Night of the Living Rerun Page 6

  “I knocked upon her door, and when she opened it to greet her guest, I pushed my way in. And that was when I saw, much to my chagrin, that Sarah Dinsdale was already among the damned.”

  “I see, my son,” Mather said almost tenderly. “Then what course of action did you take?”

  “The only one available. I denounced her. I had no choice. For in her kitchen I saw mummified bats and parts of frogs. I saw roots and other ingredients from the recipes of Old Scratch himself! I knew then and there she was unclean—that she was a witch!”

  “A witch! A witch!” shouted many in the court, until Judge Danforth’s threat brought a renewed sense of order to the proceedings. During that time Goodman could not look Sarah in the eyes, but she could look in his. And she liked what she saw there.

  For there was no hate and no pity in John Goodman’s eyes. There was only guilt—guilt that he was the one who had been forced—in his view—to denounce her.

  “Since then, knowing she is a witch has made no difference. I cannot get the heinous female out of my mind. She haunts my dreams, she occupies my every waking thought. Surely she has cast a spell on me; she has looked upon me with her evil eye and devoured my soul.”

  Sarah could not resist a smile. Hearing those words had made worthwhile all the suffering she’d endured the past few weeks in the witch dungeons controlled by Sheriff Corwin.

  Sarah was still smiling, inwardly at least, when the scene shifted slightly and Xander heard and saw, through her eyes, Judge Danforth pronouncing the death sentence: she will hang by the neck until she is dead! Sarah was confident this would never happen, even when Judge Danforth remarked that he would like to see Old Scratch save her now.

  “Not Old Scratch,” said Sarah. “Just a close personal friend.”

  The people in the court erupted with shouts of shock and anger. Sarah surveyed them with a regal, contemptuous air, and Xander couldn’t help wondering if it was true that if you dream of your death, then you really die. He was afraid he would find out when the scene next shifted. . . .

  . . . Only instead of cutting to the gallows, the scene cut to Sarah Dinsdale sitting contentedly in her dungeon cell, chained to the wall. A visitor arrived, sitting down on a three-legged stool on the other side of the bars.

  It was John Goodman.

  It was obvious he was coming as close to her as he dared. He fidgeted nervously and couldn’t find a comfortable way to sit. He clearly wished he was anyplace else but here within these cold, damp stone walls, which were stained with the blood of accused witches who had confessed upon pain of torture; presumably the poor women had already gone on to receive their “just rewards.”

  Sarah, for her part, couldn’t make up her mind how she felt about John Goodman’s appearance here. She knew she should hate him. But his reaction to seeing her prepare her witch’s stock had only been true to his nature, and even now something in his eyes reminded her why she’d desired his attention in the first place.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye,” Goodman finally said, softly.

  “Are you certain you haven’t offered me one last chance at redemption?” said Sarah defiantly.

  “You should repent,” said Goodman flatly.

  “Why? To ease your guilty conscience?”

  “I did not choose these feelings I have toward you, Sarah Dinsdale. I do not hold myself responsible.”

  “Then who is responsible for them?”

  “I think you are.”

  “It is true I cast a spell over you, Reverend John Goodman. But my spells are too weak to last this long. Perhaps my spell merely revealed an emotion that was already there.”

  Goodman’s complexion wavered between becoming red with anger and pale with fear. He smashed his fist against the bars of Sarah’s cell. “That is impossible! I could not—cannot have these feelings toward a proven witch of my own volition! Release me from this curse! I beseech you!”

  Sarah threw back her head and laughed. She also bumped her head against the stone wall, but she tried to hide that and concentrate on her laughter instead. “My most profound apologies, Reverend, but I can no more release you from your heart than I can free you from your conscience.”

  Goodman stood and nodded grimly. “Then that is how it must be. You are damned. I pity thee.”

  “I have never knowingly harmed another. I have used my powers only for good, only to help others. How then can I be damned?”

  “Because your powers are derived from Old Scratch, and He corrupts all good that He touches.”

  “There are many ways to be damned, John Goodman, as I suspect you are about to find out.” She grinned, wickedly. At the moment she had no doubt which of the emotions she felt toward Goodman was dominant. “Perhaps there is a last wish I may grant you before I go forth to be damned.”

  “I would”—he cleared his throat—“appreciate it greatly if you would cease visiting my dreams, so that I may sleep in peace.”

  Sarah laughed again; never had she tasted a victory so sweet. “There are things not even a witch can do.”

  “May you face your death bravely,” said Goodman as he turned to leave.

  “The least of my worries,” said Sarah casually, as the scene shifted slightly and a rat sniffed about on the stool where Goodman had been. Sarah, still chained against the wall, looked down at her feet where several other rats sniffed about. She was not afraid of the rats. Their presence here meant she was no longer alone.

  Through the bars she could see the moon setting in the sky; it would be dawn soon. A terrible stench permeated the air. Things became damp with the coming of the early morning fog. A wolf howled, an owl hooted, someone in an adjoining cell screamed. Two of the rats began fighting over a discarded piece of bread.

  Through it all, Sarah felt relieved. Help was on the way. He did not disappoint her.

  She just saw his face for an instant, a flash from a reality whose existence she could barely grasp. She sensed the face’s terrible green complexion, its horrible fangs, its dead, remorseless eyes—eyes somehow capable of peering into the deepest reaches of her soul.

  She liked feeling exposed that way. How could she fail to trust the Despised One?

  The scene in the dream shifted again, to when Sarah had already escaped and was running through the forest. The forest was pitch-black, clouds hid the moon, and the ground was covered with bush and thicket, yet Sarah made her way with ease, as if she was doing nothing more difficult than navigating through her own house in the dark.

  She was exhausted. All she wanted was to lie down on the cold earth and sleep.

  But if she did that, then she might as well give up and die, and she could not do that. Not while the Despised One was waiting.

  She ran to him, deeper, deeper into the forest until she vanished in the night and Xander woke, returning at last to his own reality. The dream had seemed like a four-hour epic on television, yet he awoke to find he’d only been out for as long as an extended commercial break.

  Upon hearing the full story, an awe-struck Willow discovered she was practically speechless—emphasis on practically. “My goodness, do you realize that your dream and the one Giles said he had both took place during the Salem witch trials?”

  “I like to think mine was a little better. Yeah, and maybe they are connected. Even I can see that.”

  “We must find out more.”

  Xander yawned and stretched. “Yeah, I could use a nap. Maybe I’ll dream the next part of the story. Should be easy enough, don’t you think?”

  “I have a better idea. What are you doing tonight?”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I have often wondered,” said the Master aloud—to no one—“what it is like to dream, or to sleep. Is that the essence of humanity?

  “Or perhaps I just want to eat, and drink. True, I have feasted on human flesh and occasionally have even devoured a human soul, but I wonder about real food. Scrambled eggs, for instance. With ketchup and maple syrup on top. Or a Virginia ham. Or per
haps what I really want is a simple cup of a tea. If I had a cup of tea, would my cares drift away? After I consolidate my control of the surface, one of my first acts will be to find out. Hey! Minions!”

  The black things who were his minions scurried around his feet. “Master! Master!” they said in squeaky voices, not quite in unison. “Speak, speak! Instruct us, and we shall serve. We ask for nothing more.”

  The Master yawned. “Bring me the spirits!”

  “YES MASTER! RIGHT AWAY MASTER YOU BETCHA MASTER,” they said, then scattered immediately in all directions. A few even disappeared into the walls.

  Moments passed. Or was it hours? The Master decided he didn’t care. When time no longer matters, the amount of it is irrelevant as well.

  The point was the spirits showed up. Alone, without a minion escort, which meant the minions were still looking for them. Typical. Two of the spirits emerged through a wall, another rose up from the floor, and the fourth descended from above. In this form they resembled black, semi-transparent shower curtains.

  They hovered and merely listened to the Master’s words; in this form they could do nothing else.

  “The pieces of the puzzle are in place at last,” said the Master. “All the planets, in all the upper and lower dimensional planes, are in proper alignment. The stars are positioned favorably. The fortune reading by candle wax went well, as did the readings by bone dice and tarot card. Only the reading by the spilled entrails of a small rat fared poorly. Even so, the situation is close enough for celestial work.

  “Things could be better on the ground. It would preferable if everyone involved was an actual reincarnation.

  “But I am satisfied that by influencing the thoughts of four occult chasers. I have brought to Sunnydale”—he shuddered at the mere mention of such an innocuous, happy word—“proper temporary receptacles for you, the four souls who served the Despised One so poorly three hundred years ago. It would have been nice to rely on more proven talent, but you, Heather, have been adequately devious during the séances called by that amateur Church couple. A good beginning, a good beginning for you all.

  “Remember, the entire point of this operation is its predictability. Soon the four of you will have the opportunity to correct the mistake you made over three hundred years ago. Were you capable of such things, I know you would be thrilled.

  “Now, depart. Begone. Skedaddle! You know what to do. And when the time is right, you shall do it, or the suffering you have endured so far shall be but a prelude to the pure hell your existence will become.”

  And they were gone.

  The Master was again alone. In time his minions would return and scurry around his feet, apologizing profusely for yet another failure on their part. It didn’t matter. Soon he would never have to tolerate their ineptness again.

  * * *

  Buffy had spent the last thirty minutes waiting for Eric Frank and his crew to leave. But they were obviously too stubborn to leave.

  Every once in a while Frank, the anchor man who often went out in the field to conduct the most sensational interviews, knocked on the front door. Each time he stalked back waving his arms about and shouting something at his crew . . . at the house . . . at the trees . . . at anything he happened to see. Maybe he thought someone was really at home and was just refusing to answer the door. But every week on this day Buffy’s Mom took an invalid neighbor out for a drive, and Buffy didn’t expect her home for another hour, at least.

  Buffy had seen Charles Fort’s Peculiar World many times, and she’d thought it was pretty stupid every time. Frank’s dim-witted staff must have finally picked up shreds of information and fragments to learn there’d been some funny goings-on in Sunnydale. Paranormal goings-on. And they must have grasped that Buffy was the connecting thread, despite the spell of forgetfulness that had been cast over the town.

  So if Frank interviewed her mom, he would ask her how she felt about her daughter being the Slayer for this generation. Then the footage would be broadcast on syndicated TV for the duration of cable—severely impairing Buffy’s ability to have a normal life.

  Eventually Buffy tried to think of ways to fool the reporters into abandoning their stakeout. She reasoned she could ring them up on their cell phones, pretend to be a talent scout from CNN and send them off on a wild-goose chase. But that required knowing their number, which she did not.

  She could get their number, but that would require going to a pay phone, finding their office and/or studio number and then getting into phone lies that could take all kinds of time and lead to all kinds of complications. Definitely not a good idea.

  Now, if Willow were here she would whip out her trusty portable and hack via satellite into their e-mail in about thirty seconds. Unfortunately, Willow wasn’t here, and she wouldn’t be likely happening by unless Xander happened to drop off the face of the earth.

  Then suddenly things changed. Buffy simply had to go inside to use the nearest-available facilities, and she was darned if she would let a bunch of TV clowns stop her. She figured they wouldn’t get any usable footage on her, not if she walked straight in.

  Besides, not one of their stories on vampires, wasp women and heap monsters had been remotely accurate. Why should they suddenly start being credible with Buffy Summers?

  Eric Frank stood leaning against the back of the van, huffing and puffing about something, when he suddenly saw Buffy coming. He sprang into life. “Guys! Guys!” he hissed, loud enough for the world to hear. “That’s her kid! Maybe the brat will spill something!”

  Buffy was so stunned she stopped in the middle of the street, forcing an oncoming car to swerve around her. Spill something? she thought. I’m “her kid—the brat”? They must be here to think—ohmigosh!—Mom!

  Like a gigantic mother hen from a Japanese monster movie, Buffy strode boldly up to Frank, stuck her finger in his face and yelled, “What do you want with Mom? Get out of here! Leave her alone!”

  Eric Frank’s response was deliberate obtuseness. He put his microphone in Buffy’s face. And he looked down that long, slim nose and asked, with snotty politeness, “Good afternoon, young lady. Might I inquire why you are so defensive? Does it have to do with your mother?”

  “Defensive? What do you mean, defensive? Neither one of us has anything to be defensive about!”

  “Ah, so you deny the obvious. So tell me, Miss Summers, what exactly is your mother’s relationship with the supernatural? And why are you covering for her? Don’t you understand she is involved with heinous forces of evil?”

  “What are you talking about? What heinous forces? Look, why don’t you ask her?” Uh-oh. She’d just realized: a) what she’d said, and b) who happened to be recording it for the gratification of millions. She smiled weakly at the crew.

  “We tried to ask her, at the gallery,” Frank explained in insincere tones. “But she refused to speak for the record. And when she spoke off the record, she politely but emphatically suggested our next destination. We think she’s under the influence of an insidious art deco sculpture from the Bronx.”

  “What?”

  “The Moonman. The famous sculpture by the modern Italian master V.V. Vivaldi, who died under mysterious circumstances during the fascist reign of Mussolini. I don’t like it myself. According to the story, it wound up in Mussolini’s possession, whereupon everything promptly went downhill for the Italian dictator. Of course he did choose the wrong side during World War II. Just before he was hanged by his angry subjects, Mussolini blamed his entire downfall on a curse placed on the Moonman by Vivaldi. And he was just the first.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  Frank turned away and then looked at her from the corner of his eye, like a huffy history teacher. “An art speculator snatched the statue from the hands of the American forces right after the war. He died, but not before he sold it to someone else, who died, who sold the statue to someone else, who died, who had willed it to someone else, who died . . . you get the idea.”

  �
��So what’s Mom got to do with it?”

  “The point is that a local art gallery, managed by one Joyce Summers, is putting on a tiny exhibition concerning V.V. Vivaldi. This statue is cursed. Everyone who’s owned it, or has been responsible for it, has died, usually before their time. Tell me, Miss, ahem, Buffy, I’ll give you one last chance to come clean to our audience of millions of mild-mannered Americans. Is there something you feel you must share about Joyce Summers’s—your mother’s—extracurricular activities?”

  Buffy bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “So you’re confirming your mother is under the insidious influence of Vivaldi’s infamous Moonman?” Frank asked, pushing it.

  “Hey, Frank, why do they call it the Moonman?” the soundman asked snidely.

  “It’s not actually from our moon, is it?” asked the cameraman, just as snidely. Buffy got the impression those two’s opinion of the show was about as high as hers.

  “Vivaldi thought it was,” Eric Frank said in exasperated tones.

  “Hey! Why don’t we put it on the show?” asked the soundman, laughing.

  “Are you guys always this wrong about everything?” Buffy demanded, staking her entire credibility on her ability to be as off-base as possible. “I think you are. I’ve seen your show. To be honest, Mr. Frank, it’s pretty preposterous stuff.”

  Eric Frank turned quite pale and glared at his crew, who were laughing at him. “You don’t trust me because of the way my hair looks, right?”

  Buffy tried not to laugh. “Exactly,” she said sympathetically. She pushed her way between Frank and his crew. “I’m sorry, boys, but I really gotta go!”

  The crew laughed some more, but suddenly they spotted something and became totally serious. “Hey, Mr. Murrow,” said the soundman, facetiously referring to a legendary TV newsman from the 1950s. “Over there! In that Hummer!” He pointed toward the huge jeep. “It’s Rick and Lora Church!”

  “Hmmm. Looks to me like they’re headed toward the gallery,” said Buffy, even though the Churches were actually headed away.