Southern Rites Page 10

  Sandra’s face darkened. “And that’s the kind of energy she’ll have passed along.”

  “Yes, yes. You see. That’s good. You’re smart. Evil begets evil with this spell. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

  Max’s stomach soured. “Our enemy has two of these bones.”

  “Ah,” Madame Yan said. “Then you must destroy the third before your enemy gets hold of it.”

  “There’s a third?”

  Drummond sighed. “There is always a third.”

  Madame Yan got to her feet and crossed over to her bottle of vodka. After pouring a tumbler, she said, “The number three contains great power. Many things in the universe revolve around the concept of three. For the Call to Power, the witch’s energy is imbued into three of the same object — in your case, human bones — and only with all three bones can a person tap into the magic stored within.”

  “Our enemy is a man. Will it work for him, or must it be a woman from a witch line?”

  Madame Yan winked at Sandra. “He doesn’t listen too well, does he?” To Max, she said, “Magic is magic. Witches may have developed this spell to secure their power, but anybody who has the three bones and knows what they are doing can gain the power.”

  More to himself than to anybody else in the room, Max muttered, “Then we’ve got to find Edward Wallace quick.”

  Madame Yan slammed down her vodka. “Wallace?”

  “You know the name?”

  “Oh, yes, I most certainly do.” She shuffled back to her chair like a Romero zombie, clumsily knocking over a stack of books in the process. “Abagail Wallace is a name that all Southern witches learn about.”

  “Abagail,” Max whispered — the name that Leon Moore had mentioned.

  “She was the type of witch that reveled in our darker side, that made life harder for those of us trying to be good people. That’s the thing most people out in the world fail to understand — the majority of witches are normal, everyday people who only want good for their lives and those around them. Their views may not be the same as yours but they aren’t crazy or ignorant or malicious or racist or any other tag you want to attach. But some witches, those on the fringe of our people, they are the ones spouting nonsense and acting horribly. They are the ones that make a bad name for the rest of us. Oh, I have no doubt we are talking about the same Wallace name. Like the Hulls, she was obsessed with building power. This spell would be something she would have undoubtedly used. And that’s terrible. She was terrible. So bad that many myths built up around the things she did and quickly became the stories told to witch children to scare them into behaving well.”

  Max knew trouble when he heard it — and anybody frightening enough to scare witches meant a lot of trouble. Though part of him loathed asking, he had to know what they faced. “What stories?”

  “Horrible tales. She would lure witches deep into the backcountry, promising to teach them her secret rituals. They would go through the motions of a grand spell, or so she told them, and it always involved drinking some concoction. She drugged them this way. Then she would string them up by the ankles and cut them apart like deer. That would be enough to scare any child from wandering too deep into the woods, but it didn’t end there. See, the witch coven at the time formed the equivalent of a posse and went after her. Thirteen witches in all, and only one returned. She had lost an arm and her mind. But from her ramblings, we know that Abagail Wallace cooked and consumed the other witches.”

  “Yeah,” Max said. “That would probably scare a kid or two.”

  “And that was one of the tamer stories.” She rubbed her chin. “This must be the same Wallace. A Wallace always pops up in times of weakness. With no ruling party at the moment, it makes sense that one would show up now.”

  Sandra asked, “If we don’t find the third bone, what then? Is there a spell that will stop the Call to Power?”

  “No,” Madame Yan said. “It’s time for you to leave. Go find that bone. Good luck.”

  As if a machine had been turned off, she rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. Max and Sandra waited until they realized that was it. The witch would not move again until they left.

  “Time to go,” Drummond said. “We won’t get anything else here.”

  They wound their way back across the low-ceiling stretch and up to the main basement. Cheryl-Lynn met them there and escorted them upstairs and out of the house. With a cheery wave, she said, “Thanks for coming by. See y’all next time.”

  Walking to the car, Max said, “Looks like we’ve got to find that bone. Any ideas where to start?”

  Drummond said, “You two sit tight. I’ll go get my ghost. He’ll have something worth saying. I’m sure of it. Then we can figure it out from there.”

  “Sounds good to me. I got nothing else, anyway.”

  After Drummond left, Max held the car door for his wife. She had a dark frown as she sat. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t figure out why Madame Yan lied to us.”

  Chapter 13

  They drove back on Route 8, a little further down, and parked in a strip mall next to a McDonald’s. Max turned the car off and shifted in his seat to face Sandra. “What did she lie about?”

  “When I asked her if there was a spell to break the Call to Power in case we don’t get the bone, she said there wasn’t one.”

  “So?”

  “She lied. I could see it on her face, for one. But the fact is that all spells have an opposite. It’s like a balanced scale. There’s a spell that creates light, so there’s one that creates dark. If there’s a spell to open a door, there’s one to close it. Always. It’s the first thing I learned when I started studying witchcraft. It’s foundational.”

  “Guess she didn’t realize how much you already know.”

  “You’re not listening close enough. It’s the first thing I learned — literally, the first. There’s no way she could think I didn’t know that would be a lie.”

  “So, either she’s a loon that’s completely incompetent — which is not impossible — or she purposely said this to get you to do the opposite.” Max did not sound convinced. “If she wanted you to find a spell like that, why not hand you the right book and point to it? Or if she didn’t have the spell on hand or didn’t know it, why not at least tell you where to look?”

  Sandra’s eyes widened. “She couldn’t because she was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “No. Of who.”

  Max shared Sandra’s stunned expression. “Mother Hope.”

  “I think so. Look at it — Madame Yan told us everything we asked but the most important part. At the same time, she didn’t really tell us much. We got specific details, but nothing we wouldn’t have found out in the long run.”

  “Maybe. It’s hard to say. Whatever her reasons, though, she definitely drew the line at helping us find that spell.” Max squirmed in his seat. “You really think Mother Hope was listening in on us?”

  “I think Madame Yan thought it was possible. The only other time I’ve seen a witch act that nervously was with the Hulls, and they are not worth getting worked up about anymore.”

  Max shifted back in his seat and scanned the parking lot as he thought. Sandra did the same. As he listened to the cars shush by and smelled the seductive aroma of hamburgers, he put his right hand on the spot between them, palm up, and waited. He pushed all thoughts out of his head, content to observe the people walking in and out of the Food Lion grocery.

  Her hand laced in his.

  He clenched her fingers but said nothing. Though not the full end of their earlier argument, not even half-of-a-reconciliation, this simple gesture brought them a step closer. More importantly, it allowed them to continue working the case without having to tiptoe around each other. The rest of the argument had been postponed, and he could feel the relief in the air.

  Seven minutes later, Drummond appeared on the right side of the backseat. He gestured to the empty space on
the left side. “Max, Sandra, I’d like you to meet Chester Stanton. Chester, these are the two I told you about. Now, only the lady can see you, but Max here’s dealt with ghosts before. Even though he can’t see or hear you, he’ll get enough translation from me and the lady.”

  Max twisted around the seat to look back at the empty space. “Nice to meet you Mr. Stanton. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have my wife tell me what she sees. It’ll help me a bit if I can visualize what you look like. That okay?”

  Sandra nodded. “He says it’s fine. Chester is thin and a bit shorter than Drummond. He’s wearing an outfit that I think is from the right time period — kind of a brownish cloth with a leather satchel on his side. He’s got a tricorn hat and knee-high, black boots. He says he was born in 1748. Dark hair, bit of stubble, and a large nose. Sorry, Mr. Stanton, but it’s true.”

  “Hey,” Drummond said, “you’ve been dead for over two hundred years. I don’t think vanity is really a worthwhile trait to bother with anymore.”

  Max cleared his throat. “Has Mr. Drummond explained to you why we wanted to talk?”

  “Of course, I did.”

  “Come on, let the man talk for himself.”

  It amazed Max how easily he and Drummond played off each other now. Without any previous plan, Drummond had set Max up to be the good guy. It wasn’t exactly a good cop/bad cop play, but it had the effect of raising Max’s status in the eyes of the interviewee.

  For that same reason, Max turned to Sandra for the translation. She said, “He knows we’ve been looking into the Regulators.”

  “That’s right,” Max said. He tried to picture where Stanton’s eyes should be and put his focus on that spot. “There were three men that we are investigating. The only name we know anything about is Archibald Henderson. Did you know him?”

  Speaking for Stanton, Sandra said, “‘No, I did not, but I was there at the Battle of Alamance, and I know much about what transpired.’“

  “What about Johnathan Shoemaker?”

  “‘I don’t know him. I’m trying to tell you about Alamance.’”

  Drummond said, “First, tell them why you’re going to be so helpful.”

  “‘Your associate here has explained that you are aware of the Other and the lives we lead in this ghostly realm. I have been here for a long time. I’ve watched as one friend after another moved on to the afterlife we all seek. I tried for decades to let go of whatever held me to this Earth, but to no avail. I fear that I may forever be bound in this undead form.’“

  Max opened his mouth, intent on explaining that eventually all ghosts move on, but Drummond put up his hand. “Go on, Stanton. They need to hear this so they get why this is so important to you.”

  “‘I finally realized that the only souls to move on are the ones that atoned for their sins. I cannot apologize to or ask forgiveness from those I have wronged. They are gone. I am all that’s left. It is maddeningly lonely.’“

  Drummond looked away and pursed his lips. Max glanced over but caught Sandra’s warning look — whatever Drummond’s thoughts, he clearly wanted to keep them to himself. If he wanted complete privacy, he could disappear into the Other. Still, Max and Sandra did their best to keep the focus on Stanton.

  “So,” Max said, “you’ve decided to talk with us because you’re lonely?”

  “‘You misjudge me. I am not some vagrant looking for solace from your companionship. Rather, I seek to council you on what I know in the service of appeasing the Lord and being lifted away from this dreadful existence. I wish to move on, and if providing this information is of use to you, I am happy to do so, should it aid my cause.’“

  Drummond flipped his hands open like a magician. “There you have it. You ask me for a source, and here he is. So, Stanton, now you can tell us about this battle you were in.”

  Sandra leaned toward Max. “He’s taking a moment to compose himself. He looks a bit shaken as he’s thinking about it all.”

  “Take your time,” Max said to Stanton.

  When the ghost was ready, Sandra signaled Max and returned to the job of translating. “‘The situation had been brewing for years. Tryon for the Crown and Husband for the people. Those two men clashed over and over, but always and without fail, they did so in the civil battlefield of politics.’“

  “Didn’t Husband orchestrate riots?”

  “‘I would hardly characterize them as riots, but I will grant you that politics can become a more physical endeavor from time to time. However, when we congregated in the wooded rise in Alamance, we expected nothing more than the opportunity for a peaceful protest. We were going to declare our grievances and attempt, once more, to reform the corrupt system we lived under.’“

  Stanton grew quiet, but based on the reactions of Drummond and Sandra, Max did not press. It appeared that Stanton had been overcome by the memory.

  At length, Sandra continued for Stanton, “‘I remember watching those bastards arrive. They marched in their straight lines and smart dress. Their feet hit the ground in unison. It was a horrendous sound, and I would be lying if I did not admit that the ferocious noise intimidated me. They lined up at the far end of the field that lay between the two edges of woods — hundreds of men. And the cannons. They wheeled them out one after the other. Twenty, maybe thirty of them.

  “‘I suppose we should have recognized that this time would be different, that Tryon not only displayed his strength, but in doing so, in bringing such weaponry to the field, he declared to us that he tired of dealing with the Regulators and would see it finished that day. We sent a few men to parlay with Tryon, this was customary back then — I do not recall how many men nor how many times they conversed, but I do know they went out more than once.

  “‘And then, without warning — at least, without a warning we understood to be serious — they opened fire upon us. Or perhaps we shot first. I imagine the history that has been documented knows better. For my part, I stood in a crowd of men discussing, or more accurately complaining, about the situation when suddenly we heard muskets snapping off and then a cannon blast.

  “‘The battle, well, I do not think you could call it that for long. The cannons were dangerous but had a short range. A few of our bravest men fought back, taking positions behind trees or wherever possible. A narrow gully ran between the forces and one of our men, James Pugh, lodged himself at the foot of a large boulder in the gully. The cannons ripped apart the landscape near him, but he held on, taking shots at the enemy. We cheered him and rallied others to fight on. But we had not come to fight, and while many of us did bear arms, many more had left their weapons at home so as not to provoke a violent reaction.’“

  Drummond said, “I guess that didn’t pan out so well.”

  “‘No. Tryon’s men overpowered us. We broke apart, many of us taking refuge in the surrounding woods. While most of us were able to melt back into our towns and farms, Tryon needed to make an example of somebody. He rounded up those whom he could identify without doubt as traitors to the Crown, and he had them executed. Six men hanged for what had occurred at Alamance.’“

  Max pointed. “And you were one of those six?”

  “‘Not at all. I managed to free myself of any connection to the incident. I rented a small dwelling from the Moravians near the city of Winston, and I expected to live my remaining days there. But that was not to be. A terrible night came to me about two years later.

  “‘I do not know what spirituality you hold, but I will tell you that in my life, I have known those who are capable of dark things, of spellcraft and brews. Though I cannot prove this to be the case, it is my sincerest belief that Governor Tryon hired these women of darkness to exact revenge upon those of us he wanted to hurt but could not do so within the bounds of law.’“

  “Wait,” Max said. “Are you saying that Tryon hired a witch to curse you?”

  “‘Indeed, he did. I share this with you because your associate suggested that you might be able to help me move on. Not only i
n the telling of my tale, but that you might be persuaded to seek out my remains and lift my curse.’“

  Max looked to Drummond, but the ghost made a slight shrug and said nothing. To Stanton, Max said, “Do you know where your body rests?”

  “‘Rest, it does not. I have not rested in centuries, but yes, I do know the location of my remains. And I will give you that information provided that when you find them, you will set me free.’“

  “We’ll try. I can’t promise anything more than that. We will try our best.”

  “Wait,” Drummond said and reached across the seat.

  Sandra slumped. “He’s gone.”

  “But he didn’t tell us where to go. I can try to find him in the Other. I’ll make him tell us.”

  Max’s phone chimed. Not a phone call but a text. Who would bother to text him other than Sandra? He unlocked his phone and found a simple message: Twin City Stage, Coliseum Drive, W-S

  “That’s a first,” Max said. “Text by ghost.”

  Chapter 14

  After dropping Sandra off at the office so she could research spell books and online forums in an effort to find a counter to the Call to Power, Max and Drummond drove to the Twin City Stage. Located on the northern side near Wake Forest University, the theater had been around since 1935 and had earned a reputation as one of the cultural necessities of the city. But why would Chester Stanton have been buried there?

  No. I’ve got a more important problem to deal with first.

  He pulled the car over to the shoulder. To Drummond’s questioning eyes, Max said, “Would you please give me a few minutes of privacy? I’ve got to make a call.”