Black Creek Crossing

Chapter 29

NGEL AND SETH HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG THEY SAT cross-legged on the floor staring at the fire that burned steadily under the kettle hanging from the pothook. After the first two bolts of lightning faded away and their accompanying thunderclaps rolled into silence, the steady beat of rain outside and the flickering flames on the hearth had taken on an oddly hypnotic quality, so that when the rain suddenly stopped and the fire flickered abruptly out, neither of them was quite certain what had happened. For a moment they didn’t move.

Was it possible that the fire had gone out at the exact moment the rain stopped?

Finally, Seth unfolded his legs, realized how sore they were as he stood up, and looked at his watch. His eyes widened and he glanced at Angel. “How long do you think we’ve been sitting here?”

Angel cocked her head, frowning. “I don’t know — ten or fifteen minutes, I guess.”

“Try an hour and a half,” he said.

Now Angel scrambled to her feet, and the stiffness in her legs was enough to tell her that Seth was right. “What time is it?” she breathed.

“Five-thirty,” Seth replied. He went to the fireplace and knelt down. The fire under the kettle was completely out — not even the red glow of smoldering embers showed beneath the gray ash that was the only sign the fire had been there at all.

When he held his hand out, he felt no warmth. “It’s like it’s been out for days,” he said, his voice faintly hollow.

He reached out and touched the kettle.

It, at least, was still warm, but not so hot that his reflexes jerked his hand away. Gingerly, he reached for the rod from which the pot hung.

It wasn’t even warm. He pulled on the rod, swinging the kettle out of the fireplace.

Now Angel was next to him, and for a long moment they gazed into the kettle. All that was left of its contents was an inch of fluid at the bottom of the huge soup pot. “But it was almost half full,” Angel said. “How could that much of it have boiled away?”

Both of them swung around to look at the stone sink from which Angel had filled the kettle, but there was no longer any way of telling how much water she’d taken from it, for the basin was filled to the brim and a steady stream of water was flowing in through the wooden trough mounted high in the wall. The overflow was running out through the second trough below. As they watched, the inflow quickly slowed to a trickle, and then the trickle turned into the same rhythmic drip as when they first discovered the cabin.

Except they hadn’t discovered the cabin — Houdini had led them to it.

“I don’t get it,” Seth said. “If that much water boiled away, how come the fireplace isn’t even hot anymore, and the kettle’s cool enough so you can touch it?”

Instead of answering Seth’s question, Angel asked one of her own. “What are we supposed to do with it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the small pool of liquid that covered the bottom of the kettle.

“I guess you’re supposed to drink it,” Seth said. When Angel paled, he added, “Well, what else would you do?”

“Would you drink it?” Angel challenged.

The words hung in the air as Seth too gazed into the depths of the kettle. When he finally answered her, his words sounded far braver than the tone of his voice. “Sure! I mean, why not? Practically all that’s in it is water, and I already drank the water from the sink.”

“And there’s blood, and dirt from outside,” Angel reminded him.

Seth chewed his lower lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I’d still drink it.”

Angel looked at him. “I dare you,” she said.

Once again her words hung in the air, and she could see Seth trying to make up his mind. He shrugged again, but this time with such an elaborate show of bravado that Angel knew he was a lot more frightened than he was willing to admit. “Okay,” he said. “I will if you will.” He went to the counter next to the huge stone sink and took one of the ladles from a hook. Reaching deep into the kettle, he dipped it into the liquid at the bottom, scooping up as much as the ladle would hold.

When he lifted it out again, it was still only half full.

He and Angel stared at it for several long seconds, but even in the ladle it looked no more dangerous than a ladle of water.

There was no hint of color.

No strange odor.

Holding the ladle between them, Seth looked into Angel’s eyes. “If I try it, you’ll try it?” he asked, and this time Angel had the feeling that if she so much as nodded, he’d drink from the ladle.

And then she would have to do it too.

The seconds ticked by until a full minute had passed. And then, almost against her own volition, Angel nodded and a single whispered word escaped her lips:

“Yes.”

Seth’s hand trembled as he lifted the ladle to his lips. He took a deep breath, tipped the ladle, and sucked half its contents into his mouth.

And tasted absolutely nothing.

It was as if he’d filled his mouth with the purest rainwater.

He swallowed the broth, then offered the ladle to Angel.

“Wh-What did it taste like?” she whispered, making no move to take the wooden dipper from him.

A sly grin came over Seth’s face. “Why should I tell you?” he said. “You promised to try it if I did, didn’t you?”

For a fraction of a second Angel was tempted to renege on her promise, but she put the impulse aside almost the moment it came over her. Reaching out, she took the ladle from him, took a deep breath in unconscious imitation of him, then held the dipper to her lips, tipped it back, and drained it into her mouth.

Water!

It was nothing but water!

It felt faintly warm in her mouth, but that was all.

She swallowed, and the water went down her throat.

Now the warmness she’d felt spread through her, but there was nothing unpleasant about the sensation.

“It’s warm,” she breathed.

Seth looked at her blankly. “What do you mean, it’s warm? It’s just water.”

Angel nodded. “I know. But it feels warm — I can feel it spreading out into my arms and legs! Don’t you feel it?”

Seth slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving Angel. Was she getting sick? But if she was, she didn’t look sick. In fact, she looked better than she had since they’d opened her locker and found Houdini. Then it dawned on him: Grief! That’s what the recipe was called! That’s what it was for! “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice now edged with excitement.

“Fine!” Angel said. “I told you—”

Seth didn’t let her finish. “I mean, how do you feel about Houdini?”

Angel looked at Seth in utter incomprehension for a few seconds. How did she feel about Houdini? She felt terrible about—

And then, in the midst of the thought, she realized it wasn’t true.

She didn’t feel terrible about him at all.

The hard knot of grief that had almost choked her only an hour or so ago was completely gone! She missed him, but thinking about him didn’t hurt anymore, and when she visualized him in her mind, the only image she got was of him bounding out of her closet the day they’d moved into the house at Black Creek Crossing. When she tried to conjure up a memory of his body the way it had been when she found it in her locker this afternoon, she couldn’t. She could remember finding him, but couldn’t visualize what he had looked like. It was as if her memory had been wiped clean of that terrible image.

“I’m all right,” she breathed. “I miss him, but it’s okay. It—” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she finally said.

“Wow,” Seth whispered. “It worked. It really worked!”

Angel gazed at him. “But it was only water,” she whispered.

“Water, and your blood, and earth from his grave, and your tears,” Seth reminded her. “That’s why nothing happened to me at all — it wasn’t about me! It was about you, and it worked!”

As his words sank in, Angel’s eyes went to the book that was still open on the counter. Was it possible?

Could it be possible?

“Let’s go home,” she whispered as she gazed at the worn volume. “Let’s just put it back in the chimney and go home, okay?”

A few minutes later they stepped out into the fading daylight of the late afternoon. The last vestiges of the storm were gone, and the sky above was dark blue. As they started to climb the berm, Angel paused and looked at the rock beneath which lay the remains of the only pet she’d ever had.

“I wish you were still alive,” she whispered. “If you were, I wouldn’t ever let a bad thing happen to you again.” She turned away and began clambering up the heap of rubble that hid the facade of the cabin from the clearing in the forest.

Had she stayed, she might have seen the ground beneath the stone marking Houdini’s grave sink lower into the ground…

Marty Sullivan pulled the first bottle out of the second six-pack, twisted the cap off, and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed the plastic container by a foot, bounced off the wall, fell to the floor, and wound up lying upside down in front of the sink. Marty stared at it dolefully for a moment, then left it where it was and headed back to the living room and the comfort of his favorite chair. Half an hour ago the storm that closed down the worksite had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. If he hadn’t known it was impossible, he’d have sworn the rain had been pouring down out of coal-black clouds one second, and the sky was clear the next.

More likely he’d just dozed off for a few minutes.

Now, as he glanced blearily out the front window trying to figure out how a storm that bad could have vanished that fast, a movement caught his eye, but it wasn’t until he moved closer to the window and pulled the sheer curtain aside that he saw what it was.

Angel.

Angel, and that little putz he’d caught her with the other day.

The putz he’d told her to stay away from.

And they weren’t coming from the direction of the village either.

What the hell was going on?

He started toward the front door, his anger growing with every step. But just before he pulled it open, he had a better idea. Better to just wait until they came in. Settling himself into his chair, he raised the beer bottle to his lips and drained half of it in a single long gulp.

A minute or two later he heard the front door open, and then Angel came in. “Where the hell’ve you been?” he growled, his eyes fixed malevolently on her.

Hearing her father’s voice, Angel knew he’d been drinking, and when she saw the half-dozen empty beer bottles that were scattered around the chair he was sprawled in — and the full bottle in his hand — she knew she’d better be careful about what she said.

But before she could speak at all, her father’s bloodshot eyes fixed on her and he said, “You were with that kid.”

Her eyes flicked toward the window. Her father’s back was to it, but if he’d been getting another beer when she and Seth had come out of the woods…

Better not try to deny it.

“W-We were out hiking,” she stammered.

Her father’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ever since school let out?”

Angel nodded, and instantly wished she hadn’t. But it was already too late — her skin began to crawl as she felt her father’s eyes moving over her. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, shifting his weight in the chair. “If you’d been out in that downpour, you’d be soaked.”

“I–I am wet,” she said. “I better go up and change.” Before he could say anything else, she hurried out of the room and up the stairs.

Liar, Marty thought. That’s what she is — a lying little slut. He drained the rest of his beer, lurched to his feet, and headed back to the kitchen. The next beer cap wound up only a couple of feet from the last one, only this time in front of the refrigerator instead of the sink. Pouring half the newest bottle down his throat as quickly as he’d drained the last one, Marty headed for the stairs.

Wet, huh? She hadn’t looked wet to him, and if she’d really been where she said she was, she’d be a lot more than just wet. She’d have come in dripping, with her hair plastered down, and that ugly sweatshirt she was always wearing would’ve been clinging to her body.

So she hadn’t been out hiking.

She’d been out doing something else.

And he knew damned well what it was.

He started up the stairs, but his foot caught on the first step. Swearing loudly as he lost his balance and lurched forward, he threw out his hands to catch himself. The half-full bottle of beer struck the wall, clattered onto the stairs, rolled down a couple of steps, then came to rest on its side, the last of its contents draining onto the step below. Cursing again, Marty picked up the bottle, drained the last few drops from it, and tossed it down to the floor below. He started to take another step, swaying as the beer he’d been pouring down his throat for the last two hours tightened its grip on his brain. This time, though, his hand closed on the banister and he caught himself before he sprawled out on the stairs. Muttering darkly, he continued on up the stairs, but when he came to the point where his head was level with the upstairs landing, he suddenly stopped.

A cat!

A black cat with a small white mark in the center of its chest was sitting on the landing above him, looking down at him.

Marty hated cats. He’d always hated them, even when he was little. He could still remember the time when he was only three or four — before he’d even gone to kindergarten — when his father had brought home a kitten. When Marty had first seen the shoe box punched full of holes his father was holding, he’d been sure it was the puppy he’d been begging for. But when his father set the box on the floor and let him open it, all he found was a kitten.

A stupid kitten!

His first impulse was to pick it up and throw it against the wall, and as he’d reached for it, the animal seemed to sense what he was about to do and lashed out at him with its tiny paw. The miniature claws, already needle sharp, slashed deep into the skin of his hand, and he screamed in pain.

The kitten had been given away that very afternoon, but ever since, Marty Sullivan had hated cats.

And been terrified of them.

And now there was one in his house, sitting on the upper landing, staring down at him. He froze, his eyes fixed on the cat, and a dim memory rose out of his alcohol-clouded subconscious. A memory of a dream.

A dream in which a cat had leaped out of the darkness, scratching his face.

He couldn’t remember much else about the dream, just that he’d been in the dark and a voice had been whispering to him, telling him what to do, and then he’d heard a cat hissing at him. Hissing at him, and then leaping out of the darkness, slashing at him!

Marty’s hand rose to his face, and his fingers touched the scabs over the not quite healed cuts he’d thought he must have accidentally inflicted on himself while he’d been shaving the other morning. But maybe he hadn’t cut himself.

Maybe it hadn’t been a dream.

Maybe the cat had gotten into the house the other night and come after him.

He gazed up at it malevolently, and as if sensing his hatred — and his fear — the cat rose to its feet and its back arched.

It bared its teeth and a low hissing sound came from its throat.

The same hissing Marty had heard in his dream.

The cat’s eyes began to glow with a light that seemed to come from within, and its gaze held Marty in an almost hypnotic thrall.

As he stood frozen on the staircase, the cat edged closer to the lip of the landing and its muscles tensed.

Marty’s heart began to pound and he felt a cold sweat break out over his body.

It was going to kill him.

The cat, which couldn’t weigh more than ten or fifteen pounds, was going to kill him!

And he couldn’t move!

It was as if every muscle in his body had gone rigid, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to turn around, or even back away.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was too constricted, and now he realized he wasn’t even breathing.

And the cat was gathering itself for the attack, its claws already extended, its jaw yawning wide, exposing all its teeth.

Then, just as it was about to launch itself at his throat, there was the slam of a door and a voice.

“Marty? Angel?”

The sound of Myra’s voice jerked Marty out of the strange trance the cat had induced, and he spun around, almost lost his balance again, and grabbed at the rail. A second later Myra appeared at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes were hard and she held an empty beer bottle in her hand.

“How many?” she demanded, raising the bottle toward him so there was no mistaking her meaning.

“A — A couple,” Marty stammered.

“A couple six-packs,” Myra replied. “And if you think I’m cleaning up your mess, you’re wrong.” Then, seeing the ashen color of her husband’s complexion, her tone softened. “Are you all right?”

“A cat,” Marty said. “There’s a cat up here.”

Myra frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“A damned cat!” Marty said, his courage returning now that Myra’s voice had softened. “It was gonna come at me!”

Myra’s lips pursed. “Oh, really, Marty—”

“You don’t believe me?” Marty asked, his voice taking on a hint of a whine. “It’s up here right now!”

Myra started up the stairs. “Why would there be a cat up there?”

“How should I know?” Marty countered truculently. “Maybe you left a window open, or Angel—”

“I don’t leave windows open, and neither does Angel,” Myra cut in. Passing Marty, she came to the upper landing and looked around. “And if there’s a cat here, I don’t see it!”

Marty climbed the rest of the stairs, searching for the cat.

There was no sign of it.

The door to the bedroom he and Myra shared was closed, as was Angel’s, and the one leading to the back bedroom.

Only the bathroom door stood open, and Marty, emboldened by his wife’s presence, went to it. There was no more sign of the cat in the bathroom than there was anywhere else. “I’m telling you, it was here,” he said, his voice rising. “Just a second ago, when you came in!”

Then the door to Angel’s room opened and she came out, wrapped in her bathrobe. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Your father seems to think there’s a cat in the house,” Myra said, her tone reflecting her doubt about what Marty claimed to have seen.

“It was black!” Marty growled. “With a white mark on its chest. And it was going to attack me. If your mom hadn’t come in—” He fell silent as Angel’s face turned ghostly white. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did you bring a cat in here?”

“No!” Angel cried. “I just—”

Her father pushed past her into her room. The window was closed and so was the closet. Marty pulled open the closet door, searched every corner and shelf, then looked under Angel’s bed and behind the chest.

“It was here,” he said, his voice dropping to a sullen growl. “I saw it.”

“After as many beers as you drank, I’m surprised you didn’t see a herd of pink elephants in the living room,” Myra snapped. “Now, if I were you, I’d get some clothes on and get downstairs and clean up your mess.”

Knowing better than to argue, Marty did exactly as Myra had ordered.

When her parents were gone, Angel went back into her room and closed the door, her father’s words echoing in her head… black… with a white mark on its chest …

But it wasn’t possible!

It couldn’t be…