American Coven: The Complete Series (2013) Read online

I step closer to the bag. There's no sign of life, but I'm certain he'd never send a dead body down here. I mean, what would be the point? He's not that cruel. Whoever's in the bag, they must be unconscious, which isn't a surprise. After all, I was unconscious when I arrived, and so was Natalie. It's how we all come into this particular world.

  "What is it?" Natalie calls out impatiently.

  "It's a person," I say, edging closer. "It's another person."

  "No fucking way!" Natalie says, and suddenly she scurries out of the shadows and comes a little closer. It's been a few days since I got a proper look at her, and I'm shocked to see how thin and gaunt she looks, with large rings around her eyes. Her hair is bushy and unkempt, and she has the wide-open stare of someone whose mind is starting to fall apart. "Open it up," she says enthusiastically, reaching out to touch the bag. "Open it up so we can see what's inside!"

  "Wait!" I say, pushing her hand away.

  "Why?"

  "Because!" Staring down at the bag, I take a deep breath and try to organize my thoughts. Since I arrived here, this has only happened one other time, about five years ago when Natalie arrived. Whoever's in the bag this time, they're likely to be hurt, and terrified. We have to be careful, or things could go horribly wrong. After all, I made a lot of mistakes when I opened the bag containing Natalie all those years ago, and I'm certain that those mistakes have affected her ability to adjust to our life down here. This time, everything has to be perfect.

  Ben Lawler

  Today

  "Hi," I say, hoping that my eager smile will defrost the receptionist's icy stare. "I'm, uh, here to see Holly Carter. I phoned ahead and I was told that she might be around at lunchtime."

  "You did, did you?" the receptionist replies dubiously. She doesn't pick up a phone to check if Holly Carter is available, and she doesn't check any kind of files. She just stares at me, as if she's deeply suspicious of my motives for being here, as if she's picking me apart with her mind.

  "My name is Ben Lawler," I continue, fumbling with the ID badge from my jacket before holding it out for her to see. "I'm with the, um, Department for Educational Management down in Baltimore and..." I hold the ID badge a little higher up, and then to the side, but the receptionist hasn't even bothered to look at it. She's just staring at me with cold, unwelcoming eyes. "Well, the thing is, I asked Ms. Carter if she'd be available to discuss some matters relating to the department's current research programs," I add, trying not to sound nervous, "and she told me to come by today at lunchtime and she'd be free."

  I wait for a reply.

  "So I'm here."

  Another pause.

  "She told me I could come and see her."

  "She did, did she?" the receptionist says, frowning.

  "Yes. She did."

  "You know you're on camera, right?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  She points at a small surveillance camera up in the corner of the room. "The school board installed it last year," she explains. "Every visitor is filmed. It's high-definition, it's full color, and it's recording all the time. The footage is recorded onto a set of hard drives with instant back-up, and all the images are retained for a minimum of five years."

  "Sounds efficient," I say, swallowing hard.

  Still fixing her eyes on me, the receptionist picks up her phone and hits a button, and I can hear the ring-tone. I don't know if I did something to this woman in a past life, but she seems to loathe me with every fiber in her body. Then again, I guess she's probably learned to be suspicious and cautious since Holly Carter came to teach here. There must be a lot of creeps who want to get in touch. Weirdos and gawkers probably flock to this place, hoping to catch sight of the Holly Carter, and to vicariously share in her ordeal.

  "Hi Holly," the receptionist says suddenly, as I hear a voice coming from the phone's tinny speaker. "I've got a guy named Ben Lawler here in reception. He says he's from some department for something and he's here to see you. He says he's arranged it with you in advance, but I -" She pauses. "You sure?" Another pause. "Okay, I'll send him through to your office." She puts the phone down, before silently resuming her long, cold stare.

  "Should I go through?" I ask.

  "I don't know," she says. "Should you?"

  I pause, not quite knowing how to reply.

  "Do you know what I hate more than anything in the world?" she asks after a moment.

  "No," I say blankly.

  "Liars," she continues. "I fucking hate liars. So if it turns out that you've lied to me since you walked through that door, I will string you up by your balls from the nearest lamppost, do you understand?" She pauses for a moment. "And before you ask, I consider so-called little white lies to be just as bad as any other, if not worse. So for your sake, your name had better really be Ben Lawler and you'd better really be here to discuss some kind of educational management bullshit and you'd better not be some swivel-eyed pervert. Or else."

  "You're protective of Holly," I say. "That's good. I -"

  "Go through," she replies firmly. "Third door on the left. It's the only office that doesn't have a name on the door. For obvious reasons."

  Smiling nervously, I hurry away from the desk and along the nearby corridor. To be honest, that receptionist gave me the chills. It's as if, as soon as I walked in the door, I was marked as an enemy. I guess it pays to be suspicious, but I still think she could have been a little nicer. I mean, she's the receptionist at a high school, not a security guard at the White House, so maybe she could un-clench a little. Then again, I guess she's just very good at telling when someone is lying.

  And, boy, am I lying my ass off today.

  When I reach the only unmarked door in the corridor, I stop for a moment before knocking. It's taken six months of careful planning to reach this moment, and I really can't afford to fuck it up. In those six months, there have been two more confirmed deaths at the site, and I know there'll be more before long. I've tried everything else I can think of, every approach and every possible way of dealing with the problem, but everything kept coming back down to this one, final necessity. I have no choice but to come here today. I have no choice but to knock on this door. And, frankly, I have no back-up plan if this doesn't work.

  "Come in!" calls out a voice from the other side of the door.

  Looking up, I see a surveillance camera watching my every move.

  Pushing the door open, I step into the room and find myself in a small, cluttered office lined with bookshelves. There's a desk over by the window, and sitting at the desk there's a woman. As soon as I see her, I recognize her from the files. Sure, all the photos I've seen are from fifteen years ago, but she hasn't changed much. It's the eyes, more than anything. She's wearing thick glasses, and she's cut her hair short, but it's definitely, definitely her. It's so strange, though, to see her in the flesh, after seeing her image in photos for so many years. It's like watching a bunch of newspaper images suddenly come to life and take human form.

  "I'm sorry I, uh..." she says, not looking up from the papers she's reading. "Sorry, I'm right in the middle of something, would you mind taking a seat for a few minutes? I'll be with you shortly."

  "Sure," I say, walking over to the sofa and sitting down. This isn't exactly the welcome I was expecting, but I guess Holly Carter has a right to be eccentric. After everything she went through, it's a miracle that she's not gibbering in the corner of a padded cell somewhere. To her credit, she seems to have recovered remarkably well. She's a respected figure in her field, and her educational research programs are some of the most highly-regarded of recent years. She has a doctorate in educational psychology, and she appears in public two or three times a year to give lectures on a variety of topics. Despite everything that happened to her all those years ago, she's come out strong. The one thing she doesn't do, though, is talk about her past. Unfortunately, her past is precisely the reason that I'm sat here today.

  "Okay," she says eventually, closing her papers before looking over at me and smi
ling a faint, unenthusiastic smile. She grabs a small bottle and takes out a pill, which she swallows with a glass of water. "Sorry, headache. So, Mr. Lawler, what did you say you wanted to talk about again?"

  "I'm from the Department for Educational Management in Baltimore," I say, sitting forward. "I'm undertaking some research into cognitive behavioral techniques and their application to students who've suffered significant emotional trauma." I pause for a moment, trying to remember the rest of the spiel I memorized last night in the motel bar. "I'm working with dissonance factors in an attempt to provoke strong reactions in students who might otherwise be cut off from their own emotional landscape."

  "Uh-huh," she replies.

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  "I came to you because you're an expert in your field," I continue, aware that I might not be sounding very convincing. "I read your book and I was interested in some of your..." I take a deep breath, realizing that she's narrowing her eyes as she stares at me. "Well, I read your book, and I was particularly interested in chapter ten... no, nine... the part where you talk about methods of validating denial in teenagers who've undergone significant emotional disruption that has caused them to be pulled out of their home life. You wrote that the return to a home life can be just as traumatic as the initial rupture, and..."

  "Bullshit," she says suddenly.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Bullshit. Everything you just said is a lie. You're not from the Department for Educational Management in Baltimore. I can see it in your eyes, Mr. Lawler. You're not here because of my research. You're just here to pick at my past. Who sent you? Let me guess, you're writing a book about what happened and you thought you'd sneak in and grab a few minutes with me."

  "No," I say, "that's not why I'm here -"

  "Yes it is. You lot are incredible. You just keep coming, don't you? Always trying to weasel your way into my office so you can get a few words from me." She reaches out to grab her phone. "I swear to God, I thought you people would give up eventually. How many times, and how many different ways, do I have to make it clear that I'm not some kind of fucking celebrity. What's wrong? Is it a slow news day?"

  "Joseph Kukil sent me," I say.

  She pauses, keeping her hand hovering over the phone. "Joseph Kukil?" she asks, and it's clear from the look on her face that she recognizes the name.

  "The sheriff of Montgomery Town. Well, former sheriff. He retired a few years ago, but he still has contacts. He likes to keep his ear to the ground, so to speak, and he told me I should come and see you. He told me you'd listen to me as long as you thought I was being honest with you."

  "I don't think you're being honest with me."

  "I know," I say, "and I wasn't, at least not at first, but I wasn't sure how to get through the front door unless I made up some story about..." I take a deep breath. This is it. Six months of work, down the drain if I get the next part wrong. "I guess you probably know what I'm here for. I mean, you probably figured that I want something specific, something to do with the house on Willow Road -"

  "That's enough," she says firmly. "Joe Kukil was a good guy, and he should've known better than to encourage you to come and find me. I'm not digging up the past, Mr. Lawler, not for -"

  "It's happening again," I say.

  She stares at me.

  "It's happening again," I repeat, to make sure she understands the seriousness of what I'm telling her.

  She closes her eyes.

  "Not in exactly the same way," I continue, "but still centered on that house. It's unmistakable. Things are happening out there that can't be ignored."

  She sits in complete silence. It's almost as if she's shut down.

  "I know you don't want to talk about it. I know you don't even want to think about it, and believe me, I've tried every other possible avenue, but it all leads back to your door. You're the only person I can ask. Think about it. Do you think I'd be here if I thought there was any other way to deal with this problem?"

  She still doesn't reply.

  "I understand that this must be hard for you," I continue, desperately trying to find a way to get her on my side, "and I hope you understand that I'm not an asshole, and I'm not a reporter or a writer or anything like that. I'm a friend of Joe Kukil's, and I'm a teacher. That's all. Like you, actually. I teach at a high school back in Baltimore. This really isn't my area of specialty, but I've seen enough to know that someone's gotta do something and if everyone else is too scared, then..." I pause, hoping that somehow she might still be listening to me. "Two people are dead. One of them was some homeless girl from out of state who was sleeping rough in the area, and the other was a kid from my school. They both died after going to the house."

  "It should have been knocked down," Holly says, keeping her eyes closed.

  "I agree. And it would have been, but it's right on the border between two counties. They each want the other to take care of it, and the result is that the buck's been passed for more than a decade. That, and the local Mayor is dragging his feet for some reason. People keep talking and arguing, and the house has stayed standing, and whatever's..." I pause again, worried that I might be upsetting her. "This isn't exactly how I planned to explain it all. I'm sorry, I guess I ended up just blurting it all out. The truth is, I tried everything else. I've spoken to the others, and they've agreed to help. Coming here was my last resort, but you have to understand the situation. Two people, two young people, are dead, and I think there'll be more."

  "He's dead," she says finally.

  "The house is still there."

  "But the man is dead." She opens her eyes and stares at me. "The house is just bricks and wood. The house didn't do anything to anyone. It's an inanimate object, Mr. Lawler."

  "People are still dying."

  "Well that's their own damn fault," she replies, "because he's dead. It's over."

  "Of course he's dead. No-one's disputing that. But these things are happening."

  "Then there's a copycat on the loose." She shrugs. "It's not that much of a surprise. The vast majority of people on this planet are fucked up. It was inevitable that one of them would end up being drawn to that place."

  "It's not a copycat," I reply, realizing that I'm not explaining things very well. "It's not like someone's doing the same things that he did. It's more like people are just dying in other ways when they spend time in the house. It's like there's something there that's -"

  "Don't," she says firmly.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Don't spread your superstitious bullshit in my office. If someone has died at that place, all these years later, then it's a coincidence. It's just bad luck."

  "Two people," I point out.

  "Then it's more of a coincidence, but it's still a coincidence. The only thing that caused those events to happen was a man, one man, and that man is dead. This isn't a ghost story, Mr. Lawler. It was a horror story, but it's over. I'm sorry you've had a wasted trip, but you should have known better than to come in the first place. If you see Joe Kukil again, tell him to leave me the fuck alone."

  I take a deep breath, aware that I've done a spectacularly bad job of persuading her to help me.

  "In case you're not good at reading subtleties," she continues, taking another pill from the bottle on her desk, "that was your cue to leave."

  "If you just -"

  "Leave!" she shouts. "Leave right now, or I swear to God I'll have you arrested!"

  Shocked by the ferocity of her outburst, I get up and start slowly over to the door. Is this it? Has my whole journey been a complete waste of time? I knew that it was a long shot coming here today, but I thought I'd be able to get through to her somehow. I guess she still thinks I'm another fan-boy trying to get a slice of her story. I need to show her that the situation is much more serious.

  "You haven't asked me how they died," I say, looking back at her as I reach the door.

  She stares at me, and for the first time I can see genuine fear in her eyes.

&n
bsp; "The homeless girl and the kid from my school," I continue, realizing that this is my last chance to appeal to her better nature. "They went to the house. They were alone. If you really don't believe in superstition, and if you really think it's over, then prove it. Ask me the one question you've been avoiding since I got here. Ask me how they died."

  Elizabeth

  15 years ago

  "Careful," Natalie says, watching as I slip the blade of the scissors through the bag's coarse fabric.

  "I know what I'm doing," I reply quietly, trying not to let my hands tremble. "I did the same thing when you arrived down here, remember?"

  "No," she says. "I don't remember."

  Cutting along the fabric, I start to see a figure inside the bag. She's curled up on her side, in the fetal position, and the first thing I notice is that she's young. Maybe eighteen or nineteen, with her brown hair tied back in two pigtails. She's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but her clothes are badly ripped and there are some traces of blood where she's been cut on the face and arms. Just like Natalie, when she arrived.

  "Is she breathing?" Natalie asks.

  I reach through the slit in the side of the bag and press two fingers against the side of the girl's neck. Sure enough, her skin is warm and I can feel a faint heartbeat.

  "Open the rest," Natalie urges me. "I want to see her properly."

  I open the girl's eyelids, but her pupils are dilated and she's clearly unconscious. It's probably for the best that she rests. When she wakes up, she's going to be terrified, and she'll probably feel the effects of whatever drug he used to subdue her. I don't want to be the one to wake her into the nightmare. Not yet, at least.

  "Elizabeth!" Natalie says, raising her voice a little. "Come on! Let me see!"

  "Have a little patience," I reply, my mind racing as I try to decide what to do. When this happened five years ago with Natalie, I cut the bag open and dragged her clear. I panicked back then, desperately trying to wake her up and hoping against hope that somehow she might help me get out of here. So much has changed in the intervening years, however. For one thing, I'm older and wiser; for another, I've learned from my mistakes with Natalie. I'm starting to think that, given how things turned out last time, maybe I'd be better off trying a different approach with the new girl. I guess there's no harm in letting her stay in the bag until she wakes up, and then she can climb out when she's ready. It's a small difference, but it might have a big psychological impact.