Black Creek Crossing

him down the stairs. He’d been lying on the floor, just barely conscious, when he’d felt something.

Something sniffing at him.

The cat! The damned cat!

He’d struggled to open his eyes, raised a hand to fend off the animal, but when he finally managed to lift an eyelid, what he’d seen wasn’t a cat at all.

It was a girl — a girl about the same age as Angel. But she didn’t look like Angel. Her face was ghostly white, and her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever seen. She was wearing an old-fashioned black bonnet, and a black dress, and there was some kind of brooch on her chest that looked like it was carved out of ivory or something.

Then, in an instant, her face changed. The flesh began to fall away, leaving nothing but a skull with that terrible golden light shining from the empty eye sockets. And as she leaned forward, her lips dropped off to expose her teeth.

Long, curved, feline teeth, each of them tipped with blood.

As she moved her face closer to his, her mouth opened, but instead of a tongue, a serpent emerged. Its jaws were spread wide, and its fangs, already oozing venom, came directly at him.

The worst terror he’d ever felt had risen up in him, and then—

Nothing.

He’d passed out, and remembered nothing else until he awakened to find Myra looming over him, and wished he could escape into unconsciousness again.

And now he was standing alone on a street corner, whiskey burning in his belly, a sour taste rising in his throat, and so dizzy he had to hold on to the lamppost to keep from falling down.

And all the images — all the impossible memories — were still there.

As his stomach finally rebelled against the alcohol he’d poured into it, Marty sank to his knees, leaned over, and threw up into the gutter. Over and over again his stomach contracted, until finally there was nothing left to spew out of his throat. At last he leaned back, resting against the lamppost, a cold sweat breaking out over his body. His breathing came in shallow gasps and the sour taste of vomit filled his mouth, while its acid burned in his throat.

A car drove by, and through his bleary eyes Marty saw the driver glance at him, then look quickly away.

Finally, half pulling himself up on the lamppost, he got back to his feet and began walking, cutting diagonally across the intersection, then weaving along the sidewalk on the other side of the street, neither thinking about nor caring about where he was going.

After a few blocks — he didn’t know how many, exactly — he found himself in front of a church.

A little church, with its name neatly chiseled into a granite plaque attached to the wall next to the front door.

CHURCH OF THE HOLY MOTHER.

Marty gazed at the sign for a long time, trying to remember the last time he’d been in church.

He couldn’t.

He gazed at the church door, and suddenly felt a need to go inside.

Except this late on Sunday night, it would be locked up tight.

But when he gave the door a perfunctory pull, it opened.

Marty stepped though the open door into the tiny foyer. Though no lights were on, candles were burning everywhere, and the small sanctuary was filled with a soft golden light that seemed to swirl around him as the candle flames danced in the draft of the open door.

Automatically, he dipped his fingers in the font, crossed himself, and mouthed a quick prayer.

As he was starting down the aisle, a figure rose in front of the altar and turned toward him.

“How may I help you?” the priest asked.

For almost a full minute Marty Sullivan simply stared at him. Then, almost unaware of what he was doing, he sank to his knees. “Something happened,” he whispered. “Something terrible.”

Father Michael Mulroney walked slowly up the aisle and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re Marty Sullivan, aren’t you?” he asked.

Marty looked up at the priest, his eyes wide. “H-How do you know who I am?”

The priest smiled. But there was something in his smile, and in his eyes as well — a sadness that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him — that sent a chill through Marty. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

Chapter 37

ITCHCRAFT? WHAT THE HELL WAS A PRIEST DOING, talking about witchcraft? And about his daughter too!

Only an hour had passed since Marty Sullivan had wandered into the Church of the Holy Mother, but as he now made his way uncertainly through the darkness of the night, it wasn’t only the alcohol he’d consumed that impaired his gait, but also the strange story Father Mulroney had told him as they sat in the tiny room behind the church altar.

At first he had figured the priest was just pulling his leg, talking about all the weird stuff that had happened in Roundtree. But after a while he’d started to get scared. Well, not really scared — he didn’t believe in witches any more than anybody else did — but still, the way the priest told it, a lot more weird stuff had happened in Roundtree than anybody had ever told him about, and it seemed like most of it had started right there in the house he’d bought.

Except it wasn’t really the house he’d bought. It was the house Myra had made him buy. Myra, and her snotty sister, Joni. If even half of what Father Mulroney had told him was true, he should sue Joni. And not just Joni either — he’d sue Ed Fletcher too. And the guy who set up the loan on the house, and everyone else as well. By the time he got done, they’d all wish they had never messed with Marty Sullivan!

The righteousness of his fury drove out the last of the fleeting uneasiness Marty had felt as he listened to the priest’s story, and as he came to the Roundtree Tavern, he was already starting to think about what he’d do with the money he was going to get. Deciding he deserved a drink to celebrate the good fortune about to come his way, he pushed through the door and slid onto a stool at the end of the nearly empty bar.

“Just about to close up,” the bartender said, eyeing Marty dolefully.

Marty pulled out his wallet and lay a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “That be enough to keep you open for a Johnnie Walker Black? Straight up.” The bartender shrugged, poured the drink, and scooped up the twenty as he set the glass in front of him. Marty took another twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the bar. “Pour yourself one too.”

After a hesitation so short Marty didn’t even notice it, the man behind the bar poured a second shot of whiskey into a glass, lifted it, and gestured toward Marty. “To whatever we’re celebrating.”

“The witches of Roundtree,” Marty declared, raising his own glass. “They’re going to be taking care of me the rest of my life!”

The bartender’s glass hovered a few inches from his lips. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

Marty let out a bark of laughter and drained his glass in a single gulp. “My house! Father Mulroney over at Holy Mother just told me about the people who used to live there. He told me about the witches, and the trials, and everything else. So I’m gonna sue the bitch who sold the place to me, and the son of a bitch she’s married to, too.”

The bartender set his drink back on the bar, untouched. “You talking about the old place out at the Crossing?” When Marty nodded, the bartender shook his head. “You think you’re gonna get anything out of all those old stories about that house, you better think again. You want to win a lawsuit, you got to prove there’s somethin’ wrong. And a bunch of old stories kids tell about witches aren’t going to get you nothing.”