The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) (8 page)

“My wand's going bonkers,” I whispered.

“You don't have to talk so low, Mags,” she informed me. “Spirits can hear thoughts. They can hear you, even when you whisper.”

I nodded, having been taught all this before, but the atmosphere called either for whispering or camp fire tales.

After several moments, Ruth Anne's ghost hunting equipment came alive. One particular device vibrated and buzzed, flickering colored light around the room like a poor man's Christmas display.

I chewed on my lip, watching her. The hairs on my arms stood on end and my stomach knotted with unfounded fear. I fought every instinct I had that wanted to run out into the sun, where the shadows couldn't find me. No matter how many spirits or even demons I'd come across, each new encounter left me feeling raw and vulnerable. It was the unknown that scared me, even when the unknown became somewhat familiar.

“If you're looking for proof of spirit phenomenon,” I said. “This is your place.”

Ruth Anne set her flashlight on the bare wood floor as she attended to her tangle of cords. Next, she removed more stuff from her never-ending sack––a box camera and its accompanying tripod. She grinned at me as she presented her treasures, then proceeded to set them up in the center of the grand room.

The wide open space was devoid of furniture, its walls covered in moss and bugs and graffiti.
For a Good Time Call Nancy. John Abbot was here, 1953.

And most alarmingly:

Here Dwells The Ghost Of Jackson Burns,

Who Passed While Waiting For His Unfaithful Wife To Return.

Were He To Find Her Still Alive,

He Would Have Stripped Her Of Her Hide.

“Was she really unfaithful?” I asked.

“Dunno. Haven't heard that before. Whoever wrote that might have taken some artistic liberties.”

I nodded, wondering what really happened to Jackson and his wife. The more I thought about them, the colder I got, until my hands were so chilled I had to put them under my shirt for warmth. “Ruth Anne?”

“Yeah?”

I turned, looking for the altar where he kept the eternal flame. “If his wife was unfaithful, his spirit might be restless. Or he might have gone dark. We could be dealing with a malevolent entity.”

“So what? You're a witch. You've dealt with upset ghosts before.”

Was there some supernatural version of
Rock, Paper, Scissors
I didn't know about? Witches beats ghosts, ghosts beat people, people beat witches.

“I'm just after documentation,” she continued. “They can haunt this place forever, for all I care.”

“Don't you want to know what happened to them?”

She shrugged. “Maggie, I can barely understand my own life, let alone a spirit's.”

Ruth Anne returned to her gizmos as I explored the rest of the room. The walls were made of smooth stone blocks, almost surely imported. Jackson Burns must have been very rich.

To the left was the kitchen. The windows were boarded up and I could hardly see the cupboards, now covered in webs. The counters were littered with dust-covered cigarette packs, beer bottles, and condom wrappers. A dilapidated iron stove was the lone watchman of the room, the last remnant of his time.

On the opposite side of the living room was a small bathroom, a bedroom, and an alcove that had probably served as a sitting room.

But no altar.

Back in the main room, I discovered a staircase in the far corner, the bottom step illuminated by gray sunlight spilling in.

“Ruth Anne,” I called, but she was too busy fiddling with a headset and speaking into a microphone to hear me. “Check, test, check...”

The wand vibrated in my hand, echoing my nerves. Whatever haunted this house was upstairs.

I didn't want to go up the stairs... but I felt compelled to. I took one step, then another, my feet soldiering forward until I was engulfed by a choking darkness.

Didn't staircases ever lead to anything good?

Halfway up, I felt something rush past me––a frigid blast of air that pressed me into the banister.

But it was more than air. It was attached to something nearly corporeal. My fear deepened.

I gripped the railing to keep my balance, my heart pounding so loudly it was all I could hear. I remembered my encounter with Juliana on the staircase at Dip Stix, and the way she'd led me to the marriage certificate beneath Shane’s bed. Was this spirit trying to show me something, too?

I climbed up to the landing, feeling weak and dizzy, reminding myself that Ruth Anne would come looking for me if I disappeared for too long.

At the top, the coldness expanded. No sweater would save me from this chill. It was an iciness that penetrated my spine. White mist rolled from my lips as I stared down a pitch black hallway. It was too dark for even shadows here. I raised my wand but its light was no more than a firefly's glow in this cavernous corridor.

“Magggggieeee....”

The sound was real and for my ears alone. It was no coincidence I was here.

Was it another demon? Juliana? My father?

A light appeared at the end of the hallway beneath a door, like an inviting porch light on a cold winter's night.

That was the room with the altar.

I moved towards it, my hands sliding along slimy walls as my feet kicked through piles of trash on the floor. What waited for me in that room? I pondered the possibilities, none of them good.

Just before the door, I nearly turned back. But one thought kept me here: What if it was Shane who called to me?

I pushed open the door, stumbling into the unknown. My wand brightened, vibrating so violently I needed both hands to steady it. I thought once more of calling for my sister, but whatever was here, it didn't want her.

It wanted me.

The door swung shut behind me as I stepped inside. The room was bare, empty as a tomb. Strong emotions briefly overcame me in quick succession––sadness, grief, despair. I realized these feelings weren't mine. They were Jackson's. He had mourned himself to death.

“I’m, here. You can show yourself to me.”

I was answered with silence.

“If there's a spirit in this room, let your presence be known,” I demanded, turning in place so that I could see all four walls.

A circle of stones appeared near the back of the room, popping into my vision one-by-one. Within it, a concrete slab emerged. A small flame somehow rose up from its center, growing brighter by the moment.

The altar.

I imagined that once this concrete slab had been adorned with a hand mirror, perfume bottles, rose petals, candles, and photos – a tribute to a woman’s life.

Out of the dark an old man also appeared, kneeling just outside the stone circle, his face buried in his hands. I was overcome by his indescribable sadness, feeling it as if it were my own. I dropped to my knees.

Here wept the ghost of Jackson Burns.

I crawled forward. The closer I got, the stronger I felt Jackson’s distress.

And his guilt.

Why guilt?
Because she had died and he had lived?

It’s not real, I noted as I studied him. This was a memory kept by the stones, not a true spirit. It was residual energy, created from the countless nights that Jackson tended the flame.

I hedged around the apparition and reached for one of the altar stones. As my fingers touched the surface, I felt a sense of timelessness, before being forcefully thrown backwards several feet, dropping my wand.

An ivory mist rose up from the floor, solidifying into a towering form that dominated the room. Jackson stood before me in spirit form, appearing as he did in his dying years. His bushy eyebrows were knit into a stern look of disapproval. There was no kindness in his eyes.

I slid backwards and retrieved my wand, holding it out before me like a protective weapon. Jackson paid no notice, stepping through me as he approached his circle, his long coat flapping behind him. He snapped his opaque fingers and the flame upon the concrete slab rose even higher. The corners of his mouth slid up, and the severe arch of his brows softened. As he stared at the flame, his anger slowly diminished.

“Jackson?” I whispered.

He cocked an ear as if he heard me. After an extended silence, he ran his hands through his sparse white hair. His hair took color at his touch, turning a dark, youthful blond. His dull eyes sparkled and the lines in his face relaxed until they disappeared. He looked no older than thirty now.

He rubbed his hands over the flame, as if to keep warm, and removed a cigar from his coat pocket. He lit it on the altar fire and puffed, sending large rings of smoke wafting upwards.

I took a step back, my foot hitting a beer can and sending it skittering across the floor. Jackson paused and inspected the darkness of the room. I was certain he sensed my presence, even if he lacked the ability to see me. Still clutching the cigar, he lifted his chin and opened his mouth, releasing a wail of such desperation it rattled the walls.

“Sarahhhhhh….”

“Sarah?” I asked. “Is that your wife, Jackson?”

He blinked and turned in my direction, his features oscillating between his younger and older selves, but still, he didn't see me. From his perspective, I was the ghost, haunting him.

“Do you need help finding your wife?”

He squinted and craned his neck forward. “Sarah? Is it you? Have you finally come back for me?”

“I’m not Sarah,” I said, holding the glowing wand to my face. “My name is Maggie.”

“Sarah! I knew you'd return!”

“No, No! I'm Maggie.” I stepped closer so that he could see me.

But his eyes passed right through me.

“Sarah! I've waited so long, but you are here now!” He clasped his hands before me in a pleading motion. “Let your spirit haunt me, sweet Sarah. I have forgiven you, please stay with me. Don't leave me in this world alone.”

I shared his anguish.

“I'm sorry,” I said. I gripped my wand tighter, focusing my energy into it. The gem brightened and his eyes found it. I lifted the wand, waving it near my face and his gaze followed. He dimmed his own light to see mine.

“My name is Maggie,” I repeated. He smiled and I smiled back, two souls acknowledging each other through different planes. “Sarah’s gone,” I said gently. “You need to let her go so that you can move on, too.”

He blinked with incomprehension. I tried again. “Sarah died a long time ago, Jackson. You shouldn’t stay here. There are better things ahead for you.”

He reached out, covering the end of my wand with his palm. The light snuffed out. Opening his other palm, he revealed to me another vision:

A beautiful young woman in a long gown emerges from a staircase, in a house much like this one. She is vivacious and full of life. Her smile is framed by gold ringlets and dimples. She laughs before she speaks.

“Jackson, aren't you happy? Are you not excited to be a father?”

Another image appears beside hers, a young Jackson with a full head of hair and sideburns that creep towards his chin. He is angry. “You!” He points at the woman. “You, who swore you'd be faithful forever. What a cruel liar you are, Sarah!”

“Jackson, the baby is yours!”

“You're a whore and that baby is a bastard!” He snarls and takes a puff from his cigar, blowing the smoke into her face.

“Whoever told you that speaks untruths. I've only been faithful.”

“Liar!” He raises the back of his hand, as if to hit her. Instead, he points to a door. “Leave!”

“This is my family home! You cannot order me out.”

“I'll see that you're gone in short order. The court doesn't take kindly to fallen women.” He raises his chin and stares into her eyes. “I curse you, Sarah! That baby will not be born, and you will never set foot in this house again. I'm leaving now, but I'll be back tomorrow. I expect your bags to be packed.”

Sarah races up the stairs, her head tucked into her hands.