By the Pricking of My Thumbs

“I trust you know why I’ve brought you here,” the man said, his dark eyes locked on the woman across from him. His long fingers trembled as he lit a cigar, a thin black mustache quivering above his upper lip. He inhaled, let out a puff of white smoke. It hovered, thick, between them.

“No,” the woman said. She waved a hand through the cloud, clearing the air.

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She noticed.

“You know who I am?” he said, his voice stiff.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Arrington.”

“As does yours, Lizeth.” Another puff of smoke. Arrington reached inside his jacket and retrieved an envelope. He tossed it on the table between them. “I need your help.”

“Why would I help you?” Lizeth asked, eyebrows raised.

“If you know who I am, then you know what I can offer.”

She did know. And she hated herself for being tempted to listen to his offer. She never fancied herself a materialistic person. But everyone in the world knew the Arringtons, a family so steeped in wealth from the oil industry they were often referred to as the European Rockefellers. Lizeth knew this man could change her life in the blink of an eye if he wanted to. He could get her out of the one room hovel she called a home. He could ensure she’d never wonder when her next meal was coming for the rest of her life. But she also knew getting mixed up in business with a man as powerful—and dangerous—as an Arrington could be a death sentence, and the newspapers had made it clear that the Arrington family tree was not unaccustomed to bloodshed.

She bit her lip, hesitating, then finally reached for the envelope. She opened it and read the letter inside, her face unflinching, unwilling to give Arrington a glimpse into what she was thinking. He stood up and began pacing the small room, puffing on his cigar. When she finished reading, she tucked the letter back inside the envelope and set it on the table in front of her.

“Why me?” she asked.

He halted, removed the cigar from between his lips. “You read the letter. A witch is after me.”

“You don’t strike me as a man to believe in the supernatural.”

“I don’t. But my wife does. And she tells me you’re the best at what you do.”

“She’s right,” Lizeth said. She contemplated for a moment, then gave in. “So when do I start?”

“The RMS Titanic sets sail for America tomorrow. You’ll accompany my family and me on the trip. You’ll keep us safe until you dispose of the…threat. If we make it to America safely, I’ll make you the richest woman in the country.”

He held out his hand. She took it, her mind already wandering to a new life in America.

The next morning, Lizeth woke feeling groggy. Dark rings hung beneath her gray eyes and her hair was a haphazard mess of red curls. She hadn’t slept more than an hour, partly because of her excitement about a new case, and partly because of where the case was taking her. She had heard tales about the grandeur of the Titanic but never considered the possibility she would be aboard when it set sail. So she rubbed the grogginess from her eyes and packed all her belongings into one small bag with a giddy, almost childish excitement, closing the door to her past life without looking back.

When she got to the docks, the Arrington family was waiting for her in the shadow of the massive ship. Archibald Arrington stood with his back to the water, his face stern, his dark eyes scanning the swarming mass of people. To his right was a radiant young blonde woman with an infant cradled in her arms. Lizeth immediately recognized them as Arrington’s wife, Catherine, and his two-year-old daughter, Emily. Next to them stood another couple Lizeth recognized: Arrington’s younger brother and business partner, William, and his own beautiful blonde wife, Helena. Together, the Arrington family was as striking as the reports professed. They positively reeked of money and power. And they knew it.

“Lizeth,” Arrington said as she approached. “Follow me.” He turned and headed toward the ramps leading into the ship. Catherine and William followed without acknowledging Lizeth’s existence; only Helena so much as glanced in her direction. A faint smile—or was it a grimace?—flickered and then disappeared as quickly as it had come, then she too followed Arrington and the rest of the crowd filing into the ship. Undismayed, Lizeth promptly followed suit.

The ship loomed above them as they jostled across the bridge, the four smokestacks towering to the heavens, glistening golden spires in the late morning sun. Hundreds of feet below, the black hull plunged into the dark water, gentle waves whispering against the steel. Just before Lizeth stepped across the threshold to enter the ship, something deep inside her shook, made her tremble, a violent visceral warning that stopped her in her tracks. She paused. She had always been one to trust her gut; if her instinct told her not to proceed, she generally didn’t because in her line of work, she had learned that if something felt off, it usually was. There need not always be a logical, earthly reason for fear…

But the image of a promising future in America flashed in her mind’s eye and, for the second time in twelve hours, she decided against her better judgment. She took her first step inside the ship and, when nothing terrible happened, breathed a sigh of relief.

Once inside, they were funneled to an immense sprawling staircase that even the Arrington family seemed impressed by. Lizeth watched as their wide eyes simultaneously flicked from the beautiful golden statue at the foot of the staircase to the intricate wooden carving on the landing, to the great glass dome overhead, then to each other as if to get confirmation that what they were seeing was in fact real. The eldest Arrington was the first to compose himself.

“Take the stairs if you’d like. I’m using the lift,” he said and headed to the area behind the staircase. William promptly followed, as did Catherine, who was still carrying the small child on her hip. Helena looked to Lizeth, eyebrows raised. Her blue eyes glowed in the light of the glass dome above.

“Shall we?” she asked with a quick nod toward the stairs. Lizeth agreed—thankful for at least one friendly companion on this voyage—and the two women made their way up the stairs toward their quarters. “I’ve found that money has a tendency to make people lazy,” she said as they climbed the stairs.

Lizeth laughed. “So you haven’t been part of the family long then?”

“I married William last June. Before that my family was one strike away from being on the street begging for food.”

“I know the feeling all too well,” Lizeth said.

“This way,” Helena said when they reached the landing. She pointed down a long corridor with doors lining each side. “How do you know Arch and Catherine, if you don’t mind my asking? They’re both so secretive. I’m not even sure William knows why you’ve been brought along.”

Lizeth considered the question before answering. She saw no reason not to answer honestly, but if Arrington hadn’t told her why she was there, perhaps he wanted it to remain a secret. But why? What did he have to gain from that? Or lose? Or perhaps he just didn’t think it was worth his time to tell her; he himself had said it was his wife, not he, who believed in the supernatural anyway. So, unwilling to lie to the only person who had been kind to her thus far, Lizeth opted for the truth.

“Mr. and Mrs. Arrington hired me to find a witch that’s been threatening them,” she said.

Helena laughed, a breathy, soft whisper of a laugh. “Double double, toil and trouble, that kind of thing?” she scoffed.

“Fire burn and cauldron bubble,” Lizeth said. “Exactly.”

Later that evening, after the Titanic had pushed off into the dark waters of the Atlantic and after they had all settled into their rooms and had dinner—the most filling meal Lizeth had had in her life—Mr. and Mrs. Arrington summoned Lizeth to the smoking room. She wore a dress that was delivered to her room prior to their meeting, a long, sky-blue thing that probably cost more than Lizeth’s yearly earnings, and found the couple sitting at a private table in the corner of the large room, already deep in conversation. The room was populated with other wealthy passengers lounging on leather sofas, sipping dark liquor out of crystal glasses, fat cigars hanging loose from mouths that never stopped moving. When she approached the couple, Arrington motioned to the seat opposite him.

“We’d like a full report on the case,” he said as Lizeth sat. A statement, not a question. His dark eyes bore into her while Catherine scanned the room nervously, wringing her hands and giving Lizeth the overwhelming impression of a mouse that believes a cat is lurking just around the corner.

“There isn’t much to tell yet, honestly,” Lizeth said.

“And why’s that?” he asked.

“These things take time. It’s not unusual for my cases to last weeks, sometimes months. Witches aren’t exactly easy to find.”

“Not so loud,” he snapped. He glanced around the room quickly. “Do you need anything from us to help you…succeed?”

“Yes, actually.” She handed him a list of ingredients—common kitchen ingredients mostly—that she needed. “Just these ingredients. And patience. If there’s a witch after you, I’ll find her. Or him.”

“Him?” Catherine asked, eyes wide.

“Could be. Can’t rule anyone out,” Lizeth said.

“Why is this happening to us?” Catherine asked with a sigh, seemingly more to herself than to anyone in particular.

“Well,” Lizeth began, then hesitated, suddenly wary on how to proceed. “The letter your husband showed me yesterday indicated—”

“The details of that letter are a lie,” Arrington snapped, slamming an open hand on the table with such force it rattled the ice in their glasses. “I’ll not hear of it again.”

“What you must understand, then,” Lizeth said, looking to Catherine, “is that sometimes evil exists solely for evil’s sake. There doesn’t have to be a reason.”

The following morning, after the ingredients Lizeth requested were dropped off in her quarters, she got immediately to work. Helena had found her way into Lizeth’s room and they chatted like old friends as she mixed up several different concoctions.

“This one,” Lizeth said, “you just sprinkle around the perimeter of your room and, voila, witches will stay away. Once it’s settled for fifteen minutes, the smell will be unbearable for a witch. It’s a tale as old as time.” She smiled as she poured a generous heap of paprika into a bowl already piled high with cooking ingredients and cleaning chemicals, then began grinding some leaf-like substances with a stone mortar and pestle before finally moving on to another bowl with swirls of white smoke rising from it.

“I thought witches were supposed to be the ones mixing potions,” Helena said, bemused as she lounged on the chair in Lizeth’s room.

“Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire,” Lizeth responded.

“And what if that doesn’t work?”

Before Lizeth could answer, a blood-curdling shriek echoed down the corridor. Lizeth started, dropping the mortar and pestle to the floor with a thud. Helena sat upright, her back rigid, her pale eyes locking on Lizeth. “Catherine!” they both said at once.

They dashed out of the room into the corridor and sprinted to the Arringtons’ quarters. When they entered, Catherine was standing in a corner trembling, tears trailing down her paper-white cheeks. Her eyes lingered on her bed, on the pillow of which sat a creased piece of paper and what appeared to be a human thumb, severed at the knuckle. A crimson circle of blood stained the pristine white pillowcase.

Helena unfolded the piece of paper and showed Lizeth. Scrawled in cursive red ink were only six words: “By the pricking of my thumbs.”

“Something wicked this way comes,” Lizeth finished. “This is a warning.”

“Wh-what do we do?” Catherine managed between sobs.

“Sit tight,” Lizeth said. She pocketed the letter and snatched the pillow, thumb and all, and carried it back to her room for further investigation. A few minutes later she returned. Catherine had slouched to the floor now, her sobbing somewhat subsided. Helena had left, presumably returning to her own quarters. Lizeth immediately began sprinkling her mixture around the perimeter of the room.

“What is that?” Catherine asked, her nose quivering at the pungent smell coming from the bowl.

“Think of it as a barrier of sorts,” Lizeth said. “Haven’t known a witch yet who could cross it.”

“This will keep us safe?”

“So long as you’re in this room, yes.”

Catherine nodded then but made no other movement the entire time Lizeth was in the room. When she was finished with her work, Lizeth returned to her room, leaving the older woman still huddled in the corner, alone.

In the afternoon, Lizeth met with the Arrington brothers on the promenade deck of the Titanic. The air was cool and brisk and the sun was shining on the smooth water that stretched like dark glass into the horizon.

“Catherine is refusing to leave the room,” Archibald stated.

“You’d be wise to do the same,” Lizeth said, knowing full well he’d refuse. William scoffed and looked out at the open sea. Lizeth eyed him suspiciously. “Do either of you have any enemies on board, Mr. Arrington?”

“We’re the wealthiest passengers on this ship. What do you think?” Archibald said.

“Why would it matter if I had enemies?” William asked. “It’s not me they’re after.”

“Perhaps the witch is using you to get to Archibald and Catherine,” Lizeth suggested.

William scoffed again. “You don’t actually believe there’s a witch on board this ship, do you?”

“With all due respect, a man’s bloody thumb was just found on your sister-in-law’s pillow this morning. Even if this isn’t a witch, it clearly isn’t someone to be trifled with.”

“Nothing more than a child’s prank,” William said.

“Catherine doesn’t seem to think so,” Lizeth said. “And neither do I. I would advise you to be cautious of who you associate with for the remainder of this trip.”

“Who do you think—”

“William!” Archibald cut in.

“She’s just a silly girl!” William retorted.

“Enough!”

William’s face boiled to a deep red and his fists clenched tight at his side, but he bit his tongue. Without another word, he turned and stormed off, leaving the pair on the deck.

“I apologize for my brother,” Archibald said. “He can be a bit hot-headed and stubborn at times. Family traits, I’ll admit.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lizeth said, but as she did she turned to look behind her, only to catch a glimpse of William lingering in a doorway at the far end of the deck, dark eyes locked on the pair he had just left. When he saw Lizeth look his way, he disappeared inside the ship like a whisper into the wind. Lizeth noticed but said nothing.

That night and well into the next morning saw little development. Catherine had barricaded herself in her room with young Emily, Arrington left the room sparingly—usually only for meals or a quick cigar with another wealthy businessman—and Lizeth worked tirelessly, examining and reexamining each of the letters at length, as well as the severed thumb and the pillow on which it lay, hoping to discern something she had missed, some clue left behind. She pored over the books she had brought as references, guides for her job, desperate to find something. When that too was fruitless, she opted to investigate the family itself, thinking that perhaps if she found a motive, she could find the culprit. She talked to passenger after passenger, asked them to share their thoughts from an outside perspective, but as soon as the Arrington name was mentioned the conversations hit immediate dead ends, almost as if they were afraid to speak.

Frustrated and exhausted and in desperate need of a reprieve, she left her room in mid-afternoon. She hoped to find Helena—a friendly face—for a nice walk in the fresh air to clear her mind. When she got to Helena’s room, however, the distinct sound of hushed arguing behind the door stopped her in her tracks. She leaned in, pressed her ear to the door.

The voices were too muffled to hear clearly, but Lizeth could feel the tension emanating like a heat wave from her place in the corridor. Unclear as it was, Lizeth could tell William was not happy. His voice, stern even in a forced-whisper, dominated the pieces of conversation for the majority of the time she was at the door. Only here and there did the soft feminine words of Helena break William’s onslaught. That is, until she ended the conversation altogether.

“Why don’t you trust me?” she shouted at her husband, the only words Lizeth heard definitively. And just after that shrill cry, the sound of heavy footsteps rushed to the door, the door that Lizeth’s ear was still pressed against. Realizing her predicament, she scrambled as quietly as she could muster back toward the safety of her own room. Just as she reached for her doorknob, Helena’s door was ripped open. The beautiful blonde woman hurricaned from her room, a whirlwind of released tension and tears. She stormed off in the opposite direction of Lizeth, oblivious to the world around her. Lizeth followed. As she passed the couple’s room, she casually peeked in. William sat at the table, his back to the door. One arm hung over the side of the chair in which he sat. In his hand, hanging delicately between his long pale fingers, was a short silver dagger, the blade of which was stained an ominous shade of crimson.

She wandered the ship for the next hour in search of Helena but failed in her pursuit. The woman simply vanished. But given the size of the massive ship, this didn’t seem unusual, so Lizeth returned to her room, defeated and exhausted. She crashed on her bed and a deep, restless sleep overwhelmed her immediately. In her sleep, her subconscious mind wandered to images dominated by William Arrington. His midnight black eyes, his pale skin, his long bony fingers. Images of him holding a blood-covered dagger, images of him holding a bloody stump of a thumb. Images of him knock, knock, knocking the bloody stump of a thumb on a door, the sound echoing in her skull. Knock. Knock. Knock.

She realized, made the jump from subconscious to conscious.

The knocking was at her door. And it was panicked.

“Lizeth!” Lizeth! Come quick!” she heard from just outside her door.

She sprang from her bed. She swung the door open to find Catherine mid-knock, eyes wide and wild. “William’s been murdered!” she sobbed. Lizeth followed her back to William and Helena’s cabin.

William was sprawled on the bed, arms spread wide. He was shirtless. Plunged deep into the center of his pale chest was a dagger, the same dagger Lizeth had seen him holding earlier in the day. Blood poured from the wound and trickled down his bare rib cage, soaking the sheets of the bed in scarlet. But worst of all was the message: carved in deep, jagged red lines across his belly were the words, “End the Arrington Line.”

Archibald Arrington stood next to the bed, his face bloodless and cold. He held a stack of newspaper clippings in his trembling hands.

“I know why this is happening,” he said when Lizeth approached. His voice was like gravel. He handed Lizeth the clippings. She flipped through, scanning the titles of the articles, each one alluding to a different tragedy, each one detailing death and destruction. A factory fire here, an explosion there, a demolition gone wrong, a water system poisoned. “All of those,” he said, almost a whisper now, “are because of me. Because of us.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Lizeth said.

“My company is responsible. I am responsible. Every one of those deaths is blood on my hands. This…is revenge.” He said it as if this had been a long time coming. As if he knew all along.

Lizeth jolted, like she had suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.

“Where is Helena?” she asked.

Arrington shrugged. Catherine shook her head and said, “She wasn’t here when we found William.”

“What about Emily?” Lizeth asked then, a sense of urgency in her voice.

“Asleep in our room,” Catherine insisted, but her wide eyes revealed the panic underneath. Without another word, she sprinted from the room. Lizeth and Arrington followed, but by the time they were out in the corridor, Catherine was already coming back from her room, her face a white sheet of terror. She didn’t say a word. She just stood, hands covering her mouth, her entire body quivering.

“Let’s split up. She can’t have gone far,” Lizeth said, already pushing the Arringtons toward the staircase down the corridor. They descended one level together, then parted ways. Lizeth sprinted the narrow corridors of the Shelter Deck, calling out for Emily as she ran past room after room. When she found herself at the end of the ship, she circled back to where she began and descended to the lower level. As soon as her feet touched the last stair she heard it: the distinct cry of a child down the corridor. Even without seeing anyone, she knew it was Emily. It had to be. She followed the sound. With each hurried step, the crying escalated. She was getting closer. She turned a corner and the crying pierced her ears.

That’s when she knew. This was a trap. It was too loud, too unnatural. It was amplified to a level that wasn’t normal, wasn’t human.

And that’s when she saw them.

The Arringtons had obviously heard the crying too; they were sprinting from the other end of the corridor toward the room from which the noise was coming. But they were closer, only a few feet from the door when Lizeth spotted them. She tried to call out to them, to tell them to stop, but the deafening cries overpowered her. They dashed into the room, and just as they did Helena stepped out from an alcove cut into the wall opposite the room, quiet as a shadow. She slammed the door shut and twisted a small bronze key into the lock. When it clicked shut, the crying ceased entirely. Only Lizeth’s ragged breathing broke the overwhelming silence that resounded in the corridor. Helena looked up. Her usual pale blue eyes were black as ink. She smiled—a demonic, horrifying smile—and then ran.

Lizeth pulled a small knife from a sheath she kept tied to her thigh and pursued. They sprinted down corridor after corridor, pushing past other passengers who were casually enjoying the night, completely oblivious to the peril they were in. Lizeth gained, but at each turn Helena would just dodge her reach and continue on, upstairs, downstairs, left, right, the hunted always just inches ahead of the hunter. Lizeth’s heart pounded in her chest, her lungs seared with pain. And then, the chase stopped.

They had reached the end of the promenade deck at the front of the ship. Helena had run out of space. Lizeth paused a few feet away, the knife outstretched in front of her. Her hand trembled. The cold night air was as still as death between them. Something in Lizeth told her that the end of this race was intentional, something told her that Helena had meant to get caught here.

Helena reached inside her pocket and pulled out the small key she had used to trap the Arringtons. She held it up in the starlight, just long enough for Lizeth to see it clearly, then dropped it into her mouth and swallowed.

“It was you this whole time,” Lizeth said, knife still outstretched. “Why?”

Helena laughed, an ugly cackle of a laugh that clashed with her radiance.

“The Arrington family leaves behind nothing but blood wherever they go. They destroy wherever they go. They hurt innocent people. They hurt….” She paused, looked away. “What is it you told me? Sometimes you need to fight fire with fire? That’s what I am doing here. I am doing the world a service. Let it be.”

“I’ve never known a witch to have noble intentions before.”

“Don’t pretend to understand me. Now go, Lizeth. This is only between me and them. No one else needs to be hurt.”

“What did they do to you? Who did they hurt?” Lizeth asked, her knife dropping slightly. Helena turned back to face her, and though her eyes were black with contempt, Lizeth could detect a deep, resounding sadness in them. A sadness that was only paralleled by the deafening cries she had heard earlier in the bowels of the ship. A sudden burst of sympathy brimmed in Lizeth’s heart for the woman across from her.

“Just go!” Helena snapped. Her eyes somehow darkened to an inhuman shade of black, a shade of midnight only found in the depths of hell. Lizeth’s sympathy faded.

She lunged with the knife. The tip of the blade stopped dead mere centimeters from Helena’s heart, and for a moment Lizeth thought she had succeeded. And that’s when she realized: her entire body was stiff as concrete, paralyzed in place from head to toe. Only her eyes moved in their sockets. Helena cackled, inches from her face.

“It didn’t have to end this way,” she said, her breath warm on Lizeth’s frozen skin. “But now, let the blood paint the ocean red.” She walked a circle around Lizeth, taunting her.

Lizeth tried desperately to break free from the witch’s hold, tried to scream, to make any noise at all, but to no avail. Part of her wanted the end to come, wanted the world to go black and the suffocating fear to suffice. But Helena was enjoying this too much.

“Look right over there.” Helena pointed into the black night ahead. Lizeth tried to focus her eyes but the dark waters seemed to stretch on endlessly. “Now, the multitudinous seas incarnadine,” she whispered into Lizeth’s ear. The witch snapped her fingers, and as she did, a massive block of white appeared suddenly in the distance. Lizeth’s eyes widened. Within seconds, the thunderous scrape of steel on ice shattered the night into pieces.

Helena circled back in front of Lizeth. She smiled—or was it a grimace?—and then vanished, leaving behind only a cloud of dense, white fog hovering in the broken air.