Danvers Pointe— Episode Sixteen

Last week: Darla saw her father; younger, alive, terrified. Jackson saw his own hollow-eyed double, aged and drunk. Brought face-to-face with the reality altering void, Jackson realized what it was, a doorway.

Danvers Pointe, Massachusetts — 1938

It had to be a doorway.

A woman he recognized from the picture at the Historical Society stepped toward him. Eleanor Vance. Lantern light caught the silver in her hair and turned it into a halo. That was where any similarity to an angel ended.

She moved mechanically, matronly, her head held almost too high. Like one of the nuns that used to crack his knuckles in school.

She looked down on them. Jackson was pretty sure that even if they were standing face to face, she’d still look down on them.

She studied Darla first. Jackson watched the recognition dawn slowly across her face.

“I can’t believe it’s you.” Her voice was exactly as Jackson had predicted. Cold, emotionless. She tried to mimic some human emotion, but it was a pale attempt. It came out calm, cultured, but still wrong.

“I always wondered what Rayford’s children would grow into.”

A robed man approached and handed her Cody’s satchel.

Jackson’s stomach fell. They should have stashed it again. He’d forgotten about it when Darla raced into the building. Damn it.

She opened the leather satchel and slid the journal out. She looked it over, then, satisfied, flipped open the book.

The stain pulsed.

Dust trickled down from high rafters.

She glanced at Darla.

“Darla, I wish you’d have just called on me at home. We could have had a lovely cup of tea and scones.” A honey coated lie.

“This... intrusion complicates things,” she said looking between them. “Still, you’ve returned my journal.”

She tossed the satchel casually toward Cody. He caught it and slung it over his shoulder. Jackson’s eyes flicked between him and Darla. He could see the family resemblance. The kid didn’t look like a captive. He looked like he was brainwashed.

And, Cody wasn’t the one who hid the journal... Or if he had, he’d had a change of mind since.

There wasn’t a hint of fear in him.

Eleanor opened the journal to a marked page. She glanced toward the stain, and her eyes sparkled.

“Now,” she said firmly, “we can finally complete the ritual.”

The word complete echoed wrong in Jackson’s ears.

“You don’t have to do it. Think of all these people,” Jackson said. He expected another blow for speaking up.

Eleanor looked down at them. The sparkle died.

“I do hope we get to catch up after.”

After what? After whatever she called stepped out of the... door?

“Remove them.”

Hands reached under their armpits and forced them to stand. Jackson watched as Darla lifted her head and met Cody’s eyes.

He looked at her for a moment. Not with fear or relief, but with a hint of frustration. As if she had arrived at the worst possible moment, like a little sister showing up in the boys’ fort.

Unwanted.

The stain flickered. Lantern flames dimmed. The floorboards trembled. It had to be alive somehow.

“We don’t have a lot of time people. Move,” said Eleanor.

“No. Don’t do this Eleanor,” Darla called over her shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Oh, my dear, you sound just like your father.”

The robed figures tied them and shoved them back by the metal drums. Jackson could see glimpses of the ritual as Eleanor began reciting from the journal in a harsh foreign language. It sounded like iron scraping across gravel, all consonant and no vowels.

The hum was different this time, it had a higher pitch, a whine behind it. They watched as the stain writhed in the circle, expanding and contracting.

Jackson had found a sharp piece of metal behind him and began sawing at the rope bindings.

Everyone was intent on the summoning.

Entranced.

Finally, the rope fell away. He got to his feet and untied Darla’s bindings. A moment later, they crouched and saw two of the participants near the circle collapse.

Blood seeped from their noses and ears as they lay on the floor convulsing.

The others took no notice of their fallen brethren.

“Cody—” Darla breathed.

Jackson didn’t look at her.

He was already moving.

Then a loud pop sounded, like a baseball bat connecting with a fastball.

Eleanor’s utterances were coming quicker now. He glanced at her. She had her eyes screwed shut, strain visible on her features.

The entire mill seemed like it was in pain. Loose boards shook, anything that wasn’t nailed down vibrated.

There was a tremor that crawled under his skin. The lantern flames leaned toward the center of the circle as if drawn by a draft no one else could feel.

He shoved between two robed figures and made room for Darla. They were so intent on the stain, they didn’t even notice.

The second person who’d collapsed was gone. Odd. There was no way she could have gotten up or been dragged away without Jackson seeing.

He stepped over to Cody, grabbed his robe and yanked his body away from the “chalk” circle.

The air changed. It was thick, metallic — like trying to breathe through a broken nose.

Cody lay on the floor a foot from the boundary, jaw clenched, body rigid. His eyes weren’t rolled back. They were open, staring into the unknown. Blood trickled from his nose and left ear.

“Kid,” Jackson said, "time to go." He slapped Cody gently, trying to get him to focus.

The moment his hand brushed Cody’s skin, a pulse went through him. Like touching an electrified fence. A second or an hour later, Jackson unclenched his eyes tried to swallow. It felt like he had a grapefruit stuck in his throat.

Eleanor’s voice was unrecognizable now. It bordered on hysteria and the entire mill shook under some invisible hand.

The stain was mere feet away. It took everything he had not to stare into the cursed thing.

I shouldn’t have looked into it. The words from Cody’s letter hissed in his mind.

“Circle... weakening,” someone groaned.

He helped Cody sit up and then stand. Jackson half carried him out the doors into the cold night air. He felt Cody’s resistance, but it was minimal. That thing really had its hooks in him.

As soon as they stepped into the gravel, Jackson’s ears released the pressure. It was like driving down a mountain.

The absolute absence of wildlife sounds was eerie. He was sure he’d never forget this part of Danvers Pointe.

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

A rope lay near the trunk. The kid had gotten away. Oh, well. The gig was up anyway.

“You shouldn’t have—” Cody started.

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Mike