Death's Tome

Blog for the Horror/Sci-Fi/Fantasy anthology series by nicmarbel

[tomedeath-blog]

Heed Her Warning

Written by: nicmarbel

Lyla Winters documents a close encounter with an apparition in northern Michigan.

Genre: Horror

Word Count: 4972

____________________________________________________

My last meaningful report was thirteen months ago, how poetic.

The Midwest has been my charter for a year and a half: last summer, in Missouri, I journeyed with a self-proclaimed wildman across the Ozark Mountains. This wildman, who called himself Manzan, assured me he had, on several occasions, seen the beast known to the locals as Momo. I did not truthfully believe Manzan, thinking him a would-be Davy Crockett and nothing more, but as we left the designated trails and relied upon his expertise, I grasped he was no counterfeit, and after a week in the mountains, we saw it.

To be more accurate, we smelled it and then we saw it. I will not go into specifics here (see my report: Ozark Oddities), but I have not received a verifiable or replicable report since that evening, until last Friday. I had just finished my journey across mainland Michigan, and was preparing to start a week dedicated to the Upper Peninsula. I had planned on spending the night in Mackinac City, but that changed when I spied a small poster hanging behind the bar at the local dive I found myself in. A woman in a flowing white dress, standing upon Mackinac Bridge, pointing into the distance. Beneath the illustration were the words ‘Heed her warning’.

I asked the bartender if there was a story behind the poster. She was slightly older than me and had the sort of face that made you scared to order a drink from her.

“Oh,” she said, with the smirk one gets when they’re about to tell a practiced story, “that’s Ariel Williams, guardian angel of Mackinac Bridge. Legend has it, she was driving across the bridge during a terrible storm and it threw her car right off!” At this beat, she smacked her hand on the bar, for emphasis. “Some say she was dead when the car hit the water, others say she slowly drowned, but either way if you’re driving ‘cross the Bridge and Ariel appears, you’d be smart to turn around and get off the bridge the way you came…”

“That’s quite the story,” I replied, and indeed it was quite the story. I had already heard three other Lady in White tales during my time in the Midwest, and they were nothing more than retellings of the story of the apparition who haunts Rochester, New York, but this was unique — no dead children, no manic ramblings, and we had a name: Ariel Williams. The story excited me, and I had it in my mind that if I left now I would see Ariel as I crossed the bridge.

It was late at this point, but before midnight, and I crawled across the bridge as slow as I could manage. When I was halfway across, I considered pulling onto the small shoulder and waiting awhile, but thought if she hadn’t revealed herself to me yet that she would not. Perhaps I should have been relieved since she is said to foretell a terrible car accident, but that portion of the story gave me the impression of campfire fluff added onto a kernel of truth. I finished my crossing and made my way to a motel in the small town of Heron Lake, where I retired for the evening.

The next morning, I purchased a small breakfast from the pub across the street and inquired about Ariel Williams, but the elderly locals were not as interested in sharing ghost stories as the bartender from the prior night. After breakfast, I strolled down the town’s quaint main street. The size of the town meant all of the landmarks were relatively close together, and in no time I had passed a weathered white chapel called Our Lady of Peace, the original town hall, still standing, and a small school across the street from the sheriff’s department. Charming. Though there was no Heron Lake Public Library, to my disappointment, I discovered a secondhand shoppe with framed aged-newspapers displayed in the front window.

The owner of the establishment was a spritely old woman who told me twice that her name was Esther, having forgotten if she had introduced herself partway through our conversation. Despite this, her mind was a steel trap when it came to town matters. I inquired about the newspapers in the window, wondering if she had more, and she told me she had decades worth. I riffled through these for a few minutes, and then asked her if she had any newspapers relating to Ariel Williams.

“No,” she responded quickly.

“Are you certain? I’m something of a researcher and -”

“I’m afraid I am quite certain, I’ve an agreement with Mr. de Brun — I send any newspapers I find about Ariel to him, and he pays me well for them.”

“Mr. de Brun?” I asked, and, I must admit, this was now becoming all too sweet. I could feel that I had hooked something for certain this time, so a smirk had grown across my face which, I believe, rubbed the kind woman the wrong way.

“Yes, he’s a private gentleman, and if that’s all, I think you should be on your way now, miss.”

That was fine by me. The private gentleman, Mr. de Brun, was far more compelling than any newspaper would be. I trolled the streets, driving through wealthier neighborhoods. The third I drove through was spacious, several lots between each house, long driveways with gates, and many of these gates bore the name of the family residing within Hastings, Silver, Cumberland, Herzing, and de Brun.

“Private, my ass.” Again, that same self-satisfied smirk.

I pulled down the road a ways, did my best to flatten my blouse (should’ve ironed), and pulled on the blazer I kept for moments like this (definitely should’ve ironed).

Though, I suppose it didn’t matter, I had already accepted the fact that I would be scaling the fence and walking up to Mr. de Brun’s front door. I threw over my briefcase, like the blazer, a bit of set-dressing, nothing of importance inside, some of my laundry, old notebooks, and novellas. Over I followed, careful not to snag any of my wrinkled clothing. The walk up his driveway takes a full two minutes and winds through a small but dense forest of maple and birch trees enclosed within his property.

When I breached the treeline and the de Brun manor came into view I almost burst into laughter: it’s the picture of a haunted mansion, if the bartender had described this place I would’ve written off the story, but seeing it for myself sent a shiver of excitement down my spine. Briefcase by my side, blazer hand-pressed, to the best of my ability, I approached the manor. But before my foot made contact with the first stair leading to their porch their dog bushwacked me from the shadows! I reared back, lost my balance and tumbled to the ground; meanwhile, the hound’s chain leash struggled against its anchoring as the dog snapped at my retreating heels, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth.

Then, the front door slammed open and a tall man stepped onto the front porch. “William, au pied,” he said, and in his voice dripped with disdain. The dog obeyed his owner’s command and climbed the stairs to sit at the man’s feet. Weak strands of white hair clung to the man’s nigh translucent skin, and a coarse beard sprouted from his chin — not what I expected such a wealthy gentleman to look like. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested, and you’re trespassing.”

“Mr. de Brun, I assume,” I said, as I got to my feet.

“None of your business.”

“It is my business, you see, I am not selling anything, I was hoping to buy something from you,” I started. “It is my understanding that you have a collection of newspapers relating to Ariel Williams, and I was hoping to purchase them from you, and perhaps ask you some questions about her.”

He squinted at me, his frown deepened, and I thought he might sic William on me.

“Don’t have any newspapers, don’t have anything to say about her.”

“Darling, who is it?” A woman’s voice called from within the house, quiet and sad.

“Nothing, sweetheart, don’t worry your heart about it. I’ll be back inside soon.” He turned to speak to her and his tone softened.

“Does she know anything about Ariel?” I asked.

Mr. de Brun snapped his head back to me, and stooped to release his beast from its chain. I turned and ran as he shouted another command.

“Why is she asking about her!” The woman cried.

“Get out of here! William, en garde!” He bellowed, and as the chain dropped to the porch, the dog leapt from the porch and thundered after me. So much for the blazer and briefcase act! I bolted through the woods, dodging trees, and sweating through my clothes. Without breaking my speed, I heaved my briefcase over the fence, lunged forward and vaulted for the fence, as my arms clung around the metal posts and I pulled my knees to my chest, William was a jaw-length away from me and slammed into the fence beneath me. I threw myself over the top, and cut my hand on the fence's spiked finial in my haste.

Back at my car, I tended to my hand, cleaning it with leftover takeout napkins and covering it with the miscellaneous bandages within my meager first aid kit. I was so focussed on my hand and cursing under my breath that I didn’t notice the police cruiser that had parked behind my car, nor the Sheriff as he approached and rapped on my window. I jumped, spilling the contents of my first aid kit, and lowered the window.

“License and registration,” he said.

“Uh, oh yeah,” I retrieved them and handed them off.

He examined them for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Oregon? You’re a long way from home, Miss Winters,” he noted.

“That’s correct,”

“What brings a nice young lady from Oregon all the way to Heron Lake and the front door of Mr. de Brun’s home?”

“I’m an author.”

“Authorin’ often lead to breakin’ and enterin’?”

“Well, nothing was broken, sheriff.”

He scoffed and handed my papers back to me.

“We don’t much care for ghost stories here, so why don’t you just be on your way and find some ghost stories someplace else.”

“I didn’t say anything about ghost stories, Sheriff.” I faked a smile, rolled up my window and drove off. He followed me until I was out of town, I drove to the bridge and pulled off the road, into a small section marked for sightseeing. I leaned against my car and pondered my next course of action. After a few minutes, I concluded there were only two ways I could learn more about this apparition: a conversation with the de Bruns or the ghost herself.

A meeting with the ghost seemed unlikely, but a friendly conversation with the de Bruns seemed more unlikely, so I set my sights towards contacting or otherwise summoning the spirit and crossed the bridge south, back to Mackinac City. I furnished myself with the necessary accoutrements to perform a summoning and returned to Brickhouse, the dive where this adventure started.

“Ghost girl, you’re back!” the bartender exclaimed.

“Can’t stay away, I suppose,” I replied, taking the same seat at the bar. What followed was far different from the blazer and briefcase bit: buying drinks, sharing stories, breaking ice. After the second round of shots with the bartender, I learned her name was Jeanie, and after a few more rounds and the best tales in my catalog, I had amassed a handful of drunken audience members.

“Alright, last call, folks!” Jeanie announced shortly after midnight, now was my chance.

“Ever tried a Ouija Board?” I asked the group.

“Sure, when I was a dumb kid,” Grant, a young man with a naive face replied.

“You’re still a dumb kid,” Jeanie laughed. “You really are the ghost girl, aren’t you?”

“Gotta have hobbies, right?”

“Have you got one? A Ouija board, I mean, not a hobby.” Tricia asked as she pushed up her glasses.

“Oh, no, but I thought we could perform a séance, try to contact Ariel Williams”, I nodded towards the poster.

“Not sure I like the sound of all this,” Hank said followed by a hiccup. He was an older man with a square-stubbled jaw.

“C’mon, Hank, it’ll be fun,” replied a fellow whose name I hadn’t caught, he had either come to the bar with Hank, or had attached himself to the older man at some point throughout the night.

“Well, what’ve you got in mind?” Hank asked, and I was thankful for the younger man’s charm — the summoning works best when the sexes are equal, why that is I’m not sure, but in my experience it's true.

“It’s a simple summoning, I’ve done it before, and if the stories I’ve heard about the guardian angel of Mackinac Bridge are true — we shouldn’t have anything to fear.”

“What about, like … demons?” Jeanie asked, and I noted the others looked as though the question was on their mind too.

“It is not an unfounded fear, but follow my instructions and that won’t be a concern.”

At this point, I gathered my supplies and prepared them while Jeanie locked up the bar. Our group sat around the largest of the tables, and I lit a candle for each of the members of the summoning circle: myself, Jeanie, Hank, the charming young man, Grant and Tricia. Finally, a seventh candle, in the center of the table, for Ariel Williams.

“Now, link hands, and it is most important that, once our hands are bound, we do not break the circle until it is over.”

The confidence of booze and peer pressure was flowing within my cohorts so they linked hands. I took a deep breath in, and started my incantation: “Soul trapped from beyond, spirit torn asunder, we six invite you to be seven: Ariel Williams, Guardian Angel of Mackinac Bridge, we call to you!”

I did not lie to my fellow summoners when I said I had performed this ritual before, but never has it had this effect. The last thing I can recall is a frost overtaking me, as if the very blood in my veins was replaced with the icy water of the Styx. When I awoke after the event Jeanie reported the following to me:

When you finished saying your prayer, or what have you, you jolted out of your chair and stood straight up. Your face was pointing up towards the ceiling, and your mouth was hanging wide open. You were gripping poor Hank and Grant’s hands so tightly you made Grant cry!

Hank cried out, “What the hell is all this,” and I could see that he wanted to bolt, but I held his hand tight — I was afraid, and didn’t want to break the circle and invite in some demon to eat our souls, so I held him tight.

Then you said, “Now cometh the seventh,” but it wasn’t your voice, or it wasn’t just your voice, it was like you were speaking with all of our voices at once. Before we could even think too much about that, the room became freezing cold, and the front door blew off the hinges! You owe me for that door by the way, and the frame!

Anyways, we all screamed when this happened, but thank God nobody let go of anybody else’s hands. (Thank God indeed, I know not what would have come of me had the circle been broken while I was trapped within this state.) Tricia passed out then and hit her head on the table. I told Grant to take her to urgent care before you woke up, that’s why they aren’t here now, but then it happened.

A fog rolled into the bar and she followed! It was her, Ariel - er, well, I suppose not Ariel! The sight of her made me quiver, I thought you would say something, but she spoke first.

“You ask for Ariel Williams! She is not here! For too long I have answered to this name, this lie!” Her voice was booming, and icy wind was whipping all around like it was the middle of winter. I think that’s when your nose started bleeding, but I’m not too sure, because I couldn’t look away from her. Then she kept talking: “I tire of wandering this stretch, I yearn for whatever awaits me beyond this cursed soil. Summoner! You have called me here, reminded me that I cannot remember my name, and you will discover it for me! I curse your soul for reminding me and will only lift my curse if you free me from this torment!”

Then it was over as quick as it started! The fog was sucked out of the room, but it was like when you get hit with a strong wind and you can’t breathe, you know? She pointed, like people say she does on the bridge, and then she was gone. The candles went out at the same time and you dropped to the ground like a bag of rocks! (I asked her then in what direction she pointed, and Jeanie pointed towards the northern wall of the bar.)

My mind was overflowing with thoughts as Jeanie relayed this to me: what was the ghost pointing towards, how had she come to take this false name, and what role had the de Brun’s played in this?

“Do you have any ground beef?” I asked her.

After that, Jeanie let me crash at her apartment above the Brickhouse. I woke early, careful not to rouse my host, my head was throbbing from the dual efforts of my hangover and last night’s possession, and I helped myself to a handful of over-the-counter pain relievers from her bathroom. I left a note on her kitchen table, thanking her for her generosity and apologizing for the traumatic nature of the summoning, along with a few hundred dollars for repairs, plus a twenty for the medicine and the half-pound of ground beef I was leaving with.

A fog was consuming Mackinac Bridge, and as I crossed the midpoint, I glimpsed the apparition in my rearview mirror. She was pointing north, pointing me forward. The words ‘heed her warning’ crossed my mind, but I raced across the bridge, and my smirk returned one final time as I reached the other side and burst from the fog.

“Campfire fluff, after all.”

During my escort out of town, I had noticed a small parking area cut into the woods for the trail leading to the town’s namesake Lake Heron. I parked here, and, instead of the trail, walked through the woods alongside the road until the town came into view, then I crept into the city. I had timed things perfectly, and I reached downtown Heron Lake in time for the church’s bell to ring out nine times. I watched from a distance as parishioners entered the weathered church, the weathered priest greeting them on their way in. Then, I spied them, Mr. de Brun and the veiled woman.

I could see the Sheriff’s car was parked outside the department, and gambled that he was the God-fearing sort. I raced through the woods back to my car, and sped toward de Brun Manor. I had put the ground beef in a paper lunch bag which I now shoved into my jacket pocket. Then, once more, I climbed over the fence and marched up the driveway. This time, I thought I would be prepared for William, I knew he would be waiting for me in the shadows of the porch, and he wouldn’t get the drop on — snarl. I turned quick enough to see him coming, and dodged to the side, crashing to the ground, as the shepherd bit at my leg.

I scrambled back as William growled and inched towards me, I felt a tree behind me, and got to my feet as he sprung his next attack, charging forward, teeth bared. I slapped him, and leapt to grab a low hanging branch. He jumped, like a shark out of the water, and bit down on my hanging calf. I screamed, and tried to shake him off, but his grip was tight, and his teeth were sinking deeper. I screamed again, and kicked him with my other leg, he yelped and crashed to the ground. He tried the maneuver again, but I pulled myself onto the branch and the sound of his jaw snapping was like a bear trap! He growled and scratched at the base of the tree, as I caught my breath. Blood was staining my pants, I tore part of my shirt and cursed as I tied it around the wound.

Next, while William barked ferociously, I fished the beef out of my pocket and dropped it on the ground. He was a good guard dog, and ignored the beef for a full thirty seconds, but animal instincts overtook obedience and soon his snout was buried in the paper bag. I dropped out of the tree, and crept away, at first, then ran as fast as my limping leg would allow as it became clear William was entranced by the beef.

The de Brun manor came into view, I climbed the stairs to the porch, and held my breath as I tried the front door — unlocked. I breathed a sigh of relief, I wasn’t in the mood to break a door down, but then I was overtaken with grief as I saw within the house. The inside was depressing, it felt to me like nobody lived there. Their home was veiled like the woman, curtains drawn over every window left the interior devoid of natural light. Dust and cobwebs clung to every surface, save for the floor where the couple’s routine paths cleared the debris.

Hanging beside the front door, on a small-bespoke hook, was a silver locket. I opened it, and it appeared to hold two pictures of the same young woman. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that one of the women had a blemish on her cheek, while the other woman did not. Owing to the angle they were photographed, one could spot the edge of the birthmark, otherwise the women were identical. I carried on.

I considered going upstairs, but my intuition, or perhaps it was my spiritual charger, told me to search this floor first. In a backroom behind the kitchen there was a padlocked door — nothing too fancy, the kind you’d buy at a hardware store. I helped myself to one of their cast iron pans and beat the lock asunder. Whether William heard this, or merely ran out of beef, I’m not sure, but shortly after this he was jumping and barking at the front door.

The basement was pitch black. I fumbled in the darkness, wishing for once I was a smoker, but soon enough I flicked a string with my hand, and yanked it to turn on the single bulb which hung in the basement. On the wall in front of me was a large, stunning portrait of the blemishless woman from the locket, though aged, and standing behind her with his hand resting on her shoulder was a much younger Mr. de Brun.

Beneath this portrait was a similarly locked gentleman’s chest. Pan still in hand, I dealt with this padlock. Opening the chest, I got what I was looking for and more — not only were there dozens of newspaper articles, but many more photographs of the woman, and even a small selection of dresses, scarves, and undergarments. I started feeling sick at the sight of these contents.

I began looking through the newspaper articles, and they indeed centered around Ariel Williams. Ariel’s father had died when she was thirty, survived by Ariel and her sister Victoria. Ariel had apparently inherited the majority of her father’s wealth as well as ownership over his businesses. As a wealthy, business-owning woman in the early sixties, it appeared she drew some attention from several local newspapers, and one of these gossip articles contained a picture of Ariel: she had a large birthmark on her right cheek, a discolored patch of skin which evidenced itself even in black and white. Victoria’s portrait loomed over, staring down at my discovery.

Then, her obituary, “Ariel Williams, local magnate, dead at 33 by suicide.” The article explains Ariel is survived by her only living heir, her sister Victoria de Brun, recently married to Henri de Brun, a former business associate of their father. Upon reading this, goosebumps bloomed across my body, spreading like a wildfire. William’s barking stopped and I heard a booming command ring out from Mr. de Brun, who barged inside.

“Someone’s in here, sweetheart, call the Sheriff!”

“My locket! It’s gone!” She cried.

I had no time to waste. I snatched up one of the dresses and clutched it to my chest, gripping the locket in my other fist. Mr. de Brun bounded down the stairs into the basement.

“Soul trapped from beyond, spirit torn asunder! I, one invite you to be two!”

Now Mr. de Brun was here, and he started cursing a storm at me.

“Victoria Williams! I call to you!” I cried.

The sound of her name seemed to stun him. Looking back now, I think he could feel her before I could.

“No! No!” He started crying.

The lightbulb flickered out then, and the basement chilled enough to make our teeth chatter, though Mr. de Brun’s may have been fear-induced.

“Husband of mine,” came a voice from within the darkness. When it spoke, it was as if the darkness breathed around me.

“Victoria!? No! It can’t be! Foul witch! You play tricks on me!”

“This is no trick Henri Georges de Brun! Long have you tortured me,kept me bound to this place, this chest!”

The chest burst behind me and covered me with splinters, but I kept my hands pressed against me, maintaining my one person spirit circle.

“I - I - I am sorry, Victoria!”

“Henri! Henri! What is it?!” The veiled woman cried from upstairs, I believe the event was constrained to the basement, for as she crossed the threshold, she yelped in fear as the spirit called to her.

“Ariel! My thieving sister! You stole everything from me!”

The veiled woman stumbled down the stairs, but now the pair was groveling in fear.

“We are sorry, Victoria! Please, God have mercy on our souls,” the woman wept.

“You will know no god!” The voice boomed. “Summoner, you have served me well, and now I lift my curse from you, and place it tenfold upon these treacherous souls! For eternity you will walk this land as longing, desperate spirits, until another comes along to free you as this truth seeker has freed me!”

A great white light appeared in the heart of the room, the dress and locket were torn from my hands, and draped around the light as the glowing mass took the form of Victoria Williams.

“Please, sister, no!” the veiled woman begged.

The spirit approached her sister, who quivered before her visage, and she reached her hand out to lift her sister’s veil, revealing her tearstained birthmark.

“Hide your face no longer, Ariel, for nobody can remember a veiled ghost.”

Ariel took her sister’s spiritual hand, but as she did, the form vanished with another burst of light. Once she was gone, we were left in the darkness again.

“It is done. Victoria Williams is free at last.” The darkness breathed a final breath, and suddenly the power returned to the room, and the light bulb flickered on again. All three of us were on our knees and each of us was crying, albeit them far more than I, but I was quite moved by the event. I rose, I made to walk past them, but as I did the Sheriff appeared, with all the ruckus I hadn’t heard him enter the house.

“Henri, Victoria!” The Sheriff cried as he barged downstairs. “You again! Well, now, caught red-handed, aren’t we? Come on!”

He grabbed me hard, dragged me up the stairs, threw me in his cruiser, and booked me downtown. I was in lockup for around ninety minutes, and when the Sheriff asked if I wanted a phone call, I told him I had a feeling I wouldn’t be needing one. He looked at me funny, but soon enough Mr. de Brun and Ariel came into the station and provided an explanation to the Sheriff, who walked over and begrudgingly unlocked my cell.

The couple drove me to my car, and we went the whole way in silence. I thanked them when we got there, but Mr. de Brun stopped me as I got out, and told me there was something for me in the trunk. Inside, I found the chest with all of its contents, and Ariel told me they had agreed it should be left in my care. I told them they could keep the underwear, took the chest, and thanked them once more.

“We may have a dark road ahead, but we don’t have to live the last days of our lives as a lie, so we thank you,” Mr. de Brun said, and they drove away.

I don’t suppose I know when they shall pass, and from what I gather happened, I’m not sure they deserve forgiveness, but I think I will return to Heron Lake every ten years or so, and see if there are two more ghosts in need of remembering their name.

Lyla Winters

8th of June 2010

____________________________________________________