“Jesus, has anyone ever told you that you can be a know-it-all?”
“No, but I imagine you probably get that a lot, long-winded, witch-cult-hypothesis lady.”
“I am not long-winded.”
“Oh, trust me. You are. Anyway, most people experience déjà vu, but what’s really weird is jamais vu. Do you know what that is?”
“‘Never saw’?” I said, translating.
“Yeah. Never seen. It’s when you look at something you should recognize, but don’t.”
Behind us, someone cleared her throat, and when I turned around, I saw Lexi standing there, appearing somewhat edgy.
“What are you guys doing down here?”
“Talking about feedback loops and déjà vu,” Finn said.
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Boring. Finn, Dorian sent me to find you. He wants to talk to you about the harvest.”
Arms crossed and head held high like an ancient queen, Lexi turned back toward the path and disappeared between the trees. Finn followed her, and suddenly I was left alone, staring out across the lake.
Something about Lexi’s choice of words had hit me wrong, had made me uneasy. Maybe it was the sense of isolation, maybe it was the campus itself—so ancient-feeling—or maybe it was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Maybe there was just something vaguely sinister about the way she had talked about a harvest, but there shouldn’t be, should there? Harvests weren’t innately sinister. So why, I wondered as I stared out at the island, was I shivering?
Trying to shake off the feeling, I let my mind flow to theisland. It really was extraordinarily beautiful. Although I doubted it could have anything to do with the relic, I had a gnawing compulsion to go investigate it. My gaze drifted to the pier, to the phantom rope marks. At one time there had been a boat. Someone used to go to that island, so why had they stopped?
The next morning, I awoke suddenly just before dawn. After a few failed attempts to get back to sleep, I gave up and started making coffee. I still couldn’t shake the feeling I’d had in the clearing with the yew tree, the feeling that the earth there was somehow unquiet. Grabbing my computer, I started researching locations that were said to be cursed.
I read about Poveglia in Italy, Angkor Wat in Cambodia, and Satan’s Synagogue in the South of France. There were locations around the globe said to be filled with malevolence, and despite my die-hard skepticism, I had a fleeting notion that I was in such a place. Of course none of this was too far from the historical claims of witches cursing their neighbors’ fields. That was something that came up repeatedly in my research. A harsh winter destroys the crops and someone must pay. It must be someone’s fault. Bad things can’t just happen. The human mind must always find someone to blame.
There was an infamous, fairly recent case in England, one that Margaret Murray pointed to as an instance of proof of modern witchcraft. In Gloucestershire in 1945, a man named Charles Walton was found with a pitchfork driven through his neck, his chest sliced open in a cross formation, and his blood draining into the ground, a practice known as bleeding, which was meant to feed the crops. Notably, he was killed on a dayknown in Druidic traditions as an auspicious one for performing a blood sacrifice. Walton was something of a witchy fellow. Hermitic and rumored to be clairvoyant, he was reported to have once witnessed a mysterious black dog roaming the hillside in the days leading up to a loved one’s death. He was also suspected of having cursed his neighbor’s fields, leading to an exceptionally bad harvest. Despite Scotland Yard’s best efforts, his murder was still unsolved.
My coffee cold now, I was reading more closely about Poveglia, the so-called Island of Death, when I heard a distant howl. Startled, I set my cup down, put on some clothes, and opened the door to the cabana. Outside it was still dark, but there was a cyanotic quality to the atmosphere, as if the sky were holding its breath trying to maintain its grasp on the night.
I strained to hear something, anything, but there was only silence. It must have just been a dog. Except something told me that it wasn’t. I closed the door and went back inside, but about half an hour later, I could have sworn I heard ragged breathing and movement pass by right outside my window. When I opened the door, again I found nothing, but as I stared into the woods, I saw a flash of light like I’d seen on my first night at Hildegard. The sun was just beginning to rise, but I didn’t think this was a reflection. I grabbed my jacket and phone and set out, intent on finding the source. I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening at Hildegard, but something didn’t sit right with me about the sirens and the bizarre animal sounds. The shadow of animal testing had been slowly creeping over me, and if something like that was going on here, I needed to know about it. If there was one thing I couldn’t handle, it was an animal being harmed, especially needlessly for human profit.
Outside on the brick path, the scent of honeysuckle andlilac rose up and calmed me almost immediately. The morning light was dim, the sun still just barely a sliver rising in the east as I started down the path to the woods. I only walked a short way before I saw the flash of light again. I followed it, and then a sudden burst of sound stopped me. The bushes seemed to tremble as what sounded like countless woodland creatures suddenly took flight.
I stood completely still. Something was in the woods with me.
“Hello?” The only reply was a flutter of animals skittering through the underbrush and a birdcall I didn’t recognize. I continued walking deeper into the woods, trying to follow the path, but as I went, I began to notice the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“Who’s there?” I tried again.
This time the silence that followed was punctuated by the sound of something large moving through the trees. I could hear it clearly now, something large coming through the woods directly toward me. Suddenly I realized how incredibly dumb it was to come out into the woods at dawn. Holding my breath, I took a step back, and then from between the ivory bark of a pair of birch trees, I caught a flicker of amber eyes shining through the foliage staring directly at me. I was frozen with terror, afraid that if I moved, whatever it was would suddenly lurch forward and go for my throat. Because I could see it now, the dark gray fur, the solid lupine body—a wolf. It took a step toward me and let out a low, menacing growl.
I didn’t think. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d stepped forward and clapped loudly.
“Git!” I snapped at the creature, but it didn’t move. Instead, it seemed to simply consider me. “I said get out of here!” I yelled again.
Lunging forward, I waved my arms over my head, trying to seem larger than I was, but still the creature didn’t react. It stared at me as if deciding my fate, and then calmly, stoically, it turned and retreated into the darkness of the wood beyond.
It was only once the creature had gone that I noticed what it had been standing in front of. In that space between the trunks of two white birch trees, I could make out a stone rising up like a jagged tooth. My heart raced as I strained to focus my eyes.
A gravestone.
My legs shaking, I approached the headstone, telling myself it was probably just a grave for an animal, part of a pet cemetery. Not that entering a pet cemetery has ever turned out especially good for anyone. I’d read my King.
But when I reached it, I saw that although it was definitely a headstone, the side facing me was blank. Slowly I walked around to the other side, and when I saw the name on the stone, my head began to throb.
