Danvers Pointe— Episode Eighteen

Last week: Cody ran back into the mill, followed closely by Darla. Jackson chose to take matters into his own hands and began dumping the barrels of kerosene and bashing cultists.

Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938

“You’ll doom us all!” the man shouted in his ear.

Jackson drove the tire iron backward into the man’s shin, then slammed the back of his head into the man’s face. Cartilage crunched. Bright flashes arced across Jackson’s vision.

The back of his head was already damaged. They both went down hard. Jackson rolled, came up on one knee, dizzy. He swung the tire iron low and fast.

Connected.

The man collapsed, groaning. Jackson shoved himself upright again, chest heaving. He was woozy. His head had really taken a beating lately.

The kerosene had spread in dark, shimmering veins across the mill floor now.

The stain pulsed.

The whine had become a howl.

Closer.

Stronger.

And somewhere amid the chaos, he thought he heard Darla scream.

Jackson took a step around the support beam and stood face-to-face with a dark-skinned fellow. He had a curly black beard and a large gap between his two front teeth.

“You—” He began.

The tire iron clocked him in the left ear, sending the man reeling. The lantern he held toppled to the ground.

The glass broke and flames raced.

Oh, godammit. He hadn’t meant to light it until they were all outside.

Dark orange flames spread out like a giant bird unfolding its wings. With each pulse of the stain, the flames seemed to pause, creating undulating waves of fire. The sight was mesmerizing.

Intense heat, then pain jarred him back to the present. The bottom of the robe and his trousers had caught fire. He couldn’t put them out with his kerosene drenched hands.

________________________________________________________________________

Darla was staring at Cody. He stood just outside the chalk boundary again. Same spot. Not the rigid convulsing cultist he was minutes ago. He still had the blood smeared across his lip, but his eyes were hard, like pieces of gleaming coal.

Focused.

His boots mere inches from the dizzying chalk line.

The tear pulsed before him — a vertical wound in the air. She stared at it. God help her, she stared.

If it could show her father once...

If it could peel back whatever thin veil lay between this world and the next, maybe she could find him in there again?

She strained her eyes, trying to see past the depth. Trying to see that impossible flicker again. Longing to feel the love that had welled inside her when she saw him. Show me, she willed. Just once more.

It would not obey.

The pitch had changed, deeper now. Almost like a long growl.

Time was running out.

She managed to rip her eyes from the tear, this thing Cody had called the void.

Cody’s lips moved. She couldn’t hear him. She felt powerless, her brother was going to be complicit in opening a door to some unknown place and who knew what was going to happen.

She had to do something.

Eleanor stood at the edge of the circle, journal open in her hands. Her eyes were pinched shut. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her lips moved in that harsh, vowel-starved language. The words and grunts poured out of her like an auctioneer. She looked exhausted, yet fervent.

Darla’s fist tightened. This woman had her brother brainwashed into a cultist. This woman had known her father.

She had so many questions.

But whatever this thing was, she wasn’t going to allow Eleanor to summon some creature, or demon.

Darla edged backward, slipping between a pair of robes who didn’t seem to register her movement. The hum had most everyone in its grip.

A bitter scent wafted across the room. Like bad gasoline.

She circled.

Slowly.

Heart pounding.

No one was watching Eleanor. Everyone was watching the tear writhe.

Darla stepped in behind her. For a half-second she hesitated. Then, she reached around and ripped the journal from Eleanor’s hands. The woman gasped, turned toward her, blinking rapidly, as if waking from a deep sleep.

The growl stopped instantly. The tear calmed.

“What are you—” She said, voice clearly strained.

Darla didn’t let herself think. If she thought, she might falter. She flung the journal into the circle. The book spun once in the air and crossed the runes.

Dark tendrils lashed outward—not fast, not violent—deliberate. They touched the leather cover. The book vanished. The thing convulsed.

The hum ceased.

It was a door.

For a single second, the mill floor was bathed in absolute silence so loud it hurt.

Eleanor stared at the empty space where the book had been a second before.

“No,” she whispered. Her pupils snapped into focus. “What have you done?”

She turned toward Darla fully now, shock cracking through her face. The noise of shifting bodies returned slowly, like the world remembering how to move.

“You have no idea,” Eleanor said, her voice more like a croak. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Her eyes flicked to the tear, then back to Darla.

“Rayford saw this. It’s why he left.”

The words hit hard. Anger and loss flared hot.

“He left because you were playing God,” Darla shot back, even though she’d had no idea what their shared history entailed.

Eleanor stepped toward her.

“You think this is about power?” Her face was a mask of rage. “You think this is—”

Darla shoved her. Eleanor stumbled backward. Her heel drug across the chalk boundary. Time seemed to hesitate. Her arms pinwheeled and for a heartbeat she balanced on the edge of nothing.

Then her back crossed fully into the circle. The air shimmered and the impossible darkness folded inward.

Eleanor flickered. A loud electrical pop echoed off the wooden walls— And she ceased to exist.

Hello my friends. If you’re enjoying this content, please leave a comment.

I have several other stories that I hope to publish like this in the future. If you think someone in your friend circle might enjoy them, please send them a link.

There you’ll be able to see what else I’m up to. The picture of Henry Jekyll, my first completed novel is available on amazon now as well.

Thanks again for your support.

Mike