The Symbols at Your Door

The Symbols at Your Door

by Richard C. Rogers

Copyright 2011 Richard C. Rogers

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Cover images copyright Ragnarock | Dreamstime.com, Vukvuk | Dreamstime.com, and Amulet Gifts (www.amuletgifts.com).

Thanks

For assistance, support, advice and encouragement, I need to thank many who helped along the way, but most especially Aidan and Anya; Laura, and Kaitlin, and Lesley; and, of course, Carolyn, without whom I could not have begun.

CHAPTER ONE

The Man in the Black Suit

Zale opened her eyes to darkness. She was suddenly fully awake, her skin prickling with terror. Something had awakened her, some sound or movement, though its memory was lost in sleep.

The cabin she shared with three other girls was wrapped in utter darkness, without dimension in the night. No streetlight, no glimmer beneath the door, no glowing clock relieved the dark, and the unfamiliar camp smells of pine and mildew were strange, bringing no comfort.

The sense of dread pressed on her like a weight, and she lay still, listening for footsteps on the wood floor, the least hint of movement, some explanation for her terror. Cicadas scratched ceaselessly in the trees, and a ceiling fan whirred overhead, but nothing else moved. If the others were awake, they made no sign. There was no hint of danger, nothing to be afraid of. And yet…

Something was approaching; something in the darkness of the cabin or the pine forest was coming for her. She strained once more, listening for movement inside or outside.

Nothing.

She turned toward the curtainless window, afraid of what she might see, steeling herself, half-expecting a face against the glass, but found only a faint gray rectangle in the greater black.

Zale imposed order on her thoughts. No one could be at the window; the cabin stood on stilts above the forest floor, lifting it ten feet off the ground. Nor could anyone have entered the cabin unnoticed, as the screen door squealed at the slightest movement. She was alone with her cabin-mates, safe—and yet her panic grew.

The rustle of a bent tree branch snapping back released her from her paralysis. She threw aside the sheet and rushed to the window as the cicadas cut off. Pale starlight barely lit the trees and buildings outside. The only object she could see distinctly was the bottom step of their neighbors’ cabin, also on stilt legs, faintly illuminated by a hidden low-voltage light. As she watched, heart hammering in her chest, a foot appeared on that step, and then reached the ground. It was at first too dim to see more, but then the figure turned directly toward her, facing into the glow.

She gasped.

Zale knew the man standing there. She had seen him many times, years before. She never knew his name, was never really certain he was even real, but to a younger version of her he was the Man in the Black Suit.

Tall, thin, dressed like an undertaker of an earlier generation—black suit, black tie, black wing tips, crisp white shirt—he crouched as if he did not want to be seen. His face was long and skeletal, somehow distorted, and his eyes were obscured in darkness. Despite that, she felt those eyes searching the dark like fingers on her arm. He suddenly lifted his head to gaze directly toward her, as if he had sensed her presence. If terror had not stolen her breath, she would have screamed. Somehow, though, it seemed that he was looking past her. He lifted his nose twice, sniffing the air, and shook his head.

He can’t see me, she whispered.

The man stepped toward her, toward the cabin, falling once more into shadow. But he stopped, lifting his head once again, and this time Zale saw his eyes, even in the dark. Horrible, red, hate-filled eyes, they were the eyes of a killer, a hunter, a predator. She clenched her teeth to still her scream, and watched him turn away again, still unaware of her presence.

The light switched on in the next cabin. The Man in the Black suit looked over his shoulder, his lip curling in a growl, and loped off into the woods. Low bushes slapped at his legs, and then he was gone.

The cicadas scratched once again.

Zale sank to the floor, with her back against the bare studs of the wall. She was safe for the moment. Slowly, the exaggerated feeling of terror subsided. However, its passing brought no comfort. In fear’s wake came bitter memories, and desolate grief. She pressed her face into her hands, with knees drawn up before her, and sobbed, hot tears spilling down her face.

* * * * *

For god’s sake, turn out the light and leave her alone, Sarah said, checking her sports watch charging on her side table before putting it back. She said she’s fine. I have to get up at like six or there won’t be any hot water. She rolled over on her cot and pulled her pillow up over her head.

Zale hadn’t meant to wake anybody up, but Danielle had heard her crying and turned on the light. Zale was forced to explain about the man outside, but really couldn’t explain her tears. Who cries when they’re scared?

Come on, she’s upset! Danielle said to Sarah.

Zale hated to be the center of attention for any reason, and didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with her cabin-mates. Go back to sleep, guys. She’s right, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother anybody.

Danielle still knelt at her side, eyes bleary with sleep. Well, what’s a guy doing out there anyway? He woke up the girls in the next cabin, too. They couldn’t see anything outside with the light on, but they could still hear the murmur of other voices not too far away.

Monica sat on her bunk, bare feet on the floor, blinking and rubbing her eyes. Probably just fire patrol, she suggested.

Monica pronounced her name the Spanish way, with a long o sound, and was as glamorous as any telenovela actress: a perfect complexion, lustrous, curly hair, and wide brown eyes. In every other way, though, Monica was pure American, a rich Scottsdale girl. She didn’t seem much like the hispanic girls Zale had grown up with in northern New Mexico.

Some camps have to keep constant watch, Monica continued. I think it’s actually a law.

Danielle nodded. That makes sense. He probably works here.

Yeah, maybe, Zale replied, unconvinced. Thanks.

It’s just as well you woke me up, though, Monica said, looking directly at Zale for the first time. Her eyes showed strain. I was having the worst nightmare. Like I was being stalked.

Danielle turned to her with a strange expression. Were you really? I was having the same dream!

Sarah pulled the pillow off her head, rolled over, and looked at Zale and each of the other girls. I was, too, she said in a small voice.

* * * * *

The cabin-mates talked a little after they turned the light out, but soon it grew quiet once again. A few hours of dark remained. Alone with her thoughts, Zale saw again and again the figure that had trouble her dreams many times in the past.

The Man in the Black Suit. She had sometimes wondered if he was a false childhood memory, the kind where stories told by your parents and bad dreams and TV shows and actual events become jumbled together and indistinguishable, like the grandma that died when she was a baby that Zale thought she remembered. But there he was again—not a false memory, but a real man, real enough to disturb the sleep of two cabins full of girls. What he was looking for, how he was connected to her, she couldn’t guess, but he scared her and forced her to remember the worst time of her life.

She was just a little girl, playing in the yard after supper on their farmhouse in San Cristobal, north of Taos. They had only one tall tree, an ancient pinyon, and her father had hung a tire-swing from a high branch. From the swing she could see both her parents, her mother tending the garden and her father sitting at his computer on the screened porch. He worked there every night, looking at strange sites on the internet, emailing, writing things she never understood, taking notes and drawing pictures in a journal. On this occasion, though, he wasn’t alone. He had a stranger at his back—tall, with a long, serious face, dressed in a black suit. The Man in the Black Suit bent forward at the waist, speaking into her father’s ear. For no reason, the man scared her—terrified her in fact—but her father paid him no attention. He just kept working, and typing.

Zale remembered running to her mother in the garden, telling her about the man. Her mother just straightened, looked across the yard to the porch, and shook her head. There’s no one, Hazael, she said, stooping to pull weeds. You saw shadows, maybe.

Zale looked again, and the stranger was gone.

But she saw him again a few nights later, and probably two or three times after that. She always knew when he had come near by the creeping fear that grew to a sense of dread, a terror that she had never known outside of a nightmare.

She thought he was a ghost, or an angel, because he didn’t seem like a real man. But she knew he was real, and dangerous. She didn’t sleep well after that, and not again for a long time.

Neither of her parents ever mentioned him, and she never saw him come or go. He always stood at her father’s shoulder, whispering. Only once did the Man in the Black Suit look up at her, from the room on the porch. Zale was swinging, pretending all was normal, although she was terrified. She tried not to look toward her father and the figure behind him. Against her wishes, though, her eyes kept flicking that way. Just the one time, when she turned toward her father, the tall being straightened and looked directly at her. His eyes burned red and cruel, pits of malice and hatred. Something deep inside her whispered the word demon. Horrified at coming to his attention, she looked away, schooling her face the best she could, but she was afraid that the Man in the Black Suit realized she could see him.

Laying silently in her bunk, so many years later, she fought back the tears and shook her head. She should have spoken to her father. She should have asked him. But somehow she never did. Why didn’t she just talk to him?

About a week later, she saw the Man in the Black Suit one last time. Her father looked strange, staring at the screen of his computer; strange, and scared, and uncertain. The man was still whispering in his ear, and her father was wiping his brow, shaking his head, muttering things to himself. Later, when he told her goodnight, I love you, he seemed distracted.

I love you too, Daddy, she remembered saying, just like every night.

But it wasn’t like every night. That night he left their house, and drove away, to another town, without an explanation to her or her mother. When morning came, before they even knew he was missing, he was already dead, along with another man, and the police called him a word that had been attached to him ever since.

Murderer.

CHAPTER TWO

The Institute

The Pine Ridge Camp Summer Journalism Institute was housed in the camp’s Lower Pavilion, a chalet-style building of stained wood and dark tinted glass. Like all the camp buildings, it was largely hidden in the towering pines which were one of the selling points of its Tonto National Forest location. The sense of being in the woods was maintained by the floor-to-ceiling windows, so that even as they worked on computers in a second floor classroom they had trees all around them. In every direction, in fact, Zale could see forest, a hint of the mountain ridges beyond, blue sky, and little else.

The center of camp lay directly before them, and nestled somewhere in the middle of the woods and cabins were the soccer and football fields. Off to their left, the stables were partly visible, where equestrian campers were walking their horses toward the corral. To their right, on the main camp road that led toward the Upper Pavilion and most of the sports facilities, a stream of athletes carrying sports equipment and water bottles walked or jogged up the hill. Like the journalism students gathering in the writing lab, they had come to spend part of their summer in the mountains of Arizona, being serious about their fun, getting too little sleep, meeting people from all over Arizona and beyond.

Except for the scare she had had in the night, Zale liked the feel of the place. Thankfully, the other girls barely mentioned the incident that morning in the cabin or at the showers. Zale hoped to put it behind her, and out of mind. She refused to let herself think about the coming night and the long hours of darkness; with blue skies and cool mountain air, the world seemed too cheerful for such worry. After breakfast, she texted her mom to tell her everything was great, that she was settled in and already had friends, and believed it herself by the time she hit send.

The journalism director, Mr. Preston, described the program with all the students crowded near him on rolling chairs. The main purpose of your enrollment in this camp, he was saying, is to give you the journalism opportunities, experience and coaching that you would not in the same way, or at all, in a high school journalism program. The deadlines you will face are much shorter than you are probably used to, much more like those you will face in a journalism career. We will put out six papers in three weeks—eight tabloid-size pages each Wednesday and Saturday for the run of the camp. Actual hard copies, too, not just online. People will buy these papers.

Like the others, Zale wanted to write and take photos, and she had come to the camp almost entirely for that reason. The chance to put out a number of papers in a short time was exactly the draw that had brought twenty-four juniors and seniors out of their comfortable homes during summer vacation.

That, and everyone’s secret hope of meeting someone interesting.

There was something about being away from home in the summer that made romance easier, and there were already a few couples in the making; Monica was quietly exchanging comments with a smiling black guy, Sarah had pulled her chair up next to the only boy in the group who was as athletic-looking as she was, and at least two other couples were showing interest the usual ways—a touch on the knee during conversation, a ready laugh, leaning in close to talk.

Zale was definitely open to the idea, but didn’t want to push anything. She had briefly met the guys beside her: Luis, a shy but nice enough senior from Phoenix, and Andrew, a tall nerdy kid that seemed to be just the sort she always ended up talking to.

You’ll each have at least one assignment per issue, the director continued. Everybody writes opinion. Everybody writes hard news. Everybody writes human interest. If the paper needs it, you’ll write it. No pleading. Also, everybody takes a turn at layout, everybody proofs, everybody fact checks, everybody sells ads, everybody takes photos—actual cameras, please—and everybody helps with distribution. That’s how we manage the short deadline.

Then he explained how everyone would be excused from one issue, to have time to participate in the other activities at camp. "That’s your vacation from vacation. Take advantage—go ride horses for a couple of days, or take an overnight hike, or participate in one of the art projects. But the rest of the time, you’re busy. You have a job to do here this summer, and all of the staff here expect you to do it. This is not a club. The Rim Country Lookout is a real paper. He passed a stern glare across the room, emphasizing his point. We turned away more students than we let in. You’re all fine writers, and competent with the technology, or you wouldn’t be here. We expect your contribution to be equal to the promise we saw when we accepted you. And in return, you will get our time, our dedication, our expertise, and our support to make this the summer that changes your life."

* * * * *

That morning, the staff walked them through the handbook, which explained logins and search protocols for each database and web service, boolean searches, and the paper’s policy on sourcing and attributions. Everything was partly familiar and partly new, but when they got onto their computers, using the subscription services, Zale was blown away by the information that was available to them. She couldn’t even think of a reason she would want to use most of it.

Look at this! Andrew said, gesturing with enthusiasm. Every TV and cable news transcript! Congressional testimony! Court cases! All of it searchable. I didn’t know this stuff existed.

A girl in front of them turned around with a frown. She was tall, model-thin, and pretty—gorgeous, really—with full lips, perfect skin, and an exotic, Indian look. Her hair was dark brown with a hint of a widow’s peak, and she was blessed with very intense, green eyes. She gave Andrew a look that said he was never, ever going to be cool. But then she noticed Zale, apparently for the first time, and she regarded her coolly.

I’m Shehri Razi, she said, and she stretched out an elegant hand. We haven’t met.

Zale accepted her hand and shook it. Zale Ortiz. Nice to meet you.

For an instant, it seemed that Shehri’s features wavered, like a figure in water or a heat ripple on the freeway, and Zale momentarily imagined a transparent form standing beside her. Startled, she blinked, and the illusion disappeared.

Where are you from, Zale? Shehri asked in an impertinent tone.

I live in North Phoenix, she replied warily.

It wasn’t a complete answer, but it was a safe one. In her heart, she was still from San Cristobal, New Mexico. Shehri put her on edge, though, and she didn’t want to tell her more than necessary.

How about you? Zale asked, hardly caring. Where are you from?

Tempe. My parents are both professors at ASU.

Don’t tell Ms. Stearns, Andrew said. She’s a Wildcat.

Shehri looked away from Andrew with a long-suffering expression, then gave Zale an insincere smile. It was nice to meet you. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends. She turned back to her own computer, immediately rejoining the conversation of girls on either side of her.

I’m sure we will, Zale repeated in a whisper.

On her other side, Luis snorted with a grin, and she grinned back.

When they took a break, Zale went to a window seat in the corner of the room. Her mom had texted back, asking her to call, and there were only a few times and places when cells were allowed at camp.

Hey, Mamá, is this a good time? Zale asked when her mom picked up.

It’s great, Hazael. I’m on lunch. How are you? Is everything okay?

Zale plugged her other ear and leaned her head against the window. Yeah, I told you it was fine, she answered reassuringly.

In a lot of ways her mom was her best friend. They had always relied on each other when they couldn’t rely on anyone else, ever since her dad died, and they rarely argued or gave each other tone. Whenever she completed fake surveys in Cosmo or on Facebook that asked about your best friend, she thought immediately of her mother, not any of the people she knew at school or in the neighborhood. Sometimes that seemed kind of sad, the sure sign of a loser, but other times she knew they were lucky.

What do you think of the program so far?

The ‘institute,’ Zale replied, faking an upper-crust accent, actually seems pretty great. I’ve already learned a lot.

How about the other kids?

Smart. Mostly rich. Pretty serious about writing. Otherwise they seem about normal. She knew her mom was curious about friends; that was something Zale wasn’t too good at. My cabin mates are pretty cool. But it’s my job to collect all the shy and nerdy kids. Then she laughed. Or maybe they’re collecting me.

That earned a laugh from her mom. Well, there are worse things than being nice.

Even when her mom laughed, there was a darkness, a cloud. It was the same cloud Zale lived under. When her dad died, everything in their life was broken. She lost a father, and her mom lost a husband. They also lost their home, and friends, and everything they knew. They took her father’s good name, calling him a murderer. Friends who had known him from the moment of his birth turned away. The farm that had come to them through three hundred years of ancestors was lost, and the community was closed to them. They had to leave, and never were able to mourn properly. Who could mourn a murderer? Who had sympathy for him?

Neither of them believed it, but the rest of the world did. Once Zale said that the experience had left her scarred, but her mom corrected her; it was an open wound.

Anyway, we’ve got some time this afternoon to mess around at the pool before we’ve got to come back and work. We get our assignments later today, have tomorrow and Monday to finish them, and the first paper comes out Wednesday.

Holy cow.

It’s good. It’s why I came.

Her mom was quiet for a minute. Look, Hazael, I have to ask—are you doing all the things I asked you to?

Zale held the phone away from her mouth as she sighed. You know I am. Everyone will think I’m strange, but I’m doing it.

The symbols—those are the most important. Your cabin is your home while you’re away. I worry you will ignore me, and not do it.

You’ll always be safe at home, she always said. At least since they left New Mexico.

No, Mom, I already took care of the symbols. I told you I would.

Before anybody else checked into their cabin, Zale climbed up and tacked a small bundle of objects to a projecting beam in the eaves, out of sight. There were five symbols, identical to those tacked over the door at their house in Phoenix. She felt foolish doing it. Now it put her in mind of the Man in the Black Suit, and how he had seemed to look through her at the window, or past her. She felt like the two events were connected, though she had always refused to believe superstition. She cooperated with her mother out of respect for tradition, not from fear of the supernatural.

And the other things, her mom persisted.

Don’t clip your nails. If you do, burn them. When you sweep the floor, sweep to the center, not to the corners. Friday night, burn candles. Half a dozen other little, inexplicable commandments that she had to follow.

I’m doing everything. I’ve got the candles for Friday. They’re not allowed, but I’ll figure something out.

Her mom was apologetic. This is who we are, Hazael. It’s important.

I know, she said, watching the other students in the room, glad they couldn’t hear the conversation.

This is how we survived, as a people. The destruction of the Temple, thousands of years in strange lands. Avoiding the Inquisition in Spain, and Mexico—escaping to New Mexico. She fell silent for a moment, and Zale waited for her to finish. Some of our people forgot the old ways, and forgot who they were. I forgot for a time... Her voice caught, and Zale knew she was tearing up. I won’t forget again, and I won’t let you. Even if you don’t get it.

Zale closed her eyes and smiled. It’s all good, Mom. I’m saving my rebellion for things that matter.

Neziah laughed again. I’ll let you date any boy you want, Hazael.

Yeah, that’s happening.

After they said their goodbyes, Zale noticed Shehri in a window seat not far away, talking quietly on her phone. It was a clear, bright day, but she had the sensation that a cloud had passed across the sun. She shivered and walked away.

CHAPTER THREE

Introductions

Three to six was a mixer, a barbecue at the pool, open only to the journalism campers. Zale felt comfortable enough attending a party in her new black tankini—she thought of herself as plain, but she knew how good the black