Dark Rites

“But you don’t need us tonight,” Darlene said firmly.

“Not to worry, Vick—we always come back to haunt you!” Dylan told her, trying for a light grin.

“Haunt me—and help out,” she reminded him. “Remember, I’m quite accustomed to you and that we both—Griffin and I—appreciate the two of you very much.”

“I just wish my parents watched The Walking Dead,” Dylan said, shaking his head in puzzlement that anyone wouldn’t want to watch the series from beginning to end. “And Noah, well, he’s great, he’ll put on anything we want, but...he’s only nine.”

“Maybe in a few years we can do a marathon viewing with Noah,” Darlene said.

“That will be fun!” Dylan agreed, grinning at Darlene. But then his grin faded and he turned back to Vickie. “I will see you tomorrow. We need to know everything that went on with Griffin—and, most importantly, with Alex.”

“Absolutely,” Vickie said.

She watched them go. They both simply disappeared through the wall. When Dylan came to visit when she was home, he made a point of knocking. Only emergencies caused him to do anything less thoughtful or proper.

When they were gone, Vickie tried Alex’s number again. No answer.

Maybe he’d lost his phone. No—he would have called her from another phone. Actually, he’d have been at a store in two seconds to get another—he had a Facebook group that talked about all kinds of history, travel, weird places and such similar things, and she was pretty sure that Alex went into withdrawal if he couldn’t catch up on the latest at every possible opportunity.

She opened the app and checked Alex’s Facebook page.

He hadn’t been on the site in over twenty-four hours.

She called Griffin quickly then. He didn’t answer at first. Frustrated, she plopped down on the sofa in her parlor.

Her phone rang right back.

Griffin.

“You all right?” he asked.

She smiled; she could tell he was trying to keep any touch of anxiety out of his voice. She knew that he’d always be concerned about her—it was part of what he did for a living, and by vocation. He saw too much that was bad.

“Fine. I’m home. In the apartment. I had an idea. Can you trace Alex’s phone?”

“Well, there are a lot of legal ramifications,” Griffin said.

“I’ll report him missing—how about that?” she asked.

“You know, unless we have good reason, twenty-four hours is—”

“We have good reason! He was clunked on the head. He had a police guard for a couple of weeks after. Go figure—he disappears after that guard is taken off.”

“The attacks appeared to be random,” Griffin reminded her. “No community has the manpower to watch victims endlessly, especially when it appears the danger has moved on.”

“I know that.”

“He could be fine.”

“No. I don’t believe that even as a ray of hope anymore,” she said.

“Okay, we’ll take the angle that something is wrong. We’ll get a missing-person report going, and...we’ll get into his phone records,” Griffin said. “I’m in a paper tangle right now as it is—I’ll get Barnes to have a man from the right department get everything started for Alex. Lord, if he’s just off doing...doing whatever scholars do...well, I guess that’s the best-case scenario. But we’ll treat him as a missing person and work on finding him with all possible resources, okay?”

“Much better. Are you coming home soon?” she asked.

“Well,” he told her, his tone ironic, “I’ll be a little longer now.”

“Don’t be too long.”

“You going to make it worth my while?”

“Hmm. You bet,” she told him.

“Aha.”

“I can be full of surprises,” she assured him before hanging up.

Restless, she headed into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and then settled down at her computer with the pad of scribbled notes she’d made from research sites and her own library.

Ever since seeing the scrawled quotation on Alex, she’d been looking up Satanism and witchcraft in Massachusetts.

Most of what she could find on witchcraft had to do with the travesty of justice that had occurred during the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692. She’d recently turned in a nonfiction book for a university press that had dealt with the Puritan rule in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, with a special focus on Puritan ministers. While Cotton Mather had “saved” a few witches, by caring for them himself, he’d also been instrumental in the executions that had occurred in Salem. There had been a few other trials and executions of so-called witches in the colony, as well. It seemed so appalling now and, in her mind, so ridiculous she couldn’t believe anyone had abided it—even in the devil-fearing darkness of the early days of the colony.

Of course, Salem—and surrounding areas—also had a nice population of modern-day real witches: wiccans. They were an acknowledged religion and Vickie had friends among them. They didn’t cast evil spells—they lived by a threefold rule, where any evil done to another comes back on one threefold. It was a pretty good framework for not hurting people!

But there were instances of Satanism rather than witchcraft that had taken place in Massachusetts. According to the Puritan fathers, there would be little difference. In the Puritan world, witches danced naked in the moonlight, signed the devil’s book and frolicked with all manner of decadence and enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh—in return for being wicked, of course.

The first accusations of witchcraft had occurred in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1645. Hugh and Mary Parsons had accused one another. Hugh was eventually acquitted; Mary was set to hang for the crime of killing her child—by witchcraft, or so the records implied. Between 1645 and 1663, eighty more people were accused and thirteen women and two men were put to death.

The fear of the devil had begun in Europe in the 1500s—thousands were put to death, burned at the stake or hanged, or through some other even more painful means. In comparison, what went on in the colony was pretty tame.

But even then, there were dissenters, and there were those who were ready and eager to take a faith and twist it around and give it a few new guidelines.

At the same time—circa 1665—Ezekiel Martin was growing stronger in influence among the young people swayed to his sect.

Missy Prior was a stunning young Puritan woman, an orphan who survived through selling produce from her small garden and from doing handcrafts—mending and sewing. Ezekiel Martin wooed the girl.

She turned him down. Sweetly. She talked about her youth—and mourning for her parents.

Ezekiel was hurt—deeply offended.

Since he’d never made it to being ordained—suspected of not being a learned or good man himself—his orations weren’t sanctioned by the church. But according to the diary of an ordained minister of the time, Ezekiel was capable of talking the good talk; he could preach convincingly and sway people, and he had a following that terrified the others before they even began to become aware of just what kind of a danger he could be.

He lured many people away from Boston, taking them west. There, he created the village of Jehovah.

Jehovah was no longer in existence, but it had once been situated between present-day Barre, Massachusetts, and what was now the Quabbin, the massive water reservoir created in the Swift River Valley.

Missy Prior, along with some of her friends, had been ahead of Ezekiel; she’d left Boston in order to escape Ezekiel’s attention, and she’d had a cottage in the woods, right in the area that Ezekiel would soon name Jehovah. It seemed that no matter how far she went, she couldn’t outrun Ezekiel, a man who had become obsessed with her.