Point Pleasant (26 page)

“Huh.”

“Anyway, they believed it was always there, waiting and watching. If they ever had to wander in too close to where they thought it lived, they would walk with little burning bundles of dried sage. They believed it kept the evil away.”

Ben jotted this all down in his notebook before he glanced up. “So none of them, no one from either tribe, ever tried to fight it? Drive it away?”

“No, no,” Warren chuckled. “They had their brave warriors, I’m sure. But as a people, they had a vast amount of superstition. We think of them as primitive when we compare the way they lived to our modern lifestyles. We get our scares from movies. Ghosts and gods and spooky stuff, they’re just things we watch on television. Or read about in books,” he said and offered Ben a pointed smile. “But these things were a part of their daily lives. They had traditions that they upheld, beliefs they followed. It’s an entirely different mindset, you see. It’s easy for us to want to run in with guns blazing and shoot the monster. They would have weighed the pros and cons of angering an already angry spirit and what it would mean for their harvests and the general well-being of their tribes. They wouldn’t have gone out of their way to intentionally invoke its rage. At least, I don’t
think
they would have.”

“Of course,” Ben replied. “But surely at some point, when their people were disappearing, they’d have had some kind of defense system in place?”

“Just the sage, as far as I know,” Warren said, and he seemed to be digging around in the junk drawer of his mind for anything relevant to Ben’s question.

“Why sage, though?”

“It’s an old practice,” Warren said. “I believe it’s called ‘smudging,’ but I’m no expert. It’s generally used to cleanse a person or a place of negative energies. I suppose it’s a bit like focused meditation with burning sage used as a kind of incense, and the smoke carries away the bad thoughts and influences. It’s rather symbolic if you think about it. Perhaps there is also a thought that the smoke disperses outside forces as well.”

Ben thought of his conversation with Lewis while he took down Warren’s comments. Sage and salt sounded like the start of a grocery list.
You’re going to have to season and sauté it to death, apparently, Benji. Maybe serve it with a nice chianti
.

“You know what’s interesting, though?” Warren asked.

“What’s that, sir?”

“From the talk of where the ‘spirit’ fell, or crawled up out of the ground depending on which story you hear, well, best I can tell, it was around the old TNT Factory. It was built on the spot the Shawnee said the firebird landed when it fell from the sky. I think that’s why the whole ‘Mothman’ story is so popular. The town took an old legend and absorbed it into its growing identity. Also, it probably kept the kids away from the factory when it was still functioning and producing weaponry for the Second World War.”

“So the factory was built directly over the spot?”

“Near as I can tell.”

“That
is
interesting,” Ben mused.

“Anything else?”

Ben checked his notes. Warren’s recount was helpful, but it was still information that was inevitably flawed considering it came from the perspective of a white, middle-class history teacher whose only apparent link to the tribes came from his interest in local events. “I don’t suppose you know anyone from either of the actual tribes who might have a bit more of a personal connection? Someone from the area who would be willing to chat?”

“Not especially. The Shawnee tribal headquarters is in Oklahoma, I believe,” Warren said. “But there are a smattering of them throughout Ohio and West Virginia. I know there’s a program at West Virginia University specifically devoted to Native American studies. I think they have an organization as well. There’s also a federation based out of Huntington. Both groups are intertribal.”

Ben wrote down the locations in case he needed to look them up later. “Thanks,” Ben said when he finished. “I think that’s it for now.”

“If there’s anything else, I’m here if you need me.”

“This was very helpful, Mr. Warren. Really.”

They stood, and Ben shook Warren’s hand once more.

“Can I beg a favor?” Warren asked as he walked Ben to the front door.

“Yeah, anything.”

“Will you sign my books when they come in? I could bring them to the festival if that’s easiest.”

“I’m not actually signing books at the festival,” Ben said. “The
Gazette
published that without my consent.”

Warren’s face fell with disappointment. “Oh, I see.”

“But I’d be happy to come over and sign them for you here,” Ben added with a genial smile.

Warren grinned and clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Oh, fantastic! Good luck with your new book. I’d be happy to read it over when you finish it if you want an extra pair of eyes.”

“That’d be great. I’ll let you know.”

They shook hands again, and Warren opened the door. “Rain’s stopped. Don’t forget your umbrella next time,” he said, offering Ben his coat.

“I’ll make a note,” Ben said. “Goodbye, sir. It was nice to see you.”

“And you, Ben.”

Ben drove back to town, but he was unsure of where to go. He had learned a lot during his two social calls, but he was not sure if it was enough. Another visit to the library seemed like a pointless endeavor as he now knew that the site of the factory was connected to the apparent fall of some monstrous firebird. He could check in on Tucker, but Ben was wary to venture near the forest after Emily Lewis’ final diary entries and Warren’s retelling of the Native American lore.

Spivey’s Hardware Store was adjacent to Main Street. Ben was struck by an idea and pulled the Camaro into an empty parking space out front. He went inside and nodded at the man behind the counter who sported a scruffy beard and greasy Stetson. Jim Spivey chewed something, probably tobacco, and watched as Ben disappeared down an aisle to the back of the store.

A pile of industrial-sized bags of rock salt lined the rear wall. Ben read the weight and whistled.
Forty pounds. Perfect for gritting your driveway during icy winters and keeping monsters out.
He picked up a bag of it and returned to the front of the store.

“Morning,” Spivey drawled as he spat into an old Campbells’ Chicken Noodle Soup can that seemed to be lined with dirty paper towels.

“Good morning,” Ben replied and put the salt down on the countertop.

“You’re stocking up early.”

“Always be prepared.” 

“Yeah, whatever. That’ll be twenty,” Spivey droned.

“Pretty steep for salt,” Ben muttered as he paid with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He smiled politely to Spivey and carried the salt out of the store.

Ben felt accomplished as he stowed the salt in the trunk of the Camaro.
Now, where the hell would you find sage, Benji?

As he moved to
open the driver’s side door, Ben paused when a brightly painted house across the street on the corner of Main caught his attention. The old Victorian was
purple
. Ben wondered what his father would have said about such a shade for the exterior of a house.

A sign in the front window read, “
Marietta Abernathy: Psychic Readings, Healing Treatments, and Herbal Remedies
.”

Ben broke out into a grin. “I’ll be damned.”

The town had always been split on Abernathy’s so-called psychic abilities. Those who had used her services swore up and down that she was ‘the real deal,’ while others remained skeptical of her practices. As Ben crossed the street, he figured it was as good a time as any to test them out for himself. At the very least, maybe she would be able to provide him with some sage.
Herbal remedies, after all.

Ben rang the bell and felt a sudden pang of regret. He thought of the arrowhead Abernathy sold Nicholas after Ben had expressed interest in its potential as a good luck charm. The arrowhead he had thrown into the forest without thought.

His mood darkened, and he reached to ring the bell again just as the door opened. A tall, dark-skinned woman with short, silver hair arched an eyebrow at him as she stuck her head out the doorway. Her neck was long and elegant like that of a swan’s, and a pair of oversized hoop earrings dangled from her ears to accentuate the lean line of her throat.

“Benjamin Wisehart,” Marietta said, her southern accent trailing off her tongue like the lazy rustle of wind through a gardenia bush. Hers was not the familiar twang of a West Virginia native and inspired thoughts of some muggy, azalea-filled destination where the house wine was a tall glass of iced tea.

Ben startled. They had never formally met during his time in Point Pleasant, and a wave of confusion washed over him as he tried to figure out how she knew his name.

“Is that a psychic thing, you knowing who I am?” Ben asked, and he realized how ignorant he sounded as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

Marietta fixed him with a withering gaze and rested her right hand on her hip. “You’re on the front page of the
Gazette
, you fool.”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Ben said and rolled his eyes at himself.

Marietta rolled her eyes as well, but she stilled and stared at him with a sudden interest as if she had noticed something unusual. “Come in,” she said and tilted her head inside the house. “We have some matters to discuss.”

Ben frowned, but he stepped inside. “So, you mainly operate out of your house nowadays?”

“Makes people more comfortable,” Marietta replied. “Knowing the old
witch
is locked behind her moat.”

She peered outside, apparently to ensure no one had followed Ben, and then glanced down at the doorframe. There was a neat line of something white and grainy.
Salt
, Ben realized.

“You afraid of evil spirits?” Ben asked, gesturing to the salt.

Marietta closed the door and clicked the lock in and out of place seven times before she faced him. “Aren’t you?”

Ben opted to keep quiet to test if her abilities were, in fact, ‘the real deal.’

Marietta seemed to guess his game, and she bestowed him with a wan smile. “Of course you are,” she said. “You’ve got one’s taint on you.”

Ben bristled. “I what?” 

“Come along, Benjamin,” she said. “I’d offer you a coffee, but you’ve had enough for the morning.”

The scent of cloves hung on the air as Ben followed her down a hallway to a sitting room. Its walls were a deep plum and from them hung several tapestries and curious diagrams of hands and renderings of the Star of David. Faded Persian rugs covered the wood flooring in haphazard layers. Large, heavy vases bore bundles of columbine that shared the same shade of purple as the house’s exterior paint job. Gilded knick-knacks cluttered the surfaces of the psychic’s clunky rosewood furniture as though she had run out of space to shelve her shop’s antiques and had resorted to displaying them in her home.

“Have a seat,” Marietta said, gesturing to a velvet sofa.

“What do you mean,
I have its taint on me?
” Ben asked as he complied.

Marietta sat beside him and crossed her legs. “It’s like something’s marked you with a big red X,” she said. “It’s all over your aura.”

“My
aura?
”
 

“It’s a sad one at that,” Marietta mused. “I’m terribly sorry about your daddy. That was a tragic way to go.”

“That was in the paper, ma’am,” Ben said, his voice full of doubt.

Marietta draped herself against the arm of the sofa with a grace that Ben would have found charming under other circumstances. She leaned closer and held Ben’s eyes in a penetrating stare before she said, “You’ll find it, Ben. But you have to trust it when you do.”

Ben lurched away from her as she repeated the words that had jerked him into consciousness that morning, words from a recurring dream he had had since he was twenty years old, words he had never relayed to another living soul.

Alarm twisted in the pit of Ben’s stomach as the pupils inside Marietta’s brown irises expanded until only a sliver of brown remained visible.

“You thought you knew what ‘
it’
was. You thought you knew what she meant. You thought you had it all worked out. But now you know ‘
it’
is something else entirely, don’t you, Benjamin?”

Ben skidded to the other side of the sofa. He wanted to jump up and leave the purple house immediately, but he forced himself to stay seated. “How do you know that?”

A demure smirk played at the corner of Marietta’s burgundy-lined lips as a grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked away the seconds with resonating clicks of one of its hands. “I’m special.”

“I don’t know what ‘it’ is,” Ben insisted. “Not really. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

“You have to
trust
it,” Marietta repeated as if this were the most obvious truth in all of creation. “You have to set it
free
.” She tilted her head to the side as if someone had whispered in her ear.

“Break it,” Marietta said reflexively. “You have to break it.”

“Break
what?
” Ben demanded.

Marietta shot Ben a scolding scowl like she was reprimanding him for interrupting her private conversation with a person he could not see. “It’s trying to tell you,” she said. “It wants you to know. You just have to learn how to listen.”

“How to listen?”

“Not with your ears,” Marietta confirmed.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Think it through, you’ll understand.”

“Fine. Be cryptic.”

“I don’t know
everything
, Benjamin. I can’t see it all. But you had best be careful. Something is stirring. Something big, something awful. We won’t survive, none of us will, if you don’t trust it. Figure out how to listen, and it will tell you how to break it.”

She stood and adjusted the hem of the navy sheath dress that hung from her lithe frame. “Wait here,” she said before she disappeared out of the room.

The clock chimed to signal that it was quarter to twelve o’clock, and Ben sat wide-eyed and dumbstruck on the sofa. When Marietta reappeared, she had a small paper bag in her hands.