| Home |
The Witch the Ghost and the Demon Excerpt 1- from chapter 2 The Ghost The dim lantern light of discretion shadowed the hallway with the veneer of privacy. Behind the numerous closed doors sin was the practice of the lodge, nestled on the outskirts in the darkest stretch of town. Here’s where hoodlums and bums fed off the less cautious of society. Those foolish enough to venture the dangerous streets in want of heart. A place where the practice of indulgence was the norm and a house of less than respectable purpose could make a killing. Imported paper decorated the walls of the corridor. Beautiful wool rugs cushioned the footfalls of many a patron. The oldest profession had a facade of respectability. Music and talk issued up the stairway from the first floor. Below - liquor, dance, and gambling: the pretense of why men ventured the storm outside to pass the evening in company. Shanty‘s Well was a blight to the local religious thumpers, but the winds and rain from the pulpit on Sunday did little to curb the number of cliental visiting the establishment every night. Tonight, though, was different. The weather pounding the dirt roads and flooding the alleys had reaped its toll on many of the regulars: unwilling to brave nature’s reprisals, accomplishing what the church could not. Giggling, a scantily clad woman stepped from behind an unlocked door into the hall.“Get back here Rosy.” “I’ll be right back,” she whispered seductively pulling the knob closed. Shivering the woman looked down the corridor as a draft ruffled the thin veneer trappings hanging from her shoulders, concealing little to nothing. The window at the end of the breezeway flew up with a bang as the wind and rain ripped through the opening, tossing the curtains into a billowing rage. “What the hell?” Rosy crossed her arms to her breast for warmth and moved down the hall to shut the obtrusion. As she neared, the heavy downpour had already soaked the red carpet, puddling at the base of the opening. The woman looked at the mess with disgust. Reaching for the sill she paused when a footprint formed into the saturated material squeezing water out around the compression of the track. She froze as the storm was momentarily blocked and something hit her hand. Rose backed away when the footprint shifted and a shadowy silhouette stood upright inside the hall. Streaks of netted lightning rippled over the ghostly form amid the crackling and popping of the blue glowing flames. A man appeared suddenly, then with a snap was gone; but Rose couldn’t move. She stared where the apparition had appeared, but nothing. She was terrified. Turning to run, a steely grip locked onto her wrist and something covered her mouth and slammed her body face first against the wall. Rose tried to struggle, but was helpless as the invisible force pushed against her. She could feel the hot breath of her attacker next to her ear. The cold dampness of the winter storm from outside clung to the ghoul and transferred the wet to her thin garment, sending goose bumps down her spine. Rosy whimpered. “Where‘s Andrew Walkins?” Whispered a deep voice, haunting in its delivery. Rosy tried to cry out and swung her free hand at the enemy behind her, but the blow did nothing to the force holding her. “Tell me where Andrew Walkins is and I won‘t hurt you.” What felt like a hand over her mouth eased and Rosy resigned herself to her fate. “What are you?” She cried. “Tell me.” Slammed again hard to the wall Rosy almost lost her wind. She was spun suddenly and sinewed fingers latched onto her throat: “Andrew Walkins.” “He’s with Mary,” she cried. “Please don‘t hurt me.” “Where?” “Room 13.” “Show me.” She was pulled from the wall as the steely grip locked onto her wrist and vice like finger grabbed the back of her neck. Rosy tried to see her attacker, but nothing was there. “Are you man or spirit?” She whimpered as the force pushed her roughly down the corridor. The ghost said nothing. At room 13 the force stopped. “Open it and make sure it’s Andrew Walkins.” Rosy shook her head sobbing. She turned the knob slowly then threw the door open. “Andrew Walkins?” She mustered up. The young man sitting back in the bed smiled. “So Rosy, you’ve come to join us?” “Andrew you need…” Rose suddenly fell sideways through the entry, hard to the floor. Andrew sat forward to see what had happened when he was grabbed by the neck and slammed into the big brass bedpost almost ending his life. He was then pulled from the bed and thrown against the wall by some invisible force. Mary screamed, scrambling from the covers and stumbled to Rosy. “What’s happening?” Dazed and disoriented Andrew moaned, “What are you?” “I’m the ghost of Christmas past - here to remind you of your sins.” Andrew’s eyes went wide, but he was powerless against the disembodied force choking his life away. “I didn’t do nothing,” he gagged. “I did notht…” The young man was wrenched from the wall and smash to the floor as a blow to his chest left him gasping for air. The two women started for the door, but it suddenly shut and a powerful force threw both against the opposite wall, in the corner. “If you two want to live, stay right there,” the deep guttural growl of the demon barked. The ladies coward, huddling against each other as they backing against the wall panic ridden. Andrew tried to sit up when he was yanked upright and tossed into a dresser then bent backwards over the end of the brass railing at the foot of the bed. The man looked over at the females in panic and choked out a, “help me.” “There is no help for you,” the deep voice whispered, “just like there was none for her.” “What?” Cried out the helpless man.” “Last December,-- you beat her, then raped her,- and you left her to die.” “It wasn’t me.” “You raped her and stuck a knife in her belly.” “No,-- no,” the boy whimpered. “Tim Drake stuck her, while Bob White held her down.” Andrew cried and the disembodied force shook him. “She came to with you on top of her.” “We were drunk.-- Please,-- I didn‘t kill her.” The sound of engaging metal raked with a ching. “An eye for an eye,” the ghost muttered as the young man was gutted in the blink of an eye. Mary and Rosy screamed. The commotion had brought other patrons outside their accommodations and when the door to room 13 flew open several of the new spectators were bowled over as the disembodied force pushed through the crowd. “What the hell,” the town constable barked, scrambling back to his feet. Feeling his chest, the front of his under garments wet to the touch. He spun, listening to footfalls running down the hall toward the open window. An obscure silhouette, a shadow really, just the hint of a distortion in the shape of a running man cast its form against the backdrop of papered walls and hanging tapestries of the bordello’s dimly lit corridor. “Who goes there?” The law official ordered in the voice of authority, but the ghostly apparition simply disappeared through the open window. The constable ran to the sill and looked out. Lightning streaked across the night sky, adding its brilliance to the torrents of the storm as thunder shook the building. The officer spotted someone running down the muddy road. In the blinking glow of nature’s fury a dark cloaked figure was slipping away. A shadow in the midnight hour, like a phantom the image was there, then melted away, lost in the cascading downpour and flashing light of the heavy rain. The constable, unsure of what his own eyes had just seen shut the window and turned back to the panic behind. Women were screaming hysterically. Most of the patrons had made a speedy exit as he looked around for reliable witnesses. In room 13 the young body of a mere twenty years old lay crumpled on the floor holding his abdomen and gasping for air. “Someone get a doctor,” the officer yelled kneeling to help the dying man. The two woman continued their sobbing as the lawman looked with distain at the frightened ladies. “This man is going to die if we don’t get him help.” He picked up the young man’s head resting it on his lap, then tried to get the women to snap out of it. “Get a hold on it Rosy and get a doctor.” The woman shook her head in the affirmative, but continued to weep clutching her companion. “Who are you son?“ “Andrew Walkins,“ he coughed in a mere whisper. “Please don’t let my father know I died here.” “Just lie still. We’ll get you help.” The officer knew the man was dying, but he didn‘t know what else to say. “Somebody get a doctor,” he cried out again in desperation. “Son, can you tell me who did this?” “The ghost of Christmas past.” “What?” The young man reached up and grabbed the constable’s undershirt as blood stained the white cloth under his crimson death grip. “Please, don‘t tell my father.” The young man muttered then flinched, slipping away as he exhaled his last breath. |
All content of this site is copyrighted
by G. C. O'Dell 2003-2006
|
