The Ancestors Read online

  Her own incoming footprints were crimson, not clear.

  Slowly she brought her hand to her mouth to repress the scream that bubbled in her chest. Her vision darted around the room and down at her feet. Nauseated, she kept her hand over her mouth as she balanced herself first on one foot, looking at the sole, then the other.

  Terror slammed into her brain and her heart kept pace with it until elevated blood pressure and adrenaline made her ears ring. There was no evidence of a cut on either foot.

  “Okay, okay, okay, think, and be calm,” she warned herself out loud. “There’s a logical explanation.” Again, she carefully inspected the floor. Damp, clear footprints went out of the bathroom, and crimson ones facing her came into it. That had to mean that she’d obviously sustained a cut, one that she didn’t feel, when she stepped on the rug.

  Although she still stood in the same mid-room position, unable to move, her heart rate began to normalize as she thought about possible, logical explanations. After all, the rug had been in storage, moved twice in old trucks—where a stray nail, splinter, or shard of glass could have been hiding in the dense fabric. Also, she’d just taken a bath, and her feet were as soft as a baby’s butt. So, one little prick could have caused them the bleed . . . then she’d obviously tracked around in it with both feet.

  Aziza forced herself to laugh at her own silliness as she moved to the medicine cabinet. Relief swept through her as she took out a bottle of peroxide, and walked over to the tub. Rinsing her feet off, she sat down on the toilet and looked for the offending scrape. But her heart rate returned to its previous threatening level as no evidence of a wound could be found.

  “Yuck!” she yelled, creating an echo. “A dead mouse? Eeeew! That’s why you need a man in the house, Jesus!” After slathering peroxide on her feet and then scrubbing them hard with soap, she washed her hands with soap and antiseptic. Refusing to acknowledge that the amount of blood on the floor couldn’t have possibly come from a small rodent, she continued to douse her limbs, feeling faint. Then she found the liquid Lysol bathroom cleaner, dumped it full-strength on the floor, and gingerly stepped around the cleaning agent and the bloody footprints.

  “City life,” she grumbled, carefully avoiding the rug, and finding her clothes and shoes. That’s all she needed tonight, to find a fresh dead mouse in the rug, take it out into the trash in the alley, and have to then get her rug cleaned before turning in.

  “So much for peace,” she fussed, pulling her sweater over her head, and slipping on her socks and loafers. Fully dressed, she paced into the office, yanked a coat hanger from the closet, snatched the plastic liner from the wastebasket, and returned to the master bedroom. Squinting in dread, she shakily extended her arm, using the wire instrument as a hook. Prepared to see the gruesome remains of some unfortunate small animal, she flipped back the edge of the rug and held out the plastic bag in front of her, expecting to find the smashed rodent that was the only reasonable source of the blood.

  This time her scream would not be stifled as she edged her way out of the bedroom, dropped the hanger and plastic bag, fled down the hallway, turned, and almost fell down the stairs. Without looking back, she grabbed her coat, purse, and keys in one deft sweeping motion, hurling her body through the front door. After clumsily managing the locks, she kept running.

  The cold air slapped her face, seized the moisture in her hair and cut through her coat and sweater, but her body was on fire. Heat and sweat fused her clothing to her, and her legs pumped without consulting her mind. She could hear shrieks coming from the house and she briefly glanced over her shoulder to see long shadows playing out a macabre scene in the third-floor windows, which were now mysteriously lit.

  Tears blurred her vision while she ran until she couldn’t breathe. When she came to a stop, both of her fists pounded on the locked door in front of her as her own screams for help deafened her.

  She could feel hands pulling at her, assisting her, voices urging her to stop screaming, then came the darkness.

  “Give her some lukewarm tea,” Abe Morgan instructed quietly. “Bring it to her lips slow, gentle . . . and keep that compress on her forehead.”

  Rashid’s hands shook as he followed Abe’s directions and knelt beside the stricken woman he now held in his arms.

  “I knew something was wrong,” he faltered. “Jesus Christ, what could have driven her out of the house like that?”

  “Something went wrong,” Abe whispered. “Let her lie back on the sofa, and rest. I need to prepare an anointment . . .”

  “But I thought you said she’d be safe for the night.” Rashid searched Abe’s face for an explanation that wasn’t forthcoming. “I thought you said that you and Ethel had already anointed the entire house, and that she’d be all right there.”

  “Ethel did and so did I,” Abe remarked, “but there’s been a disturbance to the protection. When she wakes up, we’ll find out what happened. Right now, you and I have work to do.”

  Time passed in painful increments. Never too far from Aziza’s side, Rashid followed his instructor’s orders, reading Psalms over the young woman lying prone on the couch within a protective ring of white holy candles. He kept returning to one psalm in particular, the one to protect the embattled, “. . . a thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you . . .” Rashid repeated the Ninety-first Psalm quietly, until his voice began to escalate with his own increasing alarm.

  Thick clouds of church incense burned and stung his eyes, as he watched Abe work on Aziza’s body, sprinkling holy water and prayer oils on her head, chest, wrists, and feet. Following directions, he took the cup of sea salt Abe had prepared, and made a circle around where she lay on the sofa.

  “We stay in vigil till sunrise,” Abe murmured. “I’ll take first watch, you relieve me at three AM,” he added, lowering a tiny burlap bag filled with odd leaves, dirt, and a vial of holy water over her head. The bag was held together by a long leather cord with a small silver cross attached on it. He positioned the bag over her heart and stood back from her.

  As Rashid reached to accept a similar necklace from his instructor, the old man answered his unspoken question.

  “The burlap casement is from royal Ghanaian mud cloth and Egyptian linen, seeds from Madagascar, earth from Ethiopia, the cord is from the ropes used at the original Crucifixion of our Savior. The protective herbal contents and hallowed Ethiopian earth from the monasteries at Axum have been treated and soaked with holy water from the Vatican baptismal font, and the small crosses are from the first Pope’s rosary. Needless to say, I’ve been holding on to these items, for just such a crisis, for a long time.”

  Awe consumed Rashid as he bowed his head to accept the amulet over his head.

  “That’s all we can do, for now. The rest is in the Father’s hands.”

  Her skull felt like a giant claw held and crushed it. When she tried to sit up, she saw Rashid huddled at her feet, and her grandfather dozing in a chair. The smell of incense and burned tallow made her cough slightly and then she felt like she had to throw up.

  “Give her some ginger tea,” the old man rasped as he stirred from his chair. “It’s passed over us.”

  Rashid touched her hand and gazed at her briefly, then went to turn on the kettle. Dropping her face into her palms, she quietly wept.

  “It was horrible,” she choked out, drawing Rashid and her grandfather to her side. “You should have seen it . . . bubbling up from the floorboards . . . blood everywhere, like a faucet had been turned on.” Looking up at both of them, she searched their faces for answers. “It came up from the same spot where Daddy fell.”

  Both men exchanged a glance, and Abe Morgan stooped down and reached for his granddaughter’s hand. His eyes cautioned Rashid not to ask about what had happened to Aziza’s father. “Baby-girl,” he began quietly, “what did you move in the house?”

  Aziza looked at Abe Morgan, then at Rashid, her eyes filling with new tears
that she didn’t try to wipe away. “I’m having a nervous breakdown, aren’t I, Pop? Schizophrenia is hereditary, isn’t it? I have what Daddy had, don’t I? First the walls almost seemed to be whispering my name, things are never where I’ve put them in Ma Ethel’s house . . . now this?”

  Rashid sat down beside her on the sofa and clutched her other hand to his chest. “Princess, what did you do when you left us yesterday ?”

  Her eyes searched their faces again as she began to speak very slowly. Confusion swept her piteous expression, and her bewilderment made him want to pull her to him. But a warning glare from Abe Morgan reminded him not to.

  “I just walked home,” she stammered, “then returned some business phone calls, then had Delaware Antiques & Collectibles come in, and—”

  “Stop!” her grandfather shouted, standing quickly and pacing in front of her. “You defied my direct order not to sell anything in the house, didn’t you?”

  Rashid dropped his head and shook it slowly from side to side, “Oh, Princess . . . tell us you didn’t.”

  “I told you both that I had to sell at least some of the things to make room for my own,” she exclaimed, snatching her hand from Rashid’s hold. “What does that have to do with blood bubbling up from my floor? I don’t want to talk about the furniture. You guys aren’t listening to me!”

  Abe Morgan let out his breath and walked in a circle, speaking to her without looking directly at her. “Did you accept money from them?”

  “Of course I did,” she said, sounding totally perplexed, “I didn’t give it away.”

  Abe stopped his pacing and stood above her with his arms folded over his chest. “Give the money back. Immediately. You have seventy-two hours, in any contract, to change your mind.”

  Aziza raised herself from the sofa slowly, and Rashid flanked her, helping her up.

  “Okay, I know you didn’t want me to remove Ma Ethel’s furniture from the house, and as an attorney, I know how to get them to give me my furniture back, but I really don’t see—”

  “That’s the point!” her grandfather yelled. “You don’t see.”

  “Don’t take him there, Princess,” Rashid murmured. “Give the people back the money, and—”

  “Why?” she demanded, reaching for the check that was still in her jeans pocket. Brandishing it in front of both men, her voice escalated. “It was a good deal, and more importantly, I’ll need it now to move—since I’m not setting foot back in that haunted house!”

  Abe Morgan carefully took the check from her hand and inspected it, then handed it back to Aziza and Rashid for them to view. “Do you know who you did a deal with?”

  “Of course I do,” she snapped. “They are a reputable firm whom I found over the Internet, and checked up on. They’ve been in business for over a hundred years.”

  “Yes, they have,” Abe muttered. “A lot longer than that.”

  “So, it’s not like it was some fly-by-night folks who robbed me. What does this have to do with blood on the floor?”

  Rashid’s eyes posed the question that his mouth wasn’t ready to ask.

  “Rashid, tell her what that crest is on the check.”

  “It’s, er, uh . . . a demonic pentagram, Princess. A very old one.”

  When Aziza’s jaw went slack, her grandfather pressed on. “Did you invite the person who offered you this check into your house?”

  “Of course I did,” she nearly whispered, her gaze still fastened on the check, and her mind instantly recalling the antique dealer’s ring, and the identical crest on his business cards. “I had to let him in so he could see what I was selling.”

  Abe Morgan frowned and his glare narrowed on Aziza. “Think back, and answer me very specifically. Did he just walk in behind you, or did he ask you for your permission to enter?”

  She hesitated, and again her eyes darted between both men. “He asked me, and waited until I did so,” she murmured. “But he acted weird, and he didn’t want to go through the house,” she added in a more audible tone. “He stopped just inside the front door. We did the deal, and he left.”

  “Uhmmm, hmmm,” the older of the two men grunted with a wave of his hand. “That’s because our Ethel had salted-out, saged, and anointed the place so good, he couldn’t come further into the house. That’s what I have been trying to get through your too-educated-for-your-own-good, stubborn head!”

  Aziza covered her mouth with her hand and new tears brimmed in her eyes. “And,” she admitted in a muffled voice, “he made me clear out all of her little Psalm scraps and herb leaves from everything. . .”

  “Before they touched it,” Rashid said quietly, finishing the sentence for her.

  “No doubt, the room that suffered the greatest loss was the bedroom,” Abe remarked flatly, then turned and walked to the back of the store to turn off the flame under the boiling kettle. “That’s why the bedroom was the epicenter. Tell me the name on the check,” he demanded from across the room. “Then tell me whom you’ve entered into an agreement in principle with.”

  Both Aziza and Rashid looked down at the check, then up at Abe Morgan and shrugged.

  “Some foreigner, obviously into the dark side . . .” Rashid’s voice trailed off.

  Aziza just nodded in agreement.

  “Read me the name!” Abe Morgan demanded, fury singeing his tone.

  “Bezel Robere,” Aziza answered, shrugging again, and glancing at Rashid.

  Abe Morgan just shook his head as he prepared three cups of tea. “He goes by many names, and is always the reverse of what you think is good. Unfortunately, he’s been around a lot longer than a mere hundred years,” Abe sighed, bringing their cups to the table. “Robere can be translated into Robert, which can be contracted into Bob. Conjunct the names, and you have Bezelbob.”

  “Okay, so?” Aziza quipped, growing impatient.

  “And, a bezel is also known as a cutting edge of a chisel, or as something that holds, or captures, if you will, a jewel in place—which you are. You have been cut off from your source of protection, chiseled, and you have been captured by a bezel, my Princess. Or, in plain English, chiseled by a robber—and the best chiseling robber in the damned universe at that, child!” Abe sat down and sipped his tea, motioning for them to join him. When they continued to stand there motionless, he smiled. “Ah, now I have your attention, perhaps even a little respect. Give Bezelbub, otherwise known as Satan, back his offer, and kill your deal with the Devil.” He ignored the audible gasp his comment drew from the young woman before him. “Like I said earlier, you just didn’t listen.”

  “What I saw in the mirror with you last night,” Rashid whispered.

  Abe looked up from the rim of his cup, and set it down carefully. “Ask Rashid one day about listening, seeing. He saw that you both have a purpose. I pray that you haven’t destroyed her items in her sugar chest?”

  Aziza shook her head no, and allowed her hand to reach up and fondle the little bag around her neck.

  “Good,” Abe snorted, then folded his arms. “At least some of your gut instinct is intact. Because first of all, in material terms, a Virginia sugar chest alone would bring four to five thousand dollars at auction. Check it out with Sotheby’s in New York, if you don’t believe this old man. Every item in the house, all total, would be worth more like fifteen thousand dollars per room, since Ethel kept every piece in mint condition. It originated from the spoils of Southern estates and was willed to her by her grandparents, who stayed in the South during and after the Civil War.”

  Both men watched the young woman before them tighten her grip on the bag around her neck. Rashid sighed and took a seat at the table and began to sip his tea.

  “So,” Abe Morgan railed on, “you were indeed also robbed in broad daylight, by a man named Robere—which, not so coincidentally, also sounds like robber, all because you didn’t do your research, counselor. That alone is reason enough to get your grandmother’s furniture back. But there are higher stakes involved, like your p
ersonal safety, to consider. Now what did you do with Ethel’s protections?”

  “Oh, my God . . .” Aziza whispered, and then closed her eyes briefly before edging to the table. “I threw it all out in the trash can in the alley, but trash day isn’t until Wednesday. I can get it back.”

  “But I’m not finished,” the older man croaked. “All of that notwithstanding, the sugar chest holds her anointing oils, remnants of church vestments, purification salts, everything you need to spiritually cleanse her house. Today, we retrieve everything out of the trash, re-purify it, and get it back in the house. Then we’ll have to go through the entire house, stem to stern, and re-cleanse it. Your job will be to work on getting your furniture back, Miss Attorney know-it-all.”

  “But, I can’t stay in there alone,” she whispered, pleading with her eyes for them to understand.

  Rashid and Aziza glimpsed at each other, then turned away to stare at Abe Morgan, who had begun pacing.

  “I might have to go back early before they come for her again,” Abe said quietly, staring at Rashid.

  “Or maybe I’m the one who’s supposed to go,” Rashid said quietly, his gaze slipping from Abe’s to the mirror. “Before they try to hurt her again.”

  “Who?” Aziza whispered. “Who is after me, and why? What have I ever done to anybody?” Her eyes darted between them, and Rashid simply cleared her cup away. “I deserve to know!” she shrieked, standing with them and grabbing her grandfather’s arm. “And what does an old mirror have to do with anything? What are you two talking about? Demons and whatever after me for some antiques in the house? They can have it all!”

  “Ah,” her grandfather said calmly, “but you wouldn’t listen to any of us old souls before. We just spoke of superstition and wives’ tales. Until you increase your faith, learn to control your urges, strengthen your mind—”

  “But Mr. Abe,” Rashid protested, “just like me, in the beginning she didn’t know. Once she sees—”