The Minotauress

They wended through tilted gravestones, some with crudely etched dates going back to the late 1700s. Toward the rear of the yard, near the treeline, a newer building, like a garage, grew larger.

"Maybe Crafter's got a bunch'a fancy cars in that there garage," Dicky speculated.

"Perhaps. But what do you know about this man Crafter?"

"Nothin'. Just that he's some old weirdo who's got a house full'a ‘spensive junk."

"I wouldn't call him merely an old weirdo." The Writer looked at Dicky. "He's an old weirdo who also happens to be a student of the black arts."

Dicky remained silent. When an owl hooted, he flinched. The garage was unlocked. They both went in, flashlights beaming. No cars were in evidence, but there was a riding lawn mower, various tools, and a dozen tanks of liquid propane. "Check that barrel there," Dicky ordered in a feeble attempt at authority. "Might be full'a gold or jewels."

Greedy of filthy lucre, the Writer quoted the first letter of Timothy. He pried off the barrel's lid and found it curiously full of—

"No gold or jewels, Mr. Dicky. Just... salt."

"Salt? The hail?"

"Not table salt, either." The Writer tasted it. "Uniodized. It doesn't snow this far south, does it?"

"Naw. Why's the old coot gotta a barrel full'a salt?

"I couldn't guess. And that's quite a load of propane. I didn't see a grill out back anywhere."

Next the Writer looked in a metal can.

"What'cha got there? Jewels?"

The Writer shook his head. "Try dead frogs."

Dicky looked in. "Yer shittin' me!"

The can was full of petrified bullfrogs. The Writer noted an even odder anomaly. "It looks like all of their toes have been cut off. Then they were just tossed in here to die."

"Shee-it... "

Another can was full of desiccated newts, all missing their eyes. "Eye of newt, toe of frog," the Writer's voice echoed in the dark.

"This is right fucked up. We'se leavin'."

Back outside the Writer combed his light behind them. "Let's go look at those graves."

"The fuck for?"

"I detect an incongruence."

"Huh?"

The Writer smiled and walked over. "How curious... "

"A half-dug hole? Big deal."

Indeed, there were several areas in their proximity that had been dug down to about a foot, trenches, in a sense, about six feet long.

"What's that on the ground? Cement?"

"Crude cement. It's called tabby," the Writer explained. "You know what this place is, Mr. Dicky? It's an unconsecrated graveyard."

"Shee-it... "

"The more normal stones in the area have dates from the 17 and 1800's, but these... "

They weren't grave markers at the foot of each trench but simply splotches of old cement in which someone had inscribed a name and date with their fingers. "Back in the day, common criminals were buried in unconsecrated ground. Relatives would come in later, pour some quick tabby and render an inscription. Look at this one."

An old finger-scrawl in the cement read ELSBETH - 1689.

The Writer eyed Dicky. "Or I should say, common criminals and witches."

"Fuck... "

"Or warlocks. Anyone accused of soliciting the Devil."

Dicky gulped. "Witches'n warlocks are buried here?"

"It would seem so. And... what on earth... " The Writer strode off several yards, to the edge of the woodline. He aimed the flashlight down.

A simple wooden post stuck out of the ground about two feet, and nailed to it was a crucifix.

"A cross," Dicky observed.

"Not just one cross... " The Writer shined his flashlight to either side. The entire woodline had a similar post and cross every six feet or so. It's almost like a fence... of crosses. A... barrier...

"If Crafter's a satanist, how come them crosses ain't upside-down?" Dicky made a surprising query.

But the Writer didn't answer, for now he noticed something else. "How do you like that?"

Dicky looked down. "What's that? A line'a sand?"

"A line of salt, Mr. Dicky. Let's follow it."

Flashlights down, they followed the line of salt which oddly ran unbroken just inside the cross-mounted posts. In a few minutes they were in the front of the house, and could see the salt and crosses continuing on.

"The salt and the crosses completely encircle the property," the Writer said. He lowered the light to the driveway which, too, was crossed by a line of salt. "Now that's interesting."

"I'se don't get it."

"Ancient metaphysics, Mr. Dicky. Salt was once more valuable than gold, and it eventually became a favorite constituent in alchemy, divination, and spells."

"Spells," Dicky intoned with some trepidation.

"This Mr. Crafter fellow seems to have deliberately enclosed his property with two powerful totemic symbols."

"Totemic," Dicky intoned.

"And to respond to your previous query, I suspect the crosses aren't inverted for that very reason. Between the salt and the cruciforms, Crafter seems to be covering his bases."

Dicky made yet another astute remark. "A magical fence?"

The Writer nodded, impressed. "I think so."

"To keep bad stuff from getting in?"