Witchammer – Chapter 1

Dark Awakening

The girl awoke with a shock from a deep, yet fitful, sleep, though it was unclear exactly what had roused her from dark and rapidly forgotten dreams.  The sheets felt hot and oppressive, and she tossed them aside to cool her naked form.  She sat up and immediately regretted the action as a fierce pain seeped from her upper jaw, combining with a splitting headache.  Her mouth seemed impossibly dry, and tasted of tarnished copper.  The room was dark and still, with the only light shining in from the drawn curtains of a nearby window.  

On shaky legs she drew herself out of bed, the cold polished wood of the floor a shock against her bare feet.  She walked on unsteady legs to the window, and drew back the curtain, revealing a bright and bustling cityscape.  The view was many stories up, in an urban area surrounded by similarly large buildings, the sunlight reflecting from their many windows.  Below was a busy street with cars and trucks inching their way past.  Drawing the curtains fully the girl turned to take stock of her surroundings.

She seemed to be in a well appointed hotel room, though it was impossible to remember how or why she was here.  A cold prickling washed over her as she realized that she couldn’t remember anything, not why she was here, what she was doing, nor even her own name.  Panic welled within her, hastening her breath.  She wracked her mind trying to remember something, anything.  Her headache increased until it was a throbbing spasm in her mind, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.  An impenetrable wall of pain.

Sinking into an armchair near the window, and in an attempt to calm herself, she tried to focus on what she did know.  She recalled the names and purposes of all the objects in her field of view; a chair for sitting, a bed for sleeping, a writing desk for working, a newer electric lamp for light, and three doors (one the entrance and the others probably closets).  The year was 1936, that much she knew, though she was fuzzy on the exact date.  She remembered how to write, and the rules of grammar for English, German, and French.  There were snippets of other, somehow older feeling, languages that darted back in forth through her mind, but trying to focus on them increased her headache.  The particulars of the world escaped her, who was the leader of where, what exactly was going on in the countries whose languages she could speak, or what items should be in the news.  Tiring of sitting and dismaying in the dark she walked across the room and switched on the lamp, bathing what should have been a cozy hotel room in warm yellow light.

Immediately she noticed the marks.  Though they had been hidden in the dark they now stood stark against her nude flesh, tiny black symbols, cascading over every visible inch of her skin in neat evenly spaced rows.  Holding her arms up in horror she carefully examined the symbols.  They were small, about the size of newspaper print, pitch black, and utterly incomprehensible.  Each was made with short straight lines, in a variety of combinations.  She tried to read the runes and while they seemed intimately familiar she found that she hadn’t a clue what they meant.  As she poured over them she grew dizzy, the runes seeming to flow together and slide in and around each other, slithering across her surface.  Snapping herself away from them they seemed once again solid and unmoving, and she was unsure if the display had been some trick of the light, or a symptom of her condition.  Rubbing at them proved fruitless, they had apparently been tattooed deep into her skin, rendering them a permanent fixture.  Tiny snippets of knowledge drifted through the tattered remains of her memory; magic, powerful, all-important, but any further information was swallowed by the irascible pounding within her skull.  

Switching focus to try and quell the agony she glanced around the room.  There was a mirrored vanity in the corner, and the girl moved to better inspect the markings.  They truly did seem to be everywhere, her torso, legs, arms, feet and hands were covered in them.  They ran inside her thighs, groin, and armpits.  There were even a few interspersed in the webs between her fingers and toes, extending across her palms and the soles of her feet.  Most shocking of all were the symbols somehow tattooed under her fingernails, as if they had been removed and grown over.  She was relieved to note that their coverage did not extend to her face and the front of her neck, stopping in a near-complete circle where her neck met her shoulders.  Utilizing a hand mirror on the vanity’s surface revealed that they ran up her spine on the back of her neck in a small column before widening out again at her hairline.  Tilting her chin down and examining her scalp revealed further rows of runes coating her head, concealed under her long straight black hair.  

Next she investigated the throbbing pain in her mouth; leaning in and raising her upper lip quickly revealed the source, as it appeared as if her top two canines had been ripped straight out.  The pockmarks left behind were ragged and swollen, and she gently explored them with her tongue while tilting her head from side to side.  They were rough, seeped blood at her touch, and the pain forced her to stop.  Her breathing once again became panicked as she wondered in bafflement who had done this to her, and why.  Briefly she questioned whether this had somehow been done to her while she was asleep, though the door was locked and the room bore no sign of forced entry.

 
Fighting to stay calm she stepped back in shock, taking stock of her overall appearance.  She was taller than what she somehow knew to be average, standing roughly 173 centimeters (or about 5’9” she corrected herself, though she wasn’t sure why).  Her skin was a dusky light brown with a slight, possibly Mediterranean cast.  Figure-wise she was otherwise unremarkable, though staring at the runes etched into her skin made her hair stand up and goosebumps rise.  Her face was well-set, with a strong jawline framing high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose set beneath very dark eyes.  Staring into her own nearly black eyes she was saddened that while her face was familiar, she hadn’t a clue who it belonged to.

Tearing herself away from the mirror she decided to take go through the room, get dressed, and search for clues about her identity, if only as a distraction from the pain.  On the floor next to the bed was a suitcase, she opened it and spread its contents out on the rumpled comforter.  It contained two plain looking dresses, a few days worth of undergarments, a small assortment of blouses and skirts, and several pairs of long gloves (two white and one pair black leather).  It had two wigs, one blond, one red.  Curiously it also contained a pair of small circular sunglasses, and two other pairs of conventional glasses (one tortoiseshell, one wire-rimmed).  She knew she didn’t need glasses, and wondered if the glasses and wigs were the trappings of some simple disguise kit (or if they belonged to someone else, though she hated to think she had stolen someone’s suitcase).  There was a pair of low black heels next to the door, and another pair of low heels in the suitcase.  She replaced her findings and dressed in a long-sleeved dark blue day dress before searching the rest of the room.  

The vanities drawers contained nothing apart from a Gideon bible, though there were several receipts and the hotel room key scattered on the nearby table.  They offered few clues however, one being a train ticket from New Jersey to New York and the other two being daily receipts for the Waldorf Astoria Hotel (presumably where she was currently residing, she thought as she glanced at the pristine monogrammed furnishings).  All they noted were meals, a bottle of wine, and that she had paid cash.  There was a corresponding bottle of French wine on a small table near the door, open with 2/3rds of its contents missing.  Examining them further showed that an enormous quantity of food had been eaten the second (previous) day, more than enough for two people.  Finally, provided they were current, they placed today’s date at May 28th.  A long black overcoat and wide brimmed black hat hung on a rack near the door, though the coat’s pockets only held a few plain white handkerchiefs and spare change.

She found that while one door was an empty closet, the other was, in fact, a full bathroom, and upon opening the door and stepping inside she made her most important discovery.  Flipping the electric light switch to ‘on’ she was greeted by an ominous sight.  By the sink was a counter with a small piece of paper, upon it was a short note and there, at the bottom, were two extracted canine teeth, framed by droplets of blood staining the page.   Her hand shook as she reached down and gingerly picked up one of the teeth, noting that they still had drying bits of flesh stuck to the pointed ends of their small forms.  The backs of the removed teeth each had another miniscule rune etched into it, though this looked less like a tattoo and more like a brand, with the back of the canine’s surfaces being blackened and cracked.  She once again raised her lip and held one of the canines up to one of the gaps in her jawline.  It was a perfect match.  Frantically she tilted her head around and carefully ran her tongue along the backs of her remaining teeth seeking other marks or brands, but found none. 

The note itself was short and to the point, it appeared to have been written in a hurry in large block letters, saying,”
“YOU’RE FREE NOW. DON’T

LOOK BACK AND DON’T

LET THEM CATCH YOU. I

CAN’T SAVE YOU AGAIN.

        HAVE FUN.”

She read it over and over in disbelief, who had freed her, and from what?  How did all this tie into her markings, why had her mysterious self-styled savior removed and marked her teeth?  Why couldn’t she remember anything?  She stared at the last two words, punctuated by droplets of her own blood, “HAVE FUN.”  Setting the note and its grisly conclusion down she noted a woman’s handbag and a small toiletries case on the other side of the sink.  Opening the purse provided another shock, as it was stuffed almost to the brim with rolls of American currency.

Carrying the purse out of the bathroom she spread its contents out on the table.  Once all the money was unbundled and accounted for she found that she was in possession of nearly $8000, almost all of it in hundred or fifty dollar bills.  While it helped explain how she was paying for her hotel stay, it only furthered her confusion about her situation.  Was the money stolen?  Had she robbed a bank or made off with someone’s life savings?  Maybe she herself was rich, or had come from a rich family?  The money made her nervous, as that large a sum couldn’t have just disappeared into (what was presumably) her purse without anyone’s knowledge.  She searched the rest of the purse but found nothing apart from a hand mirror and a few basic articles of make-up.

As she was replacing the money she was startled by a loud knock on the door.  Hurriedly stuffing the remaining money in and closing the bag she stopped and listened.  Another knock was followed by a woman’s voice, “Housekeeping.”

“Uh…no, no not right now…Uh…thank you!” she exclaimed back, doing her level best to sound as normal as possible.  It felt odd to hear her own voice aloud.

“Very good ma’am.” the maid replied, with her footsteps echoing further down the hall.

Taking some deep breathes to reset her nerves she tried to come up with what to do next.  After a moment it hit her, if she was staying in a hotel then there must be a registry, it must contain her name and how long she’d been there.  She added white gloves and the black hat to her ensemble, and examined herself in the mirror.  She breathed a sigh of relief that the hideous tattoos were almost totally covered, and were all but unnoticeable unless someone took a very close look in certain spots.  

She took her purse and stepped out into the hall, locking the door behind her.  Making her way past featureless rows of tastefully decorated doors she rode the elevator down to the lobby.  Walking to the front desk she was greeted by a stiff, yet genial, looking employee in a black suit manning the front desk.  

“Good morning madam, how was your stay last night?”

“Fine…thanks…just…it was fine.  I was actually hoping to stay an additional night if that’s alright.”  

“Certainly madam, and will you be paying cash again?”

“Oh yes, of course, just give me a moment to sign the registry.”

“Very good madam.” the deskman said as he slid the large leatherbound tome across the countertop to her.  As she took the book the phone at the end of the counter rang, giving her a scant few moments alone with the registry.  She turned to the last few pages and tried to match up the dates with the receipts in her room.  Finally she found her room number and the attached name, Bridget Bishop, checked in alone 2 days ago.  Her residence was listed as ‘Europe,’ with the Remarks column left blank.  There were no other occupants or guests listed in her entries.  She took a deep breath and signed the name to the current date, taking a quick page flip confirmed that all relevant entries had been done in what was apparently her handwriting.  The concierge returned and she settled her bill before retiring to the dining hall.

She was escorted to a small table and handed a menu, all the while distractedly rolling her name around in her mind.  Bridget Bishop certainly seemed like it could be her name, though the decidedly vague residence of Europe left her with little to go on.  Before long the waiter returned, and Bridget realized she had completely forgotten to so much as glance at the menu.  Briefly she wondered if she had a favorite breakfast, though the painful welts in her mouth made her wary of ordering certain foods.  Finally she ordered a soft-boiled egg, oatmeal, milk, two aspirin, and a newspaper.  If the waiter found this odd he didn’t show it, simply nodding and gliding away.

She flipped through the newspaper while carefully eating her breakfast.  The headline proclaimed a potentially tight presidential race for the United States, with President Roosevelt expected to lose votes to contender Alf Landon over his highly unpopular Social Security and unemployment benefits.  The rest of the paper was concerned with the particulars of America’s Great Depression, now entering its 8th year.  Apparently upward trending employment numbers were good, but overall were still very low.  Thoroughly bored and utterly unable to distract herself from her physical and mental predicaments, Bridget decided to take a more proactive approach.

As she crossed the lobby heading to the elevators she glanced out the big glass doors of the Waldorf Astoria.  Standing near the awning was an odd pale man wearing a somber black three piece suit under a black bowler hat.  Bridget found herself almost unable to focus on his face, despite her proximity.  When she would try to target some specific feature like his eyes or nose, she would lose track of the rest.  After a long moment the man turned and locked eyes with her through the window, running her blood cold, before striding beyond the windows sight.  Thoroughly disturbed, Bridget hurried back up to her room.

She entered her room, decisively locking the door, flipping on the electric lights, and closing the curtains.  She decided to carry the money with her, as there was really nowhere to hide it within the confines of the room.  She carefully wrapped her discarded canine teeth in one of the handkerchiefs, and placed them within her purse along with the folded note.  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she donned her coat, hat, and left the room to return to the lobby.

Gratefully noting that the black suited man was nowhere to be found, she crossed the gilded lobby to the front desk.  Once again the concierge appeared, a warm, if tired, smile crossing his face.

“And how was your meal madam?”

“Oh yes, it was fine thank you.  Uh, I have something of an unconventional request if that’s all right?”

“Certainly madam, we at the Waldorf Astoria greatly value the discretion of our customers.”

“Yes, of course, well, I was wondering if you could recommend me someone who might have knowledge of…supernatural…nature?”

“A…spiritualist perhaps?”

“Sure, I’m currently conducting some, uh, research for…an article.”

“Ahhh yes madam, just one moment.” the concierge walked down the counter and entered the offices at the end.  Bridget waited patiently, occasionally eyeing the street outside with some trepidation.  The concierge returned carrying a small card plucked from a rolodex, and carefully wrote the details on a slip of hotel monogrammed paper for her.

“Here you are madam, we recommend a Ms Emily Zorowski, she trained at the prestigious Morris Pratt Institute and is a member in good standing of the National Spiritualist Association.  Never had any incident of fraud or deception.  Her offices aren’t far, simply recite the directions to your cab driver.  Now, would you like me to call ahead for you?” he asked.

“No that won’t be necessary,” she said, trying her best to keep her nervousness out of her voice, “I will be asking her some very…specific questions.”  The concierge smiled and nodded before stepping away to tend to an older couple that had approached.  Bridget looked down at the card, Ms Emily Zorowski, Clairvoyant.  She walked to the ornate glass doors that made up the entrance to the hotel, took a deep breath, and stepped outside into the momentarily blinding sunlight.

The doorman was kind enough to hail her a cab, and she dutifully rattled the address off to the utterly disinterested driver.  The cab lurched through the busy New York streets and Bridget got (at least what was to her) a first look at the ordered chaos that was urban life.  Hundreds, if not thousands, of people of all possible descriptions walked, ran, rode, and drove in every possible direction.  The sheer press of life and noise around her was almost enough to take her breath away.  Advertising especially seemed to be all but omnipresent, covering nearly every wall, window, and street corner, for every sort of product or service imaginable.  The driver didn’t help matters any, his constant attempts at bored conversation rapidly wore down her patience.  Finally he turned down a side alley and stopped.

“Here you go miss, that’ll be forty-two cents.” he exclaimed cheerfully (encouraged by the prospect of money no doubt), turning his rough gin-blossomed face to her.  She managed to pay from the coins in her pocket, grateful that she didn’t have to ask him to break one of her large bills.  Stepping out of the cab she found herself at the ground floor of a mixed commercial and residential building, with a general store on the ground floor and mixed apartments and offices above.  After a quick thought she entered the general store, asking the clerk to take down a bottle of aspirin for her jaw pain (though she noted that her headache was noticeably better).  While the clerk filled the bottle a row of polished switchblades caught her eye in a glass case on the counter.  Asking the clerk to take one out and demonstrate it, she bought it as well (paying with the last of her small bills), taking a few minutes to give it a few practice flicks.  She felt comfortable holding the knife, and wondered why that would be.  Feeling more confident now that she had some rudimentary protection from forces unknown she slipped the concealing handle into her purse as she came in the side entrance, making her way up to the offices above.  Stopping in front of the door marked with the Spiritualist’s name and profession, she reached up and knocked softly.