Witch Island Page 15

  Damn it. He stopped rowing and searched almost blindly in the darkness for the phone. His flashlight was back on the island. He found the thin back cover, the phone having come apart—like it always did when it fell. Continuing to search, he finally found it. The battery was still inside. He clamped on the cover, then restarted the phone, the thing seeming to take forever.

  The phone chimed that it was on, then loaded up, and Billy dialed his father again.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve already been arrested,” his father answered, angrily.

  “Damien’s dead, Dad,” Billy cried. “The island got him. You were right.” He picked up the oars again and rowed, wanting to get as far away from the island as possible. He couldn’t believe Damien was dead, ripped apart by…by what? A fucking witch? “Dad, you need to get out here. I wasn’t alone on the—”

  Something was squeezing Billy’s throat closed. He couldn’t talk, let alone breathe. His head was building with pressure, the blood unable to flow. He let go of the oars and felt the roughness of bark around his neck—a vine had him!

  No, he wasn’t going out like Damien. He was going to live—

  Billy was yanked backward. His back collided with the bow, the steel digging into this flesh. The pain was hot, but he couldn’t scream. He felt and heard something snap in his neck as he was yanked into the lake and dragged through the water toward the island. He couldn’t feel anything but his face, as if his head had been ripped from his body. Breath still wouldn’t come, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t raise his arms to try and pry himself free.

  As the water washed over him, he thought about the joint he’d had tucked behind his ear and thought, what a waste.

  A moment later, his eyes remained open, but Billy Montgomery was dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Billy? Billy?” Frank yelled into his cell phone. He glanced at the screen and saw that the call timer had stop counting. He dialed his son back, but the call went directly to voicemail. He tried again, getting the same result.

  Shit, what the hell was going on?

  Frank stared through the windshield of his SUV. The world began to spin. He clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He needed a moment to sift through what he’d just heard. His son had said Damien was dead, and that the island had gotten him. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, realizing he had stopped breathing. The breaths had to be forced, as if his diaphragm refused to work on its own.

  Anxiety gripped him, sending an emotional storm surging from his gut to his head. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the ring rub across his scalp. He held his hand in front of him and stared at the heirloom. His mouth was parched. His eyes went to the bottle of water resting in the cup holder, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to do anything. Billy’s words kept repeating in his mind.

  Why hadn’t he insisted his son wear the ring? Demanded it? He should have paid the kid to wear it. But he knew the answer—Billy was a bad kid, and would’ve sold or lost it.

  Frank reached out, gripped the water bottle and unscrewed the cap. With a shaky hand, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. His throat muscles were tight, swallowing took effort and he coughed as the liquid went down. But it felt good, so he took another sip, then another, until he was gulping the water and the bottle was upended, save for a few remaining drops that clung to the container’s walls.

  Frank turned off his police radio. He swallowed hard, knowing what he had to do, wondering why he wasn’t rushing to his son.

  Because Billy’s a liar, and he’s probably lying about the island. He’d be the last one to believe in such a story. He’s putting you on, screwing with you.

  No, that wasn’t right. He’d heard real fear in his son’s voice, terror.

  Run! If your son’s on the island and the witch is after him, he’s probably already dead.

  He touched the ring with his finger, feeling the engraving. Something scratched at the back of his mind.

  You’re the sheriff, damn it. You swore to protect the people of this town, but more than that, Billy is your son. Be a father and protect him.

  Frank turned the key in the ignition. He was jumbled in his seat as the V8 came to life. Anxious, but angry, he put the truck into drive and hit the gas, tearing out of the hidden spot alongside the road, a place he liked to sit and wait for calls.

  Fighting against his thoughts, using his heart to guide him, Frank drove to Lake Road, and headed to where the Sheriff Department’s boat was kept.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The witch absorbed the fresh kills, her power growing. Her essence was able to spread out farther. Every tree, leaf, vine and plant was a part of her to some degree. She felt every creature’s touch—the claws of a squirrel, the grasp of a bird’s talons, the soft breaths of a rabbit asleep in its burrow and the tickling sensation of thousands of insects as they scurried and crawled over and within her.

  She was truly one with nature, but there was pain too. However minor, it radiated outward, like the ripples from a stone tossed into a lake. At its center, the pain stung like a fresh wound, never healing, but farther away from the source, the pain lessened to little more than an annoyance. It was the dead boy’s, Steve’s, ring, the spelled relic lying in the grassy clearing where she had killed him. She wanted it gone, and not simply tossed away, but destroyed. However, she could do little about it, unable to touch it. When she left the island, she would no longer care, the insignificant pain a long-ago memory. The bigger problem was that the item would keep her from attaining full strength, unless she withdrew herself from the island or left it. Which meant she needed more bodies, and thankfully, there were plenty more available.

  She scanned the camp, looking for a suitable host to possess. Using Julie’s memories, she focused in on one, then concentrated herself into a single tree that sat on the edge of the clearing. A mosquito rested on one of the tree’s leaves, its belly full of blood. The witch traveled along the branch and into the insect.

  Having no cognitive thought process, the mosquito was easy to possess, like an empty vessel, but difficult to command. Its brain was designed for simple tasks, with only a few main goals. Thinking within the insect was difficult, but the witch managed. Having just fed, its need to feed was nonexistent. The witch remedied this, greatly speeding up the digestive process while protecting its body.

  The mosquito became ravenous, the witch aiding in its thirst by heightening its senses. The bug took flight, and the witch guided it toward the human named Melinda.

  The mosquito landed on the girl’s shoulder, the witch making sure it did not come into direct contact with her skin, as to not alert her to its presence. It traveled to her shirt collar. Arching its tiny neck, it sank the needle into Melinda’s flesh, injecting its saliva to thin the blood for extraction, along with the witch’s spirit.

  Melinda felt a sting on her neck and motioned to swat the area, but found she was unable to move her arm. Freaked out, she tried to get up, but couldn’t. Darren nudged her on the arm, a sensation of pins and needles settling over the area. She felt nothing except for the intense amount of heat building within her.

  She saw that everyone was laughing and talking, continuing to have a good time. No one seemed to notice her situation, and she wondered if she’d eaten something bad or was having some kind of odd anxiety attack.

  From the minute she arrived at the lake, she wondered how it would be between herself and Paul. He barely looked her way, let alone spoke to her in school or whenever they were hanging out together. After getting to the camp, building a fire and opening some beers, Paul was acting the same as he always had, hanging all over Shay, kissing and hugging her, talking and joking with Darren, doing things as if their time together had never happened. She wished she hated him, but for whatever reason, she didn’t. However, she was beginning to think he was a true asshole with no feelings, for how could he be acting so normal?

  The sting in her neck became a burnin
g pain, as if a curling iron had been pressed against it. She tried to cry out, but no sound came from her mouth. Intense heat spread from her neck to her head, then across her chest, then down her arms, torso and legs, until she felt as if flames engulfed her.

  She couldn’t understand what was happening to her, and only hoped the others would see that something was wrong. She hung on, keeping her mind as steady as possible, not wanting to lose it. But as the moments passed, no one noticed her or saw that she was in trouble. They all continued talking and drinking. Darren said something to her, but she didn’t understand what it was, then her legs moved.

  Melinda rose to her feet, but not under her own control. She walked around the fire to where Paul was sitting. He ignored her, talking with Jim. Melinda continued to stare at him. She had no idea what was going on, except that she must’ve fallen asleep and was dreaming. There was no way any of this was possible—any of it!—including walking up to Paul.

  He finally stopped talking and looked up at her. “Uh, may I help you?”

  “Paul,” she heard herself say. “Can I talk with you?”

  Wake up. Wake up, she pleaded with herself. Come on. Wake up. Even if this was a dream, it wasn’t cool. She might inadvertently say something in her sleep, and if she said the wrong thing and Darren heard her… Come on, wake up.

  “What?” Paul said, looking as if he was facing down the barrel of a loaded gun.

  Nothing. She wanted to say, nothing. My mistake. I don’t really want to talk to you. I’ll go back to my chair now.

  “I need to talk with you, alone,” Melinda said.

  No, no, no. This was so wrong. And this didn’t feel like a dream. There was no more remaining calm. Her panic level was at an all-time high, and she was going to lose it. But she felt fine, physically. Her heart wasn’t pounding. It was all in her head.

  “Um, okay. Sure.” Paul looked very pale. He laughed, but it was clearly an uncomfortable one.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. Maybe her subconscious had taken over and was working itself out, the guilt over what she had done, haunting her to the point of insanity, or a psychotic break.

  “Uh oh,” Darren said, laughing, “looks like someone’s in trouble.”

  “Mel,” Gwen said.

  Melinda turned her head and saw Gwen come into view. “What?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “None of your business. I just need to talk to Paul about something. It’s no biggie.”

  “I thought you were joking,” Darren said. “Really? Paul?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry, sweetie, it’s not like I’m going to fuck him.”

  Silence filled the air.

  Inside, Melinda froze, feeling as if her world was about to come to an abrupt end.

  “Man, you guys have no sense of humor,” Melinda heard herself say.

  Paul looked like he was going to faint. Everyone else broke into laughter, even Shay.

  “Don’t worry, Paul,” Melinda said. “It won’t be like our conversation at the Cohens’ party. But you were so helpful, I thought I’d come to you again. It’s about Julie.”

  Paul stood, finished his beer, then put the can down. He wiped his hands on his pants legs. “After you,” he said.

  Melinda watched as the view changed, from her friends sitting around the fire, to the dark forest. She and Paul walked away, up the trail that led back to the canoes. She attempted to stop herself from walking, to cry out, but nothing worked. All she could do was go along for the ride.

  She didn’t want to be alone with Paul, which should have been the least of her worries, but for some reason, it wasn’t. Something really bad was happening, and if she didn’t wake up soon, she feared she might lose her mind, and Darren. As strong as she was, she could only take so much.

  A short way down the path, Paul grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m horny,” she said, grinning, then laid her hands on his chest. “Thought we’d have a quickie. You know, right under everyone’s noses.”

  Paul stepped away from her and rubbed a hand through his hair. He looked stressed for the first time tonight. “Are you nuts?”

  She moved in and went to put her arms around his neck, but he shoved her off. “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. He turned to face her. “Come on, Paul. Fuck me right here.”

  He stared at her, wide-eyed, mouth open.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’ve had this”—she pointed to herself—“and I know you liked it.”

  “Look,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What, you’ve had me and don’t want me anymore? Was I just another notch on the bedpost?” She cupped her breasts through her shirt and licked her lips. She stepped up to him, took his right hand and placed it on her left breast. “I know you still want me.”

  She grabbed him around the neck and pulled him to her. Paul didn’t resist. Their lips met. Mouths opened and tongues explored. He squeezed her breast, then slid his hand down and up her shirt, under her bra.

  Paul couldn’t believe what he was doing. It was wrong on so many levels, but combined with the alcohol and his desire for her, he couldn’t stop himself. No one would find out, and Melinda was into it. The whole situation was exciting. He was instantly hard.

  “I’m wet,” Melinda said, whispering into his ear. “I want you inside me.” She reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, then slid them down to his ankles as she crouched, her head even with his crotch. “Someone’s anxious to see me.”

  Fuck, Paul’s mind screamed at him. This isn’t right. You’re asking for trouble. Too much trouble. “Wait,” he said, ready to tell her they needed to go back to camp, then changed his mind as she yanked down his boxers. “We can’t do this. Not here.” He grabbed her head and guided her up. “We need to go farther away.”

  “Fuck that,” Melinda said, her eyes full of excitement. “This is where I want to fuck. Right here. Right now.”

  Paul took a rapid, deep breath. “Screw it,” he said, and started kissing her. She put a finger over his lips and went down. She crouched, her mouth even with his erect penis.

  “You’re so big, you know that?” she said.

  Melinda wanted to close her eyes as she started to blow Paul, but could do nothing but listen to his moans. Her right hand reached down and grabbed a handful of grass, pulling it from the ground. What the hell am I doing now?

  She continued to blow him, feeling like she was going to vomit. This was completely deranged and sick, twisted. She needed help, even if this was a dream. Using the grass, she rubbed the roots, still clinging with dirt, against her blouse, dirtying it. She dropped the grass and ripped open her shirt, sending buttons flying, then pulled down the left cup of her bra and exposed her breast.

  Paul must’ve noticed her strange behavior and asked what the hell she was doing.

  Melinda stood.

  Paul’s face became a mask of confusion as he looked at her chest. “What the hell?”

  Melinda reached out and grabbed Paul, then pulled him to the ground and on top of her. “Help!” she yelled. “Help! Paul’s trying to rape me. Get off me. Help!”

  Melinda felt Paul try to pull away, but for some reason he wasn’t able to. She was too strong.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Paul asked, struggling to get free. “Are you crazy? Be quiet.”

  Melinda continued to scream for help. She tried to stop herself, but like everything else, it was pointless. Her evil side had come out. She was going to make Paul pay, and not just with his friends, but with the law, ruin the guy’s life. She couldn’t do this. Yeah, she was pissed, upset and sad, but she couldn’t allow herself to permanently destroy Paul’s life.

  She’d heard of people flipping out, going crazy, saying they didn’t remember what they had done, but nothing like this. This had to be something else, something evil. Then she reme
mbered where she was—Witch Island. No, it couldn’t be. There was no such thing as a witch, at least not the supernatural, evil kind.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Did you hear that?” Gwen asked.

  Darren was on his feet in seconds. “That was Melinda’s voice.”

  “Where’d it come from?” Gwen asked.

  “That way,” Jim said, pointing down the path that led to the canoes, the same direction Paul and Melinda had gone.

  Darren took off, grabbing the machete on his way. Jim was right behind him, flashlight in hand. Melinda’s pleading voice grew louder. Her cries sounded desperate. Darren’s heart pounded with fright. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. It couldn’t be real. She was yelling rape, and Paul’s name. It must be a mistake. Someone else had to be on the island. He’d make them pay, but first and foremost, he hoped his girl was okay. He came upon a terrible scene. Every hair on his body stood.

  Paul was on top of Melinda, his pants down, ass exposed.

  Darren reached down, grabbed Paul by the collar, yanked him up and tossed him into the weeds. He knelt next to Melinda. Her blouse was ripped open and covered in dirt. Anger and confusion coursed through him, unable to believe what he had seen—was still seeing—but at the same time, knowing it had all happened. Paul had tried to rape his girlfriend.

  Shay and Gwen appeared. Gwen shined her flashlight’s beam on Melinda’s tear-streaked face.

  “Are you all right?” Darren asked Melinda, putting his hand on her stomach.

  “Paul?” Jim said. “What the hell, man?”

  “It wasn’t…I didn’t…”

  “Paul?” Shay asked, eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Baby,” Darren said. “Talk to me.”

  Melinda sat up and wrapped her arms around Darren. She didn’t say anything.