It was quiet in the Winnebago. We’d been on the road for hours today, the previous day, and the day before that. There were no distractions to be had out of the window. Brown and flat as far as the eye could see. The brown had a tinge of gold, the grey skies above a sheen of silver. Neither was enough to relieve the oppression both inside and outside of the vehicle. This area of the country wasn’t very friendly to outsiders. Especially nonwhite outsiders. That went double for weird nonwhite outsiders.
It was Samar’s turn at the wheel. I offered but, despite having my license, I wasn’t old enough to drive in this state. It was technically legal but between the quasi legal equipment and the price on Kent’s head everyone agreed it was better not to have an underage driver at the wheel. We shouldn’t be here, and we wouldn’t be except for the coincidence. Kent was the one who spotted it in the paper.
A house had burned down in the town of Starkcross, Nebraska in the middle of the state on the South Loup river. What was interesting was this was the third house to burn down on that lot in the last twenty years. In all three cases there were deaths. I’d been doing research at the local libraries whenever we stopped for a bite. We always slept in the Winnebago. The internet made things go much more quickly but a lot of towns and library systems had yet to digitize their archives. This meant the best information was found close to the site. We were in Broken Arrow, a couple of hours from Starkcross, when we hit pay dirt.
The local paper had done an article about the three fires including the families that had lived in the homes. Five different families had lived on the site. The first family, the Wilkersons, a couple with one young child, lived there with no incident moving only when they upgraded to something larger. The second family, the Johansens, had three children. Five-year-old twin boys and a thirteen-year-old daughter. The house burned down after they had only been in it a couple of months. The dad, a smoker, died in the fire. The house was completely destroyed. The widow took the money and left town with the kids.
A year later the Smythes bought the lot and built their dream house. A family of six with fourteen, nine, and six-year-old boys and an eleven-year-old girl. They lived in the home for two and a half years before the father was unexpectedly transferred. The Kowalski family moved in next. Two kids, a fifteen-year-old boy and his nine-year-old sister. Just shy of a year later there was an explosion in the garage that killed the mother. The family rebuilt the garage and stayed until the daughter left for college.
Most recently the Jones family had occupied the five bedroom three and a half bath home. A mother, father, grandmother, and three children. A boy aged thirteen, and two girls aged twelve and eight. The fire destroyed the home and killed all of the adults. The children, all in another part of the house when the fire started, were unharmed. The children were sent to live with relatives. The article pointed out the oddity that one lot would suffer so many fires but pointed out that each fire was easily explained and that sometimes these things happened.
“All three families that suffered fires had teen or tweenaged children,” I noted aloud.
“So, did the Smythes,” Kent pointed out. “Nothing happened when they were there.”
“And the Kowalskis continued living in the home with no further fires,” Samar observed from his position in the driver’s seat.
Miranda spoke, worrying one of her blond ringlets around her finger, “We won’t know anything until we get there.”
“That will be in about twenty minutes. We’ll park this baby at the truck stop up ahead and take the car into town. Miranda, you and I will check out the property. Kent and Aja, you canvas the neighbors.”
Her hair had gone white with age, but her eyes were sharp and inquisitive and she moved with grace. I guessed she was about sixty but would be unsurprised to be off by up to twenty years in either direction. Her name was Edna Babouche. Kent, with his all-American Superman looks, took the lead. He told her we were selling magazine subscriptions for the local high school and she invited us in for cookies and tea.
“You can cut the bullshit,” she said once we were seated with our food and beverages. “I’ve lived my whole life in Starkcross, almost forty years in this house. You’re new or I would know you and this place is too isolated for random passers through.” She leaned forward in the wing backed chair facing us as we sat on the floral-patterned sofa. Bringing the dainty teacup to her lips she said, “You’re here about the house. Who are you? Or should I ask, what are you?”
We both opened our mouths to speak but nothing came out. Kent tried again and produced, “We’re curious.”
I opened my senses but felt nothing from this woman. “How did you know about us?”
“I don’t See, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t blind myself to the obvious and there is something going on over there.”
“Is it evil?”
Mrs. Babouche thought on it for a minute. “I don’t know. What I can tell you is that in those three fires all the right people died.”
Kent raised his winged eyebrows, “What makes you say that?”
“Chad Johansen was a pervert. I would bet my left kidney he was taking advantage of his daughter. That girl was cloaked in fear and shame. The way he looked at her when the mother was distracted, as she often was with those twin boys. I called CPS, but apparently “weird looks” is not grounds for investigation.
Holding up a second finger Mrs. Babouche continued. “Megan Kowalski was a control freak. I don’t mean she liked things her way. I mean she put a lock on the refrigerator and mailbox and kept the only key. She was controlling and often cruel and her death was the best thing that happened to that family. The girl, Aimee, will still stop by when she comes to visit her father on school breaks.”
“The father is still in town?” Kent interrupted her narrative to ask.
“Yes. He moved to a bungalow close to the river.”
“What happened to the son?”
“Joined the military. He’s off in Europe somewhere, I believe.”
“The three Joneses?” I prompted.
“Bettina and her mother ran a small flower shop downtown. So many herbs. Jacob worked at the plant. Seemed to get on well with everyone. The kids were quiet, well behaved. But there was something off about them. Like they were playing a part. Hiding in plain sight.” Her voice trailed off.
“Hiding?” I asked.
Edna Babouche shook herself. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just an old woman.”
“But…”
“I think they were witches,” she whispered. “I think they called something dark. Something that eats pain. And I think that thing is still there.”
We met up with Samar and Miranda at a local diner nearby. Miranda looked pale, her hands shaking slightly as she sipped on one of her herbal concoctions. “Your Edna Babouche is right. There are two things imbued into that land. One of them is protective, but instinctive. It’s been there a long time. Dollars to doughnuts it’s what behind these fires. If we looked into the history of the land, we’d find a lot more. But that’s not what worries me.”
Scares her, I thought.
“The other thing, it’s new to this area but it’s also ancient. A work of sorcery.”
The table went silent. The bowl of soup curdled in my stomach. Witchcraft was powered by the person. Wizardry an act of spells and will. Sorcery fed off of others. It sank deep into a person and fed on their pain, their lust, even their happiness until they were drained dry. There was no light in sorcery. It scarred the soul. Death, as with all things, was the inevitable conclusion.