Witch-Water
by Edward Lee
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WITCH WATER
© 2012 by Edward Lee
Cover art © 2012 David G. Barnett
DEDICATION: For Don D’Auria. Thank you for making my professional dreams come true for the past ten years. I owe you bigtime.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Foremost, I must acknowledge the great British horror writer M.R. James (1862-1936) whose work, as many times as I’ve re-read it, continues to entertain me in a way that I can only describe as superlative. The bulk of James’ work, I believe, demonstrates something very close to a model of perfection in the field, while there are numerous of his scenes which I deem as among the scariest ever written. (If you haven’t read James, do.) This humble novel is my contemporary tribute to Mr. James, wherein I’ve taken the liberty of, in a sense, sequelizing my two very favorite stories by him, “A View From A Hill” and “Mr. Humphreys And His Inheritance.” Personally, I rank James as second only to H.P. Lovecraft as the most unique, influential, and important author to ever wield a pen in the horror genre.
Next, I must acknowledge the following for their loyalty, support, help and encouragement with regard to my career: Don D’Auria, Wendy Brewer, Dave Barnett, Bob from Melbourne, Larry Roberts, Sergeant Andrew Myers, Bob Strauss, Corie Fromkin, Robert Price, Thomas Bauduret, Greg James, Qwee, reelsplatter, Joey Lombardo, Scott Berke, Alex McVey, Sandy Brock and Tony, Kyle N., Sheri Gambino, Tastybabysyndrome, Shroud Magazine, Monrozombi, Zombified420, sikahtik, rhfactornl, wm ollie, Konnie, Dianna Busby; Gorch; Jeff, Rose, and Carlton at Deadite; Ashton Heyd, Bob Chaplin, Southern Blood, Hexsyn, KK, Kim, Jan, Bartek Czartoryski, Michael Preissl, K in D, TravisD, Dancingwith2leftfeet, Dathar, eubankscs, brownie, and mypaperpast, Big T, brownie, drunk yorkshireman.
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CHAPTER ONE
(I)
Like stepping from one world into another, Stewart Fanshawe mused. Manhattan was hours behind him now, and the turnpike’s monotonous panorama of asphalt, concrete, and flurries of cars had suddenly lapse-dissolved into a scape of plush foliage, hundred-foot-tall trees, and shaded, curving forest roads. Fanshawe had to catch his breath from all that green, green that seemed bright to the point of surreality. The more distance I put between myself and New York, the better… His black Audi glided around each tree-lined road, with brilliant sunlight bursting in through myriad leaf-laden boughs. Gorgeous out here, he reflected. All this stunning scenery made it difficult to keep his eyes focused on the road, yet he welcomed the distraction.
Distractions kept his mind off the memories.
The car sucked down to the clean pavement through each deep, winding turn. New Hampshire, indeed, was another world.
Fanshawe was fifty but looked forty, which he attributed to good genes, exercise, and a prudent diet. He was also, either by luck or aptitude, phenomenally wealthy. His eyes widened behind the leather-sleeved wheel. I’ve got everything any man could want, so why…
He didn’t allow the thought to finish itself. The truth was, Fanshawe felt haunted by ghosts of himself. Who would know looking at me? he asked his reflection in the rearview. Every involuntary glance to the mirror was escorted by a hostile invective: Pervert! Scumbag! And the worst: Peeper! He was letting his ruminations turn sour against his will. His expression transformed to outright stolidness as his eyes continued to re-find themselves in the silver oval of glass.
He muttered this to himself: “Remove yourself from the purveying environment…,” and at once he recollected his most recent appointment with Dr. Tilton who, in spite of her well-tended good looks, seemed always to have a reserved cast to her face, as though she were keeping too many thoughts unvoiced. Fanshawe could never figure that out: she was either captivated by him, or disgusted. This was how she always regarded him from behind her desk, and with that stiff, clinical aura about her head. Fanshawe himself lay on the proverbial “couch.”
“Addicts,” she began, “even in the arena of paraphilic addictions such as yours, see the best recovery statistics when they willingly remove themselves from the purveying environment.”
“Purveying? Paraphilic?” Her terminology never ceased to irritate him. “Give it to me straight, Doctor.”
“Paraphilia, Mr. Fanshawe, as we’ve discussed, is a fetish syndrome that’s become advanced enough to have destructive repercussions.”
“I just hate the sound of the word. It makes me feel like a pervert.”
The ink-black hair shimmered in a slice of sunlight from the window. She was probably his age but at this precise moment, when a constrained smile came to her lips, she could’ve been teen-aged; he could easily imagine her thinking, That’s because you ARE a pervert, Mr. Fanshawe. You ARE a pervert… “The fact that your obsession cost you your marriage is proof of its destructive properties—”
“It cost me more than that, it cost me millions in settlement money. Not to mention what my own shylock lawyers fleeced out of me.”
A berating smirk reverted the chisel-sharp woman back to middle age. “And, as we’ve also discussed, it’s your good fortune that your ex-wife agreed to settle out of court rather than taking the matter public. You’re luckier still to have been able to engage the lawyers who got you acquitted criminally. It seems to me that you can hardly argue with their competence.”
Fanshawe’s sigh conceded to her. “I know, you’re right. I’m lucky that I had the money, and that I’ve made something of myself.”
“Yes, and you’d do well to remember that. It could’ve been much worse. Instead, your therapy has gone well, you’ve defeated your paraphilic tendencies, but now…”
“I can’t come to a shrink for the rest of my life.”
The woman’s immaculately manicured nails strummed once on the desktop. “Correct. It’s time to move on, to remove yourself from the…” She raised a finger, like an elementary school teacher attempting to goad answers from her students, to test their attention. “From the what, Mr. Fanshawe?”
He almost sputtered. “From the purveying environment—”
“Exactly. In other words, the environment which provides you with the target-objects of your…problem.”
“That might be tough. My companies—”
“Your companies run themselves, you’ve said so many times. You don’t need to be in the city anymore, Mr. Fanshawe. My advice? Now? Go somewhere far away for six months at least, someplace different, someplace therapeutic.”
“Okay. But where?”
And here was the where, as he now drove on roads he’d never seen, through a state whose sheer beauty nearly shocked him. Yes, he’d been in the city far, far too long, while his constant business trips of the past had taken him to still more cities—all the same, just different names. He felt abstractedly naked for once not being surrounded by skyscrapers and urban rush hour. Dr. Tilton’s voice seemed to trace behind his mind: Where? Somewhere you’ve never been, the country perhaps, fresh air, the great outdoors. Someplace where your former demons can no longer tempt you into a relapse…