Original Fic: I Ain't Afraid of Emily May (7/8)
Title: I Ain't Afraid of Emily May
Author: ladychi, or KJ Stueve if you're here via Facebook
Rating: Mature, for violence and language
Summary: Ten years ago, Nate Hannigan's cousin Callie was brutally murdered by a force he didn't understand. Now the ghost of the vengeful Emily May has been summoned again, and Nate will sacrifice anything and everything to keep her from killing another member of his family.
Previous Chapters: One: Return to Bent Fork | Two: The Ghost in the Wall | Three: The Silver Dollar Dilemma | Four: In Through the Window | Five: Things Which Kept The Door Shut | Six: The Pentagram in the Attic
Chapter Seven: The Witch on the Backroads
I’m not going to mince words here, because quite frankly, I’m pretty sure I’m about to die. I’d rather take a bath in lye than try to exorcise a motherfucking ghost. Like I’ve said before, if you’ve managed to cling to this world when the Powers That Be think you ought to be on the other side? You have to be a pretty determined individual. Sometimes, that just means Granny wanted to stick around and watch her grandkids flourish from the comfort of her parlor. And other times, that means you’re dealing with a psychopath who can’t let anything go.
It’s like trying to get a divorce. From a Black Widow.
And this ghost. It’s hard enough to convince a ghost to let go when you’ve got nothing personally invested in it. My whole life has led up to this point.
I honestly thought I’d be a little more prepared. On the outside, I thought I might have a fucking clue about what to do next.
Instead, here I am. Sitting in my car, flipping the coin over and over again. Like some compulsion placed in me all those years ago, I can’t put the thing down, even though it might mean raining down hell on my head before I’m ready for it.
My grandfather was a drunk. He was mean-spirited and racist and rude. But - he was a competent paranormal expert. He knew precisely what he was doing, and he had tried and failed to protect us all.
I am… mostly competent. I’ve helped, you know. A few people. But my connections here in this county are nothing compared to what my grandfather’s were back when we tried to destroy the coin the first time.
**
I remember the ride. My grandfather drove a pick-up truck in worse shape than I do now, and we flew over the back country roads in the dead of night. I had tried in vain, only minutes before, to try and save Callie’s life, and my jeans were stiffened with her blood. I remember the bumpiness of the road, and the way my grandfather clutched the silver dollar in his right hand, which he used to fiercely wipe away the occasional tear from his eyes.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, we turned down a private drive that wound around a hill and down into a valley. My grandfather sped around the curves of the tricky road and threw the truck into a stop at what was little better than a shack, fifty yards away from the bed of a river. I’d lived in Bent Fork my whole life and I’d never been here. I turned to my grandfather in confusion.
“Where are we?”
“We’re at the house of an old friend. I’m about to call in a favor.”
We got out of the truck and approached the door. We hadn’t had time to even start to knock when the door opened.
“Go away.”
I had imagined, in the brief moments we’d had, someone entirely different than the woman who had answered the door. My grandfather’s assertion that we needed the help of a witch had conjured pictures of old, wart-covered women green skin in my mind. The woman who answered the door was, in a short word: hot. Even in the haze of my grief, I noticed her attractiveness right away.
She had shocking red hair that she had tied up in a very practical bun. Her nails were fire-red. I noticed them because she gestured with her hands when she spoke, flinging them back and forth wildly.
“You aren’t welcome here,” she shouted at my grandfather. “Get out.”
But my grandfather stood firm, standing, almost protectively, right in front of me. “You owe me a favor, Calista.”
Her face changed. The fierce anger which I had found so disturbingly attractive faded to smug relaxation, and I found pretty features under the mask of righteous fury.
“So you’ve come to collect then.”
“Yes.”
“And we’ll be even,” she said, leaning on the doorjamb. “And the balance will return between us.”
“Yes. Then you can return to trying to kill me without any guilt whatsoever,” my grandfather said lightly, as if this were no big deal. My jaw dropped.
“Good. That’s the way I like it. Who’s the boy?”
“Emily May’s latest victim,” my grandfather said, not looking at me.
“Oh, shit,” Calista hissed on a breath. “That sucks. That explains the blood all over you. Honestly, I thought you were bringing me an ax murderer.”
The easy way my grandfather and this woman were talking infuriated me.
“My cousin died,” I said through clenched teeth, “so if we can get past the fucking pleasantries and kill the bitch who killed her, that would be awful nice, golly jee.”
Both my grandfather and Calista seemed shocked out of their callousness.
“Sorry,” Calista said. “What’s your name?”
“Nate,” I said. “My cousin’s name was Callie.”
“They found the silver dollar in my study,” my grandfather said, drawing the coin out of his pocket. “They found the diaries. And…”
“They’re teenagers,” Calista said, “and they played with what they didn’t understand. I can draw the lines here on my own.”
I stood there, between those two, furious at myself. Feeling stupid and small and irrelevant. And I wanted to punch something, or someone.
“I’ve been trying to get rid of this spectre on my own for decades,” my grandfather said in a voice tinged by stress and the onset of grief, “and now I’ve paid the price for my arrogance. I need your help.”
“She’s been around for decades, and her soul was forged in intense fires,” Calista said, reaching for the silver dollar, “I am not sure that it can be done.”
“It has to be done,” my grandfather said, “as she gathers power, as she gets stronger, her ability to become corporeal will become stronger, and if she ever gains a real foothold here, it won’t be just my grandchildren I have to worry about.”
“I understand.” Calista threw open the door and gestured us inside. “Come on in.”
**
The story of Emily May that she would tell you herself is a sad one - she was regularly beat, and, in the final days of her life, raped by her father and her uncle. To avenge the pain inflicted on her and her mother, she took a knife from the kitchen and ripped her father and her uncle apart.
It must have been a psychotic break, brought on by the stressor of the introduction of sexual violence to her life - that’s what my profiler friend Darren told me when I brought the story to him.
She was chased down and killed by an angry mob on the outskirts of Bent Fork.
But she managed to hang on. Clinging to this world with bloody fingernails and wild eyes and a spirit that screamed for vengeance.
She stayed because she was not yet done. She had found a purpose, a hobby she was good at and enjoyed, and, having found a purpose finally, was reluctant to leave behind the Earth which so suited that goal.
That’s the kind of stubbornness we were faced with all those nights ago.
That’s the kind of stubbornness I am faced with now.
**
Calista’s house smelled faintly of marijuana and incense and was cluttered with the odds and ends and paraphernalia of the average magick practitioner. Mostly props, I know now, to increase the mystique of what she was capable of doing. But, like a musician who contains a great deal of talent, a good instrument can be the difference between effortless performance and something merely good. The correct tools in the hands of a magician can be the difference between success and failure.
…Obviously, Calista didn't have the proper tools.
Author: ladychi, or KJ Stueve if you're here via Facebook
Rating: Mature, for violence and language
Summary: Ten years ago, Nate Hannigan's cousin Callie was brutally murdered by a force he didn't understand. Now the ghost of the vengeful Emily May has been summoned again, and Nate will sacrifice anything and everything to keep her from killing another member of his family.
Previous Chapters: One: Return to Bent Fork | Two: The Ghost in the Wall | Three: The Silver Dollar Dilemma | Four: In Through the Window | Five: Things Which Kept The Door Shut | Six: The Pentagram in the Attic
Chapter Seven: The Witch on the Backroads
I’m not going to mince words here, because quite frankly, I’m pretty sure I’m about to die. I’d rather take a bath in lye than try to exorcise a motherfucking ghost. Like I’ve said before, if you’ve managed to cling to this world when the Powers That Be think you ought to be on the other side? You have to be a pretty determined individual. Sometimes, that just means Granny wanted to stick around and watch her grandkids flourish from the comfort of her parlor. And other times, that means you’re dealing with a psychopath who can’t let anything go.
It’s like trying to get a divorce. From a Black Widow.
And this ghost. It’s hard enough to convince a ghost to let go when you’ve got nothing personally invested in it. My whole life has led up to this point.
I honestly thought I’d be a little more prepared. On the outside, I thought I might have a fucking clue about what to do next.
Instead, here I am. Sitting in my car, flipping the coin over and over again. Like some compulsion placed in me all those years ago, I can’t put the thing down, even though it might mean raining down hell on my head before I’m ready for it.
My grandfather was a drunk. He was mean-spirited and racist and rude. But - he was a competent paranormal expert. He knew precisely what he was doing, and he had tried and failed to protect us all.
I am… mostly competent. I’ve helped, you know. A few people. But my connections here in this county are nothing compared to what my grandfather’s were back when we tried to destroy the coin the first time.
**
I remember the ride. My grandfather drove a pick-up truck in worse shape than I do now, and we flew over the back country roads in the dead of night. I had tried in vain, only minutes before, to try and save Callie’s life, and my jeans were stiffened with her blood. I remember the bumpiness of the road, and the way my grandfather clutched the silver dollar in his right hand, which he used to fiercely wipe away the occasional tear from his eyes.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, we turned down a private drive that wound around a hill and down into a valley. My grandfather sped around the curves of the tricky road and threw the truck into a stop at what was little better than a shack, fifty yards away from the bed of a river. I’d lived in Bent Fork my whole life and I’d never been here. I turned to my grandfather in confusion.
“Where are we?”
“We’re at the house of an old friend. I’m about to call in a favor.”
We got out of the truck and approached the door. We hadn’t had time to even start to knock when the door opened.
“Go away.”
I had imagined, in the brief moments we’d had, someone entirely different than the woman who had answered the door. My grandfather’s assertion that we needed the help of a witch had conjured pictures of old, wart-covered women green skin in my mind. The woman who answered the door was, in a short word: hot. Even in the haze of my grief, I noticed her attractiveness right away.
She had shocking red hair that she had tied up in a very practical bun. Her nails were fire-red. I noticed them because she gestured with her hands when she spoke, flinging them back and forth wildly.
“You aren’t welcome here,” she shouted at my grandfather. “Get out.”
But my grandfather stood firm, standing, almost protectively, right in front of me. “You owe me a favor, Calista.”
Her face changed. The fierce anger which I had found so disturbingly attractive faded to smug relaxation, and I found pretty features under the mask of righteous fury.
“So you’ve come to collect then.”
“Yes.”
“And we’ll be even,” she said, leaning on the doorjamb. “And the balance will return between us.”
“Yes. Then you can return to trying to kill me without any guilt whatsoever,” my grandfather said lightly, as if this were no big deal. My jaw dropped.
“Good. That’s the way I like it. Who’s the boy?”
“Emily May’s latest victim,” my grandfather said, not looking at me.
“Oh, shit,” Calista hissed on a breath. “That sucks. That explains the blood all over you. Honestly, I thought you were bringing me an ax murderer.”
The easy way my grandfather and this woman were talking infuriated me.
“My cousin died,” I said through clenched teeth, “so if we can get past the fucking pleasantries and kill the bitch who killed her, that would be awful nice, golly jee.”
Both my grandfather and Calista seemed shocked out of their callousness.
“Sorry,” Calista said. “What’s your name?”
“Nate,” I said. “My cousin’s name was Callie.”
“They found the silver dollar in my study,” my grandfather said, drawing the coin out of his pocket. “They found the diaries. And…”
“They’re teenagers,” Calista said, “and they played with what they didn’t understand. I can draw the lines here on my own.”
I stood there, between those two, furious at myself. Feeling stupid and small and irrelevant. And I wanted to punch something, or someone.
“I’ve been trying to get rid of this spectre on my own for decades,” my grandfather said in a voice tinged by stress and the onset of grief, “and now I’ve paid the price for my arrogance. I need your help.”
“She’s been around for decades, and her soul was forged in intense fires,” Calista said, reaching for the silver dollar, “I am not sure that it can be done.”
“It has to be done,” my grandfather said, “as she gathers power, as she gets stronger, her ability to become corporeal will become stronger, and if she ever gains a real foothold here, it won’t be just my grandchildren I have to worry about.”
“I understand.” Calista threw open the door and gestured us inside. “Come on in.”
**
The story of Emily May that she would tell you herself is a sad one - she was regularly beat, and, in the final days of her life, raped by her father and her uncle. To avenge the pain inflicted on her and her mother, she took a knife from the kitchen and ripped her father and her uncle apart.
It must have been a psychotic break, brought on by the stressor of the introduction of sexual violence to her life - that’s what my profiler friend Darren told me when I brought the story to him.
She was chased down and killed by an angry mob on the outskirts of Bent Fork.
But she managed to hang on. Clinging to this world with bloody fingernails and wild eyes and a spirit that screamed for vengeance.
She stayed because she was not yet done. She had found a purpose, a hobby she was good at and enjoyed, and, having found a purpose finally, was reluctant to leave behind the Earth which so suited that goal.
That’s the kind of stubbornness we were faced with all those nights ago.
That’s the kind of stubbornness I am faced with now.
**
Calista’s house smelled faintly of marijuana and incense and was cluttered with the odds and ends and paraphernalia of the average magick practitioner. Mostly props, I know now, to increase the mystique of what she was capable of doing. But, like a musician who contains a great deal of talent, a good instrument can be the difference between effortless performance and something merely good. The correct tools in the hands of a magician can be the difference between success and failure.
…Obviously, Calista didn't have the proper tools.