Witchammer – Chapter 2

Past Unspoken

“Enter!” responded a cheerful female voice, to which Bridget obliged.  The spiritualist’s office was tidy and rather small.  Shelving lined the walls filled with all manner of books and odd trinkets.  In the center-rear of the room a compact desk was nestled, behind which was seated a small middle-aged woman.  She was short and heavy, with a flushed face and prematurely greying brown hair, pulled up, wearing a voluminous black and green dress.  She gave Bridget a wan smile as she crossed the threshold.

“And what can I do for you today madam?”

“I was hoping to ask you some questions.  Or, rather, I suppose I’m looking for answers but don’t know the questions I should ask to get them.” Bridget replied, trying to meet the woman’s gaze.

“Oh I get that sort of thing much more often than you might suspect my dear,” she responded with a low chuckle, “let’s start with something simple, my name is Emily Zorowski, and you are?”

“Oh yes, of course, well, my name is Bridget Bishop.”  As she spoke her name Bridget noted the faintest flicker of recognition across Emily’s face, as if she had heard the name before but couldn’t quite recall where.

“Very nice to meet you Bridget, now, are you sure there’s nothing specific you wish to ask?  Results are always better the more specific the question.”

“No, like I said I’m mostly seeking some very…general information.  If you can offer any help at all I’d be grateful.”

“Alright, well you should know I charge seven dollars per hour, a bit high I know, but I possess a great deal of training and expertise, with none of the fraud and showmanship you might encounter at, well, cheaper establishments.”

“Oh no that sounds fine.  Money is…no object.” Bridget countered, nervously fingering her purse.

“Wonderful, so, where would you like to begin?”

Thinking carefully she decided against revealing the whole truth to a woman she hardly knew.  After all she scarcely believed her story herself, “I’m looking for information about my…background.  I was an orphan and don’t know much about my family or where I come from.  I’m sure any information you can come up with would be helpful.”

Emily’s features softened, “Oh my dear that’s just awful, I’m so sorry.  I’m sure we can come up with something.  We’ll hold a seance and try to contact my father, he was quite the spiritualist in his own right, and ever since he died just before the turn of the century he’s become quite the traveler!”  Seemingly cheered, Emily moved about the room selecting various objects.  A small tin ring hanging in a set of seven different metaled rings.  A pre-cut length of cotton yarn, one end of which she tied to the ring.  A narrow candle on a short brass stand, lit with a small match, which she handed to Bridget.  And finally a short tumbler drinking glass and a nearly-empty bottle of cheap looking whiskey.

She and Bridget walked over to a door at the rear of the office, and stepped into what was less a room, and more a large closet.  Inside it was close, dark, and warm, with almost all of the room taken up by a small round table and four chairs.  The only other furniture were some high shelves (which contained only a small metal incense holder) and a large curved wrought iron hook stand, about 150 centimeters tall.  Emily directed Bridget to light a small ball of incense with the candle, and place it on the shelves before having a seat.  Emily suspended the tin ring from the hook and placed the glass in the center of the table.  She poured a thin sheen of whiskey into the bottom, then carefully positioned the hook so that the ring hung just inside the center of the glass.  Finally she closed the door, and sat opposite Bridget, carefully maneuvering in the confined space with a practiced flair.

“I must ask you to focus your mind, clear yourself of any thoughts other than your past.  I will now attempt to contact my father, and if I am able to do so he will answer whatever questions you may have to the best of his ability, seeking out answers if necessary.”  With this Emily fell silent, and closed her eyes.  The flickering light of the candle playing across her features.  “Father…father it’s Emily.  Are you there?” she asked quietly.  Bridget strained her ears, but was met with only silence.  The cloying scent of incense continued to fill the room.  Bridget focused herself on her amnesia, mentally begging for answers to the questions which plagued her.  Emily repeated her earlier incantation, and waited.  The silence was oppressive, and the dark seemed to close in about them from the corners of the room.  Emily finally repeated her plea a third time, the incense smoke now filling the closet with a thin haze. 

Suddenly the little metal circlet tapped the side of the glass, producing a light ring, causing Bridget to jump as if a gun had been shot off.  Emily smiled wide as her eyes snapped open, lolling about in their sockets.  She pressed her palms into the table, stubby fingers spread far apart as she whispered, “He is here.”  Bridget strained her senses, seeing a faint swirling in the smoke, as if someone was tracing their finger through it.  She could also smell something new, even over the now overpowering incense, something like oak moss and pipe tobacco.  Even the candlelight seemed to dim.

“Father, this girl is lost, she knows nothing of her history, has no connection to her family, please father, reach out for this girl.”  Bridget’s breath quickened as she felt the smoke disturbed near her, as if some weightless invisible snake was coiling up and around her.  Silence reigned for another few agonizing minutes until the ring twitched, and the glass rang out once more.  This was no simple note though, but a series of short staccato tones, they continued for a few scant moments before once more falling silent.  Emily’s smile faltered, “He says there is a darkness behind you, a deception.  Father, what more can you tell us?”  Bridget once more felt the smoke probe at her presence, before seeming to recoil away.  Minutes passed in silence before the glass once more rang out, this time with a much shorter series of notes.  Emily spoke along, “Get…Out…” More rings sang out, “…Run…”

“Why?  Why does he want me to run, and from what!?”  Bridget blurted out in spite of herself, the atmosphere too much to bear.

Emily’s eyes snapped back to Bridget’s face, her smile now completely gone she spoke ominously, “He wasn’t speaking to you.”  She ripped her hands from the table, and instantly the presence was gone, the light seemed brighter, and the scented smoke less oppressive.  Carefully Emily stood and opened the door, “Please extinguish the candle and step out.” she continued, curtly.

Bridget did as she was bade, and stepped back out into the bright office through the small cascade of loosed incense haze.  Emily sat at her desk and motioned Bridget to an opposite armchair.  

“I apologize that I couldn’t be of more help,” she spoke, her tone curt, “but I can’t aid you if you don’t tell me the whole story.  Now, why are you here?”

“I told you I’m just looking for information about my past.”

“And my father labelled you a liar. Once more, why are you here?”

Bridget tensed, and a great anger surged through her, how dare this woman treat her like this, when all she had done was come seeking answers.  Why was all this happening to her?  She took a deep breath to steady herself before carefully opening her purse and removing the folded handkerchief containing her teeth.  She placed it on Emily’s desk and slowly slid it across to her.  “I need to know everything you can tell me about these.”

Emily gave her a suspicious look while she carefully unwrapped the macabre package.  She gasped as she opened the final fold, revealing the tiny grisly forms.  Her face showed open disgust as she slowly rolled them back and forth by tugging on the handkerchief’s edges.

“Where on earth did you get these?  Whe-wait, a-are these…yours?” she gasped carefully leaning forward to examine Bridget’s mouth.

“Anything you can tell me about them.”  Bridget responded in a clipped voice.

“I…well…” Emily responded, trying to regain some composure, “The…symbols…aren’t alchemical, don’t seem to be nordic nor those newfangled Armanen runes.  I…I’ve never seen anything like them before, though my education never covered things of…this…nature.”

“They seem to match…these,” Bridget said, carefully pulling off one of her gloves to reveal the tiny marks imprinted onto her skin.  She held her arm up and turned her hand over to catch the light.  Emily’s eyes bulged and her hand flew to her mouth as she covered a gasp.  She looked Bridget up and down before seeming to come to some sort of decision.  She rewrapped the teeth and slid the handkerchief back across.  Then, mustering whatever quickness her frame could provide she opened a drawer and snatched out a small derringer pistol, leveling it at Bridget.

“Get out.”

Bridget stared daggers at the woman, slowly she redressed her glove, picked up the handkerchief, and replaced it in her purse.  “What about your money?” she asked in the coolest voice she could muster.   

“Consider it on the house.” Emily replied in a wry voice.

“And where am I to go once I’ve left?  All I’m looking for are some answers, I’m just as lost here as you!” Bridget said angrily, her eyes locking with Emily’s above the twin barrels of the gun.

Emily made a valiant attempt to return the steely gaze, but faltered, the pistol sagging in her hand till it rested on the desk.  “There is another who deals in more esoteric and…dangerous magics.  I hesitate to send you to her, she is not to be trifled with, and I fear that you have more yet to lose.  Go to South Jamaica, a neighborhood in Queens, ask for a…woman named Ibi Iya.  Now get out.  And may the God have mercy upon whatever is left of your soul.”

Bridget slowly rose, and withdrew out of the office, unwilling to turn her back on the gun.  She quietly closed the door, and stepped toward the stairwell.  As she began to descend the steps she swore she could hear the muffled sounds of crying emanating from the office.  She stepped out into the street, determined to get her bearings and follow this new thread.  Realizing she was out of easily spendable money she stepped back into the general store.  The clerk was somewhat surprised to see her again, but was kind enough to help her break a few of her larger bills into more manageable denominations.  

Bridget also asked him for directions to South Jamaica, and he wrote the streetcars she could use on a scrap of paper, warning her that cabs rarely ventured to that neighborhood.  Bridget decided against taking a cab anyway, they attracted more attention and the drivers asked more questions than she was comfortable with.  She thanked the clerk once more and prepared to leave.  There was a large man at the end of the counter using the store’s telephone, who she caught staring at her when she had concluded her transaction.  She cautiously skirted around him as she made her way back out onto the sidewalk, heading up the block to the nearest streetcar stop.

She approached and sat on a nearby bench.  A few moments later Bridget was stunned to see the man from the store saunter up to the stop and wait, leaning against a wall.  She furtively stole glances at him from the corner of her eye, but was unsure if he had any interest in her presence.  Of course it was possible that the man simply needed to use the same streetcar as her, but all the same something about him set her remaining teeth on edge.  Soon the trolley arrived and she, the man, and several other passengers embarked.  She had one transfer to make before she could reach inner Queens, and she silently hoped that the man wouldn’t follow.

The streetcar rattled down the busy streets of New York City, and soon it was overcrowded, which combined with the heat of the day to make for a thoroughly uncomfortable ride.  Bridget absent-mindedly fanned herself with her hat while she reflected on the day’s events.  It seemed almost hard to believe that she was handling the situation as best she could, though she was simultaneously dismayed at how little she had actually learned.  The spiritualist’s reaction was most disheartening of all, the woman’s almost violent response to her tattoos worrying her deeply.  She was right to be cautious, and resolved to be very careful about who she revealed them to in the future.  She wondered how she knew the marks were somehow magical, like it seemed almost inconceivable that they couldn’t be.  Emily’s scathing reaction showed that they must be dangerous in some fashion, though what exactly that fashion was she hadn’t a clue.  She hoped that this Ibi Iya woman would be able to help, though Emily’s warning about the danger she posed still echoed in her ears.

Her stop eventually came up and she disembarked, crossing the street to the next one.  Bridget’s hair stood up and her skin prickled when she saw that the man (whom she was now sure was stalking her) had also gotten off and crossed to the stop.  The chance that they were both using the same routes was too remote for her liking, and she nervously tried to come up with a plan.  She had the knife in her purse, and figured that he wasn’t tremendously likely to know Queens any better than she did.  She could try and lose him, but risked becoming hopelessly lost even if she did.  After some thought she decided that if he continued to follow her past Queens she would simply get in the nearest trolley and head straight back to the hotel.  Whoever Ibi Iya was she could wait until morning if that’s what it took. There was really no way to know if the man was with those hunting her, but it was safer to assume that he was.  

The streetcar came and she got on, making sure she was at the rear, behind her stalker.  She took the time to appraise the man, he was tallish, standing roughly 180 centimeters, and fairly thin.  His skin was roughly tanned, likely the result of a lifetime spent working outdoors.  He had close-cropped blond hair, and was apparently a smoker, judging by the cigarette box poking out of his worn shirt pocket.  She wasn’t exactly dressed for a sprint, but figured she might be able to outrun him if it came down to that.  His face was squat and flat, his nose slightly crooked.  His jawline was wide and square, giving his head a blocky appearance when combined with his heavy brow.  No matter how she went over the circumstances the man almost certainly spelled trouble.

Queens eventually rolled into sight and she prepared to get off.  She knew that she had to pass through Jamaica to get to her destination, and so she waited, what was a short trip feeling like it had taken hours already.  Passing through the Jamaica Hills, and within sight of its enormous horse racing track, she stood as the conductor announced her stop.  She kept her eyes locked on the stalker, and felt her blood rise as she noticed him sneaking a glance back in return.

She got off, and watched as her stalker did the same, locking her eyes to his back as he stepped across the street.  Bridget took in the neighborhood, which was in much worse shape than New York proper.  The streets were muddy and strewn with trash, the buildings were mostly wooden clapboard, and the ubiquitous tangles of power and telephone lines of downtown were largely absent.  It was clear that South Jamaica was verging on being a slum, and she knew she would have to be twice as careful here, especially with her pursuant about.  She strolled casually down the alternating cement and board sidewalk, seeking some clue that could help her find her find out where to go.  Sighing, she headed towards the nearest tavern.

A hand painted sign was hung above the door, proclaiming this establishment to be The Thoroughbred Saloon in faded letters.  There was even an accompanying illustration of a horse, complete with a jockey who was simultaneously enjoying an immense mug of beer.  Bridget pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit establishment.  There were a small number of tables, a large chalkboard, a few battered pool tables, and small shelves holding oil lamps.  The bar was only partially occupied in the early afternoon, with a small number of hardscrabble workmen enjoying their time off drinking, playing pool, and listening to the large radio at the end of the bar.  Several of the patrons gave her odd looks, Bridget was out of place and knew it, all she could do was act like she belonged.   She walked up to bar and sat on one the rickety stools.  The bartender sauntered down to her, a short man with bandy legs, light brown skin, and an immense black mustache, he chewed a cigar as he appraised her.

“I’m sorry ma’am but there’s no races today.”

“I’m not here for any race, I’m actually just looking for some directions.”

“Well now that makes more sense,” the bartender said chuckling, “where you looking to go?”

“I need to find a woman named Ibi Iya, I was told she could be found somewhere around the neighborhood.”

The bartender slowly leaned back, his eyes wide.  After his apparent surprise wore off he blinked, took his cigar from his mouth, and stepped back in close.  “Don’t say that name in this establishment miss.  In fact, don’t say it in this neighborhood, period.  Whatever you want her for is business I want no part of.  Anything to do with all that, you best talk with Doc Chance.  Head down this street then cut through the alley next to the butchers.  Take the next two alleys ahead of that, but remember, if you reach the big apartments they’re rebuilding then you’ve gone too far.  You look for an old church, painted white, with a dog drawn on the door.  Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”  With that the bartender pointedly turned his back and returned to the far end of the bar, quietly chatting with several patrons who were clearly asking about her.

Standing and walking out the door, Bridget continued down the street on her appointed route.  The street gradually gave way to more apartments and housing, though the buildings didn’t lose their ramshackle appearance.  Soon the church loomed into sight, and it was just as had been described.  Small, most likely only one large room, old, and with peeling white paint.  There was indeed a crude drawing of a dog done in charcoal on the weathered door.  As she watched, a younger dark skinned couple exited the structure, laughing and chatting with another man with skin so dark it was almost black.  He was dressed simply in a white robe and a large straw hat, walking with the aid of a simple cane, with a tightly packed black beard.  They all shook hands or embraced, and the couple walked past her while the man in the hat stretched, glanced around, and waved at her.  Rather than wave back, Bridget strode purposefully towards the building.