what it was. That picture of Letitia Rhodes’ baby made him feel terrible. “The split’s great, Artie, but I’m kind of distracted at the moment. Write down this name and address.”

“Ready.”

“Letitia Rhodes, 13 Back Street, Haver-Towne…”

“Got it. Why?”

“I want you to contact the county tax office here and pay off any outstanding property-tax debt. And while you’re at it, pay off the next, say, five years, in advance. Use one of the ancillary accounts.”

“Ooooo…….kay,” came the response. “Let me guess. A hospice? Someone who runs an animal shelter?”

“No—”

“Oh, wait! Some chick you’re hot for?”

Fanshawe’s eyes glimpsed Abbie across the street; she was watering plants at the entrance. She smiled and he waved. Oh, man. I better get my ass in gear and ask her out again… “Actually I have met someone, Artie—”

“Eureka! Finally getting over the divorce shit!”

“No, no, it’s someone else, not Letitia Rhodes. I just…feel bad for her, so pay off her prop tax like I told you.”

Artie seemed resigned over the line. “Always the good Samaritan, okay. I’ll get on it.” A confused pause. “But…who is she, this Rhodes woman, I mean?”

Fanshawe was about to tell him to mind his own business, but then he smiled. He’ll love this. “She’s a palm reader, Artie. A fortune teller.”

The next silence seemed to unroll. “Great, first a warlock, now a fortune teller. Just another day at Fanshawe Enterprises.”

“You know what she told me?”

“Uhhhh—”

“My wealth will increase a thousandfold,” and then Fanshawe laughed.

“That’s a good one, boss. So you’re going to be the world’s first trillionaire?”

“Thanks, Artie”—he kept laughing—“I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up.

That’ll give him something to talk about at the office. But, next, he considered his impulsive order: paying off the taxes of a woman he didn’t really know. Fanshawe had thrown lots of money at charity situations but…not like this. He simply felt awful for the woman—Baby died, the father booked, can’t make a living anymore because of the economy, and she was about to lose her house for defaulting on taxes. But now that he’d done this, he felt much better. I helped someone in need—and his next thought amused him. Who says I’ve got a black heart?

He looked back to where Abbie had been but she was no longer there. He couldn’t wait to see her—

Mrs. Anstruther wriggled her fingers at him. The tourist couple was gone. He brought her tea to the kiosk.

“Thank you, sir, oh, that’s perfect, it is,” she said, sipping from the to-go cup.

“Now—what were you saying?”

The woman’s stiff hair moved when her brows rose. “Oh, yes, sir, ’bout Miss Rhodes and that man she were with what made her in a mother’s way.”

“Yes, you were saying that he left Letitia when he found out she was pregnant.”

She nodded in a way that seemed cunning. “And that ain’t all he done neither, sir. See, when he left her he also stole a fair rooker of ackers from her.”

“He stole…what?”

“Quite a considerable sum of money, sir, what that she save up from her palmist’s business—oh, yes, sir. Several thousand dollars it was.”

“Jesus…”

“A bloke like that, sir? What it is we call a bloke like that in England is a man who hain’t worth a brown trout,” and then she smiled as if amused.

Ain’t worth a shit, Fanshawe translated. “I hope at least that the police got him for the theft.”

She ruefully shook her head. “’Fraid not, sir, oh, no. See, what this bloke done after he took the money is he broke out a winder from the outside, so’s ta make it look like a burglary, sir. The constables couldn’t charge him with no theft on account there was insufficient evidence.”

“Damn,” Fanshawe muttered. “Well I hope the bastard at least paid some child support before the baby died.”

“No, sir, I’m sorry to say he did not. ’Tis the way things work out sometimes, sir. The folks who wouldn’t ’urt a fly are the ones who get roughed up.”

“Unfortunately—”

“But it hain’t the end’a my story, sir,” she went on, at once enthused. “As I were just relatin’ to ya, the day after that scoundrel found out what that Miss Rhodes was havin’ a baby, he left her. But ’ere’s what else, sir.”

Fanshawe tapped his foot. By now he was quite used to people deliberately keeping him in suspense. “Any day now, Mrs. Anstruther.”

She grinned. “The day after that poor li’l baby die…he die.”

“What, the child’s biological father?”

“The same, sir.”

Fanshawe felt a satisfaction at this news. “Pardon me if I sound callous, ma’am, and pardon my language, but when shitty people die, I don’t call it unfortunate, I call it justice.”

The old woman laughed. “Oh, sir, I’m so ’appy to hear you say it ’cos your feelin’s are the very mirror to what all of us thought. But tell me what your mind tells ya of this: that man? It weren’t a accident what killed him, it were a massive ’art attack which since he were only in ’is thirties, we all found quite odd, we did, quite odd.” Then she paused to look at him, with that same cunning cast to her face.

“Odd, sure, but it happens,” Fanshawe said.

“Sir, if I may, it might well be that you hain’t receivin’ the full measure of my meanin’, sir.”

Fanshawe tried to study her words with as much introspection as possible. What does she m… “You’re not saying that Letitia had anything to do with the guy’s death, are you? That’s impossible. What? She slipped him some drug to cause heart failure?”

“What it might be that you should do is like what my father used say to us when we was girls, sir, and what he said was that the surmise, sir, might call for a bit more forceful ponderment, sir,” and then she winked at him.

Fanshawe felt his face go blank when something seemed to snick in his mind. “Oh, come on, Mrs. Anstruther. She put a curse on the guy? She stuck a pin in a voodoo doll?” He laughed. “She’s a palm reader, not a witch.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s expression turned dead-serious. “Oh, hain’t she now? Are you sure of what it is you’re speakin’, sir?”

Fanshawe just kept looking at her.

She turned quickly, offering a lively pretense as a man, woman, and two young teenagers approached the kiosk. “Lovely talkin’ to ya, sir, as always, and I hope to talk to ya again soon. Got ta tend to these tourists now—”

“Have a good day, ma’am”—again he couldn’t resist. He put a $10 bill in her tip jar.

The woman brought her hand to her heart, acting overwhelmed. “Gracious me, sir! The proper words simply don’t exist to express my feelin’ of gratitude, sir, and bless you, sir!”

Smiling, Fanshawe pointed to the jar full of bills. “Looks to me like you’re doing all right today.”

She hunched over to whisper, “Yes, sir, but most’a that ain’t but a bunch of piddling singles, sir. Ten-spots, now, they’s what we call in England rare as rocking-horse shit!”

Fanshawe could’ve gusted laughter as he left her to her business. But as he crossed the cobbled street, the levity faded. What the old woman had distinctly implied stuck to him like burrs.

Letitia Rhodes? A witch?

The idea seemed absurd, but then why should he discount it so quickly when he’d already convinced himself that Wraxall’s sorcery, and Evanore’s witchcraft, was real?

— | — | —

CHAPTER TEN

(I)

Fanshawe felt physically aimless when he re-entered the inn, went upstairs, and showered and changed.

Physically but not mentally.

His thoughts had become something like an apparatus of many moving parts, all turning in synchronicity so to process everything Fanshawe had experienced.

A relapse into his voyeuristic obsessions hand in hand with Abbie, his only romantic interest since his marriage; the Wraxall legend; death by ‘barreling’; what were possibly hallucinations of a barking dog and then what he’d witnessed in the wax museum; Karswell’s dead body and its coincidental condition, not to mention that he was investigating Jacob Wraxall just as Fanshawe was; the secret attic room and the discoveries of a more telling diary penned by Wraxall himself, plus multiple containers of witch-water and more looking-glasses; and not only his curious fortune as told by Letitia Rhodes but also yet another 300-year-old diary penned by her linear ancestor Callister Rood…

My aura is black, which means my heart is black, he thought.

No, he didn’t know what any of it mean but he did know that all of these things had seemed to replace all of his previous priorities. I don’t even care about my businesses any more. I only care about…THIS…

The drone followed him back downstairs. When he crossed the atrium, the two joggers, shapely as ever in their perilously tight running gear, cast sideglances at him—and even smiles—as they entered through the automatic doors. Fanshawe nodded stiffly, though, barely noticing them. Where am I going? What am I doing? He felt driven just this moment but didn’t know what toward. Next thing he knew, he was walking into the Squire’s Pub.

“Aw, I’m sorry Mr. Fanshawe,” came Baxter’s crackly voice. He was stocking the bar shelves. “We ain’t open just yet,” but then he cracked a laugh. “Aw, shucks, what am I sayin’? I own the place, so if it’s a drink you’re lookin’ for, what’ll it be?”

For some reason, being addressed directly by another person brought more of his consciousness back to the surface. “Thanks for the offer, Mr. Baxter, but—”

What was he here for?

“—I just stopped by to see Abbie. Is she around?”

“Oh, sure!” Baxter replied with a little too much zeal. “She’s back in the storeroom.” He pointed out the bar entry. “It’s that door next to the check-in desk.”

“I don’t want to bother her if she’s busy working—”

Baxter flapped his hand. “Naw, naw, just you go right on in. And if that pipe-cleaner of a desk clerk gives ya any grief, just you tell him I said you can go in.”

“Thanks, Mr. Baxter.”

The clerk wasn’t even at the desk. Fanshawe opened the door indicated and entered a long corridor stacked high on either side with boxes of various supplies. It was fairly dark. He saw no sign of Abbie but did notice white fluorescent lights burning at the corridor’s end. Though it hadn’t consciously occurred to him before now, Fanshawe knew why he was seeking her: to ask her out on another date. Should he call out her name? No. With my luck she’s already left. He reached the end of the corridor, noticing that it T’d. He stepped into the light, turned left, didn’t see Abbie, then turned right—

Holy sh…

Abbie sat hunched over a metal desk lit by a hooded lamp. She looked intent, keenly focused, yet lost at the same time. With great care, her fingers tweezed a typical key, like a house key. Then, with a meticulous effort, she raised the key to a nostril and quickly sniffed an accumulation of something white off of it. She paused, sitting upright, then stuck the key into a plastic bag full of white powder, and repeated the process.

Fanshawe didn’t say a word. At once he wanted to leave unseen, but it was impossible for him even to move much less retreat out of the area.

After Abbie had done it a third time, she sat back and sighed, staring at the wall before her. She wiped her nose, seemed to grind her back teeth and swallow several times, then she rubbed her eyes. She stared out a moment more, and only then did she very slowly turn her head toward Fanshawe.

Her mouth fell open, then she thunked her head down on the desk. “Of all the shit,” she muttered, already sobbing. “How much more shit is going to happen to me?”

“Abbie, I…,” but Fanshawe could think of nothing to remark.

She kept her hands to her face, and her face still against the desk top. Her words croaked: “What are you doing here?”

“Your father said I could come in. I wanted to see you.”

“Why!” she somehow whispered and shrieked at the same time.

“To ask you out again.”

She sniffled and finally raised her face up. She managed a sardonic laugh. “Bet’cha don’t want to now.”

Before he could decide how to reply, he already had. “Yes. I do.”

At last, she looked right at him. Pink patches splotched her face; tears ran down her cheeks. It didn’t even sound like her when she said, “I’m a drug addict, Stew. I’m a coke-head—a junkie.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

Another cynical laugh. “Yeah, the Girl Next Door turned middle aged. The Happy Innkeeper. Always a smile! Then—bang! The truth.”

“How long?”

“This time? I don’t know. Six, eight months.”

“So you had a problem in the past,” he interpreted, “got clean, but now you’ve relapsed?”

“Yeah.” She seemed crumpled where she sat now. “Remember when I told you I lived in Nashua for a year?”

“Right, after college.”

She nodded, turning the key over in her fingers. “Well, I guess it’s a universal story. Young, idealistic, adventurous. First time away from home. I met a guy there, fell in love, but then found out that the only thing he really loved was coke. He sold the stuff, too, was a pretty big dealer. He didn’t sell half ounces to college kids, he sold quarter keys to regional bagman. Next thing I know, I’m so hooked, I’m selling it for him.” She faltered as if steeling herself, then looked right at Fanshawe. “And that’s not all I sold for the guy.”

Fanshawe gulped.

“You’re still here?” she asked, acid in her tone.

“What’s it look like?” Grimacing, he picked up the bag of cocaine, knelt, and—

Abbie jumped up. “Don’t you dare!”

“Try stopping me,” he suggested, and emptied the bag into a drain on the floor.

She stood there, slumping. “You son of a bitch. Do you have any idea how much that cost?”

“Yeah, your soul.”

“It’s almost impossible to get around here!”

“Good. I just did you a favor so you can thank me.”

“How about this? Instead of thank you, fuck you.”

Fanshawe chuckled. How did I get myself into THIS? He scuffed his shoe over the drain. “Please don’t cuss, Abbie. It doesn’t work for you. And anyway, I’ve seen men who are analytical geniuses turn into useless waste products because of cocaine. Captains of industry, economic gurus, people who could create fifty thousand new jobs just with one deal, but now? They’re all either dead or useless. I’ll be damned if I’m going to watch that happen to you.”

She kept glaring at the drain.

“I’ll cut my stay short,” he said, “then take you to New York and put you in a rehab, a good one.”

“Oh really?” Her tone seemed to dare him.

“Yeah.”

She sat back down, looking completely defeated. “Fuck. I can’t believe this happened. Couldn’t you at least have fucking knocked?”

“I’m serious about the cussing. It makes you sound trashy.”

Her chuckle bubbled like hot pitch. “You don’t know trashy. You’d be sick to your stomach to know some of the things I did in Nashua.”

“Probably. So don’t talk about it.”

She stood up again, with a sudden expression that was confused and sluttish at the same time. “So you’re gonna put me in a rehab, huh, Stew?”

“Yeah. You sound like you don’t believe it.”

“Why should I? It sounds no different from all the other bullshit men have been telling me my whole life. I’m not naive anymore—I know what this is all about.”

“What do you mean?”

She walked right up to him. “It’s the oldest trick in the book that every stupid woman falls for every time. Oh, yeah. The knight in shining armor, makes the girl think he really cares about her, tells her all the things he’s gonna do for her, how he’s gonna rescue her. And what does she do? She believes it, because she’s made so many mistakes and been fucked over so many times, she’s got nothing else to believe.”

“It’s not bullshit,” he said.

She crossed her arms, talking to him with absolute virulence. “Gimme a break! I’ve seen this so many times, if I don’t know by now I might as we’ll jump off a fucking bridge. In the end the girl finds out it was a crock of shit and all the guy really wanted was a fuckin’ piece of ass. Well, I’ve fucked guys for bullshit before, so I guess I might as well fuck you—”

crack!

Fanshawe slapped her hard across the face.

Abbie flinched backward, a hand to her cheek. She shuddered, half-stooped. “You prick! You asshole! I can’t believe you just did that!”

“Neither can I.” Fanshawe was aghast. He was about to apologize but realized the lameness of that. He wasn’t sorry. “I really do care about you.”

She remained stooped over, rubbing her face. She growled, “I don’t believe that!”

“That’s fine. You will eventually.” This was his mind’s first time-out from this calamity. “Like I said, I’ll cut my stay short. I’ve got a few things to do first, just give me a day or two. Then I’ll take you to New York, put you in a rehab, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Take what from there?”

Fanshawe stalled. It was a good question. “I’m not really sure, but I’m sure of this. You’re not doing drugs anymore.” This was the first time he really looked at her since he’d come in. In spite of her tear-streaks, her facial pinkness, and the overall expression of disdain, Fanshawe felt a soft explosion in his belly. Her body, her gray eyes and indescribable hair, her curves and legs and her bosom—the totality of her sexiness could’ve made him melt. Even after this giant headache…I’m still crazy about her.

She could’ve been a stoic mannequin standing there now. Suddenly her anger turned to dread. “Stew? Please don’t tell my father.”

Of all the comments she could make, this sounded the least explicable. “Why would I tell your father? I just got done telling you I’d—”

“I’m serious, Stew. I’m really confused right now, and pretty damn ashamed. I don’t know if I’m even thinking straight. But if my father found out about me doing coke again…,” then her voice dissolved with the thought.

“You father seems like a pretty understanding guy, Abbie—”

“Oh, he is, he’s a wonderful man, and I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for him. He saved me. He dragged me out of Nashua and brought me back here, took care of me, got me clean. But what you have to understand about my father is…he’s a very structured person.”

“Structured?”

“Yeah. He has certain systems for dealing with things. Let me put it this way: he doesn’t give two second chances. I already got my first one. He forgave me the first time because I’m his daughter and he loves me. It crushed him, it wounded him, suddenly realizing how I’d deceived him. My father won’t allow himself to go through the wringer again, and I can’t say I blame him. His system for dealing with heartbreak is to terminate the source.” Her eyes began to fill with more tears. “That’s what would happen if he found out I was doing coke again. I’d be disowned, Stew. He’d kick me out of this house, write me out of his will, and erase me as if I’d never existed. And I know I’d deserve it.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. Because you just quit cocaine, and I’m going to make sure you quit for good.”

She looked about to fall apart, teetering forward. “Promise me, Stew. Promise me you won’t tell him.”

“I promise I won’t tell him. Now stop acting like this.” He was getting exasperated, and he knew it was because of this monumental monkey wrench that had just been dropped into his mental machinery. “And don’t blow it yourself. Get yourself cleaned up, and stay out of your father’s way for a while. You’re all lit up like a pinball machine, and if your father sees you like that he’ll have no choice but to think you’re on something. And wipe your nose; you look like you’ve been eating those powdered donuts.”

She kept looking at him, forlorn. “I’m sorry to disappoint you like this.”

“I’m not disappointed,” he half-snapped, “just surprised is all.”

A black chuckle. “Life’s full of surprises. I guess I wear a pretty effective mask.”

“We’ve all got a mask or two, Abbie.”

“Yeah? Do you?”

Her cursed himself for his own placating remark because her question unnerved him. Suddenly the room felt hot as a sauna. “I better go now, I’ll talk to you later.” He turned in the light, then started down the darker corridor.

She rushed up behind him. “Have some guts! Don’t run away, answer the question!”

He bristled, gritting his teeth, then turned back to her. “Yeah, I’ve got a mask, too, Abbie.”

“Then tell me.”

He almost stuttered when he said, “No.”

“Oh, that’s just great! Just like what I was saying before. More bullshit. If you were for real, you’d tell me.”

The cords in Fanshawe’s neck stiffened.

“What’s the matter, Stew?” she taunted. “Am I ruffling your feathers? Huh? Getting you hot under the collar? Why not be even up?”

“Even up?”

“What gives you the right to stand there and make judgments about me, when you won’t even—”

“I’m not making judgments!” he almost yelled.

“Sure you are! You and your rehab. You and your knight in shining armor jive.” She grinned. “Here you are making me feel like shit for the skeletons in my closet, but it sounds to me like you’ve got a few in your own.”

“Maybe I do, but you don’t need to know it.”

She stepped closer. “Just make me squirm, huh? That’s the deal? You can dump my blow down the fucking drain and preach to me about rehab, but the fact is, you got no idea what it’s like.” She inclined herself forward. “You ever been addicted, Stew? You ever get into you something that turned you into a slave?”

“Yes!” he barked.

“Are you kidding me? I can tell an ex-junkie when I see one, and you ain’t it.”

“It’s something else!” he blurted.

“Well then why don’t you tell me? Even the playing field. I told you my secret, it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

He knew she was right, but he just…couldn’t…do it.

“That’s good, that’s a good little billionaire. You’re a cliché, Stew. You’re like these financial assholes in the papers every day, the type of guy who won’t play a fair game. He’ll only play the game that’s fixed.”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Now you’re the one making judgments!”

She shrugged haughtily. “Then convince me. Prove it to me that you’re for real. How can I trust you with my secret if you won’t trust me with yours? All your money doesn’t mean shit if you can’t be real. For fuck’s sake, I just told you I’ve whored myself for my boyfriend in Nashua. Do you have any idea how it made me feel telling you that? Whenever he set up a big dope deal, I was the deal-sealer, Stew. Blow-jobs, gang-bangs—”

“Stop it!”

Her grin rose and fell as she nodded. “One time I fucked a roomful of bagmen to lock up a two-key sling.”

“Stop talking like that!”

“Then have some balls. Make the game fair. Take off your mask.”

The tiniest voice in his head whispered, Don’t be fake, but it was not a tiny rage that made him slam his fist into a storage box. “Shit!” His knuckles throbbed when he reeled back, holding his hand. The box was full of frying pans; he felt instantly inane.

The second he began to talk, the pain disappeared. “I’m what my therapist calls a chronic scoptolagniac—”

“A wwwwwhat?”

He uttered the most dismal laugh of his life. What the hell? What difference does it make? Go ahead and tell her…

So he did.

“I’m a pervert, Abbie, a voyeur. You want to look into my closet? Well there you go. I’m a peeping tom.”

Abbie could only stare, her face screwed up.

“Sounds pathetic, I know. You wouldn’t think someone could be addicted to something like that, but I am, for most of my adult life. I can’t explain it, it just is.”

“I’m-I’m…speechless,” she said.

“So was my wife, so were my lawyers and business partners. Crazy, huh?”

“You mean, like…looking in women’s windows?”

“Yeah. It’s as addictive to me as cocaine is to you. It’s caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain, like the imbalance that causes people to be gambling addicts. And the thrill of peeping stimulates the same kind of endorphin release that drugs stimulate. It’s madness, Abbie, but it’s me.”

Many moments ticked by with Abbie staring dumbfounded at him.

Fanshawe went on, not even hearing what he was saying anymore. “The funny part is…you thought I’d be disappointed with you. How’s that for irony? I’m a pervert and a criminal. I can’t help myself. When I got caught, and after my wife left, I started psychotherapy…and it worked. I didn’t peep for over a year. But then—”

“Relapse,” Abbie said.

He nodded. “It all fell apart, and I don’t know why.”

Her expression finally went from twisted bewilderment to something like mollification. “I feel a lot better now,” she said very quietly.

“I don’t,” Fanshawe snapped. “I feel like scum.”

She sighed dreamily. “I learn something new every day. I never knew people could be addicted to peeping in windows.”

“Well, now you know.”

She laughed. “I’m addicted to coke and you’re addicted to that. We’re both addicts. Of all the things to have in common…”

Fanshawe felt weak in the knees from her comment.

She has more in common with you than you think, Letitia had prophesied.

“I feel idiotic standing here—I’m going to go. If you want to see me again, well…let me know.” He turned abruptly and headed for the door.

“Stew, wait.” Her footsteps rushed behind him. “There’s one thing…”

Fanshawe turned.

crack!

Abbie couldn’t have laid her open palm harder across Fanshawe’s face. His head jerked, and he thudded into a wall of boxes. The pain exploded.

He couldn’t remember what happened immediately after that. His cognizance fizzed away, and his heart tightened in his chest. He heard another thud and felt substance in his hands: something yielding and hot. He was only aware of his rage and the pain.

There was a gagging sound. When he could calculate what he was seeing, Abbie’s face was darkening only inches from his own. She looked horrified but was smiling in spite of it.

“That’s terrific, Stew,” came a mocking croak. “You gonna kill me?”

Fanshawe’s left forearm had slammed her against boxes with such force that the cardboard caved in. His right hand—

His right hand was clamped about her throat, squeezing.

You’re a madman! a thought screamed. Let go of her! but he didn’t. Instead, he gnashed his teeth. “Goddamn! You-you fucking bitch!”

“Don’t cuss, Stew,” she laughed. “It makes you sound trashy.”

“That was twice as hard as I hit you!”

Her hot throat throbbed in the web of his hand when she replied, “Good, ’cos you deserved it…motherfucker.”

Fanshawe felt consciously appalled when he squeezed her throat more precisely while telling himself to release her. Still, her voice ground, “How do you like that? The billionaire shows his bad side…”

“I didn’t know my bad side was this bad. Thanks for bringing it out.”

“It’s good to know I have that effect on men”—she began to squirm in his clench. “Or maybe it just works on perverts who get off on peeping in women’s windows—”

She raised to her tiptoes when he squeezed even harder. “Why are you antagonizing a guy with his hand to your throat?” he growled, glaring.

She kept squirming, the pink of her face darkening. “It’s my defense mechanism, asshole. Don’t you know anything about women who hate themselves?” She grasped his wrist, then edged forward, either in the beginnings of terror or to deliberately press her bosom against his chest.

Fanshawe guessed the latter.

Abbie’s smile remained mocking. “If you’re going to strangle me, at least have the decency to fuck me first…”

Fanshawe released her throat, then dragged her down.

««—»»

When they were done, she lay on the floor as if dropped there, and Fanshawe felt like he’d just been trampled by horses.

“Holy—,” Fanshawe began.

“—shit,” Abbie finished.

It seemed that they’d jammed a frenetic sexual marathon into the space of twenty minutes. Clothes lay everywhere. Fanshawe ached in places he didn’t know he could ache. Sweat-prints on the cement floor left bizarre shapes that trooped the full length of the corridor. When Abbie tried to rise, she winced, then settled for turning over and collecting her garments on hands and knees. “Jesus, Stew. You must be packing a whole lot of angst.”

Fanshawe’s knees were barked raw. His bare heels thudded around as he put on one piece of clothing at a time. What did I just do? “I don’t know what came over me, Abbie. I’m sorry.”

Abbie laughed. “I’m complimenting you, genius. That was the best sex I’ve had since college.”

Fanshawe rushed back into his clothes. “I meant…I didn’t mean to choke you. I’ve never been violent like that before. It was never my intention—”

“Stew, it’s okay.”

His heavy breaths reminded him of his age. He sat back down quickly, then nearly put a shoe on the wrong foot. “We gotta hurry. Your father could walk in any minute.”

She didn’t seem that concerned. “Well, if he does, I can’t wait to hear your explanation.”

“Oh, that’s just great!”

Fanshawe finally got himself together. When he looked over to Abbie, she was buttoning her blouse, forgoing the bra which he’d torn during their heated tryst. Fanshawe stared.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, smiling.

“You’re beautiful…”

Abbie just kept smiling.

“You’ve got every reason to think I’m off the deep end,” he said, “but I meant everything I said earlier, about taking you to New York, and rehab, and all that.”

“I believe you.”

“So you’re game?”

“Yeah. I’m ready when you are, and until then…I’ll do my best.”

Can’t ask for more than that. Fanshawe felt exuberant all at once. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

“But no more hitting each other, okay?” she said in a jesty tone.

“You got a deal.”

“I like it rough, Stew, just not that rough. Christ, for a minute I thought you were going to kill me.”

So did I, he considered in a covert dread. He tried to make a joke of it. “You’re too good-looking to kill.”

“That’s good to know…I think.” A long revelation stilled her. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Sex with you took my mind off coke.”

“Let me know when the effect wears off. I’ll make sure I’m available.”

She chuckled, shaking her head.

“I better go now…” The moment made him antsy. He felt as though he should say something else but didn’t know what it should be.

“All right, I’ll talk to you later,” she said.

He stalked over to her, grabbed her rather roughly, and pulled. Again he was cramming her against the boxes but instead of choking her he was kissing her, while his hands couldn’t resist mauling her contours. I adore this woman, he thought. Their tongues delved; they sucked each other’s breath as if desperate for it. Fanshawe wished he could dissolve into the heat, scents, and substance that was her.

“If you bang me again like you just did,” she panted, “I’ll be in a wheelchair for a week,” but the prospect didn’t seem to daunt her: she reached to unbuckle his belt…

Fanshawe sucked her neck, then dug his fingers hard into her buttocks. She sighed, flinched, then nearly squealed when he twisted her nipples through her blouse. He wanted to do it all again right there, but common sense returned.

He had other things going on besides Abbie. His awareness of the looking-glass in his pocket reminded him.

“Later,” he said. “But I need to show you something tonight.”

“Yeah?” she purred.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

He looked right into her eyes. “Witches Hill, around eleven-thirty.”

Her eyes lit up, but then she slumped. “Shit. I can’t. Believe it or not, I’m not just an inn keeper with a secret. I’m also on the town council. We’ve got a big meeting tonight at eight. Sometimes those things go till two in the morning. It’s a big pain in the ass but I signed on for it, so…”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

Before she could say “Okay,” Fanshawe kissed her hard one more time, then left.

(II)

Fanshawe showered, changed, and rested, nursing his carnal wounds in his room. I was choking her, he thought. I was…

He didn’t want to think on it further. Not being in control of himself was something he’d never experienced outside of his voyeurism. Images of Abbie and their primitive lovemaking kept flashing in his mind. It had been exquisite.

And now she’d agreed to leave with him, go to New York.

The prospect thrilled him, even in spite of her own much more destructive addictions. But there was something else that thrilled him as well.

He saw that Dr. Tilton had left another message, and so had Artie. They would have to wait. From the sweltering hidden room in the attic, Fanshawe retrieved Jacob Wraxall’s other diary, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading every handwritten line that had remained legible after over three centuries.

It was a demented tableau that unfolded before him. His stomach turned with each sentence he deciphered, yet the more he read the more grimly fascinated he found himself. The nighttime doings of Wraxall, Evanore, and Rood demonstrated an unprecedented exercise in systematic and cold-blooded diabolism, and in real-life atrocities that paled their 21st century counterparts. Murder, rape, and torture were mere commonplaces for these three; instead it was the nauseating intricacies of their occult regimen that placed them on so high a pedestal of evil: infanticide and patricide; the draining of blood and evisceration of live subjects, too often children and newborns; absolutely depressing sexual despoilments; and the alchemical distillation of fetuses, among other even more unspeakable things. Also, the sexual revelries of Evanore and her twelve coven members provided a level of moral abandon that Fanshawe simply could not conceive of. On occasions when certain coven members were thought to have lost a faith dark enough for further inclusion, the punishments they were subjected to were described to every iota that the style and lexicon of the 1600’s could convey, and to an assiduity that at one point forced Fanshawe to rush to his suite’s bathroom and throw up.

This is awful, he thought when he’d finished. And it’s all real. But as disgusted as the revelations left him, the more he regretted how much of the diary remained hopelessly unreadable. He even felt gypped by what he wasn’t able to read, which seemed contradictory, given his open disgust.

At eight, he had dinner at the pub, tended to by Mr. Baxter. He made sure not to bring up the topic of Wraxall this time, so not to seem obsessed. Instead, they talked of things more innocuous, including the weather, and at one point Fanshawe said, “I was thinking of inviting Abbie to go to New York with me for a little while, if that’s all right with you.”

Mr. Baxter had no problem with his daughter going to New York with a billionaire. After more harmless small-talk, Fanshawe thanked the older man and left.

By now, it felt more like instinct that any time Fanshawe meant to stroll the town, he’d wind up on the walking trails which led to Witches Hill. When he arrived at its peak, the sun was setting spectacularly.

Midnight, he told himself. It only works after midnight.

Through his pocket he felt the tubular bulk of the looking-glass…

The temptation was there, of course; there were still two hours to go before the clock struck twelve. As the sky darkened, and the stars blinked brighter, the many windows of the town began to blink as well—right at Fanshawe, baiting him to take out the glass and pursue more of his shame-laden weakness. Even this far off, with his naked eye, he glimpsed the joggers at the end of a run, entering the inn, but Fanshawe did not focus the glass on the window he knew to be theirs. And the Travelodge?

The time couldn’t have been more ripe for a good long “peep,” but Fanshawe didn’t do it. He thought about it, but soon realized he wasn’t going to succumb to the cheapness of his addiction. The delicious thrill he normally experienced did not rear its head.

Instead, he waited for midnight.

He crossed paths with several couples strolling the hill as well. Fanshawe nodded, engaged in some genial chit-chat, then moved on. He paused to view the horrific barrel, then the grave-plots of Wraxall and his daughter, the latter sunken by what had been plundered from it so long ago. Then he turned and found himself standing before the Gazing Ball.

What are you? he asked as if the arcane object were a person. An orangish moon rose behind it, the angle coincidently perfect for the metal sphere to eclipse the lunar body’s glowing circumference. The spectacle lasted only a moment, but in that moment the ball gave off an aura of shimmering, thread-thin light the color of molten lava.

Fanshawe had no choice but to recall the diagnosis of his own aura…

Black…

And the words of Letitia Rhodes: …the color of one’s aura reflects the true character of their heart….

But Fanshawe knew that he was not a black-hearted person.

Before he realized it, his watch read 11:55. Back on the highest peak, he withdrew the looking-glass and raised it to his eye.

Almost time…

The town beamed in the twilight. It looked beautiful…and modern. He ranged the glass around, never once coming near the Travelodge, nor the joggers’ window. Instead he found the clean white town hall. The expansive first-floor windows blazed, showing movement. Fanshawe focused and saw part of a conference table, along with several people sitting behind it. One was Abbie, her hair shining, and her lips moving as she referred to papers spread out before her. Her town council meeting, he thought. Did anyone on the council know about her problem? Fanshawe doubted it. But she’d hidden her drug addiction so well, he had to wonder what else she might be hiding. He knew the trouble he might be getting into but…

I don’t care.

Fanshawe knew he was falling in love with her.

He continued to scan the glass until movement in another window snagged his eye. It was one unit in the row of red-brick Federal Period town-style houses. The movement he detected in the window was composed of sleek bare flesh: a nude woman’s back, presumably, and slick, shining, as though she’d just stepped out of the shower. But the thrill-surge of adrenalin that would typically couple such a sight with Fanshawe’s heart…

Never came.

The nude woman turned for a moment, sporting modest, shapely breasts. It was Letitia Rhodes.

Fanshawe slid the glass away, first out of respect to the woman and, second, he felt no interest in privately spying on her. His weakness for such sights seemed neutered. It seemed like a favorite meal he’d eaten so many times, he’d grown tired of it.

But you will succeed in defeating this weakness, he remembered another of her prophesies at the parlor.

Fanshawe kept his perfunctory reactions in check. Some of the things she’d told him during the reading were quite true but he still knew he might be subconsciously fulfilling the prophesy himself. Time would tell.

And as for time?

His watch-alarm began to beep the arrival of midnight…

Here goes. This is it. Here’s where I prove to myself what I’m pretty sure I already know…

When he put the glass back to his eye, the watch-alarm faded away, to be replaced by the floating, baritone-deep yet uncannily brittle gongs from the church bell that no longer existed.

Now the town sat huddled, as if pushed down by the midnight sky; it was half the size of the town Fanshawe had left just before dusk. Far off, the rolling vista of forest stretched, where there was no forest now. And through the glass the town’s dirt roads lay tinged by moonlight alone, not sodium light from streetlamps.

I knew it, he thought, surprisingly composed. There’s no mistake now. This looking-glass is for real, he thought, which meant—

His own hands now grasped the proof of supernaturalism.

The ramifications didn’t occur to him; no deep thinking accompanied his validation. Those considerations would come later. Instead, he simply looked—and marveled at—the utterly impossible.

The town house that would one day be owned by Letitia Rhodes—and whose taxes would be paid by Fanshawe himself—stood dreary and dark and weather-stained. In the closest pillory, a pitiable woman hung, her waste-blotched hair hanging nearly to the street. A sentinel in a tri-cornered hat, and with a star-shaped badge on his chest, walked rounds down Main Street, a lantern in one hand, a billy club in the other. Several horses stood still as statues while tied to their posts. From the entrance of the church, a man alighted, no doubt the bell-ringer. He walked straight from the church to the tavern across the street.

Fanshawe pulled back the focus, then swept the entire, decrepit town. Tonight, not a single window stood lit—

Wait!

—save for one.

He brought the glass to bear, and closed the focus.

A figure was waving at him, from a top-floor window of the Wraxall house. By now, Fanshawe was not surprised to see that it was the very room he would rent three-hundred-plus years later—clearly a room of indescribable horrors. And just as the room was no surprise, neither was its current occupant, the Van Dyked and emerald-eyed Jacob Wraxall, dressed in a long-tailed vest and ruffled linen shirt; around his neck hung the exact same pendant his likeness wore in the portrait. The cunning grin on the necromancer’s face made Fanshawe realize this:

He’s aware of me. He knows I’m looking…

On past nights, it had indeed seemed as though Wraxall and/or his daughter were personally addressing him through the glass, but this he’d dismissed as paranoia. Now, however, he knew it was nothing of the sort.

He knows I’m here. He’s back in his time, and I’m in mine but…he KNOWS I’m here…

It seemed as though Wraxall had somehow predicted Fanshawe’s use of the glass tonight. Next, Fanshawe remembered the wretched sorcerer’s epitaph: Convict’d of Sorcerie, Deviltrie, & Infernall Prophesie…

Prophesy, Fanshawe thought. Could Wraxall read the future?

It occurred to him that any man who could make such a looking-glass might well be able to read the future and quite a bit else.

Fanshawe adjusted the glass’s focus to the confines of the window. Candlelight wavered from within. Wraxall maintained the sly grin, but the disposition of his eyes changed, signaling to Fanshawe to be attentive…

In the window’s eerily-lit frame, Wraxall raised a hand, showing a scrap of folded paper. His other hand raised an over-sized black book with what looked like gold flake on the cover. Fanshawe thought back to his first intrusion into the hidden attic chamber and the large book kept in a traycase…

Is that the same book?

Wraxall turned the book over in his hand, opened the back cover, then inserted the folded piece of paper. His smile sharpened when he reclosed the book.

Fanshawe kept staring.

Wraxall may actually have even winked back at him. Then he turned and began to climb the rope ladder, taking the book with him.

The now-familiar drone of Fanshawe’s resolve filled his head like engine-noise. He ran full speed to the inn, forewent the elevator to take the stairs two at a time up to his floor, and barged breathless into his room. He locked the door and within minutes had slid off the trapdoor, dropped the ladder, and was up into the attic room that had been known to no one but Fanshawe for over three centuries.

His vigor raised clouds of dust as his feet scuffed over the blood-scribed pentagram. Fanshawe hacked in the floating grit; he was delirious to move on and plow forward. His hand shook when he found the bookcase and then the book itself that had triggered his memory. Here it is! He shined his penlight down. The ancient traycase crinkled when he lifted it open; gold leaf sparkled back at him when he read the volume’s bizarre title: DAEMONOLATREIA. He lifted the entire book out of the case, lay it face down, and opened the back cover. There, pressed between the book’s end pages, lay a dimly yellowed folding of paper…

Parchment, he realized when he touched it, and instantly more of Letitia Rhodes’s words echoed in his mind: Rood’s diary does say that the key to the Two Secrets was written down on parchment by Wraxall himself before he died.

Fanshawe let the invaluable book clunk to the floor, then rushed back down the ladder. He felt giddy when he sat at the complimentary desk and carefully unfolded the parchment. His heart raced.

The short passage commenced: To whosoever by Dark Providence and Adventuring Spirit shalt scruple to follow me: Make thyself sensible to these Words, Venturer, and Rejoyce! Be thy Will stalwart, and provideth thy Heart be Black… To larn ye Two Secrets—yea!—ye Unholiest Knowledge of Extream Evillness of ye sartain Rites of Transmigration and Riches unto like those of Croesus and all ye Pharaohs of Antient Aegypt putt to-gether! These Secrets wilt I make knowne unto thee, but onlie in that they maye be passed from mine Lips to thine Ears—

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Fanshawe grumbled aloud. “Your lips aren’t gonna tell me anything! You died three hundred years ago!”

But he read on: Thou must now grasp thy Intellect as if ‘tis ye throat of an Unhandsome Harlot, and forge thyself Stoutly Mindfull to my Instructions, which be thus: Taketh thy Black Heart and thy Bleeding Hand forthwith to ye Bridle!

“Finally! The Bridle!” Fanshawe exclaimed, then hoped the volume of his voice hadn’t awakened anyone. But he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the arcane “instructions.” Was Wraxall being subjective? Is there some riddle to this? Or did he just mean…

He looked at his hand. “Black heart and bleeding hand?”

A few more lines of the occultist’s writing remained. Afterwhilst thee must besmear ye Mystickal and Horrid Sphere with thine own Blood and then thee wilt take into thy Mouth one Driblet of ye Wretched and most Nefarious Aqua Wicce—

Fanshawe’s eyes peeled open as he easily translated. Wicce—wiccan: witch! Aqua: water! Witch-Water!

And the rest: Do this, Venturer, and I shalt gladlie receive thee amidst my Parlour and reveal the Secret Inwardness of that which I knowe.

That was all.

Fanshawe darted back into the attic, grabbed one of the flasks of Witch-Water, then drifted back out into the night.

— | — | —

CHAPTER ELEVEN

(I)

It was one-thirty in the morning when Fanshawe stood again in front of the crazily carved pedestal and the mysterious orb that crowned it. Before re-ascending Witches Hill, he’d stopped at his car and grabbed a larger flashlight. All the while, he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing or what he expected.

The night was still stiflingly warm, yet when he placed his hand on the Gazing Ball—the bridle—it felt almost ice cold. He knew it was a trick of the moonlight but when he stared at the pedestal, the swaths of tiny occult symbols seemed to exude the faintest pale-green luminescence. But when the time came to do whatever it was he was going to do…he paused.

I could just go back to the inn, get Abbie, and get out of here. Start a new life…

He raised the looking-glass and aimed it precisely at his own window at the Wraxall Inn.

The creepily angled roof, gray wood slats, and black windows sat there like some hulking thing in wait.

Fanshawe, next, was examining the surface of the Gazing Ball: tarnished, encrusted, weather-pitted. But the strong white beam of light brought out a blemish that was obviously new.

A thin maroon stain, vaguely in the shape of a hand. Blood, he realized. And it hasn’t been there long, it still has red in it.

Then he thought: Karswell. He was here. A brief scan of the surrounding brush verified this almost beyond doubt, when Fanshawe discovered a fat cigar butt with a Monte-Cristo band, and—

Unbelievable.

—a small, clear jar. The jar’s lid lay right next to it.

Karswell must’ve made his own witch-water, Fanshawe deduced. New England’s full of unconsecrated graves of condemned witches… It was perfectly feasible that a writer of occult history and a Christian mystic would know how to make it. He challenged himself: All right. There’s only one more thing left to do…

He flicked open the tiny penknife on his key chain. He looked at the modest blade, then looked at the palm of his left hand. He winced at the initial puncture of the knife-tip into the middle of his palm. Blood welled up first as a pea-sized bead, but very quickly it formed a grim puddle in his hand. When he turned the flashlight off, the blood looked black in the moonlight.

Well?

Fanshawe spoke aloud the queer words he’d recently read on the centuries-old parchment: “Besmear ye mystickal and horrid sphere with thine own blood…”

He placed his bleeding hand on the orb, leaving a scarlet print.

“And then take into thy mouth one driblet of ye wretched and most nefarious aqua wicce…”

His slick hand wrapped around the flask’s glass stopper, twisted, then he felt the ancient black wax give way. He lifted the stopper out—

Fanshawe swayed in place, grimacing: he stood on solid ground like a man on a tight-rope. It was an appalling odor that issued from the flask’s aperture, like rotten-meat stench blended with the smell of basement mold. My GOD! I’ve got to DRINK this? Queasiness engulfed his stomach. But— Only a ‘driblet,’ he reminded himself, which he assumed could only be a minuscule unit of measure.

The odor’s foulness wafted before him; his eyes watered. Am I really going to…, but when a side breeze crept up and blew the reek off, Fanshawe didn’t even think about it.

He snatched in a breath, took one sip of the cryptic water, paused—

Down the hatch.

—and swallowed.

He stood still in the next pause. His brows popped up at the accommodating surprise: the water was absolutely tasteless and totally inoffensive.

For about two seconds.

An impalpable impact sent Fanshawe to his knees. A taste more revolting than anything he could conceive filled his mouth, a taste that could only be described as evil. At once, he gagged, then he began to dry heave, blundering about the clearing on hands and knees. My God my God my God! His mind spun. His equilibrium reversed, all the while his stomach spasming progressively harder, such that subsequent abdominal cramps flared pain as if he’d been sledgehammered in the gut. I’ve poisoned myself! he somehow was able to think through the shards of pain and waves of terror. When he rolled over on his back and opened his eyes—

He could see nothing. Fanshawe was blind.

A darkness slammed down on his psyche like an ax-fall, dragging him down and down and down until, only seconds later, he died.

««—»»

Or at least he thought he died, given the pain, loss of sight, and sheer blackness that had overwhelmed him. When he roused, he remained on his back, his eyes staring up. Low, coal-smoke-colored clouds slid swollen overhead. Only the faintest veiled luminosity tinged the edges of the clouds, as though the moon had been ingested by their tumorous shapes. Hooooooooly SHIT! he yelled at himself. I must’ve been out of my mind to drink ANYTHING that’s been sitting in an attic for three hundred years! Though he sensed some time had passed, his stomach muscles still ached sharply, and the dizziness lingered when he pulled himself to his feet. He calmed down and caught his breath…

He was looking around the clearing.

His jaw dropped.

It was the same clearing, but…not the same, either. The surrounding brush was much higher than it had been, while the clearing’s perimeter was closer, far less delineated, and was completely devoid of decorative gravel. A glance down to the town showed Fanshawe the same modest village he’d seen after midnight through the looking-glass…

Then he turned and faced the Gazing Ball.

At first the carved markings on the pedestal seemed infested by fitful movement, but Fanshawe’s shock since drinking the vile water left him disoriented. How could I NOT be disoriented? he reasoned with himself. However, the next shock gave him more to be disoriented about.

The Gazing Ball—or Bridle—stood before him in the moon-tinged darkness, straight as a chess piece. And as for the metal globe itself?

It bore no incrustations, no tarnish, no weather damage. Instead, it shined as if just polished.

The damn thing looks brand new, Fanshawe thought, but then an even darker thought insinuated itself. That’s because it IS brand new…

Fanshawe’s mind stayed relatively blank as he crept about the hillocks. No, the trails weren’t the same; where before they’d been gravel-paved and well-trimmed, now they were just meager weed-lined lanes beaten into existence by constant foot traffic. The scent of wood-smoke hung heavily throughout. Then an owl hooted from a high tree, its white blank face appearing distortedly human at first glance—Fanshawe thought of an invalid’s face. But his wanderings were quite aimless; in a sense he already knew his way around. Of course, the very peak of Witches Hill lacked the accompanying wooden sign explaining the spot’s historical significance, but it did not lack the barrel.

Fanshawe’s face blanched as whitely as the owl’s when he directed his flashlight to the foot of the barrel and saw a puddle of coagulating blood which crawled with flies. There was vomit there as well, and chunks of what appeared to be scalp tissue with long threads of hair still attached.

My God…

Fanshawe backed up, nauseous.

It was an undersense more than conscious impetus that guided his next steps. Consciously, he could not reckon the reality of where he was, what he’d done, and what he would next do. Instead, he let his feet take him where they may—

Down the straggly hill, toward the town.

Ramshackle horse-quarters stood where the Travelodge should be. Fanshawe heard the scuffs of his shoes answered by heavy snorting sounds. He’d just crossed Back Street—its teetering abodes and primitive service-buildings showing white-washed boards and crudely glazed window panes. All that lit the town was cloud-filtered moonlight. He thought of switching on his flashlight but felt alarm when he realized that might instantly make him a target for attention. The town was asleep, and he needed it to stay that way.

But he knew where he was going now…

Wraxall’s house should be just across the next street. When he slipped through an alley, he froze—at the sound of a bell—

A church bell.

It struck once, twice, then a third time. The nature of each peal sounded fat and buoyant in the air of the warm night, but also oddly brittle.

Fanshawe knew he’d heard this bell before.

Three o’clock in the morning, he deduced. Instead of emerging from the other side of the alley onto Main Street, he hung back, letting himself sink into shadow. The bell-ringer would come out of the church any moment, to walk into the tavern where he’d wait till it was time to sound the bell again, probably by the assistance of an hour-glass. Before Fanshawe’s eyes, the night-veiled dwellings of Main Street stretched, then, as suspected, a door was heard opening and closing. Footsteps crossed hard-packed dirt. Fanshawe glimpsed the bell-man approaching the tavern and disappearing into it.

Now.

He stepped out of the shadow-black alley, prepared to whisk himself across the street, but nearly shouted via the surprise that came next:

“Who be thither? Come for another go upon a helpless woman, have thee, thou stinkards? Well, I say pox on you, and may there be a plague upon all thy children! May they be borned with cloven faces and empty heads!”

Fanshawe’s heart slammed.

Just beside him stood a pillory, and in its long wooden brace hung a woman dressed in scraps of soiled fabric. Worse soiling left the color of her yard-long hair impossible to determine.

Another one, Fanshawe thought.

Sunken eyes in a gaunt face craned upward. “Glory!” she rasped in a whisper. Decayed teeth grinned at him in relief. “Pray, sir, ’tis not one’a them that you be, I can see as much! Hear my plea, I beg! Release me! ’Tis a fortnight they’ve kept me here. They spit on me in the name of God—hear me! Into mine womanhood they spurt their seed any time they’ve the mind to, and ‘tis only foul water and livestock gruel they let be my sustenance!”

“For God’s sake,” Fanshawe groaned, disgusted. He could see rings of scab and infection about the prisoner’s wrists and neck. “Kept quiet, I don’t want that guy to hear”—he fiddled with the latch on the brace.

She shivered, concealing a squeal of delight as he finally worked the latch and raised the wooden brace.

Joints cracked and she moaned when he helped her up. Between the tatters of her clothing, Fanshawe saw a body like a victim of a death camp. Immediately she hugged him, which caused Fanshawe to recoil from the power of her body odor.

“For thine kindness, I wilt do anything you may ask!” Rotten breath gusted into his ear, and then she caressed his crotch.

Fanshawe was revolted. “No, no—just run, get out of here!” he whispered. “These people are crazy.”

“Oh my great dark lord! May the Morning Star bless thee and keep thee safe!” and then the raddled woman crossed herself, but it was the sign of an upside-down cross that her hand gestured over her chest.

Fanshawe stared.

“Myself and all mine own shalt pray that Lucifer guide thee always. We shalt do anything you deem us worthy of, great necromancer!”

Fanshawe stammered, “Buh-but I’m not a necrom—”

The woman hobbled off, disappearing down another alley.

A witch…

“Halt, you!” another voice rose. It boomed down the street like a basso shout: a man’s voice.

Fanshawe ground his teeth in fear. A large man lumbered in his direction, and when a reef of clouds moved off to let the moon shine, Fanshawe grimly recognized the obese stature of the man: the vest about to break its buttons, the star-shaped metal badge, and the swollen, corroded nose and blemished face.

Patten, the high sheriff.

Fanshawe wanted to run, but his knees locked when he saw the fat, shambling man raise a flintlock pistol. “Be still and speak thy business on this Godly street at so an hour!”

Fanshawe opened his mouth—

More footsteps, then another voice boomed: “On my word, Sheriff, just now from my window I espied that fellow unfetter the harlot from her just and legal capture!” A slimmer man raced from another door, bearing a lit lantern.

“Oh, did he now?”

Fanshawe remained unmoving as the men converged, but when they got closer, their steps slowed as if intimidated. The sheriff’s out-broken face creased in fear.

“Behold his manner of dress…”

“Yea! Just the same as—”

“That one come only a week afore! Another warlock, turned up by deviltry to curse our Christian flock—”

The other man’s voice quavered. “What-what be that he’s got in his hand?”

“’Tis a weapon?”

Fanshawe raised the flashlight and turned it on. “No, listen—it’s just a…”

The slim man dropped his lantern in the road and fled, shrieking in nearly a feminine voice. The sheriff froze, terror open on his face. “A sorcerer’s scepter—surely! A wand that yields a spot of light like that of ye sun!”

Absurdly, Fanshawe said, “It’s just a damn flashlight, man. Look, I don’t want any trouble—”

Sheriff Patten’s lower lip trembled; his gun hand shook. But when Fanshawe shined the flashlight in the man’s face, he saw the expression slowly go from a gibbering panic to a slowly rising disregard for danger. He began to step forward.

Shit! What am I gonna do now?

“A Christian soldier such as I need have no fear. God shalt protect me always, as one of those with faith.” His gun hand was shaking less. “Now, keep thyself still and let go that scepter, lest thee find thy bosom with a hole large enough to admit my fist!”

With a reflex he didn’t think himself capable of, Fanshawe jerked to the left, to sprint across the street. There was a snap! a flash, then—

BOOM!

The entire street concussed from the pistol shot. Fanshawe’s teeth clacked, and he felt something substantial plow past his head, displacing air; his feet carried him through another alley as though he were on a tow-line. Behind him he heard bells clanging, shouts, and the sheriff’s voice booming nearly as loud as the shot: “All Christian men, awake—we’ve a wizard in our midst! Deputies, come out! Call ye parson! Someone fetch Humphreys and have him bring his beast!”

Beast, Fanshawe thought in horror, stumbling over rubbish in the alley. Then the thunderous barks of an immense dog overpowered all other sound; it was so loud Fanshawe wanted to scream.

He’d already seen the animal responsible for those sounds.

He tripped just as he would exit the alley—more rubbish. These people just piled their garbage in the alley? The Wraxall house stood in sight, bathed in moving moonlight, but—

I’m never going to make it, he realized, because he could already hear the nearly mule-sized dog race into the alley’s mouth.

“Fly, Pluto!” a voice shot. “Tear the wizard asunder!”

As Fanshawe scrabbled forward, he heard the huge paws tear toward him from behind. He clawed ahead; he knew that at any second the massive jaws would snap a foot off, then the other, and this would only be the beginning of a slow, unimaginable death—

The image of Abbie flashed in his mind; Fanshawe managed a smile…

He thought he could actually feel gusts of hot breath blowing into the back of his neck, when—

There was a pop! then a long sizzle which accompanied a broad, ball-shaped flash of light that was scarlet with moving veins of green. The light filled the alley; Fanshawe smelled acrid smoke. At the same time, resonant words drifted: “Nattel’gleg shebb m’gy-hotl…”

Fanshawe stared terrified over his shoulder. The blossom of light dissipated a moment later, but now, instead of hunting him, the mammoth Doberman was snarling as if wildly aggravated, and turning circles in the alley. It seemed to be chasing its own tail.

“Pluto! Sic!” one voice called from the alley’s other side.

“Of all the…”

“Look! The wizard’s bewitched the dog!”

Fanshawe still had spots in his eyes from the mysterious flash when he was hoisted to his feet and shoved. A sturdy man in dark clothing pointed toward the open front door of the Wraxall house.

“Who—”

“Stifle thy words!” a whisper snapped back. “And mind thy tongue lest it be the death of us…”

Fanshawe stared into the stranger’s face…

Callister Rood.

“Make haste and close Master’s door!”

“But—”

Another hard shove. “Be off!”

Fanshawe sprinted to the door to the house, closed it as quietly as he could, then turned to peer out of a small glass pane in the side-light.

By now the Doberman had churned its way out of the alley, still snarling, still chasing its tail. Sheriff Patten and the others lumbered after it through the trash-clogged by-way.

Rood rushed to meet them. “Good Sheriff! I glimpsed a hellish light, then spied a man in evil raiments flee thither! Pray, let me aid thee in thy chase!”

“Callister Rood, surely thy vigilance be blessed by God Himself!” Patten barked, then, behind him, “This way, men! Ye divell’s made off this way!” and then the sheriff, Rood, and the rest tramped off down the street till they were out of sight.

Fanshawe’s face pressed against the glass; he exhaled long and hard, and felt relieved when the last of the posse’s footsteps faded to silence.

He turned, to face almost total darkness. The entrance, which was probably just a narrow foyer back then, he guessed. The only light could be seen very dimly at the top of the first stairwell.

“I’m here to see Jacob Wraxall,” he announced loudly to the darkness.

There was no vocal response but—

What-what’s that?

Fanshawe heard the faintest sound, like a muffled, hot thumping…

A heartbeat!

Someone was in the room.

He raised his flashlight, was about to turn it on—

From behind, some form of garrote looped around his neck and tightened. A chuckling like bubbling tar gurgled. Fanshawe’s tongue shot out of his mouth from the tightness of the noose; he had no choice but to drop the flashlight so that he could raise his hands to hook his fingers under the rope.

“Might this break thy starch?” a man’s voice slithered up. Then Fanshawe’s eyes bugged when he was kicked from behind between the legs. Pain bloomed. He doubled over.

He began to choke at once. His heels pummeled the floor; he was being dragged by the noose across the floor, through horrid darkness, then—
thunk, thunk, thunk

—dragged up the stairs.

Fanshawe’s face ballooned as his attacker tugged him along as though he were a sack of feed. He continued to kick, twist, and contort in resistance, all for nothing.

“So,” the mocking voice resumed, “ye venturer desires to be a warlock, aye? He dares quest to be one with ye Squire?”

“No!” Fanshawe croaked out. “I just came to—”

A hard yank of the rope cut off the rest of his garbled words. Up another flight of steps, Fanshawe was hauled, then the last flight, and then down the hall. Splinters from the wood floor lanced through the rump of his slacks and into his flesh; he could only gargle his torment against the noose.

He was dragged to the left, into a room. For a moment, the noose’s pressure lessened; a needed rush of blood shot into his head. Got to get up! he realized, and he’d almost accomplished that when—
whap!

He toppled again when his attacker rammed a fist into his stomach.

If Fanshawe hadn’t summoned the strength to get his fingers back under the noose, he probably would have strangled, because just after the blow, his attacker began to climb the now-familiar rope ladder with one hand, while keeping the noose-rope attached to Fanshawe’s neck in the other.

“Up, up goes ye venturer!”

Fanshawe’s eyes could’ve popped out now: his back and then his feet left the floor as he was suspended aloft by his neck. In hard jerks, he was hoisted up into a room he’d seen three hundred years in the future…

Fanshawe’s vision dimmed, and the pressure made his face fit to erupt. Just as he thought he would die, he was slammed down onto a floor of wood planks.

The noose was taken off.

Fanshawe heaved in air while coughing at the same time. His mind spun like a child’s top; no coherent thoughts formed, which seemed understandable. But as his vision brightened, he was able to see exactly where he was: the secret section of the attic.

He sensed his attacker’s bulk just behind his head. Fanshawe was enraged now; he wanted to fight, as implausible as that instance was. Play dead, he thought.

And so he did.

He lay as if unconscious, while the man who’d dragged him up here puttered with some task. Fanshawe kept his eyes open only to the most narrow slits. He glanced in snatches, each glimpse revealing more of the hidden room: the book shelves, only new and clean, bereft of cobwebs and dust; rows and rows of lit candles; the woodstove, with fire-light showing in the grill-slits of its hatch; and the long tables which housed all manner of the laboratory apparatus of another day. An awful odor permeated the warm room, and that’s when Fanshawe guessed what its source might be:

A large cauldron sat atop the woodstove, eddying ribbons of steam.

He let his eyes veer to the right, and in the wall of candlelight, he got a full look at the man who’d hauled him up here.

Callister Rood.

He can’t be here! Fanshawe thought in consternation. I just saw him on the street!

“I know thy prank, sir,” the thick-jawed man said down to him. “Yet there be reason why feigning death wilt fool me not,” and then Rood leaned over and grinned broadly down at him.

Fanshawe leapt up, grabbed a knife from a rack on the table, then lunged at Rood.

Rood’s mouth ejected words thick as half-formed objects: “Nard’gurnlut do’blyn srug…”

Fanshawe fell limp. He could see and think, he could feel, but he couldn’t move. Had the alien words really caused his paralysis or had his neck been broken during the hoist into the attic. Suddenly rough hands were on him— “Venturer, first, thy garb must be got rid of,” Rood said, amused. Fanshawe felt his shoes pulled off, then his slacks, then his underpants, and his sports jacket and shirt. Then—

SPLAT!

—a bowl of something warm suddenly slapped Fanshawe’s face. The copper-salt taste that leaked into his mouth told him it was blood.

“Now,” Rood’s voice fluttered from above, “thine fit and proper anointment.”

Blood drooled down Fanshawe’s face and stung his eyes.

“And afore ye most unholy of imprecations—as mine Squire sayeth—thy gullet must be filled,” and then another bowl was wielded, and put to Fanshawe’s lips. “Drink all this up, good sarvant.”

Revolted, Fanshawe kept his lips sealed; he shook his head no. He knew it wasn’t merely blood Rood wanted him to swallow, but baby’s blood.

“Nay? Why dare displease the Squire?”

The edge of the bowl pushed at the seam of his lips.

“Heed, and take this down into thy belly, stranger. Thy worth must first be proved.”

Fanshawe kept shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut as tightly as his lips.

“Be an encumbrance not, or suffer…” and then Rood picked up a hand-forged linoleum knife whose inner curve had been honed to the sharpness of broken glass.

The knife was hooked under Fanshawe’s scrotum.

“Many’s the time, sir—and believeth it—ye pleasure’s been mine to skive a man’s groin bare.” A chuckle fluttered. “’T’will make a woman of thee if thou refuse to drink.”

Fanshawe tensed as the blade’s edge threatened to break the skin.

The bowl nudged his lips. “Drink with faith.”

Shuddering, Fanshawe gulped the bowl’s contents down.

“Fine, fine Rood,” another voice seemed to sing. A graceful shape passed before the wall of candlelight. “A glorious christening it is thee’ve achieved.”

A lithe figure towered over Fanshawe. Evanore, he knew by the voice. She giggled, gliding a bare foot up the inside of his thigh. When she leaned over, he could see she was not only naked but feverishly intent on him. “A handsome one, isn’t he?”

Rood, still behind Fanshawe, only grunted.

“Calm thyself, Rood. Our ilk has naught for jealousy, hmm? Our Benefactor hath spoken it,” but her words were a mockery of their meaning. Fanshawe saw the woman’s large bare breasts moving closer—she was kneeling between his splayed legs. “Yea, I’ll pleasure in filching the cream from this one. Do taketh away thy knife, friend Rood. You’ll wither him to nothing, and what use have I of that?”

More giggles sailed off as Rood put the knife away; even in his paralysis, Fanshawe relaxed…but only for a moment.

Terror had shrunk Fanshawe’s genitals, but now Evanore purred as she applied some oily fluid to them. “Surely this even-time’s events hath affrighted our venturer out of his vitality.” Her hands worked the slick oil all around Fanshawe’s groin. “But this shall resurge him a’plenty—the juice of many blister beetles, b’mixed with but a half-dram of nightshade oil…”

Beaten, hanged, forced to drink infant’s blood, and a knife held to his genitals—it was understandable that Fanshawe had completely lost his sexual responses. In only moments, however, Evanore’s arcane concoction succeeded in arousing him.

“There now!”

Fanshawe was sick to death. Nothing in his mind was sexually aware, yet his erection throbbed, if anything, larger than ever. Evanore’s grin turned greedy when she squatted down and impaled herself on it. All the while, Rood’s hand clamped to Fanshawe’s throat, fingers pliered around the adam’s apple.

Licking her lips, Evanore began to ride Fanshawe up and down.

Slick sounds rose; Fanshawe’s eyes crossed at the abominable act. She’s raping me… Her breasts bounced with each hard impact of her groin to his. She began to moan and even drool.

“Now, Rood! Lend some spark to his spirit!” she panted.

Fanshawe’s tongue shot out of his mouth the noose was put back around his neck; Rood gave it a twist. The sight seemed to rile Evanore—her groans began to blend with muted shrieks, and in the carnal delirium, her finger reached out. First she made the sign of an upside-down cross in the blood on Fanshawe’s forehead, then a pentagram on his scarlet chest. She rode him harder and harder.

Rood gave the noose’s knot another twist.

Almost no air got into Fanshawe’s lungs. He felt worse now than when he was being hanged. His face expanded; his neck beat. When he started to gag again, Evanore touched a fingertip to the top of a tiny bottle. “My moment’s nearly beside me!” came more words through more panting.

The slick sounds drew on with the lewd motion. Fanshawe’s vision was dimming but he was able to see the glimmer of a drop of fluid on Evanore’s fingertip. “Yes, yes!” and then she drew her finger along the inside of his lower lip. Instantly, he felt a tingle.

He thought of shooting his thumbs backward, to target Rood’s eyes, but he couldn’t raise his hands off the floor. A harder thought, then: grabbing Evanore’s white, sweat-sheened throat and wringing it till a vertebra snapped, but, still…

He couldn’t move at all.

Then he began to convulse.

“The potion’s so vital!” Evanore seethed.

Fanshawe’s convulsions came like electrocution. His body began to flop beneath Evanore’s weight, causing his pelvis to lurch repeatedly up. Evidently, this was the effect she wanted. She wanted to be penetrated violently, by the throes that just preceded death…

“Just the tiniest bit of spike-fish poison can kill a man,” she drooled in glee, “but half that? It makes a man flop and flip quite a fish out of water!”

Fanshawe’s body bucked hard now, and as if on cue, Rood tightened the noose further. Evanore’s bosom heaved in and out as her climax drew near. “Yea, to the very brink he must be brought!”

Fanshawe felt her sex spasm in fits around his erection. He continued to twist on the floor, veins beating in his head. A scream of the most demented ecstasy burst from Evanore’s throat; Fanshawe’s heart beat so hard if felt as thought it were trying to churn its way out of his chest. Then his entire body heaved on the floor as his own climax broke, bringing a sensation of pleasure more potent than anything he’d ever felt.

A sound more like a death-rattle than a scream ground out of his own throat when his vision turned black and he felt heat so intense he could’ve just been dropped into a slag furnace—

—and then Fanshawe was sitting wide-eyed and fully dressed at a round wooden table inlaid with pearls. Several candles flickered; the same centuries-old paintings that hung in his suite at the inn now surrounded him, but they looked brand-new.

A glass of wine sat before him, and sitting beyond it, across the table, was Jacob Wraxall, his green eyes glittering.

“Pray, pardon the viciousness of my attendant’s hectoring,” the old man said. “His orders to do so were mine alone.”

Fanshawe could only stare.

“And an equal pardon I’ll hope you to grace upon my rather randy daughter, and ye fervid eccentricities that be her wont when coupling with a man.”

“Eccentricities is putting it mildly,” Fanshawe finally managed to speak.

“But before interview could be granted, it was required in the utmost that thy faith be proved.” Wraxall smiled ever-so-slightly. “And so it has been.”

Fanshawe’s mind felt riotous with questions; and Wraxall seemed to read this in his face.

“I can only conjecture, friend,” the man began, “what might addle thee firstmost. All these matters will be answered to thee. As anent to ye chase by Sheriff Patten and his nincompoop assignees, and ye great eruption of light, additives of sartain mineral salts provided ye strange and startling hue its illuminance—lo, just a flashpot—while ye vicious cur’s progress was forestalled forthwith by an ably bespoken Confoundment Hex. Its disorienting effect remains vital for only the passage of seconds, but seconds, as your presence indubitably ostends, were sufficient to spare thy neck. In all, ‘twas a simple thing—little more than a parlor trick, same as the Stasis Spell bespoken to you next—”

Without even thinking of it, Fanshawe remembered the words that Rood had said, words that seemed to have semi-solid substance: Nard’gurnlut do’blyn srug…

“’Twas necessary, to keep thee compliant for thine anointment, and, yea, the sequent entertainment of my most lovely and awful daughter.”

But now Fanshawe’s confusion was beginning to gain a form of coherence. “How could Rood haven’t gotten in the house so fast?”

“Thy meaning, sir?”

“The sheriff’s men and that damn dog were chasing me through the alley!” Fanshawe yelled. “But after the flash, I got into the house. It was Rood who threw them off my direction—he ran down the street with the sheriff, but the second I got into the house, Rood was waiting for me! It’s impossible! He didn’t have time to get back inside!”

“Time, good student, is a notion of which you’ll become more apprized sooner than later, I say.” Wraxall stroked his trimmed Van Dyke, as if amused. “But I should think such possibilities would already have come to thee.”

Fanshawe pounded his fist on the table. “What are you talking about!”

“’Twas the Bridle which thee rode to come hither.”

The Bridle, Fanshawe thought.

“’Tis a genius mechanism given men as me by the great dark Benefactor, whom I live to sarve. A man such as thyself, possessed of understanding, should surely see this.”

“It-it’s some occult thing… that manipulates time,” Fanshawe said to himself.

“Far more than mere manipulation it is of which we be speaking. It is an instance of one’s spirit being united with the ways of our Benefactor. Such knowledge be bestowed upon only a precious few.” Wraxall pointed. “You.”

Fanshawe continued to stare.

“Yea, you. But I shall give thee witness, to further embolden thee,” and with that, Wraxall seemed to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut, and—

Now Fanshawe was standing in the silent hall, Wraxall smiling at his side. “Time? Space? Such things these, thought to be constants, but to those so gifted, they be but playthings to ye minister of Lucifer”—and then Wraxall made the facial gesture again, to leave himself and Fanshawe standing in a small bedroom occupied by a high, veiled poster bed. “Behold,” Wraxall said.

It was Evanore who lay there, with Rood standing by, leaning over intently. Evanore grunted, her face a grimace. She was nude and—

Holy shit, Fanshawe thought.

—very pregnant. But after several forceful shrieks, her belly collapsed. Rood reached between her legs and raised up a wet, new-born infant.

Fanshawe trembled. “That’s not…”

“Ye child of thy seed shared with my daughter—”

“But that was just a few minutes ago!”

“So to thee it may seem, for ye Bridle skews time, venturer, yet he who masters it owns it.”

Fanshawe looked again. The squalling newborn lay now at Evanore’s bosom. As the tiny thing suckled, Evanore grinned…right at Fanshawe.

Again, the warlock transplanted them, this time, to the foyer. A dog was heard barking outside, along with the shouts of men. Rood grinned at Fanshawe as he set down a bloody knife. Behind him on a shelf lay an indiscernible shape—a tiny shape—yet before him on a table sat two bowls of blood.

“Back, I take thee, forward—any and all!” Wraxall said. “Like a jester who juggles pins amid ye air, so do I juggle time!”

The nausea rose in Fanshawe’s gut, even after the scene disappeared, leaving him to sit in a dark parlor room. He didn’t have to be told that the blood he’d drunk was that of his own child.

“Forsooth, sir—these be ye secrets I design to teach.”

Fanshawe’s mind spun. “I don’t want your secrets! I don’t want to know any of this, and I don’t want to be here!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I’m not evil! I don’t want to be a fuckin’ warlock!”

“Nay?” Only one candle lit the room. Wraxall looked like little more than a shadow. “’Twas of thine own will that thee are here. You sought such secrets. You engaged ye looking-glass. And, you, sir, were all too eager to ride ye Bridle.”

Fanshawe went limp in his chair.

“To thee I shalt bequeath ye Two Secrets of which you hath willingly read already. The test thee hath passed. Thy mettle hath been proved. Only one other such venturer has come here, claiming to seek ye same.”

Something small and dark flapped on the table before Fanshawe. He picked it up.

It was a wallet.

Fanshawe opened it to find a New York driver’s license and a picture of—

“Eldred Karswell. So he did come here.”

“This he did, seeking secrets such as you. Aye, but at a glance I knew that his poise was but a feign. He claimed to serve ye Benefactor, yet one of such he was not.”

Karswell was a Christian mystic, Fanshawe remembered, and a former minister.

“Yet his aspect here at once introduced quite an incongruous element, and with but a glance I espied his falsehood, for his truth I glimpsed in the tone of his aura…”

Fanshawe’s gaze was dragged up by the statement. “What color? What color was Karswell’s aura?”

“White as new-felled snow—”

“And mine?” Fanshawe shook where he sat. “What color is mine?”

“Black,” the word grated from Wraxall’s throat. “Same as ye hue of thy heart, like deepests earth’s blackest ichors.” Wraxall’s shape paused; he seemed to be appraising Fanshawe’s reaction. “But this thee know already. In matters appertaining to ye imposture called Karswell, from the house he was cast, then encaptured by ye sheriff and deputies. ’Twas a joyous sight to behold—his end.”

Fanshawe remembered the image of Karswell’s face, or lack thereof. They barreled him…

Now Wraxall’s words in the dark seemed to vibrate like some suboctave groan. “You too wilst have such power as I, to play with time as thou see fit, and to thine own great gain, whereat Lucifer be praised.”

The word—Lucifer—seemed to hang in the darkness like the face of a barely seen watcher.

“To one such as thyself, such things seem impossible, since we know time to be of ye Nature God hath put upon us. How wondrous, then, must it be to have in thy hands such black endowment to corrupt God’s will, and forge the impossible into that which be more than possible? Let us look then back into the countenance of God and hurl our laughter as we subvert his givings for our whimsey!”

Fanshawe let the echos of the words melt away.

“But as bearing with all great gifts, a price must be exacted—”

“What? My soul?”

Wraxall laughed out of the darkness. “You squandered that some while back, my friend.”

“What, then? What’s the price?” Fanshawe demanded, no longer even caring.

“Something thee wilt freely give, so am I certain. Alas, our disquisition be nearly as its end. Naught remains save for this,” and then Wraxall leaned out of the darkness, green eyes ablaze. But the image of the necromancer’s face seemed to switch back and forth between glimpses of vibrant youth and great age. His hair shifted from dark to gray, back and forth; his posture stooped, then straightened, and the hand on Fanshawe’s shoulder wavered between that of a teenager and that of a hundred-year-old man. That same hand felt hot through Fanshawe’s jacket, and then he noticed tendrils of white smoke wafting off Wraxall’s head. “‘Tis history you and I shall make—a most evil history,” and then Wraxall began to whisper into Fanshawe’s ear…

««—»»

The moment felt like weeks. Fanshawe stood dazed in the barely lit foyer. Wraxall was gone, but a second later, a figure stepped out of the blocks of darkness: Rood.

Rood opened the front door, showing the twilit street.

“I don’t know what to do next!” Fanshawe exclaimed in a whisper.

Rood’s smile was like a mask of wax. “Just but one test remains—”

“Bullshit!” Fanshawe’s voice boomed. “I already passed the fuckin’ test!”

“A challenge most final of thy fiber, sir. Into the even-time you must now go—”

“But the sheriff! His men!”

“—and ride thy must upon the night-wind with all things born of darkness. Should thy heart be not as stoutly black as it must, then thou shalt die most horrible, as did the interloper called Karswell.”

“This is a pile of shit! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Yet if thy heart be so black as to please ye Benefactor, then back to thy strange time thou wilt be proper put—”

“But not before thee hath screamed to rouse the dead from their graves,” another voice floated from the darkness. In increments, Evanore emerged. It was only the icy moonlight from the door that revealed her: nude, curvaceous, her bosom thrusting, and her grin wet. “Would thou take thy leave without so much as a bid of farewell?” she asked coyly. Her white hands reached out to him. Like the last glimpses of Wraxall, Evanore’s aspect changed, shifting, from adolescence to adulthood, and back again. With each impossible metamorphosis, her blood-red hair lengthened down to her buttocks, then shrunk back up again. It was as though Fanshawe’s presence here had triggered some kind of flux that was leaking in from various time periods, which made sense once he thought about it. The same tendrils of smoke wafted off of the woman’s perfect skin. With one step, she was lissome and slim, but with each step after that her belly grew and grew till it looked close to rupture, only to shrink back down to flatness. Fanshawe stood still as a post in the ground as he watched, and he didn’t even flinch when one manner or another of Evanore wrapped her arms around him. Her mouth found his at once, her tongue invading; as she pressed closer, Fanshawe sickeningly felt her belly expand and contract, expand and contract, to mimic each infernal pregnancy. Then—

“Oww!” Fanshawe roared.

Evanore was giggling, her mouth red. She’d bitten down hard on his lower lip, drawing blood. Fanshawe’s reaction was faster than instantaneous, his rage leapt up and he clamped his hands about her throat and squeezed for all he was worth. Harder, harder. No conscious thoughts entered his head, just the reflex…

Harder, harder.

Evanore’s face turned pink, then blue, yet all through Fanshawe’s act, she smiled. Now the nameless flux showed the smoking brand-marks of crosses burned into her breasts, belly, and pubis; he could hear them sizzling. Then her face and the flesh on her head disappeared in strips as if torn by an invisible beast, then…

Fanshawe’s hands were clamped to the throat of a corpse stripped of almost all its flesh.

“To thee I bid my love forever,” the corpse said but it was with a voice like someone talking and vomiting at the same time, after which came an even more loathsome laugh.

Rood’s strong hands shoved Fanshawe out the door. The door clicked shut, then its bolt snapped closed. Fanshawe stood alone in the street; he glanced terrified back and forth. Moonlight streamed down on him. Where did they go? but the question was answered a moment later:

“There he is!”

“Wizard! Get thee hence!”

A rabble of men shambled southward down the street. They carried torches and pitchforks. Fanshawe’s heart felt like it turned inside-out—he raced across the dirt road, into the alley he’d crossed earlier, but—

BAM!

Muzzleflash bloomed at the other end of the alley. More enraged townsmen leapt toward him over the rubbish.

Out of here, Fanshawe thought. He backtracked, jerked north, began to sprint, but stopped in his tracks.

More townsmen poured down the street. He was being converged upon by all accessible directions…

I’m caught, I’m dead, he thought. Patten and his deputies were the first to seize him. The grossly overweight sheriff’s pocked face and red, bulbous nose looked huge in the moonlight. When Fanshawe raised his flashlight, Patten slapped it away. “Thy tools of Lucifer are of no use to thee,” the lawman said, “for our tools—faith—be empowered by Almighty God who hast power to rub thee to dust!”

Another man in a tri-cornered hat chicken-winged Fanshawe from behind. Now over a dozen men encircled the scene, shouting, waving torches. “To the barrel I say!” one shouted. “Wither has Humphreys taken his cur?” someone else asked. And another: “Whilst we pass this night in our beds, ’tis best that this warlock pass it in the belly of the dog!”

Fanshawe couldn’t think beyond the contemplation of that massive dog. Several men spit on him, and one prodded hard him with a stick. Fanshawe yelled when the man propping him up yanked his elbows higher to twist his shoulder joints.

“Pray, Sheriff, Humphreys and his cur be in ye fields!”

“We’ve not time to wait!” Patten blared. “We must kill this sarvant of Satan before he speaks hexes upon us!”

Fanshawe strained in his captor’s clench; a frantic glance to the Wraxall house showed him Rood and Evanore peeking out a front window. They were grinning.

“Keep him in thy clutches, Cooper,” the sheriff said. “Hold him fast and still…” Patten was unscrewing the cap on an unlit lantern. “Let him decide if hellfires be so hot as this!” and then the lantern was upended over Fanshawe’s head.

His face wanted to suck in on itself. A thick, fishy smelling oil saturated his hair, then drooled down his face and chest. Next, his pants were unfastened, his underwear pulled out, and more oil was poured. “No doubt ye fiend hath defiled many a Christian woman with this,” Patten said, “and put many a devilish babe in her belly. Well, warlock, here be recompense!”

The crowd surrounding Fanshawe quickly stepped back, then he was released. He only had time to attempt one lunging step before—

“Burn the monster!” Patten ordered.

—a lit torch was plunged right between his legs.

Flames erupted from his groin; Fanshawe was suddenly dressed in a suit of fire. His hair smoked off his head in a single burst; his face crackled and shrunk. The more he wheeled about in the street, the hotter the flames grew.

“Aye,” someone said approvingly, “tonight Humphrey’s beast shalt have cooked meat for its supper…”

Fanshawe’s eyes popped. He could smell his own flesh burning, and as for his genitals, they shrunk and bubbled like marshmallows dropped in a campfire. Amid pain a thousand times worse than anything he could imagine, his fiery face turned to something like slab-bacon and his mouth opened and he screamed louder than a trumpet—

««—»»

—and collapsed, rolling in turmoil. Each time he let out a breath, smoke expelled. But as he flailed in the dirt—

What the—

He realized that the pain that had cocooned him was gone, and where his eyes had popped, he could now see the perfect, star-flecked twilight above. Fanshawe turned over and sat up…

He was intact.

No oil soaked his hair and clothing, and the porky smell of flesh roasting had vanished. His hands went to his crotch to find it dry and his slacks still fastened.

Then he looked up and saw the Gazing Ball. The metallic orb atop the pedestal was stained and tarnished, not clean and brand-new as he’d seen it last. Fanshawe heaved a sigh and dropped his face into his hands.

“I’m back…”

Rood’s and Evanore’s words refreshed his memory: Yet if thy heart be so black as to please ye Benefactor, then back to thy strange time thou wilt be proper put—

But not before thee hath screamed to rouse the dead from their graves…

“Well, I sure as shit screamed loud enough for that when I was on fire,” he muttered. In spite of all he’d experienced, he jumped up, frenzied with excitement. A glance to his watch showed him it was ten minutes past midnight. It was a lot later than that when I was in the town…, but then he recalled what Wraxall had told him about time:

He who masters it OWNS it.

Fanshawe rushed out of the cove and dashed up to the highest point of Witches Hill.

Below, the town glittered in its lights. He stared down, knowing that this was the town of today, with its asphalt streets, its sidewalks, its streetlamps, its tourist hotel complete with swimming pool.

But that’s not where I just came from…

He squinted and could easily make out late-nighters sitting at the café, and several more crossing Main Street into the tavern. He even saw the annoying woman in tights, and her even more annoying dog, out for a nighttime stroll. At the town hall, the lights were blinking off, and several people were dispersing from the front doors. One of them seemed to be heading toward the inn. Probably Abbie, he guessed, now that her meeting’s over, but he couldn’t be sure.

Fanshawe reached into his pocket and withdrew the looking-glass. He raised it to his eye and looked at the exact same place in the street where he’d thought he’d seen Abbie…

Now, of course, she wasn’t there. The town of three hundred years ago was there instead, and what Fanshawe saw specifically, on the unpaved street, was the same torch- and pitchfork-wielding crowd that had just doused him with oil and set him aflame. At this moment, though, many of the townspeople were running away as if terrified, while the others stood with fear-stamped faces and mouths agape. Fanshawe thought he could even hear them—

He kept the glass to his eye and cupped his ear.

“By his magic, he’s escaped into thin air!” someone shouted.

Another voice: “And out of it he may reappear when we least expect!”

In the viewing field, Patten waved a torch back and forth. “Hear me, good Christians—the devil be near at hand tonight! Take to thy beds! Bolt thy doors and keep thy Bibles close!” and the parson added with a stammer, “If our pruh-prayers be sufficient intentful, then God shall keep ye adversary at bay!”

The remainder of the crowd scattered in all directions, boots tramping. Seconds later, the street stood empty and in utter silence.

Fanshawe could hear his own eyes blink.

What now? he asked himself, but he already knew the answer…

He swerved the looking-glass to the Wraxall house.

One window after another stood dark; some were even shuttered closed. But…what did he expect to see? More of the atrocious sights he’d witnessed personally? Evanore, nude and beckoning? Instead, he found the drab, weathered windows blank, and shutters pale. None were lit—

Wait…

Fanshawe had lost track of which floor he was surveying; nevertheless, one window seemed to emerge from its own uniform darkness until the most wan candlelight flickered within its frame. Soon, in a slowness that could be called ethereal, a shape moved from within—the shape of a man.

It took Fanshawe’s eyes a minute to acclimate.

Why am I not surprised?

The man in the window was Jacob Wraxall. The cuffed and collared sorcerer leaned out the window, peering for something. His narrowed eyes scanned back and forth, up and down, until—

He appeared to have found whatever it was he sought. Very slowly, he smiled, raised a similar looking-glass to his eye…

Chills that were strangely scalding flushed their way up Fanshawe’s back. For some inscrutable reason, he felt that Wraxall’s gesture of raising his own glass served as a cue for Fanshawe…

Fanshawe zoomed tighter, until the window came in close, then Wraxall’s face came in close…

Then…closer, until only a third of the necromancer’s face filled Fanshawe’s circular viewing field, then—

Even closer.

More. Closer.

Fanshawe zoomed directly into the lens of Wraxall’s looking-glass, then he kept turning the supernatural ring tighter and tighter, delving deeper and deeper, such that he thought—impossibly—that he was actually zooming in through the iris of Wraxall’s eye itself…

More!

…then deeper and deeper and deeper, into the warlock’s very optic nerve and straight into his brain…

Holy shit…

…then out of his brain and down, down as if down into the earth. Fanshawe’s vision descended akin to a drill, boring through, first, soil, then the rocky crust of the world. He stood electrified as he was forced to bear this resistless black witness, yet soon the notion of what propelled him…changed. Where first it had been actions of his own will that had begun this phantasmagoric trek, he now realized it was another will which had superseded: his vision through the glass was no longer doing the delving but instead it had been commandeered and pulled, as though a berserk pair of hands at the bottom of this seemingly bottomless journey were pulling on a rope, and the rope was Fanshawe’s eyesight.

Sensing a terror, he willed himself to retreat but all that responded to his efforts was an increase in the evil velocity that had taken over. Helpless, came the whimpering thought, but with it came a sound like a distant yet incalculably vast chuckle. From here, Fanshawe descended fast and sure as a stone dropped into a mineshaft miles deep, dropped, yes, into darkness.

The darkness was just as incalculable as the speed by which he plummeted; it was a blackness that existed as far more than an absolute absence of light but as an entity of its own, that magnified as the screaming, plunging lightlessness rose. Fanshawe was deafened by this speed; he felt his psyche begin to boil from the unearthly, brain-jarring friction. Was he going mad? He may have even shrieked laughter as his senses were pulled further; he managed to think of a roller-coaster car fired through a cannon barrel, but just when the “car”—Fanshawe—would make impact and explode—

His soaring vision stopped.

The termination of the manic velocity left him staring at still more of the absolute blackness of this realm, but after the passage of some time, that blackness seemed to take on a glistening, like something wet, and then?

It began to move.

It throbbed. It expanded and contracted, and each cycle of this movement brought a sound, an even thump…thump…thump…, and only then did Fanshawe’s vision begin to back-track, ever so slowly, until he could make out details of the blackness, but before those details converged he already knew what they would reveal:

A heart.

A coal-black, chasm-black heart, beating within the confines of a chest cavity winged by ribs yanked open via devilish retractors over which flaps of flesh hung.

Like a camera, then, his vision pulled back more, to reveal his own head atop the naked corpse lying on a slab of infernal stone. Yes, Fanshawe saw himself lying there in the subterranean cranny, his chest cranked apart, and when a shadow crossed the charnel slab—somehow a shadow where no light existed to cast it—Fanshawe sensed an emanation of not only approval but of love.

An incogitable finger lowered, to touch the black beating mass in Fanshawe’s chest. The face of the cadaveresque thing which symbolized Fanshawe…smiled.

“Back now,” said a voice that existed not as sound but as darkness. “Ye final verge of thy rigor thee hast crossed.”

“It’s him!” a voice blared.

“Well, I’ll be!” exclaimed another. “You were right!”

The voices caused Fanshawe to churn amid the overwhelming blackness he lay buried in. Like a victim trapped in a tar pit, he floundered, terrified. Eventually he surfaced—not his body, his mind.

“Yeah, I was right but I goddamn wish I wasn’t!” a third voice cracked. Even in his consternation, Fanshawe knew it was Mr. Baxter’s voice. “And it looks like we caught him red-handed!”

Fanshawe felt a physical heave, then found himself disarrayed face-first on the ground; the looking-glass tumbled out of his hand. He blinked his way out of the stupor, realizing that someone had shoved him hard from behind, severing the occult tether that had moments ago plunged him into a raging black netherworld. When he leaned up, exhausted and still terrified, he saw Baxter standing over him. Beside him were two other elderly men, one slim, stoop-shouldered, with an overly large jaw who wore an out-of-date suit; the other beer-bellied, in a shoddy Yankees T-shirt. In the moonlight, the three men looked down at him like inquisitors.

Fanshawe was about to speak but—

FWAP!

—Baxter reeled back and kicked him in the stomach.

“There’s a good one in the breadbasket!” exclaimed the suited man with a high, piping voice.

Fanshawe clenched, losing his breath. His eyes bugged. What the hell is going on? He feebly rolled back, then shambled to his feet.

Baxter and his cohorts surrounded him.

“What the fuck!” Fanshawe yelled at Baxter. “I want an explanation!”

Baxter picked up the looking-glass. “Well, Mr. Fanshawe, you’re the dag-blasted last person I’d ever expect to catch stealing—”

Pain throbbed at Fanshawe’s stomach, while anger forced his thoughts through the sheer bewilderment. “What are you talking about! What, you just kicked me in the stomach because of that damn glass?”

Baxter remained with his arms crossed, while the other two elderly men stood like gray-haired henchmen. “Wasn’t till just today I noticed the glass missing, then I could’a kicked myself for not checking the tapes from the security camera every day.”

Fanshawe instantly made the deduction. He saw me take the glass, but… He was still enraged. “All right, I admit, I took the damn glass! It wasn’t my intention to steal it, I was just borrowing it!”

The Yankees Shirt let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Yeah, borrowin’ it for a little window-peepin’. You beat off when you do that, bub?”

Fanshawe felt his face redden. “It’s not what you think, for God’s sake! I just needed it to…,” but then his vocal wrath dissolved. What could he say? “Shit, if the looking-glass is worth that much to you, I’ll buy the damn thing! Name your price!”

“What Mr. Fanshawe here’s gotta understand,” Baxter said, “is not all of us put so much stock in money. Money’s not worth much compared to things like character and honesty. Those are the things that make a man, Fanshawe. Not how fat his goddamn wallet is.”

“I don’t believe this!” Fanshawe replied, his mind twirling. “You don’t kick a guy in the stomach because he borrowed a piss-ant looking-glass!”

The Suited Man and the Yankees Shirt grinned. Then Baxter said, “And it ain’t really even the glass that’s got our dander up. It’s what you been doin’ with it.”

Fanshawe glared back at him.

“We don’t got room for perverts in our nice little town, Fanshawe,” Baxter continued. “It’s so fuckin’ disheartening, you know? Seems like the whole world these days is full of perverts, weirdos, sickos, and creeps. But the worst of the bunch are guys like you, hiding behind success and respectability. No one knows.” Baxter’s eyes leveled. “But I knew, and I wish to hell I’d figured it out sooner. First, Sadie Simpkins tells me she’s seen you loiterin’ around up here at night—”

“Who?” Fanshawe bellowed.

“Aw, you seen Sadie. Wonderful gal. With the poodle?”

Fanshawe ground his teeth. That BITCH!

“But when she told me that, I thought nothin’ of it. ‘So what,’ I think. ‘Mr. Fanshawe just has a fancy for late-night strolls.’ A couple of the gals at the convention told me the same thing, as a matter of fact, and now that I think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was their window you’ve been peeping in, good-looking as they are.”

Harvard and Yale, Fanshawe realized grimly.

“No,” Baxter went on, “like I said, I didn’t think nothin’ of it—of course not! Mr. Fanshawe’s a billionaire! Billionaire’s don’t get up to no good! Billionaires ain’t deviants. Ah, but then I notice the glass missing, checked the security tape, and, presto! There it is—the truth starin’ me right in the chops! I would never have thought it in a coon’s age.” Baxter grimaced. “Mr. Billionaire is a fuckin’ peeping tom!”

“A perv,” added the Suit.

“A sick piece’a shit,” added Yankees Shirt.

“Bet he was lookin’ for little girls.”

“Or little boys!”

“No!” Fanshawe’s blood was boiling. But what could he do?

Then all three men took a foreboding step closer.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Fanshawe challenged. “You’re threatening me? Don’t you know I could sue you for assault and battery, and imprisonment? Shit, my lawyers could sue you right out of business.”

The men chuckled, and each took another step closer.

This is ridiculous! “Listen, Mr. Baxter. I know I’m not exactly a kid anymore, but—no offense—you guys are old men. I could take all three of you.”

“Think so?” Baxter asked coyly. “Was a famous saying my daddy used to tell me: ‘Be a man large or small in size, Colonel Colt will equalize…’”

Then the Suit and Yankees Shirt pulled pistols.

Fanshawe froze. “All right!” he yelled. “What more do you want?! I took the glass and, yeah! I looked in some windows! You’re pulling guns on me for that? What are you gonna do? You’re gonna kill me for that?”

“Howard,” Baxter said. “Prop the sombitch up.”

The Suit handed Baxter his pistol, then took Fanshawe from behind, chicken-winging him quite like the colonist had when Fanshawe had been doused with oil.

Baxter grinned in the moonlight. “Howard’s stronger than he looks, huh? Go ahead, try and throw him off. After all, he ain’t nothin’ but a old man.”

When Fanshawe tried to jerk his arms, he found his captor’s grip tenacious as metal straps. Then he tried to haul himself away but remained planted in place. “This doesn’t make sense!” he yelled, mortified now.

“Well, tell me if this makes sense,” Baxter said, and then walked up very quickly and kicked Fanshawe between the legs.

The burst of pain folded Fanshawe up, and again he was face-first in the dirt.

Laughter rose.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” exclaimed Yankees Shirt.

The Suit: “No jerkin’ off for him tonight!”

“Tickles me pink,” Baxter joined in, “to give a low-down lyin’ thievin’ scumbag a good old fashioned kick in the nuts!”

Fanshawe’s cheeks ballooned from the pain. Clutching his crotch, he rolled over, cross-eyed. “You’ve got to be out of your minds!”

“Naw,” Baxter said very calmly. “We’re just three old duffers sick to death of watchin’ this fine world go straight down the toilet.” Baxter shrugged. “Every so often, well…we do somethin’ about it…”

“Here here,” said Yankees, keeping his gun on Fanshawe.

“Old days were the best days,” said Howard.

“I hear that,” Baxter rambled. “The ooooooold days.”

“Listen to me!” Fanshawe spat, still crumpled in pain. Did these men really mean to kill him? Whether they did or not, Fanshawe had no choice but to tell what he knew. “I don’t expect you to believe this, but I can prove it!”

“Prove what, Fanshawe?”

“Prove that you’re a pervert and kiddy diddler?” Yankees added with a chuckle. “Bet he hangs out at toy stores in his spare time!”

Fanshawe snarled, addressing Baxter. “The glass! I swear to God. It works!”

Baxter’s lips pursed. “Say again?”

“The looking-glass! It’s not folklore—it’s true! Jacob Wraxall didn’t just think he was a warlock, he was a warlock! He can manipulate time, he can see the future! And the witch-water looking-glass works!”

Baxter laughed. “Oh, I get it, you’re tryin’ to distract me with all that witchcraft poppycock and silly warlock drivel. Well I won’t fall for no pish-posh. Ya can’t bamboozle me.”

“I’m serious! It really works!”

“It does, huh?”

“If you look in it after midnight, you see the time period in which it was made!” Fanshawe nearly screamed. “Go ahead!”

Baxter stalled, eyeing the glass.

“What he hell is he yammerin’ about?” asked Yankees.

“Probably on the drugs,” said Howard.

“Go on!” Fanshawe insisted. “Look in the damn thing!”

Baxter sighed with a smile, and turned. He raised the looking-glass to his eye, pointing it toward the town.

He froze. “God damn…,” then he lowered the glass.

“There!” Fanshawe said. “I told you, it works! You saw the town as it was three hundred years ago, right?”

Baxter turned back to Fanshawe, looking more disgusted than ever. “The only thing I saw, Fanshawe, was my daughter buck-naked in her room, gettin’ ready for bed.”

Fanshawe wilted in the dirt. I should’ve known. It only works for people with the blackest hearts—like me…

Baxter dropped the looking-glass, then turned back, rubbing his hands. “Time to get this party rollin’. Fellas?”

Chuckling, Howard and Yankees approached Fanshawe, who was about to jump up, but—
smack!

Baxter cracked him on the top of the head with the pistol. For the third time that night, his face met the dirt.

My God, they can’t be serious… The blow had been not quite hard enough to knock him out, but sufficient to impair his motor skills: trying to move with all his might only resulted in the most feeble motions of his arms and legs, no more formidable than a man in a nursing home.

Dizziness marauded him; he felt himself being picked up and carried away from the Bridle. It was Howard and the Yankees Shirt who did the carrying. Baxter followed, gun in hand.

Fanshawe mumbled incoherent words. The stars he was seeing from the blow merged confusingly with the stars of twilight. Eventually he was carried into one of the other clearings…

“Up ya go, Mr. Pervert,” Yankees grunted.

Baxter’s two lackeys, in spite of their age, easily elevated Fanshawe’s limp form, then lowered him down into something rimmed, like a hole…

Fanshawe’s cognition lolled, head aching. A manhole? A grave? but…no—

At first he thought they meant to bury him alive but as more of his senses throbbed back he knew full well where they were putting him.

Holy mother of…

They were putting him in the barrel.

Fanshawe yelped when a rough hand shoved his head down. Moonlight showed in the hole cut into the barrel’s front, and from there another hand appeared, reached in, and snatched Fanshawe’s hair. He yelped again, louder, when the hand yanked his head out of the hole, and then a u-shaped wooden collar with leather treatments was dropped over his neck and fastened.

Reeling, Fanshawe tried to look upward but could only see the feet of his attackers.

“Been a while since we seen a good barrelin’,” remarked Yankees.

Spittle flew when Fanshawe yelled, “You can’t do this!”

“Sure we can, and why not?” said Baxter from above. “What this world needs is a look back to the old days, Fanshawe. It was majority rules back then, the way the Founding Fathers intended. And criminals were punished in the ways the majority agreed. It was for the greater good, see? To protect the good people from the bad.”

Horror dumped adrenalin into Fanshawe’s brain, rousing him from the grogginess inflicted by the blow. His fists beat on the inside of the barrel. “Let me out!”

“Oh, we’ll let you out, all right,” Howard chuckled, “once we’re done.”

“Name your price! Just let me out!”

“There you go with your ever-lovin’ money again,” Baxter chided. “You just don’t understand, do you?”

“I understand you can’t kill a guy for looking in windows! Call the police, have me arrested! I deserve my day in court.”

The other three cackled like witches.

“But this is your court, Fanshawe,” Baxter went on. He whistled high and loud.

“And here comes the judge!” Howard celebrated.

The mad growling could already be heard. Footsteps crunched, and in a moment another man entered the clearing. He was in his seventies, balding and bespectacled, with a large, gleaming forehead.

“Howdy, fellas,” he greeted.

“Hey, Monty,” Baxter said. “Thanks for loanin’ Buster out.”

“Oh, it’s always a pleasure! Old men like us need a thrill every now and then.”

“I’ll drink to that!” exclaimed Yankees.

The man—Monty—came closer into moonlight, and he brought a scampering shape with him. Fanshawe could only stare in unreserved despair when he got a look at the snuffling, snarling canine at Monty’s side. It was not quite the giant Doberman he’d witnessed in the town of old, but instead an overly large pit bull with strings of foam hanging from its maw and bumps of muscles tensing. The animal’s eyes looked insane from the beginning, but when the dog saw Fanshawe’s head sticking out of the barrel—

“Ho, boy! Not yet, Buster!”

—it lunged, tugging its leash, and nearly pulled Monty down. Terrifying barks ripped out of its throat. Those insane eyes seemed as intent on Fanshawe’s face as if he were a pile of raw steak.

“Mr. Fanshawe here says he wants his day in court,” Baxter began, “but he knows full well that courts don’t serve justice no more, and what they were designed to do is serve justice. For the people. The law-abiding people of this great land. That’s what the Founding Fathers wanted.”

“You can’t kill a guy for looking in windows!” Fanshawe wailed.

“Aw, but nowadays? Things are just all twisted up and messed about so bad there ain’t no real justice left anymore. Now, take a rich fella like you. Oh, sure we could call the cops, give statements that we seen you peeping in windows, not to mention the security tape of you stealing the glass, but then you’d just hire yourself a Dream Team and get off scot free. Damn, Fanshawe, the Founding Fathers would shit in their graves if they knew what American Justice has turned into. Politicians and rich men? They can do whatever they want.”

The slavering dog barked several times, as if in agreement.

“But back in the old days, when things were based on common sense and majority rules instead of loopholes and kickbacks and plea bargains, the idea of justice still meant something. Witches and warlocks threatened the stability of the community, so they were executed—it was the law of the land. Same for murderers and rapists and child molesters, you name it.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” Fanshawe blared. “I’ve never raped anyone! All I did was look in some windows!”

Baxter’s shadow from the moonlight nodded. “Well that’s just it, Fanshawe. Back then they killed perverts just like they killed all the rest of the scum. Crimes against nature and God; that’s how we took care of our own. Why should perverts be an exception? First a man’d be lookin’ in women’s windows and next thing ya know, he’d be rapin’ ’em, and then killin’ ’em so they couldn’t talk. Best way to stop it was to nip it in the bud.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake!” Fanshawe bucked in the barrel. “This is crazy! Let me go!”

Baxter’s voice turned placid. “Every now and then…it’s good to get back to the old days.” He paused as if absorbing the moment. “Monty? I think it’s time you let Buster have at it. Poor little pooch must be famished after not eatin’ for a week…”

Monty stood about ten yards away. He leaned backward, struggling against the pit bull’s strength, then—

Baxter counted off, “One, two, three…go!

—unhooked the leash from the animal’s collar. The pit bull surged forward, kicking up dirt with the synchronicity of a machine.

Fanshawe screamed.

“Buster! Sic!”

“Get it, boy!”

“Eat that the head, Buster! Eat that head!”

“You go, doggie! Let’s see you peel that head like a damn banana!”

The dog tore forward, releasing cannonades of foam-throwing barks. It didn’t run, it galloped, kicking up more dirt and gravel with its muscle-bulging hind legs. Fanshawe’s instinct was to shrink, to close his eyes and hope his knowledge of the imminent horror would make him lose consciousness but he experienced instead the opposite. It was as if some psychical imp of the perverse had confiscated his reflexes, then forced his eyes to remain open and kept his adrenalin pumping. Though less than thirty feet away, the mad animal tore toward its target in the most cruel slow motion. Each foot the pit bull traversed seemed to take ten seconds; even Baxter and his henchmen hooted, cheering the animal on in long low words that poured like molasses. Fanshawe convulsed inside the barrel, screaming, screaming.

Ten feet closer the animal had galloped, then twenty feet, then twenty-five. Fanshawe could only stare in skyrocketing horror as the dog’s head tossed with each stroke of its legs. It was the beast’s gleaming fangs that riveted Fanshawe’s gaze, the fangs and the high-p.s.i. jaws snapping open and closed.

Twenty-six feet, twenty-seven…

Fanshawe was screaming now with such ferocity he expected chunks of his lungs to fly out of his throat. Madness held dominion of his consciousness, while his inner visions were full of the image of the monstrous animal voraciously eating the flesh off his head like a fat man eating the caramel off a candy apple…

Twenty-eight feet, twenty-nine…

Fanshawe’s eyes, at this indivisible moment before an imponderable death, seemed to double in size so to force him to bear witness with even greater clarity. Did the insane animal’s jaws actually unhinge or was this hallucination? Baxter and his cronies were in conniptions of bloodthirsty glee, when—
twang!

The pit bull stopped abruptly in its tracks, jaws snapping just an inch away from Fanshawe’s face…

Baxter and his men were laughing so hard they were bent over.

“The fun’s over, Monty,” Baxter wheezed. None-too-pleased, the dog was reeled backwards away from the barrel, and Fanshawe was able to see the details of the ruse. It was a second, much longer leash that had also been attached to the animal’s collar, which suggestion and sheer horror had prevented Fanshawe from seeing.

Hee-hawing laughter continued as the u-collar was taken off and then a nearly comatose Fanshawe was hauled out of the barrel and dropped on the ground. Strings of foamy slime spattered his face; he’d wet his pants. The Yankees guy was laughing so hard he was literally slapping his knees, while Howard and Monty were yucking and wiping tears out of their eyes.

“How’s that for a good scare, Fanshawe?” Baxter asked.

Fanshawe managed to stand up, wobbling. “You’re a bunch of old fuck motherfuckers!”

“Aw, now, don’t be that way. Can’t the billionaire take a joke?”

Fanshawe snarled like the dog. “That’s what this was? A joke?”

“Well, no. You’re still a scumbag,” and with surprising reflexes, Baxter kicked Fanshawe in the crotch one more time.

Fanshawe collapsed, cringing. He was getting tired of this.

Hands fumbled in his pockets; his watch was taken off.

“Bet this is a Rolex!” Yankees enthused.

“It’s a Brietling, you redneck vagabond!” Fanshawe groaned.

“Fits dead-solid perfect!”

“Got a horse-choke wad of cash in his wallet, too!” Howard exclaimed.

“Take the cash, leave the cards,” Baxter instructed.

Fanshawe craned his neck to see Howard slip stacks of bills out of the Nautica wallet. Then he threw the wallet in Fanshawe’s face.

“And to top it all off, here’s his checkbook!” Yankees informed.

Fanshawe had to laugh. “Character and honesty, huh? Who’s the thief now? Who’s the criminal now?”

“We ain’t stealin’, Fanshawe. This is what I think you fancy citifed types call punitive damages,” and then Baxter ripped off another laugh. “Now why don’t you just drag your ass up and go back to New York Fuckin’ City? By the time you get back I figure you’ll be on all the news channels.”

Fanshawe struggled back to his feet. “What’s that?”

“Yeah, I can see it now on CNN: Pervert Billionaire Caught on Tape Stealing from Historical Inn.”

“You’re shitting me, right?” Fanshawe said.

Monty piped up, “And they’ll pay a pretty penny for that tape on one of them cable shows.”

Howard: “And then they can interview all of us about how we caught him red-handed peeping in windows with the self-same glass he stole!”

More, more laughter cackled up.

But Fanshawe knew they were right. They could do that and more. He’d be lambasted in the papers. Too many outside sources had him cold now. Getting caught the first time was one thing, but security tapes and multiple witnesses?

“A’course,” Baxter began, “if ya want to save yourself from all that public embarrassment, all you gotta do is put your John Hancock on that there checkbook of yours, hmm?”

The checkbook was thrust in Fanshawe’s hands.

“We’d be pleased as punch to keep that tape safe and our mouths shut for, say fifty grand—”

“Fifty?” exclaimed Yankees. “That’s a bit light, ain’t it? Hell, he is a billionaire.”

Baxter smiled. “Like I said, a hundred grand.”

Fanshawe kept his rage quelled, wrote the check, and gave it to Baxter.

“A wise decision, Fanshawe. And all that’s left for you to do now is pack your bags, sit your ass down in that fancy kraut car of yours, and—how do I say this nice? Get the fuck out of town.”

“Fine,” Fanshawe said.

“Now me and the boys are gonna go have us a few beers at the ale house,” Baxter said, pocketing the check. “When I get back to the hotel tonight, don’t be there.”

Howard, Yankees, and Monty all high-fived. The pit bull wagged its tail. Monty threw it a Snausage.

“Well,” Fanshawe said. “You assholes got my money, you got my watch, and you got the tape. But you know what I got?”

“What’s that, Mr. Peeping Tom?”

Fanshawe pointed right in Baxter’s face. “I got the Two Secrets of Jacob Wraxall,” and then he picked up the looking-glass, put it in his pocket, and walked briskly out of the clearing and off Witches Hill.

(II)

Fanshawe didn’t care if anyone saw him flecked with dog spit, scuffed, disheveled, and with a wet spot in his pants; however, when he returned to the inn, no one was about to see him. He didn’t bother showering, nor even changing his clothes. Just get out of here, he resolved. He felt automatonic when he opened his suitcase, but instead of filling it back up with his belongings, he emptied it.

Twenty minutes in the attic was all it took to get what he needed: the most vital of Wraxall’s books, some of the bones, some of the empty looking-glasses, and, of course, as many jars of witch-water as he could fit in his suitcase, in particular, those marked E.W.

He loaded up the car but did not leave.

The words “Who’s there?” answered almost immediately when Fanshawe knocked on Abbie’s door. “It’s me,” he replied impatiently. “I’m about to leave.”

The door snapped open and a nightgowned Abbie stepped back in bewilderment. Even after all he’d gone through tonight, the image of her—a breath-taking, beauteous one—wiped all other concerns from his mind. Coltish legs shined below the short-hemmed nightgown; her hair shined as well, as if preternaturally illumined. Beneath the sheer fabric, her breasts absolutely seduced his vision.

She was shocked by his appearance. “What happened to you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Pack your stuff, pack light. Meet me at my car in ten minutes.”

“But I— That’s—”

His voice droned, disguising all the wonder that seemed to percolate in his spirit. “If you’re coming…ten minutes. If not, goodbye,” and then he left.

She was there in five, and then Fanshawe pulled away from the gabled, moonlit edifice that was once the shrine of the abominable genius, Jacob Wraxall.

Abbie’s face in the dashlight was full of untold questions but she somehow knew not to ask. Instead, she said, “I tried real hard, Stew—I mean I really did.” Guilt seemed to rust her voice. “But I couldn’t hack it.”

“What? Cocaine?”

“After the meeting got out…I folded. I can’t help it,” and then she shrugged. “I am what I am. If you want to throw me out of the car, that’s cool.”

Fanshawe just drove. His headlights projected blazing white circles before them, revealing the town’s quaintness, but in shifting glimpses that were wholly involuntary, he seemed to see the town when it was not so quaint: three hundred years ago, teetering, skulking under an impalpable caul of fear, oppression, and sorcery, haggard victims reeking in pillories, and the periodic melees atop Witches Hill. When he glanced at Abbie, she looked dismal as she inhaled a line of white powder off her key.

He didn’t object; he said nothing. She’s a wreck. If I can’t get her fixed up with all my money, then no one can. He drove leisurely through town, only now realizing how exhausted he was; but even in this fatigue he felt wired by the anticipation of what was to come.

Self-disgust contorted Abbie’s face when she did another line. “Yeah,” she sputtered. “We are what we are, all right. I guess people can spend their whole lives without ever realizing that.”

Fanshawe didn’t comment, just drove.

“We gotta jump from one foot to the other, trying to be what society tells us to be, and not be our true selves.”

Fanshawe tested a frown. “If you’re trying to find some philosophical way to justify being on drugs…that’s probably not going to cut it.”

She laughed without mirth. “You’ve got me there. At least the crazy shit you’re into won’t kill you.”

Fanshawe smiled. It almost did tonight.

She did another line. “What I meant is…even when we fit ourselves into the mold society tells us we should be in…good or bad, we never really change. We still stay the same way deep down…in our hearts.”

Fanshawe stared abruptly. When he turned, the only thing he saw beyond the windshield was an unwavering blackness.

Like my heart.

Abbie seemed to notice something past the buzz of her cocaine. “Why’d you turn here? To get to the turnpike, you have right.”

“We’re not going to the turnpike—”

“I thought we were going to New York.”

“We are,” Fanshawe told her in dull monotone, “But we have to go somewhere else first.” More unbroken blackness flowed past the windows. “It won’t take long, but I’ll need your help, and what you need to know is…”

The headlights reached out into still more blackness.

“Is what?” Abbie asked, partly suspicious, partly amused.

“It’s fucked up,” Fanshawe said baldy. “If you’re not up to it, then I’ll take you back to the inn. But the way I see it is”—he shrugged, and glanced at her cocaine—”what have you got to lose?”

Abbie laughed. “How can I argue with that?”

««—»»

“You’re kidding me?” she said, frowning. “You’re stealing this?”

“Yeah,” Fanshawe said, and without hesitating, he began to unscrew the tarnished globe off the Gazing Ball’s bizarrely inscribed pedestal. “I’ll explain later.”

“But—”

Fanshawe paused, irritated. “You in or out? Make up your mind.”

“Stew! I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Keep your voice down. I think your father’s at the tavern with his friends, but I can’t be positive.”

“What’s my father got to do with—”

Fanshawe glared at her in the moonlight.

“Like you said, what have a got to lose?” She chuckled to herself. “Okay.”

Fanshawe finally detached the ball from the pedestal. He handed it to Abbie. “Take that back to the car…carefully.”

By now Abbie didn’t even challenge her confusion, but when she took the globe… “Hey, this feels like it’s got something in it.”

“It does. Take it to the car.” Fanshawe leaned against the pedestal, then began to rock it back and forth until it dislodged from the ground. With a grunt, he hoisted it up.

Abbie stared at Fanshawe. “Come on, Stew. What’s in the globe?”

Fanshawe huffed, dragging the pedestal. “The ashes of Jacob Wraxall’s heart,” he replied and then trudged down the hill back toward the car.

Abbie, with her mouth hanging open, stood there for a while holding the ball.

Eventually, she followed Fanshawe.

««—»»

You will give to and take from the same, Fanshawe recited Letitia Rhodes’ strange prophesy as his shovel bit down into earth. He wondered if it was really true that they buried people six feet deep.

If so, he was in for some work.

When Abbie had seen what he was doing, she scurried away, either back to the car, or as far away from him as she could get.

Oh, well.

This was the second stop before his return to New York: the cemetery behind the community church. He dug at a gravestone which read GEORGE JEFFREYS RHODES.

“I will give to and take from the same,” he whispered aloud, digging. “Yeah, I guess I will…”

As it turned out, the coffin lid was uncovered beneath less than two feet of earth. It didn’t take very long for Fanshawe to unseat the tiny casket and take it back to the car.

All in a day’s work, he thought, thunking closed the Audi’s trunk. He wiped his hands off on torn, urine-damp Dolce & Gabbana slacks, then got back behind the wheel. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find Abbie in the passenger seat, looking shell-shocked. Can’t say that I blame her… He pulled away and drove off in darkness.

Not a word was spoken until they were on the freeway.

“I’ll explain everything in time,” he said.

She looked at him, mouth still hanging open.

“But let me ask you something. How do you feel about kids?”

“What?” she croaked.

At once, Fanshawe’s enthusiasm bubbled forth. There was so much of it. “And why should we beat around the bush? We’re not getting any younger, you know. Hell. Let’s get married,” and then he eyed her with intensity.

She looked like a mannequin in the dashlight. “Stew, I just watched you dig up Letitia’s Rhodes’ dead baby.”

“So?”

Abbie rubbed her face.

“I told you, I’ll explain all that,” he said. “But not now. You’re not ready for it yet—you’ve just got to trust me on this.”

She tried to say something but couldn’t.

“You want to know what this is all about? I’ll tell you. It’s about transposition. It’s about metamorphosis. We have the opportunity to shed our old skins and become the new us. It’s not much different from what you were saying before. Why should we force ourselves into society’s mold instead of being what we want to be in our hearts?”

Abbie paused in the ceaseless drone of tires over asphalt. “What are you in your heart, Stew? A warlock? Is that what this is? You want to be a warlock and you want me to be—what?—your sorceress?”

Fanshawe reflected. He’d never felt so wonderful in his life. “Like I said, I’ll explain everything when you’re ready.”

“This is crazy!” she exploded. “That’s got to be it—you’re insane, certifiably insane! You’ve got the trunk filled with a bunch of occult-looking shit I’ve never seen before, you tell me Jacob Wraxall’s ashes are in the Gazing Ball, then you dig up a dead baby and practically in the same breath you want to get married to a cokehead and have kids! Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?”

Fanshawe remained calm behind the wheel. Several miles beyond the guardrail, the lights of a town dazzled. “Take this and look at that town,” he said. He handed her the looking-glass. “That’s how crazy I am.”

Outraged, Abbie recognized the glass. She put it to her eye and pointed it at the nighted town beyond.

And fainted.

I knew it. She’s got a black heart too. Just like me…

It was a comfortable thought.

Fanshawe smiled. He switched on the satellite radio and filled the car with a quiet violin concerto—Vivaldi, he suspected. Or maybe Corelli. Then he put on the cruise control, leaned back in the plush seat, and drove.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Since he’d been a young child, Fanshawe had always admired Manhattan’s triangular Flatiron Building on Fifth Avenue, so after his first salvo of speculative stock market buys, he’d easily purchased the spectacular twenty-two-story monument as his own. This, he decided, would be his new home, on the entire top floor. In the cusp of unparalleled luxury was where he wanted his child to live and to learn.

Several chambers of that massive penthouse suite had been reserved for Fanshawe’s “research.”

Further market speculations had officially made him the wealthiest man in the world, in fact, exactly six months after his return to New York, which Fanshawe found not only satisfying but quite appropriate: six being the imperfect number and the emblem of his new Benefactor.

Abbie—if only temporarily—had overcome her cocaine addiction, not via rehab but more provocatively by forced abstinence. Fanshawe had locked her in a posh, luxury-stuffed room and kept her there until the birth of their son three months ago. The love he’d felt for her early on—like most things pertaining to human relationships—had moldered as quickly as a dog turd in the sun.

When he wasn’t touching base with his multiple companies, he pursued his new and wondrous calling with unrestrained zeal: following in the alchemical and occult-scientific footsteps of Jacob Wraxall. And as for his impoverished, pitiful obsessions of old? Those paltry urges no longer existed. He had far more crucial things to do now, things which excited him exponentially more than peering at woman in windows.

He’d mounted the Bridle in the building’s center court, whose security and privacy he’d seen to at tremendous (but now inconsequential) expense. Jaunts back into the past, however, were no longer needed, and the miraculous Bridle’s inscribed orb no longer contained the ashes of Wraxall’s heart. Those ashes were now kept in a memorial urn mounted in the bedroom.

Instead, the orb contained the ashes of the heart of one George Jeffreys Rhodes. With this instance, luck had accompanied Fanshawe, along with Mrs. Anstruther’s information that Letitia Rhodes’ unfortunate baby had been embalmed with town donations—hence, the infant’s heart had not decomposed. Thanks to the intricacies of the first of the Two Secrets, Fanshawe was able to transplant himself selectively into the future rather than the past. The limits of this occult traversement was seventy-one years—the life span that would otherwise have been enjoyed by Letitia Rhodes’ son. It took some rather strenuous mental conditioning, meditation, and certain “oblations” (Fanshawe thrilled in reducing New York’s homeless population), but after only a few weeks of this, Fanshawe found that he had received the blessing he’d asked for, just as Wraxall had said he would.

When his heart felt the blackest, he pushed himself forward.

Six months ahead was enough, and then only five minutes in the public library was all it took. He’d gone online, looked up the year’s best low-to-high earners on the Dow and NASDAQ, and returned to his own time with enough data to make billions on the marketplace. He knew that as he honed his talents (and further conditioned the blackness of his heart) his reconnaissance surveys would take him more and more distantly into the time ahead of him. Indeed, he would amass more riches than any man in history.

Lucifer, be praised, he thought.

««—»»

“It never gets old,” Abbie said in a hush. Midnight had tolled minutes ago, when Abbie had taken her usual place at their huge bedroom window twenty-two stories up. She was scanning the guts of Manhattan (back when it was not called Manhattan but instead the Isle of Manna-Hatta by the Wappinger Indians) with one of the looking-glasses. She was utterly engrossed.

“What’s that?” Fanshawe said, not quite hearing her. He closed the door behind him.

“The view. It’s just so spell-binding, I never get tired of it. It never gets old.”

IT doesn’t but YOU do. He walked up behind her and gazed out into the nighted city with his naked eyes, watching the dazzle of millions of lights and millions of people; yet knowing that what she saw was equally beautiful in an opposite way. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Which glass are you using?”

“Evanore’s—it’s my favorite. To think that New York City looked like that in the 1670s.”

“I know. It’s incredible.” And YOU, my dear, are an incredible waste of space. Fanshawe learned quickly that “love” was just another mode of passing fancy. After the baby had been born, she’d served her purpose. She’d become wine gone stale.

The bowl of cocaine next to her was nearly gone, while it had been half-full this afternoon. Fanshawe didn’t care about it now; he’d only cared that she be off the dope during her term, to protect the baby.

But now?

She can snort a pound of that shit every damn day for all I care. In fact, I HOPE she does. He knew he’d be intrigued to watch her incrementally wither to nothing. She was halfway there already.

“The Mothersole glass is pretty awesome too—it goes back fifty years earlier than Evanore’s. Remind me and I’ll bring it out tomorrow,” but this was just so much idle talk. He looked at her from behind. What’s she down to now? A hundred pounds? Ninety-five? The unrestrained plunge back into her addiction had turned her arms to pasta-colored broomsticks; her breasts had lost half their girth. Her face was a skin-covered mask.

She paused, raised a solid-platinum spoon to her nose, and snorted. Then she took to looking through the glass again.

Fanshawe smiled.

They’d never actually been married; in fact, no one even knew she was here. And as for Mr. Baxter and any trouble he might make?

Fanshawe had envisioned the potency of his calling without delay, and then he’d made certain arrangements with certain persons amenable to the discharge of certain enterprises in exchange, of course, for a previously agreed-upon fee. Within a week of Fanshawe’s taking Abbie to New York, Baxter, Monty, Howard, and that asshole in the Yankees shirt had tragically perished in a fiery car accident.

Money talked, and Fanshawe had developed a big mouth.

Dr. Marsha Tilton, too, had met with a regrettable mishap, in her own parking garage, no less. Similar persons had introduced themselves to the astute psychiatrist, and after hauling her into a van and ra—

Well, what more need be said? Fanshawe simply didn’t like the idea that she knew so much about his embarrassing past.

On the other hand, Letitia Rhodes must’ve realized that Fanshawe had been the mysterious hand-of-charity that had paid off her property taxes; therefore, she would make the same deduction once the annual million dollars were wired into her account. He felt a distinct kinship there, and, It’s the least I can do, considering what I took from her…

He stood a while longer watching Abbie stare enraptured through the glass. Between that and the cocaine, she couldn’t have been more content.

“I’ve got some work to do now,” Fanshawe said.

“Goodnight, honey,” she murmured. She just kept staring out the glass.

Fanshawe left the room.

Perfect…

««—»»

From the east balcony, he gazed out into the glorious night. What he saw in the stars were promises that couldn’t be measured…

Later, he raised one of the looking-glasses to his eye and watched Madison Square Park disappear and be replaced by dark, tree-crowned hills and dirt-scratch trading trails which would later emerge as Fifth Avenue, Greenwich Street, Broadway. Torches flickered on those trails just now, as Dutch settlers armed with blunderbuss rifles guarded a caravan of merchant wagons. Fanshawe heard distant drums beating—tom-toms—from the remaining pockets of obstinate Indians. Periodic shrieks shot out (war cries?), and low, rhythmic chants. But farther north, where Gramercy Park would one day spread, the log-hewn walls of Peter Stuyvesant’s essential first settlement came into focus, campfires burning bright.

It’s all history, he thought. And I get to see it.

Lately, he’d been thinking. Since he’d brought Abbie to New York, Fanshawe hadn’t once traveled out of the country or even out of the city: his apprenticeship was too important. But now that he was grasping the Art of Deviltry with confidence, the idea of travel excited him. Rome, London, Athens, Hong Kong? Naturally, he’d bring some of the looking-glasses with him, to see those great cities as they’d been three centuries ago. And with his money and connections?

Procuring the bones of corpses hundreds of more years old, or even a thousand, seemed quite feasible. There was no limit to the sights he could behold.

And who knew? He might even bring the Bridle with him…

««—»»

In the wee hours, Fanshawe went to the baby’s two-thousand-square-foot suite and told the guard and night nannies to take a short break. Much gold, chalcedony, and jasper decorated the suite, along with fineries that would stagger the most indulgent sultan. Above, great skylights of nearly indestructible Lexan commanded the beauty and sheer vastness of the universe. This is what Fanshawe wanted his son to see whenever he might awaken at night.

His footsteps made no sound as he walked the black-carpeted straightaway toward his son’s bassinet. He’d had the bassinet custom-crafted by some of the best sculptors in the country. It was a fabulous, shining basin carved of unflawed onyx: the color of the abyss, of Lucifer’s smile, and of the hearts of the faithful. Ribbons of labyrinthine carvings weaved about its outer surface, recalling not only the inscriptions of the Bridle, but the most paramount ancient blessings of evil, unholy formulae, and every variation of the Benefactor’s name in every language known.

Fanshawe’s lower lip quivered when he peered down at his sleeping scion.

“The world is full of secrets, son,” he uttered, “and for some people, those secrets are power. What you’ll learn soon enough is that faith and a willingness to understand is the key to unlocking those secrets.”

Overhead the stars seemed to shift in the skylights. Fanshawe listened with great intent to the silence.

Through his mind, Letitia Rhodes’ words seemed to slither: I have a feeling that the Two Secrets have to do with Evanore’s witch-water and the Gazing Ball too…

Ms. Rhodes’ “feeling” was on the mark.

As Fanshawe gazed in wonderment at his slumbering son, his heart had never felt blacker, nor more splendorous. Wraxall had indeed shared the Two Secrets with him during their unfathomable meeting. “Ye first secret be as thus: if one black of heart shalt gulp blood of his own child, and if he shalt disentomb ye corpse of a witch’s babe died untimely, and shouldst he then burn that heart to ash and let those ashes be put in ye Bridle, then, ye necromancer shalt be enabled to project himself into time yet to come, and if he remains sharp in his wits, then riches wilt pour down. Yea, but all is naught unless thee empower ye Second Secret, which I sayeth: thou wilt sire a second babe in the guise of love that be instead truly hatred and lust, and thou wilt serveth ye Lord of Deceits with thy whole heart, then I shalt be among thee again, for mine spirit shalt be dressed anew in flesh of thy babe…”

Hence, the payment that Fanshawe owed, which was…

No big deal, he mused.

Of course, Fanshawe had named the child Jacob Wraxall Fanshawe. Abbie had raised quite an objection, but when Fanshawe dropped a sack of coke in her lap, those objections had ceased without another word.

He smiled at the tiny form swaddled in raven-black linen. It slept in a state of peace that could only be called consummate.

“Goodnight, son,” Fanshawe whispered, turned, and left.

— | — | —

AUTHOR BIO: Edward Lee is the author of almost fifty novels and numerous short stories and novellas (or is it novellae? Hmm.) Several of his properties have been optioned for film, while HEADER was released on DVD in 2009; also, he has been published in Germany, England, Romania, Greece, and Austria. Recent releases include Bullet Through Your Face and Brain Cheese Buffet (story collections), Header 2, and the hardcore Lovecraftian books The Innswich Horror, Trolley No. 1852, Pages Torn From A Travel Journal, Going Monstering, and Haunter of the Threshold. One of Lee’s creative ambitions is to one-day write an effective M.R. James pastiche.

Table of Contents

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- EPILOGUE