Apartment 7C
Page 6
Margaret spit at the man. “You’re animals!” she screamed, her fierce stare landing on the face of each person standing before her. “You’ll pay for this. Murderers!”
A balding man with spectacles and a walking stick stepped forward. “Tell us where the good father is, and maybe the Almighty will have mercy on your soul.”
“It’s your souls, and the souls of your children, that you need to worry about,” Margaret hissed. “I curse you all. Your god won’t save you from my vengeance.”
“It’s no use,” said a woman with long blonde hair. “She’s in league with the devil. She’ll spew nothing but lies.”
“You people are the devil,” Margaret said, trying to break free of her bonds. “Father O’Brady was—”
The large man hurried forward and backhanded her across the face. “You shall not utter the good father’s name, witch.”
Margaret raised her head, blood trickling from her mouth. “The father is a good man, unlike you all. I would never hurt such a person.”
“Lies!” cried the blonde woman. “Burn her now, before she spells us and gets us under her control.”
“Yeah,” said another man, holding his torch high. “Burn the witch and be done with her.”
The burly man lowered his torch to the pyre, then backed away. “Now you can join Satan in Hell, witch.”
Margaret cried out, her screams echoing far off in the distance. She prayed to the Good Mother, begging that her soul be absorbed into the forest and remain there until vengeance was hers. She had always practiced peace and harmony, to be one with the spirits of her ancestors, with nature, but her pain and fury were too great, and she wanted the murderers and their children to know of her suffering, of her loss, to know of her.
The five villagers remained, watching Margaret burn alive. Her screams sent chills through them, even though the devil women deserved to die. When the flames began to falter, more wood was added to the fire, the flames burning higher and higher, until all that was left were the witch’s bones. The charred skull fell to the ground and rolled toward the onlookers. The jaw dislodged and tumbled away. The rest of the bones crumbled to the fire, where they lay until there was nothing but smoldering coals.
“We’ll bury her here,” said the burly man, whose name was Kenneth Ryan.
A four-foot grave was dug out of the earth in front of the stake. Margaret’s remains were tossed inside a burlap bag and buried.
“We need a priest to bless this place and make sure the witch stays dead,” said the blonde woman named Jenna Mayfield.
“Well,” said Kenneth, “we don’t yet have one, but first thing in the morning, we’ll go to Washingtonville and have Father Donovan take care of this. The sun will be up, which should keep the witch’s spirit, if she is still present, from rising, at least until nightfall. Then Father Donovan will see to her permanent departure.”
The next day, Father O’Brady came stumbling into town, falling in the middle of the street outside of Gus’s Tavern. He was bruised and bloody, his clothes caked with dirt and leaves. He was taken to Doc Frederick’s place where Kenneth Ryan, the town constable, met up with him. A small crowd of townsfolk gathered outside, as news spread of the father’s return. There, Father O’Brady learned of what happened with the Rivers.
“You fools,” he said, sitting up and wincing in pain. “Do you know what you’ve done? You murdered an innocent couple. Good people.”
“Father,” Kenneth said, “the woman was a witch, living under the devil’s guidance.”
“No,” Father O’Brady said, angrily, then went into a coughing fit. “They were good people. I visited with them, talked to the missus on occasion when she came into town, her husband too sick to leave the house.”
Kenneth looked at the doc, who slowly shook his head, then crossed himself.
“I fear your judgment may be off, Father,” Kenneth said, “your mind tainted by the witch’s spell.”
Father O’Brady’s eyes grew wide, his face a mask of disbelief. “I know evil when I see it, and Margaret Rivers wasn’t in league with the devil.”
“Another priest has been called to take care of the matter. He shall hear your words, look into your soul and decide your fate. Until then, you shall remain in the custody of Constable Ryan.
Two days later, Father O’Brady was visited by Father Donovan, the priest from the nearest town. It was decided that Father O’Brady had indeed been spelled and was under the witch’s influence, and was no longer fit to serve the church. He was stripped of his collar and sentenced to hang, but would be given a proper burial so that his eternal soul would be saved.
Standing on the gallows, the entire town present to witness his demise, he began to wonder if maybe he had been spelled by the witch, for how else could things have gone so terribly wrong, so quickly?
Father Donovan visited the island where the witch was buried. To dig her up and desecrate her remains was too dangerous. It was highly possible that her essence would be able to escape into the body of anyone who touched her, or so it was feared.
Instead, her remains were left untouched. Father Donovan blessed the island, said a few prayers and laid salt around her grave. He ensured the townspeople that a witch’s spirit could not cross a body of water on its own, and that no one was to visit the island. A specialist would be called in to ensure the witch was vanquished for good, but until then, the island was deemed cursed, and forbidden to be walked upon.
Days later, the specialist arrived.
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Apartment 7C
Copyright © 2014 by David Bernstein
ISBN: 978-1-61922-029-4
Edited by Don D’Auria
Cover by Scott Carpenter
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First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2014
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