Shadow Point Skies: Shadow Point, #1

Prologue

Thursday, July 1

The Dark Hallway

SOMEWHERE IN THE SUN-drenched heart of Shadow Point, a tall man in priestly attire approached a white cottage and rapped three times on the door. He listened to the footsteps inside. He saw a spider in a pot on the porch weaving a triangular web between a purple flower, a sprig of green leaves, and a dark berry. He breathed in the summer air and closed his eyes to pray.

Father, you’re here! the young woman said when she opened the door. Everything will be okay now.

I believe it will, Sister Gwendolyn, the priest said. His regal British accent ricocheted off the cedar walls. Where is the girl?

In her bedroom, right through there. Gwendolyn clasped her hands together and forced a smile. Her emotions teetered on the edge of a needle.

While I prepare, the priest said, dropping his bag on a table, I need to ask you some questions.

Ask anything, Father.

How old is Mary Bell?

I believe she’s seventeen, Gwendolyn said.

When did she first start exhibiting the signs of possession?

It’s hard to say. For so long, the signs were subtle. I suppose I knew something was wrong about four weeks ago.

The priest tied the cord on his black robe, removed a book from his bag, and slipped a black velvet pouch into his pocket. Describe the supernatural acts that have been associated with her.

The winds are the most recent. Her room is sealed and the window is down, but sometimes you can feel a wind rush through. Gwendolyn sat down on the sofa. She poured herself a drink from the carafe on the table. Would you like one?

No, thank you.

She gulped the brown liquid and fidgeted with the glass. There are other things. The messages on her chest.

Yes, you mentioned that. What did the messages say?

Things like, ‘Get thee behind me,’ and, ‘I am the way.’

What else have you witnessed?

The fire over her head I told you about. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear her babbling. It’s like a foreign language, and it—

She sobbed. He sat down and put his arm around her.

Do not fear, he said.

I’m sorry. It’s just that she’s been like a little sister to Kendall and me. She relaxed her shoulders in his firm grip. I was going to say that the language sounds like another person. Like it isn’t her voice.

Yes, I understand. Have there been any changes in her life that possibly could have instigated all this?

No, I ... With a gasp, she dropped the empty glass on the floor. Yes! Yes, it was about five or six weeks ago. I’d forgotten all about it!

And what was it? He picked up the glass and set it on the table.

I had gone into town and saw her talking to him. That man. That so-called minister. She squinted in disgust. The one who always tries to change us.

The priest arched his eyebrows. I know the one you mean.

It wasn’t the first time I saw her talking to him.

I think I am beginning to understand. He may have been trying to brainwash her. Obviously, the enemy doesn’t want to see this innocent girl taken in by our side.

The cottage door opened, and another young woman walked in.

What’s going on? She looked at Gwendolyn and the priest.

Kendall, Gwendolyn said, I asked the Father to come over to help Mary Bell like we discussed.

I didn’t know we had decided on that, Kendall said. Gwendolyn came closer to her sister. Kendall could smell the alcohol on her breath.

It’s the only way, Gwendolyn said to her.

Do not worry any longer, the priest said. He wrapped his long fingers around Kendall’s hands in a gesture of comfort. I believe everything will be all right.

The priest and the two sisters went into Mary Bell’s bedroom, where she slept peacefully. Her long, black hair rested on a lace pillow. Her angelic face resembled a fairy tale heroine.

Oh, Mary Bell, Gwendolyn sighed. She held her hand close to the sleeping girl’s forehead but drew it back slowly, as if she were too dangerous to touch.

In the next room, a baby started to cry.

No, I’ll get him, Kendall said, stopping her sister.

The priest stood next to the sleeping girl’s body. He pulled a crucifix from his pocket and placed the wounded head of Christ near her navel. The pierced feet rested on her chest.

Look! Gwendolyn said.

Droplets of blood beaded along the girl’s forehead. She did not wake up. She did not even stir. Bright red stains soaked into the white sheet that covered her hands and feet.

You said the first signs of her possession were subtle, the priest said. What were they?

Very small things, Gwendolyn said. Once in Andover, I saw her giving money to a beggar. And one time, I found a pamphlet in her pocket. It had been neatly folded like she had been reading it. It was about Heaven and how to get there through Jes—  

The priest gnashed his teeth and held up his hand. You mustn’t say it. Do not desecrate this room any further.

Yes, Father. Of course. I’m sorry.

You should have reported all of this to me as soon as it happened. But there is nothing to worry about. Have faith.

A wind gathered force in the corner, but it differed from the wind that had troubled Mary Bell’s room before. It had an oily, gaseous quality. With a sudden humid gust, it blew through, rattling the furniture. It left behind the odor of carrion.

It’s time to start the exorcism, the priest said. He pulled out a vial of water and splashed it over the sleeping girl’s body. By the authority of Satan and the demons of darkness, I command you to release this girl back to the control of her natural self. I command this in the name of the Almighty, the Father of the Night, the Prince of Power!

Gwendolyn took the hand of the Satanic high priest and joined him in his chant. A small, orange flame ignited over the sleeping girl’s head. Another fetid blast of wind blew through, immediately extinguishing it.

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, Micah Austin came warily into his house. He heard the water running at the kitchen sink, but no one was supposed to be here.

Hello? he said. As he approached the sink, he saw a woman who appeared to be washing dishes. Hello? he said again. The woman turned.

Hello, Micah, she said. Her face was waxen.

Mother? he said. His heart raced.

Micah! a man’s voice said. You’re home!

He saw his father, dressed in a black suit, step into the kitchen.

Father? Micah stammered. He was a grown man but was on the edge of crying like a little boy.

We had to come, his mother said. Her lips barely moved. Your father has a message.

It’s very important, Micah. His father put a cold hand on Micah’s trembling shoulder. "Verum Malum. It rages here and now. Be ready, son. Everything depends on you."

Micah didn’t understand. "What do you mean? What depends on me?"

"It all depends on you, his father said. Be ready."

How? Micah said.

Faith, his father said.

Micah’s lower lip quivered. I’m scared, Dad.

Do not be afraid, Micah, his father said. Love.

His mother said, Perfect love casts out fear.

Love never fails, his father said.

God is love, his mother said.

Micah’s father drifted over the floor. He took his wife’s hand, and the couple floated ethereally down the dark hallway. Just before they faded from sight, Micah’s father spun around. A voice that was not his own came from his lips.

335 days, it said.

Micah Austin sat up with a gasp. He clutched the sheets of his bed. He was breathing heavily.

He rubbed his face to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming.

I. Sacred Summer

Chapter 1

Thursday, July 8

The Shadowing

SUMMER, 1976.

The reporter sat back in his chair. He had only been in the office a few minutes. Already he felt at ease. It was a hot day, but the air conditioner in the window behind the minister’s desk blew cool air and made soothing noises.

Tell me about Shadow Point, he said to the young minister.

It’s a small town. Quiet. Peaceful. We’ve got three churches and two libraries. Three if you count the one at Shadow Point College by University Beach.

We’re that close to the ocean? the reporter said.

Yes. As a matter of fact, Carolina Harbor is just a block away from us.

But I had to drive for half an hour through nothing but woods. There was no water in sight.

That’s right, the minister said. The Francis Marion National Forest. The main road cuts right through it. It’s the only way into town. He stood and took a framed map from the wall. See? The Francis Marion goes all the way to the coast, but there’s a notch cut out right here. That’s us. We’re covered on three sides by forest and by coastline on the other. The college is on a barrier island, Shadow Point Island, which is also part of the town. Overall, it’s a nice, tranquil village.

The reporter shook his head. A coastline with one tiny town surrounded by a forest? It seems like such a waste. You people are sitting on prime beach property. You could make a killing.

The minister placed the map back on the wall. If our values were based on greed, you’d probably be right. But we still get our share of tourists and summer people who vacation on the island. Not as many as some other places, but enough to keep the economy strong.

What about work? the reporter asked. What do the people do for a living?

A number of professional folks work in town. Most men work in Andover. There’s an auto plant and steel mill there. The women are mainly teachers, nurses, clerks, and the like. The married ones are mostly housewives.

Naturally, the reporter said with a sneer.

He took a quick look around the minister’s office. Bookshelves covered three of the white walls. A South Carolina flag hung on a pole in the corner. Some bicentennial quarters were stacked on the desk next to a framed picture of an attractive, cinnamon-haired young woman. A mahogany fountain pen rested inside an open Bible. A credenza behind the desk was stocked with classic books like Wuthering Heights, The Great Gatsby, and The Poems of Emily Dickinson. There were also a few college textbooks, including one on astronomy and one on sign language. On top of the credenza was a black-and-white photo of a family of four.

You mentioned Andover, the reporter said. Is that the nearest city?

Yes, it’s a thirty-minute drive from here. Anything we don’t have here, they have there.

Do you have a newspaper?

We do, the minister said. "It’s called The Shadow Point Courier. It runs every day and carries the national news. It’s growing. It’s in a stiff competition with the Andover Sentinel for regional dominance. Of course, it’s still a small staff. I’m sure it’s nothing like The Charlotte Observer."

I’m quite sure of that, the reporter murmured as he scribbled in his leather notebook. What do the people do around here for fun?

Well, the minister said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin, there’s the beach. There’s fishing in the harbor and hunting in the Francis Marion. There’re town picnics pretty regularly. Over near the beach, there’s a bingo parlor. We’ve got basketball hoops and baseball fields and parks. There’s the movie theater and the Dock Street Theater with our own drama company. There’s a skating rink that the kids really like. There are a lot of events at the library, and the students at the college are always putting on concerts or choir recitals. I guess you could say we’re a fairly cultured town. But the center of social life is the church: regular worship, fellowships, revivals, and things like that. There’s always something going on at one of the churches.

And you said Shadow Point has three churches? the reporter asked.

Three real churches. There’s the Carolina Harbor Presbyterian Church, the Willow Hill Anglican Church, which also serves as home to our small Catholic congregation, and us: the All Souls Church of Shadow Point.

"Real churches?"

Pardon?

"You said three real churches. What do you mean by real?"

The minister cleared his throat and stood. We’ll get into that, eventually. Right now, I think it’s time you saw the town for yourself.

THE TWO MEN CLOSED the cobalt-blue doors of the All Souls Church behind them and walked out into the sticky, late-morning air.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed Micah Austin was the pastor of All Souls. At twenty-three, he was the youngest minister that Shadow Point had ever had. The lines of his attractive face were clean-drawn, like his father’s. Like his father, too, the predominant quality he exuded was integrity, the kind that teemed from a sturdy and compassionate heart. This made Micah a popular pastor despite his youth.

Do you like being a minister? Owen Parker asked. He had already loosened his tie and taken off his gray suit coat. He carried it on one finger over his shoulder.

There are aspects of it I like, Micah answered. His black suit and black tie remained intact. I like helping people and teaching them to live by faith. Do you like being a reporter?

I love it, Owen said. I love getting a hot story before anyone else. I love seeing my name in print. I love having my name recognized when I sign the check at a restaurant. It’s my dream job.

Micah smiled. I guess dreams aren’t what they used to be, he thought.

The tall, lean, and handsome Owen Parker was twenty-nine years old. His stylishly cut light brown hair was parted at the side, and it flitted over his forehead in an arrogantly carefree curve. Behind his green eyes was a mind like an encyclopedia, but behind his silk foulard ties was a heart that even his friends believed beat only for himself.

Owen was a prodigy in his field. He had graduated first in his class from the Davidson University School of Journalism and quickly became the Charlotte Observer’s most talented reporter. The ways of a town like Shadow Point were foreign to him, just as they were to much of his paper’s readership. Owen’s task was to investigate Southern suburbia from the shadow of a prominent local figure for a year—learning, living, and communicating the small-town experience. He chose Shadow Point on a tip from a colleague who had once visited and declared the enclave beautiful.

Let’s walk down Pitt Street, Micah said. It’s the ‘Main Street’ of Shadow Point. It’ll take us downtown.

Lead the way, Owen said.

WHEN THEY REACHED THE corner of Pitt and Plum, Owen stopped.

Who lives there? he said.

He was looking up at a three-story antebellum home. It was yellow with black shutters and had an enormous front lawn with plush grass and mossy oak trees inside a white picket fence.

No one, Micah said. Judge Milliken lived in it until a couple of years ago. He died and left no family behind. It’s probably the nicest home in town, though it’s gotten a little run down. Do you like it? It can be yours if the price is right.

It’s marvelous, but I’m sure the price is beyond my means.

Probably no more than a penthouse apartment in downtown Charlotte. Plus, you get that beautiful, big veranda. If you put a couple of rocking chairs up there, every evening, you can sit, listen to the crickets, and wave to folks while they walk down the sidewalk.

That sounds incredibly boring, Owen said. He looked at Micah. Are you trying to get me to stay here beyond my allotted year, Reverend? Because it ain’t gonna happen. I’d take that penthouse apartment on upper Tryon Street every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Micah nodded. We’ll see if you still feel that way come next July.

AFTER A TOUR OF DOWNTOWN, they got into Micah’s sky-blue Chevy Malibu and drove over the Middle Street Bridge onto Shadow Point Island. Soon, a large ancestral building surrounded by a wrought-iron fence came into view.

This is my alma mater, Micah said. Shadow Point College.

Very nice, Owen said. I’m impressed with the ivy-league ambiance. It actually looks like a respectable college.

"It is a respectable college," Micah said.

I thought it was a Christian school.

Micah forced a grin. It might not be Davidson, but it provides an excellent education.

Well, it certainly is an attractive campus, Owen said, craning his head to watch two co-eds in bright SPC tank tops walk down the oak-lined avenue.

They drove into a parking space in front of a gabled green and white building. This is the dormitory where my cousin lives, Micah said. They went inside and walked up the carpeted staircase to a second-floor room. When the door opened, standing in front of Owen was a short, wavy-haired, wide-eyed girl of nineteen, pale, smiling, and beautiful. It was the same girl in the picture on Micah’s desk.

Hi, she said.

Hello, said Owen, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Hi, Ellie, Micah said. He reached out to hug her. Is it all right if we come in a second? Is everything clear?

Well, October’s gone, Daniel has canceled on me yet again, and I’m fully dressed, so I guess it’s as clear as it can be. Come on in.

As Ellen ushered them into the enormous room, Owen looked at her more carefully. She wore an orange challis dress patterned with tiny flowers. It had a tie belt, puffed sleeves, and a lace-trimmed collar. Her outfit, like her smile, reminded him of a childhood summer.

You must be Mr. Parker, she said. I’m Ellen Austin. Micah told me you’d be coming today.

You can call me Owen, he said, shaking her hand. Is it ‘Ellen’ or ‘Ellie’? I thought when we came in, Micah said—

Micah’s the only one who calls me Ellie. My real name is Eleonora, but people call me Ellen.

Ellen had long, cinnamon hair and complementary eyes of translucent amber. On the outside, everything was complementary. She was skillfully created, like a marble kore sculpture. She radiated a luminous, nostalgic beauty that no one ever viewed just once: her appearance always invited a second glance. On the inside, things were not as elegantly designed.

Eleonora, Owen said. That’s an interesting name.

Ellen and Micah exchanged glimpses.

Ellie’s mother, Micah said, was an interesting person. His eyes moved from wall to wall. Isn’t this a nice dorm room?

It’s beautiful. Owen touched a wicker chair. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting such a nice college ... here.

Ellen tilted her head. Because Shadow Point is such a backward town?

Well, no, that’s not—

I’m sure you have nice things in Charlotte, too, she said. Nice bars, lovely lounges, beautiful back alleys ...

Owen smirked, though he wasn’t sure she was joking.

It’s all right, Owen, Micah said, patting him on the back. She’s just a little skeptical of big city outsiders. You’ll be seeing a lot of her. Ellie and I aren’t only cousins. We’re also best friends.

Inseparable, Ellen said.

Like bacon and eggs, Micah said.

What is your major? Owen asked her.

Music, she said. I play the cello.

The cello? Very cultured.

Surprised? Ellen said.

A little, I admit, Owen said. Sort of like when you’re on a farm, and the goats recite poetry. Ellen’s cheeks grew scarlet while Owen laughed. I’m sorry. That didn’t come out at all the way I intended.

Ellen whispered to Micah, I wonder if his mother said the same thing on the day he was born.

Owen ambled around the room. On the fireplace mantle were several pictures. He pointed to one of Ellen, Micah, and a middle-aged man and woman.

Your parents? he asked Ellen.

Micah’s, she said. But they were like my own.

Do they live in Shadow Point?

Ellen and Micah looked at each other again.

Not exactly, Micah said. I’ll ... save that story for another day.

Owen picked up another picture frame. It was a photo of Ellen and Micah on either side of a young girl. Who is this?

Ellen turned to Micah. In another whisper, she said, Have you told him? Micah shook his head. Ellen took the frame from Owen’s hands and put it back on the mantle. Maybe we should talk about other things.

Owen raised an eyebrow. The things hiding beneath the surface of Micah and Shadow Point were accumulating. I thought I came over to meet you. What better way to get to know someone than by their photographs?

Usually that’s true, she said, but at our first meeting, it feels a little intrusive.

You have the pictures sitting out for anyone to see, Owen said. If you don’t want questions, maybe you should hide them.

Maybe you should—

Okay, Micah said, maybe we could look at a different picture. Here’s one of Ellen with her boyfriend, Daniel.

Owen looked at it and gave a low whistle. Lovely dress. Junior prom?

College ball, Ellen said tartly. Her distrust of Owen Parker was sprouting into full-blown dislike.

He’s a good-looking guy. You make an attractive couple.

The most important thing about Daniel, she said, "is that he’s attractive on the inside."

Owen grimaced. Too bad you can’t take a picture of someone’s soul.

If you could, Ellen said, yours would probably—

Hey, look at the great view of the campus she’s got from this window, Micah interjected. He was desperate to get the conversation on a friendlier track. You can see all the way to the ocean.

Owen noticed a wooden cross on Ellen’s dresser. Is that for hanging your necklaces?

Ellen gritted her teeth. It’s a cross. It’s a symbol of Christianity. Are you familiar with it?

I’m familiar with lots of myths, he said.

You think Christianity is a myth? she said.

It has all the hallmarks: agonizing deaths, places of torment, devilish beings ...

Things that I am becoming intimately aware of as this conversation wears on, Ellen said.

Her words were starting to infuriate him, and he could feel the acid in his nature beginning to burn. He crossed his arms. Very amusing. And quite caustic. So much for Southern hospitality. I guess the cross is just for show, then?

Micah shut his eyes.

"How dare you call into question my faith! Ellen cried. What right do you think you have to walk into my room and make judgments about my beliefs?"

You give me the right by your words, Owen said. Have you listened to yourself since I’ve come into this room? You had me judged before you ever laid eyes on me.

True, she said. "I assumed you’d be a narcissistic boor. Boy, was I way off!"

Now you’re sounding like a real Christian, he said.

"Well, Mr. Parker, it is precisely because I am a Christian that I’ve let you stay this long without throwing you out, but your time has now expired. She flung open the door. There was a momentary silence before she added sweetly, Goodbye, Micah. I’ll call you later." 

When the door slammed behind them, Owen flinched. At the newspaper, he had treated underlings with contempt for years, but he had never had it thrown back into his face like that.

Once in the car and on the way back into town, Micah finally spoke. Well, I think that went well, don’t you?

What is her problem? Owen said.

"What is her problem? Micah said. You were being rude."

Rude? Me? That’s laughable. She started it.

Are you going to apologize to her? 

Hah! That’s even more laughable. There was a long pause. Do you think I should?

I think you’d better. This year will be a disaster for both of us if you don’t.

BY THE TIME MICAH AND Owen returned to the church, it was past noon.

Is there a place to get a bite to eat around here? Owen said. I’m starving.

Sure. After a long hesitation, Micah said, We’ll eat at Granny’s Tea Room.

They walked down Pitt Street, away from the town square, until they stood before a winding dirt path cutting through a dense pine forest. Owen glanced down the trail as far as he could. There wasn’t a house in sight. A large, white wooden sign with brown letters at the front of the path read Albemarle. 

What’s this? Owen said.

I wanted to show it to you right up front.

What about it? It’s just a dirt road leading into some woods.

Micah looked down the twisting pathway. It’s not just woods. Albemarle is a commune. Everyone who lives there is a witch.

A witch?

They belong to a Satanic cult. It’s called a coven.

Owen grinned. You’re kidding. You’re testing me.

I wish I were, Micah said. Come on. I’ll explain over lunch.

AVEN ASHWORTH ENTERED the cottage without knocking. The two girls on the velvet couch immediately stood.

Father! they said.

His black cape ruffled as he motioned to them. Please, sit down. I’m here to see how Sister Mary Bell is doing. His eyes fell upon the thin, black-haired girl on the left. Have you completely recovered from the exorcism, Sister? He walked across the meager room and stood in front of the girls. They nestled closer. Their black dresses rustled.

Yes, Father. Mary Bell watched him with aquamarine eyes. She felt like she was looking straight up. No setbacks to speak of. Kendall here has been a great support.

Excellent, he said in his low, British voice. How are you, Sister Kendall?

I’m well, Father, the flaxen-haired girl on the right said.

Where is your sister?

She went out to the garden, I believe, Kendall said, a faint tremor in her words.

And the child? Aven said.

He’s asleep.

The priest stared down his aquiline nose at the two girls for a long time. Mary Bell crossed her thin legs. Her calves were covered with striped red and white stockings. Kendall’s gaze never left Aven’s penetrating eyes.

As you both know, Aven said, this is a most important year. It will require everyone’s cooperation and obedience.

Yes, Father, the girls said.

He reached out with his long fingers and touched their faces.

You have both been so very dedicated in your tasks, as has Sister Gwendolyn, but there is still much yet to accomplish. He subtly pressed their faces closer to one another. I want to see you both in my home tonight before service. Let us say ten o’clock. His fingers crawled across their skin until he held their faces in his palms. We will drink the black wine together.

They continued to stare at him, trembling. Their faces were so close their lips were nearly touching. He slowly rubbed his thumbs across them.

Yes, Father, they said in unison.

GRANNY’S TEA ROOM WAS in a small wooden building a few yards beyond Albemarle. Inside, wrought iron decorations and sepia photographs embellished the cedar walls. It was a dark and quiet place. Micah and Owen were the only customers.

So tell me about this witch thing. Owen dipped a butter cracker into a small pan of crab dip and sat back to listen. Micah sipped on sweet iced tea as he told the story.

"Aven Ashworth supposedly killed his parents in 1959. No one could prove it, but people suspected he poisoned them. The Ashworths were a wealthy family but strange and aloof. When the parents died, it was revealed they had belonged to a secret demonic cult, and their son no longer wanted to keep it a secret. Aven inherited everything, including the Albemarle tract, which, back then, was just a pine forest. He began turning Albemarle into a Satanic commune, anointing himself as its high priest.

"Obviously, the town deplored the idea. People suggested to Aven in no uncertain terms that he take his coven elsewhere. Some were willing to give him twice what his land was worth to get him to leave, but it was to no avail. There were laws and court battles and conflicts, but in the end, Ashworth and the coven stayed.

"Eventually, an uneasy coexistence was forged that has persisted ever since. It helps that the commune is self-sufficient. Aven claims that he doesn’t want his people to be tainted by the evil of Christianity any more than we want to be defiled by witchcraft and Satanism. Albemarle has its own little one-room schoolhouse, and they grow most of their own food, so the members rarely mingle with the townspeople. They even run their own restaurant. This one. Granny’s Tea Room. It’s popular with tourists but not so popular with locals.

Mutual disdain smolders under the surface, Micah concluded, but for now, there’s peace.

Owen wiped his mouth with a napkin and set it on his lap. It seems like we ran a story on covens a year or two ago. Only I remember it being a bunch of oddballs praying to Mother Goddess or something.

"There are several kinds of groups and covens, each with different tenets. I think you’re talking about Wiccans. Albemarle is not like that. They’re serious Satan-worshipers, though they say his name a bit differently than we do. They pronounce it Sah-TAHN."

Something about hearing the name made Owen shiver. That’s eerie.

We call the adherents ‘covenites,’ Micah said. Most people think they’re just a bunch of drugged-out hippies following a charismatic cult leader, but I believe there’s much more to it than that.

Sounds like Charles Manson stuff. Are they dangerous?

Micah’s gesture was noncommittal. If they are, it’s not in the same way.

How so?

Manson’s group was about Manson. Aven’s is about Satan.

A young waitress in a black dress brought two plates of food and set them down without a word.

STEPPING WITH MICAH from the sidewalk to the green grass of the church lawn, Owen paused to take a closer look at the building.

All Souls was a white, wooden edifice built in the classic American architecture of early eighteenth-century churches. Though it wasn’t as old as that, it felt older. Every plank and pew seemed to possess its own history. Yet far from having a dreary, museum-like presence, the All Souls Church felt somehow alive, organic, and filled with vitality.

A set of wide steps led to the front porch, where four tall pillars held up the black shingled roof. A high steeple in three sections ascended into the air with a cross fixed at the top. The double cobalt-blue doors opened into the back of the rectangular sanctuary. Micah and Owen went inside.

An aisle separated two sets of oak pews. The elevated ceiling rose to an angular point down the middle of the church. The hardwood floor creaked as they walked on it. Eight high, clear windows were on either side of the building. Two more were at the back.

At the front of the church were the altar and pulpit. Behind them was the choir loft, where as many as fifty voices sang out every Sunday. A giant cross made from wild, rugged wood hung on the front wall. Around it were dozens of organ pipes. A door near the altar led to the church’s other rooms.

Tell me how it’s possible, Owen said when they were back in Micah’s office, that there is an actual coven of witches in such a halcyon little town.

Let’s start with the background of some of the covenites, Micah said. There’s a waitress at the Tea Room named Mary Bell. As a child, an intruder broke into her house. She saw him torture and murder her mother and father. The killer left, and she was alone in the house with their bodies for seven days.

How did she survive?

She drank their blood, Micah said. Those are the kinds of vulnerable people that Aven Ashworth preys on.

Do you know all the witches?

No, just a few. We estimate that there are between thirty and forty of them. The majority are young women. I only know the few who actually venture out of Albemarle from time to time.

They never leave?

They do on Saturdays, but we don’t usually see them. They leave early in the morning and return past dark. They take horse-drawn carriages into Andover to sell their goods at the farmers’ market.

They don’t use cars?

They reject most modern conveniences, Micah said.

Do you know Aven?

Oh, yes, Micah said. We don’t get along. He hates that I try to witness to his members.

‘Witness’?

Try to talk with them about God. Usually, that’s what I do whenever I go into the Tea Room. That’s why the waitress there today was silent. They’ve been ordered not to speak with me.

Owen shook his head. This is quite a town you’ve got here. Not at all what I was expecting.

Unfortunately, I’ve been sharing the dark side with you for a while. I want you to see its goodness. Let’s ride around town and meet a few more people.

MICAH PULLED HIS CAR next to a small brick building called the Christian Thrift Shop.

It’s a Christian book and gift store, Micah said. Mr. Banner started it back in the fifties. He died last year. His wife runs it now.

Micah and Owen entered to the jingle of a bell on the door. They were anticipating a shriveled woman of eighty to appear from behind a shelf. Instead, they were greeted by a fresh-faced girl of twenty-one.

Miss Appleton, Micah said. How do you do? We expected Mrs. Banner.

How do you do, Reverend? she said in a bright, soprano voice. Mrs. Banner stayed home today. Her varicose veins were screaming bloody murder.

Micah and the girl shared a glance of mutual disgust. I’ll put her on the prayer list. This is Owen Parker. Owen, this is Dawn Appleton. She recently graduated from the college, and she sings in the choir at church. She has a lovely voice.

Dawn was a girl who looked like she had just stepped out of a colorful, sun-struck Kodachrome slide. She wasn’t like Ellen, who made heads turn when she walked, but she possessed a sweet, simple, rustic allure, like a perfect daisy. Her straight, shiny brown hair rippled like a field of wheat when she moved, and she spoke with the slightest tinge of a Southern accent.

That’s very kind of you to say, she said. Her glistening summer-blue eyes lingered on Micah before passing over to Owen.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Owen said. He shook