was imprison him in strong wards. Once upon a time a local witch was employed to do that very thing when prayers from the nearby church were ineffective. I doubted there was anyone around who would even consider paying me for what I was about to do, but it needed doing all the same.
I had deliberately held onto a portion of the ingredients I’d used to remove Haschall from Maple Hill. Dirt from his grave and from the family members he’d killed, as well as dirt from the forest floor where Jody died, mixed with whiskey, smoke, coffin nails, this and that, and my blood, all to draw him into a bottle trap for safekeeping. Daniel had been the one to make a hasty trip to this site one night and bury the bottle at the foot of the tree where Jody died. I had been too exhausted, too distracted, and frankly too big a coward. It wasn’t Haschall I was afraid of, though, it was coming home. That quick trip to retrieve the graveyard dirt resulted in seeing Ray again for the first time in years.
Once again I had to push intrusive thoughts away. I stepped further into the dark, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The woods smelled coppery, like blood after a fresh hunting kill. Clicking on my flashlight, I surveyed the ground, my auric vision overlaid on top of my regular vision in an impressionist miasma of red. At the base of the tree directly above where Daniel had buried the bottle lay a dead rabbit, its blood staining the ground. What was left, anyway. Most looked to have seeped into the soil, almost as if pulled down. Drank, even. I suppressed a shudder and stepped closer, kneeling.
Candles, graveyard dirt, roots and herbs. Everything I needed was in my bag. I set it all up quickly. Halfway through I detected a whiff of smoke, the tang of cheap booze, and best of all the whine of dirty blues. Stack. His presence brought a smile to my lips, bolstering my confidence. With him at my command, I could do this. I could do the hell out of this.
I stood and walked to Daniel. “Hey, Bubba.”
“I don’t like how it feels here. Makes my fangs itch and that’s never good.”
“Haschall likes blood, remember? It’s his will working through.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I remember.” He took one last look around then kissed my cheek, his lips cold. “I’ll be right outside the tree line.”
I watched him go, moonlight glinting off his blond hair and the oiled stock of the shotgun. The blues swelled and dipped, Stack’s way of saying howdy.
“Good evening, Stack.”
He shimmered into view, a mix of grayscale and sepia tones. “Hoodoo woman. We gonna make us a storm?”
I turned my face to the sky as the wind kicked up. “Call the lightning, call the thunder. We got work to do.”
For the better part of an hour I raised energy, starting by lighting the dozen candles I’d set out with a single push of will. Chanting never worked for me. After I began working with Stack I realized the obvious and started using music, singing and humming whatever felt right. Usually that meant the blues. RL Burnside served as my guide tonight. I blended bits and pieces of different songs, not worrying about the meaning of the lyrics, just taking hold of the rhythm and dancing it around the perimeter of the wards. Lost in a trance-like state, it took a while for it to sink in that the rite was working.
The first thing to respond was the wind. Already kicking up at that first blush of extra energy brought by Stack’s arrival, the night air turned into a near living thing. It moved through my hair like a lover’s hands, stealing inside my jacket to caress my skin. I poured extra energy into keeping the candles upright and burning.
The first crack of thunder in the distance sent a thrill through my blood. The night grew darker, the woods seething with malevolence. Haschall didn’t like me, didn’t like what I was doing. He didn’t get a vote. I carried on, waiting for the flash of lightning through the trees.
Stack’s voice echoed through
I had deliberately held onto a portion of the ingredients I’d used to remove Haschall from Maple Hill. Dirt from his grave and from the family members he’d killed, as well as dirt from the forest floor where Jody died, mixed with whiskey, smoke, coffin nails, this and that, and my blood, all to draw him into a bottle trap for safekeeping. Daniel had been the one to make a hasty trip to this site one night and bury the bottle at the foot of the tree where Jody died. I had been too exhausted, too distracted, and frankly too big a coward. It wasn’t Haschall I was afraid of, though, it was coming home. That quick trip to retrieve the graveyard dirt resulted in seeing Ray again for the first time in years.
Once again I had to push intrusive thoughts away. I stepped further into the dark, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The woods smelled coppery, like blood after a fresh hunting kill. Clicking on my flashlight, I surveyed the ground, my auric vision overlaid on top of my regular vision in an impressionist miasma of red. At the base of the tree directly above where Daniel had buried the bottle lay a dead rabbit, its blood staining the ground. What was left, anyway. Most looked to have seeped into the soil, almost as if pulled down. Drank, even. I suppressed a shudder and stepped closer, kneeling.
Candles, graveyard dirt, roots and herbs. Everything I needed was in my bag. I set it all up quickly. Halfway through I detected a whiff of smoke, the tang of cheap booze, and best of all the whine of dirty blues. Stack. His presence brought a smile to my lips, bolstering my confidence. With him at my command, I could do this. I could do the hell out of this.
I stood and walked to Daniel. “Hey, Bubba.”
“I don’t like how it feels here. Makes my fangs itch and that’s never good.”
“Haschall likes blood, remember? It’s his will working through.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I remember.” He took one last look around then kissed my cheek, his lips cold. “I’ll be right outside the tree line.”
I watched him go, moonlight glinting off his blond hair and the oiled stock of the shotgun. The blues swelled and dipped, Stack’s way of saying howdy.
“Good evening, Stack.”
He shimmered into view, a mix of grayscale and sepia tones. “Hoodoo woman. We gonna make us a storm?”
I turned my face to the sky as the wind kicked up. “Call the lightning, call the thunder. We got work to do.”
For the better part of an hour I raised energy, starting by lighting the dozen candles I’d set out with a single push of will. Chanting never worked for me. After I began working with Stack I realized the obvious and started using music, singing and humming whatever felt right. Usually that meant the blues. RL Burnside served as my guide tonight. I blended bits and pieces of different songs, not worrying about the meaning of the lyrics, just taking hold of the rhythm and dancing it around the perimeter of the wards. Lost in a trance-like state, it took a while for it to sink in that the rite was working.
The first thing to respond was the wind. Already kicking up at that first blush of extra energy brought by Stack’s arrival, the night air turned into a near living thing. It moved through my hair like a lover’s hands, stealing inside my jacket to caress my skin. I poured extra energy into keeping the candles upright and burning.
The first crack of thunder in the distance sent a thrill through my blood. The night grew darker, the woods seething with malevolence. Haschall didn’t like me, didn’t like what I was doing. He didn’t get a vote. I carried on, waiting for the flash of lightning through the trees.
Stack’s voice echoed through
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