Trevor’s voice soon pulled her attention back to the queen of the Otherworld. Caitlin tried to pay attention to their conversation—something about the true nature of art, and how he knew what he should do. Caitlin bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself to say nothing when Arianrhod scolded him for ignoring his work the last few months. Forgive me, Caitlin wanted to say, but that’s your fault. His work was never haunted and creepy before you came along.
She’d be content if he never carved another stick again.
The men on the battlefield shouted, drawing her attention away. She scooted around on the blanket and flopped down on her stomach to watch them. The smoke plumes made such pretty spirals in the air, she half wondered if she’d recall their shapes later. They’d make fine embellishments on the hilt of her ritual knife. Maybe I can get Trevor to gussy one up for me.
Out of the corner of her eye, she barely realized he and Arianrhod had moved off. Then something stood between her and the sun. “Well, Caitie, fancy seeing you here.”
She startled and turning her head, couldn’t quite make out the face. He’d spoken to her before in a way that would make it hard for her to ever forget his voice. “Roland?”
He knelt beside her, and she could see him more clearly now. Indeed, Trevor’s great grandfather sat beside her. “How are you, Cait?”
At the moment? Utterly freaked, thanks. She didn’t know what to say. What do you say to the man who saved your family?
He didn’t give her a chance to do more than shrug. “I’m sorry I scared you, in the attic.”
“You didn’t,” she lied. If someone forced her to admit it, she’d say that even though he might’ve been genteel about it, he did frighten her.
“Well, I am crazy.”
She sat up to get a better look at him. “No you’re not.” She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. “Not always.”
“I could’ve found a better way to speak with you, I’m sorry.”
“I thought you were cute.” Liar. Well, maybe she didn’t lie, per se; physically she found him attractive, if not his manner of first contact. “I wasn’t afraid of you.” Breeze stirred his hair dropping tendrils of it boyishly into his eyes. She could see why Kate fell in love with him. “Then or now.”
He took her hand. “You shouldn’t ever be. But the curse is broken, finally, and I wanted to thank you for that.”
She nodded, still puzzled over his presence, and why she sat here watching a mock battle. “I’d say this era must’ve been interesting but for that—” She waved a hand to the battle. “Why would you want to relive it?” It seemed to her this place resembled no Otherworld she’d ever dreamed of spending eternity in.
He glanced at the battle. “It wasn’t all bad. When we weren’t firing on each other.”
“When you weren’t dying in the heat—” and going crazy drawing, but she didn’t want to bring it up.
He drew her to her feet and walked her to the edge of the battlefield. “What do you see?”
The soldiers spread out before her, in lines and rows. Their cannons glinted in Annwn’s muted sunlight. A cry went up, “Charge!” and the battlefield exploded into animation. Men did as they were told, rushing one another. Caitlin bit her lip, reaching out for Roland’s hand. How would this end? Could she stop it? They didn’t have to die. She braced herself, ready to run into the fray and yell halt! like the priestesses of old she’d read about.
Bayonets ripped flesh. Men fell, screaming to heaven in their pain. The battlefield eventually quieted. A dark shadow passed over the sun. A flock of ravens descended. A woman rose up among the carnage. Caitlin couldn’t look and buried her face in Roland’s sun-warmed chest.
She peeked back at the field. The woman offered her hand to a dying soldier and pulled him to his feet. She slapped him on the back and went to the next man, who stood and joined his companion, laughing and slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
“There will be battles,” Roland said. “Winning, losing, it’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”
“I’ve won.” In some respects, but what about the battle of her mind? What of the continuing what-ifs? “He’s coming back isn’t he? Hofter, I mean.”
Roland shrugged. “Who can say? Arianrhod said there are imps aplenty.”
Caitlin shuddered at the thought. “I don’t want them to bother us!”
“I don’t want them near you, either,” he said, “but it’s not the question to ponder lest it drive you mad.”
She supposed he knew what he was talking about. And that he heard her thought because he laughed.
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. She could see much of Trevor’s masculine beauty in him, in his warm brown eyes. Yes, it wasn’t hard to see how Kate fell for the soldier all those years ago. “The question is not what happens, dear Cait. But how you deal with it.”
“Cait?”
Trevor called her name, and she reluctantly broke eye contact with her soldier. Trevor frowned, puzzled. He crossed to her side. “Ready to go?”
Arianrhod and her friends stood, gathering up their picnic basket and blankets. She didn’t smile at Caitlin, nor did Caitlin offer her one. What was about to happen? She thought for now it was best to ignore the goddess, and follow Roland’s sage advice—even if it did come from a madman there remained a kernel of wisdom.
“Caitlin?” The goddess called her attention. She took her arm and pulled her a step away. “Don’t worry, Trevor. I won’t keep her from you long.”
Trevor and Caitlin exchanged a glance and Caitlin followed the goddess. “Is there something you need?”
“I don’t relish surprise guests,” the goddess said. “What did you come for?”
The tone in her voice lit Caitlin’s worry and she bit back her snide comeback. She made her nervous. Caitlin still hadn’t figured out what caused the family curse. No sense in angering the goddess, even if she drove her to distraction. “Ma’am, it’s not like . . . I mean—”
“Well?”
“Is he really gone?”
Arianrhod narrowed her eyes. “Do you doubt my word, child?”
Caitlin curled her hands into fists. Child? “No. It’s just that I saw him in the print shop the other day. So, I worried. Is it possible—” You’re lying? “You told me he’s locked up. But it looks to me, like he can come and go as he pleases. Can’t you understand all we want is to be left alone?”
Arianrhod snorted. “You don’t know what you want. That’s the problem with humans. Your family in particular. You’d do well to think on that before you bother others.”
Caitlin frowned hard. The goddess turned her back to address one of her handmaidens. Caitlin stuck her tongue out.
“Is there a problem?” Trevor asked.
She scrubbed a hand through her hair. “No.” One last look at the battlefield and Caitlin took her husband’s hand. “Let’s go home.”
~7~
Abigail frowned at the manuscript. What a story! Was it true? Or had the writer simply concocted an outright lie and tagged the Fulmer family name on it? Perhaps this Hofter fellow Caitlin kept referring to? Who was he? Why did she seem so afraid of him? She shrugged and turned the next page, blinking at the shaky text. Why had Caitlin’s handwriting become unstable here, she wondered. Perhaps the entry might give a clue. She sipped the cocoa and resumed reading:
January 16, 2013
I don’t know how well I can think to gather my thoughts. I don’t know where to start. Even considering writing this paralyzes me. No, nothing particular happened. I had a nightmare and I don’t feel like waking Beryl for it. Trevor’s worried enough; I can’t bring her into this as well.
We had a good night together; sales were brisk for after Christmas. Some returns but not too many. After Trevor closed the shop, we went home and ate a nice dinner, snuggled on the couch, came to bed. As Beryl would say, there should’ve been enough love and good vibes floating around to ensure fine dreams. But oh no! Not for me.
Sometimes, I swear I have the worst luck in the world. I’m not even sure I want to talk about this. Even thinking of it makes me hyperventilate—
Better to put it here, I suppose, than on my blog. Better not to mention him in that forum.
So, dream: The Christmas tree stood festooned with roses, ribbons and ablaze with candlelight—just like a proper Victorian tree. More ribbons adorned the mantle, laced around pictures of our family, of Gordon and Amelia, of Trevor and his father, of our wedding, and my mother and father. The silver candelabras beside them caused the frames to glow like liquid light. Cinnamon and pine filled the air and the scent of sweet Christmas cookies and gooseberry pies.
We’d opened all our presents, and paper and colorful ribbons lay everywhere but cleanup was the last thing on my mind. We’d settled down to watch the children (don’t ask me where they came from!) play with their new toys. Mistletoe hung in the doorway, and Trevor had just threaded his arms around me and tugged me beneath it for a stolen moment, while the children were otherwise occupied.
The doorbell rang and in he walked—yes, Hofter inviting himself to our Christmas dinner. He leaned against his cane, and smiled at us, offering the printed invitation I’d never sent. The children crowded around him as if he were Santa Claus instead of the spawn of Satan.
He changed from his debonair, fat gentleman guise to the crocodile-headed, crooked- tailed imp I knew so well. He back flipped in the air and waved a clawed hand at me. Then, one by one, he picked the children up. He mussed their hair and praising them all, dug his claws into their throats. I screamed and put myself between them.
That wasn’t enough.
The youngest child crawled around me. I picked him up and he looked at me with eyes as dense and gray as a hurricane’s vortex. The child’s eyes startled me but I kept tight hold on him. “You’ll be okay,” I said. “Never mind the blood; the pain will heal. And you know, blindness isn’t that bad.”
Dumber words never spoken? Maybe. I chalk it up to this being a dream.
I tried to stop his bleeding, but I couldn’t. The viscous stuff poured out of him as if someone had turned on a pump.
The baby’s bottom lip quivered and he wailed and cried in agony.
“Oh, poor thing,” Hofter said.
I narrowed my eyes at the imp. “Why’d you do this to him?” I may’ve even used some profanity.
“Me?” He had the nerve to round his eyes like an innocent child. The light glinted off his ivory, razor-sharp claws as he put his hand to the child’s cheek. As if he cared. “You’re his mother, Cait. He’s part of your family. It’s your duty to treat his ills and you didn’t. Just like poor Gordon.
“It’s all your fault.”
I wanted to strangle him right then and there. I had nothing to do with Gordon’s demise and nothing to do with this child’s pain.
“I can’t help but wonder,” Hofter continued, “if he, if this whole family, might not’ve been better off without you. Meddling witches. They never do anyone any good.” He smiled. “Is it any wonder the church tried to kill you off?”
I held up a hand. “Spare me your erroneous version of history. And while you’re at it, get back to hell where you belong!”
Not my best curse, I admit, but we’d be better off if Arianrhod’s locks held better. I fully intend to have a talk with her. If the old bat will answer me!
Hofter prattled on, “The child certainly would be better off without you.” He reached into his coat and pulled forth a knife. “Here. Why don’t you fix things the way you should?”
What the cursed imp had in mind, I don’t know. Or I didn’t then; I wish I didn’t now!
“Do it, Mommy. Do it now,” the children insisted.
The children’s voices confused me. “I’m not your mother.” My declaration only served to make them cry louder. I wish they’d never spoken, for what came next—I only thank the goddess this was a dream.
The temperature of the room dropped. The fire guttered out. I shivered and yet flung my hand easily in its wretched work.
The children’s blood slashed across the air. First one, then another. Splattered Trevor’s face. His eyes wide, he stared at me but said nothing. He took the dead, twitching child from my arms, and jamming a meat hook through it’s shoulder, hung it from the pine boughs. Then he handed me another child. Crimson-hot blood glistened from the tree’s needles. Four times, I cut their throats, and he hung their bleeding corpses around the tree as if they were little ornaments.
“There. That’ll stop the curse,” I said, the stinging odor of freezing dead flesh filling my nose. Though I know the curse has been taken care of weeks ago. What could I have meant? Was this a memory mixed with nightmare? I can’t make sense of it.
“Not quite,” Trevor said. He turned to me. He took my hand in his—the hand that held the knife. He kissed me, turned my hand and shoved, hard. The blade cut through my chin. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. The tip of the blade severed my tongue.
Before my brain died, before I took my last gasping, bloody breath, I seem to recall him locking the meat locker door behind him as he left, and watching through the window as I froze to death.
*~*~*
I had to pause in my transcription to catch my breath. Trevor would never do something like that. I’d never do something so horrific.
Damn Hofter back to wherever imps originate from!
So here I sit, awake at 3AM by this horrible dream. The awful aroma of gutted, freezing flesh still thick in my nose—like the time my father and uncle brought home a deer from a hunting trip and freeze-dried it. It took days for the scent to go away. Would this scent ever?
I don’t know. I know it’s not real and yet, I seem surrounded by it. And thwarted from contact with those I need most, I’m wasting my night writing this horror down.
Where did the nightmare come from? Where could it come from but that bastard imp Hofter? I hate that I have to run to a goddess now to spare me from these things. What else can I do? Hofter clearly isn’t here to punch in the nose. It seems no matter what Arianrhod promised, I can’t enter her backyard to check on the status quo. How, then, can the goddess cross into mine uninvited? Where’s the doorway, and how do I lock them all out?
Do I want to go back there? Was this nightmare a product of my recent visit to the Otherworld, or something else?
Roland’s words played in my head for days after my first visit to Annwn, and while I discussed it with the girls and we decided he was correct, I simply can’t remain constantly on guard. I can see myself headed for an early heart attack if I try. Even a guard changes shifts. I shouldn’t have this night, though. . .
“Honey?”
Trevor’s here. He just scared the hell out of me, coming down the stairs.
Do I dare tell him about the nightmares I’ve had? The ominous fingers that’ve touched me in the past? Who knows, maybe he’s felt it too.
He couldn’t even approach Gordon’s workshed for half a year, after all.
I have to go. Seems more of those good vibes Beryl wished on us are in the air.
I wish they’d be enough to keep the imps at bay. I hope so, otherwise, how’m I to do battle with them without losing my mind?
If Hofter can come after me in my dreams, how in the world will I keep him under control? How am I supposed to stop him? Or stop any others the way Arianrhod wants me to? How the hell did Kate do it? What did she know that I don’t, damn it?
For Pete’s sake, I should’ve refused. This is going to be a true nightmare!
*~*~*
December 25th, Midnight
Abigail shut the book and went to her computer to compose an email to her assistant.
Regarding Caitlin Fulmer’s Book of Shadows
Stephanie, let’s run this in the exhibit this spring. Maybe we can have someone read it, or act it all out? Whatever, we should add this to the catalog:
Post Script
What you see here is a tiny manuscript we found in
the attic of the Fulmer House. We don’t know whether any of this is true or the insane ravings of a sick woman just looking for a story to tell. (From what my grandmother says, I don’t think Caitlin was crazy. As Shakespeare said, so long ago, there are more things in heaven and earth…).
However, we thought the manuscript might be entertaining to the Caitlin Fulmer fans around town. It does seem unfinished, since its dates only cover about a month in the winter of 2012-2013, but I feel certain there are more pages out there. Fans of the work of the woodcarver Trevor Fulmer at least might find the story intriguing. The question still remains, are these stories his wife told true? Is there something nightmarish within these walls? Is this house blessed by ancient gods—or cursed? One can only speculate. I suppose Caitlin’s legacy remains for history to decide.
Abigail Wilkins Halsee, Curator, Fulmer House, Gulf Breeze, Florida, December 2063
* * * *
THE ARTIST’S INHERITANCE
by
Juli D. Revezzo
Antique Magic, Book One
(Now available.)
Chapter One
“Look, I love you, Trevor,” Caitlin said, “but why don’t you put your art aside for a minute and help me move the rest of these boxes out of the living room?”
He didn’t hear her, more intent on the chair. Beautifully carved of expensive oak, its curving armrests begged something to hold; its tall back reached toward the ceiling, though its peaked top fell far short of its goal.
He hadn’t wanted to just fit precut plywood slats together. No. He’d gone out, bought blocks of wood, chiseled and sawed away at the blocks day after day. He’d worked on it since late February when he’d bought the house in Gulf Breeze, Florida from his sister-in-law Amelia. Almost before he’d finished packing his tools, he’d pulled out his sketchbooks to jot down ideas.
If he’d only stop working long enough to help her straighten up the downstairs, she could love the piece even more.
He said nothing.
“Trevor? Boxes. Move. Help.”
“Yeah, yeah. In a minute.” He strolled to his worktable by the attic window. Pencils, saws, gouges and other woodworking tools filled its surface. Trevor selected another gouge and turned back to the chair.