Voodoo Mayhem

VOODOO MAYHEM

Bryce Warren

2012

THIS IS A BRYCE WARREN BOOK

Copyright © September 2012 by Bryce Warren

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Sequel to: 

The Mortician’s Daughter and Beneath the Mausoleum.

Printed in the United States of America

www.lulu.com

Cover design and photo by Morgan Peterson

Author photo by Olan Mills

Inside drawings and back cover design by Bryce Warren

ISBN 978-1-300-16039-7

First Edition

Acknowledgments

Thanks again to my dad, Richard Warren, for the final proofreading (any errors are mine).  Thanks to Morgan Peterson for the fantastic cover art!  Also, thanks to my readers for their continuous support!  Finally, a special thanks to Amber Nicole for allowing me to use her name for a character.

Notes

Originally this book was meant to be the ending of Beneath the Mausoleum, but I knew it would take longer to write and would leave my readers waiting too long.  I decided to make Voodoo Mayhem the final book in a trilogy instead.  I’m glad I did because it gave me more time to develop a better conclusion.

While writing the beginning of Voodoo Mayhem, I listened to Crystal Castles.  For most of the rest of the novel I listened to everything by Interpol, especially their self-titled album.  For intense scenes I listened to Nine Inch Nails.

VOODOO MAYHEM

Empties

. . . I will open your graves and bring you up from them, and restore you . . .

Ezekiel 37, 12-14

Chapter 1

The graves didn’t stay empty for long.  Kevin Due watched Ed the cathedral caretaker and Carl the homeless guy bury a stack of dead bodies.  Carl drove the Bobcat forward a few feet, leaving the engine running, and then placed the vehicle in park.  He lurched from the Bobcat and helped the caretaker unload the bucket attached at the back, one corpse at a time.

Garrote oversaw the process with gleeful detachment.

Kevin adjusted his binoculars, focusing them for clarity.  He saw the men tossing the dead people into each grave like they were heavy sides of beef.  The blood-red sunset gave enough light so Kevin could see the dust rise from each grave and hang in the funereal gloom.

When all of the graves were filled, Carl detached the bucket from the Bobcat and began filling the graves.  The tree no longer made a good viewing spot for Kevin.  The encroaching darkness made him squint to see what was going on.  He would have to move in closer if he wanted to see anything.

The trees in Covedale Cemetery already dropped their first few October leaves.  The air felt crisp and nippy.  Kevin wished he’d worn a heavier jacket, but his light black one was his darkest and would have to do.

The slight wind blew through the trees, making the leaves whisper.  Darkness had swept in more quickly than Kevin had expected.  Now he found it difficult to maneuver through the headstones without bumping into one or two on his way to hide by the side of the shed.

When the graves were filled, Carl took the Bobcat and bucket back to the shed.  He came back out after parking it and swung the front door shut, snapping the padlock into place.  Kevin listened for the sounds of Carl’s footsteps, ready to bolt if he was spotted.  But Carl continued to walk away from the shed and toward the house in the cemetery.  Kevin peered from around the corner, watching all three men leave the fresh graves behind and enter the Gothic structure that belonged to the groundskeeper.  Kevin wondered if the groundskeeper was still around.

Moments later, a dark robed figure appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere.  Kevin believed he must have come from inside the house, but he couldn’t be certain.  The robed figure approached the mass number of graves and reached into the side pockets of his robe.  Kevin noticed that the figure also wore a dark hood that made it look as though there was no face behind the black cowl.  The hooded man pulled out his bone-white hands and reached out to the grave on the right to sprinkle a red powdery substance.  He did the same to the grave on his left and continued down the rows until each grave had been sprinkled liberally.

Kevin thought, Looks like Garrote is bringing on the voodoo.

Moira Westlake got more than a few stares as she wound her way through the maze of girls in the hallways of St. Ursula’s School for Girls.

O-M-G, one girl stated, separating each letter with a short pause in order to convey her maximum astonishment.

Other girls, all clad in their obligatory Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, turned to look in time to see Moira’s new fashion statement.  She dressed basically the same as the other girls; however, she preferred to add her own accessories.  Today she sported Day-Glo green Converse hi-tops, white tube socks with black and red stripes, and a purple and black striped scarf wrapped around her neck, one end hanging in front and one in back.  But that was not what disturbed her onlookers.

Her face featured one black eye, replete with dark black and purple bruising that spread to the top of her cheekbone and up to her eyebrow.  In addition, both sides of her chin appeared as though someone had grabbed ahold of her lower jaw at either side of her mouth in order to make a violent point clear.  Besides that, she had cut her raven black dye-job hair into an unconventional bob with sharp jutting locks and pink baby-doll barrettes accenting her face.

Amy Denton sat in her room at the University of Cincinnati Hospital’s psych ward.  She knew something was wrong with her, but she wasn’t mentally ill.  She had moments of lucidity, but she couldn’t remember what happened to get her here in the first place.  She turned her arms over and inspected her wrists for slits.  No damage there.  She knew she hadn’t attempted suicide.  She wouldn’t take pills to kill herself because she had a hard enough time swallowing her daily multi-vitamin. 

The meds they gave her started kicking in.  She had to take those more than once a day, but she couldn’t remember how many times a day.  They were even more difficult to swallow.  Horse pills.  She felt sleep washing over her, so she went back to her bed and lay down. 

Then, everything went black.

Greg Foster sat in his apartment on the couch amidst several stacks of beer cans on his coffee table.  A soccer game on TV reminded him of Amy Denton and the other girls from the English class he once taught who played on St. Ursula’s soccer team.  He wondered absently, as his mind sloshed around from the alcohol, how the team was doing this year.  Not that he really cared anymore.  Losing his job to a senseless rumor, spread by another teacher (his own girlfriend!) left him hopeless and empty about his future. 

Then a knock at the door startled him out of his misery.

Chapter 2

The sub for Mr. Foster’s English class told Moira, Please go to the restroom and wash off that makeup.

The other girls in the room, including Renee, were astonished.  They thought Moira really did get beat up.  No one had any idea who had jumped her, but several rumors had already made the rounds of St. Ursula’s School for Girls.  Some said it had been Renee, but knowing it wasn’t, she denied it.

Moira stood there staring down the incompetent substitute teacher wishing Mr. Foster would get his job back and save them all from this pathetic excuse for an English teacher.  She made her way out the door as several girls snickered and giggled.  She turned to look at Renee, who was already looking directly at her, a slight sneer curling her upper lip.

Inside the restroom, Moira decided to use the toilet first.  Then she washed her hands and inspected her victim look.  Not a bad job on the makeup, she thought, if I do say so myself!  She turned the hot water up and began to scrub away the makeup under her eyes and on her chin.

She looked back up into the mirror and noted that the black and blue marks on her chin, beneath either side of her cheeks, did not wash away.  Her step-father, Steve Westlake had left those marks.

She dried her face with the rough brown paper towels the school cheaply supplied, blotting so she wouldn’t chafe her face.  After bunching the towels up into balls, she let them fall to the floor.  Let the janitors clean it up, she thought, frustrated.  Then she reconsidered. Should probably throw that away.  I like the janitor here.  She’s actually nice to me.  She bent down, picked it up and sank the shot for two points.

Outside the restroom, Moira felt unbalanced.  A wave of dizziness made her reach for the wall at the end of the hallway next to the restroom door.  She felt her hand slip against the cool white tile from clamminess.  In the distance, she thought she saw a shadowy figure down the hallway.

The walls seemed to close in on her, or maybe she was about to pass out.  Moira reached for something to keep from falling.  The shadow was heading her way.  Not this again, Moira thought.

Her arms fell to her sides then began to float out and upward.  She felt light as she noticed herself standing on the balls of her feet.  Her toes suddenly left the floor as she levitated slowly upwards.

Her eyes rolled back revealing only the whites.  Her hair spread out as though struck by static electricity.  Her arms stood out ramrod straight like wings lifting her slowly into the air.  As she hovered an inch from the ceiling, a fluorescent light behind her flickered and lit up behind her head like a halo.

At her feet stood Renee, who had excused herself