by C. C. Finlay
The bucket was empty before he completed the circle. At first, he was going to spread the last ashes thinner, but then, praying vigorously and aloud, he ran back to the dead fire for more. He finished by pouring extra ashes along the gap, to be sure.
When he was done, he wiped his forehead on the inside of his elbow. Anything near his hands would have smeared ashes on his face. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, if admiration could be used for work that he surveyed so anxiously. Either it would work or it wouldn't; if he didn't need it, he would never know, and if it didn't work, he wouldn't find out until too late.
Out of habit, Proctor washed the bucket and put it and the shovel away. Then he splashed water from the trough on his hands and face. When he could no longer smell the smoke, he took himself for clean and went into the barn to sleep.
The straw, fresh as it was, was less comfortable than his mattress at home. Part of him hoped that Deborah did send everyone home tomorrow. He was eager to sleep in his own bed again. He'd never been away from his mother and father this long either, and while he didn't miss them the way Alexandra missed her folks, he wondered how they were.
Part of him was not quite ready to go, and that puzzled him. There was nothing to keep him here, not really. Maybe he could get to the chickens first thing in the morning and snag an egg or two for scrying. If he didn't use it to see the future, maybe it wouldn't be as evil. He could just use it to see where Emily was, what she was doing. That was a good intention, right? He missed their conversations, the way they used to plan out the future they wanted together.
He rolled over. He missed Emily. He missed Jedediah and his thunderous snoring. He missed Nimrod, whining for attention because he couldn't climb up to the loft.
A dog barked outside, over the hills, on the other side of the woods, at some distant neighbor's farm. Finally it howled. Proctor rolled over and looked through the hay door. There was no full moon, no reason for it to howl. Other howls sounded from farther away, carried across the acres of swamp and wood by a rising wind.
Proctor's skin crawled.
He tried to shake it off, attributing it to the shadow cast by the attack the other night. But he checked to make sure Jedediah's musket was at hand, and he suddenly regretted the destruction of the pistols.
He wrapped the blanket around himself and squeezed his eyes shut. Asleep or not, he dreamed. Dead men dressed like Indians attacked him, and he was powerless to defend himself. A knife slashed at him. He felt his own blood spurting hot across his helpless hands, and he jolted upright.
Outside, it was still dark.
The wind rushed through the farm buildings like a mob of hands, rattling doors and slamming loose shutters. The milk cow lowed in agitation, banging the sides of her stall.
Proctor shuddered, his skin tingling.
The house door creaked open, a sound he recognized at once. He thought it caught by the wind, only the sound of it swinging open was followed by Deborah's voice.
“Mother! Magdalena! Cecily!”
The wind crumbled her words into pieces like the fragments of an eggshell and tossed them away. Another “Mother” sounded like it was ripped from her mouth and dashed against the nearest wall. He bolted up and grabbed his weapons.
A shrill scream cut through the wind.
Barefoot and jacketless, he leapt from the loft and ran outside the barn. A stench like rotting flesh choked him.
Magic shot through the air like a cannon blast, so powerful all the hairs on his body stood on end. So that's what magic felt like. He wondered if women like Elizabeth or Deborah could feel it all the time.
He was past the well when he saw Deborah on the porch in her nightdress. She was frozen with fear. Her eyes looked past him, toward the orchard and the graves.
A second scream, mingled with prayers, came from the darkness. Proctor ran toward it. The stench grew so thick that bile rose in his chest, burning his throat and nose.
As he rounded the corner of the barn, he staggered to a stop, overwhelmed by fear and the urge to vomit.
A mottled corpse, its pale skin bruised black, moved like a puppet on invisible strings. The white shroud was tangled around its left leg, dragging behind it like a filthy afterbirth. Magdalena lay sprawled on the ground. Elizabeth crouched protectively over her, holding up her burned arm to ward off the creature's attack.
How … ?
Proctor stood still, fighting the urge to run away. His indecision gave the corpse a chance to lunge at Elizabeth, using its arms as crude cudgels to bludgeon her head. She fell over, her neck bent like a broken stalk.
Magdalena whimpered, pulling herself hand-over-hand on her belly through the mud. The corpse took a step toward her.
“No!” Proctor cried. He raised the gun by the barrel, ready to use it like a cudgel, but his legs were shaking too hard to carry him foward.
The corpse tilted its head at him. The front of the skull was smashed in where Proctor had battered him with the pistol butt. The eyes were dead and closed, the mouth open and slack.
It rushed him, fists raised.
Proctor dropped the gun and cowered, forgetting to breathe, forgetting to move, braced to die—only to see the corpse stop abruptly two feet short of reaching him.
He looked down.
The dead thing's toes were at the line of ashes that marked his protective spell.
Proctor began to recite the spell again, unsure whether he was performing magic or praying to God for deliverance. He stumbled over the words, taking a step away from the creature.
The door creaked at the house, and Alexandra joined Deborah on the porch. The corpse turned toward them.
“Go,” Proctor shouted. “Lock yourselves inside!”
They didn't need his advice, bouncing against each other in their rush to safety. The door slammed, and there was the sound of tables scraped across the floor to block it.
The corpse was already halfway across the yard when Proctor realized they weren't safe in the house. The door might be blocked, but the windows were unshuttered. Whatever force directed the creature would find a way inside. Proctor wiped cold sweat off his forehead and swallowed hard. Unless he did something, Alexandra and Deborah were as good as dead.
He looked down at the line of ashes that kept him safe. Then he took a deep breath and jumped over it.
The corpse was at one of the windows, and Alexandra was screaming, when Proctor reached it. He grabbed the tail end of the shroud, still wrapped around the creature's ankle, and yanked on it.
He had intended to drag the creature away, but the sudden snap upended the corpse and flipped it on its head with a sickening crunch that would have crippled a living man.
The creature rolled over and pushed itself upright with its clumsy hands, staggering to its feet. Proctor searched desperately for the musket, forgetting where he'd dropped it. Instead his eye lit on the stump where he split wood. He'd left the ax outside. He'd left the ax outside.
Proctor ran to the stump and yanked loose the ax. The corpse was halfway through a window when Proctor smashed the heavy blade into the creature's shoulder.
The blow would have killed a man, but this creature was already dead. It rolled out of the window as Proctor swung the ax again. The corpse fell to the side and the blade smashed into the clapboards, lodging in the wood.
One of the corpse's arms hung uselessly, destroyed when the shoulder was shattered. It swung the other arm at Proctor, missing him but knocking the ax out of the wood.
Proctor was lucky to keep hold of it. As the corpse lurched toward him, Proctor swung the blade wildly. The flat edge of the iron crunched through the creature's skull and knocked it down.
The creature wriggled on the ground, with one arm hanging loose by a flap of skin and its head lolled forward on its chest, the top of the skull split open, spilling damp gray brains.
Proctor stepped back on shaky legs. His skin screamed as if it were on fire. Something inside him laughed in denial. This was wrong, a
ll wrong—the slack face with its shut eyes, the deep gashes with no blood, the dead limbs intent on harm.
The creature stumbled upright like a broken puppet.
The laughter inside Proctor bubbled out of his mouth as a scream. He swung the ax at the creature's knee. The blade made a heavy sound as it sliced through meat, chipping bone as it severed the joint. Proctor staggered off-balance one way as the corpse toppled the other and smacked into the ground.
Proctor wobbled, fiercely gripping the ax. His breath came in quick gasps as tears welled up in his eyes. His pants were wet, soaked all the way down his legs and running off his bare feet.
But it was done.
The dead thing's head rolled suddenly to the side. The one good arm swung over its head, slamming into the mud. The good leg twitched as its foot sought purchase.
Proctor shuffled away, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Hand and foot, pulling and kicking, the corpse crawled toward him. It wasn't stopping. It would never stop.
There was no plan, no intention, only blind fear and a helpless rage. Proctor raised the ax above his head and struck, again and again and again, until nothing remained but pieces too small to pull anything anywhere.
“Stop, you can stop,” said a voice, piercing through the storm-loud noise that raged inside Proctor.
He lifted his head, like someone woken abruptly from sleep, and saw Deborah and Alexandra standing in the doorway of the house.
“You can stop,” Deborah said. “It's done.”
“No, it isn't,” Proctor said, his voice thick and foreign to his own ears. He looked toward the orchard and the other graves.
Ax in hand, he went behind the house and up the hill.
He checked Jedediah's grave first, relieved to find it undisturbed. The one that he had only partly filled lay empty, the ground churned from within.
The dirt on the third grave bumped and rose.
Proctor shook his head. This wasn't happening.
The dirt bumped and rose again. A mud-crusted hand thrust through and began flinging dirt aside, clearing the way for the rest of the body.
Grim now, the rock of fear hard in his throat, Proctor slammed the ax down, driving it through dirt and flesh and bone to cut the hand off at the wrist.
The dirt lay still for a moment, then bumped again, furiously, frantically, as another hand thrust clear.
The things Proctor did next, he did in a frenzied haze. He sprinted to the barn for the shovel and some oil. Later, he would have a vague memory that he must have dug up the second grave, hacking the corpse as he worked, burning the pieces. But all that remained vivid to him was the sound of sizzling, crackling flesh, and the way the burned-corpse smell of the smoke hung in his hair. When he finished in the orchard, he went back down to the yard and doused the pieces of the corpse littered there, burning them also.
As the sun rose, the black plumes of smoke drew the silhouettes of the neighboring farmers to the horizon. Once they assured themselves that no building burned, needing their aid, their silhouettes melted away. Had any come across the hillsides and passed the barriers hiding the farm, Proctor would have collapsed gibbering at their feet.
Instead, he found himself sitting on the ground across from a fire as it burned down. His knees were drawn up to his chest, with the handle of the shovel across his lap. Smoke and dirt covered his skin and clothes. Mud and ashes were crusted between the toes of his bare feet.
Deborah came and stood behind him. Softly, she said, “You saved our lives. Thank you.”
He didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally spoke, his throat was raw. “What was that?”
“Necromancy of the most evil kind, black magic, the most evil thing, against all nature.” She spit out the words, as if they were a curse. She paused for a long moment, then said, more softly again, “My mother's dead.”
He nodded; he had guessed as much when he saw the creature attack her outside the barn. He was too weary, too numb, to express his sorrow. Sorrow seemed inadequate.
“But you came to Magdalena's rescue in time,” Deborah said. “She's barely clinging to life, but she is alive. Alexandra is doing everything she can to heal her.”
“Good,” he said. He rested his forehead in his hands, covering his face. “What about Miss Cecily?” he asked. “And Lydia, how are they?”
Lydia had saved his life by explaining spells to him. He needed to thank her.
“They're gone.”
He looked up, turning his head around as if he expected to find them. “Killed?”
“No, they left in the middle of the night, before the attack, using some kind of concealment spell,” she said.
He didn't understand. “Why?”
“Cecily left a black altar in front of the hearth before she went. She's been working with the widow all along. She's the one who sent the corpses to attack us.”
Proctor shook his head in denial. “No. No, that's not right.”
He looked at Deborah's face for the first time. Her cheeks were drawn, but her jaw was firm. Instead of fearful or sorrowful, she looked angry. So angry that he felt sorry for anyone on the other end of her temper. She held her hands at her sides, but they were clutched in fists.
“The border around the farm would have kept the corpses alive inside, giving them a chance to kill us all,” she said. “Magdalena woke and found the black altar and panicked. She woke Elizabeth, then fled the house terrified. My mother chased after her.”
“Why did Cecily want to kill us? What did we do?”
“I don't think it's about us. I think there's something bigger at stake. I intend to find out what it is.”
Pitcairn, the widow, Cecily—they were all connected some way, Proctor realized. But he didn't know how.
Leaning down, Deborah slid the shovel out of his lap and set it aside. Then she walked behind him and put her hands under his arms to lift him to his feet.
“You don't want to do that,” he protested. “I'm frightful dirty.”
“It's all right,” she said.
She led him to the house. He didn't think he had enough strength left to lift his feet up the step or over the threshold, but somehow he made it inside. Magdalena lay on the cot beside the hearth, her face bruised and bloody. Alexandra sat beside her, dabbing her skin with a fragrant ointment. When she looked at Proctor, her eyes were still wide and frightened.
He wanted to say something to her to make it all right. Too aware of the stench of fire and death on him, he nodded at the ointment. “That smells like heaven.”
Her hand jerked protectively to her chest. Her eyes and cheeks were red from crying, and she didn't say anything.
“This way,” Deborah said, carrying a pitcher of water to the basin in the other room. She sat him on a chair and washed his face and hair. It felt glorious, and he meant to thank her, but then she called to Alexandra for a fresh pitcher of water. When the girl brought it, Deborah pulled off his undershirt, pressing her finger to his lips to silence his protest. It was the same gesture Emily had made, when he was lying injured in her house. He shuddered. That felt so far away, as if it had happened to a different person and he had only heard about it. How would he ever explain this, what had happened to night, to Emily? He couldn't. He would have to hold it secret, and never let her know.
While these thoughts raced through his head, Deborah scrubbed his neck and shoulders and arms, lingering over his hands, laving his palms, cleaning under each nail. Another pitcher and clean washcloths were brought for his legs and feet. When she cleaned between his toes, rubbing his soles, he began to cry. He sat there, sobbing, with his face in his hands, feeling so ashamed but unable to stop.
She pushed him into the bed. He looked around and realized that it was her room. An old rocking horse sat in the corner, with tassels of real hair for its mane and tail. A rag doll sat in a tiny chair.
“I can't—” he protested.
She pressed his lips shut again. “We won't feel safe
unless you're in the house.”
He nodded that he understood.
She started to leave the room.
“Deborah?”
She paused in the doorway. “Yes?”
“If I knew this is what it took to get me a bed around here, then—” She smiled at him, but it was so sad and forced, he couldn't finish the joke. “Then I'd be happy to still be sleeping in the barn.”
The corners of her mouth twitched toward a genuine smile.
“I'm sorry about your mother,” he said.
“It was God's will,” she said, but the words stuck in her mouth as if she didn't really believe them. “You get some sleep now.”
“All right. But leave the door open.”
“Don't worry, we'll keep watch.” She propped the door open with an iron and went to help Alexandra.
He couldn't shut his eyes without seeing the image of the corpse rush at him, so he lay there awake for a long time, watching Deborah and Alexandra tend quietly to Magdalena. The smell of mint and clove from their lotions soothed him.
When he did fall asleep, he had nightmares of the corpses coming for him over and over again, no matter how many times he hacked apart their limbs. But he was too exhausted to wake up and escape.
Chapter 17
On the morning of Elizabeth's funeral, the sky was a high pale blue, unbroken by even a hint of clouds.
Proctor sat at the table with his head in his hands. Deborah put a plate of hot oats and molasses in front of him. “Are you sure you're up for this?”
“The sooner the better,” he said. Alexandra brought in the pail of milk from the cow and set it down. He ladled warm milk over the oats. Between bites, he said, “Where do you want me to dig?”
“Next to my father,” Deborah answered.