Frank

By Tim Owen

Not everybody gets to have super powers. But then again, not everybody discovers a voodoo doll stashed away at the top of their closet. And even the few who do discover a voodoo doll stashed away at the top of their cupboard probably never stop to wonder what would happen if they put their own name into it. I mean, that's just insane, isn't it? Like running with scissors, or poking a sleeping bear.

Steven is not an irresponsible boy, and is in fact vehemently opposed to poking bears, sleeping or otherwise. In his defence, how was he to know it was a voodoo doll, he thought it was just a very awesome action figure. With a pink pin in its chest. And the name Kyle Moorehouse wedged into his back.

Curiously though, Kyle Moorehouse was the previous owner of this house, and, even more curiously, was also the person found dead on the kitchen floor.

Coincidence? Or murder?

Steven may just have poked the bear without even knowing it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Owen
• Release date: Aug 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9798224315383

Tim Owen

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Prologue

The Caribbean island of Hispaniola, 1755

Serafine opens the box.

For a moment she thinks that a trick of the light makes it appear empty. In the instant that her fingers scrape the bare wooden base, comprehension blooms, and her stomach turns to ice. The chill on her skin seeps through to her soul as she straightens up slowly, head back defiantly. Without turning around she says, Hello Darius.

A disembodied voice from the forest close behind her responds.

Hello mother. How did you know?

A mother knows her son. And a witch knows evil. It was you who left my bundle unwrapped at the pool, when you stole the mallet.

A tall, slim man chuckles as he steps into the moonlit clearing, his thick dark hair slicked back from his forehead. You got me, Mother. I never could get anything past you.

Dangling from his right hand is the stolen mallet. In Darius’s hands it is nothing more than a hammer, or a weapon, but to Serafine it is the saviour of mankind; it is a critical instrument in the final phase of the ritual, the phase that would banish the power of death from the voodoo doll’s repertoire of skills.

Oh, were you looking for this? he says teasingly. He takes a step towards her, swinging the mallet back and forth, knowing that even though her back is to him she still sees him; it is a gift she has employed since he was a young boy stealing coins from her drawstring purse when he thought he was out of her sight.

Serafine knows what he is capable of but she is not afraid for herself; she has no fear of death. She is afraid for the entire human race as she understands what her son’s intentions are. With the final, omission ritual incomplete, it is still possible to imbue the doll with the powers of death, and because all things in the universe are connected, good and bad, the positive aspects of the doll would make space for their negative counterpart, giving the doll the potential to become a lethal weapon in evil hands.

Ah, you’ve figured it out! he says with mocking approval. You know all things are connected, good and evil, life and death. You, of all people, should know you can’t discard the dark elements and just keep the shiny happy ones that you like.

Just like you always tried to do with me, he adds with palpable venom.

He takes another step, still staring at the grey bun at the back of her head.

You can’t have valleys without hills and you can’t have life without death. Yin and Yang, remember, Mother?

Yes, I remember Yin and Yang, and perhaps I was naïve to dream of a better world. But I also remember Karma, Darius. I heed you to do the same.

He laughs. Ah, yes Karma. The good old ‘what goes around comes around.’ Except I make my own Karma, I decide what I want, and then I take it.

The writhing knot of dread around Serafine’s stomach loosens slightly at his mocking tone. In the spirit of Karma, good deeds bring rewards, while bad deeds harvest dark repercussions. Her son is arrogant and she is certain it will be his downfall. She prays it will happen before he gets to use the doll.

She hears the sounds of his footfalls as he moves closer to her but still she doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t need to see him to know what his intentions are. Her lack of emotion angers him and he walks around to face her, brandishing the mallet in front of her face.

So now what, she says calmly. You bludgeon me to death?

He snorts, an unattractive sound, and Serafine wonders where she went wrong in raising him. Perhaps it was because he had never known his father, and for this she blames herself.

Bludgeon you to death like a common bandit? Oh, no Dear Mother, that’s far too messy. You may have been a terrible parent but you did teach me a modicum of style.

He tosses the mallet carelessly to the ground but his body remains as taut as a panther's, and she knows that trying to escape would be futile. She eyes the mallet nearby and she knows he has left it there for that very reason. He is looking for an excuse to attack her, appearing nervous to hurt her without provocation.

He licks his lips and she thinks of a lizard eyeing a fly. Her best defence is to remain calm. Perhaps he isn’t quite as cold-blooded as she imagines.

For a minute they stand, their elongated shadows side by side in the glow from the setting full moon, Darius staring at her, Serafine staring into the distance behind him as if he is of no concern.

As it always has, her composed demeanour unsettles him, and his anger flares. She may be the most powerful voodooist in the region, possibly the world, but she knows she is at his mercy now, and he wants to make sure she understands this. He displays a show of false bravado by slapping her across the face hard, so hard that she stumbles to her knees beside the cloth spread out on the ground.

Sit on it, he commands, pointing at the cloth that had been her bundle. Legs crossed.

She obeys.

Now pull the corners over your head and hold them there.

She gathers the corners in her hands and lifts them up over her head.

Seeming braver now that he can no longer see her face, he quickly steps forward and grabs the corners of the cloth, tying them in a knot, so tight that she is forced to crouch as the material constricts around her.

He picks up a small parcel of pins from nearby, and shakes it next to her ear tauntingly, pleased to see her body tense under the material. He walks to the centre of the clearing where a large box is lying, trampling over the coloured candles in his path with sacrilegious contempt.

He picks up the box and recites the mantra printed in his mother’s flowing hand before issuing a single command.

Open.

Grabbing the blackened figure within around its waist he calls out to his mother, Now let’s give this thing some real power!

The voodoo doll is still bristling with the coloured pins from the ritual and he begins to yank them out in groups of two and three, throwing them on the ground at his feet. Once done, he grinds them with his heel, twisting them into the earth. The pins are hard, and the earth is soft so they do not break, but he doesn’t care; this is just a childish display of contempt and not an important part of the ritual.

He unties the little parcel and spreads it open so that the seven pink pins are lying exposed in the palm of his hand. He places his other hand beneath it and then raises the pins level with his eyes. Focussing his energy on them he calls out loudly, Spirits of the underworld, I command you to flow through this portal I have created and imbue this doll with the ability to take life, and to control the life of others.

He lowers his hands and picks up a pin, gripping it firmly by the large head. He can feel the power in it and in a feverish state plunges it deep into the doll’s chest, reciting, I command you to accept this power.

The doll vibrates gently in his hand. For a second it glows white at the conflict within it but quickly returns to its original charcoal colour, perhaps even a shade darker.

The doll reacts similarly with each successive pin, but the effects are weaker and shorter lived each time. The last pin hardly causes a reaction at all, and Darius grins triumphantly.

He stands in silence for a moment, staring at the doll in his hand to make sure there are no further side effects. His grin broadens with pride that he has been able to corrupt this doll despite his mother’s best efforts. And now it is time to demonstrate his skill to her.

The ritual is concluded and the doll is his to command. He removes each of the seven pins and pockets them, before striding purposefully to where Serafine is slouched in her cloth prison.

Now, Mother, let me show you style!

Darius folds the white handkerchief into quarters and jams it into the crack in the doll’s back. His mother has owned this handkerchief since before he was old enough to have memories of it, and it is the most powerful symbol of her in existence. There is probably more of her essence in that small piece of material than there is in him, her own son.

He takes a pin out of his pocket and holds it carefully between thumb and forefinger. He presses it to the doll’s chest, nervously licking his lips as he glances at his mother, who until this moment seems to have controlled every aspect of his life.

He recalls that day when he had been eleven and she had caught him with the bloodied head of a chicken in his hand, trying to curse a boy who had kissed the girl he liked. The expression on her face was one he would never forget, and until this moment would not be able to name. It reflected some disappointment, perhaps a touch of anger. There was an element of loss, a sorrow at an indisputable truth. But in this moment, with the point of the pin pressed against the symbol of his mother’s heart, he realises what the name of the emotion is: Love. She felt all these other things because she loved him.

His hatred swells.

Suddenly angry at her for having expectations that were too great for him to meet, and at himself for never being good enough to gain her respect, he rams the pin in hard, as far as it can go. At his feet, the cloth tenses when Serafine’s body reacts to the jolt of pain as her heart begins to swell inside her chest.

Slowly, he withdraws the pin and the shape of his mother’s body relaxes. With his jaw clenched, he rams it in again, revelling in the silent pain he is witnessing on the ground at his feet. With the initial shock past, the cloth tenses and relaxes in a series of convulsions. Darius takes a second pin from his pocket and places it next to the first. The sound of his mother’s body flailing against the cloth is like a strong wind slapping against a loose canvas. With spittle forming in the corner of his mouth, he adds the other pins to the dolls chest, one after the other, oblivious to the screaming that starts with the third, and stops before the last one.

With the killing frenzy past, Darius feels deflated, hollow. He slumps down next to the covered corpse of his mother and rests his head on her shoulder, and cries. After a time, when all the suppressed emotions of his twenty eight years have been spilled, he stands up, feeling numb.

He unties the knot in the cloth for one last glimpse of her and when he sees her gentle face, now slack in death, the only emotion left in him is hatred. He blames her for his shortcomings, and now that she is dead there is nothing to hold him back.

He pushes her over with his foot.

He feels liberated.

With the doll secured inside its box he puts it into his satchel before striding into the forest without a backward glance. He does not follow his mother’s circuitous route as with his ego bolstered he is too self-assured to be afraid of other people. He has great plans in store for this doll, which his mother has so aptly named Francis; apt because the first thing he intends to do with it is kill the king of France.

It is almost day break when he stumbles over a shape in the pre-dawn darkness and utters a curse as he stops to see what it is. Before he even turns around, the shape evolves into that of a bandit, standing with its sword drawn, pressed against the soft skin of his neck. He raises his hands to show that he is unarmed.

Whoa, friend, Darius says. I mean you no harm, I am but a traveller making my way home.

And what might be in thine satchel, the tall shape in front of him enquires, pressing the sword slightly deeper into his skin.

By now, three other men have appeared and he is surrounded, a sword pressing against him on every side.

The satchel contains some rations, and a worthless trinket or two.

Whipping his sword in a downward motion the man in front of him indicates for Darius to drop the satchel. Still unconcerned for his safety, he slides it to the ground in front of him, one hand still held up placatingly. Not for a second can he conceive that the powerful proceedings of the past few hours might be thwarted by something as mundane as the common bandit.

Kick it here.

He complies, waiting patiently for the bandit to look inside before bidding him on his way.

You’re right, the bandit says taking out the box. Nothing but a trinket. Seems like so little to lose your life over, doesn’t it? But there you have it.

Before Darius can make sense of the words, the bandit makes a motion across his throat with his hand, the message clear: kill him.

Chapter 1

Under the microscope

The 40 year old Hillman station wagon entered the town, their dad slowing the car to a crawl so they could get a good look as they drove along the main street, named, for obvious reasons, Main Street.

Steven wondered why they bothered naming it at all because as far as he could tell, it was the only street and referring to it as The Street would have been ample. They didn't encounter a single traffic light or stop street, and the closest thing to a zebra crossing was a sign just before the town warning of suicidal springbok leaping across the road.

With the tyres crunching loudly over white stones used to fill potholes in the tar, Steven noted derisively how complete strangers took time out of their busy schedules to stop and stare at them.

The old guy outside the bottle store in blue overalls and a stained cap, who took time out from rocking his chair back and forth to lean forward and stare unblinkingly. Two ladies at a small round table, one with purple hair, the other gripping the handle of a pram, put down their tea cups and broke into a flurry of excited commentary.

Steven felt like a bug being scrutinized under a magnifying glass, his every blink being observed and noted as if he were in some alien laboratory; back home in Jo’burg, or rather where home had been yesterday, there was so much happening that people wouldn’t notice if you were on fire, and if they did they would glance at their watches unapologetically and scurry off to do something more important than putting you out.

When they had left home three hours before dawn that morning, winter was still tugging forcefully on spring’s reins, but here, wherever here was, spring had clearly broken free of winter’s icy clutches. The breathless heat singed his lungs and smothered his body like volcanic ash. All the windows in the vehicle were rolled down because, according to Dad, the old car was manufactured before air conditioning was invented.

Or electric windows, for that matter.

Staring out numbly from the backseat as they passed a single pump filling station, Steven wound his window up with the old fashioned window lever. He fervently hoped nobody could see in through the thick glass because he had never felt so humiliated in his life.

When his mom had still been around, which seemed like both forever ago and yesterday, they had driven to the coast almost every summer holiday. Steven and his brother and sister loved making fun of the small towns they drove through, giving them names like Pathetic Ville and Hopeless Town, depending mostly on the number of road signs they spotted.

They had a rating system based on whether the town had a traffic light or just a stop street, and now, as they passed a man with a horse, Steven realised that this town was the biggest loser of them all. It was literally a one-horse town; and from now on this was where he lived. His stomach cringed at the thought that in future, when city people drove through, it was him they would be mocking.

The car rolled on gently, his dad keeping it close to the curb to make way for a cart being pulled by a donkey with a small boy on its back. Nothing passing by seemed real, not the two-dimensional looking shop-fronts, nor the blatantly curious people, as if the car window had become a silver screen and all this was a very bad movie.

A small church built from uneven stones each the size (and colour) of a small, brown car entered the scene, and as it slipped out of view to the left it was replaced by an even smaller grocery store, so tiny that the front door hardly had any wall on either side of it to hang onto. In contrast to the bright sunlight outside, the interior of the shop was as black as coal, looking like a missing tooth.

Dad?

His brother Adam was sitting in the front because he was 15 and the eldest of the three.

Mmmm? their father replied distractedly, even his forced enthusiasm limping slightly after the long, un-air-conditioned drive.

Voicing the thought that had been in Steven's own mind, Adam asked hopefully, Is there a stop street in this town?

Steven already knew the answer; he could see it in the resigned faces of the people they drove past, the hunched old woman with a bag of groceries in each hand, the man hefting a sack of chicken feed onto his shoulder.

That guy's carrying chicken feed, he observed dully.

Yeah, well, this is a rural community.

His dad tried to make it sound like that was a good thing.

Where's the movie house? Emily asked. And the mall?

Since turning eleven, the mall had become his sister’s favourite place.

We just went past the mall, Em, didn't you see it? It was next to the church. You must have blinked as we drove past.

The three of them sat mutely, their dad's poor attempt at humour revealing his own misgivings about this move.

Look, that place is kinda cool! he said, nodding at a large pink sign that said Marilyn’s Diner, seeming overly happy about such a small discovery.

And there's my office.

He pointed at a shop front big enough for a door and a narrow window with 92.1FM Paradys Radio painted on it in bright neon yellow.

Paradys. Adam snorted derisively. When did they start letting blind people name places?

C'mon now, let’s try be positive about this, their dad said as he pulled the car into a slot in front of Paradys Radio. He turned off the ignition, but it took the car a moment to realise, shuddering into silence several seconds later. He shifted in his seat to face them.

Look, I know things have been tough since, well, for a while. They've been hard for me too. But this is a great opportunity. And it's not so bad, I'm sure there's plenty to do out here, it's just different to what you're used to, you know, less Wi-Fi, more tractors.

No one commented.

He sighed. Okay, look, let’s make a deal. Stick it out for a year, and if you still hate it we can try coming up with another plan. Deal? But for now, let’s be grateful that I have a job and that we have a roof over our heads. Things could be worse.

Not waiting for a response he yanked the door lever and hefted his door open with a metallic screech that made the horse’s ears twitch. Climbing out he said, Let's go meet my boss and then I'll buy us lunch next door.

Emily opened her door but the boys didn't move.

Aren't you coming? he asked.

You're kidding, right? Adam replied. You expect us to climb out of this pile of junk right here in front of everybody? We'll be the laughing stock of the entire town, although I realise that's only like twelve people.

Look around you, his dad replied, holding his arms wide and indicating up and down the street impatiently. How many Audi's and BMW's do you see? Huh? Any Jeeps? Porches? This pile of junk may have been cheap, but it happens to blend in perfectly. But suit yourselves.

He banged the door shut, not because he was angry but because that was the only way to get it to close. The brothers watched him and their sister open the door to the radio station, which tinkled an old fashioned little bell hanging above it.

Yeah, well the reason it blends in so well is because nothing in this place was made after 1950! Adam yelled at his father's back. A woman with cropped grey hair and a walking frame stopped in front of Marilyn’s Diner to look at him and he added loudly, including the people! The woman frowned and hurried on her way like a snail fleeing the scene of a crime.

He fell back in his seat with folded arms and scowled straight ahead, as if trying to crack the windscreen telepathically. Steven was accustomed to his brother’s moods and leaned between the front seats to fiddle with the old fashioned dials on the radio, hoping to find a rock or pop station. Turning the dial backwards and forwards, all he found was static.

Breaking his telepathic bond with the windscreen, Adam nodded at the window with the neon writing in front of the cars bonnet, and said, Hey Einstein, maybe you should try 92.1FM.

They both jumped as the dial finally got a grip on the station and the wailing sounds of Shania Twain banged into the car like an explosion in a metal drum. Adam slammed the off button like it was a hideous bug and said, "Oh, fantastic, as if things are not bad enough, now the whole town thinks we like country music!"

So what, nobody cares what kind of music you like, Steven responded. He thought it was hilarious that his brother was so consumed by what other people thought of him, and he wondered if he would be the same when he turned fifteen in two years’ time. He hoped not, but for now it came in handy when he wanted to embarrass Adam or get him to do something he didn't want to do.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the ticking noises coming from the engine as it cooled. Licking a layer of sweat off his top lip, Steven said, It's too hot. I'm going to get an ice-cream, you coming?

Adam chewed his lip for a moment, trying to decide what would be more humiliating: to be seen getting out of the old Hillman, or to be found dead in it from heatstroke. It took him a surprisingly long time to decide, but eventually he climbed out of the car.

It's not locked, Steven observed. Dad has the keys. What if someone steals it?

They looked at the puke green car, then at each other, and started laughing as they turned towards the diner. Yeah, I don't think we're that lucky.

As Steven reached for the door to Marilyn’s Dinner, it crashed open and a boy with a thick bush of jet black hair, wearing a very large pair of glasses and a surprised look, emerged.

Jees, I'm sorry! he said. You okay?

Steven, who was always told he was short for his age, noticed that the boy was even shorter than him. The next thing he noticed, besides the big hair and giant glasses, was the colourful scarf around the boy’s neck, despite the choking heat. Before he could stop himself he said, Is your head really, really tiny or are your glasses the size of a small car?

The boy laughed. The latter. At the blank look on Steven's face he added, It means the last option, my head is exactly the right size.

Grinning brightly he added, Well, my mom says it is, anyway, and Steven laughed involuntarily, hoping it was meant to be funny.

The door slammed open a second time, with such force that it made them all jump and invoked a voice from inside that yelled, Dammit Gareth stop slamming the door! A tall boy with wavy blond hair and perfect skin came out, followed by two more boys who were either twins or were actually one boy holding a mirror.

Vainly running a hand through his thick hair, pushing it back from his high forehead, he said in a leery tone, Well, well, aren't you lucky, Dickster, look like the loser club is expanding, as he looked down at Steven.

He was wearing a vest which emphasised the curve of muscles in his upper arms, and everything about his demeanour suggested he was looking for trouble, despite his appealingly handsome face.

Steven's internal alarm bells were going crazy and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach he said, Oh not again. The one and only positive thing he had found about leaving his old school was that he would no longer have to put up with the bully, but it looked like that problem wasn't going to go away, it was just going to change faces.

Adam stepped forward and said matter-of-factly, Do you have a problem with something?

The boy looked up at Adam, who was a few inches taller, and took a step back. "Not with you, he answered placatingly. Only with Dickster here; you don't want to be hanging around with him, he's a freak, him and his weird old mom dancing around naked in the moonlight every other night. Just a bit of friendly advice."

He turned and swaggered off with his friend with the mirror trailing behind him.

"Dickster?" Adam enquired.

My name's Dexter, and Dickster is about the cleverest derivation Gareth could come up with. It's supposed to be an insult. Clever, huh? It's no wonder he’s in eighth grade again this year.

Oh great, so he’s in my grade, Steven said woefully. "Welcome to Loserville, home of chickens, geriatrics and psychos! Fantastic."

Hey, I’m in grade eight too, Dexter said excitedly. We’ll be in the same class.

How do you know we’ll be in the same class?

Dexter snorted and looked up and down the street.