M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

The Jeep screeched to a halt as Felicity less than gently applied the brakes, adding her own high-pitched yelp of surprise to the sudden noise. Austin’s retort was abruptly transformed into a deep huff as he pitched forward heavily against his seatbelt. My hands went automatically to the dash as I did the same. With my palms still planted firmly before me, I lifted my head and simply cast a mute stare through the windshield.

Overspray fogged the outline of the graffiti that graced the normally solid white overhead door. Haste had been an obvious factor to the perpetrator of the artwork as evidenced by the watery trails of the runs that had trickled from the paint. Still, a familiar and somewhat steady hand had been applied to the task. The symbols were large, even, and painstakingly clear.

Rev. 21:8

I blinked hard and glanced at the clock on the dash. It read 10:23 p.m. I looked back at the garage door, in some way hoping that I had been momentarily affected by a small mass hallucination.

It still read Rev. 21:8

“Call nine-one-one,” I mouthed as I began to fumble with the catch on my seatbelt, my voice the barest trace of a whisper.

“What?” Felicity croaked.

“Call nine-one-one,” I repeated, forcing the prickly lump of fear in my throat to stand aside and allow the words to pass. “And get out of here.”

The catch popped, and I nervously wrestled my way out of the harness. The rhizome of fear in my throat had spread its invasive roots outward, making my hands tremble and my dinner become a cinder block resting uncomfortably in the deep well of my intestines. I shouldered the door open and shakily poured myself out onto the drive.

“You aren’t staying here by yourself!” Felicity admonished in a frightened tone. “What if he’s still here?”

“That’s exactly why I want you out of here,” I shot back.

“Aye, Rowan,” Austin voiced as he untangled himself from his own safety harness and began tilting the passenger seat forward to create a path of egress. “She’s right. You can’t be stayin’ here by yourself with a madman runnin’ about. I’m comin’ with you then!”

“No, Austin,” I quickly objected. “I want you to stay with Felicity.”

“But Rowan man, you can’t…”

“I’m serious,” I asserted as I cut him off. “If he’s still here I’ll deal with it. I need to know that Felicity is safe, and I want you with her in case something happens!”

“I’m not leaving you here!” my wife objected.

“Don’t argue, Felicity!” I ordered as I was pushing the door shut. “Just call nine-one-one and get away from here NOW!”

My voice was hard and demanding. Fear of what I might be about to face sharpened it. Fear of any harm coming to my wife honed it beyond to a razor’s edge. I had never used such a tone with Felicity before. I caught the look that creased her face just before her own fear obscured it from view. I knew then that she understood why I was asking her to do this. She didn’t want to leave, but she knew that she had no choice.

Gears meshed violently as she jammed the vehicle into reverse and stepped on the gas. The Jeep’s engine roared up from idle and propelled them backwards around the corner and out along the driveway. I listened as the rout faded then began anew with a squeal of tires against damp asphalt.

I stood alone in the darkness, steeled momentarily by the knowledge that Felicity was safely away. My heart was rattling in my chest as it turned somersaults, using my diaphragm as a trampoline and my lungs as tumbling mats. Irregular breaths pulsed hard out of my mouth, condensing in moist clouds before my face. I struggled to avoid hyperventilating.

My legs were stiff and heavy with near terror as I slowly turned to face the back of my house. Darkness still shrouded me, and I looked up above the door leading into our sun porch. The floodlights on the outdoor sentry appeared to still be intact but remained obstinately unlit. The motion sensor should have snapped them to life the minute we had rounded the corner, but it hadn’t.

I searched my memories from earlier in the evening, but my thoughts were cloudy, and anything but the here and now was obscured by a thick fog of fear. I suddenly couldn’t remember if it had been Felicity or I that had locked the back door and set the alarm. I didn’t know if the outdoor light had been inadvertently shut off or purposely disabled in some less than obvious fashion. I knew only that I was standing in the dark, paralyzed. Frozen in place by horrifying thoughts I couldn’t escape.

I fought to seek a ground, feeling like a coward as my hands continued to vibrate in time with my anxiety. Taking in a deep lungful of the gelid night air, I held it for a pair of heartbeats then allowed its escape in a measured stream. I found no calm waiting for me as I had hoped. I had only my resolve.

Pressing myself to move, I covered the short distance to the deck in a fraction of a minute that presented itself to my addled senses as at least a full hour. Carefully, I climbed the shallow flight of stairs and made my way toward the sun porch. I glanced quickly around to see if anyone was hiding in the shadows, only to discover that the night itself was one enormous shadow, and I was standing in the middle of it. As I turned and took a cautious step, I unknowingly brushed against an arm of a pinwheel squirrel feeder. With the delicate balance of the partially eaten ears of feed corn suddenly disturbed, the assembly rotated with a timid squeak and dull thump as the heavier cob swung downward. As the feed laden arms assumed their new positions, the lowest of the four slapped against the back of my shoulder with a thud. I leapt forward with a yelp and spun, nearly stumbling over my own feet as I tensed. The corncob continued to swing gently as it settled in toward stillness.

My unseen attacker now identified, I breathed a short sigh of relief then turned and took the last few steps to the porch door.

My bladder felt weak, and the caustic acid of panic was brewing in my stomach. My hand was trembling uncontrollably as I reached for the handle and wrapped my fingers around the chilled metal. Summoning whatever courage I could find hiding behind the towering levies of abject terror, I twisted my wrist.

Locked.

The panic subsided slightly at the discovery, and I let my sweat covered palm fall away. Apparently the lock had not been tampered with, and the rear of the house was still secure. Now, since I didn’t carry a key to the back door, my only course of action would be to enter the house from the front.

I turned to head in that direction and was immediately blinded by a stringent beam of light that I would later discover had emanated from the business end of a ridiculously powerful Mag-Lite.

A voice barked angrily in the darkness, “POLICE! DON’T MOVE AND KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

Flicking tufts of fur could be seen hanging just below the exposed rafters of our living room ceiling. Dickens, Emily, and Salinger each had taken a position on the wooden beams to watch the proceedings below as police officers and crime scene technicians went in and out of the house. Every now and then, one of the felines would dip a whiskered face down alongside its perch and inspect the goings on in the dining room. It was obvious that they weren’t at all pleased with the intrusion into their territory.

The dogs had been far worse in that regard until they had been temporarily banished to the bedroom. At least they had finally given up on the incessant barking.

“Go ahead, Ben,” I told my friend. “Yell or something.”

“What for?” he asked in a dull monotone.

“Because that’s what you do,” I answered. “It’s how you deal with people who screw up. I screwed up.”