Salem's Daughters (37 page)

Debbie fired back. “Don’t forget about Scarlett. I just gutted her in the living room. And since I don’t see Rebecca, I’m assuming she’s dead. That’s nine cats down. Four to go.”

Debbie stepped into the living room, shotgun at the ready, and looked behind the overturned furniture. “There’s nowhere to go. You can’t hide. I know you have to be close to me if you want to do your dirty work. That’ll make it easy to hunt you down one by one and blast the living hell out of you.”

“Sheeesh, Chill out. We don’t want to escape. We could, though. Helen, do your thing.”

Clicking noises came from the front door. Debbie watched as the locks turned by themselves. The door swung open, then slammed shut, locking again.

“Let’s be clear. It’s you who can’t leave.”

Debbie ran around the living room, looking for any trace of the remaining cats. “Show yourselves, you cowards. Nine of you are dead. That leaves Chloe, Helen, Esther and you.”

“We’re all here. Except Rebecca. And that makes five of us still alive.”

Debbie stopped to recalibrate. “Rebecca. Is she dead?”

“Nope.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s busy.”

“Stop playing games.”

“Rebecca got bored so she stepped out for a little adventure. Look out the window toward your neighbor’s house. Now that I think of it, we should have burned that place down along with the Turner home. The Brady family has always been a bunch of pompous assholes who think they’re better than everyone else.”

Debbie backed toward the window on the west side of the room and peered over her shoulder, all the while swinging the shotgun back and forth, ready for an attack from the cats.

In the grass at her property’s edge, four volleys of fire arced a hundred feet up in the air, then descended on Eddie and Alison Brady’s house. In moments, the wood shingled roof was engulfed in flames.

“Rebecca will be back in a few minutes. She’ll want to burn this place to ashes. It’s her thing. It’s what she does. Might as well raise the white flag and accept the inevitable. You’re going to die. My remaining sisters and I, we’ll live on in this life, then join our fallen comrades in our seventh life sometime in the future.”

Debbie backed up toward the front door, stumbling over her feet, and reached for the knob.

“I’m sorry. But we can’t let you leave.”

Debbie tried door. It wouldn’t open. She tried turning the three locks, only to see them lock again.

“What the hell?”

“There are three locks on the front door. Having only two hands, you’ll never be able to unlock all three at the same time and escape. You can thank Helen for her expertise in locking and unlocking things.”

Debbie looked through the living room into the kitchen to the basement door.

“Forget about Bob. Only Helen can unlock what she’s locked. Helen, do you want to let Boring Bob out?”

Debbie could hear Bob still pounding away with one fist. Her heart felt like it was squashed flat and all vital fluids were leaking out. Her soul mate’s voice was cracked and weak. She could hear the indescribable pain from his crushed arm in his voice.

“So sorry. Helen said no.”

Debbie tried a few windows. She couldn’t open any. She picked up a candy bowl and reared back to throw and break the glass. It exploded in her hand, burning her fingers. Shards of crystalline glass hit her face.

Debbie couldn’t lose her mind. It was her against Emily. No time to show weakness, to the cats or herself. She cocked a grin and picked out embedded pieces from her cheek and hair, flicking them in the air. There was some blood, but not a lot.

“By the way, that was Esther. She can make inanimate objects explode by converting some of its mass into energy. Much more efficient than a shotgun, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You listen to me,” Debbie said, shaking her wounded hand. “I know you don’t want to die. If Bob and I go, then so do you.”

“We’ve been through this before. And make no mistake we’re in control. Although this is the first time some of us have been killed before the grand finale. We usually all go up in flames together. Oh, speaking of going up in flames, Rebecca’s back.”

The locks on the front door clicked in unison and the door opened. Rebecca proudly strutted in, her tail wagging in the air. The door slammed shut behind her and the locks clicked to the locked position.

Debbie had an idea. It’s now or never. She took one more glance out the window at the Brady’s house, now completely consumed in flames. The fire department would be arriving any minute. Instead of blasting Rebecca, she had to get her to start a fire. That would bring emergency vehicles to Murcat Manor.

“Go ahead. Set this cursed place on fire. I think you’re bluffing. You’re too much of a coward to give the order.”

“We’ll do that. But first, let’s play a game of hide and seek. We’re already hiding. I’ll give you a hint. We’re all here in the living room. Find us and kill us, and you live. Fail, and you die.”

Debbie needed to be brave. But she was terrified for Bob. She needed his help. He needed hers. Bob’s pounding and thumps became more desperate.

“Bob, talk to me,” Debbie shouted. “It’s just a door.”

She could hear his voice but not make out what he said. She pulled out her cell phone and called him.

“Bob, are you okay? I need your help.”

“I can’t get past the locked door.”

“Use power tools. The basement’s full of them.”

“Trying. But—”

The phone went dead. She called back.

“Every time I plug in a power saw, it shuts off seconds after I turn it on. Same with my cell phone. I call you but it disconnects as soon as—”

Dead again.

Emily was laughing hysterically.

It only took Debbie a moment to make the connection.

Helen.

Emily said she could lock and unlock doors. And turn things on and off. Debbie’s mind was whirling faster. Emily, in all her arrogance, had given away too many clues as to how they operated. The cats had to be close by, or able to look at what they influenced.

This was all a trick.

She had wondered if Emily would try to use a diversion. Orchestrate something so obvious, Debbie wouldn’t see, or pay any attention if she did.

And here it was. Emily drew Debbie and her shotgun away from Bob. Helen had to be in the kitchen where she could see the front and basement doors. The other cats also there, planning on killing Bob.

Debbie turned and sprinted toward the kitchen. On the other side of the table she heard the pitter patter of pawed feet scattering across the wooden floor. She jumped onto and rolled across the table and landed on the other side, catching the sneaky conspirators by surprise.

She swept the shotgun around and saw three cats run off. Chloe and Esther disappeared around the table. Helen was not so fortunate. Debbie squeezed the trigger. An incredibly loud boom and a vicious kickback, and the hellcat was blasted into bloody pieces.

Debbie landed on her butt but quickly recovered.

Bob was shouting at her. “What’s going on? Did you get one?”

“Helen. I just blasted Helen. That leaves four more. Hold on, honey. I’ll get you out.”

“Mrs. Stevens. What’s going on here? Did you just shoot that in the house?”

A familiar voice emerged from behind. Raymond Hettinger. The bulky summer help stumbled into the kitchen from the backdoor. He had to steady himself as he rubbed his forehead. Dried blood covered the left side of his head, neck, and shoulder.

Debbie ran to and helped steady him. “Raymond. Thank God you’re alive. What happened?”

“Your grandmother asked me to go the pharmacy and pick up a prescription. When I came back, I saw her lying on the floor. The cats were gathered around her. I think they were mourning her. I bent over to see if she was alive or dead.

“There was a small frying pan on the floor. Somehow, and I know this sounds crazy, but it lifted by itself and floated in the air, then hit me in the head. I stumbled out the back door. That’s the last I remember. I think
American Ghost Stories
was right. This place is haunted. There has to be a poltergeist in here.”

Debbie, still holding the shotgun, grabbed Raymond by the chin with her free hand and pulled him in. “Those cats gathered around my grandmother, they’re possessed and spawned from the pits of hell. They killed her.”

Raymond gave a look of disbelief. “Those cute furry little cats I play with all the time?”

He looked down on the shotgun Debbie gripped, down at Erma, then back to Debbie. Raymond broke free of Debbie’s grip and put a little space between them.

“Raymond, you have to trust me. There’s no time to explain. Bob is locked in the basement. There’s no way to unlock it.”

Bob continued to pound and hit the door. “Is that Raymond I hear?”

“It’s me, Mr. Stevens. I’m here to help.”

Raymond reached for the knob, placed his right foot on the wall, and pulled. Nothing. The six foot four handy man couldn’t get the door to budge. Bob was still pounding with his one good hand.

“We’ve got to get him out,” Debbie said.

A disheveled look came across Raymond’s face. He paused, then said, “An ax. There’s one in the shed. I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”

Debbie knew the scene looked far too suspicious. But she had to get Bob out. Together, they would try to explain what happened. Raymond rushed back into the kitchen with the ax poised over his shoulder.

He stumbled forward, still reeling from being hit in the head with a cast iron skillet. “The Brady’s house next door is totally on fire. I hear lots of sirens. Must be the Fire Department.”

Although disoriented, he looked coherent enough to do the job. “Stand back, Mr. Stevens.”

Raymond, not taking his eyes off Debbie and her shotgun, took a violent swing. He was right handed, but swung from his left side. Debbie knew this was so he didn’t turn his back to her.

The ax dug deep into the door. He had to fight to pull it out.

“A few more whacks and I’ll have you out, Mr. Stevens.”

Behind her, metallic clinking and clanging filled the air. Debbie turned to see a dozen knives from one of her cutlery sets leave their wooden holders and hover, suspended in air. The blue-and-white-steel forged Japanese Chubo kitchen knives looked as menacing as weaponized drones.

Debbie knew what would happen. She opened her mouth and inhaled. But before she could speak, the knives shot across the kitchen. They found their mark. Every one embedded deep into Raymond. Most were in his back. A steak knife found its mark in his neck. Two went into his left thigh. One dug deep into his right shoulder.

Raymond froze, then fell forward. His head bashed against the floor and the ax fell harmlessly beside him. Raymond didn’t move. Behind Debbie, Emily and Chloe sat. They raised their paws and clapped in a high five, then ran off in separate directions.

There were more sirens. But these did not stop at their neighbors. They were passing the Brady farmhouse and nearing Murcat Manor.

Chapter 59              A Jinx is a Jinx

Debbie was flabbergasted. How could this happen. The cats found one more person to kill. Grandma. Grandpa. Now big strapping Raymond Hettinger lay dead on her kitchen floor. She shuddered, aghast at the sight of him. No way could anyone survive an onslaught like that.

There’s nothing I can do for Raymond. Get it together, girl. Let’s go.

Back to Bob. He’s still pounding on the basement door. If she didn’t get him and herself out, she was sure, Emily would bring today’s body count to five—including hers and Bob’s. As Debbie picked up the ax, what looked like a liquid stream of fire glided past her. It hit the doorknob, spread across the six solid oak door panels, then jumped to the walls. The flames crawled like advancing demons to the ceiling.

Rebecca
.

“Hey,” Bob’s muffled voice made its way through the door. “I smell the smoke from the other side. And the knob is blistering hot.”

“It’s Rebecca. She set the door on fire.”

“You need to get me out. Now. Otherwise, Deb,” he sighed in resignation. “Save yourself.”

On the wall was a fire extinguisher. She pulled it from its holder and aimed at the door. A few moments later the fire was out, although smoke and discharge from the extinguisher filled the kitchen. The fire alarms blared, their high-pitched beeps only multiplying the tension.

Debbie took a few more whacks with the ax, focusing on the door knob and lock. She wasn’t strong enough to break it. On the counter was a stack of dish towels. She wrapped her hand with one and tried to turn the red hot knob.

“It won’t work,” the deadpanned voice said.

Emily again.

“The only one who can undo a jinx is the one who performed it. And you just blasted Helen into a million pieces.”

Debbie looked around. Again, there was no way to tell which direction the voice was coming from. But she knew the cats were close and watching her. They were not going to miss this, the climatic conclusion of their sixth life.

“But you can. You said you have all their powers.”

“Doesn’t work that way.” Emily’s tone was harsh and acrid. “I mimic my follower’s powers, but only as long as they’re alive. They reside with me for a few minutes after they die. I can feel Helen’s power slipping away as we speak.

“And you do realize, don’t you, that your fingerprints are all over those knives that are plunged into poor dead Raymond’s back? Your fate is sealed in a one-way package to prison, should we decide to let you live.”

“Please. I beg of you. You’ve killed enough people. You don’t need us.”

“You’re right. I don’t need you. But this is what we do. This is what we’ve done for our previous five lives.”

“I’m sorry for what happened to you. To your sister. But that’s in the past. You can’t go back and change it.”

“I know that—you think I don’t know that?” Emily was now in a full rage. “But I can seek out revenge the only way I know how. The only way the rest of us know. And thanks to you and Boring Bob, our sixth life has been the best ever. I take a bow and thank you both.”

“Oh, screw this. Bob, step away from the door. I’m blasting it into smithereens.”

A moment later Bob’s faint voice could be heard. “I’m safe. Blast away.”

Debbie felt the gun getting hot in her hands. “What the hell?”

She stared, dumbfounded, at the end of the barrel bending sideways. Then the screws holding the trigger undid themselves and the device came apart in her hand.

“Give it up. We’ve had five lives, spread over four hundred years, of doing this. There’s nothing you can do. Admit it.”

She’s right, Debbie knew in her sunken heart. But she still had to fight. The Mossberg 500 was useless as a shotgun. But she could still swing it like a baseball bat. And she still had the ax.

Debbie prepared to attack but, before she could do anything, the back door opened. Through the smoke and fog a shadow appeared.

“Drop the shotgun, Mrs. Stevens.”

Shit
. Darrowby.