Chapter 4: Shattered Glass
9-1-1.
The numbers blinked on my screen. I almost hit ‘dial’ then whispered, “What’s the use?”
Here’s what would happen: I’d tell the operator someone broke my window. She—and it had been a ‘she’ the last three times—would ask if anyone was in the house with me. I would say the stalker was gone. She’d tell me someone would drop by soon.
Twenty minutes to an hour later, an officer would ring the doorbell. He—and it had been a ‘he’ all three times—would ask questions, look around the apartment, and say something reassuring or disturbing then leave.
The first time this happened, the officer told me not to worry, they’d catch the guy. That sounded great. I felt reassured. The system worked! But after they failed to catch anyone, it sounded more like empty bravado. The second time, a different officer blamed neighborhood kids. The third time, a sheriff’s deputy asked me if I owned a gun.
9-1-1. The numbers blinked above the button for ‘dial.’ I hit clear and fumbled Colin’s business card instead. Could he be the stalker? If he’s nearby, if he sounds out of breath like he’s been running, then I’d know. I dialed. It rang three times, four. Come on, come on, be there. After the fifth ring, I almost hung up.
“Hello?” His warm brogue came in sharp and clear. Loud music played in the background, mingled with clinking glasses and people chatting.
He’s at a bar. There isn’t a bar within ten miles of my place. It can’t be him! He’s not the stalker! I don’t know why, but relief flooded through me. “Colin, is that you?”
“Right, who’s this?”
“It’s me, Rowan. We met this morning at Lotomaw House.”
“Oh, aye. Butterfly Sparks. How’s everything?”
“Not good. Could you—could you come over? Something’s happened.”
A pause. The background noise faded. I pictured him turning away, seeking the privacy of a hallway or less crowded part of the bar. “What’s wrong?”
“I should’ve said something before, but I didn’t because I don’t know if it’s related, but something terrible is happening to me and I don’t know why except that it all started when I started showing that house and someone is stalking me and breaking my windows!”
“Easy, lass. One breath at a time. Start at the beginning.”
So I told him. I started with the first time the Mysterious Enemy slashed my tires. Then the broken windows, the phone calls with no voices. I backtracked through the vicious marriage, the hideous divorce, and then fast-forwarded to my ineffectual trip to the gun shop. It came out in broken bits and pieces as I unburdened myself at last—not to Jill or my Concordance Therapist, but to this stranger.
He listened to it all, quiet and without interrupting. Only when I finished, he said, “I’ll come right over. What’s the address?”
I gave him the street and apartment. “Thanks.”
That warm laugh. “Don’t you worry, we’ll sort you out.”
Colin stood in my living room, holding the chunk of red brick in his hand. He balanced it in his palm, tossed it up and down a few times like a pitcher examining a fresh baseball. Then he went back over to the broken window, assessing the trajectory.
His presence reassured me. I didn’t want to look at the brick, didn’t want to clean up the shards of glass scattered across my carpet like the pieces of a broken life. I hadn’t even taped cardboard over the window yet. Cold autumn air flowed through the shattered pane.
Having Colin there offered a shield against the terror of the unknown. I held Pookie on my lap, stroking him, working the tension from both of us. Pookie, wary of strangers, kept his distance from Colin. But he didn’t run out of the room and hide in the walk-in closet. The dark space under the shoe-bag was his safe place. He just watched with wary, yellow eyes.
You’re right to be wary, I thought, watching Colin too. Because as good as it felt to have him here, he remained a mystery—and once again I flip-flopped back into suspicion. I couldn’t rule him out of this stalking conspiracy. He might be the owner of the monster house. He could have a confederate. He could even be in league with the Mysterious Enemy.
“This chunk of brick could’ve come from anywhere,” Colin said at last. “But your tosser must’ve stood at the far end of the drive to get it through a second-story window. Good aim.”
“You might be right. Would you like some tea? Or something to eat?”
“That’d be lovely. Earl Grey, hot.”
“Is ginseng herbal okay?”
“Aye, fine. Cheers.”
I slipped Pookie off my lap, went to the kitchen to make our tea, aware of my frumpy sneakers and drab blue sweat sweatsuit. I hadn’t thought to change before he arrived. I didn’t bother to clean up the place beforehand, either. Too much going on tonight. Too much going on today. Too much going on with my life. Housekeeping had taken a back seat the last few months and it showed. Broken glass on the carpet didn’t help.
“Colin?”
“Hmm?”
“I…” My voice trailed off. This wasn’t Jakarta Joe’s, not a date, not the time for small talk. But I wanted to know more about this stranger. “Are you Irish? Your accent…”
He grinned. “County Clare, a long time ago.”
“Your last name is Braden?”
“Aye,” he said, without hesitation.
“The owner of Lotomaw House is also named Braden.”
He whipped his head at me, eyes wide with surprise. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes.”
Then he smiled, shrugged it off, but I could see the gears turning. “Funny old world.”
“So it’s a coincidence?”
“Trust me, I’d know if I owned that house.”
“It’s not your wife’s?”
He snorted. “I’m not married.”
“Any relatives? There can’t be that many Bradens in Umawa County.”
He smirked. “I haven’t any proper family out here.”
Proper family? He liked his riddles, this one. But Braden, Braden—it was too much of a coincidence. “What does Braden Services do anyway?”
“A dab of this, a smidgeon of that.”
“Care to be more specific?” I asked, but received no answer.
I let the water boil, watching him from the kitchen as he studied the brick, brow furrowed in concentration. He wore the same clothes I’d seen him in earlier: khakis, bomber jacket. He didn’t sound tipsy despite having come from a bar. A good-looking man, no doubt. Fear and hope chased each other through my mind, back and forth like Yin and Yang, forever turning.
“Hullo,” he said, hefting the brick. “What’s this?”
“What?” I asked. I filled two mugs with hot tea, carried them into the room.
He held out one face of the chunk of brick. Chalk marks showed on a flat plane, part of an unbroken edge. The marks made a triangle with three circles inside. A half circle cut through the triangle. Other marks linked the circles, forming an ‘X’ at the base.
“Have you seen its like before?” he asked.
“Never,” I said, putting the tea on the coffee table as we sat on the couch. “What is it?”
“I can’t say for sure but it looks like part of a Goetic Circle.”
“A goat-what?”
“A Goetic Circle. Used in summoning spirits, dark ones. Negative forces, entities.”
I paused with the tea mug halfway to my mouth. “You mean magic?” He nodded. “My stalker is into witchcraft?”
“Not Wicca. Goetic magic is ceremonial, more formal. Can’t claim to be an expert on the subject, but I know its uses.”
“Which are?”
“Finding treasure or secrets. Comprehending the voices of nature. Healing what ails you. Or…” He frowned at the chunk of brick.
“Or what?”
“Hurting your enemies.” He put the brick chunk on the windowsill, took his tea.
“I don’t know anyone into that stuff.”
“Your ex-husband, what does he do?”
“He’s a general contractor.” I laughed at the idea of Burke practicing black magic. “He has no imagination. Wouldn’t even watch Dr. Who with me. Only action movies and Ducks football.” I sighed. “Burke is many things, but he’s not into that.”
“Do you know anyone who is?”
I frowned. Jill was into New Age-y stuff like Concordance Therapy, but that was a far cry from this goat magic nonsense. “No. Maybe one of my clients—”
“Shh,” he said, interrupting with a lifted hand.
My stomach twisted by habit: Burke used to do that, telling me to be quiet, putting me in my place. But this wasn’t Burke. No malice came through Colin’s voice.
Something had alarmed him. He crept to the unbroken front window, keeping out of line of sight of the panes. Then he ducked down, peering out through the half-drawn curtain.
“What is it?” I hissed. Whispering seemed the right thing to do.
“Something’s out there.”
“A person?” He shook his head, eyes fixed to the window. “Or that thing?”
The slightest shrug suggested agreement. He scanned the night like a sentinel.
I tiptoed to the window opposite and lifted the curtain an inch, peering out. But I couldn’t see anything but my living room reflected in the dark glass.
“In the bushes across the road,” Colin whispered, “a few feet left of the fence.”
I stared where he indicated. Across the street from my building was an overgrown lot, fenced off and sloping down to a forested creek bed. But at this time of night, far from the nearest street lamp, only the dark shapes of foliage and the jagged geometry of the fence showed.
Something moved in the dark, a shadow flitting through the trees, getting away.
“There it goes!” Colin shouted. He turned and ran out my front door. Heavy work boots pounded the external stairs as he sprinted toward the parking lot.
My front door swung in its hinges, half-open. I gawked, scared out of my wits for the fifth or sixth time today. How many more shocks could I endure?
WWTDD, Rowan? I asked myself. It’s my private mantra in tough situations: What would the Doctor do? He’d get in his Tardis and fly away. Escape through time and space, far from here.
No. He’d get to the bottom of this. So would any of his companions.
Maybe at some point, the frightening becomes mundane. I reached that place because instead of shutting and locking the door like a sensible person, I chased after Colin. Dammit, my need to penetrate this mystery outweighed my terror. I couldn’t sit like a lump while Colin ran around in the dark. I wished for a gun, a dog, some mace, anything. Instead, I grabbed my keys and phone and almost ran downstairs. Almost.
I needed one more bit of kit, as the Doctor might say. I flung open a drawer and grabbed a nine-inch, aluminum flashlight. It felt like a club in my hand.
“Colin? Colin, are you here?” Across the street, the foliage beyond the fence loomed black and silver in the wide beam. A few boot prints—Colin’s?—showed in the fresh mud near the gap in the fence. But after a few steps, they vanished into the underbrush. Nobody cared for this vacant lot. People threw trash in it. A few transients camped there from time to time.
Colin didn’t answer my shouts. Not even the bushes thrashed. The night remained silent.
Phone in one hand, light in the other, I pushed into the bramble. Wet branches slapped my face, delivering raindrops and thorns. I shivered inside my sweatshirt. Shielding my face with a raised arm, but eager to catch up with Colin, I pushed deeper into the bushes and down the treacherous, muddy slope. I aimed the flashlight at my feet, taking each step with care.
After a few minutes, I reached springy turf at the bottom of the gulley. The gurgle of the creek sounded from ahead. But something had silenced the bullfrogs and crickets.
“Colin?” Nobody answered in the dark. He might have encountered my stalker in the dark. Or worse, he might have run into that thing.
On the far side of the creek, bushes rustled as if moved by a startled deer.
“Colin!” I shouted.
Still no answer and the rustling stopped.
Dammit. I paced along the creek until I found a place to cross. Though only a foot or two deep, the rain-swollen water proved treacherous, its rocks slippery. My sneaker slipped off a wet stone, plunging ankle deep into ice cold water.
Halfway across the stream, I heard the distinct clanging of metal on concrete, like a manhole cover scraping cement. I rushed on, heedless of the water soaking my tennis shoes and calves. Blackness surrounded me, the only light the beam of my flashlight picking from rock to log. A soft glow from the distant street lamps and houselights filtered in from above.
With a shiver, I exited the creek only to confront another row of dense bushes and trees. Then my light fell across fresh boot prints in the mud, a match to the ones at the gap in the fence. Colin! I pressed on, pushing through the brambles. A muddy trickle flowed beside his tracks, winding down to the creek.
Ten feet on, the bushes gave way to a steep, muddy slope, the other side of the gulley. Up above was another chain link fence and beyond that, Cutler Street. But the trickle of water didn’t run down the slope.
A massive drainpipe jutted out of the hillside about waist-high, water leaking out its three-foot wide aperture. A rusty mesh grating covered the pipe, but it hung open on its hinges. A broken padlock gleamed in the mud. The flashlight revealed a tunnel that ran about ten feet into the hill before forking.
I almost called out “Colin” again but decided to remain silent. No way should I crawl into a filthy, muddy tunnel, following a man I barely knew. A man who, for all I knew, could be chasing a monster—or could be one himself. At the same time, I wanted to know who or what was stalking and harassing me.
What would the Doctor do? I clambered up into the wet, filthy pipe and went in.