RITUAL

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Mists, catching the faint light of the moon, drifted silently along the forest floor. The wind, moved through the trees in long waves, creating a rising and falling crescendo of rattling leaves.

The scene was just as it appeared in my dream when I awoke this morning, choking from a putrid smell.

Right now, I am convinced my infant son is in that cabin and someone is going to kill him, offering his soul to Satan.

Well, there is only one way to find out.

Surrounded by the swooping, chirping sounds of the night, armed only with a knife, I step away from my car with my heart pounding so hard I think they must be able to hear it echoing in the night. I push forward through the low shrubs towards the sickly light.

EARLIER THAT DAY

I wake from an uneasy sleep, a rotting smell choking me.

I drag myself from the bed, gagging and coughing. I stumble to the restroom where I vomit colorful bits into the blue water. My breathing steadies and the panic settles as I become aware that I am in my apartment.

My consciousness clears, and the vision of the cabin fades. I leave that house behind in the dream, but the stench is still with me.

It is a familiar place. I know that cabin. The dream feels real.

I check on the baby sleeping in the crib by my bed. He is resting peacefully.

I pull Taylor’s crib into the bath so I can see him.

I stagger to the shower needing to wash that smell off of me. I turn the water up hotter than usual, soap copiously and scrub hard. No matter how hard I scrub I don’t feel clean.

I step from the shower, towel my skin hard and brush my teeth, but I can still taste that smell, still feel unclean.

I am meeting Bryan for lunch. He will understand and more importantly, he will believe me. Even though I’ve only known him a month there are all kinds of sparks flying and I think there is relationship potential.

I enjoy dressing up for him, knowing I am giving him a quick burst of testosterone. He told me that, to him, I am the most beautiful woman in the world. Even though I do not feel attractive at all, he helps me feel good about myself, like I am almost beautiful. He helps me to feel happy.

Today, for our lunch meeting I wear tight jeans, a suggestive halter, sandals, and painted toes. I even put my hair up for him just how he likes it, pulled back over my ears. I use the nickel alligator clips Bryan gave me as a gift to tie my hair back. We found out later that his gift had been recalled because their points were sharper than industry standards. We had a good laugh about that, him giving me a dangerous gift. I keep them because they are a present from him. Besides, I like them.

I check myself out in the mirror and even I, with my crippled self-esteem, have to admit, I am absolutely stunning.

MAGGIE’S CAFE

I sit by the window of Maggie’s Cafe so I can see his patrol car pull up. This is the sleepy town of Fennville, which now boasts of three patrol cars and often speaks at the city meetings of adding a fourth. Heck, they even discuss adding a stop light instead of the solitary stop sign in the middle of town.

Maggie, smiling, brings me a phone.

I put it to my ear.

“Hi Darla,” Bryan says.

“Yes?” I say, as if I don't know who it is.

“Stifle your enthusiasm please.” He pauses, “I can’t make it for lunch. I am really sorry. I miss you.”

“Well,” I say, feeling a spark of happiness. “I am wearing your favorite outfit. What a waste.”

“Wear it tonight. I’ll be coming over, if you want?”

“I want. I want.”

“Listen,” he says, “I’ve got some news on the infant kidnapping a couple days ago.”

“Yes. Was it connected to the Tate murders?”

“No. Absolutely not. No connection at all.” Bryan pauses before he speaks in a voice just above a whisper. “This morning, the parents of the infant were mailed the baby’s feet and hands.”

“Oh god.” I cover my face with my hand.

“I am sorry Darla. I know you want all the facts.”

“Damn right,” she said.

“This is no cause for alarm. The kidnapping was over three hundred miles away. Just keep Taylor near you and lock everything up. I will be there by 9 tonight.”

“Bryan,” I say.

“Yes?”

“I had a dream, a premonition. I saw a cabin. I know it. I think the kidnappers are here.”

He is quiet. I sense him listening.

“They are near,” I repeat. “The dream made me sick Bryan. Just like Montana.”

“Think you can help us find them?”

I think a moment. “Not today. The experience drained me. I’m still a bit nauseous. I’m not thinking clearly about it. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Anything happens today call the office. I will have Marilyn work late. She will get me any messages fast. We have one officer on tonight. I will see if Steve can work. That way we will have two officers on and me at your house.”

I say, “the killers are south of town. That’s all I know.”

“Good. Tonight, I will keep everyone in town. Except me. I will be guarding you, very closely.”

“You better,” I say. “Verrry closely. If you catch my drift?”

“Drift caught. I can hardly wait.”

“Well hurry up and get here,” I say. “Go write some parking tickets or whatever it is you do while driving around all day. Hurry. I’ll be ready.”

“Copy that,” he says.

“Oh my. That radio talk is so sexy,” I say.

“In that case, this is Bryan, signing off.”

“You are driving me wild,” I say with exaggerated excitement.

“See you about 9. I’ll give you a call when I know the exact time.”

He is gone.

He always makes me smile. I feel better. The horror of last night’s vision fades under the brightness of our exchange.

THE GIFT

I moved to Fennville about two months ago. I was running away. I have a “gift”, a psychic power or powers, which I consider to be more of a curse.

I helped the FBI catch a serial killer in Montana. Lucky for me, I chose to assist them with anonymous phone calls. They were suspicious at first, thought I was the killer, but they came to realize I was offering quality information. I had premonitions, dreamlike apparitions of places, sounds, and people. They were sometimes hazy, sometimes carried a degree of clarity. The information helped them catch the killer.

The process, for me, was exhausting and painful. I felt it weakening me. I am glad I worked anonymously because there was a media frenzy and I don’t think I would have survived it.

Some people have the strength to carry these gifts, and some people don’t. I concluded that I don’t have the strength and I don’t want the gifts.

It was the car accident, and the short coma afterwards which I believe caused my development or acquisition or I am not even sure what to call it, of this power.

Sometimes, I feel I am experiencing different types of powers; that they are blending and strengthening. I know there is too much going on, too much stimuli bombarding my senses and I can’t sort it out. Not yet. I just allow myself to feel intuitively the messages of my visions.

Mostly, I experience premonitions, some vague, some with a degree of clarity. Sometimes different senses take a dominant role. Sometimes I hear things, or my olfactory senses react. Sometimes I see, maybe into the future, or places, or through visions with vague messaging or symbolism.

Nothing is concrete. Nothing happens the same way for me, and I don’t have a framework to understand what is happening.

Bryan seems to understand, and I feel that he does. At least, I believe he accepts what I am telling him is true, not that I understand where it comes from, because I don’t, but he believes me, and I am thankful.

THE KIDNAPPING

I was lost in thought as I left the café. I rearranged the blanket in the stroller, making sure Taylor was comfortable.

Sitting on the bench near my car is a man, watching me. He looks familiar. I have definitely seen him before. He smiles as I approach. He seems pleasant enough, so I return the smile. He stands, looks straight into my eyes and starts flicking his tongue at me. I turn away from him. I feel threatened and hurry straight for my car.

I open the rear door and tuck Taylor into his car seat in the back. I hurry around the car, casting a glance at the man who is still watching me, too closely.

It is during the ride on the deserted roads off of the beach highway that I know the meaning of the dream. I call the station as soon as I get home. No one answers so I leave a frantic message. “Bryan. The killers are here. I am sure of it. I saw one. Call me.”

I check all the doors and windows, double check the patio door and pull the curtain across it.

I sit in the chair and hold Taylor close to me, rocking the hours away. There is a knock at the door. I remember, know it is Susan my babysitter. I forgot she was going to take care of Taylor tonight for a few hours while Bryan and I have a quiet evening.

I open the door, thinking I should have checked who was knocking before throwing it open.

“Hi Susan,” I say. “I am sorry, quick change of plans. Can you watch Taylor for about thirty minutes while I run over to check on Anna? I told her I would make sure she was okey tonight.”

“No problem, Darla,” Susan says.

I explain the situation quickly and shoot past her for my car.

I take about forty minutes. When I return, they are both gone.

I search frantically, then I call the station and Marilyn does not answer again. I leave another message for Bryan.

“They’ve taken Taylor. I’m going south on the beach road. Come find me.”

I know where they are. My senses whisper, South.

I drive a couple hours in the dark on winding gravel tracks through the dark forest to the south of town.

A dirt path curls off into a field of corn and in the trees beyond the corn, I see it. The yellow light. Faintly glowing. Then it is gone.

I back up until I see it again through the smallest gap in the trees.

My heart is thrumming. That is the place. I know it. Has to be.

I follow the dirt track deeper into the forest, every so often the light shows itself through the trees like a yellow eye watching my approach.

I turn my lights off and in places it is too dark to negotiate the road. Luckily the moon spills its light on the face of the trees and patches of the potted gravel trail. I turn a couple of bends and then there it is, just across the meadow.

I have no plan except to go and look in the window. I grab the knife and open the door slowly. There is a minor creaking sound and I stop, watching the cabin.

Nobody should be living there. It has been abandoned for years. But there it is, the light spilling out of the window.

Surrounded by the swooping, chirping sounds of the night, armed only with a knife, I step away from my car. My heart pounds so hard I think they must be able to hear it echoing in the night. I push forward through the low shrubs towards the sickly light.

I make slow progress, careful to make no noise as I move along the edge, of moonlight touching darkness. I watch the cabin for signs of movement.

I haven’t been seen, far as I can tell. I move forward with stealth, the thigh high grass brushing against my jeans, making a whispering sound. I proceed with caution, try to listen within the night sounds, within the rising and falling reverberations of the shaking forest. I move faster and get caught in the current of the yellow light which now seems to be flowing steadily from the crooked window. I jog through the silvery sheen of moon light towards the cabin just ahead.

I pause at the porch. The vague shape of the cabin rises above me into the darkness. I still detect no movement. I cross the porch slowly to the window and peer carefully in. My eyes adjust to the faint light and as far as I can see the cabin is a single square room. Its walls are water, stained planks, having shifted over the decades they fit roughly together, leaving gaps and raw edges. Ragged furniture lines up along one of the walls. There are a few tables of differing heights, arranged side by side with a candle at either end. On the tallest table stands a gruesome, twisted statue, which I take to be Satan himself. On one of the tables rests several masks of deformed animals. There is a painting with souls, clearly in agony, reaching desperately upward, begging for mercy. My heart skips a beat when I see the long, silver knives resting on a black cloth on a lower table, catching the faint glow of the flickering candles. There is a pile of clothes and sleeping bags and then there it is. I gasp when I see it in the corner.

The baby carrier.

Taylor has to be in there. I press up to the window, try to see into it but cannot.

I hear footsteps on the creaking wooden floor. Then I see them, two men in hooded black robes step into my view, their backs to me, one is closer than the other. The taller one walks slowly towards the carrier with arms folded. He looks down into it.

“You have done well,” he says nodding. The face is turned away and I cannot see it. “He is a worthy sacrifice.”

My blood chills at the words. My heart beats hard in my chest. My mind spins. I cannot come up with a plan.

“You should have seen the mother,” says the man with his back to me, “gorgeous.”

The man looking over the carrier turns to the voice and is now looking in my direction. The face is painted. It is hideous. Red, white and yellow colors, made to look like Satan. I duck back into the shadows realizing he is talking to the man standing near the window with his back to me.

“You should have brought her,” he said his solemn face breaking into a smile. “She could ‘enjoy’ this ceremony with us.”

The one with his back to me laughs. “We would enjoy her every way imaginable. One of the most beautiful women I’ve seen.” He stepped into view; was also wearing a robe. The hood was down in the back. I saw his face, which was not yet painted, from the side. It was the tongue flicker. “I would have brought her, but she was not there.”

“She left her baby?”

“A sitter was present,” said the tongue man. “She wasn’t up to our standards, so I took care of her. They won’t find her for a couple days.”

“Good,” said the tall one. “At least, tonight we will be focused on our service. We will feel the power.”

The tall one stops suddenly and strides across the room straight at me. I step off to the side of the window, sense him pressing his face up close to the glass, partially blocking the light. I see his shadow moving as if suspecting my presence.

The shadow turns, quits blocking the light, and I hear the footsteps move from the window.

“We should begin the ceremony soon, so it can end about midnight,” says the tall one as he crosses the room back towards the carrier.

My thoughts spin, disconnect. I realize I still hold the knife. I can’t think.

In the jumble of thoughts one clear reality-based thought surfaces. I know I can’t win against the two. They are too big.

No matter. I need to do something to stop the madness. I step to the door and turn the handle, holding the knife so I can stab downward with strength. It is locked.

I can think of nothing to do so I kick it. Hard.

I hear the room go quiet. There are rustling movements. A face comes to the window. I step back so he can see me. It is the tongue flicker. He says something over his shoulder.

The door unlocks, swings open slowly. I see a couple vague silhouettes on the floor.

I recognize the voice of the tall one. “Come in,” he says pleasantly. If he is close enough, I’ll kill him. I raise the knife and push open the door with my foot.

They are standing back from the door, each man holding a club like object. They are too far away for a quick strike.

“So,” says the tall one, smiling at me, “what now?” He holds a hand out to me, palm open.

I don’t move. My eyes shift from him to the tongue flicker who is moving to my other side blocking the path to the door. Even wrapped in the loosely fitting black robe, he looks ready to spring.

The tall one, clearly in charge, is not threatening in posture or tone. "Allow me to introduce my associate. This is Joseph, named after the carpenter. You may catch the irony." He pauses. "Now, do you want to save your son?” His voice is soothing, the face hideous. “You can.”

I push the word past the lump in my throat. “How?”

“How?” he seems surprised. “Why, all you have to do, is what we want.” He smiles warmly, tilts his ugly head.

I know he is trying to be disarming. He looks even more demonic.

I know what he wants, and the thought sickens me. My already nauseous stomach twists. There is a chance that if I have sex with them my son might live. “How do I know you’ll let him live?” It was difficult to talk.

“I understand that it is difficult to trust us,” he says. His tone is soft, soothing. “On the other hand, you are his best chance. You are a beautiful prize, and we are going to have our way with you anyway. It is just more fun for us if you are an enthusiastic partner.”

He pauses.

“Let’s face it," he says, "you do not really have a choice. You need to trust us. We will reward your performance with the life of your son. We will allow you to feed him before we leave, and then tie you up. You will be found within a day. At the beginning of day two the police will receive an anonymous call to make sure you are found. Your policeman friend perhaps will be the one to rescue you. You will be hungry, but alive. You will have your man. More important your son will be safe.”

He is persuasive, sincere, trustworthy. I know better but I want to trust him, believe that I can save my son. All I have to do is have sex with them. At the least, I would be buying time, and that gives us a chance. For something to happen. Maybe someone else will see the light and come to investigate.

“What do you think?” he says with that warm smile which makes the face even more surreal.

I consider my options quickly. I can break for the door, but they are ready for that. I shouldn’t have impulsively barged in on them, trapping myself. It was my pure, unthinking rage in action. I can attack and might wound one of them with the knife before they knock me to the ground and render me helpless. I make a decision.

I sense this is the right answer. The feeling emanates from the place where my powers reside. I know it is the way to save my son.

It feels as if someone else is saying the words. “Alright,” I say, “I’ll do it.”

“Of course,” he says, “you will take care of us both. With enthusiasm.”

“Of course,” I say. An idea shows itself to me. There is hope. There is a chance.

“I need to see my son,” I say.

“Of course,” he says smiling. The tall one steps off to the side, bows and gestures with his open palm to the carrier.

I step cautiously forward. I see him. Taylor is sleeping, appears unhurt. Thank God.

The tall one flips a dark cloth over the top, hiding him from me. “There,” he says, “now you can save him with a great performance.”

“One at a time. Under the robe.” I say. I can no longer speak in full sentences.

“I was thinking both of us,” he says.

I pause a moment choosing my words carefully. I speak slowly. “It will be better for you if it is one at a time so I can give each of you my full attention. Two men will be too much.” I pause, smile at the tall one. “At least, at first.” I don’t know where the words are coming from. I am feeling sick, have to fight it down, have to pretend to be sexy. I must focus on saving my baby.

“Good,” says the tall one nodding his head and smiling. As he turns away, he looks over to the cradle, then to the tongue flicker. There is a look, a tiny exchange between them. It means, when they are done, they will kill me. Then my baby.

He slides his arms out of the robe, and to intensify my disgust I see he is already naked. My stomach twists. I look straight into his eyes, because I can’t stand to look at his body. I say, “nice.”

He spreads the robe on the floor, away from the table. The candles throw a flickering light across the floor.

He holds out his hand towards the robe, indicates the beginning of my performance.

My last chance to break for it flashes through my mind. I look again to the door. Joseph, sensing this, is watching me closely. He flicks his tongue. I look away. He laughs.

Time. I have to save time. There is a chance.

I look at him, and see only the hideous, satanic face. I never feel sexy, but I know sexiness is my best weapon. It is our best chance.

“Knife please,” says the gruesome face. The tone is pleasant.

“Of course,” I say.

It takes me a moment but to get them to lower their guard I toss it to the side, noting its position relative to the blanket. It clatters to the floor.

I look straight into his eyes, try not to see the grotesque face. I lick my lips slowly as I reach for the top button of my jeans.

“Another robe please,” I say as my fingers worked slowly down from button to button.

The tall one steps over to a wall where there is a bundle of clothes. He picks one up, opens it and holds it high as he moves to the other robe on the floor. He lays it lightly on top.

I get to the final button, hook my thumbs on either side of my jeans. I began tugging on each side, showing a little more at each tug. Slow is my thought. Time. Save every bit.

I kick off the sandals. I slide the jeans down to my ankles and stepp out of them, slowly. I look up at him shyly, give my hair a toss.

BRYAN

Bryan has driven around now in the woods to the north of town for hours.

He is tired.

He radios into the office and Marilyn gave him Darla’s message.

He speeds with his flasher lights on to the south side of town.

He turns up a dirt track, turns off the flashing lights, hears the steady crunch of the gravel.

There are abandoned cabins up here, he thinks. Luckily the moon drifted out of the clouds, spilling light on the bumpy road. He drives for an hour on winding dirt tracks.

He keeps his lights on low, winds along the rickety road for fifteen minutes and realizes he is falling asleep. His eyes are burning.

He drives past a faint glimmer of light buried far back in the darkness. He backs up. Yep. There it is. Just across the meadow. He takes the first left which leads in the direction of the light.

THE BATTLE

I am sore. They’ve both taken a turn. I keep my mind blank, numb, as much as I can, even as I moan and move for them.

The only thing that keeps me going is that I am saving my son. I know it to be true. It isn’t just a wish. I can feel it. My senses are screaming it.

I know the time is now.

“Turn over,” says the tall one. “I want some pictures of you looking straight into the camera.”

“Mmmm. I will like that,” I say trying to be sexy. “I want to start with you on top. I’ve got some ideas for you.” I guide him with my hands, gentle pressures on his lower back. I move for him to lay on me. When he is on top, I flip the blanket over us so the tongue man can’t see our bodies. My legs and feet are outside the blanket, my feet are moving on the back of his legs.

I reach behind my head, unclip a metal hair pin carefully. It cuts me but not badly. There will be only one chance.

Clumsily, I adjust the hair clip so it is like a tiny knife in my hand. It seems like a very small weapon now, but it is my only hope. Maybe it will catch an artery.

When I have a secure grip on the clip, I cross my ankles behind him. He understands this to mean my excitement is heightening and he begins moving faster. I move my left arm across the top of his shoulders, just above his arms. Then I pull him tight to me, making sure a large part of his neck is exposed. He is moving fast, too fast for a clear stab. Finally, he takes gasping breaths, begins to slow until he lays motionless.

I pull him tight with my left arm, lock him against me with my legs, and stab down as hard as I can into the side of his neck. I push it as far as I can slicing my hand. He begins to buck in pain.

He swings his arms uncontrollably knocking mine away as he rolls off of me.

Joseph has been watching my legs and his friend’s bucking body. He is slowly understanding. He jumps up and grabs a ceremonial knife. He reaches into the carrier, grabs the baby by a leg with one hand and lifts him up, holding him high over his head for me to see.

My insides break open, rage and terror pouring out. I see a blur of red and I am snarling as I attack. My hands, clutched like claws are but inches from his eyes. I don’t know how but I am violently slammed to the ground. A thin, dark line frames the edge of my vision. I fight to push my way up.

The surreal, satanic face is on the ground, on level with my own. Its wild eyes, filled with hate, are fixed on mine. Clutching a ceremonial knife in his hand, he is dragging his body towards me.

Joseph is holding the baby over his head. He is howling, waving the knife. I see a blur of jumbled colors, hear sharp banging sounds.

I hear the baby crying as the darkness takes me.

AFTER

My eyes flutter open. There is a blur of color which begins to clear. The colors solidify, take shape. I recognize the shape moving towards me.

Bryan.

Words are jumbled and far away. They come closer.

“It’s alright honey. I got here just in time. Taylor is doing great,” he says.

I see the bundle in his arms.

“He wants his mother,” he says.

I take the bundle in my arms, flip the edge of the blanket back over his head. Taylor’s eyes scan the shapes and colors. He finds me and his face lights up. He clenches and releases his tiny fists as his arms jerk and swing clumsily for me.

He lets go with one of his baby, belly laughs which always gets us laughing.

My eyes moisten as I hug him to me.

Bryan stops laughing and looks at me, hugs us both gently, whispers, "it's ok."

I have stopped laughing. I am crying hard, with my whole heart.