Prologue
SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 2003
What haunts her still is the howl—a wild, animallike cry of pain more piercing than a catamount’s bone-chilling scream. Instinctively, she knew it came from her mother, and she was scared. She did not like the woods when it was dark, and as a young child she was petrified of being alone. To this day, she’s still afraid to be by herself, the horror of what unfolded that night having scarred her forever.
* * *
“Did Ellen give you a special tea?” her mother asked before heading into the deeper part of the forest. “Did the tea make you sleepy?”
Astraea feared Mean Ellen might kidnap her again and put her in the scary room if she tattled. So she didn’t reply.
Mama mumbled a naughty word and stroked her daughter’s wispy hair. “It’s all right, sweetie. You can stay here while I go find the turtle.”
A bad thing had happened at the turtle earlier. Astraea rubbed her bare ankles to erase the creepy sensation of tentacles gripping her feet, pulling her into the earth below. She shouldn’t have gone into the woods barefoot. If she’d been a good girl and obeyed the rules, Mama wouldn’t have been upset and they wouldn’t have had to come here right away.
This was all her fault.
Terrified to be alone, Astraea clutched her mother’s legs. “Please don’t leave me,” she begged with a whimper.
“Don’t worry. This won’t take long. I’ll be right back.”
“No!” Astraea squeezed harder. She and her mother were a team. Mama said so. They were each other’s world and no power could keep them apart. Why couldn’t they just go home? Why couldn’t she show Mama the spot by the turtle tomorrow?
Mama pushed back her hood and unclasped her necklace. Prying off her daughter’s grip, she pressed the smooth stone into Astraea’s palm and sealed it with a kiss. “Keep this safe for me until I return. But you must stay where you are. If you wander off, I won’t be able to find you and you will be lost.”
Astraea was delighted and amazed. This was Mama’s pendulum. It was magic. She let Astraea play with it on very rare occasions. Mama would never leave her pendulum. She’d definitely be coming back.
Her mother vanished silently down the path, and in her black robe she soon became indistinguishable from the trees. Astraea tried to focus on where she went, but she was so tired, so very, very tired from Ellen’s tea. She found it impossible to keep her eyes open, and soon the revelers’ whoops and chants in the distance lulled her to sleep under the honeysuckle. Grown-ups were gathered around the commune bonfire to celebrate the summer solstice, the mystical night when sprites and fairies and even gods disguised themselves as humans to join in the festivities.
The howl jolted her awake. Startled and confused, Astraea stayed put as she’d been instructed. But what if her mother was hurt? Surely if Mama was in serious trouble she would want Astraea to find her. Yes, she was scared, but she was also brave. Mama told her so over and over.
Draping the pendulum around her neck, she zipped up her windbreaker and followed the path, barely visible under the quarter moon. If only her mother had dropped white pebbles like Hansel and Gretel to show her the way. Not breadcrumbs though. The birds would eat those.
opped and cocked her ear, her own anxious breathing louder than the babble of the stream up ahead. Perhaps her mother couldn’t hear. Perhaps she needed to yell louder.
“Mama!”
Again, nothing. Astraea began to quake slightly. Her mother had said she’d be back. She’d promised. She’d given her the pendulum for safekeeping. Why wasn’t she answering?
Blinded by stinging tears, Astraea stumbled forward, her feet catching on rocks and roots and tangled vines until she reached the stream. There, face down, was her mother with her arms splayed. She must have been thirsty, tried to take a drink of water, and fallen.
“Mama?”
Still no response.
Astraea stepped closer. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay where you told me to stay, but I heard a noise and . . .”
Something was wrong.
Her mother wasn’t moving, and that was not good. If she stayed face down in the water like this, she would drown. Astraea tried to roll her over, but when she placed her small hands on her mother’s shoulder, she found the silky robe was sticky and wet. Then she saw a deep part in her mother’s hair, as white as Hansel and Gretel’s pebbles. Her skull was split open like a coconut.
Astraea let out a shriek and then got a hold of herself. She had to be brave, and brave girls were strong and thoughtful, not crybabies. Maybe Mama couldn’t talk because she’d taken a hard fall and the wind had been knocked out of her. That had happened to Astraea once while tree climbing, and she turned out to be A-OK. Mama would be fine after her head wound was bandaged.
She didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps until it was too late. A figure, robed like her mother, but taller and with a pair of long, twisted antlers, loomed above. Astraea’s heart leaped into her throat.
Cernunnos, divine protector of the forest and the god of death. Dagda had read her a story about this god who died every summer solstice only to be reborn every winter, on the longest night of the year. Was it really him in the flesh?
“Don’t be afraid.” Leaning down, the magnificent creature gathered the little girl in his strong arms and, humming the soothing tune he sings to the dying, carried her up the mountain.
“Say nothing about what you saw tonight,” he said after sitting her against the hard, cold wall of a cave. “This is our secret. And we all know what happens to little girls who tattle, right?”
Astraea nodded fiercely and, too petrified to speak, watched him descend through the forested hill until he disappeared, leaving her in the state she feared more than witches or Mean Ellen or even Cernunnos:
Alone.
1Stella
JUNE 16, 2023
I always knew a day of reckoning would come, except maybe not so soon and definitely not because the kid of a rabid book banner was weirded out by my footwear. I blame myself.
After the popularity of the episode about my mother’s murder that aired on Dark Cults, I should have expected that someone would make the connection. Even though I’ve been super diligent about keeping a low profile, of course my privacy didn’t stand a chance against the internet’s lust for personal details.
Let’s face it. The internet knows all about us. It knows all about me—where I live, my credit score, what trains I take to work, how many steps I average in a day, my heart rate, my Netflix history, even whether I stopped off at the weed store on the way home last Friday or opted for a bottle of Chardonnay. (That would be wine. Just ask Google.)
What the internet doesn’t know is who killed my mother in the early morning hours of June 21, 2003, in the deep Vermont woods surrounding the cult she called home. Only Mama’s murderer knows the truth—just like he knows I’m the only witness.
I saw what he did to her. I saw him. And even though he was in a solstice costume and I was only ten, there’s no guarantee I couldn’t pick him out in a lineup tomorrow. He doesn’t know what I do or don’t know and that could be driving him crazy. I have no doubt he’d rather I were dead for his own peace of mind.
Hence, my reason for staying under the radar, and quite successfully, I might add. I’ve made it to age thirty without incident, even landed my dream job archiving for the Cambridge Public Library. Lately, I’ve been thinking of getting a cat.
Then along came Ashleigh Retter.
Ashleigh is the teenage daughter of Rhonda Retter. Rhonda runs an organization called Young Souls Matter. YSM has been going around the country badgering librarians about books their group finds offensive, including the entire Harry Potter series, A Wrinkle in Time, and bound issues of Mad magazine. They’re super fun.
Why our boss, Dr. Gomez, agreed to meet with this dynamic duo earlier today beats the hell out of me. Like many intellectuals disconnected from the teeming mass of humanity, he theorized that a civilized conversation about the importance of diverse literature would bridge the gap between those who are rational and those who are crazy. Perhaps he was unaware that number one on Rhonda’s list of banned books, due to its overt themes of domestic violence, in her opinion, was Dr. Seuss’s Hop on Pop.
Having grown up among fanatics, I tried to explain that there’s no use in getting them to see reason. They’ll only drag you down to their level. Gomez chided me for being too cynical and invited me to attend the meeting with my colleague Figurina DiTolla, who’s in charge of acquisitions for the children’s department.
“Fig,” as we call her, is black, gay, has been through some shit, and does not suffer fools gladly. She’s often taken for a softie given her sweetness toward children and penchant for flowing boho dresses. But I’ve seen her go toe-to-toe with bossy adults, and I was looking forward to her slicing and dicing the book banners into itty-bitty book-banning bits.
The meeting began with Rhonda marching into the conference room clutching a red Target tote bag and wearing an oversize wooden cross over a pink gingham jumper and thick handknit socks stuffed into Birkenstocks. Granted, this is Cambridge, not Milan, but even the aging hippies in this town wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit.
As if I’m one to talk. I line the insoles of my
Swedish sandals with Reynolds Wrap, which, of course, Ashleigh noticed right off. Her heavily lined gaze zeroed straight in on the shiny silver layer, whereupon she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Looking back, I bet that’s what prompted her to google my name and stumble upon my true identity.
Dammit. If only I’d worn my Keds, I wouldn’t be in fear for my life.
“Let’s get right down to business.” Rhonda slapped a file onto the conference table. “Here’s a list of books our organization has categorized as corrupting the souls of our youth. They promote premarital sex, parental disrespect, paganism, immoral lifestyles, and the supernatural. In allowing them to stay on your shelves, you people are unwittingly—or wittingly—promoting Satan’s agenda.”
Dr. Gomez sighed. “I assure you, Mrs. Retter, we have no such agenda. The books curated for our children’s collection are age appropriate. They’re quality literature intended to spark young imaginations and a lifelong love of reading.”
Rhonda clicked a red pen and circled Twilight so hard the tip broke through the paper. “Do you honestly expect me to believe this filth normalizing vampires and other unearthly creatures, not to mention adolescent hormonal urges, is quality literature? I’ll tell you what it is, it’s the gateway to the occult!”
Her ignorance was beginning to grate on me. I wanted to tell her that as a person raised by spiritual dowsers who started each day swinging pendulums and shuffling Tarot cards, I was all too familiar with the occult, and no one in our commune, adult or child, ever picked up a freaking copy of Twilight.
“Stella?” a voice whispered. Ashleigh was poised with her thumbs over her phone, smiling at me mischievously. “Are you actually the Stella O’Neill?”
That hint of gotcha instantly set me on edge. But I chose to ignore her, hoping against hope that she didn’t actually know anything, and turned back to the conversation, which much to my delight, was getting heated.
Fig was resting her chin on her hand, ready to take on the book banners. “About your claim of immoral lifestyles . . .”
From her bull’s-eye Target tote, Rhonda pulled out the classic And Tango Makes Three, about gay penguins who raise a family. Pinching it by the corners as if it were radioactive waste, she hissed, “Exhibit A.”
Fig peered through her huge oversize, purple-framed
glasses, her simmering anger radiating heat like summer sun off steel. “I’m confused. Do you have a problem with children reading about families like mine, or is it that you disapprove of the nontraditional penguin lifestyle?”
Boom!
Rhonda closed her eyes and appeared to mumble a prayer. Ashleigh bent toward her mother and, keeping her sights on me, whispered loudly, “Check this out. Looks like we have a Satanist among us.”
Oh, shit. This was definitely gonna test the effectiveness of my antiperspirant. I slid back my chair, ready to make a quick escape.
Rhonda flicked an acrylic nail over the screen of Ashleigh’s phone, her attitude brightening with each little click. “Oh, my,” she said between taps. “Oh, my Lord.”
Fig said, “What, more penguins?”
“Not quite.” Rhonda held up her daughter’s phone so Dr. Gomez could read the screen. “Turns out your archivist is a perfect example of what I’ve been talking about. This totally supports deep intel I’ve received that your staff members are devil worshippers promoting perversions among our vulnerable youth.”
Crap. Crap. Crap. It was happening. The nightmare I’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid was unfolding in real time.
Here. At work. In front of my boss.
Dr. Gomez squinted at the screen. “Stella, what is this?”
Somehow, I managed to walk around to his side of the table instead of heading for the door. Rhonda folded her arms, triumphant. Fig put a comforting hand on my shoulder as I read the words until they made sense.
Mayhem Avenger @xoxoxoxo666
@DARKCULTS slandered DIVINER leader who is INNOCENT & will SUE! Real killer Dan O’Neill (55 Dolan Rd Sudbury MA) walks free while eyewitness daughter Stella O’Neill (@cambridgepl) stays silent re: dad’s sick crimes. Find them! Bring them to justice for Rose Santos! Make them pay!
At the bottom of her post, I saw that Ashleigh had already shared it with her followers. Of course she had. And, wow, so did 1.8K
other people who are a smidgeon of the 299K views . . . and growing.
That’s when I lost it.
The quivering dread I’d had about being exposed turned into white-hot rage at the invasion of my privacy and the completely unfounded accusation. To put me, to put my innocent father, in danger like this was unacceptable. It took only a single unhinged conspiracy theorist to put us in harm’s way, and if there was any place you could find an unhinged conspiracy theorist, it was in the true-crime corner of the internet. And given the original post’s chief purpose seemed to be to protect one particular person, I had a feeling I knew who’d posted it: a Facilitator.
This post was bad. Really bad. I envisioned dozens of triggered vigilantes—many of them likely Diviners, members of my mother’s old cult—showing up at Dad’s house demanding “justice” and making life hell for him at the office, swatting him with 911 calls claiming domestic abuse and animal cruelty.
And what about me? They’d probably be flocking to the library doing the same. I’d have to quit my dream job, go underground, live on those survival-food buckets they sell at Costco.
This post threatened to destroy my carefully built life. I was super pissed at this kid Ashleigh for being such a Karen in training. It was all I could do not to take her stupid phone and smash it with the heel of my foil-lined sandal.
“It’s going viiiiiral,” she singsonged gleefully. “Already it has, like, forty-two thousand shares just since I reposted it.”
“YSM is closing in on three hundred thousand followers, thanks to Ashleigh,” Rhonda cooed with pride. “She’s well on her way to being a macro influencer.”
“I already am, Mom.” Ashleigh rolled her eyes, her thumbs flying over her phone screen. “After this post, I’ll probably hit mega.”
My stomach seized.
“Stella?” Dr. Gomez asked again. “Is this you?”
I should have just shrugged. I should have been cool. Instead, as my anger built and exploded into a fresh wave of hysteria, a fever came over me, and to my horror—and probably Ashleigh’s elation—I began to reel.
conference room before I melted into a mess.
As we made our exit, I overheard Dr. Gomez tell Rhonda the meeting was over and that he had no intention of removing any books from any shelves, and oh, by the way, Stella O’Neill was a fantastic archivist, and the library was damn lucky to have her. It broke my heart to hear, knowing I might not ever be able to return.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Fig said as we entered the stairwell. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s gonna be okay.”
We got to my office, which happens to be the size of a British water closet, and shut the door. A yellow Post-it note was affixed to my computer. It was from Heidi at the front desk asking me to give her a call ASAP.
I sank into my desk chair and put my head between my knees, breathing slowly to keep from hyperventilating. Fig left and returned with a paper cup of water. “I’d have poured something stronger if it weren’t for those darn workplace rules.”
“Thanks. This helps,” I said, downing the water in three gulps.
“I don’t think you should be alone.” Fig perched herself on a banker’s box of files. “You can stay with Mel and me tonight if you want. We’re trying out a new pizza recipe, asparagus and feta. We’ll eat on the deck. It’ll be nice. We can help you decompress after all this.”
I was touched. Fig’s basically just a work friend, not a friend-friend. Why was she being so kind?
Her pocket binged, and she took out her phone. “It’s Heidi. She’s looking for you.” Fig returned the text. “Uhm, there’s some guy at the front desk asking if you’ll come down to the lobby. He’s very insistent. What do you want to do?”
Hibernating comes to mind. Slipping under the desk and sleeping until Armageddon. Teleporting to the Planet Xenon.
“Did she say who he is?” Could have been my father or a cop, I thought, trying to be positive. More likely, he was a Facilitator from the commune on a mission.
I nervously fingered the polished rose quartz pendulum Mama gave me the night she died. Its solidity has always been comforting, especially since it’s the only memento I have of her.
“Heidi says she’s never seen him before.” Fig kept texting. “He’s our age. Beard. Warby Parkers. Chuck Converse. Hawaiian shirt.” She smiled crookedly at that. “Hipster stalker?”
“More like hipster podcaster.” Which was a relief. Podcasters aren’t usually trained to kill, unlike Facilitators.
“Yuck. Hipster podcasters are the worst. Ten to one he has an affected stutter to make it seem like he’s soooo smart, as if his brain works faster than his mouth.”
This got a laugh out of me.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” I told her, the water having restored my mental faculties. “You should find out from Gomez what the upshot was with Rhonda. I’m gonna finish some work and then maybe clock out.”
Fig pursed her lips, doubtful. “Oooookay. You know how to reach me, right? Wait. Let me text you my number just in case.”
I dictated my number and thanked her for the dinner invitation even if, entre nous, the idea of an asparagus and feta pizza was not my cup of tea. She gave me a thumbs-up and a wink and left. She was gone five minutes when there was a ding from my own phone. It was Fig’s confirmation message: This is me!
It topped the list of four others, two from Heidi at the front desk, one from Webs offering a great deal on yarn closeouts, and one from my dad’s wife, Heather, in a run-on sentence that’s typical of her understated midwestern patois.
At the hospital no need to worry your dad’s okay just on the way to dinner before the game someone tried to run him over is all on Fenway.
I got a chill. That hit-and-run was no coincidence; that was Facilitator handiwork.
Those bastards weren’t even giving us a sporting chance.
2Stella
JUNE 16, 2023
“How’re you feeling?” I ask Dad when I finally reach him by phone while he’s waiting in the emergency room. I’ve been so upset about him being a victim of a hit-and-run at Fenway, I haven’t been able to do a lick of work.
“Fine. Absolutely fine! Heather overreacted, insisting I be checked out for a head injury. I was barely nicked. Anyway, it was my fault for jaywalking. I’m lucky I didn’t get killed by those crazy Boston drivers.”
Dad’s doing a yeoman’s job of remaining upbeat, though I definitely sense some tension. “Sorry you have to miss the Yankees.”
“I won’t if they’d just hurry up with the CAT scan. I’m dying to see Whitlock cream Cole.” He pauses, probably listening for his name being called. “Heather says there’s something on the internet about . . . you know. That true?”
I wish my beleaguered father didn’t have to deal with this latest crisis, along with a possible TBI. “Nothing major. Same ole, same ole.” I, too, can downplay.
“Uh-huh. Heather showed me the post. This is pretty major, toots. You want to stay with us tonight?”
Out of nervous habit, I unclasp Mama’s pendulum from around my neck, swinging the stone from side to side. I don’t buy the Diviners’ theory that pendulums, like dowsing rods, can connect us to the Divine Eternal Energy that unites all living creatures. But I do like how the rhythmic back-and-forth calms my anxiety.
“Dad, you’d better prepare yourself for a shitstorm. I’m guessing you’ve been doxed.”
He waits a beat. “Is that good or bad, doxed?”
I have to smile. How lovely to be so oblivious to the nastiness of the internet you haven’t a clue about random strangers showing up on your doorstep—or in the lobby of your workplace. Meanwhile, I don’t dare leave my office until I get the all-clear from Heidi in reception that my hipster stalker is gone “It’s not good. There’ll probably be people—Diviners and others—waiting for you when you get home, demanding you turn yourself in to the police.”
He chuckles softly. “Oh, come on. You think I’m afraid of a bunch of silly cosplayers?”
I’m impressed he’s aware of the term.
“I’ll tell them to leave and, if they don’t, I’ll turn the garden hose on them.”
“Sure, Dad. You do that.”
Daniel? The authoritative voice of an emergency room nurse pierces the background noise.
“Hey, looks like my table’s ready. Just might make the first pitch after all. Gotta go, Stell. I’ll give you a call when I get the all-clear. Take an Uber home tonight, okay? Okay?”
But I’m barely listening because an email has been forwarded from the library general mailbox to my inbox and it appears to be from those who wish me dead.
3Stella
JUNE 16, 2023
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
RE: Time’s Up!
* * *
From: <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, June 16, 2023 3:47 PM
To: Cambridge Public Library [email protected]
Subject: Time’s Up!
Dear Stella: Please consider this email as formal notification that considering the heightened public scrutiny concerning the circumstances of Rose Santos’s death, we strongly advise you to keep your lips sealed and tell no one what you saw that tragic night twenty years ago.
The chances of you being approached by true-crime “journalists” and/or podcasters eager for an exclusive interview with the girl who witnessed her mother’s murder are now all but guaranteed. It is not in your best interests to allow these vultures access. Doing so will only hasten the inevitable.
You, more than anyone, can relate to the true meaning of the phrase “living on borrowed time.” Much as a death rattle signals the imminent passing of the soul from the human form to the Eternal Divine, the pendulum has revealed this online posting is a harbinger of your end is near.
We are so sorry, but there can be no escaping Destiny.
Take heart, Stella, your fate was never in your control; it has always been governed by the stars. Be comforted by the assurance that Sister Rose is waiting to greet you with open arms on the other side of the veil, and soon you two will be reunited in Eternal Love & Divine Energy.
Peace and light unto you and forever more.
Us.
4Stella
JUNE 16, 2023
Us.
I have no idea how long I stared at that terrifying email from my mother’s killer—or killers. Minutes? Hours? The nuances are only beginning to sink in. This isn’t merely a letter from my mother’s old cult.
It’s a death threat.
I should show it to the police, but that would be futile. There’s nothing here that outwardly puts my life in danger. You have to read between the lines, decode the cult buzz phrases like the pendulum has revealed and the creepy and exploitive Sister Rose is waiting to greet you with open arms on the other side of the veil and soon you two will be reunited in Eternal Love & Divine Energy. That’s my dead mother they’re talking about!
That’s my life they’re threatening!
And the signoff about peace and light? It’s the closing line of a Diviner burial, right before they ignite the corpse on its funeral pyre.
Shivers run up my arms, as intended. These cultists want me to crumble, beg for mercy, maybe even return to the Center to seek forgiveness and protection, those bastards.
They were savvy enough to send the email from the dark web so it’s virtually untraceable. MacBeath’s Facilitators are not about to slip up by using a proxy Gmail account.
After Radcliffe MacBeath hit the big time with his self-help books about harnessing the Divine Energy for personal and financial success, ...
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