As the Moon Climbs

Part 19 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * * *

“If you ask me whether we’re almost there yet one more time,” Miranda told Parker through gritted teeth, “I swear I’ll stick your voice in my pocket.”

Parker shifted his legs, which ached from the long ride. The back seat of Miranda’s car wasn’t made for someone his size, and his rear end had begun to complain a few minutes before he had. “You couldn’t pull a spell like that while driving,” he muttered.

As if being cramped wasn’t bad enough, he’d been stuck next to Kitty the whole time. Since the debacle with his now very likely ex-girlfriend, she had avoided him and he’d returned the favor. But as the smallest of the group, it made sense to put her in the middle of the back seat, between Parker and the even more enormous Beatrice. While the latter had slipped into some kind of meditative trance within minutes of leaving the house, everyone else endured an uncomfortable silence broken by occasional bursts of news radio.

Anthony twisted around in his seat to look at Parker. “We passed a sign ten minutes ago that said it would be thirty more miles. So we should be there in twenty minutes or so.”

Tapping his fingers on his knee, Parker stared out the window. Gently rolling green hills stared back along with the occasional herd of cows or horses. Thick swaths of kudzu draped every object that didn’t move, from trees to bushes to what were presumably fences underneath the leafy blankets, but might have been some especially lazy cows.

An old church passed into view, its walls whitewashed but faded like a sock after too much bleaching. Parker saw the big bell in the campanile swing back and forth and even fancied that he heard it ring for a moment. At their speed, it could only have been his imagination. People stepped inside, all of them dressed in dark clothes, including the ones who lifted a large wooden casket from the back of a waiting hearse.

He felt like he should do something, say a prayer or cross himself maybe, but Parker had never been one for religious spectacle. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about Kitty’s thigh pressed against his.

* * * * *
They parked in the lot behind a diner like something out of a movie. Truckers sat inside making slow work of greasy food and a constant stream of coffee. Young waitresses leaned forward to flash bare skin while older ones leaned back against the counter to rest their feet.

“I’m starving,” Parker announced. “You can all tool around in the Mystery Machine while I give my stomach some much-needed exercise.”

Miranda glanced at the doe-eyed waitress serving pie and smirked. “Just make sure you don’t eat with your eyes,” she said. “Anthony, you and Beatrice try the post office.”

Anthony gave a mock salute. “Yes, captain. We’ll see if we can’t get my poor old uncle’s address right, for my mum’s sake.”

“Could you be a worse liar?” Miranda asked. “Maybe you should wait until Parker finishes stuffing his face and let him try it.”

Anthony shook his head and stalked off, Beatrice following like a giant blond shadow.

“Right then, Kitty.” Miranda laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Kitty smiled. “It’s okay. This stuff is easy. Like riding a bike!”

You can get killed riding a bike, Miranda thought. “Good. Let’s go listen to some gossip.”

* * * * *
They reconvened at the diner an hour later.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Anthony said.

“Grant’s dead,” Parker interjected, casually scratching his nose. “I told the waitress I was in town to see him and she was very… sympathetic.”

Anthony pursed his lips. “Well then, Sherlock, did you happen to find out where they’re holding the funeral?”

“Kitty thinks it’s at a church about twenty miles back where we came from,” Miranda said. “The ghosts are flocking in that direction. She felt some movement earlier but didn’t know they were related.”

“Let’s get going, then,” Parker said. “Don’t want to miss the party.”

Frowning, Anthony trudged back to the car. “Next time, I’m staying in the diner and eating apple pie.”

“Blueberry, actually.”

* * * * *
The organist at the church was very sorry that they’d missed the service, but gave them excellent directions to the cemetery where the late John Preston Grant was to be buried. Within minutes they had parked on the outskirts of the old but tidy grounds, wary of moving too close to the funeral party for fear of attracting attention.

“Big crowd,” Miranda murmured. “I suppose he was well liked.”

Parker shook his head. “The waitress said he had a huge family. Loads of brothers and sisters, kids and grandkids, nieces and nephews… great big rutting band of breeders as far as the eye can see.”

“Thank you for that spectacular image.” Miranda pulled a pair of binoculars from her purse and trained them on the crowd. “Looks funerary enough. People crying, kids fidgeting, priest reading something out of a book.”

“So that’s it?” Parker asked. “Case closed, we’re in the clear, all’s well that ends with that bastard in the great beyond?”

“If you buy that,” Anthony said, “I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”

Miranda looked at Kitty. “Any ghostly rumors knocking around?”

The woman’s face was pale. “They’re so quiet,” Kitty whispered. “Watching. Waiting. Like they’re afraid he can hear them. And there are others…” She closed her eyes and a tear escaped. “He killed so many of them. But he had help. He still does.”

“Who?” Anthony asked. “His family?”

“Some of them, I think. And some… some of the dead. It’s terrible.” Another tear. “They’re… laughing.”

“That settles it,” Miranda said. “We wait for the party to break up, and later tonight, we pay our respects. With a shovel.”

* * * * *

Part 20: Grant’s Tomb

He says It’s not that I’m racist but
why do we keep letting these immigrants in
so they can steal our jobs

Sips his cafe con leche and eyes
the wide hips of the Peruvian waitress

He says They need to put up that fence
so people stop sneaking over the border
Ship back all the illegals already

Scans the headlines of the newspaper
before flipping to the sports page

He says These lazy bastards come over
to live off welfare that I pay for
No skills, no brains, can’t teach them a thing

Answers a work email on his Blackberry
for a client in Santo Domingo

He says When I came to this country
forty years ago, it wasn’t such a mess
but now they let anyone in

Tips the waitress and tells her in Spanish
that she has very beautiful eyes

He says Look at that tira flecha
Bet she just came down from the mountain
She’ll be pregnant and on WIC in a year

Rapidly drinks water from a paper cup
to cleanse his palate, then throws it away

* * * * *

For CombatWords 8/27/10

Abby had heard about the new random video chat site but had been too embarrassed to try it until now. Her friend Marcia swore that it was way fun except for all the penis shots, and told her to stop being such a prude, and anyway Darren was using it so she might accidentally stumble across him, and wouldn’t that be awesome?

Yes, it would, and now that there was a localized version to pair up people in the same state, the odds of that happening weren’t totally ridiculous. Abby picked a rainy night to up the likelihood of Darren being at home, alone with his computer. That meant her mom was home, too, but they had this mutual respect thing where if she locked the door, her mom wouldn’t bug her, so that was that. She spent an hour beforehand ransacking her closet for a really cute top, then fixing her hair and carefully applying makeup so her eyes would look wide, her mouth full and kissable. With bated breath, she opened up the site and clicked “Next.”

After fifteen minutes of brief conversations with rude boys, nonexistent conversations with other girls, and more male genitalia than she had ever hoped to see in her life, Abby was ready to give up. At one point someone had offered to draw her, and it had ended up as a picture of a monster with penis eyes. If this was all the site had to offer, she was over it, and she would tell Marcia as much. Maybe she could go downstairs and watch the end of some TV show with her mom before bedtime.

One more for the road, she thought, and clicked. The window showed a blank white space, like the other person’s camera was pointed at an empty screen. The slow blink of a cursor in the top left corner attracted her attention. Rolling her eyes, Abby moved her mouse to close the browser window.

Letters appeared as if typed, forming a word.

HELLO.

Did she feel like typing back? Not really. Bo-ring. There was no sound, just the word and the blinking cursor, which started to move again.

HELLO ABBY.

Oh my god, it was someone she knew. “Who is this?” she replied. No answer. Could it be Darren? Marcia? Someone else from school? “Come on,” she typed, “who are you?”

I AM.

Let it be Darren, she thought.

I AM GOING.

Abby held her breath.

I AM GOING TO KILL YOU.

At first, Abby froze. A tense heat began at the base of her neck and spread to her back. Then, she laughed.

“Very funny,” she typed. “Seriously, who is this?”

I AM GOING TO KILL YOU TONIGHT.

“Fine, whatever, don’t tell me,” she wrote. “Dick.” Before she could close the window, thunder crashed outside and the power went out. Grumbling, Abby carefully stepped over to her bed to get the flashlight her mother insisted she keep in her nightstand drawer. A dim glow appeared over her shoulder.

Her computer screen was on, back to the blank white page. Her breath stuck in her throat so that the only sound was the rain that tapped at her window. The screen flickered and now, instead of being empty, it contained the image of a gun.

“Mom!” She tried to shout, but could only manage a croak. The gun was a revolver. As she watched, the cylinder popped out and a single bullet floated into view. The round slid into a chamber so softly she wasn’t sure she’d really heard it. The cylinder spun like a roulette wheel and clicked loudly into place. The hammer eased back and the gun turned so that she stared down its pixelated metal barrel.

From the front, she couldn’t see the trigger being pulled, but she saw the cylinder rotate and heard when the hammer struck an empty chamber. Lightning flashed in the window behind her, on the other side of the bed, illuminating her room for a split second. Thunder boomed hard on its heels.

Abby clambered backward onto her bed, the gun following her every movement. Again, the cylinder turned and the hammer fell on nothing. Again, and again, and again. Now she did scream, over and over with pauses to gasp for breath. Footsteps thumped up the stairs but her attention was intently focused on the gun, each muted click like the second hand on a clock ticking its way to the stroke of midnight.

Lightning flashed. A heavy knock struck the door in a staccato rhythm fast as the beating of her heart.

The gun fired.

Thunder shook the house. Then, silence.

One by one, Abby unclenched her eyes. On the screen, the gun was gone, replaced by words.

HA HA HA. GOT YOU.

The icy fear in the pit of her stomach sublimated into white hot rage in an instant. “You dick!” she shrieked, throwing a pillow at the monitor. She remembered the battery backup then, the one that kept her computer from turning off when the power went out. How could she have been so stupid? And screaming like that! Her mom must be freaking out.

Abby slid across the bed and stepped toward the door. The power flickered back on in time for her to realize that someone had been knocking before, and that she had just stepped in a pool of blood slowly soaking into her carpet from the hallway outside.

My story Blind Man Reading is up on Microhorror.com. So cool! Give it a read and while you’re there, check out the other stories on the site.

Part 18 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

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Kitty stood just inside the threshold of Parker’s room, encased in a silvery mist that whorled and flickered like flames. Her hair writhed as if each grouping of color had become a separate snake. Parker threw up one shield after another, and Kitty promptly tore each apart like it was made of wet paper instead of ley line-enhanced magic.

“What’s gotten into you?” he shouted, sweat beading on his forehead. Behind him, Lisa huddled on the bed, screaming and trying to press herself into the wall.

Whatever Kitty said in response was unintelligible, but at last, in desperation, Parker threw himself on top of Lisa’s trembling form to shield her from Kitty’s attack. An invisible force gripped him around the waist and wrenched him away, tossing him against the closet door.

The same force lifted Lisa from the bed and proceeded to choke the life out of her.

“Kitty, no!” Parker groaned, feebly exerting himself for one last shield spell. It was dispatched as easily as the rest. Dark spots swam in front of his eyes.

“Aqua cade!” A column of water fell on Kitty’s head, and like a wet match, she went out. Lisa fell to the ground, gasping for air. Anthony grabbed Kitty’s arms and Miranda ran to do the same to the fallen woman.

Kitty’s eyes returned to their normal color and she collapsed against Anthony. “Oh, goodness,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

Anthony looked down at Parker. “Are you okay?”

“I got hit by a truck, but thankfully I got the ‘How’s My Driving?’ number.” Slowly, gingerly, Parker climbed to his feet. “Do I get an explanation and–hey, what are you doing with my handcuffs?”

Miranda glared at him. “Your new girlfriend is a cambion, lover boy.” She snapped the cuffs closed and struggled to pick up the unconscious and surprisingly heavy Lisa. “Can I get a hand, my dear, sweet James?”

To her surprise, Parker had no response. He simply limped over and helped, and together they half-dragged, half-carried the half-woman downstairs and laid her down on the couch.

“Should we lock her up in the circle?” Anthony asked, still supporting a limp Kitty.

Booker emerged from the study, book in hand. “It shouldn’t be necessary,” he said. “Cambion aren’t much more dangerous than regular people. They’re just more… persuasive.”

“Well, there’s no sense taking her outside,” Miranda said. “She’s already crossed the threshold and I don’t think I have all the materials for an uninvite spell.”

Parker chimed in. “We can put her in the sitting room. When she wakes up, we question her.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll question her.”

“We’re not leaving you alone with that… that,” Miranda said. “Come on.”

Within ten minutes, Lisa regained consciousness to find that her hands and feet were locked to the legs and arms of a stiff-backed wooden chair. A single bright light was pointed at her face, throwing the rest of the dusty room into shadow. After failing to pull herself free, she began to scream again, shrill and hysterical.

Parker dropped a chair in front of her, facing backwards, and slid into it, resting his chin on the back and staring into Lisa’s startled eyes. “Hello, Lisa,” he said. “If that is your real name.”

Miranda snorted somewhere behind him. He ignored it.

“James, what’s going on?” Lisa asked. Her voice cracked with fear and the rawness of her throat.

“That is the question of the day, isn’t it?” Parker leaned closer. “Who sent you here, Lisa? What is your mission?”

“I’m not… I don’t…” Her eyes widened and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you work for the government? Are you a spy? A Russian?” She gasped, her eyes the size of saucers. “Are you… a socialist?”

Parker slammed the chair against the ground and stood up. “Don’t give me the innocent act, so-called Lisa. I know how your kind operates.”

“My kind?” Lisa wrinkled her nose. “What does that even–”

“You thought you could just waltz in and seduce me! Well, I’m on to your little game. Now tell me why you’re here!”

Lisa burst into tears, her breath coming in hiccuping sobs. “I thought… we were going to… watch a movie…”

“It’s no good pretending, Lisa,” Miranda said coldly. “We know you’re a cambion.”

“No… I’m not!” she protested. “I’m American!”

The silence that followed was broken only by the occasional sniffle from the handcuffed woman. Parker looked at Anthony, who shrugged, then at Miranda, who shook her head. His gaze fell at last on Kitty, who looked tired and confused.

“See anything you want to mention, or should we let you finish choking her?” he asked.

Kitty’s cheeks flushed pink. “She’s… she thinks she’s telling the truth.”

“What?” three voices asked in unison.

“Kitty,” Parker said testily. “Are you saying that you almost killed my girlfriend, who is now cuffed to a chair being interrogated like a criminal, and that she is in fact completely innocent?”

“Well, she’s still a cambion,” Kitty murmured.

“Gods Above,” Miranda groaned, while Anthony covered his eyes with a hand.

Lisa looked up at Parker hopefully. “Does this mean you’re not going to hurt me?”

Parker knelt down next to her and unlocked the cuffs on her ankles. “I’m so sorry, Lisa.”

“Someone has to explain to her about what she is,” Anthony said.

“And why that means she has to keep her mouth shut about us, too,” Miranda added.

Parker released her hands, and Lisa rubbed her wrists reflexively. “So I’m your girlfriend?” Lisa asked. Parker shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

Lisa slapped him, hard. “The absolute nerve!” she shrieked. “You tie me to a chair and you think for a second that I’m–UGH! I can’t believe you!” She stormed out of the room, Parker trailing behind her with a mouthful of apologies.

Booker flipped on the overhead light and turned off the lamp. Anthony sat Kitty down on the chaise and took the wooden chairs back to the dining room, politely ignoring the fight in the foyer and retreating again to the sitting room.

“I have to admit,” Miranda said. “I do feel a little sorry for Parker right now.”

Booker and Anthony exchanged a glance and shrug. “Typical Parker.”

* * * * *

Part 19: Dead Again