The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) by April Aasheim
Authors: April Aasheim
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slithered near our feet and I jumped back, clutching my wand as I suppressed a squeal. My sister seemed undisturbed as she went about hooking up her recording devices and cameras.
“My wand's going bonkers,” I whispered.
“You don't have to talk so low, Mags,” she informed me. “Spirits can hear thoughts. They can hear you, even when you whisper.”
I nodded, having been taught all this before, but the atmosphere called either for whispering or camp fire tales.
After several moments, Ruth Anne's ghost hunting equipment came alive. One particular device vibrated and buzzed, flickering colored light around the room like a poor man's Christmas display.
I chewed on my lip, watching her. The hairs on my arms stood on end and my stomach knotted with unfounded fear. I fought every instinct I had that wanted to run out into the sun, where the shadows couldn't find me. No matter how many spirits or even demons I'd come across, each new encounter left me feeling raw and vulnerable. It was the unknown that scared me, even when the unknown became somewhat familiar.
“If you're looking for proof of spirit phenomenon,” I said. “This is your place.”
Ruth Anne set her flashlight on the bare wood floor as she attended to her tangle of cords. Next, she removed more stuff from her never-ending sack––a box camera and its accompanying tripod. She grinned at me as she presented her treasures, then proceeded to set them up in the center of the grand room.
The wide open space was devoid of furniture, its walls covered in moss and bugs and graffiti. For a Good Time Call Nancy. John Abbot was here, 1953.
And most alarmingly:
Here Dwells The Ghost Of Jackson Burns,
Who Passed While Waiting For His Unfaithful Wife To Return.
Were He To Find Her Still Alive,
He Would Have Stripped Her Of Her Hide.
“Was she really unfaithful?” I asked.
“Dunno. Haven't heard that before. Whoever wrote that might have taken some artistic liberties.”
I nodded, wondering what really happened to Jackson and his wife. The more I thought about them, the colder I got, until my hands were so chilled I had to put them under my shirt for warmth. “Ruth Anne?”
“Yeah?”
I turned, looking for the altar where he kept the eternal flame. “If his wife was unfaithful, his spirit might be restless. Or he might have gone dark. We could be dealing with a malevolent entity.”
“So what? You're a witch. You've dealt with upset ghosts before.”
Was there some supernatural version of Rock, Paper, Scissors I didn't know about? Witches beats ghosts, ghosts beat people, people beat witches.
“I'm just after documentation,” she continued. “They can haunt this place forever, for all I care.”
“Don't you want to know what happened to them?”
She shrugged. “Maggie, I can barely understand my own life, let alone a spirit's.”
Ruth Anne returned to her gizmos as I explored the rest of the room. The walls were made of smooth stone blocks, almost surely imported. Jackson Burns must have been very rich.
To the left was the kitchen. The windows were boarded up and I could hardly see the cupboards, now covered in webs. The counters were littered with dust-covered cigarette packs, beer bottles, and condom wrappers. A dilapidated iron stove was the lone watchman of the room, the last remnant of his time.
On the opposite side of the living room was a small bathroom, a bedroom, and an alcove that had probably served as a sitting room.
But no altar.
Back in the main room, I discovered a staircase in the far corner, the bottom step illuminated by gray sunlight spilling in.
“Ruth Anne,” I called, but she was too busy fiddling with a headset and speaking into a microphone to hear me. “Check, test, check...”
The wand vibrated in my hand, echoing my nerves. Whatever haunted this house was upstairs.
I didn't want to go up the stairs... but I felt compelled to. I took one step, then another, my feet soldiering forward
“My wand's going bonkers,” I whispered.
“You don't have to talk so low, Mags,” she informed me. “Spirits can hear thoughts. They can hear you, even when you whisper.”
I nodded, having been taught all this before, but the atmosphere called either for whispering or camp fire tales.
After several moments, Ruth Anne's ghost hunting equipment came alive. One particular device vibrated and buzzed, flickering colored light around the room like a poor man's Christmas display.
I chewed on my lip, watching her. The hairs on my arms stood on end and my stomach knotted with unfounded fear. I fought every instinct I had that wanted to run out into the sun, where the shadows couldn't find me. No matter how many spirits or even demons I'd come across, each new encounter left me feeling raw and vulnerable. It was the unknown that scared me, even when the unknown became somewhat familiar.
“If you're looking for proof of spirit phenomenon,” I said. “This is your place.”
Ruth Anne set her flashlight on the bare wood floor as she attended to her tangle of cords. Next, she removed more stuff from her never-ending sack––a box camera and its accompanying tripod. She grinned at me as she presented her treasures, then proceeded to set them up in the center of the grand room.
The wide open space was devoid of furniture, its walls covered in moss and bugs and graffiti. For a Good Time Call Nancy. John Abbot was here, 1953.
And most alarmingly:
Here Dwells The Ghost Of Jackson Burns,
Who Passed While Waiting For His Unfaithful Wife To Return.
Were He To Find Her Still Alive,
He Would Have Stripped Her Of Her Hide.
“Was she really unfaithful?” I asked.
“Dunno. Haven't heard that before. Whoever wrote that might have taken some artistic liberties.”
I nodded, wondering what really happened to Jackson and his wife. The more I thought about them, the colder I got, until my hands were so chilled I had to put them under my shirt for warmth. “Ruth Anne?”
“Yeah?”
I turned, looking for the altar where he kept the eternal flame. “If his wife was unfaithful, his spirit might be restless. Or he might have gone dark. We could be dealing with a malevolent entity.”
“So what? You're a witch. You've dealt with upset ghosts before.”
Was there some supernatural version of Rock, Paper, Scissors I didn't know about? Witches beats ghosts, ghosts beat people, people beat witches.
“I'm just after documentation,” she continued. “They can haunt this place forever, for all I care.”
“Don't you want to know what happened to them?”
She shrugged. “Maggie, I can barely understand my own life, let alone a spirit's.”
Ruth Anne returned to her gizmos as I explored the rest of the room. The walls were made of smooth stone blocks, almost surely imported. Jackson Burns must have been very rich.
To the left was the kitchen. The windows were boarded up and I could hardly see the cupboards, now covered in webs. The counters were littered with dust-covered cigarette packs, beer bottles, and condom wrappers. A dilapidated iron stove was the lone watchman of the room, the last remnant of his time.
On the opposite side of the living room was a small bathroom, a bedroom, and an alcove that had probably served as a sitting room.
But no altar.
Back in the main room, I discovered a staircase in the far corner, the bottom step illuminated by gray sunlight spilling in.
“Ruth Anne,” I called, but she was too busy fiddling with a headset and speaking into a microphone to hear me. “Check, test, check...”
The wand vibrated in my hand, echoing my nerves. Whatever haunted this house was upstairs.
I didn't want to go up the stairs... but I felt compelled to. I took one step, then another, my feet soldiering forward
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