The Witches of Dark Root: Daughters of Dark Root: Book One (The Daughters of Dark Root) (26 page)

Sister House, Dark Root, Oregon

September, 2013

It was just a door, an ordinary door.

The large brass knob was highly ornate, cut with the dramatic circular-swirling patterns standard in Victorian houses. The door itself was covered in the same, beige-white paint as the other doors in the hallway. If you were a visitor to Sister House and just walking by, you would think it was just an ordinary door leading to an ordinary room. But I stood before it, paralyzed, as if it could burn me.

There was something on the other side of that door, I knew.

Something ancient and angry.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, remembering the night I was locked inside alone. I had won that battle, or at least escaped. But that had been years ago. Real monsters don’t get smaller with time. They grew.

And though I had seen other ‘things’ since that time, nothing evoked the same level of fear in me that the ‘thing’ that lived in the nursery evoked.

And now I had to face it again.

“I can do this,” I told myself, wiping my sweating palms on my skirt before reaching for the knob. My fingers folded around it, but hesitated.

“It knows you are here,”
a voice said, making me jump.

I stepped backwards, looking up and down the hall, my eyes searching for shapes that hid in the shadows.

“June Bug?” I called out. “Merry?”

No answer.

“Mother?” I tried again.
 

The light bulb above me dimmed.

I could go downstairs, I thought. I could tell Merry I couldn’t find the picture boxes and leave it at that. But the thought of Merry giving me that sympathetic look, and knowing that I was both a liar and a coward was worse than my fears. She had argued on my behalf when we were kids, but I don’t think she ever believed me.

I came up with another plan.

I would rush in, grab the boxes, then jump out. Whatever was in there wouldn’t have time to react; I could be that quick. As I reached for the handle again, I thought I heard a soft laugh from inside, a child’s laugh. I could feel invisible tendrils slither out from beneath the door, wrapping themselves around my feet, winding up my legs and skirt. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them. They were darkness and ice.

I wasn’t going in there. I couldn’t go in there. I didn’t care anymore what Merry thought. There was nothing in hell or on earth that could make me turn that doorknob.

The icy tendrils tightened their grip on my legs.

There was a scream––loud and guttural––but it wasn’t mine.

I heard footsteps in the hall and the tendrils withdrew.

Merry rushed towards me. I thought she had come to my rescue, but she kept running towards Mother’s room at the end of the hall.

“Maggie!” she called to me, her face white. “Quick! Call an ambulance! We need to get Mama to the hospital.”

The ambulance arrived ten minutes later, loading Mother on to a long blue gurney.

We watched helplessly as her eyes fluttered open and shut, her breathing labored and grasping. Merry hovered over her, reciting prayers and feeding Mama her healing energy as the paramedics loaded her into their red and white wagon.

Seeing her grandmother like this, June Bug began to cry. I took her in my arms and hugged her, telling her that everything was going to be okay.

“You promise?” she asked, looking up at me, her face soft and hopeful.

“Yes.” I kissed the top of her head. “I promise.”

“Someone has to ride along,” one of the paramedics said.

My mother’s face was ashy grey, her lips were blue and her skin transparent. If I couldn’t be in the same room with her when she was awake and crazy, I sure couldn’t be with her when she looked like she was about to die.

I tried to speak, to make up some excuse, but Merry volunteered instead. “Stay with June Bug. I will call you when I can.”

The ambulance doors closed behind them.

June Bug and I stood in the rain, watching the car disappear around the winding road.

“How long will Mommy be gone?” June Bug asked, her hair soaked and sticking to her face.
 

“I don’t know. But I’m here with you now. I won’t let anything happen to you.” I took her hand, wedging my fingers in between hers.

Lightning cracked, splitting off the branch of a nearby tree.

We jumped as it hit the ground.

“Let’s get you back in the house before you get sick,” I said.

June Bug nodded, her chin round yet stubborn. She pulled me inside.

The rain continued to dump on us, but June Bug and I were cozy as we huddled up in the living room, playing checkers.

She was surprisingly good, and I didn’t have to cheat to let her win.

When she grew tired of board games, she played dress up, trying on some of Miss Sasha’s old clothes. She sang and danced as she shimmied in boas and high-heeled shoes.

I clapped, whistling and begging for more.

It was a strange feeling, having a niece. I didn’t know her really, but I loved her. There was something about her youthful innocence that charmed me, made me believe in things. Or perhaps it was because she reminded me so much of her mother.

At any rate, I was beginning to see why people had kids around.

“Want me to make you cocoa?” I asked, as she tried on sun hats.

I was having such a good time that I had almost forgotten that Mother and Merry were at the hospital. My cell phone rang and brought me back to reality.

“Maggie. Oh God, Maggie. They think Mama’s had a stroke!” Merry was sobbing, trying to catch her breath.

“Want me to call Shane and have him bring us up?”

“No.” She inhaled audibly, holding it. “There’s nothing you can do here. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please stay with June Bug and let her know I will be back as soon as I can.”

Merry paused for so long I thought she had hung up the phone. Then she started crying again. I stayed with her, saying nothing.

Finally, she regained her composure. “Oh, Maggie. What if she...?”

I wouldn’t let her finish the sentence.

“Merry, don’t. It will be okay.” I laughed, trying to lighten her mood. “Our mother’s a tough old bird. It will take more than a stroke to take her down.”

Merry sniffled and agreed, but I could tell she was really afraid. So was I.

“Don’t worry about June Bug,” I said. “I will keep her safe, okay? Stay with Mother and we will figure things out tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Maggie. I know she’s in good hands.” Another pause. “I love you. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I love you too, Merry,” I said, looking at my niece in the living room. “I won’t let you down.”

We hung up and I was left with the unsettling feeling of guilt, a feeling I was getting used to since coming home. Then the realization of what Merry said came back to me. Mother had a stroke? It didn’t seem possible. She had gotten old in the last few years but her life force was still strong, if a bit unstable.

I searched the kitchen for something resembling alcohol and found a half-empty bottle of wine. I popped the cork and poured myself a glass. I needed something to jolt me from this funk. I almost tripped over June Bug, who was now sprawled out on the floor, arranging her teddy bears around a makeshift picnic blanket. She looked at me, all blue eyes and dimples. She was wearing one of Mother’s shawls.

“Is the cocoa ready yet, Aunt Maggie?”

I turned, mid-step, towards the kitchen. “Yes, honey. I’m getting it now,” I said, dumping the wine in the sink and heating water for cocoa.

Fourteen: Who’ll Stop the Rain

Darkness descended on us like a flock of wild ravens as the rain continued.
 

Sister House screeched and groaned, protesting the deluge that battered her old roof, a roof that had been patched over the years, but never properly repaired. As a result, a few small leaks sprung in the house, mostly in the attic.

June Bug and I gathered pots and bowls to collect water from the leaks, steering clear of the nursery. When we were done, we gathered up armfuls of blankets and pillows, intending to camp in the living room overnight.

“This will be fun,” I assured her, and June Bug bobbed her head, eagerly following me as we made our preparations. For good measure we grabbed flashlights, candles, matches, marshmallows and Ruth Anne’s old copy of
Little Women.

Downstairs, the shutters rattled, the pipes knocked, and the furnace complained when we fired it up, but eventually the place was warm and cozy. The only thing that ruined the atmosphere was the smell and sound of cats, all meowing and yelping through their kennels.

And the thought of Merry and Mother in the hospital,
my mind added.

June Bug was a steady stream of conversation, telling me about the bugs she collected, her home back in Kansas, and the things she liked about Dark Root. Merry had been a talker too, and when I looked at June Bug, sprawled out on a throw rug, concentrating on a picture she was coloring, I was transported back to the days when Merry and I would color pages while Eve danced and Mother played records. Ruth Anne and Aunt Dora would be huddled at the dining room table, discussing one of Aunt Dora’s
Time-Life
books on ancient civilizations.

It didn’t seem that long ago, but it had been almost twenty years.

I took a long sip of my cocoa and let the warmth of the memory wash over me. This was one of the first good memories I had of my childhood, and I didn’t want to lose it.

“I think I’m going to sort through some more of these pictures,” I said, grabbing a box.

June Bug nodded. She had seen her mother sort enough boxes to realize this was important––and boring––‘grown up’ work.

“Look. Here’s your mama when she was about your age.”

I showed June Bug a picture of a petite, blonde girl in a white dress and a big hat. She held a large cat in her arms as she leaned against one of the pillars on the porch. Aunt Dora sat on the swing behind her, crocheting.