Read Online The Sea of Ash by Scott Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Thomas
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unconventional arts.
Lauren was very sympathetic to my
situation when I spoke with her over the phone. She is one of the few humans I
know whom I would even have considered relating the experience to, for while my
circle of contacts is rather wide, I am a solitary sort, and private by nature.
I guess I am like Dr. Pond in that way -- I have more acquaintances than
friends.
Turning onto a side road, I come
upon a Second Empire house set back behind a diminishing hedge of lilac. A
tallish hydrangea stands to one side; at a distance the clustered blooms look
like puffs of cotton candy. The house is a small specimen for its type, just
two stories high, with the windowed upper level encased in a mansard roof.
There is a small entry porch at the left of the facade -- I park my car and
head for this.
A thin red-haired woman bounds
from the house to greet me. To look at her, one would never suspect that she
engages in ritual magic, conjuring arcane forces and the like. She is freckled,
with a pleasing plainness, her hair braided behind her. Her clothing is
unostentatious -- jeans and T-shirt. I receive a big smile and a hearty
handshake; her fingers smell of tomato plants.
Lauren leads me to the back of the
house, where the grounds remind me of Nana's garden. There is an English
cottage sensibility to the space as opposed to the stiffly manicured look so
popular in these times.
We drink herbal tea under darting
dragonflies, and I recount my strange tale in full, sparing no detail. I talk
about Brinklow and Pond, and the Banchini machine. The young woman is familiar
(more or less) with these subjects. When I finish, she sits thinking for a
time.
"I could give you some
protective amulets and exorcism powder, but a situation like this calls for
something stronger," Lauren says. "Are you familiar with Crocker's
Bite?"
"I'm afraid not," I reply.
My hostess explains... A sprawling
farm once stood on the outskirts of Kingston, Rhode Island. It was owned by a
man named Gilbert Crocker. In the summer of 1860 a fierce storm pounded the
area with thunder and rain. During the barrage, a bolt of lightning struck the
heavy wooden door of the Crocker barn. Fortunately the structure did not burn,
though a good-sized mark was left behind. The blackened area was roughly ovular
in shape, and embedded within that charred wood were hundreds of human teeth.
Crocker, for whatever reason, felt
that the teeth were a symbol of good luck, and over the years people dug them
out of the door to carry for protection. In time, certain individuals found
that the teeth possessed an even more dramatic power when used as a tool to
dispel unwanted entities.
Lauren cites one case in
particular, in which a family in Newport was terrorized by a hair-pulling
boy-like thing in the winter of 1960. They eventually contacted a local medium,
who utilized one of the teeth, successfully driving the bothersome spirit away.
My hostess goes into her house and
returns with a small bag made of black cloth. Inside is what looks to be a
yellowed human molar.
"A gift," the woman
says.
I offer to pay her for it, but she
assures me that she has others, and insists on its being a present. I accept
her generosity and thank her profusely.
"So, what do I do with
it?"
"Well, it's a close-quarters
kind of thing," Lauren says, leaning forward in her lawn chair. "All
you have to do is touch it to the target and that should do the trick."
"Touch it?" I ask,
frowning. "I was hoping I wouldn't ever be close enough to that thing to
touch it again."
Lauren has a way of being pleasant
and dead serious all in the same breath. I respect her frankness, though her
words cause me to shudder. "Well, situations arise against our will, and
we're left to deal with them. You may not have a choice in the matter."
I hold the tooth in my hand,
looking down at it. Lauren watches me, her face quiet and kind. I ask,
"What should I do now?"
"Well, you could try to
outrun it, I suppose, but if I were
Lauren was very sympathetic to my
situation when I spoke with her over the phone. She is one of the few humans I
know whom I would even have considered relating the experience to, for while my
circle of contacts is rather wide, I am a solitary sort, and private by nature.
I guess I am like Dr. Pond in that way -- I have more acquaintances than
friends.
Turning onto a side road, I come
upon a Second Empire house set back behind a diminishing hedge of lilac. A
tallish hydrangea stands to one side; at a distance the clustered blooms look
like puffs of cotton candy. The house is a small specimen for its type, just
two stories high, with the windowed upper level encased in a mansard roof.
There is a small entry porch at the left of the facade -- I park my car and
head for this.
A thin red-haired woman bounds
from the house to greet me. To look at her, one would never suspect that she
engages in ritual magic, conjuring arcane forces and the like. She is freckled,
with a pleasing plainness, her hair braided behind her. Her clothing is
unostentatious -- jeans and T-shirt. I receive a big smile and a hearty
handshake; her fingers smell of tomato plants.
Lauren leads me to the back of the
house, where the grounds remind me of Nana's garden. There is an English
cottage sensibility to the space as opposed to the stiffly manicured look so
popular in these times.
We drink herbal tea under darting
dragonflies, and I recount my strange tale in full, sparing no detail. I talk
about Brinklow and Pond, and the Banchini machine. The young woman is familiar
(more or less) with these subjects. When I finish, she sits thinking for a
time.
"I could give you some
protective amulets and exorcism powder, but a situation like this calls for
something stronger," Lauren says. "Are you familiar with Crocker's
Bite?"
"I'm afraid not," I reply.
My hostess explains... A sprawling
farm once stood on the outskirts of Kingston, Rhode Island. It was owned by a
man named Gilbert Crocker. In the summer of 1860 a fierce storm pounded the
area with thunder and rain. During the barrage, a bolt of lightning struck the
heavy wooden door of the Crocker barn. Fortunately the structure did not burn,
though a good-sized mark was left behind. The blackened area was roughly ovular
in shape, and embedded within that charred wood were hundreds of human teeth.
Crocker, for whatever reason, felt
that the teeth were a symbol of good luck, and over the years people dug them
out of the door to carry for protection. In time, certain individuals found
that the teeth possessed an even more dramatic power when used as a tool to
dispel unwanted entities.
Lauren cites one case in
particular, in which a family in Newport was terrorized by a hair-pulling
boy-like thing in the winter of 1960. They eventually contacted a local medium,
who utilized one of the teeth, successfully driving the bothersome spirit away.
My hostess goes into her house and
returns with a small bag made of black cloth. Inside is what looks to be a
yellowed human molar.
"A gift," the woman
says.
I offer to pay her for it, but she
assures me that she has others, and insists on its being a present. I accept
her generosity and thank her profusely.
"So, what do I do with
it?"
"Well, it's a close-quarters
kind of thing," Lauren says, leaning forward in her lawn chair. "All
you have to do is touch it to the target and that should do the trick."
"Touch it?" I ask,
frowning. "I was hoping I wouldn't ever be close enough to that thing to
touch it again."
Lauren has a way of being pleasant
and dead serious all in the same breath. I respect her frankness, though her
words cause me to shudder. "Well, situations arise against our will, and
we're left to deal with them. You may not have a choice in the matter."
I hold the tooth in my hand,
looking down at it. Lauren watches me, her face quiet and kind. I ask,
"What should I do now?"
"Well, you could try to
outrun it, I suppose, but if I were
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