Salem's Daughters (31 page)

Ross looked at Debbie with a manipulative smile. “Nothing a good old fashioned turkey meal from Cornwell’s won’t do to fix what’s ailing you.”

Debbie looked up at her Grandfather, a glint of a smile forming. “Well, I guess so. A few hours away from this place will help. Thanks Grandpa.”

Ross took Debbie by the hand. He walked around the table to Erma and tried to lead her to the front door. “Coming, dear?”

Erma shook her head. “No. I’m feeling a bit under the weather. And my arthritis is acting up again. You all go. I’ll relax on the sofa in the living room.”

“Are you sure?”

Erma smiled and stood on her toes to kiss Ross. “Yes. You can bring me back a To-Go plate. I’m going to take a nap. I’ll feel better after that.”

“That leaves you, Bob. Coming?”

Again with the big, annoying, commercial smile. Ross was the last person, outside of Darrowby, he wanted to be with. Events were moving too fast. Bob needed time alone to recalibrate his senses and think things through.

As mad as he was at Ross, he welcomed the break. He could use this time alone to his advantage. Ross and Erma, they were only slowing him down.

Aside from that, Bob needed time to research the history of the property. Toss in four dead cats? He couldn’t shake the thought of some unforeseen activity at work. For once, he was in agreement with Erma.

There was a presence in Murcat Manor he felt was hiding in plain view. Now that he admitted there was a force at his bed and breakfast he had no control over, it was time to uncover what it was and what he needed to do to take back authority of his bed and breakfast.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going to Western Michigan University’s library. I think I need to dig deeper into this property’s past. I know you can find a lot on the Internet, but I have a hunch there are occult types of occurrences, and strange bits of history, that could better be found—if they still exist anywhere at all—in the archives of a good old-fashioned library.”

Ross was already halfway through the arched door and into the living room. “Suit yourself. But you’re wasting your time, my boy.”

Debbie glanced back to the Goths and Vamps. “I’m not sure what time we’ll be back. There’s more leftovers from the refrigerator. Just be sure to clean up the dishes.”

One of the Vamps tossed her sandwich on the table. “I hate turkey. And I’m bored. Murcat Manor sucks. I still haven’t seen a ghost. This place is false advertising. No one’s died today.”

Before Bob could kick the freaks out of the kitchen, Erma gave the unruly brat a devious grin. “Day’s not over, yet.”

Chapter 49              Old Faithful

Erma Dempsey awoke to a stampeding rush of feet descending the stairs. She opened one eye to see the Goths and Vamps leaping the final few steps and pouring out into the foyer. Their black boots stomped across the travertine tile floor as they laughed and headed for the front door.

Erma would have slapped the snot out of her kids if they’d run through her house like that.

She took a deep breath and lifted her head. They were kids, barely eighteen. She surmised they lived off their parents’ money. No way these lost souls, looking and behaving in such a foolish manner, could find a job and support themselves.

“The food here sucks,” the alpha male Goth said as he opened the front door.

His girlfriend smacked him on the butt, all smiles. “Mickey Dees, here we come.”

Erma sat up straight and put on a smile as she ran her hands through her hair and matted down her blouse. Perhaps, these kids, they’ve been neglected. Maybe they never received the love and discipline from their parents she gave to her kids. Erma thought there was something good inside most people. The spark of the divine simply needed to be massaged to the surface. Then pummeled into submission, if necessary.

She’d raised four children. Surely, these youngsters were not much different, regardless of their choice of clothing and makeup. And oh my goodness, all those absurd tattoos and body piercings. Their counter cultural preferences clearly told her they were desperate for someone, anyone, to notice them. That’s all.

Erma would attempt to say something nice to them.

“See ya, granny,” one of the Vamps said, pointing at her. “Don’t try to get up without your walker.”

Erma’s words froze before they could roll off her tongue. The audacity of the delinquents’ actions stunned her. It was as if there were no repercussions for their conduct. Her kids had never spoken to her in such a disrespectful manner. They knew the consequences.

But these weren’t her kids. She couldn’t whack them with a switch, so she blurted out the first words that came to mind.

“Chill. I’m just trying to be cool, that’s all.”

The lead Goth looked over his shoulder as he stepped out the front door. “Granny, the only time you should say chill and cool is in reference to knitting a sweater.”

The rest laughed as they piled out onto the front porch. Not one of the eerie and mysterious lot bothered to close the door.

Erma could only stare and mutter the words, “Disrespectful little bastards.”

Erma had a good nap. But the afternoon was getting late. Ross and Debbie would be back soon. She opened her purse, knowing where to reach. Left side. Just behind her wallet. It was there in the same place. Just as it had been in every purse she owned over the past fifty years.

Her trusty flask. A family heirloom, handed down to her from her grandmother on her wedding day. This precious gift was old school, where heritage and personality trumped mass production. A deep tan leather body molded by her grandfather’s hands stretched over the sterling silver container. A green Celtic cross with their family crest was imprinted into the aged parchment.

She had a name for her flask:
Old Faithful
. Her best friend was always there to give courage and make her laugh during the most challenging of times. And today, she would need her companion’s help more than ever.

Erma Dempsey had to take control of matters. Ross was blinded by the hope that false gimmicks would keep Murcat Manor packed.

But Bob, she was beginning to realize, now he was one smart cookie. As much as Erma made fun of Bob she had developed a respect for him, incrementally at first, but lately exponentially. She knew once he committed to a task, he would see it through. Tonight, Robert Jeremy Stevens would expose whatever dark secrets lurked behind the history of Murcat Manor.

Unfortunately, Bob took calculated risks. And Erma didn’t have the time that Bob’s risk management mindset would offer.

She pulled out
Old Faithful
and twisted off the cap. She closed her eyes and took a careful sniff of the
Balvenie Single
Malt fifteen year old scotch, saluted her old friend, and took three large gulps. A quick shudder and flapping of the lips as the whiskey passed her esophagus brought her senses back to full charge.

Erma placed the flask back in her shoulder purse and stepped to the front porch. The Goths backed their cars out of their parking spaces and drove past, staring at her, and making insolent faces and jabbing fingers her way while laughing.

Erma gave each carload of brats a grin and a stiff high wave of her middle finger, breaking their mocking expressions into surprised deadpanned faces.

The aging yet conniving matriarch closed the front door and walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Now she needed to get rid of Raymond. Erma came prepared with a plan.

“Raymond,” she called out.

The Murcat Manor handyman came from the basement, wiping his hands with a towel. “Hi Mrs. Dempsey. What can I do for you?”

Erma handed him a prescription from her purse and faked a cough. “Be a dear, and run over to the pharmacy for me. I forgot to fill this. And Ross is still out at Cornwell’s with Debbie. They won’t be back for a while.”

Raymond offered a wink. “Sure thing. I’m just finishing up some odd jobs. Anything else you need?”

Erma placed her hand on his cheek. “No. Just the prescription. Thank you for helping me out.” She donned a bewildered look. “Sometimes, I just don’t know where I leave my brain. Let me tell you, getting old, it’s not fun.”

As soon as Raymond left, closing the front door, Erma took a few more swigs. She patted
Old Faithful
as if they were kindred souls.

She stood at the head of the large custom oak table and looked around the Debbie’s domain. How proud she was of her only granddaughter. Debbie Elaine Stevens was not short on vision. She had accomplished so much at such a young age and was living her dream in a way far beyond most women could ever conceive.

Erma took a deep breath and looked across the table, Debbie’s centerpiece and pride and joy of Murcat Manor. The door to the basement stood on the far side of the kitchen. The pet door at the bottom allowed the cats free range in and out of the cellar.

Those damned cats. They were not in the living room. Nor were they in the kitchen. Bob and Debbie’s bedroom was sealed with yellow police tape, including the animal door. And they hated the outdoors. Spoiled little vermin, they were. They could only be one place.

The basement.

Erma took a moment and allowed the Irish whiskey to absorb into her bloodstream. Satisfied
Old Faithful
had not let her down, and why would she now, Erma walked around the oak table and stood at the door to what she believed was a portal to the underworld.

This was a place where the metaphysical world converged with the physical. It wasn’t necessary to understand or explain the malevolent evil that had the authority to kill as it pleased. That it existed, and endured for generations underneath Murcat Manor, would suffice.

Erma took another lung full of air and gripped the door knob. She despised the cats and the mayhem they inflicted on innocent people. That’s what overrode the fear that would turn most people away. In one swift move, she stood at the top of the stairs. Erma had a grand view of the basement and a good idea what to expect.

There were nine hellish cats left after last night’s
American Ghost Stories
fiasco. If she could kill at least five, that would be considered a victory. She would pick off the rest later, one at a time.

Chapter 50              Tables Turned

Emily Livingston could scarcely believe her luck. She’d eavesdropped when Erma got rid of Ross and Debbie. Her husband was such a glutton. He would finish lunch at Cornwell’s, then munch on the buffet, staying until it was time to eat dinner.

Bob Stevens would be out late, researching the history of Murcat Manor at a local college. Raymond Hettinger was playing errand boy. Those freakish Goths and Vamps were not a threat as they were off to McDonalds for dinner.

It was just Erma now.

Poor little Erma. She must be drunk. Why else would she be foolish enough to challenge Emily and her sisterhood? But Emily decided to never again underestimate an opponent. There was much strange magic they had never seen. Indian Joe had taught her that.

Erma Dempsey had no special powers like Indian Joe. She was elderly, although sprite for her age. And she was petite. If the young and vibrant cast from
American Ghost Stories
were powerless to do anything, what could tipsy little old Erma possible do to harm them?

There she stood, now at the bottom of the stairs, all five feet two inches and barely one hundred and twenty pounds. Emily could take her down in a second—a mere thought implant would take her out. But why draw more unneeded attention to her and the rest of the cats?

Darrowby would be back. Four dead cats may not be the main thrust of his systematic probing. But he had to be asking questions about the feline clan. And a dead family matriarch in the basement would pour gas onto the fire that was Darrowby’s investigation.

Emily sat on her favorite shelf amidst the industrial sized banged up cans of fruit cocktail and laughed inwardly as Erma studied her surroundings. Her following lounged around, not too worried.

“Well ladies, what do you think?”

Rebecca,
sitting on a stack of boxes of bedroom linens with Madelyn at her side, was the first to respond. “I think AARP’s confused. She’s examining the basement. We’re all in plain sight. What’s she looking for?”

“Another bottle of Irish whiskey?” Helen said.

That elicited a round of soft laughter.

Erma stepped forward and zeroed in on the work table. She passed by Chloe and Midnight, who were lying in the center, without looking at them.

“Maybe she’s sleep walking,” Midnight said.

Emily watched as Erma found a small piece of drywall, then picked up a cordless drill from Raymond’s tools and a hand full of screws. Emily laughed again as the aged woman looked peculiar carrying a power tool. Erma walked back to the stairs and climbed to the top. She turned her head over her shoulder and looked down on the cats with a leer.

“I’ve got you now, you disease carrying miscreants.”

Erma knelt, her back to Emily, blocking her movements. But the sound of the drill confirmed what Emily suspected. Erma was sealing the animal door shut.

“Um, I think we should confirm Erma as a threat,” Chloe said. “No vote needed.”

Erma stood on the top step and looked down on Emily. Her smirk grew to a full smile as she gave an underhand toss of the drill.

The tool seemed to take its time as it followed its parabolic arch before slamming onto the work table. The violent and noisy impact scattered smaller tools onto the floor as it slid to the far end and disappeared over the side. Chloe and Midnight barely escaped its path. They jumped off the table with a screech and disappeared behind a row of folding chairs.

“Yep. She’s a threat,” Esther said.

Erma walked with confidence down the stairs, one step at a time. Her smile never wavered. Halfway down, she unzipped her shoulder purse.

“Careful,” Emily said, holding her breath and realizing her pulse had risen. “We don’t know what’s in her bag.”

“She could have a gun,” Helen added.

To Emily’s relief, and amusement, Erma pulled out a foot long cross. She gripped it tight by the long base and held it in front of her. Once on the basement floor, she panned the room with it, as if creating a defense around her the cats would not be able to penetrate.

“Is this some kind of joke?” a chuckling Esther said. “We destroyed her family heirloom, that giant Celtic cross, when we killed DeShawn Hill. Does she think that puny little Crucifix is going to hurt us?”

Emily exhaled. She collected her thoughts and felt sorry for Erma. It pained her to see the family matriarch stoop to such a ridiculous act.

She imagined Erma in her youth. Strong. Smart. A leader. But fast forward to today, it was, well, kind of sad. The queen of the Dempsey clan was a hollow stump where a glorious tree once stood. Emily would try to put an end to this before Erma further humiliated herself and got hurt.

“Hello, Erma.”

Erma snickered as she began a slow and steady pace across the basement. “Yeah, I knew there was something evil about you cats when one of you hissed inside my head and made me look foolish in front of my family. Remember that? I do. No one else heard it. But I did.”

Erma scanned the room of cats. “Which one of you flea bags was it?”

Isabella jumped up on the work table and waved her paw. “It was me.”

Erma’s grin turned into a scowl. “I don’t know how you did it. And I really don’t care.”

“I’ll tell you anyway,” Isabella said, maintaining her stare at Erma and again waving her paw. “Please allow me to gloat. I have the power of telepathy. I can transmit information from and to a human or any other animal without using any known sensory channels or physical interaction.”

Emily couldn’t resist. “Or maybe you’re crazy and imagining cats are talking to you.”

Erma continued her measured pace as she pulled out her flask and took a few gulps, still holding her cross. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and put the flask back in her purse.

“Oh, I’m not crazy. I can assure you that. In fact, I’m smarter than anyone in this family. In case you haven’t realized it, I’m the only one who’s figured you smelly rodents out.”

“Well then, maybe you’re drunk. And for the record, we’re felines. Not rodents.”

“I know what you are,” Erma spat out. “Don’t get smart with me. I don’t tolerate sass talk.”

“Listen to me,” Emily said. “Why don’t you turn around and go back upstairs. Just leave. Pretend none of this happened. We’ve already killed one elderly person in Indian Joe. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Erma regained her wicked smile. She approached Isabella and Esther, waving the cross in their faces. Then she moved on to Helen and did the same.

“I’ve got you lazy good for nothing regurgitated fur balls right where I want you.”

As the other cats did their best to act as if they didn’t care, Emily watched Erma as she trotted back to Isabella.

It happened fast. Erma spun the cross in her hand with speed and precision. She now held the short end of the cross and tore the covering off what was the long base.

An elongated shiny steel blade gleamed in the basement light overhead. The Celtic cross had become a dagger—similar to the knife Indian Joe used. Only this time, Erma intended to use it on gutting the cats. Once again, Emily and her sisterhood had let their guard down. And now, another elderly person had turned the tables on them.