The Sisters: A Mystery of Good and Evil, Horror and Suspense (Book One of the Dark Forces Series) (17 page)

June, 1954

John, Jr. played on the beach while his mother and older sister paddled around in the gentle surf. The father, John Fitzpatrick, Sr., sat in a canvas chair under a vast beach umbrella near his son reading a non-fiction book on economics. He was having trouble concentrating on the book’s content, however; normally, it would have enthralled him, since his job with Westinghouse in New York City called upon his financial skills quite often and he had to be up to date.

No, he had been thinking mostly about his dark dreams of late. In them, a shadow appeared and carried him to different worlds in which he often had to fight for his life and those of his family. He cared a great deal for his family, and he knew the shadow was aware of this: indeed, it was why the nightly tortures were underway.

They had begun when Fitzgerald had come to the Victorian mansion he had inherited on the beach at the beginning of this past week. He had gone to bed that first night with his wife Gloria beside him, after putting the children to bed, and he had fallen almost immediately into a deep slumber in which he—

—awoke in a room filled with hyacinths and the rare corpse flower Rafflesia arnoldii: a breed found mainly in low lying tropical rainforests of Indonesia. He knew this because rare flowers were his hobby and his secret passion. He approached this particular bloom with great interest now. It drew its name from the fact that it exists as a parasite to a host plant and emits a strongly pungent dead-body smell. The flower itself, raspberry in color with a large hole in the center, was about a meter wide. How beautiful it was, he thought. Too bad it only lived for about a week! The flower seemed to call for him now. It was all Fitzgerald could do to keep himself from going over to it and falling across the top of the deadly blossom, immersing himself in its strong aroma.

The shadow had appeared behind the flower, holding his son, John, Jr., in his arms. Fitzgerald knew what the shadow was going to do. He read it in the beast’s ghastly smile. It would offer the boy to the flower as a human sacrifice! Fitzgerald couldn’t allow that! He dove across the blossom to get at the demonic creature and save his son.

The petals opened wider to accept Fitzgerald’s suddenly falling body. He tried to find purchase by grabbing hold of the sticky stamens, which stood straight up beside him, like a terrible divining rod. Above him, he heard the beast chuckle.

Falling, falling. Fitzgerald noted the colors of the flower changed from raspberry to shades of deeper gray and finally a matte black the farther down he fell. There seemed to be no bottom coming up to meet him and he felt the familiar sensation of weightlessness take hold of him as he—

—awoke with all his limbs jerking out. He smacked his wife, Gloria, who lay beside him, across the chest.

“Oof” she cried, awakening suddenly. “John, what—“

“Never mind, love,” John said with a huff. “Just go back to sleep. Sorry. Only a terrible dream. Go back to sleep.” And he patted her distractedly on the rump as she settled down and turned over.

Gods, he thought. How realistic these damned dreams were getting! Next thing he knew, he’d be sleepwalking. Can’t have that, he thought. He looked at the bedside clock and it read three a.m. He was wide awake now. Might as well go down for a cup of tea to settle his nerves. He swung his feet out of bed and pulled his slippers on and went in search of his robe.

On the staircase, he looked down toward the broad, oaken front door. Moonlight flooded through on this clear October night. The big Harvest moon was setting over the Atlantic Ocean and its rays were flooding in through the mullioned glass inset in the door frame. As Fitzgerald descended, however, the beams were suddenly blocked. A hooded figure now stood there with a long staff in its hand. Its silence was complete and ominous. Fitzgerald could feel his own heartbeat in the carotid artery in his neck, pulsing, pulsing, wanting to jump clear out of his body. His hand moved slowly back up the smooth banister, his feet stumbling back the way they had come.

No, came the voice in his head. Come to me. His feet reversed direction, ignoring the triphammer of his heart. They slowly trod the carpeted steps, one by one, until he stood in front of the hooded man. The figure stood at least seven feet tall, and its face was hidden deep within the folds of black fabric that made up its heavy hood. Fitzgerald could, however. make out the two burning red eyes that seemed to pin him where he stood, helpless before the creature.

“Wh-What do you want me to do?” Fitzgerald squeaked.

The apparition balled up a mighty fist and hit Fitzgerald in the stomach, a blow that sent him rolling down the wide hallway. He finally came to rest, gagging and retching against an etegere near the butler’s pantry at the rear staircase. He shakily stood up. “I-I’ll fight you. I swear to God I will. You leave my family alone, you evil—“ But he never got the next word out, for the beast waved a hand and Fitzgerald found himself transported to mid-town London, to a corner pub he knew quite well from his travels overseas for his company: The Jerusalem Tavern on Britton Street. He was just ordering the Tavern’s trademark large roast pork sandwich on sourdough with potato wedges when a man sat down opposite him.

“John, I have a proposition for ye.”

Fitzgerald, still stunned by finding himself in London, ordering a lunch at his favorite pub when he should have been in America in a New Jersey shorefront mansion, blurted out a garbled objection, and started to rise from the booth table.

“Now just hear me out, sonny boy, and I think you’ll agree it was worth your while,” said the man in the black frock coat. Fitzgerald, also in a black coat and cravat, sat back down. He wondered how he had been transported this time, when he thought he had been awake and on his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. And who was this old fart, anyway?

“You’ve got five minutes, old man,” Fitzgerald said gruffly, leaning forward on his elbows. Around him the chatter of the evening crowd grew to a steady buzz and the clatter of crockery being washed and toasted rang in his ears.

“I’ll take less than one. I want to buy yer house on the shore in New Jersey,” said the old man.

“You brought me all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in the dead of night to ask me that?” Fitzgerald said, settling back on his bench seat. “Hell, we could have settled this in the hallway with your Grim Reaper. The answer is no.” Fitzgerald crossed his arms and smiled, content with himself and how he was handling this outrageous dream.

The elderly man shook his head. “I was afraid you’d say that. You probably think this is a dream, don’t you? Well, enjoy your roast pork, boyo; I’m going back and start probate proceedings on your estate next week.” And he got up and shambled off and went through the pub’s door, leaving Fitzgerald staring after him.

The innkeeper, a man named MacTavish whom Fitzgerald knew quite well, showed up at his booth and said, “Why are you dressed like that, John? Going to a Halloween party? Bring the Missus with you on this trip?”

In a daze, Fitzgerald just looked at MacTavish, who set his supper before him, along with a pint of Guinness Stout. “No, just wanted a little change of wardrobe.” The innkeeper, who was accustomed to odd behavior by his patrons, moved on, and Fitzgerald took a healthy bite of his pork. It was surprisingly good. He ate the whole large portion, along with the fries, and washed it down with the Guinness. He half expected to choke to death on the meal, considering the old man’s thinly veiled warnings of probate proceedings on his property, but he knew that a person could not really die in a dream—could he? In spite of the reassuring thought, a chill ran up his spine. He paid his bill and left the pub, stepping through the door—

—and finding himself on the very topmost ledge of a mountaintop, with clouds far below him, and a bitter cold wind knifing through his body, even though he now wore hiking attire, including a North Face parka and hood. Nevertheless, he could feel the frostbite that was claiming his nose and the tips of his fingers. He looked around in a three hundred and sixty degree circle. All he could see were other mountain tops, and other mountain ranges in the blue distance. The air was startlingly clear and blue-black overhead. He looked straight up and could even see a few stars and the outline of a hunter’s moon. He struggled to get air into his lungs. It would not be long, he knew, before he would succumb to exposure and hypothermia, and, finally, death on this lonely peak. He knew, dully, that this was no dream. The old man was just toying with him, playing with him. He knew that, in spite of all logic, that his heart really would stop in a moment and his body would drop to the icy surface, and that the old man would win in a long, protracted battle in probate court with his heirs. His will was not ironclad: the old man must have known that. But how was he effecting Fitzgerald’s death, high on a mountaintop? He smiled despite his predicament. Ironic, really. He had once thought himself to be nigh on invincible, as all young men do. Yet here he was, drawing his last breath.

God, he thought. It was beautiful up here . . .

“I don’t care if our jackets are at my house,” Sarah said.  “Let them stay there.  We’re safe here.”

They were eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in Nathan’s kitchen.  Nathan had pointed out that their coats, and all of Sarah’s clothing, were still at Sarah’s house—the scene of Aunt Moira’s unspeakable bloodlettings and the unquestionable center of much of the terrible activity surrounding them the past few days.

Nathan paused in mid-bite.  “But are we really safe anywhere? I doubt it.” He furrowed his brow. “I wonder—who is this Tipton? I remember seeing stories about him in the local society sections of the paperfrom a couple of decades ago.  He goes a long way back around here.”

“I don’t know.  I just know he gives me the creeps.  Anybody who can show up in your dreams before you meet him has a special quality I’m not inclined to admire, Nathan.”

“Well, yes, there is that.  And the fact that he apparently owns more than one house here along the shore.  I wonder how many he owns?  Could he just be trying to frighten us into selling ours to him?”

Sarah shook her head. “He can have mine right now, as far as I’m concerned. Which I’m sure would be just fine with him.” She held up a hand. “I know, I know.  I don’t really mean that.  But, Jeez, Nathan, what is this old bird up to with his mind tricks.  And are we the only ones?”

“I think we should split up—you go to the deeds office and find out who owns—and has owned—these houses along Beach Avenue since they were built.  I want to have another look at Moira’s room in particular and your house in general.”

“What’s that going to prove? And are you sure it’s a good idea, splitting up like that?  Nathan, I’m afraid.”

He came over to her and kissed her lightly on the forehead.  “I think it will be okay.  Whatever game he’s playing, it’s not a desperate one yet.  I think he’s just content to frighten us and he thinks he’s doing that.  We need more information if we’re going to get a clue as to his motive and what the larger picture is.”

Sarah shook her head.  “I hope you’re right.”

“So do I,” he said. “Tell you what.  If we don’t get something more definitive by the end of tomorrow, we’ll pack up and go home.  I’m not sure it’s worth all this, however intriguing it is. Okay?”

She nodded her head.

“Okay, then.  Let’s stop by your place, pick up our jackets; then you head off to the deeds office and I’ll stay at your house.  That will put you out of harm’s way for a while and I think I can handle whatever Mr. Tipton has in store for me.”

“Again, I hope you’re right, Nathan.  I don’t like leaving you alone.”

He kissed her full on the mouth—a solid, lingering kiss that meant more than words could say.  “I’ll be fine.  Let’s go.”

my dear, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know the meaning of the word

unhappy to be there, but the bodies continued to pile up in the basement as though there was nothing wrong with it, until

Stella decided enough was enough and demanded to be set free from the coven.  You can imagine what Moira thought of that!

yes, darling, and I’ll bet I know what happened next

well not what you’d think.  They let her go.

what? Just like that?

yes, and she crawled up the ladder and went out into the night air and felt like a prisoner set free. She stood all alone on the front porch of the house, gulping in great breaths of the night sea air.

well, my dear, you can’t tell me it ended with her just walking away.

no, I’m afraid the shadow appeared around her feet, as though she were standing over an open pit and she couldn’t move.  And the shadow began to swirl, but never moved higher than her ankles and a grinding noise began, along with her screaming.  But no one ever heard her because an invisible wall had gone up around her and even people walking by couldn’t see the poor dear standing on the porch, disappearing slowly, slowly, feet first, into this whirring, grinding machine.

how awful!

great spouts of blood and bone rose up in the air, as though a giant blender had been turned on, and still she was down only to the waist. She was thrashing her arms now, trying to get away, poor thing, but she couldn’t, you see, and so she just kept on disappearing from view until the very tip of her head was the only thing left in a red and white mix of foam from rim to rim within the shadow’s mouth. Then there was nothing.  The shadow closed up and the porch was left just as it had been, with salty night air filling up the corners and the sound of waves crashing along the sea wall across the street.