I didn’t have any of the nightmares Ben warned me of-of course, you have to go to sleep in order to have nightmares. I was still sitting at the dining room table, absently studying the pattern of the sponge-painted walls when Felicity awoke and wandered in.
“Aye, it’s four A.M.,” she said with a yawn as she hooked her arm around my neck and fell into my lap. The fact that she wasn’t fully awake was allowing a hint of her Celtic brogue to show through. “How late were you and Ben drinking, then?” She reached out to the table and picked up my coffee cup then took a swallow. “Yech, needs sugar.”
I wrapped an arm about her waist and held her close. I had never been any good at breaking bad news to people, and I wasn’t really looking forward to doing it now. I let my head rest against her chest and took in the sweet scent of her long auburn curls. I felt comfortable and safe against her, and I held her even tighter. A foreboding deep inside told me that this was the last time I was going to feel this way for a while, so I allowed it to linger as long as I could.
“Row,” she asked, resting her cheek against my head. “What’s wrong?”
Her drowsy voice threw back my thin security blanket of denial and exposed me once again to the frigid reality I had come to accept only a few hours before. I took in a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh, and then reluctantly, I spoke, “Remember Ariel Tanner?”
“Of course,” she replied. “What about her? Is everything okay?” She pulled away, remaining in my lap, and bringing a hand beneath my bearded chin, raised my face to meet her concerned gaze.
“She was murdered,” I told her. “Ben is the investigating officer.”
“Oh no…” she whispered, her voice trailing off, and then hugged me tightly. “When did it happen? How?”
“A couple of days ago. As for the how…well, it wasn’t pretty. It looks like it might have been a ritual murder.”
“A ritual murder!” she gasped. “You mean as in someone sacrificed her?”
“That’s how it appears.” I continued, “In the crime scene pictures Ben showed me, anyway.”
Her voice suddenly took on a sharp, almost angry tone, “Why would he show pictures to you, then? Has he lost his mind?”
“Now don’t go off the deep end.” I helped her gently from my lap and stood up. “He had no idea that I knew her, and he was showing me the pictures because I offered to help. It seems his expert wasn’t having much luck deciphering the symbols left at the scene.” Picking up my coffee cup, I went into the kitchen to freshen it, Felicity trailing along behind.
“I see.” She calmed and held out a cup she had retrieved from the cabinet. She stopped me when I had filled it just over halfway. “Were you able to figure anything out for him?”
I leaned against the counter and took a sip of hot java. “Well, whoever committed the crime performed a ritual flaying, I would assume in order to invoke something. What’s interesting though, is that there were also blatant signs of what I’m pretty sure was supposed to be an Expiation spell.”
“Expiation spell,” she repeated while stirring sugar into her cup. “So do you think that the killer felt remorse and was trying to get rid of the guilt then?”
I nodded. “That’s my best guess for now. I’ll know more in a few hours.”
“What happens in a few hours?” she queried, her bright, green eyes peering at me over the rim of her cup as she took a drink.
“I’m going to look at the crime scene with Ben.”
“You’re what?!” Her eyes grew large and she nearly dropped her mug. “What in the name of the Mother Goddess are you doing that for?”
“Calm down, sweetheart.” I held up my hand defensively. “You know as well as I do that if this creep is for real, he’s likely to do something like this again sooner or later. Probably sooner.”
“Aye, so let the police handle it,” she shot back. “It’s their job, not yours.”
“I intend to,” I told her. “But you also know that if he’s leaving behind blatant occult symbology, the media and the cops will end up on a real ‘Witch’ hunt. If they knew what they were looking at to begin with, then Ben wouldn’t have asked for my advice.”
“Well.” She calmed significantly as the logic took hold. “You’re right about that.”
“I just want to make sure they get the real bad guy and not pin it on some poor unsuspecting kid just because he has long hair and a copy of Buckland’s Complete Book of WitchCraft on his bookshelf.”
“I agree,” she surrendered.
“Besides,” I said, turning and attempting to look out into the darkness through the sliding doors but seeing only my ragged reflection staring back at me, “if this cretin actually has a background in The Craft…”
“…It’s going to take a Witch to catch a Witch gone bad,” Felicity finished the sentence for me. “And that Witch is going to be you.”
“It might have to be,” I told her.
“Aye, that’s what scares me,” she replied.
I convinced Felicity to go ahead on her planned outing with her nature photography club but only after promising to call her if something of consequence happened. She made a great show of placing her cell phone prominently in a pocket of her photo vest and reminding me of the number before loading her equipment and setting out. I had showered and tied my long brown hair back in a ponytail after she left and was making a futile attempt to relax on the front porch swing when Ben pulled into the driveway.
“Hey, paleface,” he greeted me as he climbed the stairs.
I held up my hand in a classic TV Indian greeting. “How, Tonto.”
“However I can get it.” He motioned to the coffee cup in my hand. “Got any more of that? I’m havin’ a hell of a time wakin’ up this mornin’.”
“Yeah, sure,” I replied, getting up and opening the door. “Same here. It’s the only thing standing between me and sleep right now.”
Ben took a seat in the living room and was promptly accosted by a large, green-eyed, black cat that elected to take up residence in his lap. Dickens, as we called him, loved having visitors, especially men, and was quick to claim them for his own. I headed for the kitchen while he settled in, then quickly returned with a steaming cup of black coffee and handed it to Ben.
“I gotta be honest with ya’, Rowan,” he began, scratching the purring lump of fur beneath its chin. “I was thinkin’ on the way over, and I’m not so sure about you goin’ to the scene and all.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked. “Is it because I’m a civilian?”
“No, not at all,” he answered. “Civilian consultants ain’t that unusual. What I’m worried about is the fact that you knew the victim.”
“I see,” I nodded. “So you think I might be too close to this whole thing.”
“It crossed my mind,” he answered and then took a sip from his cup.
I had seated myself across from him in my favorite chair, an antique rocker. Gazing thoughtfully into space, I gently nudged it into motion. I had been told more than once by my parents that as a child, whenever I was lost in thought, I would rock, rocking chair or not. I still did.
“I’m not going to lie to you Ben,” I finally said. “It does get to me that Ariel is the victim, and yes, she was a good friend even though we hadn’t seen one another for over a year.” I stopped the chair and leaned forward. “On the other hand, I have knowledge that might help to catch whoever did this. I think I demonstrated that last night.”
“I’ll give ya’ that,” he replied. “But what do you think you’re gonna find at the scene that wasn’t in the photos?”
“Hopefully something that will tell me if this guy is for real or just trying to make it look that way.”
“And that somethin’ would be?”
“I won’t know until I see it…or feel it,” I explained. “What I’m looking for might not be visible to the naked eye.”
“You mean like some kinda psychic thing? You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“I know, but I do, and if it gives you a solid lead, what does it matter?”
“Okay, tell me this.” He skipped past answering my question and proceeded into another of his own. “You ain’t lookin’ for revenge or somethin’ are you?”
“No. Not at all,” I answered with unabashed honesty. “There’s no need. What goes around comes around. He’ll get what’s coming to him whether I help you or not…Eventually.”
“Yeah, well that’s a pretty idealistic sentiment.”
“It comes with the religion.”
Ben grunted and stared thoughtfully into the depths of the mug held between his large hands. After a short period of suggestive silence, he looked up at me with deadly serious eyes. “Mind if I ask where ya’ were Wednesday evenin’?”
I was taken aback by the question and what it implied. At first I was hurt and then angry. It took less than a second for the anger to be replaced by understanding. I knew the victim, and I knew The Craft. The symbols and words in the pictures were no great mysteries to me. I was sure that Ben didn’t truly suspect me of the crime, but if he was going to bring me into this investigation, someone was bound to ask the question. He was correct to assume that I would prefer it came from him.
“Felicity and I had dinner with my dad,” I answered. “We went over to his place around four-thirty and left from there.”
“Where’d you eat?”
“Union Station,” I told him. “There’s a restaurant down there with a fantastic mixed grill. Before you ask,” I added, “we got home around nine-thirty.”
“Your old man can verify this, right?”
“The phone’s right there.” I pointed at the bookshelves. “His number is on the speed dial. I’m sure the receipt is upstairs if you want a copy of that too.”
“I’m sorry, man.” He looked back down at his drink. “You know I had ta’ ask…”
“…Or somebody else would,” I finished the sentence for him. “It’s all right. I was a little miffed at first, but I understand.”
“Okay,” he answered, then drained the coffee from his cup and set it on the table before him. “Let’s go do this.”
Ariel Tanner had lived on the first floor of a four-family flat on a street called Shenandoah within the city limits of Saint Louis. From my house in the suburbs, it took the better part of thirty minutes to reach it even though the Saturday morning traffic was light. The morning sun was already climbing in the sky when we rolled into the alleyway behind the flat and Ben pulled the Chevy into something resembling a parking space.
“This is it,” he told me, switching off the knocking engine and pushing open his complaining door.
I climbed out as well, and we stood in the small patch of grass that served as a backyard, quietly studying the rear entrance of the building. A short flight of wooden stairs led up to a whitewashed exterior door. The porch light, fitted with a dim yellow bulb, still burned in the crisp shadows caused by a small overhang jutting from the brick wall to cover the landing.
“The apartment next to hers,” Ben told me, “and the one directly above are currently unoccupied.” He pointed to each of the windows. “The other upstairs apartment belongs to a forty-year-old woman who’s stone deaf. Besides, she wasn’t even home.”
A ghostly flash of noise battered my eardrums for a moment. The briefness and ethereal quality of the mechanical rumble told me it was only in my head, but I knew immediately what it meant.
“And the air conditioner was running,” I stated. “No one could hear her over the noise if she screamed.”
“Yeah,” Ben paused and looked at me sideways. “The other neighbors didn’t hear a thing.” We started walking toward the stairs. “Anyway, the outer doors automatically lock, and there were no visible signs of forced entry, so we assume she either knew the killer and let ‘im in, or he had a key or somethin’ of that sort.”
“Locksmith, maybe,” I offered as we climbed the stairs and came to rest on the landing.
“We’re checking into that,” Ben replied. “The upstairs neighbor was the one that found ‘er when she was comin’ in later that evenin’. Her door was propped open, and the neighbor thought it was a little strange.”
“Deliberately propped open?”
“Looked that way.”
“Odd…” I mused aloud. “That would seem to indicate that whoever did this wanted the body found quickly.”
Taking out a key that had been provided to the police by the landlord, he opened the exterior door, and we stepped into what could be referred to as a small, shared mud room. To either side, there was a door, each with a large, sectioned pane of glass. Peering through the left window, one could see that the apartment was empty. Through the right, the small kitchen appeared lived in. Shiny copper pots and pans hung from a ceiling rack in the center of the room, and there was a can of vegetarian chili sitting on the counter in front of a small microwave-a last meal that was never eaten. Ben took a small lock blade from his pocket, opened it and cut the Police Crime Scene seal on the door. Stowing the knife and using another key, he unlocked the door.
“Uhhh, Ben.” I reached out and grabbed his arm as he started to push the door open. “I’d better warn you about something.”
“Warn me ‘bout what?” He turned to face me.
“This…” I started. “This might get a little weird, for lack of a better word.”
“Are you talkin’ about that hocus-pocus shit again?” he asked, still holding the doorknob.
“One,” I shot back. “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. Two, it’s not shit.”
“Okay, okay,” he answered, knowing that he’d raised my ire. “Sorry. But I already told ya’ I don’t really believe in all that stuff.” He slipped his hand up to smooth his hair and let out a resigned sigh. “Okay, look, I’ll give it a try your way, but don’t expect too much from me. I operate in a world where physical evidence is what makes the case.”
“Fair enough. For the sake of argument though, you might want to take notes. Also, if I zone out on you, don’t touch me. That would break my concentration.”
“Okay,” he answered and pushed the door open. “Whatever you say.”
I knew he was still unconvinced, but I also knew I could trust him to do as I asked. In any event, as soon as the door swung open, there was no turning back.
The first thing I felt was the hair on the back of my neck as it stood on end then was rapidly followed by every other hair on my body mimicking the action. My skin began to burn as if I were baking under a sun lamp. Proceeding forward, I stepped through the entrance, followed closely by Ben. I scarcely heard the faint click of the door as he pressed it shut.
“Be careful of that crap they used to dust for prints, it’ll stain…”
I held up a hand to cut him off and walked quietly through the kitchen, working my way to the counter. I began to consciously control my breathing, slowly and deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth. I relaxed and imagined a spire of light, white and pure, running from the soles of my feet to the center of the Earth. In a matter of moments, I was “grounded,” and I cleared my mind, allowing it to become a blank, unblemished slate. I slipped easily into a shallow trance, and when I felt relaxed, centered, and in control, I reached out to touch the unopened can of chili on the counter. When my hand made contact, I invited the last few moments of Ariel Tanner’s life to play themselves out upon the empty screen I had created.
My vision tunneled, and colors bled away, running like paint being poured from a can. I could hear the melodious humming of a female voice, pretty and distinct. I looked around to see where it originated, only to realize that it was coming from within me as I assumed Ariel’s role. A part of me struggled to remain earthbound, and I knew that the humming was occurring only inside my head. My conscious self would have to narrate what I was seeing for Ben.
“I, Ariel, am humming,” I told him. “I’m happy and I’m getting ready to fix myself something for dinner.”
“Whaddaya mean ‘you, Ariel’?” Ben was perplexed. “What are ya’ talkin’ about?”
“Just listen,” I instructed him.
What was that? A noise. Maybe there’s someone at the door. I’d better check.
The scenario continued to project itself inside my mind, and I turned and walked to the door. I was vaguely aware of Ben quickly shuffling out of my path and following along behind me.
“There might be someone at this door,” I continued talking aloud. “She heard a noise, and she’s checking on it. She’s opening the door.”
That’s funny, no one there. I was sure I heard something. I guess I just imagined it. Oh well, I need to eat soon. I just took my insulin twenty minutes ago.
“There’s no one there.” I went on, “She thinks she must have imagined the noise.” I turned and walked back to the counter. “She’s a diabetic, and she has to eat something because she just took her insulin.”
“Yeah, we found it in the fridge,” Ben told me hesitantly, and I didn’t admonish him.
What?! What’s going on? Who’s there? STOP! Let me go! Don’t do that! Get that away from my face! What’s that smell? I’m gagging. Stop it!
I could feel her struggling as she was grabbed from behind, and I was forced to tense my own muscles to keep from lashing out in a mirrored response. A phantomlike, sickly sweet odor tickled my nostrils, urging me to drift off into sleep. I shook my head, fending off the woozy sensation. “Someone grabbed her from behind. She’s struggling, but he’s too strong. She smells something. He put something over her face. Chloroform or something…”
Dizzy. Sleepy. I’m falling. Falling.
“She’s blacking out,” I stated urgently.
Ouch! What was that? Something bit me on my arm. Did a mosquito get in here? No. It felt like a needle. Oh, I feel strange. What’s happening to me? Why does my head feel like this. I’m dizzy. Why is the room getting so dark?
“Pain,” I almost shouted. “Something on her arm. A bite? No, a needle. The bastard drugged her. Look at his face, Ariel! Dammit, look at his face!”
The sequence ended in a black fog, and I stumbled against the counter. I sensed Ben reaching for me uncertainly then pulling back, apparently remembering I had told him not to touch me if I tranced.
“I’m okay,” I told him, regaining my balance and pulling off my glasses in order to rub my eyes. “He drugged her. Did the medical examiner check for drugs?”
“Should have. Tox screens are SOP,” Ben answered. “I still don’t have a report yet. You sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I answered. “Let’s keep going. Maybe she saw his face at some point.”
“Look, Row,” Ben started. “Uhhh… Are you tellin’ me that you’re actually seein’ what Ariel Tanner saw the night she was murdered?”
“Believe it or not, Ben,” I looked at him squarely in the face. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Jeezus,” he said, “I’ve seen some strange shit, but this…” his voice trailed off.
Though I had explained to Ben some of the more minor aspects of WitchCraft, this was the first time he had ever seen any of the abilities I had cultivated in my studies. Considering his feelings on the subject, I realized I was asking him to take a rather large leap of faith, but of all my non-practicing friends, I felt certain he could be the most open-minded even if he hadn’t demonstrated it as yet. I flashed him an understanding smile to let him know that I understood what he must have been thinking at the moment and patted him lightly on the arm as I moved past into the wide hallway.
At the end, I could see where the passage opened into a combination living room/dining room area. To my left, there was a closet and bathroom, to my right, the doorway to Ariel’s bedroom. I continued my measured breathing as I stepped lightly along the worn hardwood floor. Once again, my hairs began to pivot upward painfully and my skin to sear as I entered the actual scene of the murder.
Blood on the walls and sheets had turned a rusty brown where it had continued to dry. A tracing of Ariel’s body was stretched out across the bed like a frozen caricature of the once vibrant young woman, the yellow lines clashing with the brownish red crust of dried blood. I moved slowly to the bed then grounded and centered. Once again, the color rapidly drained from the scene about me, and I felt myself being sucked into a dark tunnel.
Oh my head hurts. Why can’t I see? It’s dark. No, there’s a light. I have to move toward it. My arms. Why can’t I move my arms? I’m cold.
As before, the events of that night flooded into my brain caustically. I was experiencing her terror. Her pain.
Why am I on my bed? I’m cold. Where are my clothes? My arms hurt. My back hurts. What’s that noise?!
“I’m…she’s…” I started again, speaking from the trance I had fallen into. “…On the bed, my arms hurt and I can’t move them. They’re tied behind me…her. I’m…” I fought to maintain a separation between the experience and myself. “…She’s nude. The air conditioner is on and it’s blowing on her. She’s cold. She hears a noise.”
Who’s there? Why can’t I speak? I’m trying so hard but nothing is coming out. I’m so cold. I’m frightened. What’s happening? That noise again. Someone is here. They’re moving around. Why can’t I remember anything? My head hurts.
“He’s moving around, but she can’t see him,” I continued. “He must be out of her line of sight or maybe out of the room. I’m not sure.”
A crash! Am I being robbed? Oh please, let whoever it is just take what they want and leave. Wait. Someone grabbed me when I was in the kitchen. Who was it? Oh why can’t I remember? I’m cold. I’m scared.
“She heard a loud crash or something. From another room maybe,” I spoke. “She thinks it might be a burglar, but she still can’t see. She remembers being attacked in the kitchen. Whatever he drugged her with is still working on her. She’s foggy. She’s having trouble moving. Come on, Ariel,” I continued out loud. “Fight it. Concentrate.”
Maybe if I try to move forward. Ouch, that hurts. Just a little more. I’m so cold. Why is this happening to me? There, now I can see the door. Ohhhh, I’m feeling sick…hanging upside down…I can’t. Oh my head hurts.
“She managed to move herself a little. Her head is hanging over the side of the bed now, upside down. It’s making her nauseous.”
Who is that? Why is this person in my house? Why is this person wearing a ceremonial robe? Pull the hood back. I can’t see who you are. It’s cold. No, don’t go to that side of the bed, I can’t see you. What are you doing? Am I going to be raped? Please, don’t let him rape me.
“He came into the room,” I continued. “He’s wearing a ceremonial robe, and the hood is covering his face. He walked around to the other side of the bed. She can’t see him. NO, don’t do that. I can’t see you .” I slipped for a moment, and Ariel blended into the voice of my conscious self. “She’s afraid he’s going to rape her.”
What are you doing? He’s touching me. What? What are you saying? You’re sorry? Sorry about what. It’s cold. My arms are killing me. Why are you doing this?
“He’s speaking to her!” I exclaimed out loud. “He’s telling her he’s sorry. She doesn’t understand. Concentrate, Ariel,” I coached the vision. “Help me help you.”
What are you talking about? Sorry? What are you sorry about? I don’t understand. Tell me what you mean. Your voice sounds familiar, but I can’t remember who you are. Ouch! What are you doing? Get off of me. Oh, why can’t I scream? If I could just scream, someone would come to help me. It’s cold. Get off of me. What is that in your hand? What are you doing?!
“He’s on the bed with her. On top of her.” I relayed the vision to Ben. “His voice seems familiar to her, but she can’t place it. He has something in his hand.”
My athame! What are you doing with my athame? No! No, don’t do that! STOP!
My head exploded. At least, that is how it felt as a desperate scream that only I could hear echoed forever inside my skull. My skin burst into a violent blaze, and starting at my throat, running the length of my chest then spreading rapidly outward, I felt as if every single nerve were raw and suddenly plunged into a vat of alcohol. I clawed at my own chest, fighting to push away the ethereal knife that was ripping my flesh.
“Dear Mother Goddess!” I cried. “The son-of-a-bitch is skinning her alive with her own athame!”
I fell to my knees and continued to claw at the air in front of me. I was faintly aware of Ben’s concerned voice screaming my name, but I couldn’t respond. I was trapped in the vision. I could see nothing but dull red and black as I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, fighting to deny the searing pain. I could feel the blade of the athame, at once steely cold and white hot, as it slid beneath my skin, separating the layer of nerve impregnated flesh from the rest of my body. I was certain I could hear thick tearing as my hide was peeled away, exposing muscle, nerves, and hot viscid blood. I screamed my own guttural wail of agony as I struggled to break free of this vision I knew could easily kill me. It seemed to last an eternity. It seemed to last only a second. Time no longer meant anything.
Why doesn’t somebody make him stop?
“I can’t Ariel. I can’t,” I sobbed.
Why? Why are you doing this? Where are you going? I hurt so bad! Why did you do this? I have to see you. Who are you? What are you doing with those candles? Why are you drawing a Pentacle on the wall? It’s such a bright red? Where did you get that red? What are you writing? I hurt so bad.
“What the hell is he doing?” I whimpered aloud.
What are you doing with that wine glass? No. Don’t come back over here. Go away. Go away. What are you doing?! NO!
Again blinding pain.
Again a scream, but unlike the other, cut short at its peak to become a faint gurgle followed by silence. He had cut her throat. Her slowly fading misery continued to play its sickening scenes inside my head. I saw, as she saw through dying eyes, her killer raising a wine goblet filled with blood. A goblet to be used for his own perverse distortion of an Expiation spell as he prepared to forgive himself for the unspeakable things he had just done.
I was just beginning to lose sight of consciousness when I was unceremoniously lurched back into the physical realm.
“Rowan! Talk ta’ me! What’s goin’ on?!” Ben screamed frantically. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and shook me so violently that his knuckles pounded into my chest. “ROWAN!”
“He was practicing,” I sobbed, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, driving back the tears and fighting to bring my breathing back to normal. “The bastard was just practicing.”
“What the hell are ya’ talkin’ about?!” Ben practically screamed. “Practicin’ what?”
“Practicing the art of flaying,” I spat, pulling my hands away from my eyes. “He didn’t even try to perform an invocation ritual. He was just teaching himself how to skin someone alive.”
“What the hell for?”
“To prepare,” I answered, climbing to my feet and steadying myself against the wall. “He’s trying to learn… Most likely so that he can actually perform the invocation sometime in the near future. Trust me, he’s not going to stop here. This is only the beginning.”
“This is fucked up, man,” Ben stated wildly, turning in place, looking about the room as if some unseen creature was about to sneak up on him. “You saw all that?! You felt what she felt?!”
“Yes.” I had begun to regain some composure. “That’s exactly what I did. The fact that she was a Witch made it easier to do and…” I paused, “much more intense than I was expecting.”
“Okay, look,” Ben told me sternly. “I’m not entirely sure what I think about this, but I can damn sure tell you no one else at the department is gonna believe it, so this stays between you and me, got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” I answered. “Just let me help you get this S.O.B.”
“If any of this stuff matches up with the coroner’s report,” he waved his notepad in front of me, “you better believe you’re gonna help.”
“Good,” I told him. “Now let’s get out of here. I need to get away from this before it sucks me in again.”
I walked past Ben to the door and reached into my shirt pocket for my glasses. I looked back to see that he was following me then turned back to the doorway.
I turned back just in time to see a young man with long dark hair and the lamp he was swinging at me.