One Night in Salem

by Amber Newberry

  * * *

  When I spotted Thomas coming down the street, I halted him and explained what had happened—carefully omitting Warlock’s culpability in the matter. The man absorbed the news with an odd mixture of relief as well as sorrow, as he clutched the mug of coffee I’d offered him, not drinking a drop. Finally he hurried off to fetch an ambulance for his former master, and soon I heard the clattering of hooves as the hearse arrived to take Endicott away forever. I had no more part in this affair, so I went back inside and commenced preparing some cold meat for breakfast, when a shouted exclamation from the interior of the house next door gave me pause. I opened the back door in order to hear better what was going on adjacent, and there Warlock came trotting happily through the portal.

  As he entered, I caught a glimpse of something in his mouth. It was impossible to determine what manner of creature he’d brought me this time, and he led me on quite a merry chase before I managed to get him to drop it. As he followed his nose into the kitchen to inspect what I was preparing for our meal, I investigated what it was he’d been carrying.

  I’ve had experience with many things grim and grisly in my life, but I confess that upon examining the object, I drew back a bit.

  For the cat had brought me one of Endicott’s eyes.

  1944

  ellylldan

  Jonathan D. Nichols

  Boom!

  The gunshot fired and hit Corporal Byron; he jerked backwards. Blood splattered behind him, and his arm hung limp. The severe wound on his shoulder oozed and drizzled onto the beach. His skin turned pale white as the shotgun dropped and sank into the sand. He’d saved me twice and helping him was the least I could do, but the firepower kept coming. Pressing on was pertinent, knowing this mission’s importance, knowing that if we could defeat the Germans here at Normandy, this could be the end of their reign in France. Another blast. This one knocked me back; I hit the salt water as a wave washed over me. The ocean water crept back and brought with it my blood. My chest seeped and my breathing grew shallow. Gasping, air escaped through the bullet wound. Somebody approached. Not friendly. Nazi. He pointed his gun at me. Close enough to touch me. Close enough for me to touch him. Reaching with the last of my strength, my fingers grazed his skin. Fire lurched forth from his mouth, just for a second. His eyes blackened then turned to ash, leaving hollow, empty sockets.

  * * *

  I tried not to think about the war, about that last battle before they shipped me home—that last battle where death nearly reached me, where things happened that I couldn’t comprehend. Today was a day where I didn’t want to be stuck in the horrors of war. Pushing the thoughts away, I stepped up the walkway to the house I hadn’t seen in over two decades.

  Splinters in the dilapidated door snapped when my knuckles rapped on the surface. Within the old home, feet shuffled and boards creaked. The latch clicked, and the door swung inward.

  “Hello,” said the old man. “Can I help you?”

  He had the same face I always remembered. I pulled him close, wrapping my arms around him.

  “It’s me, Father.”

  He returned the embrace. Salty, warm tears dripped onto my shoulder. He sobbed, squeezed me tight, and then invited me in.

  “Your grandparents sent me a letter saying they drafted you.”

  I took a sip from my tea.

  “I got back last month.”

  “I know. You were at the front lines. They called what you men did D-Day.” I didn’t say a word. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re sitting here in front of me. After so many years.”

  “Twenty-three,” I said. “You sent me to live with Grandma and Grandpa twenty-three years ago.”

  “You know why I did it, Son.”

  “It was an accident. I was seven.”

  “Were all the others accidents?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your grandparents wrote me all the time. They told me about nine over the years. Your mother made ten. Were there more?”

  I raised my eyebrows, carefully setting down my glass of tea, trying not to let him see my arm shaking.

  “I’m not talking about the war, either. Not talking about the Nazis or the Japs over there. I’m talking about neighbors, friends, innocent people. How many of those?”

  “I never meant to,” I whispered.

  “You never meant to kill your mom, either.”

  “Did you know she tried to kill me?”

  “I forgave you for your mom years ago. She knew what you were and couldn’t handle it. Messed her up in the head. Wasn’t your fault she died, it was her own.”

  “Dad, I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “It stopped when I was fifteen, when I figured it out. It doesn’t happen anymore. I don’t think it can happen anymore.”

  He nodded, then took a sip.

  “There’s a Halloween celebration in Palmer’s Cove tonight. I want you to be there with me.”

  “I don’t like crowds.”

  “You’re a war hero. People will want to meet you.”

  * * *

  I lay in the ocean salt water, dying. My wounds burned, like fire growing within me. A voice spoke—one familiar, but that I couldn’t place.

  “Get up, son.”

  The image before me appeared translucent. A man, yes, but was he really there? This must be the one leading me to the next world. The Reaper? An angel? A demon?

  “Get up,” the man said again. Pushing with my elbows, the pain shot down my spine and legs. They didn’t want to move. I collapsed and lay back again. Water splashed as he stepped closer, bent over, and stared at my face. “You’re not dead. You’re not really wounded. Stop thinking you are, figure it out, and…get…up.”

  There was authority in that voice. His irises glowed and turned orange, but it didn’t scare me. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, and the fire within me glowed out of the chest wound. It cracked and sparked. The oozing blood flaked off and washed away in the ocean water. The skin closed with no sign of a scar. He touched the side of my head with his index finger. Memories flooded through my brain, some of which I didn’t know existed. I knew who I was now.

  * * *

  Some people wore masks. Ladies wore pointed witch hats and false hooked noses, faces painted to look like Margaret Hamilton in the film from five years before. Children snacked on candy and played games with their rubber masks pulled up to the top of their heads to reveal their innocent faces beneath.

  “Harry Erline,” a man said, shaking my father’s hand. “Good to see you here, sir. Good to see you.”

  “Mark, I’d like you to meet my son. He just returned from the war.”

  “Young Aidan?”

  “Yes, well…grown Aidan, now.”

  “Good Lord,” said Harry. “I remember when you were just a small lad, barely this tall.”

  He held his hand flat and parallel with the ground, just below his waist.

  I smiled and shook his hand.

  “Good to meet you, sir.”

  He continued talking with my father. I turned and walked away, not wishing to be around a lot of people. There were children here—families having a grand time, laughing, enjoying this night—this exciting night. The sun set beneath the horizon, its glow turning the sky into a hazy gray. The stack of wood neatly organized in the center of it all loomed over everyone. A man my father’s age approached with a torch. The fire licked the dry wood and rose to the sky. Something inside me flipped like a switch. It clicked like a door opening and unleashing me, the real me. The memories he’d given me. That man. My father. My real father.

  1914. The Great Salem Fire. The year I was born. The year my mother, my birth mother, brought me to the cradle and replaced me with the other child. A changeling. A human baby switched with something otherworldly. On the day my human mother came to visit my father in the Korn Leather Factory where he worked, something happened.
They said it was an industrial explosion, but I knew the truth. My mother knew the truth, and she would never forget.

  At seven, she stood over me holding a pillow as I lay in bed. Until now, this was my first memory. She gripped it tight between her fingers. Her skin was pale from squeezing the soft cushion with such intense force. Her arms trembled; the loose pillowcase rippled with each quiver.

  “You are not my child.”

  She brought the pillow down and pressed it against my face. My limbs flailed and swung the moment I couldn’t breathe. They found me unconscious in bed. Her body resting motionless on the floor; smoke came from her mouth and ears while her eyes were burnt out, as though somebody had jammed a hot poker into her ocular cavities.

  The neighborhood bully, Abraham Shipley, didn’t like me. He pushed me to the ground, but I got up. When he touched me again, fire burned him from the inside out. The traveling vagrant (nobody knew who he was) saw me outside playing and asked me a lot of questions. He grabbed my wrist and fell with smoke coming out his ears and nose. So many more. My grandparents hid it; they tried to cover it up, to keep my association with the deaths a secret. It used to scare me, but no longer did.

  I marched forward on the beach of Normandy. Enemy soldiers shot at me. The bullets pierced, but the wounds sparked a flame and they healed.

  I walked straight toward the bonfire. Determined and sure, I stood at the edge and welcomed the heat. With my arms raised, the warmth radiated onto my skin and felt good. The flames leaned into me, as though attracted by a magnet.

  Standing in front of them, I touched each person and watched their eyes explode and their bodies crumple to the ground. Soldiers on the American side touched me. They fell down dead. The fire didn’t distinguish friend from enemy.

  The flames surrounded me like a ball of fire. Everybody stared. I laughed. This is who I was. I finally knew my purpose, what I was supposed to do.

  Enemy soldiers crowded in, trying to stop me. It was overwhelming. So many. Too many for me to deal with. I crouched down. An explosion expanded outward and blew everybody surrounding me away.

  The fire erupted and burst forth like a wave, scorching everybody around me.

  I stood on the beach of Normandy, surrounded by ashen skeletons. Soldiers shouted and gunfire came from the distance. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. I was terrified.

  A fire lit up behind my eyes. The blackened bones encircled me—the remains of all who attended the celebration. This is who I am—a carrier of death…the one who brings fire. A smile spread across my face—my first true smile. For the first time ever, I felt complete.

  1985

  panic

  Dan LeFever

  “Oh god, oh god!” Brian screamed into the night as he ran through the woods.

  Close behind him, too close, he heard someone yell back, “God can’t help you, now!”

  Brian kept running as he tried to make sense of what he had just seen. He had decided to take a walk in the woods behind the college after he left his friend’s Halloween party. He knew it was stupid to go out by himself; his mother always told him that nothing good happened after ten o’clock at night, especially this night.

  While walking along a path he’d seen a light, so he thought it might be some college kids having a kegger in the woods, and he could probably score some free beer. As he approached he heard someone scream, a deep and primal scream. Could someone be out here fucking? he thought. He had only ever seen a naked girl in his dad’s porno mags. This could be a very interesting night. Soon he could see that it was definitely a fire giving off the light, with about six people standing in a semi-circle around what seemed like a small pile of clothes. Suddenly, another person came from around the fire, dragging something. As Brian continued to walk in their direction he saw the newcomer throw the thing he was dragging onto the pile. Brian reeled back in horror as he saw that it was a body, and he realized the pile was actually more bodies.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered as he crouched down behind a tree. These guys must be Satanists. His mother had read that book that came out a few years before, about Satanic cults. She then accused him of being a Satanist for liking the music he listened to.

  “It’s the devil’s music!” she would shout at him. He knew it wasn’t. Judas Priest and Iron Maiden weren’t Satanic bands, but he could never convince her. The shirts and posters in his room didn’t help much: demons and zombies were just cool to sing about, it didn’t mean they actually worshipped Satan.

  Distracted by his own thoughts, Brian didn’t hear the person coming up behind him till it was almost too late. He heard a twig snap and someone shout, “Looks like we have another one here!”

  The whole group by the fire turned as one in his direction. Brian jumped up and bolted. He heard them running behind him. As he screamed for help in the night and blindly dashed through the woods, he lost track of which direction led out of the forest. He heard whoops and hollers to his right, so he turned and ran left. He then heard them coming up from his left so he turned right again, just as he saw another figure coming at him from that direction, so he quickly weaved between trees to avoid him. He then knew that he was being herded. The realization hit him in the pit of his stomach. All he wanted was to get home; this wasn’t how his night was supposed to go. Tears began to cloud his vision as his legs pumped hard. He needed to get away.

  Jumping over a fallen tree, he saw a light in the distance. Please be a street light, please be a street light, he silently begged. As he got close, he saw that it was the group’s fire. This almost took all the strength from his legs. They had herded him back to their killing grounds. He ran past the clearing and darted in the other direction. It soon dawned on him that he hadn’t heard any noise behind him, or any shouts from the group in at least a minute. He began to slow, his body not used to this much activity and the adrenaline subsiding in his system.

  Nothing. No sound, other than the natural murmurs of the forest. Brian came to a stop and took the chance to look back from the way he came. No one was there, no movement in the trees, just peaceful quiet. Could it have been a prank? he thought. Not sure if he was still in danger, Brian decided he needed to figure out where he was and get out of the woods. He turned to leave, but was struck from the side by something heavy. He fell to the ground, hard, and realized he was just tackled as the thing that struck him pushed his face into the dirt while also pinning his arms behind his back.

  “Told you if we got real quiet he would slow down. They always do,” said the man on top of him.

  “You’ve been doing this a lot longer than some of us, we have to learn from mistakes, sometimes,” said another man somewhere off to his left.

  “Make mistakes and you might lose them, and we can’t allow that to happen,” replied the first man.

  “Alright, alright. Just bring him back to the fire and let’s get this over with,” spoke a woman’s voice from behind.

  Brian, still stunned from the tackle, was brought to his feet and then the world went dark as something was put over his head. He screamed as he was dragged forward.

  “Scream all you want, our Lord will not let anyone interfere in our work,” a man shouted in his ear.

  Brian tried lashing out in that direction, maybe he could hurt one of them so they would stop to help their wounded friend, but he couldn’t get his arms free from the man pushing him. He soon saw light coming through what he assumed was a bag over his head.

  “Please! Please, you don’t have to do this, I don’t even know what you look like. Please, I just want to go home,” he cried.

  There was no response, except for a hard kick to the back of the knees, making him drop to the ground. He felt hands grab his legs to hold him down, and the man restraining his arms held them in a tighter grip, almost pulling his shoulders out of their sockets.

  “Now, brothers and sisters,” said a man in front of him, “we have ourselves here another lost sheep. A great burden has been placed upon us, by our Lord.
We have to cleanse the world in their blood. I wish it was always as easy as this one just walking into our congregation,” he chuckled. Brian heard other laughter around him.

  “Oh God, look I’m a Satanist too, please, you don’t want to sacrifice one of your own, right?” Brian lied. “C’mon, let me go…I can find real Christians, or whoever, and bring them back…please…please…don’t kill me!” he cried.

  He was suddenly blinded by brightness as the hood was pulled from his head. Blinking from the light and his own tears, Brian saw a man take shape in front of him. He wore a white robe with a giant cross around his neck.

  “Oh, you’ve found real Christians already, boy,” the man said. “Quite frankly, I think we are the only real ones left,” he continued, looking beyond Brian to the rest of the group. Cheers broke out.

  “You see, as the Good Book says, you shouldn’t suffer a witch to live. And, as you know, we have a tradition in this town,” he said with a wink, looking back to Brian.

  “But.. but I’m not really a Satanist, please believe me.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know what to believe, now. Were you just saying you would bring us people to sacrifice? Are you a liar, boy?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” is all Brian could think to say as he hung his head.

  “Well, we can’t take the chance, and we must do the Lord’s work. Whether you are a Satanist, or just a liar, either one of these requires us to give you mercy.”

  Brian looked up at the mention of mercy.

  “Mercy? Does that mean you will let me go?”

  The man pulled a large knife from under his robes, “No, the mercy I speak of is to end your suffering and send you to your eternal reward, or as I assume, your eternal punishment.”