Crowley's Window (Novella) (9 page)

“Come on, Abby,” her mother said, tugging on her arm. “Let’s take a seat, okay?”

“Just a sec, mom. I haven’t had a chance to say goodbye yet.”

Abby reached into the casket and found the cold skin of her father’s right hand. All she wanted to do was touch him and hoped to get a sense that he was no longer suffering but contacting him started her fingers tingling and suddenly…

…Abby was far away from the Halderson Funeral Home and back in the parking lot of the Townsend Traveling Show. She knew what she was seeing was a vision from two nights earlier because Mister Chollo was there crouched down in the long grass nursing his injured hand and walking past Abby again was young Trisha Martin holding her big swirling lollipop. Beside her, leading the little girl off to her death was the tall man with the knife sheathed on his hip. At the first line of parked cars, Crowley’s henchman stopped and suddenly turned around to make sure no one was following them.

Abby’s spirit gasped and froze in place.

No! It can’t be. It just can’t…

But it was. There tightly holding Trisha’s hand was Abby’s father, looking sweaty and nervous but not sick in any way. How had she not recognized him earlier? Abby had known there was something familiar about the man who’d always had his back to her in the visions but just hadn’t spent enough time around her father in the last few years to figure it out. Now it was too late. Jarrett Hawkins yanked the little girls arm, causing her to drop her lollipop, and started dragging her deeper into the sea of cars and the forest beyond. Abby looked toward Chollo but he was already moving toward the main entrance of the carnival and would be of no help even if he wasn’t leaving. In this dream, the things Abby watched had already taken place and couldn’t be altered. Like it or not, Abby was on her own. She swallowed down her fear and tried to chase after them, to run and catch up to her father but…

…the vision changed, lurching forward in time to a dark room inside a house that looked familiar to Abby. Of course, it was the living room of her parent’s house, here in Millbridge. Crowley walked into the room, with Abby’s father following along like a puppy at his heals. Crowley carried a tall drinking glass filled with what looked like orange juice but she couldn’t be sure. He offered the glass to Abby’s father who took it and knelt on the floor.

“You’ve served me well all these years, Jarrett,” Crowley said. “I’m pleased, but for you the work is over. You’ve earned your rest.”

Jarrett Hawkins smiled, thrilled to have pleased his master. “Thank you, Reverend. I go to my reward with no regrets.”

Abby watched her father drink down the juice; three-quarters of it anyway, then just have enough time to hand the nearly empty glass back to Crowley before winching in pain and crumbling to the floor. His body shook and spasmed for thirty seconds, then lay still at the reverend’s feet. Crowley smiled, stepped over Jarrett’s body and exited the room without looking back.

Cancer my foot,
Abby thought.
Dad was poisoned. Murdered. No, he drank it willingly. It was suicide. But why dad? Why?

Abby bent down to touch her father, hoping to get more answers, but as soon as she reached for him, she…

…woke up back in the funeral home with her heart trip-hammering inside her chest and her head spinning from all the lies she’d been told. Her entire world had been turned upside down and she had no idea what to belief anymore or who, if anyone, she could trust. Was her mother in on this too? What about the other people in this room staring at her? Were they all in this together?

“Mom?” she said, not trusting herself to say anything more. She heard the door slam shut at the back of the room. Someone off to her right started to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” her mother said, sobbing. “I’ve failed you, but it wasn’t my fault. He…he didn’t give me any choice. You have to believe me. You have to!”

“Who didn’t? Dad?” Abby asked, feeling sluggish and confused, the room starting to spin around her.

“No,” A man’s voice said from the back of the room. “She’s talking about me.”

“Who…?” Abby said, trying to find the strength to raise her arms up to get a look at the man who’d spoken to her. She couldn’t do it, her legs giving out on her as she fell to her knees on the plush carpet. She waited as the man walked up the center aisle to join her, but there was no need for Abby to ask his name again. By the time he’d taken his third step, Abby could smell the earthy scent of lavender and honey that clung to him like fragrant cologne. When he stood beside her, she nearly gagged on the underlying stench of rotted meat assaulting her, the filthy odor oozing out of his pores as well as from his vile breath.

“Remember me now, child?” Marcus Crowley said, laying his hand on her trembling shoulder. “I’ll bet you do.”

Abby felt a wave of blackness wash over her, the darkest aura she’d ever encountered, drowning her in an ocean of hatred, merciless death, and unspeakable evil. In her mind, she watched as this man killed again and again and again over the years, including the night he’d come for her own eyes six long years ago in her parent’s house. Her father had been a willing participant. Her mother, not so much, but her efforts at protecting Abby had been too little too late. The series of visions stole the last of Abby’s strength, her will to fight gone, and she slumped to the carpet like a discarded rag doll.

Crowley bent and picked Abby up easily, as if she weighed no more than an infant, hugging her for a moment then turning to lay her down nearby. Abby was in such a state of emotional overload she wasn’t fully aware where she was until she felt the smooth silky sheets and the cold lumpy body of her dead father lying beside her. She wanted to lash out, to try escape, to do
anything
other than lie here helplessly, but fear and panic held her tightly in their grasp and all she could manage was a groan when she felt the lid of the coffin close inches above her face. Outside the box, in a muffled voice she heard Crowley say, “Take her to the church.”

That was when she found her voice.

Abby screamed once, and then fainted.

* * *

Time passed, but when Abby finally woke up she had no way of knowing if it was merely a few hours later, or if perhaps she’d passed out for the entire night. She was in big trouble either way, but part of her clung to the hope she’d slept until morning and David would already be looking for her. He was a good cop and if anyone might have a chance of tracking her down, it would be him. David would try anyway, of that Abby was sure, and although the chances of being saved were slim, she forced herself to believe it would happen. The alternative was to completely break down and give up hope. She wasn’t ready to do that yet.

An endless string of questions flooded her mind; wondering who this Crowley monster was, why all this craziness was happening, and how her parents had seemingly been involved to the point of sacrificing their only daughter, but for the time being she pushed all those thoughts aside. If she dwelled on those unanswerable questions she might go mad from the frustration and anger and right now she needed to figure out where she was and keep her wits about her if she had any hope of getting out of this nightmare alive.

Abby reached out with her mind and was surprised at how easily the images of her surroundings raced back to her. Not only could she “see” where she was being kept, she was bombarded with colorful visual stimuli almost as dramatic as in her psychic visions. Never in realtime had Abby been able to focus her powers so clearly and waking up in this dark room, she could probably see just as well, if not better than someone whose eyesight was perfect. She wasn’t sure why her extrasensory abilities had grown stronger, but she was grateful for it. At least no one would be sneaking up on her anytime soon.

At some point, she’d been removed from her father’s casket and was now lying in the middle of a dark room on a table covered with a black velvet cloth. Abby struggled to sit up but she was tightly bound to the table by thick leather straps on her ankles and wrists. The room smelled strongly of honey or some other overly sweet aroma, and Abby was fairly sure she’s seen this room before the last time she’d had her vision of Crowley back at the Gainsville morgue. If she was right, then this room had to be somewhere inside Crowley’s abandoned church, but so far there was no sign of him or anyone else here. She was alone, as far as she could tell, but somehow it didn’t feel that way. She felt eyes watching her every move, strangers studying her from close by but choosing to remain silent and not give themselves away.

Abby reached out with her powers, pushing away the darkness, and when she did she finally saw what her senses had been warning her of. Row upon row of glass jars lined the walls. Hundreds of mason jars side by side, and each and every one of them were filled with an amber liquid Abby now believed to be honey and containing a pair of small white orbs floating within.

Eyes! Jesus! The jars are all full of eyes!

A hideous image, sure, but even worse was the fact Abby felt positive the collection of eyes were still lucid, still somehow watching her every move. It was a ridiculous notion, but her powers were finely tuned here, and as crazy as it sounded, Abby was convinced she was right.

How many people have been murdered to fill those jars?How many children?
The thought chilled Abby to the bone. She was surrounded by brutal violence, and death, surely awaiting her own date with the reaper but she tried her best to keep fear at bay and stay strong. She wanted to know why all this was happening and what any of it had to do with her but there was no one here to give her the answers.

Only the eyes.

Only the still lucid, watchful eyes…

* * *

David Beck hadn’t slept well last night and his lack of rest had nothing to do with the hard lumpy mattress in his hotel room. He’d watched some mindless television for a few hours after supper, then tossed and turned all night wishing Abby was by his side. He was horny, sure, and was looking forward to taking Abby into his arms but for the first time in his life it was more than just wanting a warm body rubbing against his. He cared about her, truly and honestly, and his feelings for this woman that he’d only recently met spread such a warm glow of emotion through him it was impossible to settle down and close his eyes. He’d never felt anything like this before. His head was spinning and his guts were churning he missed her so much.

David took an extra long shower in the morning, paced the room endlessly, tried to eat some breakfast, then watched the clock spin around until it was 10:00 a.m. and he just couldn’t take being alone another minute. He gathered his overnight bag and headed for Abby’s mother’s house over on Mavis Street. He knew he wasn’t supposed to show up until after the funeral, but if Abby wanted to be with him the way he wanted to be with her, David was sure she’d understand.

Well, he hoped she would anyway.

* * *

Ingrid Hawkins’ night hadn’t been very restful either. In fact, she’d slept hardly at all, staying up most of the night crying and praying for the life of her only child. Her guilt was enormous, all-consuming, but there just hadn’t been any options available to her other than to listen to her husband and obey Reverend Crowley. They’d have killed Abigail years ago if she’d refused, or if she dared go to the police with her burden. In her heart, she’d always hoped Crowley would never take matters to the end game, like he was doing now. Even so, Ingrid had always hoped she’d have the strength to fight him or warn Abigail to run somewhere far away and hide, but in the end she’d done nothing—sold her daughter’s soul to the devil just to save her own miserable life. What kind of mother would do that? What kind of
person
would do something like that? Maybe she was just as much a monster as Crowley was.

I don’t deserve to live. Not after what I’ve done.

Staggering exhausted into the kitchen, Ingrid eyed the wooden butcher block on the countertop filled with an assortment of sharp cutting knives all of which were capable of slitting her wrists or throat but she knew she didn’t have the resolve it took to take her life in such a ghastly painful way as that. Even in death she would remain a coward. There had to be an easier way.

Then she remembered the Juice.

Crowley had given Jarrett a glass filled with some type of fast acting poison a few days ago and once her husband had drank his fill and the evil reverend had left, Ingrid hadn’t know what to do with the remaining few inches of juice in the glass. She’d nearly poured it down the sink, and had almost flushed it down the toilet, but for some unknown reason she’d decided to keep it. At the time, she hadn’t seriously considered suicide, not while Abigail was still alive, but maybe in the back of her mind she’d kept it just for this reason. Perhaps death had always been her only real option.

Ingrid walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. The poison mixture was sitting on the top shelf, looking like a normal refreshing drink, surreally sandwiched between a carton of 2% milk and a container of her homemade zucchini relish. With a shaking hand, she picked up the glass and prepared to drink every last drop. Ingrid brought the juice to her lips and…

…and the doorbell rang.

Ingrid screamed and dropped the jar in her hands, the glass shattering on the tile floor spilling orange flavored death all over the kitchen. She heard the door being yanked open and like a flash, a tall muscular stranger burst into the room carrying a gun pointed at the floor, eyes searching everywhere at once.

“Are you okay?” Officer Beck said, quickly making his service 9 mm disappear once he determined there was no trouble to be found. David felt like a first class fool bursting into Abby’s mother’s house with his gun drawn but her scream had been so pain-filled and real he’d reacted on instinct without pausing to think things through. Police officers had to rely on their gut feelings sometimes, and David had been sure something awful was in the process of happening.