Witches Run

By Sherry Ficklin

On their way to the Big Apple, an unfortunate encounter forces Aria and her new friends to make a detour to Atlanta seeking the help of her one-time mentor--and full-time werewolf--Erek, in the hopes that he can train Ben to fight while maintaining control of his inner demon. The decision lands them on the wrong side of the dangerous Atl

• Language: English
• Publisher: TrueType Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781948583145

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DEMONS LIE

A Girl’s Guide to Witchcraft and Demon Hunting Book One

Sherry D. Ficklin

DEMONS LIE

A Girl’s Guide to Witchcraft and Demon Hunting Book 1

Copyright © 2018 by Sherry Ficklin

Sale of the paperback edition of this book without the cover is unauthorized.

TrueType Press

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact:

www.sherryficklin.com

[e-mail]

Cover design by Westerfield Creations

Book design by Westerfield Creations

Editing by Westerfield Creations and Karen Boston Editing and Proofreading

E-book Edition: ISBN-13: 978-1-948583-10-7

Paperback Edition: ISBN-13: 978-1-948583-11-4

Hardcover Edition: ISBN-13: 978-1-948583-12-1

First Edition: October 2018

For the witchy ones.

Don’t let them tame you.

Prologue

In the swamp behind my house, there was a doorway that went to nowhere. At the end of a long, moss covered dock, it perched, always wound in fresh green vines--even in winter when the chill had driven all other green to brown. It was always open, draped in gauzy black fabric that billowed in the wind but never blew away. Mama used to take me out every blue moon, and we would sit on the dock, candles lit around us, singing and chanting while Daddy watched us uneasily from the back porch.

I asked her once what it was, this strange doorway. Mama took my small chin in one hand, her warm brown eyes piercing mine, and whispered, It’s the end of the world, baby girl. And we have to make sure nothing ever comes through.

Chapter 1

The streets around me are still. It's been hours since the last of the meandering population took refuge for the evening. There’s something about towns like this that make people, on a deep, instinctual level, walk a little faster once the sun sets. They burn the lights just a little brighter to drive away the shadows and retreat into their safe, cozy homes to wait out the night.

Glass shop windows reflect the pale hue of moonlight, the streetlights too sparse to provide much relief to my tired, strained eyes. My calves ache, too long crouched behind the copper buffalo—a statue in honor of the town’s founder, according to the plaque below its massive head--too many hours walking the barren alleyways, too long since I’ve had anything resembling a real night’s sleep. Every muscle protests, every joint throbs.

I’m running on vapors, the last of the caffeine and adrenaline long since leached from my system by the hours of patrolling the roads.

No rest, or Starbucks, for the wicked, I suppose.

But it’s close. I can feel it like a humming in my veins. A primal warning system, a subconscious alarm. Danger ahead, turn back now. This is the feeling that makes most people turn and walk the other way.

Luckily, I’m not most people.

I’ve been in town less than a week, more than long enough to follow the trail of ichor and dead bodies. There’s a full moon tonight. Predators love the full moon; all the better to spot their prey.

Standing, I lean back, stretching as best I can. The humming is stronger now, and I let it guide me, a tether in the darkness, toward the shadowy parking lot between the buildings. There’s only one car, a beat up old Chevy sitting beneath a single, flickering street lamp.

Making my way toward it, I pull the keys from my jeans pocket, jingling them in my palm.

Jesus Christ, I mutter to myself. What’s a girl gotta do to get a little action around here?

Hey, are you OK? A voice calls across the parking lot, making me jump.

I was. You scared the shit out of me, I say, putting one hand over my racing heart. Watching the man walk toward me, I play with my keys nervously. He’s short and stocky, and as he heaves a bag of garbage into the dumpster behind one of the buildings, the hem of his dark T-shirt rides up just enough to expose a ridge of muscles trailing into his jeans.

It’s hard not to appreciate the sight.

You need some help? he asks, motioning toward the Chevy.

That’d be great, actually. I was supposed to be meeting a friend, but I think the battery’s dead.

Nodding, he approaches. His hair is long and sandy brown, his eyes a light, crisp blue. He’s cute of the hella variety. Probably in his mid-twenties, with a light Texas drawl that adds easily three points to the hotness scale, he makes his way over with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

I take a minute to glance around, but there’s no one else. Above us, the light flickers and buzzes.

You new in town? he asks, grabbing the hood of the car.

I shake my head. Just passing through.

Lucky me, he offers with a goofy grin. You wanna pop the hood for me?

Maybe, I tease. Leaning against the door of the car, I offer him my best flirty smile. What makes you think you’re lucky?

In a moment, his expression changes, the whites of his eyes flooding to black. His grin widens until it’s too wide for anything human, the corners of his mouth tearing and bleeding. Because I’m going to do terrible things to you, little girl.

I straighten, my hand reaching back, parting the dark hair at the base of my neck and wrapping around the hilt of my katana. Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.

The ring of metal against the sheath echoes through the air as the grin falls from his face. He’s already beginning to slip his skin, patches of it sloughing to the ground in oozy black puddles.

Witch, he spits, taking a step back.

I frown. Rude. You don’t even know me.

He lunges, but I dodge, bringing my blade up between us. I catch the front of him, and the last of the flesh falls away, revealing the mass of muscle, sinew and bone beneath.

What? Not even a little foreplay? I ask, taking two steps back and settling into position. You demons are all alike.

He hisses, his fingers extended into talon-like claws. I’m going to eat your soul.

It’s hard not to roll my eyes. Yeah. I’ve heard that before.

He attacks, fast and off balance. Young, I realize. A baby in demon years. Inexperienced in a fight. Pressing my advantage, I’m able to get a few decent slices in before he knocks me back against the hood of the car. Rolling to the side, I scramble onto the car, the hood denting with each step. He reaches for me, and I parry, slicing off one hand.

The creature wails, a high-pitched cry somewhere between dog and human. While it’s distracted, I make my move. Rushing forward, I jump off the hood of the car and tackle the demon. We both tumble to the ground, but I manage to stay on top.

With one smooth motion, I press my sword to its neck. It claws at me, talons of its one good hand slicing into my back. I scream but manage to hold position.

You think you can stop us? It laughs. We are legion.

Yeah? Well, I’m a Taurus, and I. Don’t. Care.

With that, I press forward with all my weight, severing the head from the shoulders. I manage to pitch to the side and off the body before it bursts into flames, reducing itself to a pool of muck in only minutes before the flame dies away.

Only then do I give in to the pain ripping up my back. Gasping, I allow myself a moment to lie there, a string of words that would have gotten my mouth washed out by my Nana spitting from my mouth. Only once I’ve cussed myself mostly better do I force myself to my feet, slinking back to the spot I’ve been squatting in.

***

Flicking on the light of the bathroom, I strip off my tank top and examine the wound. It’s deep and angry, the edges burnt from the ichor between its claws—that’s probably the only thing keeping me from bleeding out, the seared flesh. Grabbing the black salt from the counter, I toss the whole jar of it in the tub and fill it with cold water. I’d been able to splice into the box outside for electricity, but the hot water heater had been disconnected and removed long ago. Falling to my knees beside the iron tub, I hold my hands above the surface.

Grant me now thy holy fire, as is my need—as is my desire. By the power of salt and the grace of the sea, grant thy fire unto me.

The heat builds in my palms moments before the top of the water ignites, blue and green flames flickering several minutes before snuffing itself out. The last of my energy sapped, I crawl into the tub, still in my jeans and bra, letting the now warm water cradle me. Even the sharp stinging of the black salt into my wounds isn’t enough to keep me from lulling to the side, surrendering to the blissful arms of sleep.

***

The next morning, I jolt awake. I’m shivering, goosebumps covering every inch of me as I pull myself from the water and onto the cracked tile floor, gasping for breath against the frigid cold.

Luckily, the window is open and the already sweltering temperatures are warming the whole room. Prying myself free of my clothes, I stand, wrapping myself in a towel, and pull my hair over one shoulder to look at my back in the mirror.

The cuts are mostly healed; only red, angry scratches remain. Grabbing the now empty jar of black salt, I swear under my breath.

It’s not easy to come by and takes a painfully long time to consecrate enough to be useful for that kind of healing. Not exactly something you can order on Amazon.

Shit, I say, setting it aside. Guess we do it the old-fashioned way.

Dressing as quickly as I can considering the ache in my back, I dry my hair and head down to the pharmacy at the end of the street.

Last night’s empty streets are once again bustling with life, people on their way to work and school; totally oblivious to the evil creature I’d dispatched less than twelve hours ago. I can’t help wondering how long it’s been here, preying on these people. How long it had gone unnoticed.

The door chimes as I enter, picking up a basket with a groan I can’t contain. Wading through the aisles, I pick up a pack of bandages, some burn ointment, and an energy drink for good measure. I’m about to head for the checkout when I catch a snippet of conversation between the pharmacist and an older man.

They say it was a coyote attack. Seems odd it’d venture so far into town, don’t you think?

Pausing, I stand in front of a random shelf, biting my lip as I strain to hear.

Third one in as many months. You’d think animal control would have found the damn thing by now and put it down.

That poor family. She was barely fourteen, you know. Just a tragedy.

Do you know when it happened?

Early this morning, I guess. Betsy said she left before sun up to do her paper route. They found her about six-thirty.

Oh, fuck me, I mutter.

I’m sorry, miss. Did you need help with something? the pharmacist asks pointedly.

I glance at him, blinking. Oh, no. Sorry, I was just, I turn back to the shelf and find I’ve been staring at a rack of condoms for the last five minutes. Need a few of these, I finish, grabbing a handful of boxes. You know, safety first.

The men exchange a startled glance, and I head for the register, first aid gear and prophylactics in tow.

Once I’m back at the apartment, I open my laptop, pulling up the day's news. Sure enough, there’s a live feed from outside the sheriff’s office, where a deputy is talking to the reporter.

The attack happened in the early hours of the morning, in the Bleaker Street neighborhood. At this time, we suspect it was a wild animal attack, but there is no reason to be alarmed. Deputies swept the area, and no animal was found. We will continue working with the wildlife department to find the animal responsible and put it down…

I close the feed.

Shit on a stick. That means while I was busy putting one down, another demon was still on the loose.

What had the demon said?

We are legion.

Well, great. Leave it to me to stumble on a one-horse, two-demon town.

Why can’t it ever be easy? I ask no one in particular.

***

The coroner’s office is tucked away in the back of the police station, which makes going in unnoticed nearly impossible. Lucky for me, I’ve perfected my resting bitch face. If you look like you know where you’re going and aren’t thrilled about it, people tend not to question you too often.

I wear this expression now, part in defense and part because I’m still ticked at myself for missing the signs.

Of course there was more than one. With a population just shy of ten thousand people, the rates of missing persons and animal attacks in this shitty little town were mind -boggling. Of course, that’s the thing about shitty little towns; missing persons tend to get chalked up to people just taking off and mutilated bodies... well, anything with claws is some kind of animal of course.

Then again, if they knew what they were looking for…

I push open the door to the coroner’s office and find myself face to face with a baby-faced guy in black spectacles who couldn’t be more than twenty. He’s got a tub of ice cream in one hand and a red spoon sticking out the corner of his mouth.

Nearly colliding with me, he takes a step back, removing the spoon and adjusting his glasses.

Hey there. Are… uh, are you lost or something? he asks, looking me over.

I straighten. There are few things that throw a guy off his game, but nothing that works quite as effectively as a smile and a nice rack.

Are you Ethan? I ask, quickly reading the name from his lab coat.

He smiles. Yes, ma’am. What can I do you for? Do for you?

I toss my dark hair over one shoulder. Well, I’m kinda new in town. I just got a job at the paper, and a little birdy told me that if anyone might know more about the recent attack…you’d be my guy.

His expression perks up, then falls. Yeah, but… I’m real sorry, I can’t make a statement.

I reach out, putting one hand on his arm. Oh no. I’d never ask you to do something that might get you in trouble. But I heard about a few similar attacks south of here, and the victims had some weird… well, they think there might be something wrong with the animal responsible. Like it might be sick on account of some infection around the wounds.

His mouth opens, then closes again.

I hold up my hand. You don’t have to say anything, and this isn’t for a story. But I mean, if it is the same, I’d like to let them know to start looking up this way.

Indecision flickers across his face.

The bottom line, Ethan, is I want to make sure whatever did this never hurts another person ever again, and I think you want the same thing. So, what do you say? I just need, five minutes to look at the remains. You can stand over me the whole time.

The resolution forms quickly, and he nods once. Alright. Five minutes. But whatever you find, I have to report to my boss here too.

Deal, I say, motioning for him to lead the way.

He stuffs the rest of his snack in a black mini fridge beside his desk and leads me through a set of double doors to the back.

I’ve been in a morgue or two, and it never fails to give me the creeps. Despite the clean conditions, the set of chains dangling from above one of the tables makes me shiver. I know, practically, it’s how they move the heavier bodies around, but it’s still too gross to contemplate.

The row of freezers is only three wide and four deep, but each one has a tell-tale tag affixed to the front marking it occupied. Moving to the bottom left, he opens it, sliding out the metal gurney.

Five minutes, he says again, and I nod.

Unzipping the bag, he reveals the pale, waxy face of the young girl.

What’s her name? I ask, leaning forward.

Roxie. Roxie Johnson. She’s fourteen.

Was fourteen, I mutter, and he nods, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.

The slashes are deep and overlapping, claws no doubt, but far too large for a coyote. Hell, these are big enough to make a polar bear suspect seem plausible, and as I feared, the edges of the skin are burnt, black veins just visible beneath the surface of her skin.

I point to it. This is it, the infection.

Ethan leans forward, adjusting his glasses. My god, you’re right. How did they miss this?

People see what they want to see, I mutter, reaching forward with one hand and turning her face to the side, exposing the neck and worst of the wounds. Even cleaned and dry, they are gaping and painful looking.

They say she bled out, he says, shaking his head.

Not touching the wound, I