AS MAX DROVE OUT to the border with Rockingham County, as the land darkened with dense wooded shadows, he bounced his knee and tapped the wheel. He had spent too much time in this car lately. He tried to remember what life had been like in his youth when he had an apartment in a city. It had only been for a summer internship, but it gave him a taste of a different way of life. The simple fact that in a city stores, restaurants, and music venues were all within a short walk made the days exciting. Even in a smaller city like Winston-Salem, each block had numerous cultural events pressing in against each other. The possibilities for discovery blossomed every sunrise.
But once a person got only a few miles out of the city, everything spread like marbles dumped across a table. Some people called Winston-Salem the twenty minute town because everything was within a twenty minute drive. Max had come to believe it. Sometimes, it seemed as if he spent more time in his car than anywhere else.
He thought about William Crutchfield and the long weeks on a ship. All the people he would have met, the places seen, the experiences had. Technology had changed a lot of the world, made it smaller, faster, easier to access. But that change came with a price. The disruptive effect of technology, the way it destabilized old experiences, had both good and bad outcomes. William Crutchfield was a perfect example. Taking a boat around the horn of South America — a slow, fascinating trip that would enrich one’s life in a way that most could not afford today. But if Crutchfield had access to modern medicine, he would never have died in a pest house. He would never have heard of a pest house. Heck, he would never have been on that boat. A short flight to North Carolina would have done fine and cost a quarter of a cruise.
Max turned onto a dirt road that wormed its way around the dark trees. The road crunched beneath his wheels as he barely touched the gas. Too fast and he would end up hitting a tree instead of curving by them. When he finally parked, the old house stood in his headlights like a ship emerging out of the depths of the sea. The ground sloped downward several feet from the road, and much of the land around the house had been cleared. Still, trees formed walls beyond that.
Dread pulsed off of the house hard enough that Max wondered if the place had been cursed by a witch. No need. The people who came here were cursed already.
He turned toward Drummond. “How many ghosts around this thing?”
Drummond appeared as shaken by the horrible feeling as Max. “Not a single one that I can see.”
“There has to be.”
Drummond squinted and leaned forward. “I’m sure they’re somewhere, but they’re not at the house.”
Max wished that he had listened to Drummond. He could have gone back to the apartment, told Sandra, and waited until morning to visit this place. But then, he recalled meeting Walker at the cemetery — day or night didn’t matter. These places would always haunt him. Plus, he wanted to get this over with.
According to his research, the pest house operated until the middle of World War I. The surrounding land had all been fields, but after a hundred years, trees grew as the land lay unused. Max checked back the way they had come. That sense of dread mutated into foreboding.
“Something wrong?” Drummond asked. “Besides the obvious.”
Max motioned with his head toward the road. “Who’s been maintaining this dirt road for so long?”
Drummond drifted ahead into Max’s flashlight beam. He stared off into the road engulfed by the dark. Turning back, he said, “Somebody has to own this land. Maybe they keep the road clear.”
Max played the flashlight back over the house. “Then why do they leave the place like this?”
“Appreciation of history?”
As they approached the house, the unsettling sensations strengthened. The building had a wide awning so that residents could spend time outside in the shade. Quite appreciated during the blistering summer months. While the house took up a sizable chunk of land, it also looked rather squat — maybe only one-and-a-half floors tall. The roof had a sharp slant. Though difficult to tell in the dark, Max suspected the roof had been made of tin. Probably rusted out by now. Rainstorms would have ruined the interior.
When they reached the front door, Max noticed how warped all the wood had become. Not just the door but the frame, walls, and the awning. One hundred years had not been kind to this house.
He pushed on the front door but it would not budge. Putting his shoulder into it, he managed to shove it back halfway. A harsh sound screeched from the old hinges.
“You’re feeling gutsy,” Drummond said. “Usually, you want me to go in and check out a place before you walk inside.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Well, why don’t you go check out upstairs? I’ll look around down here.”
Max walked throughout the first floor and found it to be a spacious layout — an open plan in the modern vernacular. Back in its day, it probably proved efficient and functional. Especially if they had a lot of residents at any one time. On the far right wall, he saw a stone fireplace, and in the corner, the blackened area where a cast iron wood-burning stove had once been. A wooden bench lined the wall to the right of the fireplace.
A squeak. The bright eyes of rats glinted in his flashlight beam before scurrying into the walls. Crushed beer cans and dried-out condoms littered the corners. Clearly, teenage partiers had found this place at some point. However, it did not look as if anybody had been here recently. At least, not anybody innocent like a teenager.
The walls still gave off a negative feeling as if horrible things had happened in these rooms. Of course, they had — people had suffered and died in the house. But it felt like more than that. It felt like blood on the walls. It felt like evil.
“Max,” Drummond called, and Max fumbled his flashlight. Thankfully, he caught it before it made a loud clatter on the floor. He did not want Drummond knowing how nervous he felt.
Drummond called again and Max followed the voice toward a small room in the back. Shelves lined most of the walls and a few still had rusting cans waiting to be opened. A walk-in pantry. In the far corner, a wooden ladder had been built against the wall heading straight upward to the second floor.
Drummond’s head poked down. “You’ll want to see this. Actually, you don’t want to see it, but you’re going to want to see it.”
Max said, “Was that supposed to make sense?”
“Just get up here.”
Max climbed the ladder slowly, testing each slat-rung before putting his full weight on it. Only one wobbled questionably. He skipped that and the rest held him fine. When he reached the top, he found a second floor that was in actuality, an attic covering the entire house. The steep roof and the lack of a full-sized second floor meant Max had to stoop or bump his head on the rafters.
Two rows had been delineated by hooks nailed into the rafters on either side of a wide section in the middle. Though empty now, Max had no trouble picturing the cots set up in each section, the dying bodies in each cot.
Drummond said, “You could probably fit twenty, maybe thirty people in here.”
“Plus those downstairs.”
“It gets worse. Look here.”
At the head of the room, underneath a circular window, Drummond pointed to a casting circle painted into the floor. Just outside the circle, several candles had been lined up — each a different color, each at a different stage of use. Next to the red candle on the end, two severed bird claws waited to be utilized in a spell.
Drummond said, “How old you think that is? I mean, do you think that was around when the people were quarantined here, or maybe witches were using this place after it was abandoned?”
Max ran his finger along the circle, creating a trench in the dust. “It’s definitely old. The paint is flaked away in places. But I find it hard to believe that this was here when the pest house was being used for its original purpose. Too many different types of people would come through. Somebody would’ve been morally outraged if not religiously terrified by the existence of witchcraft. And witches are very sensitive about getting found out.”
“Being burned at the stake for centuries makes you a little cautious.”
“That’s my point. The witches using this place would have waited until after the house became a lesser-known location.”
“You’re forgetting that Crutchfield had taken an interest in witchcraft. Maybe he drew this.”
Max gazed up at Drummond, but before he could answer, a car door slammed shut outside.
“Stay here,” Drummond said and dropped to the floor.
Max pushed up on his toes in an attempt to peek out the circular window. He could only see over the lip of the window, and from that angle, he saw trees and the full moon casting its pale blue light. Whoever owned the property must have seen a car driving off the main road and came by to investigate. Or perhaps the owner regularly visited the land to break up the parties. Or perhaps —
Drummond erupted through the floor. “I hate to say this, but it’s Mother Hope and Leon.”
Max stumbled back. His stomach dived low while his chest filled with a shaking bag of needles. He couldn’t think straight — which might have explained his next words. “Are you sure?”
“You think there’s another hundred-year-old gypsy driving around with a seventy-year-old former librarian?”
As Max’s thoughts struggled to catch up to events, Mother Hope’s crackling voice called out. “Don’t make me wait. I’m sure your ghost has told you I’m here. Come on out. We have to talk.”
Max tried to move, but his feet had become solid blocks of fright rooting into the floor. Looking at Drummond, Max simply shook his head. The rusty hinges whined downstairs as Leon and Mother Hope entered the house. The sound died in the deep woods. In the dark. In the loneliness.
What had he been thinking? Why didn’t he listen to Drummond back at the Society branch office? He knew the right thing to do — go back to the apartment, tell Sandra everything, make a plan together. Was he trying to be the hero?
“You up there?” Leon asked. “I think he’s up there.” As Mother Hope’s light steps on the wooden ladder were followed by Leon’s heavy thuds, Max stared at the opening in the floor. Soon her head would rise like a shark fin lifting out of the water.
“Don’t worry,” Drummond said. “I’m right here with you. You’ve just got to snap out of it. Wake up and get that brain thinking again. You’ve outwitted this woman many times. You can do it again.”
That was true. Mother Hope always unnerved him, but Max knew better than to let his fear take over. Perhaps the horrible things that had happened in this house left some kind of residual energy that affected his nerves. Perhaps he needed to fight harder at controlling himself. Perhaps —
“Well, well. Mr. Max Porter.” Mother Hope shuffled down the middle of the attic with Leon following behind. “I always knew that we would end up like this. Someday. Always knew.”
“Not really a shocker,” Max said, feeling a lift in his heart at the return of his sarcasm.
“I suppose not. From the start, you never really wanted to help us out. You’ve had a soft spot for some witches. You’ve tried to suggest that some were good.”
“You’re a witch, and you consider yourself good.”
“I use magic but I am no witch. I merely fight fire with fire. No matter. We are here now and I think you know the seriousness of the situation.”
Drummond coasted closer towards Max. “It’s just the two of them. I checked all around. Nobody else is here.”
“How did you find me?” Max asked.
Mother Hope gestured at Leon. “Your linking curse on him works both ways. Links him to you and you to him. Makes it very easy to track you.” Her eyes widened and her whole face brightened. “Look at you. So surprised. Did you really think you could outsmart me? Ha. I’ve known for a long time that you cursed Leon. I could smell your curse on him. That’s how I knew he would feed you any information I wanted him to.”
“At the O. Henry Hotel. You had Leon take us aside on purpose.”
She shrugged. “I gave him a task to do, and I was not surprised that he shared the information with you. Hoped he would. Also, hoped he wouldn’t. If he had kept his assignment quiet, then I would know his loyalty to me was greater than his fear of your curse. Either way, I benefited.” Her mouth turned sharply down and all sense of joy on her face vanished. “I’m tired of you, Mr. Porter.”
“Huh. My wife says the same thing.”
“Your little jokes, your constant meddling, everything you have done since you moved to my state has caused me problems. And now, you’re here — poking around in old history that has nothing to do with you.”
“Since you and Grandma Mobley seemed determined to kill each other, it does have something to do with me. Because we both know that a witch war won’t stay between your two little groups. A lot of innocent people will die.”
“You see how little you know. A witch war won’t hurt anybody but those directly involved. In fact, only the few idiots who get themselves caught up in the middle have anything to fear.”
“She’s referring to you,” Drummond said. Then he twitched his head to the side. “She’s up to something. I can feel a strange heat coming from her direction.”
“Look,” Max said, throwing on what he hoped to be a charming grin. “I know the Magi and I don’t always —”
“No.” The word held in the air like a roll of thunder. “Any chance of negotiations or reasoning is at an end. The witch situation in this town has been a powder keg getting fuller and fuller. You’re nothing but a match running around wildly. I can’t have you doing that anymore.”
“I am sorry to have upset you.”
“I’d say I’m more sad than upset. I thought after I cursed you that you would be more forthcoming in our relationship. And after you cursed Leon, I thought perhaps you might use that leverage to negotiate a better relationship with me. Instead, you’ve done nothing but work behind my back in an effort to undermine all that I stand for. How disappointing.”
“You thought I should come to you with Crutchfield and this pest house? Why would I do that?”
“Because the Mobley coven is a bunch of witches. It’s what the Magi fight against. It’s what you were supposed to be doing.”
Max turned his head to the side trying to pick up on whatever Drummond sensed. “Then I guess I’m the one that’s sad. All these years and you don’t seem to know the first thing about me.”
Drummond said, “I’m telling you, she’s up to something.”
Mother Hope stood like a gunfighter ready to reach for her weapon. “I’m giving you only one opportunity — tell me where to find Crutchfield.”
“I got here a few minutes before you,” Max said. “He’s not in the house. Maybe he moved on.”
“Wrong.” She flicked her wrist and whispered words Max could not hear. But he felt them. He felt the words heat the curse on his chest.
His lungs tightened and he gasped for air. He doubled over. His knees weakened, and as he collapsed to the floor, he saw Leon also dropping.
“You never took me seriously,” Mother Hope said. “You always thought you would beat this curse. But of all people, you should have known better. You don’t break a witch’s curse easily.”
“Don’t worry, partner,” Drummond said. “I’m going to take care of this.” He hurtled towards Mother Hope.
She pulled a small pouch from her belt and threw it on the ground. “Goodbye, ghost.”
When the bag hit the ground, a yellowish smoke puffed out of it. Drummond yelled as if he had stepped into the middle of a campfire. An instant later, he dissolved into the air.
Max tried to keep his eyes open. Tried to focus on Mother Hope, Leon, the room, anything. But his brain would not have it. His mind wandered. He thought of Sandra, PB, and J. He saw them crying, mourning their loss. And his mother — she would never be able to understand how he could be both alive and dead. But that was what awaited him. The curse would turn him into a ghost yet not a ghost. Caught between worlds. For as long as Mother Hope wanted.
All went dark.