Digging the Thirteenth Grave, Part Five
The apparition shrieked those last words and with the same uncanny, smooth speed Curless and his nephew had seen in her approach, streaked off toward the hamlet of Littig.
“The church,” Sam said quietly, then shouted, “Lily!”
Thane clapped his hands together and the ring of flame disappeared. The two men then each broke into a full run, hurdling the small fence, heading for the tiny Methodist church in Littig.
Thane and Sam vied for a two-mile speed record in their race to get to the church where Lily had taken refuge from the vengeful spirit of the witch-woman of Littig. Chasing a creature not hindered by uneven ground, darkness, and fatigue proved futile, as she soon was out of sight. Knowing Elfi Linder’s intended target, they soon saw the weak lantern light spilling out from the simple stained-glass windows of the building and heard the shrieks and shouts coming from inside. Thane slowed to a brisk trot as he approached the entrance, gathering his breath, but Sam Bowen charged ahead, shoving the single door open in a rush.
The small, narrow sanctuary of the church ended in a simple altar ornamented with a plain, rough wooden cross that had an incongruous silver inlay along its edges. The inlay caught the light from the two lanterns that had been placed on opposite ends of the raised floor of the stage and the raised square wooden platform on it that served as a pulpit. In front of that altar, an older man, apparently the pastor of the small assembly, struggled to stand, clutching a black leather-bound Bible to his chest with his left hand while pointing upward with the right. His face was aghast, his mouth open, gabbling. His gesture was superfluous to Bowen and Curless as they rushed into the church, as both saw immediately the object of the parson’s fright and astonishment: There on the stage, behind the altar, the preternaturally shimmering figure of Elfi Linder had pinned a small young woman in a common blue pinafore to the floor and had wrapped its hands around her throat. The way the young woman was thrashing and striking ineffectually at the spirit being’s forearms left no doubt that, incorporeal or not, the witch-woman’s ghost was affecting decidedly corporeal violence on her intended victim.
“Git your damned hands off her, you evil thing!”, Sam shouted, continuing to run forward. The spirit-thing wheeled on him, and from where Thane stood, it looked as if the haunt drove her whole arm clean through Sam’s chest. He dropped to the floor, gasping.
The parson meanwhile pulled himself into a full stand and tried to speak, producing only a wheeze instead of any credible shout. A winded Thane Curless stopped in the center of the sanctuary and drew two heavy breaths. He reached into an inner pocket in his heavy leather coat. In the half-light cast by the burning oil-soaked lantern wicks, the letters once again glimmered, a phenomenon only Thane saw and himself barely noticed this time. He pulled a silver crucifix, just an inch or so larger than the length of his own hand, to the fore and brandished it toward the murderous spirit being.
“In the highest name, begone,” he half-said, half-panted. Then, his voice growing stronger with each word, he spoke directly at the manifestation of the witch-woman’s hateful spirit. “In the name of the Risen, I consign you to the judgment of the Eternal.”
The vengeful haunt that had been Elfi Linder turned a now hideously mangled and unnaturally pale visage toward the older man, as if hoping to frighten him into silence. He repeated the same words, said something else which none present save perhaps the ghost understood, and the otherworldly creature’s unnaturally substantial grip on the young woman slackened. Thereupon, the struggling Lily Summers eagerly sucked in a quick and air-greedy breath. She gasped for life, coughing loud and hard. Sam struggled to stand, coughed hard himself, then took a step toward her. The parson held his Bible over his head, wordlessly.
In that moment, the diabolical manifestation above the Summers girl evaporated as if torn apart by an unseen wind.
Sam staggered to Lily Summers’s side. Her stooped to take her in his arms. While speaking reassurances and calming words in a weak voice, he helped her to her feet as she coughed again and rubbed her throat. The parson lowered his Bible and took hesitant steps toward the couple before he noticed Thane Curless, still clutching his crucifix, was walking toward him. Curless himself was breathing hard and his face was flushed. He spoke to the grey-haired pastor.
“She touch you?”, Curless asked him.
“Yes, and it felt like winter well water bein’ poured right into me,” the parson answered. “You’re kin to young Sam Bowen?”
Curless nodded. “And you’re pastor MacIntyre?” The older man nodded in response, and Curless asked him, “First time dealing with an evil spirit thing from the other side?” Pastor MacIntyre nodded again. “Well, now you know better how it’s done. Direct address, old words, solid symbol.”
Curless’s voice weakened as he spoke those words and he sagged, almost to the point of dropping forward. Pastor MacIntyre quickly stepped toward him to catch him.
“Sorry there, Pastor,” he whispered. “That kind of spirit fight can take the string right out of a man. Much obliged.”
Sam approached, Lily Summers only a step behind him, holding his hand. “Uncle Thane? You alright?” His voice was still unsteady, but already regaining vigor.
“No, but I will be,” Curless answered, favoring his younger relation with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “The young miss Summers, I presume?”
“Pleased to meet you sir,” the young woman, still pale and hoarse-voiced from the ghostly attack though she was, fairly radiated gratitude and admiration. “Sam has talked about you a lot. Ever since we were in school.”
Thane grinned. “I hope it was all complimentary and well-intentioned.” He drew a heavy breath and stood up straighter. “Now, if you would be so kind, could you and your beau there escort me to that bench there? I need to lie down for a moment. Some water’d be right welcome, too.”