#wellsortof

Max thumped his head back against the seat of his car and groaned.

“Come on, man, what are you missing here?” He asked aloud, bouncing his head against the headrest, trying to jar loose it’s mechanisms. He sighed, drumming his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel. No one answered him, of course, because Max hunted alone. He had always hunted alone. But right about now he was thinking about how nice it would be to bounce some ideas off of someone else. He glanced down at his phone, resting in the console of the beat up Jeep, and thought momentarily of making a phone call to one of his fellow hunters, or maybe just his Mom.  He shook his head slightly, disrupting an unruly wisp of brown hair, and slipped it back behind his ear. “Don’t be weak, Max.” He had been following a pack of werewolves that had stirred up trouble in a small town in Iowa, when he sensed a strange surge of power somewhere in the mountains of Tennessee. The pack had been quiet for weeks, so Max had weighed his options and decided that the pack would be fine and, if not, they would come in range of another sentinel before too long. This spike of magic was huge and would draw the attention of any sentinel for hundreds and hundreds of square miles, but this town was so far away from the major population centers that he wasn’t sure if anyone would sense enough of it to come looking. Besides, things in the cities had been getting strange and dark over the past several months, and he thought he was due for some quiet time in the mountains. While the magic had been immense, it was also very brief, and may not have had much significance. Still, something felt off, and he couldn’t just let it pass.

Max had not expected to find a moderately sized town in the middle of the mountains, located not far from a moderately sized city. Still, he hadn’t encountered anything more supernatural than some teenagers on methamphetamine and was at a loss. It had been two days since he’d felt the initial spike that had drawn him here, and now everything was silent. He had checked the local news outlets for anything that might smell like powerful witchcraft. He’d checked for any strange activity with local crops or farm animals and found nothing. There were no mysterious deaths, no mass murders or mass suicides, and no signs of occult activity anywhere.  

Bored and more than a little frustrated, Max had decided to go deeper into the mountains to an off-the-beaten-path “mystery spot”.  Places like these were often centered on lines of occult energy, so he thought it might be the source of his little mystery power-surge. Perhaps a local coven had used the nexus as a hub for a little more juice in the tank of whatever spell they performed. He’d spent most of the afternoon searching for something, anything, and had decided to stakeout the place overnight just to feel like he was doing something.  He sat there in the dark, alternating between beating his head on the steering wheel and the headrest, when he caught the faintest hint of power stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. Max stiffened and focused intently on the tingle of energy, then smacked himself on the forehead. Another surge of power was building, and it definitely wasn’t here. “You damn fool!” He raged at himself, cranking the keys and slamming the Jeep into gear, ignoring the grind of the transmission. “You never should have left town! What the hell were you thinking? You can’t be patient, just for one more damn day?” 

And so, Max found himself speeding back towards town berating himself when a wave of energy crashed over him so powerful it caused him to drift partially off the road. He cursed, guiding the truck back to safety and took a slow, gulping breath to calm himself. “Sorry, old girl.” He said, patting the dashboard and slowing his pursuit. “Sorry, but this one is a doozie.”  The energy was still there, deep and powerful, but not quite as forceful now. It was strange and difficult to identify, but he thought it had to be witchcraft.  His ears began to ring and a faint headache started in his left temple. 

What kind of witch lives alone and sits on that kind of power?  He pondered and didn’t like the answers that came to him. This magic was different yet similar in a way he couldn’t quite place. The initial spike had been short, sudden, and powerful. This was longer and ebbed and flowed, seeming to take its time and stretch its limits. He raced towards the source and followed the surge to the east end of town. 

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. He sat, dumbfounded and numb at the sudden loss of supernatural pressure. “FUCK!” he bellowed, slapping the steering wheel. He was suddenly exhausted and his head still ached. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He punctuated each curse with a slam of his fist against the innocent wheel, then ran his hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing on end. “Why did you leave town, you stupid, stupid ass!” He had been so close he was practically in the neighborhood, but now he was just as far from his source as when he’d started this whole damn investigation. He heaved a few dramatic false sobs and put his face in his hands. 

He sat that way for several minutes, trying to gather himself. He’d never experienced anything like that type of power before and certainly nothing so potent. It had caused him physical pain as he’d approached, like he was pushing into a wall of electricity. It both beckoned him to it and pushed him away. Most “calls”, as his mother had named them, were more like an instinct than a sense of power. He had dealt with covens in the past, and this didn't feel like that either. Over time, he had learned how to pick up the scent of a werewolf or vampire or wendigo and follow it often great distances if need be. But every magic user was different and left a different type of trail. Earth magic was different from fire magic or air magic, and a shaman wasn’t the same as a witch. And gods forbid if he ever caught the trail of blood magic again. Max shuddered at the thought. But even the blood coven hadn’t produced anything similar to this.  If a coven of witches couldn’t produce that much power, what could he possibly be facing now? 

That gave him an idea. He straightened and started driving in the direction he had felt earlier, following the ghost of power as close as he could before the trail went completely cold. It led him to a small, dilapidated appearing neighborhood close to the railroad tracks. Nothing appeared amiss - no giant crater or flashing sign that said “Evil Coven Meeting tonight” anywhere to be seen. He sat at a four-way stop, searching the houses and yards for any sign of movement. 

He had just decided to make a slow drive-through of the neighborhood when something slammed against the passenger side of his door.  Max yelped in surprise, grabbing his pistol out of its concealed holster. A hand grabbed the front fender of the truck and used it to pull up. A disheveled man staggered to his feet using the hood of the vehicle to steady himself. He waved an apologetic hand at Max and started to walk around the front of the car, muttering and mumbling to himself. Max’s eyes caught on the streak of blood left by the man’s hand. He cranked down his window. “Hey Buddy, are you okay?”

The man jumped and turned to look at him, as though he had been completely unaware he’d just ran into the side of a car. Max pointed to the man’s bleeding hand. He raised it to look at it, like it was something alien and strange. Max realized that two of the man’s fingernails had been torn completely off, and recently judging by the amount of blood. He turned off the Jeep and tucked his gun into his pants. “Dude, what happened to you?” Max asked as the man continued to study his hand like he’d never seen one before. He started to mutter again, but he wasn’t close enough for Max to make out the words. “I’m sorry man, can you speak up a little?” 

When the man didn’t respond, Max opened the door to approach him, hands out as though he was trying to calm an animal. “Sir?” Max began, softly. He reached out and brushed the man’s hand. The moment their skin connected the man threw both of his arms up over his head and started shrieking in terror. “No! No! No!” He howled. “No, don’t hurt me, I won’t do it again.” Max flinched back, instantly on high alert and scanning the surrounding houses. He saw porch lights flick on from the nearest house. He mentally cursed, but resumed his earlier stance and put his hands up in a calming manner. “What won’t you do again, friend?” Max asked, but the stranger kept repeating the last sentence again and again, quietly now.  “If you mean hit my car, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure she hurt you more than you hurt her.” 

He tried to smile, but the figure wasn’t hearing him anymore. Max saw movement from the house nearby and heard a door clatter shut. A flashlight came on and was pointed in their general direction. Max waved, trying to dissuade the onlooker, but the flashlight began bobbing towards them and he sighed. He knew better than to attempt touching the man again, but he approached him once more, looking for more signs of struggle. The man’s face was scratched, and some of what he had assumed earlier to be mud was actually dried blood. His shirt was torn, like someone had tried to rip it off of him and failed. Each injury may have been done to him, but he could have easily done it himself as well. There was no evidence he had been tied or handcuffed, nor any sign of being beaten or stabbed. Max couldn’t be sure if he sensed any hint of magic from him, but felt fairly confident this man was not his source of power. Power did often drive people mad however, so he wasn’t entirely ruling him out. “Buddy, do you know your name? Can I help you get home?” Max asked, gently. By now the figure with the flashlight was approaching and called out to them. “You folks okay?” drawled a man’s voice, with an edge of concern. “I’m not sure. This guy ran into my car while I was stopped. I saw he was bleeding and got out to check him, but when I touched him he just went nuts.” Max called. Flashlight man was close now, and Max could make out a large white man in plaid pajama bottoms and a stained white t-shirt. He swung his flashlight over the bum’s back and then over Max. “You from around here?” Flashlight man asked.

“No, just passing through and I got lost. I was stopped at the sign to look up directions when this guy came out of nowhere and ran into my car. I didn’t see where he came from or…” he trailed off. Flashlight man’s light finally swept over the bum’s face and he swore. “That’s my neighbor, Ray.” Flashlight man said. “I just saw him earlier today and he looked fine. Holy shit.” He knelt next to him and reached for him. “Ray, are you okay man? “I wouldn’t do that.” Max cautioned and Flashlight man paused. He wiped his free hand across his face and shook his head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe it.” He said, shaking his head. “That’s just so sad. I don’t know what Cindy is going to do now. First Billy and now this.” Max straightened. “I’m sorry, I’m not following. Who’s Billy?” “Oh.” Flashlight man said, still shaking his head forlornly. “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know.” He sighed and sucked in a breath, as though he was going to deliver some terrible news. “Two days ago, Cindy and Ray’s son Billy drowned in the creek back behind the neighborhood. I knew they were torn up, but I didn’t realize...I mean…” he trained off, wiping his brow again and shaking his head once more, a nervous tick of his, Max surmised. “Does Ray have a history of mental illness?” Every instinct Max had was tingling. This was it! This had to be connected to his case.

“What?” Flashlight man began and Max motioned to the figure cowering on the ground. “Oh, no, not that I know of. I mean he has a temper and he drinks too much, but nothing like this. At least not that I know about.” He was reaching for his cellphone. “I’m going to call an ambulance and see if we can get him some help.”  Max nodded. “Do you think we should go get his wife?” Max asked. Flashlight man shook his head and motioned to the phone as he began speaking. Let them do it. Max didn’t disagree. Dealing with grieving mothers and widows was his least favorite part of the job.