thewakefuldead

The Wakeful Dead

A Story of the Crow Witch

The ritual was about to begin. Bone and sulfur, crushed into a fine power, were drawn in a star over a pile of loose earth. Sigils were written outside the star, drawing life, growing in power. The sorcerer gazed down at what he had done, preparing himself to commence the ancient rite, chanting the words of a language that had left the world before history was recorded.

Just as the sorcerer had planned, the new grave had not been dug on consecrated ground. The man's death had been ruled a suicide, an affront to God that prevented burial on holy ground. The dead had been a poor vagabond, a man of small means traveling the country by way of an old bicycle.

In other places, the remains would have been cremated and placed into the memorial garden of some charity set aside for the purpose. But here there were still those in public office that were opposed to the pagan corruption of flesh. As a result the corpse, and perhaps even the soul itself, had been left vulnerable to those of evil intent. That was what the sorcerer had wanted, a victim, a worthy subject.

Arms poised as if in benediction, the sorcerer, the necromancer, spoke the words to charge the dead with purpose and raise it from the grave. Flames from the star leaped up as tall as the trees, lighting the darkness as if the day had come. The necromancer's eyes burned with ecstatic joy as the earth started boiling and turning, the unnatural glow from deep within the ground growing stronger and stronger. At last the light burst forth, scattering dirt in all directions. A hand slowly appeared from the depths, sickly and pale, the flesh rotten and torn from the bone. The dead had awakened.

The day was bright and clear. The air was crisp. The wind blew a chill from Lake Superior to the west. It was a beautiful day for a bicycle ride into town, and Lynn Weigenmeister knew that such days were soon to come to an end. Autumn was fast approaching with winter close behind it.

Coming to the state highway, she checked traffic and made a hand signal, though not a car was in sight, and then pedaled up to the shoulder, entering the right of way. Town was already in view, but she remembered now with some vexation that her route had changed.

The old swing bridge over the Ontonagon River had been decommissioned that weekend past. In a ceremony that had brought dignitaries from all over the state, not the least of which was the governor herself, the new bridge had been dedicated and opened to the motoring public. It was a tall, four-lane, ultra modern structure, all concrete and steel, with no artfulness about its construction whatever.

Her legs aching from the effort of the climb, Miss Weigenmeister at last came to the summit of the bridge, finding the unexpected boon of an observation deck and a park bench to rest upon. The view from where she sat took in the harbor, the blue water shining in the sun, the old swing bridge standing open in the center of the river. She sat there only for a moment before another biker appeared, catching her up at a great rate of speed, apparently hardly noticing the steepness of the incline.

“Hello Miss Weigenmeister,” said a young girl, perhaps two years out of high school. The girl was tall and lean and reminded the librarian of the new bridge, muscular and capable, if not exactly pretty. “That's quite a ride, isn't it?”

“Yes, most exhilarating,” Miss Weigenmeister replied.

“I went all the way to Silver City and back,” the girl said, checking her watch. “Best time ever, this new bridge really gets you going.”

“I as yet only know the half of it,” Miss Weigenmeister replied, smiling.

Taking a moment to puzzle out what the librarian meant, the girl came to a sudden realization and said, “Oh, I get it, that's funny. Well, anyway, that bike looks pretty old. I hope your brakes are in good shape.”

“I should hope so. Though it may appear antiquated, I am fairly certain my bicycle is in good order, one of the Wright Brother's own productions if dealers in such merchandise are to be trusted.”

The girl laughed, “You mean the airplane guys?”

“Yes,” Miss Weigenmeister said patiently, “the manufacture and repair of bicycles was one of their earlier endeavors. Invention seldom breeds capital, least ways not until the worst of it is over. It's the same way with artistic pursuits, all one's life a miserable failure until suddenly an instant success.”

Checking her pulse, the girl said, “Yeah, I guess so. Well, that's enough of a break for me, don't want my heart rate to fall too much, got to go, see ya'.”

“Good day,” Miss Weigenmeister said with a chuckle. She was ready to be on her way also.

Though the state road had recently been rebuilt to meet with the end of the bridge, there was already some sort of repair work being done upon it, the installation of pavement markings if she was making it out correctly. Taking a detour to avoid the activity, Miss Weigenmeister found a street sweeper busily cleaning the next road. Changing direction once again, she came upon a car accident. The local police were already on the scene, but her way had been effectively blocked.

Miss Weigenmeister went down yet another street, a queer feeling of apprehension growing within her. She had a talent for finding trouble, as equally named a curse, and it was strange incidences such as these that usually signified some force beyond her reckoning was setting that task before her. At the next corner, a fire hydrant had failed and had flooded the street. Sighing in resignation, she made yet another turn, bringing her to the road that ran parallel to the cemetery.

Finding her way clear at last, Miss Weigenmeister went on, under the shade of mature oak trees, noticing an amount of activity that was uncommon to the final resting place of such good and honest people. Two sheriff deputies were looking at a mound of dirt in a lonely corner of the graveyard, busily taking pictures and writing in notepads.

A strange feeling began pricking at the edge of her consciousness, cold and insistent. She closed her eyes and reached out with her mind. The force of the realization hit Miss Weigenmeister as if she had struck a tree in her blindness, and she nearly lost her balance before she regained her senses.

Evil had been worked in this place. The dead had risen.

Feeling she had no time to lose, Miss Weigenmeister made the decision not to open the library that morning. She turned on the lights and made ready for the day as quickly as she could, hanging a note with instructions on the door for her assistant. Stowing her bicycle deep in the storage room to avoid any inconvenient questions, Miss Weigenmeister went to the restroom to prepare herself for the task at hand.

With a pang of guilt she hung a sign on the door of the restroom, including some cryptic remark about an overflow condition that was certain to ensure privacy. She hated to trouble anyone, but this was the only haven available to her, and speed was at a premium. The door to the restroom securely fastened behind her, Miss Weigenmeister opened the window. She then took off her clothes and folded them neatly on the basin.

Peering into the mirror, she thought how changed her eyes had become since she was a girl. They were so dark, so piercing, so unlike the eyes of a human. Speaking the words that would give form to her intent, she began to imagine soaring upon the windswept heights. And in this way there began in her a change, her body taking on a different form and size. The hair of her arms turned to feathers, her nose to a beak. In a rush the transfiguration was complete, and she stood upon the floor as a crow. She flapped her wings and was gone.

Upon the Earth below, a man was working in his backyard, unloading several propane cylinders from the bed of an old pickup truck. Despite the chill wind, he was bare-chested and sweat ran heavily from his brow. Eric Patterson was taking the propane cylinders out behind a newly constructed cinderblock building. Nearby, packaged blocks of clay sat ready at a potter's wheel. Seeing he was alone, Miss Weigenmeister lit upon a fencepost to watch the man complete his work.

“Well, what is it now?” the man growled.

Miss Weigenmeister was taken aback by the address. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“You're not the only one with secrets.” Eric faced her, saying, “Why can't you just call like everyone else? Why does there have to be all this hoo-ha?”

“I don't own a telephone for one.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“It must be another of those secrets.”

“All right, all right, I know you've come lookin' for something. Out with it. If you haven't noticed, I've got work to do. I've got to pay for that new kiln, and with all the craziness this weekend, my stock has nearly sold out.”

“It looks to me as if you could use a rest.”

Wiping his brow with a plaid handkerchief, Eric said, “Better busy than broke.”

“Then I shan't detain you any longer than is necessary.”

“How kind.”

“You are in the utmost danger.”

“Now, there you go again,” Eric said, throwing up his hands in dismay. “Is everything the end of the world with you?”

“Just the end of your world this time,” Miss Weigenmeister said dryly.

“I knew it! I had a feelin' something was going on. I knew it wouldn't be long before you showed up.”

“Oh? So are you developing a sense of responsibility?”

“Let's not go crazy, sweetheart. I'm just sayin' something ain't right.”

“And that is why I have come.”

“And that's why you've come,” he mocked her. “Last time I did you a favor, I nearly got my head blown off.”

“You must learn to be more careful.”

“You really know how to win friends and influence people, don't you?”

“All right, then,” Miss Weigenmeister replied stiffly. “Last night, someone preformed a ceremony that brought the dead back to life.”

“What?” the potter replied, incredulous. “You mean like a zombie?”

“Indeed.”

“And why is that my problem?”

“Beyond the obvious?” she replied curtly. “Because the beast will need strength. It will have to feed on life energy, to take victims to continue living on. You and I will draw it like a moth to flame.” Miss Weigenmeister let the implication settle.

“I have no need to protect myself. My only desire is that no innocents be harmed. Surely, the person responsible will need to be dealt with, but without such a weapon at his disposal he will have lost much of his power, so that is not my most immediate concern.”

As Miss Weigenmeister spoke, Eric became pale. He took a deep breath of air and let it out, sitting down on the tailgate of his pickup. “So I'm it then? It's gonna come suck my brain out? Just like The Night of the Living

Dead ?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Oh, great,” he said, burying his face in his hands.

“Fear not, I will protect you.”

Eric looked up and said sharply, “When you say it like that, why does it make me feel like a worm on the end of a hook?”

A tall fire burned in the potter's backyard, the flames reaching higher than the rooftop, lighting the growing darkness as if it alone could keep the night at bay. Eric and Miss Weigenmeister stood close by, tending the flames like a young child, doing all they could to ensure its proper development. The fire had been erected in a complex structure that had taken every stick of wood that Eric Patterson owned, and not a few that belonged to his neighbors.

“You don't think I overdid it, do you?” said Eric, standing back to inspect his work, the sweat running down his face and staining his shirt.

Miss Weigenmeister chuckled, saying, “Fire has ever been the protector and helpmate of mankind. It frightens wild animals and lights our way. It cooks our food. It gives us heat and allows us to survive the bitterest of winter conditions. Fire makes it possible to manufacture the earthenware by which you make your living, as well as glass and metal goods of all sorts.”

“Yeah, thanks for the history lesson, but what good is that to us?” Eric had been anxious to start a fire even before Miss Weigenmeister had suggested it, somehow feeling that it was the right thing to do, but not exactly knowing why.

“Some societies believe fire was gifted to mankind by a higher power. The undead and other evil creatures fear it even more than animals do, and so that is why folk suspected of great evil were once put to death by fire.”

“So that's the backup plan, a zombie barbeque?”

“If all else fails, yes.”

“I've got a strange taste for raw meat these days, as you know, but I don't think it goes that far.”

“Fear not. We have taken other precautions, and I am confident the trap we have set for the creature will not fail.”

“And all these doodads,” said Eric, waving his hand vaguely to indicate a number of wind chimes the librarian had placed in the trees, “will make it come to us?”

“That is correct,” said Miss Weigenmeister patiently, knowing that Eric's questions were asked out of anxiety. “Though our presence, I think, will be the most alluring of all.”

After a long silence, Eric said, “Just help you get it into the circle?”

“That is all I require.”

“Yeah, okay, I can do that,” Eric replied, poking a stick into the fire.

“Wait,” said Miss Weigenmeister, putting a hand to his wrist, keeping him from making a sound. “It comes.”

“Nice zombie, come to poppa now. That's right, follow me. I've got a tasty meal all ready for you.”

The undead had taken no notice of Miss Weigenmeister, whether by her art or by luck Eric did not know. But when the creature had arrived, it was drawn straight to him. Now Eric led it toward the circle Miss Weigenmeister had prepared, not exactly sure what was supposed to happen, but trusting whatever she might have in store for the thing.

“No, not that way, it's just a minivan. You don't want anything to do with that crowd. You come along with me and we'll have a grand old time together.”

“I don't think it can comprehend what you're saying,” Miss Weigenmeister said as she followed. “It's literally brain dead, no synaptic activity whatever.”

“So now you're a brain surgeon too?” Eric growled.

“I do read, you know,” Miss Weigenmeister shot back. “You might try it yourself sometime.”

Eric laughed, “Struck a nerve, did I?”

They came now to the circle, ringed with inscriptions in some strange writing. Miss Weigenmeister opened a leather bound book, checking the incantation one final time before she began. The zombie was drawing nearer and nearer. Eric stepped away from the circle, making certain that he was well out of range before the spell was cast.

The zombie placed a foot inside the enchanted ring, pausing but for the briefest moment as somewhere in the depths of a lost consciousness, perhaps in some instinct of its kind, the suspect of danger had arisen. But then it took another step, wholly dedicating itself to the prospect.

As Miss Weigenmeister spoke the words that would give the circle power, the symbols upon the ground flickered a brilliant white. The zombie cautiously touched the circle's inner edge, but with the resulting spark it howled in pain and stepped back.

Smiling, Miss Weigenmeister began to work her spell, but the zombie was not yet conquered. It bellowed in a guttural, incomprehensible roar and threw itself against the circle. The magic shattered, and it was free.

“That wasn't supposed to happen,” Miss Weigenmeister observed, adding curiously, “I wonder what went wrong.”

“What does that mean?” Eric shouted.

“You should run,” Miss Weigenmeister said calmly, fixing the zombie in her gaze. The thing was stepping toward her as she slowly retreated. Keeping the fire at her back as protection, Miss Weigenmeister began chanting, invoking protections of body and mind, turning the spells toward mastery of her enemy.

Somewhere distant the necromancer realized that the zombie was in danger, and now exerted his will through his creation. Miss Weigenmeister was adept at mind powers of this kind, and though the necromancer was strong, she was beginning to win the contest. But then misfortune struck.

Walking backward, her gaze set upon the zombie as need required, her foot met one of the blocks of clay at the potter's wheel, tumbling her over backward. The necromancer shouted in triumph, and deciding that this woman would make the best meal for his hungry creation, swiftly pursued her.

Struggling amidst her unfamiliar surroundings, the boxes of clay, the potter's wheel, the tools that had fallen to the ground, Miss Weigenmeister was unable to right herself. Every time she moved, some loathsome object would trip her up, sending her flailing to the ground all over again.

The zombie was standing over her, hovering above like some carrion beast awaiting the final throes of death. Stretching out its arms, the zombie took Miss Weigenmeister by the leg, picking her up with supernatural strength, holding her above the ground as she struggled to be free.

From the shadows a new figure appeared. It was somewhat shaped like a man, going on two legs, but beyond that likeness was nothing of a man at all. It was half again as tall as the zombie, stooped at the shoulders and thickly muscled, with dark hair that covered its body and limbs. The creature's face was wolfish. It was growling fiercely with long fangs revealed at upturned lips.

The zombie barely had time to notice the wolf-man before it struck a savage blow, shredding the arm that held Miss Weigenmeister aloft. But the undead, for all its ponderous motion was quick to react to a threat. It swung its other arm, landing a punch to the wolf-man's head as he failed to duck away fast enough.

The wolf-man fell to the earth, but in one smooth motion, rolled over to Miss Weigenmeister, picking her up and lifting her over his shoulder as he kicked the zombie in the stomach, sending it into the fire. The zombie screamed in an unearthly pain, its body burst into fire as if soaked in flammable spirits.

“Time to finish it,” Eric said, heading toward the entry to the kiln, kicking one of the propane cylinders into the fire behind him as he went. Just as he hit the floor with Miss Weigenmeister cradled protectively beneath him, the propane exploded, and the block walls tumbled down around them.

When the fire department finally left, it was past dawn. The house was destroyed beyond repair and what remained of the truck was but a skeletal ruin. Eric and Miss Weigenmeister had avoided detection within the wreck of the new kiln, and when they were certain all the onlookers had dispersed, the wolf-man stood, a rain of cinderblocks falling around him. He helped Miss Weigenmeister to her feet. She was unharmed, if not a little shaken by the night's events.

In the next moment, Eric had changed back into his man-form. Smiling in an odd way, he said, “That went about as well as usual. My truck is ruined, my house burned to the ground, my business destroyed.”

He shrugged. “But it could have been worse, I guess. That's what homeowner's insurance is for. But you and I are going to have to tell the police something. We could blame it on some teenagers, or maybe we should say we were at your place having a tawdry affair.”

“Well, I never,” Miss Weigenmeister replied, insulted.

“Yeah, I guess no one would believe that. But we could say that we were planning a class for the local kids. You're a regular do-gooder. It shouldn't be a hard sell.” He absently kicked up some of the ash and debris around where the fire had been, finding no sign of the zombie. “Hungry? I kind of think you owe me breakfast.”

________________

Mike Phillips is the author of Reign of the Nightmare Prince available in bookstores, online booksellers, Kindle and Nook. He has published several short stories both in print and online, including ParABnormal Digest, Sinister Tales, Dark Horizons and many others. He is best known for his Crow Witch and Patrick Donegal series. Please visit Mike at mikephillipsfantasy.com.

Mike grew up on a small farm in West Michigan. Each year during summer vacation, his father turned off what was affectionately referred to as the “Idiot Box”. This meant that when not tending sheep, mending fences, gardening, building furniture, chopping wood, or just goofing off, Mike's summers were spent reading. In memory of all the wonderful stories and things he didn't understand at the time, Mike hopes that through his writing he can share this gift with others.