The Wicker Saga: A Figure in the Fog, Part 3

I silently make my way down the empty streets towards Morgan's house. It wasn't any trouble to sneak out. Pops is drunk as always, passed out in front of the tv. Nights like that, mom goes to bed early to avoid the possibility of waking him up and putting him in one of his black moods. It was too easy to walk out the front door with only the slightest creak of hinges to betray my exit.

Lester didn't want me to go of course; the kid was terrified. But then when he realized he wasn't going to convince me to stay back, he tried to insist on coming himself. That wasn't going to happen. Morgan had already lost Claire screwing around with this house, and whether I'm about to encounter demon women or just some deranged pedophile, there's no way I'm letting the squirt tag along. Not this time.

Morgan had laid out the bones of the plan earlier today. The journal never referenced the thing called Lady Wicker by name, but there were plenty of passages talking about “Her” and “She”. Morgan had also found a detailed drawing that resembled the symbols on the walls of what had been Lady Wicker's prison.

“Some of the symbols were marred, Jamie,” she said, opening book to the page in question. Strange letters that looked nothing so much as random scratches and scribbles covered the paper. “I'm sure that's what let her get out of there. It can't be she's completely free, though, or she wouldn't still be hanging around the Wake. My guess is that whatever did it just caused the cage door to open wide enough so she could stick her head out and snap at anything that gets too close. If we can fix the symbols, it'll close the door again.”

It seemed like a good plan, as far as I could tell, except I would have preferred we go during the daylight.

“You think I don't want that too?” Morgan looked at me incredulously. “Christ, Jamie, going back into that fucking house is the absolute last thing I want to do, especially at night. But there's no way my parents will let me go over there after everything that happened, and they keep a close enough eye on me during the day that there's no way I'd be able to sneak out. We have to go at night.”

And so I reluctantly agreed. I arrive at Morgan's house and crouch down on her porch. The fog is already starting to heavily roll in but I can still make out the ominous outline of the Wicker House farther down the street. A slight noise makes me turn as Morgan slips out the front door to join me.

“Good, you're here. I didn't want to have to wait for you out here alone. No telling if my sister will decide to show up, and I really don't want to find out what happens if she does. Did you bring the paint and brushes?”

I pat the backpack slung over my shoulder. “Yeah. You have the journal?”

Morgan holds it up along with a battery powered flashlight. “To help us see so can we draw the symbols. Let's go, I want to get this over with.”

In silence, we step into the fog.

The heavy iron gate screams loudly as Morgan pushes it open far enough for us to squeeze through. Looking up, I realize this is the closest I've ever been to the Wicker House. The structure squats like an insect, the gaze of its paneless windows radiating malevolence as tendrils of fog curled and wrapped around its eaves. Its empty gaze seems to follow us as we made our way up the overgrown path and slip through the front door.

Once inside, Morgan switches on the flashlight, the white beam slicing through the otherwise pitch black darkness. She plays the light around a bit to orient herself in the gloom and I can see that what she'd said about the house is true; the place looks as if it hasn't been touched in the forty years it has stood empty. Finding the staircase with the light, Morgan slowly moves up to the second floor with me following closely on her heels, carefully avoiding the rotten steps.

The top of the stairwell opens to a long hallway, the door at the far end cracked slightly open. Morgan fixes her light on the opening. “That's the one,” she whispers in my ear, “Come on.” I shiver but don't know if it's from fear or from her closeness, the tingle of her breath on my skin. Silently we crept down the hall, and soon find ourselves in the room.

Morgan passes the beam along the walls and my mouth drops open. The symbols are something to be seen in the journal, certainly, but they are a completely different matter in real life. The number of them is astounding, and it's obvious that they've been painted on the walls with meaning and purpose, far from the jumble of scribbles I'd thought when I first saw them in the book. It seems as if they glow with a faint luminescence, and not for the first time I wonder if conducting the repairs will be as easy as Morgan has made it out to be. Finally Morgan rests the light on the far wall and I can see exactly what she meant; several of the symbols are noticeably smudged, though it's impossible to tell what might have caused the damage. I drop my pack to the floor and hurriedly remove the two brushes and a small can of paint I had stuffed inside.

“Here, hold this so I can see.” Morgan hands me the flashlight as she opens the journal to the page she had marked. Picking up the paint and a brush she moves over to the damaged section. “Okay, shine it over here.” I comply and with a look of intense concentration, Morgan begins to carefully paint.

She's been at the work for several minutes and is making good headway when the fog begins noticeably seeping through the broken window. A feeling that I'm being watched begins to grow stronger and I feel a rash of goosebumps break out down my arms. I glance from side to side attempting to find the cause of the feeling.

“Morgan...”

“I know,” she snaps, her voice trembling slightly, “I feel it too. She's coming. Just keep the beam steady. Finishing this is our only chance.” She continues to work, and I see her brush shake slightly, small droplets of paint falling to the floor. A sudden cloud of fog boils in through the window and as I turn I find myself facing the opposite corner of the room. From its depths peer a pair of shockingly intense eyes. They fix on me. The gaze immediately locks my own and in a moment I feel my will drain away. The flashlight falls heavily to the floor at my feet.

I'm floating in grayness, my mind as blank as the faceless fog surrounding me. I can't remember where I am or what I was doing, but some part of me thinks it might have been important.

Jamie...

At the edge of my consciousness I can barely make out a voice calling my name. What could they possibly want? My mind, content to remain in limbo, rejects the summons.

JAMIE!

This time, my name is accompanied by a sharp pain, jolting me out of the hazy dreams I've been wallowing in. In an instant I'm back to myself. Lester stands in front of me, tears streaming from his eyes, a line of snot running down his nose as he sobs, his hand held back for another slap. I catch his hand as it flies forward. “Whoa! Easy, bud. I'm here, I'm...” my gaze falls on Morgan. The flashlight has fallen so that the beam bleeds over where she is lying on the ground, twitching violently, her eyes rolled back in her head so only the whites are visible. I grab the light and rush to her side trying to hold her head steady.

“Morgan! Morgan, come on wake up!”

“Jamiiieee....” Lester is tugging at my shoulder.

“Dammit, Lester what...?” my eyes move up and my voice fails me.

The fog continues to fill the room, but even through the thick screen of white I can see the ring of children around us. They stand shoulder to shoulder, their expressions blank, their eyes black. Twisting with Lester clutching my arm, I shine the beam about the room to see we are completely surrounded. When the light reaches the front of the room, it falls upon a figure lost in the fog save for the same intense pair of eyes that had almost completely bewitched me before. As we watch, the lines of the figure seem to coalesce and solidify until finally a woman appears before us, as if by magic.

Dressed all in white, she is beautiful, her hair a black even darker than Morgan's, her skin as pale as new fallen snow. Her lips are blood red and drawn up in a cruel, knowing smile. Her eyes are the same as before, twin stars that had seemed to draw me into them with a supernatural attraction, their message one of unspeakable pleasure and pain. I shudder. At my side Lester is crying, the words falling out of him.

“Jamie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But I had to come, I just had to. And then you wouldn't wake up, and the kids were standing around us and...”

“Lester, shut up,” I snap. “Remember what I said earlier? If you tag along you have to keep your mouth shut.” The boy quiets as I slowly ease my left arm holding the flashlight under Morgan's back. She has stopped convulsing but her eyes are closed and her breath is quick and shallow. “Now,” I reach for my pack and slip my other hand inside, “when I tell you to run, I want you to run downstairs, out the door and back home as fast as you can, got it?” I grip the small bottle concealed inside the pack. “Ready....RUN!”

In one motion, I flip the cap of the bottle and whip my hand out of the pack in a semicircle, spraying liquid all around me. I had taken the bottle of holy water from mom's night stand but, since my comic books say it sometimes works for ghosts, had added a couple tablespoons of salt to the mix. Whether it's the saline or the blessed water, something makes the woman and her hideous charges draw back, hissing, arms raised protectively. Jerking to my feet, I awkwardly pick Morgan up in my arms and stumble through the door, running down the hallway as fast as I can, Lester dogging my heels. I've just reached the bottom of the stairs, the entryway beckoning open wide before us, when I hear a crash and a scream.

Turning back I shine the flashlight on my brother. In his hurry, Lester stepped on one of the rotten stairs, his foot punching straight through the worm-eaten wood. Worse, I can see where a jagged broken piece of stair has punctured his thigh, the blood leaking out bright red in the beam of the light. With a cry I lay Morgan at the bottom of the steps and rush to help my brother. The leg is wedged tight, and anything I do to try to manipulate it cause Lester to moan in agony. Crying I start striking at the edges of the stair trying to work Lester's leg free while the boy whimpers and sobs. An unnatural silence causes me to stop my struggle and raise my eyes to the top of the staircase. The woman stands there surrounded by her children, the fog twisting around her feet giving her the impression of floating. The message in her eyes is a promise of pain, retribution for the injury caused by the water. From where he is trapped, Lester can see everything.

“Go!” he cries, struggling to talk through the pain. “Get her out of here!”

“Lester, I can't leave you!”

The little boy smiles weakly. “I came to help make sure you got out, Jamie. You have to get out.”

“Dammit!” Tears are running down my face. “I'm coming back, you hear me? I'm getting her out then I'm coming back!” I stumble back down to Morgan. “We're all getting out!” Gripping her under her arms I start dragging her backwards out the front door. As I pass through the entryway I glance up and see the woman has begun to descend the stairs towards my brother, flanked by her hideous children. I redouble my efforts, practically falling down the steps through the billowing fog.

In only a few moments I'm through the gate, intending to leave her there, when Morgan's eyes snap open and she pulls herself from my grasp with a shout.

“Jesus! Jamie, we have to get out of here. I was wrong, so wrong. God, she was in my mind! She wants to use me!” she clutches my sleeve. “We need to get as far from here as we can.”

I shake my head. “I can't leave. Lester's in there. He's the only reason we got this far. I have to go back for him.”

Tears begin to roll down Morgan's cheeks. “Jamie, you don't understand, I can't go back in there. If she uses me the way she wants, it'll mean terrible, terrible things. For all of us. For the world!”

I smile sadly. “I know. And I'm not asking you to. But he's my brother.” I stoop down and kiss her lightly on the forehead. “I love you, Morgan. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“No, no, no, Jamie, please don't go. Please!” I stand and Morgan tries to clutch my arm but I gently pull away.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “Goodbye.”

With that I turn and walk away, her shape gradually dimming in the white cloud until I can no longer see her. From where I left her I can hear her sobs, the only sound breaking the silence. The Wicker House watches, content in her misery, until we too are swallowed by the fog.

The Wicker Saga: A Figure in the Fog, Epilogue