Page 7 of Lust

“Act four, scene one.” Eddie turned and strode for the workshop. At least there she would be guaranteed a few minutes to get it together. Maybe auditions didn’t really count. Maybe it had to be a performance. Even as she considered it, her heart sank. It wasn’t the play itself; it was the stupid damn witches. Truly damned witches in this case.

Chatter of actors making their way on stage drifted toward her as Eddie welcomed the cool, cut-lumber-scented interior of the workshop. Fitful afternoon light struggled through the dusty windows positioned beneath the twelve-meter-high ceiling.

Paradise Players had never done Macbeth. Never! Because Dee had been there to stop it, and before her, Dee’s mother. Eddie’s mother had been next in line, but Rosabella had terrible taste in men and had taken her traveling shit show of a love life on the road. If Dee were here, she could call the guardians and warn them what was about to happen.

Detail fuzziness aside, Eddie was clear this would end badly—very, very badly. Like end of the world, apocalyptic event bad. And Dee was having cocktails on a cruise ship heading to Alaska.

The key was not to panic. Think, Eddie, think. Perhaps some preemptive smudging might help.

Through the double doors leading to the stage, Trina’s piping, shrill voice said something indecipherable. Another woman responded.

Eddie didn’t need to hear the words. Those three witches would be double troubling and cauldron bubbling soon enough.

Habit had Eddie looking around to make sure she was alone before she called up the app on her phone. Technology had reached its sticky fingers into the paranormal world as well. The app opened, and Eddie keyed in the password Dee had given her, on pain of death to keep secret. Eddie’s death that was. An effective incentive never to share the password as it turns out.

Three dials appeared on her screen, each surrounded by a moving circle of light. The dials kept track of the stability of the hell gate. Right now, each dial was resting in the green zone and not moving, indicating the hell gate was stable.

“Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” Onstage, the witches had reached the spell, and Eddie held her breath.

Two things were worse in Dee’s book than Macbeth hitting the Paradise stage. The first would be letting the good people of Claymont, Ontario—and the rest of the world—know that they lived on a bona fide gate to hell. And the second was Eddie contacting the guardians. The whole pain of death—hers—reason was trotted out for that one too.

The meter on the left dial twitched and edged clockwise around the circle.

Eddie’s heart thumped uncomfortably.

The dials receded back to green, and she let out her breath.

From stage, the witches went at it a second time. “Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

All three dials flickered and bounced.

Argh! This was so not good. Those stupid dials never moved, but now they were edging toward the yellow zone.

The floor beneath Eddie’s feet vibrated. A screwdriver bounced on the workbench and clattered to the floor.

Eddie’s heart nearly went into orbit, but the dials went back down to their starting position.

Sometimes the workshop floor did hum and vibrate. It was only a few bits of concrete and some piping that separated it from the portal that shall not be named in the basement. Perfectly normal. To be expected even.

The girls on stage gave it gusto as they went into the third and final chorus of the curse. Each word came through loud and clear, pounding into Eddie like the march of doom.

All three dials surged into the yellow, paused, and then inched into the red zone.

Red for danger. Red for unstable hell gate. Red for colossally bad shit happening.

The workshop lurched under her feet and sent Eddie sprawling on her ass. She dropped her phone, and it skittered over the workshop floor and shot under the circular saw table. Even from here, Eddie couldn’t miss those glowing red circles of oh-shitandfuck.

Muffled squeaks and cries of alarm came from the stage.

Light flared beneath the door leading from the workshop to the basement. Bright enough to sear Eddie’s retinas and make black circles dance through her vision.

And then the stench hit her. Rotten eggs and four days in the sun roadkill. Scrambling for her phone, she retched and coughed, praying her quick sandwich lunch wouldn’t make an appearance.

The onstage squeals turned into cries and grunts of disgust.

“Ewww! What is that smell?”

“Oh my god, it stinks.”

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