Danvers Pointe— Episode Seventeen

Last week: Darla learned that Eleanor Vance and her father had a history together. Jackson and Darla were bound and set aside while Eleanor began a ritual.

Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938

Jackson brought Cody over to the DeSoto. His pupils were blown wide, and it looked like he was going to vomit.

“You shouldn’t have—” Cody started.

He bent forward; hands braced against the metal. His whole body trembled.

“You’re out, kid. Sister’s gonna have your hide though.” Jackson said. “You’re welcome.”

Cody sucked in air through clenched teeth. His face was a death mask.

“You don’t... understand,” he said hoarsely.

Jackson didn’t answer. He understood plenty. The job was almost done. They just needed to get as far away from whatever was going on in that mill as fast as possible.

He circled the car and slid behind the wheel. His hands shook from the withdrawals and stress combined. He fumbled with the key, then twisted the ignition. It turned over but didn’t start.

He let out a long breath. Darla should be out any moment.

He tried again, the engine coughed once more, then caught.

Headlights flared in the brush, casting elongated fingers across the building ahead. He leaned halfway out the window and waved. Not that she wouldn’t see the headlights.

Darla came tearing out of the mill with more than a slight limp.

She stopped in front of Cody and grabbed his face between her hands. Her mouth moved fast. Jackson couldn’t hear a word over the growl of the engine and the din from the building.

The hum from inside the mill rolled across the yard like distant thunder. Shrieking boards tore against the nails. It was a visible disturbance in the air. The brush writhed under its influence. It vibrated through the frame of the car, up through the steering wheel and into Jackson’s shoulders.

He saw Cody shake his head. Hard. Darla said something and jabbed her finger toward the door.

The lantern light inside flickered violently now, like a heartbeat going wrong.

Jackson leaned over and rolled the window down.

“No time! Get in!”

Neither of them looked at him. Darla’s hands tightened on Cody’s robe. Cody pulled free, stepped backward.

“... need me,” Cody said, frantically.

Then he turned and ran like an uncoordinated teen. Back toward the mill.

“Cody, no!” It was the only part of the conversation he caught.

“Shit.”

Jackson killed the engine. Hopefully she had one more start in her.

Darla limped after him.

“... Jackson!” She yelled over her shoulder.

For one breath, Jackson stayed where he was. His hands ached on the steering wheel. He watched their silhouettes disappear into the yellow-lit doorway.

The hum inside had changed again. Higher now. Unsteady. He could feel it even out here—like pressure building behind a dam.

He wanted to drive, to get away from whatever the hell that thing was, but they were in there.

He wasn’t leaving without them.

He’d recognized the drums during his struggle with Darla before they were caught.

Kerosene.

Dry timber. Old wood.

Finish it.

Jackson didn’t know what that stain was. A door to somewhere? A living thing from somewhere else? He knew one thing. He wasn’t letting it stand.

He shoved the door open and stepped out into the yard. The night smelled like chimney smoke and wet earth. He popped the trunk and reached inside. His fingers closed around the hefty tire iron. The metal felt solid. Familiar.

His shoulder sent a fresh jolt of pain, enough to make him mad.

“One way or another.”

He shut the trunk.

Gravel crunched under his boots. Each step toward the doorway felt like walking against wind, though the night air was still.

His teeth gritted against the dull throbbing all through his body. Jackson kept his eyes level, refusing to look at anything but the task at hand.

Inside, the air felt denser than before. Charged. It made his molars ache.

He could barely make out Eleanor’s screams. She was going hoarse.

He edged along the outer wall, keeping distance from the cultists. The circle was obscured by the throng of people and his hood.

Darla was nowhere in sight. Cody neither.

His grip tightened on the tire iron. He’d just take care of it himself.

A hand seized his shoulder.

“You again!” a man barked.

Jackson turned and drove the tire iron straight into the man’s ribs. The crack was dull and wet. The man gasped, staggered backward and dropped to a knee. Jackson stepped in and smashed the iron across his temple. He dropped without another sound.

“Abraham, no!”

Another robed figure lunged at him from the side, wild-eyed. The man swung wild. Missed wide. Jackson pivoted and caught him in the jaw with a forearm. Teeth clacked together and he crumpled like a dropped doll.

Jackson stood over them both, breathing hard, not from physical exertion, but the intense pounding in his head.

Voices overlapped in discordant fragments.

“Void...”

“... the boundary...”

Others hoped aloud that it was going to work. It wasn’t if he had anything to do with it.

Jackson’s eyes flicked toward the circle despite himself. He caught only a glimpse. Robes tightening inward. Empty space where something should have been. And then it was.

The stain—wider. Not by much. But enough. He tore his gaze away.

“Finish it,” he said under his breath.

He moved toward the stack of barrels near the rear wall.

Kerosene sat in rusted drums beside brittle timber supports.

Careless.

Fortuitous.

He jammed the tire iron into the lip of the nearest barrel and pried. Metal shrieked. The seal cracked. The sharp, oily odor hit immediately. He tipped the drum. Kerosene spilled across the floorboards in a dark sheen, running in crooked lines filling in the gaps in the floorboards.

A shout over the din.

“You idiot!”

A robed man barreled toward him. Jackson misjudged the distance.

They collided hard. The man swung a fist that glanced off Jackson’s cheekbone, sending white sparks through his vision. Jackson answered with the tire iron. Once. Twice. The robed man reeled and slammed against a support beam; Jackson saw the scene play out in slow motion. His head knocking into a hanging lantern.

It swung wildly but held.

Jackson moved to the next barrel. The hum spiked again—a sudden upward whine that made his ears ring. From the corner of his vision he saw movement, he pivoted with the tire iron in front of him. It wasn’t anyone coming toward him. His peripheral vision vibrated with the incessant hum creating distortions on the outer edge of his vision.

He drove the tire iron into the second barrel. More kerosene flooded the floor, spreading faster now, glistening in the uneven lantern light. One more barrel on the other side should be enough.

Sweat trickled down his spine. He needed Darla and Cody clear first. But if the boundary broke completely— If that thing opened and something slipped free— This was the only play he had.

People were beginning to smell the fuel. They were looking around.

A hand grabbed him from behind and slammed him forward into the third barrel. His forehead struck metal. Stars burst across his vision. He staggered, tasted blood. Another cultist grappled him from the rear, trying to pin his arms.

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

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

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

The picture of Henry Jekyll, my first completed novel is available on amazon now as well.

Thanks again for your support.

Mike