The Thirteen (26 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

P
AULA WAS DRIVING TOO FAST
, the tires squealing in the darkness and silence as she careened around corners. The noise they made was as scary as a voice screaming after her.

(Glory?)

Her head swung from one side of the street to the other, looking into doorways, windows, porches, seeing huddled figures, the flash of eyes. Her panic escalated. She had to get to Sanderson’s, she had to find Rowan and get her mother out of that hospital and get them all out of Haven Woods.

Those women were crazy. And dangerous.

(but witches?)

The neighbourhood was familiar to her from childhood, but so much had changed. So many of the old houses had been torn down and new, monstrous houses had replaced them. Yards she had cut through from one friend’s house to another’s had been swallowed up by square footage.

She
was
driving too fast. She passed Good, Pacific. After Pacific came Williams, which she almost missed. She took the corner so fast the van leaned onto two wheels. Paula screamed and swung the steering wheel too far in the other direction. The tires slid on gravel, all traction gone, and she plowed into a telephone pole. Glass, plastic and metal sang together in a squeal of destruction. The crash released the airbag, which pushed her back against the seat with a hard slap.

The front end was wrapped around the pole. The grill had split and pieces had flown in all directions. The van settled with a hiss. Groggy, Paula reached around the deflating airbag and automatically turned the key, shutting off the motor. Then she tried to start it again.

Click
.

Paula rested her head against the bag for a minute, then pushed the door open as far as it would go. She squeezed out and fell to the ground, landing hard on her knee. Then she lurched up and forward, leaving the van behind. Her head throbbed and her chest felt bruised; the airbag must have hit her harder than she thought.

She scanned her surroundings. If she cut through the backyard in front of her, Sanderson’s was just two houses away. She staggered into a jog, her knee screaming, and just barely held back calling out for him.

She lifted herself painfully over Sanderson’s fence and fell into the yard. The lights were on in the kitchen and she thought she could hear the television. She sobbed, the fear and panic of the past hours bubbling up and out of her. She made it to the door, and finding it locked, she banged on it.

“Sanderson! Rowan! It’s me—”

She gave them no time to respond before going through the side gate to the front of the house, still calling. “Rowan? Ro? It’s Mom!”

The front door was wide open. Through it she could hear the television, too loud. Her heart pounding painfully, she went inside.

The house smelled of pepperoni and tomato sauce, and through the archway she could see the empty pizza pan on the stovetop.

“Rowan?” she called, and then louder,
“Rowan!”

The house was empty.

And then she thought,
No dogs
. She let go of her panicked breath and almost grinned. They’d taken the dogs out for a walk. If she waited she would see them any minute now. She just had to relax. She leaned out to shut the screen door
—men are just forgetful that way lots of them go out leave the TV on, the door open—
and noticed the empty driveway.

No car. They’d left in a hurry

(to walk the dogs)

Now the fear and panic rose in her twofold. She realized then that it was all horribly, horribly wrong and that something very bad was going on in Haven Woods. And that it really could be

(witches)

Paula ran out into the street, ignoring the shooting pain in her knee. She headed for her mother’s place, hoping that was where they would go. She hoped to god

(to God)

that Sanderson was taking care of her child.

I’m coming Rowan. Mom’s coming
.

Sanderson lay on the horn as he caught sight of them in the headlights.

“Holy shit!” he yelled, and stamped his foot down hard on the brake, sliding forward in his seat, which jammed his right leg into the dash. The pain was so intense it blocked out every other thought in his head. He let out a howl and his left foot slipped off the brake.

He looked up to see the women scattering, one stumbling to the right, the other two trying to get out of his way in the other direction. He jabbed the pedal again and the brakes squealed, the car shuddering as it slowed. The two women on the left seemed to be struggling, and suddenly one of them broke away—a girl. She ran towards the car and his heart jumped with relief. It was Rowan.

Then his clumsy left foot slipped again, hitting the gas pedal hard. The older women, frozen like animals mesmerized by the dazzle of the lights, didn’t move. They stood with their hands still reaching out towards the girl, mouths hanging open in shock. He jabbed at the brake again, too hard: the back end slewed and the car went into a spin. It seemed to him that everyone was screaming at once: Rowan, the women and he himself. It was a weird parody of a musical number—the same note, the same tone.

The car’s back end swung uselessly as he braked, then caught and jerked to a standstill. Sanderson felt as if he were still moving. He shook his head, orienting himself, the pain no longer isolated in his ankle but a bodily thing, a
wrong
thing. Sirens in his head, alarms from his body
—stop stop stop
. He gritted his teeth and tried to lift his right foot to ease it some.

“Mr. Keyes!” came the scream from outside the car. “Mr.
Keyes
—” Rowan cried again, and then he heard the other voices, and none of them was yelling for help.

“Come back, girl!” the old ladies yelled in unison.

“Is everyone okay?” he called out the window.

The motor was still running, his left foot still on the brake. He punched it into Park and the car settled with a lurch. He twisted as much as he could in the seat, hung his head out the window and yelled again, “Is everyone okay?”

Then Rowan was at the passenger door, yanking it open, jumping inside. Her face was tear-stained, her eyes so wide they were like beads in white circles.
“Drive away drive away drive—They have my mom—”
She tugged and pulled at the door.

“Ro—Rowan, calm down. What’s going on—”

And then one of the old women was at his window, and she was a vision of madness. Her hands were curled into claws and she thrust them at his face. “A
posse adesse …”

Rowan screamed and leaned over him, accidentally hitting his right foot. He howled, but Rowan, oblivious to his agony, was intent on rolling up the window, batting at the woman’s hands. “Drive away, Mr. Keyes, drive away!”

The old woman at the window bared her teeth. They could hear her through the glass, still chanting,
“Addo mentos los betrose, addo mentos los betrose
 …”

Sanderson’s eyes watered madly as he tried to gain control of the pain. Sweat poured down his sides; he couldn’t sort out which stimulus was which, what he should do. Through the blur of tears he saw the woman fold her claws into a fist and then point her index finger at his eyes. She poked at the air once, twice, three times—and suddenly his eyes were burning as if acid had been thrown at them. He screamed and screamed, clawing at his face.

Outside the window the old woman said, “Give me the girl.”

Then Rowan was across his body and he felt himself being shoved aside. He tried to help by moving over, but the pain made him cry out more loudly.

“Mr. Keyes, I’m going to drive. Help me drive—”

She got the car into Drive, lurched forward and stopped, lurched forward again. Then they were moving fast, interrupted by occasional jerks as Rowan shifted her foot between the brake and the gas. He could hear the foreign-sounding threats fading behind them.

Sanderson pushed the button on the glovebox. It flopped open and he felt around for the bottle of water he kept in there for emergencies. He opened it and upended the bottle over his face. The water poured into his eyes, offering instant relief.

“Say a prayer over it,” Rowan said.

The car lurched and jerked. He exhaled great gulps of air and swished more water over his eyes.

“Holy Father, bless this car and all its occupants—” Rowan was hiccupping now and then with sobs.

“What the hell is going on?” he managed to say.

“Do you know where Mr. Chapman lives?”

“Huh? Chapman? The murderer?”

The girl groaned with fear. “That makes sense. Do you know where the house is? We have to go there.”

Sanderson put the bottle up to his lips and poured the remainder into his mouth. “It’s at the end of town. But, good God, why? Why would we go there?”

“Because they’re witches and they’ve got my mom.”

TWENTY-FIVE

O
LD
T
EX WAS BREATHING HARD
behind her, and the other dog, the one she didn’t know, was whining. The dogs made Audra feel safer, but she wasn’t sure if they would make it. She was barely making it herself.

Such a terrible house. Such a terrible history. Audra, of course, knew it well. They all did. She was nearly at the gate before she realized that she was bleeding from her secret, ancient wound. The mark under her left breast was opening and closing, beating. Breathing. Eating. Bleeding.

The air was electric. She could feel it. Him.

He was coming, and she was so afraid.

The porch light was off and the front rooms of her mother’s house were dark. Paula figured that meant they couldn’t be there, unless they were hiding, and that thought was enough to make her run.

Her car was in the driveway. She couldn’t see Sanderson’s anywhere

(could have parked in the lane) and there were no lights on at the back of the house either

(maybe they’re waiting in the kitchen)

She made her way slowly up the steps, battered and exhausted but powered by a strange panicked energy. Her footsteps on the porch conjured up such a raw image of childhood

hi Mom I’m home going to Marla’s what’s for supper did you see Dad

that she very nearly collapsed.

Paula pulled open the screen door and turned the knob. Locked. Her heart sank. She banged on the door.
Let me in
.

“They’re all gone,” said a voice behind her. Paula swung around, a scream just escaping her. An older woman stood at the bottom of the porch steps.

“You scared me,” Paula said.

The old woman
tsk-tsk
ed softly, gently, so kindly that Paula felt her body sag in gratitude. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m an old friend of your mother’s. Don’t you recognize me?” She smiled sweetly.

Paula squinted, tried to make her out. She could hardly see her features with the streetlight behind her, shining through her hair like a halo. “No, I don’t,” she said.

“That’s all right.” The woman took a step up towards the porch. “You’re looking for your little girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Paula’s bottom lip quivered like a child’s.

The woman took another step up.

“I don’t know where she is …”

“They’ve taken her. I know just where—”

“They took her?” Paula felt oddly sleepy, as if the events of the past couple of hours were catching up to her. “The … women?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
Witch
. It was something from a movie. Not real.

“She’s in a sacred place. A very powerful place.” The woman took another step up. Paula closed her eyes, wanting only to listen to her voice. “Where He lives … the Chapman house. Do you know it?” Her tone was so soothing.

“Witches,” Paula mumbled.

The woman whispered,
“Somnus et tranquillitas …”
and Paula almost swooned. She grabbed the door handle to steady herself.

“Where is … my … daughter …” It did not come out as a question. She struggled to remember what she was doing.
Rowan
.

Rowan.

“We’ll go there together and then you will see your daughter. She’s important to us.”

Rowan
. Paula just wanted to let go.

The woman took the next-to-last step up the porch stairs and whispered again,
“Somnus et tranquillitas
 …” Then suddenly she screeched as though she’d been burned. “What have you
got?!”

She backed up, stumbling down the stairs. Paula jerked awake. The woman continued to back away, practically hissing at her, “What have you got there? What have you got? What
evil
do you hold?”

Paula’s eyes fell on the bottle that Sanderson’s mother had hidden behind the post. The witch bottle. Her eyes widened and she stared at the woman. This was one too.

The woman had turned her face partly away, as if Paula were a strong light, and the glow from the streetlight revealed her features. She was sunken and old as the ages. Her eyes were yellowed where they should have been white and her pupils were so large there was no other colour. Her skin was thin and papery, her nose hooked, lips thin—a dollar-store witch’s mask.

“Get it away from me, you stupid little bitch!” she screamed. “The bottle, the
bottle!”
The woman wailed like a mourner, covering her face and weeping. Paula ran down the stairs and past her to the car. Inside, she slammed her hand down on the door-lock button. There was a hard, satisfying
clunk
from all four doors. She flipped down the visor. The keys fell into her lap—it was a Haven Woods thing

(thank God for bad habits)

The old woman pounded on the window. She grabbed at the door handle and pulled, to no effect. “Let me in, let me in. I’ll take you to her. I said,
let me in!
I’ll peel your face from your skull, you little bitch—”

The car started on the second try and Paula screeched out of the driveway.

The suburbs are all about driving.

The Chapman house was humming with something alive, if not actual life. Light poured out of the windows, coming from no source at all. It looked natural, as if the sun had risen inside and was now pouring out.

The women on the porch stayed where they were. All of them had been inside many times. They knew the house’s history, of course, but after awhile they had ceased to think about it. The house had become just another stop in their roster of chores, not very much different from the post office, the dry cleaner, the grocery store. But tonight, what it was and what it had been was unavoidable. And the women—the sisters—stood just outside of the circle of light.

Terrified.

Izzy had seen them out there on the porch, whispering, but it was Esme whose eye she caught. She knew a guilty look when she saw one. She could see what was afoot, could tell by Esme’s expression that she was thinking about walking away. Betrayal.

Just try it
.

Izzy sent her a glare so fierce that it forced Esme to her knees, the heat and sudden pain in her chest too much to bear. She gasped for air, collapsed, unable to breathe; her vision dulled and her thought function went cottony, as if she were suffering from a hangover.

How dare you
, Izzy mouthed.

On her knees, Esme bowed her head in obeisance to whomever it was who required it, her voice a mumble amid the drone of the unseen from the house.

Soon after, Bridget brought an offering. By then Izzy had stopped pacing and had dropped to the stairs in exhaustion, her head down, her hands clasped in dark prayer. Bridget stood in the doorway of the house and called to her.

She gasped when Izzy looked up. Izzy grinned, knowing how she must look, herself feeling the slackness of her skin as though the flesh had melted away, the way her eyes were wide and round yet sunken. Her mouth moved so awkwardly there seemed little correlation with what she was saying.

“What do you want from me?”

Bridget held out a bag. “It’s from Glory … all of us, really …”

Izzy eyeballed it: a plain kitchen-waste bag, the contents small and dark through the translucent white plastic. Probably from someone’s glovebox, a refuse bag for coffee cups and McDonald’s containers.

“What is it?”

Bridget opened the bag and, with a grimace, reached inside and pulled out a finger. The last of Glory’s complement of lost digits.

Izzy laughed, the sound muffled, a silent movie laugh. “Bring it here,” she said, still grinning. A dare.

Bridget shook her head.
No
.

Izzy was astonished. Really, how could she say no?
Why
would she?
He has given you everything you asked for, everything you wanted
.

Bridget just stared.

You don’t honour Him
.

Bridget held the bag out from her body as if it were electric. Clearly she longed to put it down, to get it away from her.

“That is what will kill us all,” Izzy said, scolding.

Bridget finally set the bag down just inside the doorway, such a meagre gift that the bag looked almost flat. Then the contents began to move inside the plastic. Bridget stared, horrified.

“He doesn’t like it,” Izzy had said, disgusted. “He wants the child he was promised—”

Behind her a man appeared, staring cruelly, his shirtfront covered in blood, a hatchet dangling from his left hand. It was not Chapman—Bridget had seen enough photos of the man to know that. She backed out the door, half stumbling, wanting to scream but, to her credit, not giving in.

Izzy laughed. “He’ll take it all from you—whatever He promised—because you are all
bad daughters.”

Bad sisters.

Whether they left or not was no longer a concern. It was all over. They would pay one way or another, if they stayed or if they left. There was little hope for salvation now.

Not salvation. Izzy stopped herself.
Salvation
was not the word. That was a different god.

She heard Joanna scream. There were things in the yard, made bold by the air of evil that was gathering, no longer held at bay by other forces. They’d sensed an overtaking and had come to taste the agony.

The house filled itself, drinking whatever poisons were in the air and casting them as walking shadows. Around her she heard breathing, rattling, hissing, the screams of the damned and the occasional voice raised in prayer to Him.

Through it all Izzy sat and waited. For the girl.

The girl could still make it right.

–

Marla held Amy in her arms, one arm supporting her back and the other under her legs. It was a comforting position, except that Amy’s body was so stiff. Her legs stuck straight out and would not fold over her mother’s arm. Under Marla’s right breast she could feel her daughter’s heart beating. It was soft, but it was there.

She carried the girl into the den, where Doug had collapsed over his papers. She laid her on the leather sofa, which cracked in an unfriendly way. Marla had chosen that sofa for its masculine qualities, not considering how unpleasant it would be to sit on.

Tim was heavier to carry, but she wanted them all to be together. As she staggered towards the den she tried to think of the last time she’d weighed either of them. It was funny how such things got away from you during the course of regular busy days. She always had so much to do.

He moaned, “Mom …” on the way down the stairs.

“Just a minute more, honey,” she said encouragingly. “Two more steps. Two more steps and then we’re all done—”

“Ma …”

At last she managed to lay him down beside his sister. Then they were all there

(
crackle crackle crackle
if they got out of this that sofa was going to the Salvation Army)

She lit candles and placed them strategically by her beloveds. With each candle she mumbled her choices, her sorrows, her apologies, her repentance.

She doubted she would make it out of this mess. But they might.

When the candles were all lit, Marla sat amid them and began her plea. To other gods. Other God. It began, “I am the spider. I am the rat. I have been in bad holes …”

They were all in dark holes. Izzy knew Joanna had probably lost her show. She’d seen her dipping into her pocket again and again, sniffing at whatever potion she had stashed there.
Too late
. She knew that Esme ached in her loins, a horrible, hollow ache that would never now be filled. Boys were her weakness and she had never controlled it. Bridget was greedy. Sharie, the youngest, the dancer, was simply stupid.

Their bad choices had undermined them. The elders—and she included herself in the indictment—had allowed their children to run wild, to have whatever they wanted without check. Oddly, Izzy realized that only Marla had consistently maintained her priorities. It came as a revelation to her. Her daughter had been all she had hoped she would be. A good mother, a good daughter …

And then it occurred to her that Marla wasn’t there. Her head shot up. She had not come. Her daughter had forsaken Him. Had she?

Marla—the least of her ambitions. It shook her. And a wave of regret swept over her, almost visceral. Her daughter. Her daughter.

Not her choice.
David
, she’d said, without hesitation.

(oh no)

It was all so far gone. Over, really. Wasn’t it? Yet in her heart she hoped for something else. Still

(and still for David she could not shake David so long dead)

The heat was unbearable. But the girl was coming now; she could feel her somewhere close.

It was marvellous. They could all be saved.

Izzy put a finger in her mouth. Her teeth were becoming loose. She’d always been vain about her teeth.

She bowed her head.
“Laus aliis qui audiunt meam causam …”

Still.