Witch Water (16 page)

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.