American Coven: The Complete Series (2013) Read online

  American Coven

  Part One:

  The House on Willow Road

  Prologue

  "Excuse me, young lady. Do you happen to know where I might find Fremantle Road?"

  Looking up from my bike's broken pedal, I find that there's a man towering over me, almost blocking the sun. He's about the same age as my father, and he's wearing a long brown coat that seems kind of weird on such a hot day. There's a car parked over by the car, its door open and its engine running, but what really sets me on edge is the man's face: it's as if his head has been squeezed from both sides, resulting in the thinnest-looking face I've ever seen. I can't help wondering how his brain manages to work in such a long, narrow skull.

  "That way," I say, pointing along the road.

  "Okay," he replies, smiling. There's an uncomfortable pause, as if he's trying to think of something else to say.

  "You just go that way," I add, hoping to get him moving. Maybe his thin face has slowed his brain down.

  "Thank you," he adds eventually. "You've been very helpful. I've been driving around for hours now, and I just couldn't seem to find the place. I guess I must have a blind spot or something in all this heat. What's your name, anyway?"

  "Uh... Wendy," I say, which is a lie. My name's not Wendy, but there's no way I'm telling the truth to some random guy. My name is none of his business. Hauling my bike up from the kerb, I give the pedal a kick to check that it's back on properly.

  "Got a problem there?" he asks.

  "No," I say. "It's fine."

  "I used to have a bike just like that," he replies, mistaking me for someone who wants a conversation. "We were kind of poor when I was younger, so I had to make my own repairs. I think I spent more time fixing my bike than I spent riding it, but I was pretty good in the end. If you want me to take a look, I can see if I can -"

  "It's fine," I say firmly. "Really. Thanks, but it's totally fine."

  "Okay," he says, raising his hands and taking a step back. "I'm sorry, Wendy, I just figured that since you helped me, maybe I could help you, but that's absolutely not a problem if you'd rather..." His voices trails off for a moment, and then he turns and looks first one way, then the other, giving me a chance to see that his head is surprisingly long. I guess his brain has adapted to such a strange shape. "I've already bothered you enough," he continues. "Thanks for the directions, and good luck with your bike. I'm sure a smart girl like you can figure it out."

  "Sure," I say, watching as he turns and limps back over to his car. Feeling slightly edgy, I keep an eye on him until he's not only back in the vehicle, but actually driving away. Once he's out of view, I allow myself to relax a little. I don't know what it was about that man, but he gave off some seriously weird vibes. I'm probably being totally unfair, but I can't help feeling that anyone with such a long, narrow head must have some problems. I'm not saying I'm psychic or anything like that; it's just that I think I picked up on lots of little, subtle weird things about his body language. Whatever, he's gone now, so I can just forget about him.

  Getting back on my bike, I double-check the pedal and feel that it seems to be firmly stuck back on. Cycling along the street and over toward the park, I make sure to keep my speed down. The last thing I want is for the damn pedal to come flying off again when I'm racing along. When that happened a few minutes ago, I damn near fell off. Hell, I'm lucky I'm not stretched out on the sidewalk right now with a bunch of broken bones.

  Just as I think everything's going okay, however, I feel the pedal start to come loose again. Bumping along on the grass, I come to a halt in the shade of one of the oak trees that line the northern edge of the park. I climb off the bike and set it down again, and sure enough the pedal just drops to the ground. Great, I guess the bike is well and truly screwed. My amateur attempt to get it rammed back on was a failure, so I'm going to have to take it all the way over to the shop on Sycamore, and then I'm going to have to pay some jack-ass kid a bunch of money just to fix the stupid thing. I swear to God, it's like some higher power is trying to sabotage me today. All I want to do is go and ask around in town to see if anyone's hiring.

  "Fucking thing," I say, giving the bike a gentle kick before I pull it back up and start wheeling it across the bumpy grass. I should never have got out of bed today. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm mildly superstitious, I'd already be wondering if this day can get any worse. Feeling a twinge of pain in my shoulder and left arm, I pause for a moment; I feel breathless for a moment, but the sensation quickly passes.

  "Still got a problem?" asks a familiar voice nearby.

  Turning, I see that the thin-faced man from earlier is walking through a nearby gate. I bristle as soon as I see him, but I figure there's no need to be paranoid. He's just a man, coming into the park for whatever reason in the middle of the day, and it's just a coincidence that I happen to have bumped into him again. It's not a big deal.

  "It's fine," I mutter.

  "Okay," he replies with a smile. "If you say so. I'm sorry, Holly, I didn't mean to seem like a pest."

  Smiling politely, I push the bike past him and make my way along the line of trees, headed for the gate at the far end. The last thing I want right now is to get into some dumb conversation with that man again. I hate small-talk; hell, I hate eye contact most of the time; I just want to get on with my stuff. As I walk, however, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. There's a part of me that wants to turn around and just double-check that the man isn't following me, but I figure I should just keep going. Besides, I'm sure that guy's got better things to do than follow random strangers around a park. Still, there's something bugging me, some feeling at the back of my mind that I'm missing something.

  "Oh, sorry!" the man says suddenly, brushing against my shoulder.

  "Jesus!" I say, turning to him as I feel a sharp pain in my left arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"

  "Sorry," he replies, with a slight smile on his lips. "I wasn't looking where I was going and..."

  I rub my arm. Something felt really sharp. Looking over at the man, I suddenly see something in his hand, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's a syringe. I take a deep breath, and suddenly I realize that I feel kind of light-headed. I try to ignore it, but it seems to be getting worse and worse, and my body feels heavy.

  "Are you okay?" the man asks, as he slips a cap back onto the needle.

  I turn and open my mouth to call out for help, but no sounds come out. There are some people on the other side of the park, but I can't call out to them. Dropping the bike, I stumble forward a couple of steps, before my knees just seem to give way and I drop to the ground. I feel as if the whole world is suddenly spinning around me, and I'm the calm axis in the middle. As I try to crawl forward on my hands and knees, I find myself getting heavier and heavier until finally I drop down and my face is pressed against the cold grass. I feel a pair of arms reach around me and start dragging me toward the trees, and although I want to call for help, I don't have the energy. Closing my eyes, I let my head drop for a moment and then I realize I can't move anymore. It's as if I'm sinking deeper and deeper into a kind of gray darkness. I try to scream, but the scream just stays in my head as I lose consciousness completely. Finally, right at the end, I realize what was bugging me earlier. It was my name. I told him my name was Wendy, but a few minutes later he used my real name. He called me Holly. How did he know my real name?

  Elizabeth

  15 years ago

  "There," I say, dropping the sponge back into the bucket of dirty water. "One set of stone steps, scrubbed and buffed. Don't they look better?" Sitting back, I stare at the steps. I've spent all morning on my hand and
knees, using the coarse brush to scrub and scrub and scrub, and finally the steps look clean. Well, maybe not clean, but definitely better than they've looked in a long time. I have no idea how long it's been since they were given any attention, but they'd been starting to irritate me. "I really think they look much better," I continue. "All that dirt and dust from the outside world, all caked in a big mess, getting into the cracks and crevices. We should have done this a long time ago, don't you think?"

  I glance across the basement. There's no reply from the shadows at the far end, which I guess means she's in one of her moods again. Sighing, I get up and carry the bucket to the sink, where I pour the water away before wringing out the sponge. There's no rest for the wicked, even in a place like this.

  "Are you still feeling ill?" I ask.

  No reply.

  "What kind of pain is it? Is it a sharp, stabby pain, or is it like a dull ache?"

  Silence.

  "Is it intermittent, or is it -"

  "Dull ache," she says suddenly, her voice sounding distant and subdued, and also a little petulant, like a child who isn't getting her own way. I hate it when she acts like this. I mean, I understand why she feels down sometimes, but it's important to take a sensible attitude and not let it ruin your day. I've always been a big believer in the idea that you need to just pick up your troubles, tie them in a sack and push them away. Otherwise, you end up in a dark place, and that's no good for anyone. There's a slippery slope down to the bottom of life's pit.

  "Well, do you -"

  "I think I'm pregnant," she says.

  "Oh, of course you're not," I reply as I swill the bucket with some cold water. "Let's not get into all that again."

  "Elizabeth, I'm pregnant," she says firmly, clearly annoyed with me for doubting her. I don't know if something's wrong with her memory, but I swear we have the same conversation every month and she never seems to learn. "I can feel it."

  "What can you feel?" I ask, trying not to let my own frustration show.

  "In my belly. I just feel sick, like there's something there."

  "That doesn't mean you're pregnant," I say, placing the bucket back in the corner. "You probably just had too much porridge last night."

  "I can tell," she insists. "A mother knows these things."

  "You're not a mother," I say with a sigh. Looking up, I stare at the small window for a moment. Behind the thick layer of grimy rain-spattered perspex, I can see the iron bars and then, finally, the grass. With a shudder, I think of all the insects and dirt that must be out there, and I remind myself how fortunate we are to be able to stay down here away from such things. Sure, our life might not be perfect, but there are certain advantages. We don't have to deal with the world.

  "I'm pregnant," she says again.

  "You thought you were pregnant last month," I remind her, "and the month before that."

  "This time I'm really pregnant. I haven't had my period."

  "Join the club," I mutter, removing my apron and staring for a moment at the grime and filth that's smeared all over the nice white fabric. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever manage to get this place cleaned up. I just seem to be fighting a never-ending battle against dirt. "You're not pregnant, Natalie. You've just got a bad stomach. Have you been eating bugs again?"

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "A lot, actually," I reply, looking over at the shadows. "You can't just eat the first thing you find on the floor. For one thing, it's unsanitary, and for another you have no idea what those things are. Cockroaches and beetles and larvae... If man was supposed to eat bugs, then why did God invent other animals?" I pause for a moment, as I realize that this conversation has taken a turn into the absurd. Natalie always does this; she pushes me and pushes me until I end up saying dumb things, and then she acts like she's won the argument. "You know what I mean," I mutter, stuffing the apron into the sink and starting to pour cold water onto the stains. "You eat the most bizarre things, Natalie. It's no wonder you feel a unwell from time to time."

  "I'm pregnant," she says, her voice sounding vague and airy, as if she's just a voice drifting across the room from the darkness. "And it's not from time to time. It started yesterday."

  "You have no idea what you're talking about," I mutter quietly as I start soaping up the water. "You've never been pregnant in your life."

  "Oh yeah," she says, "I forgot. You're the expert." I hear the sound of her getting to her feet, and she starts shuffling across the floor. Sure enough, moments later I hear the rustle of the cereal box.

  "That's another thing," I say. "It's not just the bugs. You need to eat something other than cereal."

  "It's all he gives us," she replies.

  "It's not all he gives us. He gives us fruit and vegetables, and on Sundays we get meat and rice. And we had porridge last night, which was a treat. There's really no need for you to eat so much cereal. It's almost as if you're determined to make the worst of things. Then there's the smell. Do you really think it's pleasant to spend all day, every day down here with someone who eats nothing but cereal and bugs?" I wait for her to answer. "Natalie? Do you have any idea of the smell?"

  "You're angry with me," she says.

  "I'm not angry with you," I reply, trying to remain calm as I wash the apron in the sink. My God, sometimes I feel as if this girl is driving me to the brink of madness. "I'm just frustrated. How would it be if we both just sat around feeling sorry for ourselves? Nothing would ever get done. I swear to God, sometimes I think you want to accentuate the negatives rather than trying to make things seem just a little better. Or do you want to spend your whole life being miserable?"

  "I want to spend my whole life out of here."

  "Of course," I say. "We both want that. But until it happens, we might as well make the best of things." I wait for a reply, but she seems to have fallen silent again. "You're young," I say eventually. "You find it harder to adapt to life down here. I understand, but the best thing to do while we're here is to keep busy. If you don't, time passes so slowly and you'll end up losing your mind." I fumble with the soap for a moment, dropping it into the dirty water and having to carefully fish it out. "Believe me," I add, "you'll find it's better in the long run if you just accept things as they are, instead of dreaming about how things might be."

  Behind me, I can hear her shuffling back across the floor, returning to the shadows so she can sulk some more.

  "Well I'm definitely pregnant," she says eventually.

  "You are not pregnant!" I shout, turning to her. I've tried to hold my temper, but she's pushed me too far. "You are not! Why can't you get it through your thick head? You eat bugs, and cereal, and that's all you do all day! Of course you've got a bad stomach, Natalie. It'd be a God-given miracle if you didn't! But you're not pregnant, and you can't be pregnant, because you haven't had sex!" I pause, waiting for her to reply. My hands are almost shaking with rage, but I can't force myself to calm down. Not yet. "How do you think you got pregnant?" I ask eventually. "Seriously. How? He never touches you, not like that. He never touches either of us. So unless the Holy Ghost Himself has been down here, explain how you could possibly be pregnant."

  Silence.

  "You're sulking," I say with a sigh, realizing that I've gone too far.

  No reply.

  "Please don't sulk," I continue. "It creates an awful atmosphere when you sulk."

  Nothing.

  "I'm sorry," I say, feeling the anger evaporate from my body. "I didn't mean to shout. I shouldn't have said anything. I just... Please, at least cut out all the talk about being pregnant, because it really isn't true, okay? I know you're not an idiot, so you must understand that it can't possibly be true."

  Somewhere above us, there's the sound of movement. Footsteps pass directly over our heads, and it sounds like he's dragging something across the floor.

  "He's coming," Natalie says, with fear in her voice.

  "He's not coming," I reply. "It's not time."

  "He's coming," sh
e insists.

  "He's not coming," I say again. "It's not time for him to come. It's not even -"

  Suddenly I hear the latch being opened. Turning to look over at the steps, I realize that Natalie's right. He is coming. Panicking, I rush over to the sink and let the water out. The last thing I want is for him to see that I got the apron so dirty, but I thought I had more time to get it clean. He probably doesn't care, but still, it matters to me. Hauling the heavy, soaked bundle of fabric out of the sink, I quickly stash it behind the table. It'll be filthy again, but I'll wash it later. All that matters is that he doesn't see it. I don't want him to think that things are getting dirty and out of control down here; I don't want him to have that victory.

  "He's coming," Natalie says again, her voice filled with fear.

  "Yes," I reply, taking a deep breath. "He's coming. Now look smart."

  There's a loud creaking sound as the metal door opens. I stand completely still, trying not to show that I'm panicking. After all, he never comes down in the middle of the day, so something must be wrong. This is definitely not normal. We have a routine here, and it's rare for that routine to be broken.

  "He's coming," Natalie says again, her voice hushed. She sounds absolutely petrified.

  From the doorway at the top of the steps, there's the sound of him grunting as he pulls something heavy across the floor. Moments later, a large, dark shape comes tumbling down the steps before landing with a heavy thud on the stone floor. As the door creaks shut and the latch is closed again, I stare at the shape on the ground and I realize, with mounting horror, that it's a person, tied in a cloth bag.

  I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Standing in silence, I just stare at the bag and wait for something to happen. There's no movement, though, and the only sound comes from his footsteps making their way directly above us as he goes back through to another room in the main part of the house.

  "What is it?" Natalie hisses from the shadows.