Adrasteia: Chapter 18
[Note: this fiction contains occult themes, language, drug use, and crime]
Regina collapsed into a chair in front of the fireplace, the TV droning quietly in the background. Her nerves felt utterly raw. She’d taken the rest of the day off after the jostling helicopter ride, scouring the mountainsides with Pullman. It had been something of an unplanned surprise, although a welcome one; a step up from their manned efforts to cover the terrain on foot. It had yielded little to nothing, however.
Jillian Griswald remained missing. Amelda had not heard from her at all, or so she’d said. The media circus was mounting with the capture of Zeke Calloway and the recovery of Leesey Logan, but Regina felt she was no closer to finding Jill than she’d been a week ago, accept. . .
The book.
Brandy.
Her own machinations and theories, which now seemed weak and inconsequential, in the face of her failures to find a missing girl.
Follow the opioids. She had told herself. Only the opioids had led nowhere.
It all seemed so hollow now. Like yelling across a great canyon, and hearing no echo back. She took another belt of booze, and slipped her boots off. She just wanted it all to go away. A double shot of whiskey, and the sound of the rain hitting the windows, gently lulled her into an unconscious state.
She slept. A dreamless sleep. The rain cascaded gently against chilly window panes. A noise. A knocking. She could see faces, but not make them out. . .
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Someone was trying to beat down the front door.
Regina jolted awake, suddenly. Three hours had passed in the blink of an eye.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
“Regina, God damn it, open the door!”
It was Clay’s voice. She ran to the door and flung it open.
“Oh, God. What’s happened?”
“What took you so long?!” he scowled.
“I fell asleep.” She said wiping her eyes. “Is everything——?”
He embraced her then. “I thought something happened to you.”
“What? No. . . .no, nothing happened. I fell asleep on the couch.” It felt odd to have him so close, but yet familiar. He held onto her as if he’d discovered her at the edge of a great abyss and just prevented her from going over. She pushed away gently, and held his gaze. “How did you leave my father?”
“There’s been no change. He’s. . . alright. They’re doing all they can for him.” He said gently, in a voice just above a whisper.
“And the boys?” She pressed him, looking for a reason to panic.
“They’re fine. Ashley and her mother took them to the movies, in town.”
“Then, why—-”
“—-am I here? I wanted to see you. This morning you looked so upset. I wanted to make sure you were alright. I’ve been worried, Gina.” He looked directly at her, holding her eyes, “I have a bad feeling.”
She took his dripping coat and hung it on a wall peg in the foyer. He followed right behind her as if he couldn’t let her out of his sight, and when she turned back around, his face was so near, she could taste his breath.
“Coffee?” She whispered, softly.
His hands moved to either side of her face, and she trembled under the warmth of them. His fingers laced into her hair and a tumble of emotion came forward. Before she knew what was happening, his lips were on hers.
She had forgotten. Buried under years of resentment for him, that passion seethed just below the surface, only to reveal itself in an instant.
It was the old Clay. The one she knew from high school, the one she could never quite hide from. The one that couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Every unspoken feeling, every unspoken passion tumbled out. There was nothing to be done. No wall she could put up to keep him out. She didn’t want to keep him out. Clearly, the man had something on his mind.
She surrendered to him, willfully—partly because she wanted to. Partly, because she sensed his unease. Mostly, because she didn’t want him to worry. She marveled at the way he held her tenderly, as he once had.
Clay had always been something of an emotional man, for all his cool exterior. But he made overtures to her that night that transcended all that came before it. As their lovemaking unfolded, she sensed it was more than a flood of repressed passion—he really was troubled.
Afterwards, as they lay wound around each other, breathless and spent, he revealed himself.
“Gina—-”
“Hmmm?” She moaned.
“I want you to let this one go.” There was a quiet desperation in his tone.
She just stared at him, in disbelief.
“I want you to let it go. I have bad feeling about this. A real bad feeling, Gina.”
“To whom or what are you referring?” She whispered, circumspect.
“This case—-”
“You know I can’t do that, Clay.” She whispered in the dark, incredulously. “I can’t just —let it go.”
An uncomfortable pause followed.
“Well, then promise me one thing? That you’ll be safe? Take Rodriguez or Collins with you. I can’t lose you. The boys need their mother, too.”
She nodded in understanding. “It’s breaking, this case. He’s not going to be able to hide from me much longer.”
He rose from the bed then, pulling on his jeans. “I have to go.”
“I know.” She whispered, hoarsely.
“Gina,” he said quietly, sitting on the bed next to her, and holding her eyes intently. “I never stopped loving you. Ever.”
“I know.” She said lifting his hand from the side of her face and kissing it.
Wednesday morning, a ghostly fog rolled down from the Catskills in the wake of the rain, clinging to the hillsides and spilling into the town like breath from some sleeping giant. It carried with it the first warning of winter—a crisp, biting chill that slipped beneath collars and into the bones. The air had that particular stillness that came with a cold front, as though the world were holding itself in quiet anticipation.
By lunchtime, Regina walked the main street with her hands buried deep in her jacket pockets. A few scattered shoppers drifted from storefront to storefront, their movements slow and unhurried, as if nothing in the world were amiss. Most of the town, however, had gathered at Shoal’s Diner. Through the wide front window, the place looked like a postcard—everything dressed up in Halloween cheer.
A straw-stuffed scarecrow slouched at the center of the display, its crooked grin fixed beneath a floppy hat. Beside it, a witch in a rocking chair creaked gently back and forth, her painted eyes staring into nothing. A gaggle of ghosts flanked the scarecrow from the other side. Plump pumpkins were stacked on either side like sentries, their orange skins glowing in the soft light. Candles in cloudy mason jars dotted the windowsill, their little flames trembling against the orange, red and gold bubble glass.
It was the kind of scene that should have warmed the heart. A perfect, homespun little vignette—pure autumn, pure Halloween.
But Regina felt nothing of it.
These people have no idea what’s out there.
A pedestrian passed her on the sidewalk, offering a friendly nod and a cheerful, “Afternoon, Sheriff.” Regina forced a tight smile in return, then pulled the hood of her jacket up against the cold, the fog curling faintly around her as she walked on.
Her mind felt as clouded as the fog rolling through the streets. She didn’t quite know what to make of the evening with Clay—the warmth of it, the familiarity, the way their bodies had remembered one another as if no time had passed at all. Now he was officially cheating on his girlfriend with his ex-wife. Regina shrugged against a sudden gust of wind, the cold cutting through her jacket.
It happens, she told herself. Life is messy. People. . .emotional. It’s nothing.
But it wasn’t the act itself that lingered in her thoughts. It was what he had said afterward, his voice low, almost frightened.
I never stopped loving you, Gina. Ever.
The words echoed in her head, heavier than the sky above. Clay wasn’t the sort of man to say something like that lightly—certainly not in the quiet after a fit of passion. If he’d said it, he meant it. And if he meant it, then he must be more worried than he was letting on.
“Oh—I’m sorry!” Regina said suddenly, nearly colliding with Stacey and her mother on the sidewalk, as flourish of patrons exited the diner.
“Oh, Sheriff, good to see you. Hope things go well for you on election day. It’s only about ten days away, I think?” Mrs. Miller said, as cordial and polite as ever.
Regina nodded, offering a tentative smile, but her eyes drifted immediately to Stacey. The girl looked like a whipped dog—shoulders hunched, face pale, eyes fixed on the pavement.
“Is everything okay, Stacey?” Regina asked gently.
Stacey looked up, nodding obediently, holding her eyes for a second or two. Then, drifted down again, as if examining cracks in the sidewalk.
“Oh, the poor dear,” Cindy said with a soft laugh. “She’s just getting over a cold—hasn’t been in school all week.”
Regina felt a quiet, creeping sense that something was terribly wrong, but Stacey refused to meet her eyes.
“Well, I hope you feel better soon,” Regina said. “Wouldn’t want you missing out on the Halloween parties.”
Cindy laughed warmly. “We’re working on it!”
“Well… bye, Stacey,” Regina said, her voice soft, hopeful—waiting for the girl to look up.
But Stacey didn’t. She simply turned and followed her mother down the sidewalk—until they got a few feet away—then, she turned and looked back.
Regina held the child’s eyes for a moment. They were pleading. As if she desperately wanted to tell her something that no words could impart. In a moment, they were swallowed by the fog.
They’ll be time to unravel that later, she thought. Regina made her way up the street, past the diner, crossing to the other side, until Rhapsody Stones and Crystals came into view.
The chimes mounted to the door struck out a melody as she entered.
“Sheriff! What brings you here?” Astrid chirped, brightly.
Regina simply moved her hand to the leather satchel she was carrying by her side.
“Oh. Right.” Astrid quickly looked around. “Desi, would you take over for a while? I’m going to lunch.” The part-time shop-help nodded, graciously.
Astrid motioned for Regina to come around to the back office. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
“Neither was I. Just wanted your take on a few things.” Regina sighed.
“Sure, no problem—however I can help, sure.” Astrid said, obligingly.
“It’s just this case, which has to remain completely confidential—-” Regina began quietly.
“—-Of course, of course.” Astrid ushered Regina into the back office and closed the door.
Regina took a chair on the other side of the desk. “I know that you and Brandy weren’t exactly tight—-”
“That’s putting it mildly. I don’t think we said ten words to each other in the last ten years.” Astrid remarked, plopping into her desk chair, exhausted.
“Hmmm.” Regina sighed, disappointedly.
“Well, we didn't exactly run in the same circles.” Astrid began, almost hesitating. “Brandy had. . . darker inclinations.”
“So, lay it out there for me. Is there a coven around here I don’t know about?” Regina eyed her suspiciously.
“Could be.” Astrid said, shrugging her shoulders. “I mean, maybe. I’ve heard that a group of people around here were attending TSF in the city.”
“Was Brandy’s boyfriend one of them?” Regina pressed.
“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.” Astrid said plainly.
“Nobody seems to be able to recall his name.” Regina huffed, frustratedly. “Did you know any of her friends or acquaintances?”
“No, not really—as I said, we didn’t run in the same circles.” Astrid stated. “Brandy practiced in the black arts. A lot people feared her.”
“They did?” Regina queried.
“Yeah. Of course. Some people don’t believe in it, but Brandy was a true believer.” Astrid shifted in her chair, as she poured tea.
“How true is true?” Regina sighed.
“May I?” Astrid motioned to the leather satchel containing the book.
“Oh, yeah. Gloves?” She handed her a pair from her pocket, but Astrid turned them down.
“Got some right here. These have been blessed.” She said, gathering the same gloves she’d worn last time from her desk drawer.
Regina removed the book from the satchel, and allowed Astrid to peruse the text with gloved hands.
“Here! This is what I’m talking about.” She positioned the book so that Regina could see the books pages had been marked out to a particular passage. “Whoever was using this book was trying to summon Adrasteia—”
“—the one from whom there is no escape.” Regina chimed in.
“Correct.” Astrid confirmed. She slipped her readers off for a moment. “There are those that believe that spirits from other. . . realms, shall we say, are allowed to visit during certain times of the year.”
“Okay, let’s say I believe you.” Regina said pensively.
“Well, Samhain would be an opportune time to do that.”
“Samwhut?” Regina pivoted in her seat.
“Samhain—- was the old term for All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween. In pagan religions, it was thought that the veil between life and death. . . the veil between the earth realms and those of the ether realms grows very thin, during certain times of the year.”
“Thin enough for a spirit from another realm to come here and seek retribution?” Regina said, barely above a whisper.
“Theoretically, yes.” Astrid pointed back to the book. “Whoever has been using this book to make tributes to Adrasteia wanted her to return at this time of year.”
All Regina could do was stare as she continued.
“Look—whatever is about to go down, is going down on Samhain, I mean, Halloween. It’s three days to Samhain, Regina. You have three days, before. . .
“Before what?” Regina’s brow furrowed.
“All of hell breaks loose.”
She had walked all night.
Branches clawed at her arms, leaves tangled in her hair. Her legs were scraped raw, her shoes soaked from some black stream she’d stumbled through hours ago. The only constant was the moonlight overhead—thin, sickly, blinking through the bare trees like a dying eye.
By dawn, Jillian could hardly keep upright. She’d huddled at the base of a pine tree for part of the night, knees hugged to her chest, shivering, dreaming of her grandmother’s quilt and waking with grit in her teeth.
But then—there it was.
A house.
Tucked deep in the woods like a tick beneath skin, squatting low to the ground. It leaned hard to the left, the porch sagging as if the building itself had grown tired of standing. Jillian crouched behind a cluster of scrub brush, eyes scanning for signs of life.
No apparent road. No visible driveway. No path in or out.
Only an ancient Pontiac choked with rust, tires flat and webbed with weeds. It looked like it hadn’t moved in years.
Her breath fogged in the cold morning air.
She watched. Waited.
No sound but wind. No smoke from the chimney. No birdsong, even.
She began inching forward, slow and silent as prey. Closer, now. Twenty-five feet from the edge of the porch when—
Click.
A yellow light blinked on in the kitchen.
Jillian froze.
Then ducked behind the wide trunk of an oak tree.
Through a greasy windowpane, she saw movement: a man, tall and broad-shouldered, flipping on a coffeemaker like it was just any other Thursday. She could smell it faintly even from there—burnt grounds with earthy overtones.
She didn’t move.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe twenty.
Then: the front door creaked open. He stepped out. Dressed for work—if you could call it that. Work overalls, tool belt, a satchel slung over one shoulder. He didn’t lock the door. Just walked around the side of the house and disappeared into the trees.
She listened.
Waited.
Another five minutes.
Then the sound of an old car starting, and coughing as if the engine needed work. He revved it a few times to get it working. And drove off.
No sound.
The house went still again, like a trap holding its breath.
Jillian stepped out from behind the tree, inching toward the porch.
One thought echoed in her mind: Don’t go inside.
But another voice—sharper, colder—cut through: If you don’t, you’ll never find the evidence you need to put him away.