The Awakening Evil (11 page)

Yes! Let her kill me then! Jane thought.

I told you, that isn't going to happen. I have plans for you,
Sarah said.

A hand touched Jane on the shoulder. She spun around. And saw the foreman standing there. A short, squat man with bright red hair and muscular arms.

He looked surprised to see her. And worried.

“Mrs. Fear?” he asked. His gaze was locked on her bloodstained dress. “Are you all right, Mrs. Fear?”

“I had a little accident,” Jane said. She cackled.

No, Jane yelled at herself. She had to maintain control. She couldn't let Sarah take over.

“Do you need a doctor?” the foreman asked. He sounded alarmed.

Jane wanted to warn him. She wanted to scream at him to get away from her as fast as he could.

But she couldn't force her lips to form the words.

Her mouth twisted in a horrible grin. “I am fine!” She shrieked with laughter.

The foreman gulped. “Mrs. Fear? I am sorry, ma'am. Terribly sorry. About your husband's death. I heard how sick you were from it. I was sick afterward, myself. I only came back here today for the first time. I—I wanted to make sure things were running smoothly. If you want me to resign, I will. If you want me to stay on, I will do that as well. It's entirely up to you, ma'am. I couldn't feel worse about what happened—”

“You are sorry?” Jane cried, her voice hoarse. “You were the one who caused him to die, Mr. Taft!”

Mr. Taft's eyes opened wide. She could tell he was frightened.

Such a weasel.

Such a snivelling fool.

Afraid of a woman. Him with those strong arms.

He pushed Thomas into the well. Pushed him on his way to the grave.

But now he's up against true strength.

“It was an accident, Mrs. Fear. You saw what happened. We were arguing, yes. But I never meant to lay a finger on Mr. Fear. I always thought the world of your husband, ma'am. He treated me and the other workers fine. Keeping this mill open even though it was losing money and—”

The foreman was talking faster and faster. Practically blubbering.

“You pushed my husband into the boiling water,
Mr. Taft! If it were not for you, Thomas would still be alive! True or false?” Jane demanded.

The foreman opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn't answer.

“True or false?” Jane shrieked. “You caused his death!”

The foreman had turned white as flour. “But now, Mrs. Fear, you saw how I tried to pull him out. You were there. You saw that I—”

Behind the foreman, Jane could see those huge stone wheels slowly, slowly turning.

And suddenly, she sensed the evil spirit's plan.

“Run!” she shouted in the foreman's face.

But barely any sound came out of her mouth.

Jane grabbed the mill foreman's shirt with both hands.

She shoved him backward with all her might. Back toward the huge mill wheels.

T
hen Jane dragged his head down, down toward the slowly grinding wheels.

The foreman screamed, a loud, desperate sound.

She pushed his head into the path of the giant stone wheels.

“Noooo!” he howled. He jerked his head back and forth, trying to escape.

But she was too strong.

The wheels seemed to pause for the tiniest fraction of an instant.

Then the foreman's warm blood spattered across the front of Jane's dress.

Jane felt the strange draining sensation again. She
sank to her knees and began to vomit onto the grain-covered floor.

Inside her head, Sarah began to laugh.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning, Jane woke before dawn. She stretched and yawned.

The events of the day before flashed through her mind. Mrs. Teasedale's bulging eyes. The perfect ring of red blood around her throat.

The foreman's screams of terror.

Jane moaned. Could it get any worse than that?

Is that a challenge?
the evil spirit asked.
Get dressed. We have things to do.

Jane found a clean dress and quickly put it on. Then she hurried downstairs and into the kitchen.

Clara had put a huge pot of potatoes on the stove, ready to boil. But there was no sign of the maid herself. And Clara was usually up so early.

Then again, the sun had yet to rise.

Jane wandered out of the house.

Moments later, she found herself at the toolshed, though she could not remember deciding to go there.

Now what is Sarah doing? Jane wondered vaguely. She pulled a long-handled shovel down from its hooks on the shed wall.

Jane looked around and realized she now stood in the garden. She had no memory of leaving the toolshed. I blacked out, she realized.

She had no idea what Sarah had been using her body to do.

This must be how Sarah had killed Thomas, she thought.

Grief washed over her.

No, Jane told herself. She couldn't get emotional now. She needed her strength to fight this evil spirit.

And I thought we were getting along better this morning,
the evil spirit said.

Jane began to dig.

Why are we digging, Sarah? she asked.

You'll see,
Sarah replied.

Jane threw herself into the task. Shoving the metal point of the shovel hard into the dirt. Scooping up a pile of dirt and flinging it behind her.

A trickle of sweat ran down her cheek. Jane wiped it away. She needed to rest. Just for a few minutes.

Jane looked down into the hole. A pink earthworm squirmed at the bottom. She had disturbed the worm in its morning work, no doubt. Poor little creature.

Jane carefully placed the sharp edge of the shovel on the worm. She pressed down hard, neatly slicing the worm in two.

A familiar cackle sounded in her ears.

Leave me alone, Jane begged. You've had your pleasure. My life could not be more ruined than it is now. Go away and leave me to my misery. That would be the worst torture you could imagine.

I'm never leaving,
the evil spirit answered.
This is my life now.

Jane leaned on the shovel, letting the wooden handle hold her up.

She would go insane if Sarah stayed inside her. Who knew what hideous thing Sarah would make her do next.

Two murders! Two ghastly, senseless deaths. Two innocent people. Both killed in one single day!

Two murders?
the evil spirit asked.
You mean you really don't remember? Oh, Jane, surely you can remember what you yourself have done with your own filthy little hands.

Remember? Jane thought, her heart suddenly racing.

Remember what?

Sarah shrieked with glee.
Yesterday, after killing the mill foreman, you returned to the mansion—and your room.

Jane saw it now. Saw herself taking off the cloak that hid her bloodstained clothes.

Hiding the clothes in the back of one of her closets.

It would have worked, too. No one would have found the clothes in that closet, not for weeks.

But who should walk in at that moment and surprise her?

Clara, the maid.

Jane closed her eyes, trying to stop the images.

But the pictures were in her mind, flipping by like illustrations on the pages of some horrific book.

Young Clara. The expression of horror on her face. Red splotches forming on her pale cheeks, as if she had been slapped.

No, no. I don't want to remember. I don't want to remember!

The maid asked why you were covered in blood,
the evil spirit told Jane.
There was only one way to answer such a question.

Jane saw herself turn to the maid. “You want to see why my dress got so bloody?” she heard herself ask Clara. “Here, I'll show you.”

She pulled out the knife she had taken from Mrs. Teasedale's house.

So that's what I'm doing, Jane suddenly realized.

I'm digging a grave for Clara.

Jane slowly turned.

Please let it all be a trick, a nightmare, she thought. Let Clara be alive.

But no. She saw Clara's high-laced black shoes sticking out from beneath one of the hedges.

“Poor Clara,” Jane murmured.

She groaned as she struggled to pull Clara's body over to the freshly dug grave.

They get so heavy when they're dead, don't they?
the evil spirit asked sweetly.

Jane rolled Clara into the hole. The maid landed on her back.

Jane grabbed the shovel. She scooped up some dirt and tossed it into the grave. Covering Clara's staring eyes.

She had almost finished filling in the grave when the constable arrived.

“M
rs. Fear?”

She leaned on her shovel. She squinted. The sun was in her eyes. “Yes?” she answered in a husky voice.

“Constable Childs, ma'am.” The young man took off his cap and scratched his closely cropped head of blond curls. “You're up early, aren't you?”

“So are you,” Jane answered with a smile.

“That's true. May I ask what you're doing?”

“Gardening. What does it look like?” she asked harshly.

The constable shrugged. He peered at her closely.

He was a handsome young man. He had a cleft in his chin just like Thomas's.

Maybe the constable should die as well!

No, no! Jane cried.

Oh, how she longed to tell him everything that was going on. Maybe he could help her.

But she didn't have control of any part of her body.

“I dug a hole for a sapling I intend to plant here,” she said.

Please don't believe it, Jane begged him silently.

The constable nodded. Apparently, he believed her.

“Mrs. Fear, I don't know if you heard, but a horrible thing happened here in Shadyside yesterday,” the constable said.

“Oh?” Jane asked.

“You know, this is a small town, ma'am. We don't get much trouble here. But when it comes, we get plenty. There were two murders in one day.”

Jane gasped. “No!”

“Yes, ma'am,” the constable answered.

Jane put a hand to her chest. “No one I know, I hope.”

“Perhaps we had better talk inside, if you don't mind, Mrs. Fear,” the constable answered.

They crossed the wide lawn. Jane led the constable around the back, and into the kitchen. “Perhaps I can offer you some tea,” Jane said with a sweet smile.

If he comes too close to the truth, Sarah will make me kill him, Jane realized.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Nothing.

“Tea would be very nice. Thank you, Mrs. Fear,” the constable answered.

“Clara?” Jane called. “The maid,” she explained to the constable. “She's usually up by now.” Jane called to Clara a few more times, then shrugged. “I will have to make it myself, I suppose.”

“Thank you, ma'am. If it's not too much trouble,” the constable said.

“No trouble at all.” Jane put the kettle on the stove. Then she lit the fire under the big metal pot of potatoes and water that sat next to the kettle.

“You may want to sit down,” the constable suggested.

“All right.” Jane sat down. She folded her hands. She smiled politely, like a schoolchild waiting for a lecture from her teacher.

“Reginald Taft, the foreman at your husband's mill was murdered. And so was Liza Teasedale,” the constable told her.

Tears stung her eyes. Tears for the suffering she had caused.

If the constable has any doubts left, the tears in your eyes will erase them,
Sarah whispered.

But for once, Sarah was wrong.

The young constable kept asking questions.

Had she noticed anything out of the ordinary when she visited Mrs. Teasedale yesterday?

Wasn't it kind of a strange coincidence that she had also visited the mill?

“I talked to your carriage driver,” he explained, looking down at his hands.