The Burning Time (15 page)

“What’s gonna happen?” Mitch asked.

“Go get me some wet towels and I’ll show you.”

The boy ran out of the room and returned a minute later with two towels, one dripping wet and one just damp.

Using his good arm, John wiped away the worst of the blood from his wounds. Mitch gasped when he saw that the deep cuts had already closed, leaving behind jagged, pink scars.

“Holy shit! How’d you do that?”

John pushed himself to his feet, groaning a little at the residual aches and pains from the attack. He was still an hour or two from feeling normal, but it was good enough for the time being. “The same way I healed your injuries when those boys hit you. Only this potion was a lot stronger, and had some different ingredients.”

“Like what?”

“Like Holy Water, for one.” John glanced around at the room. The door was hanging from one hinge, and there was a hole in the wall where something, either John’s head or shoulder, had gone through when the Hound attacked him. He imagined similar damage existed downstairs. All of it would need fixing before Danni came home.

But he knew he had to explain things to Mitch before anything else. He owed the boy that much, owed him his life, in fact.

“Sit down. There are some things I have to tell you, things that might be hard to believe, but you deserve to know.”

Mitch raised his eyebrow again. “Harder to believe than giant werewolves and magic potions?”

Once again, the boy’s easy acceptance of the unusual surprised John. “Maybe. Let’s start with the creatures that attacked us today. They weren’t werewolves, although they might be the basis of those legends. You got lucky thinking silver would hurt them. They’re Hell Hounds, and silver is painful to any of the demons from that realm.”

“Demons? You mean, like from hell?”

“I don’t know if there’s an actual hell, although since I believe in heaven, I have to accept that hell probably exists. But there are other worlds in other dimensions, and some of them are very much like the hell described in the Bible.”

Mitch tilted his head, thinking. “So there are other things besides the...”

“Hell Hounds,” John supplied.

“...Hell Hounds that come from those dimensions? Are they all evil? Are they like demons and monsters?” He asked the last question with definite excitement in his voice.

“Some of them are evil. A few are good. The majority are in-between, just like most people you meet. But when someone wants to hurt another person, it’s the evil ones that get brought into our world.”

“What kind of person can do that? Do you have to be a witch, or a sorcerer?”

John put his arm around Mitch. “If you know the right spell, anyone can perform magic. But the greater the magic, the more power a person has to have. To call Hell Hounds to Earth, well, only a very powerful man can do that.” He waited for the next question. Mitch was too smart not to figure it out.

“Who...was it Reverend Christian?”

“I’m afraid so. And he’s more than just a man; he’s a very old and powerful creature, whose job it is to create chaos and fear and sorrow wherever he goes. I’ve been trying to find him for many years.”

Mitch looked up at John. “Are you from another place, too?”

A laugh burst from John’s throat before he could stop it. “No, I’m not. But my family, well, I guess you could say we’re like witches. Instead of spells, though, my magic comes from the Earth. I know how to use the plants and animals to create powders and potions.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but there was no need to frighten the boy with tales of centuries-old battles between good and evil, of the monsters and spirits that kept John, like his mother before him, in business.

Especially since, unlike in fairy tales, the good guys didn’t always win.

“That’s so wicked,” Mitch exclaimed, then he looked over at the black leather satchel. “What about your freaky doctor bag? Is that magic, too?”

John hesitated before answering. He’d kept his secrets for several decades, ever since he’d taken over his mother’s role as a provider of...services...for people in need.

“Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts.”
His mother’s words, spoken on a hot summer afternoon much like the current one. He’d just cast his first spell of protection, and the time had come to test it.

By placing his hands in a box containing live rattlesnakes.

He knew he’d said the spell correctly. The lotion he’d rubbed into his skin had been prepared exactly as she’d taught him. But when he saw the snakes curled and hissing in the wooden crate, all his confidence had drained away like floodwaters after a storm.

Remembering that day, John came to his decision. He placed the bag next to Mitch and opened it as wide as it would go.

“Go ahead, look inside.”

Mitch peered into the satchel. “I don’t see anything. It’s...all black.”

“The bag is magic, just like you thought. I can’t carry everything I need when I travel. Back home, I have a whole cellar filled with shelves, and every shelf is filled with jars and boxes and bags. So I have my bag. It’s like a door. I just think about what I need, and then I put my hand inside, and I’m usually right where I need to be.” He smiled. “Of course, sometimes you have to feel around a bit. Kind of like trying to find something in the dark.”

“Wow.” Mitch’s eyes were wide.

For the first time John could remember, Mitch seemed at a loss for words. Before the boy could find his tongue, John changed the subject. “We can talk more later, but right now we have to get the house cleaned up and fixed before your sister comes home.”

“Are you going to tell her why you’re here?”

John stood up and put the satchel and suitcase back in the closet. “No. I don’t think she’d believe me. She’s...”

“Under Christian’s spell, like the rest of the town.” Mitch pursed his lips, and his voice grew angry. “He’s turning her into some kind of religious freak.”

“Yes, that’s one of his powers, only he’s got them worshipping Chaos and Anarchy. There’s nothing good about them. That’s why I need to stop him before it’s too late.”

As they headed downstairs for John’s tools, Mitch asked, “But how?”

“There’s always a way. My mother defeated him once; now I have to find a way to do it again.”

Mitch stayed quiet while they fixed the front screen and replaced the hinges on the guest bedroom door. From the unusually serious look on the boy’s face, John figured he must be contemplating everything he’d seen and heard.

It’s a lot to swallow all at once.
John knew that from first-hand experience.

It was only when they were sweeping up the last of the broken plaster and sawdust that Mitch surprised him with another well-considered question.

“If everyone in town is falling under Christian’s spell, how come I’m not affected?”

John leaned on the broom. “Not everyone in town is affected. It just seems that way. It’s only the people who go to Christian’s sermons.”

“But I go to church with Danni every week.”

“You’re right.” John thought for a moment, and then the answer came to him. “The day you were hurt. The salve I put on your bruises to heal them also contained a protective spell. It must have made you immune to Christian’s influence.”

“Can we put some on Danni?”

“I could, but it wouldn’t work. He’s already got a hold on her. I’ll have to find another way.”

“I hope you find it fast,” Mitch said, his voice low and sad. “I want my sister back.”

Martha Brophy burst into Enid Doake’s kitchen without bothering to knock. “You thieving bitch!” she shouted, waving a flour-covered rolling pin in Enid’s direction. “How could you?”

Enid put down her measuring cup. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Martha’s face went an angry shade of purple. “Don’t give me that. You knew damn well I was making a Bundt cake for the bake sale, and now you’re making one.”

“Oh, and is there a law against two people making Bundt cakes?”

“You were supposed to make a cherry pie.” Martha shook the wooden roller at her next-door neighbor, the wrinkled flab under her arm wiggling like flesh-colored Jell-O.

Enid planted her fists on her wide hips. “And you were supposed to leave Bobby Johnson alone so he’d ask me out.”

“That was the seventh grade!”

“And if he’d gone out with me, maybe I’d be married to him now, instead of that lazy slob of a husband I got stuck with.”

“Don’t blame your shitty marriage on me. I’ll knock your dentures out, you old wind-bag.”

“Oh, yeah? Come and try it.” Enid grabbed a paring knife from the counter and brandished it like a switchblade.

Martha rushed forward, swinging the rolling pin back and forth. Enid ducked and stabbed out with the short knife, catching her best friend of forty years across one ample breast. Martha cried out and swung again, this time landing a direct blow to Enid’s stomach. The smaller woman doubled over, gasping for breath.

“That’ll teach you.” Martha leaned forward to make sure Enid heard every word. “And just so you know, Bobby never liked you. He told me so. That’s why—”

“Shut up!” Enid straightened up so fast Martha never had a chance to move. The knife punctured Martha’s left eye with a wet
pop!
She screamed and took a step back, but Enid stayed with her, pushing the knife in even farther, until only the handle was visible.

“Now who—”

Enid never had a chance to finish, as Martha managed one more swing with the rolling pin before collapsing to the floor. The pin caught Enid square in the nose, smashing bone and leaving a smear of white powder behind.

Tears streaming from her eyes and blood choking her throat, Enid tried to reach the phone but stumbled over Martha’s body. She never saw the corner of the table that crushed her temple.

When Dan Doake returned home from work that evening, he found the bodies of his wife and neighbor lying in pools of tacky, fly-covered blood on the kitchen floor.

He managed to dial 911 before his heart seized and refused to beat any longer.

*   *   *

Ralphie Morgese led two other boys down Birch Street. “This is gonna be so cool,” he kept saying, as much to himself as to his makeshift posse. “This’ll teach the old bastard to pay for his papers on time.”

“You sure we won’t get in trouble?” Ken Anders asked. “What if Old Man Lewis calls the cops on us?”

“Who cares?” Ralphie laughed. “Even if he does, we’ll be long gone before they get here.”

They stopped in front of a house that had a tall, white fence around it. Only the roof of the house was visible above the solid wall of white. Two identical signs hung on the front, one on either side of the gate.

BEWARE OF DOGS

“Man, I heard them dogs are vicious,” Benny Freeman said. “My brother told me they can take your hand off in one bite.”

“You’re brother’s a wuss.” Ralphie banged on the fence with the large rock he carried in one hand. Immediately, a chorus of barking rose from somewhere behind the obstacle.

“See?” Ralphie said to the others. “They’re tied up. Now let’s have some fun.” He reared back and threw his rock over the fence as hard as he could.

The boys waited in excited silence. Seconds later, they got their reward: the sound of breaking glass.

“Direct hit!” Ralphie pointed at Benny. “Your turn. Don’t miss, or I’ll toss you over next.”

His lower lip quivering ever so slightly, Benny took a rock from his pocket and threw it over the fence. Once more, the sound of breaking glass filled the humid air.

“Yeah!” Ralphie pumped his fist in the air.

Just then the gate flew open. An old man, stooped and leaning on a cane, stood there, his hair almost as white as the fence. “Hey!” he shouted over the furious barking of the dogs. “What’re you boys doing?”

“You didn’t pay your bill, you old bastard!”

“Ralph Morgese? You cut that out. I’m gonna call your parents.”

“The hell you are.” Ralphie took the stone Ken was holding, but instead of throwing it at the house, he tossed it at Old Man Lewis, hitting him right in the stomach.

The octogenarian cried out in pain and fell to his knees. “Get the hell out of here, you bastards, or I’ll set my dogs after you!”

“Fuck you!”

Ralphie took a step toward the old man, but Benny grabbed his arm. “Don’t. The neighbors are watching.”

“Yeah, let’s get out of here.” Ken started running away, and Benny followed him.

“You and I aren’t through,” Ralphie said, pointing at the fallen man, and then he took off down the street.

As he reached the corner, the sound of the barking changed. Looking back, Ralphie saw two huge German shepherds racing after them.

“Shit!”

It only took the dogs a few moments to catch up, and by then Ralphie, twenty pounds heavier than his friends, had already fallen several lengths behind. He tried to put on a last burst of speed, but he was no match for the shepherds. One leaped onto his legs, tripping him and sending him face-first onto the sidewalk. The pain of his flayed skin had just started to register when one of the dogs tore into his neck and arms with frantic abandon. He rolled over and tried to scream for help, but powerful jaws clamped on his neck, crushing his windpipe and ripping away a huge chunk of meat.

The last thing he saw was his own flesh hanging from the dog’s mouth.

By the time the police arrived, the two dogs were sitting calmly by Ralphie’s mutilated body, their muzzles sticky with blood and bits of skin.

When questioned, witnesses all gave the same story: Ralphie Morgese, a known trouble-maker, had broken poor old Mr. Lewis’s windows, beaten the old man with stones, and then tried to steal the dogs. The dogs had turned on the boy.

“It’s his own fault,” they all said.

“Can’t blame a dog for protecting its master,” Chief Showalter agreed. He returned the dogs to Mr. Lewis, who was being treated by an EMS worker.

“Sorry this kind of thing had to happen. You take good care of these fellas. They done right by you.” He shook Eddie’s hand and then headed back to his car and drove off.