Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  Back to the old timer. Emily thought hard where she might have met him. And what was the meaning of his silver chain? Time to place another thought in Debbie’s head.

  Debbie leaned into Joseph. “That’s an interesting piece of silver around your neck. May I ask what it is?”

  “Oh, this?” Meicigama pulled out a small silver object with a turquoise stone set in the middle. “This is a gift handed down to me from my grandfather,” he said with great pride. “It helps me to interpret dreams.”

  “Are you Indian?” Debbie caught herself. “I mean, Native American. Not the East Indian, of course.”

  His smile was congenial. “Yes, ma’am. I’m a native, of Ojibway descent. But you know us better as Chippewas.”

  The hairs on Emily’s back went porcupine in alarm mode.

  Meicigama continued. “I’m retired now, but I held a tenured professorate at Western Michigan University for thirty years, teaching general Native American Culture as well as more specific subjects like Shamanism, the Ancient Practice of Strong Medicine, Shaman Dream Weaving and Interpretive Practices.”

  Had Emily been a porcupine, her quivers would have launched in fright and flight mode. But she stayed put, riveted by what she was hearing.

  “You don’t say,” Debbie said, with obvious intense interest. “You know, Mr. Meicigama, Bob had a really strange dream a couple weeks ago.”

  Bob flinched. “Debbie, please, don’t bother our guests with my dreams, I—”

  Joseph Meicigama cut Bob off. “It’s no bother. Trust me, Mr. Stevens. It’s a gift my family has developed over many generations.”

  “Honey, I really don’t want to do this.”

  “Actually,” Debbie said, undeterred. “It was three dreams. Do you think you can tell us their meanings?”

  Joseph rubbed the amulet between his fingers as he looked at Bob. “Yes, I do. Tell me the first of the three.”

  Bob hesitated, but Debbie elbowed him. “Go on. Tell him.”

  “Okay. I’m eating breakfast and everything in my world is blue. I’m sitting by a lake and there are two guardian angels, one male and one female.”

  Joseph nodded his head. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, it’s not much. But it was so vivid. I can see everything just as if I dreamt it last night.”

  Another nod from Joseph. “That’s enough. And the second?”

  Bob looked down, his eyebrows furrowed. “Everything is gray. I’m eating lunch and I’m alone, traveling back and forth through time. I see places to get off, as if I’m on a train or subway.”

  He looked back up, straight at Joseph. “But I don’t know which exit I need. So, even though I have the ability to stop, I have no control of where I’m going because I don’t where to get off. I’m speeding forward, faster and faster, all the while passing by people and events I should be enjoying.”

  Meicigama gave a sagacious tilt of his head. “I see. And the third dream.”

  “It’s night time. After a long hard day of back-breaking work, I’m in my driveway leaving my car. I walk down a path and I want to go into my house and eat dinner. But the path swerves around the house into the backyard where I walk to the fence on the boundary line. Just before I reached out to grab it, I woke up.”

  “What do you suppose the dreams mean,” Debbie asked.

  Meicigama put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor. Emily knew the interpretation was not going to be good news for Boring Bob.

  “These dreams, they are absolute and straight forward in their essence. But I hesitate to tell you what they mean.”

  “To be honest,” Bob chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not much of a believer in dreams forecasting my future. So hey—take your best shot.”

  Emily was on edge, waiting for the shaman’s next words. This was no ordinary man. Although Boring Bob and Debbie welcomed him as a docile guest, Emily knew he presented a serious threat. To what extent, she wasn’t sure. She stayed under a chair, listening.

  Joseph stared at Bob, looking as though he was assessing the man’s ability to take what he was about to say. He blew out a breath of resignation and complied with the request.

  “Your first dream is easy to interpret. The guardian angels represent your parents who act as spiritual guides. Blue represents grace, hope, heaven, truth, and wisdom. These are what your mother and father imparted for your young life’s journey. And the setting is breakfast. This tells of your youth until you left home.”

  “Bob had wonderful parents,” Debbie said with pride. “His father’s gone now. But his mother lives in Auburn Hills.”

  Joseph smiled, brief, then became staid. “Your second dream is your current life, being that the setting is lunch. Gray indicates fear, fright, depression, ill health, ambivalence and confusion.”

  He paused, again appearing to assess Bob’s demeanor, which seemed tenuous, but intent on listening.

  “To dream about time and travelling through time tells me something happened to change your world from blue to gray. Your desire is to escape from your present reality. This includes people as well as circumstances. You want to go into the past where life was safe or jump forward to the future where your personal hopes are realized. For the present, your fears are of not being able to cope with the pressures and stresses of everyday life.”

  “Nailed that one right on the proverbial head,” Bob said, looking at Debbie.

  Joseph stroked his chin, his visage morphing into somber. “In your third dream, the setting is dinner and represents your future. You want to go home where there is safety. But you are on the wrong path. And the color is black, meaning it is nighttime. And this represents death.”

  Bob winced—just a quickie—but then didn’t seem fazed. “Well, we’re all going to die someday.”

  Meicigama continued to rub his omelet. “Unfortunately, in your dream you reach the boundary line of your acreage. That you are about to grab the fence, the outermost limits of your property, tells me your time is short.”

  Bob and Debbie were silent for a laborious and lengthy pause. So was Emily. The Indian could tell a good story. Or perhaps, he had a gift worth noting, one that could rival American Ghost Stories or even exceed it.

  Bob spoke. “Good thing I don’t believe in dreams.” He chuckled, but it sounded silly, almost goofy.

  “I’m not so sure,” Debbie said, her hands coming together in a mild wringing. “Mr. Meicigama, is there anything we should do? I don’t want my Bob to die.”

  Bob half-laughed, more of a cough. “Honey, I’m not going to die.”

  “J-just—stop, Bob,” Debbie admonished him with hand up. She turned back to Joseph. “Please, is there anything we can do? You know, just in case the dreams are real.”

  Joseph laughed. “You? No. There is not. But, perhaps, there is something I can do.”

  Debbie’s countenance lifted. “Well, that sounds promising. Can we help?”

  Meicigama made and abrupt turn and started to walk toward the living room. “I’m sorry. I need to rest. I’ll show myself to my room.”

  He stopped short, turned back and looked hard at Bob and Debbie. “I suggest you two leave Murcat Manor tonight. Have a date night. Go to dinner then see a movie. There’s a midnight showing of Ghost Busters in Jackson.”

  The old sage walked around the table and past Emily as if she wasn’t there. He went out of his way to do this. She was sure he got her attention, then ignored her on purpose. The act was purposeful. He was staying at Murcat Manor for a reason. And Emily was convinced his visitation involved something to do with her.

  Chapter 40 The Witching Hour

  Denise Forsythe looked at her watch. 11:55 p.m. Her heart always beat faster in the minutes proceeding the filming of an episode of American Ghost Stories.

  But she was always in control of her emotions because they had an editing room. They could retake shots. Cut scenes out. Splice something in later. Heck, Johnny Rocket could modify her hair using computer
graphics if it wasn’t looking good.

  But tonight was live. There would be no re-dos. No second chances to get the show right the first time. The entire crew looked nervous. The anxiety caused her to stutter slightly as Johnny walked through the final instructions.

  But she had faith in ‘The Kid’ as she affectionately called Johnny Rocket. Only twenty-three and one year out of UCLA's famed Westwood-based film school, he was young to be a producer. Yet he was one of the best at his craft.

  The Kid was scary organized. And he didn’t bother Denise or the Leeds brothers with countless back end details that made American Ghost Stories one of the highest rated shows on cable television. He allowed them do their show in front of the cameras while he handled the particulars behind the scenes.

  Johnny spoke with a hint of a squeak in his voice that Denise would playfully tease him about. “You’re all a little nervous. So am I. But we’ve had a couple walkthroughs, so we’ll be fine. Slow goes it, okay? Three hours is plenty of time to cover the house and the outside property. We don't gotta rush nothin’.”

  Denise smiled at him, adoring the way he intentionally abused the English language, like some uneducated buffoon when he was as brilliant a guy as any she had known.

  “An’ most of all?” he continued. “Just have fun. Lotsa fun. And we’ll have us a frickin’ awesome show.”

  “And remember,” Ned said, hands on his hips with a stern look as he turned to each member of the crew. “We’re not mentioning the Stevens are under investigation by the Battle Creek Police. We’re here to explore any observable phenomena that cannot be explained using scientific methods. That is all.”

  Ned looked around the living room then into the kitchen. “And judging from Denise’s vibes earlier today, I feel strongly we’re going find the holy grail of paranormal activity. Something evil that’s been around for generations is active once again and killing people on this property.”

  The cameramen were in place. The skinny, still pimple-faced but self-assured producer stood off to the side and looked at Ned, counting off with his fingers. “Five, four, three, two, and we’re live.”

  Ned clasped his hands and said with much enthusiasm. “Thank you for tuning in, and welcome to our very first live showing of American Ghost Stories.”

  He turned to the rest of the crew and Denise donned her signature wry, but incredibly sexy smile for their fans. “With me, as usual, are my twin brother Henry and the lovely Denise Forsythe. We’re in the living room at Murcat Manor, a popular ten room bed and breakfast located in south central Michigan in the rolling countryside between Battle Creek and Marshall.”

  Ned spread his arms wide as the cameramen stepped back to give the audience a comprehensive image of the living room. “Although the outside of this bed and breakfast is fashioned after a Grand Victorian house, and can give a person the appearance of a house that might harbor metaphysical activity, the inside is very much different. It's modern in every sense, from the recessed lighting to the contemporary furniture and decor.”

  Ned dropped his smile that gave way to a serious demeanor. “But don't let this modern day setting fool you. The history of this property tells us there’s something evil living here that goes back generations. Trust me. This promises to be our best show ever.”

  Ned led everyone toward the front door. He opened it and stepped out onto the porch. One cameraman followed while Johnny aimed a handheld floodlight and highlighted the white latticed gazebo in the front yard.

  “If you’ve seen the previews, you know five people have died here during the past nine weeks. In late April, a month before Murcat Manor opened for business, probably the most mysterious and dramatic death occurred when the general contractor in charge of the building Murcat Manor was killed. The ladder he was on, three stories tall, fell backwards. His body was crushed and impaled on the gazebo’s metal spire peak.”

  Ned and the cameraman came back into the foyer. He stopped at the base of the stairs and pointed up. “Earlier this month, a man from Detroit was killed upstairs in his room by his wife after she thrust a fire poker into his chest. According to accounts from that night, she then ran down the hall in her nightgown, her blood curdling screams waking the guests. She fell down the stairs and broke half the bones in her body, including her neck. She died right here at the bottom of the stairs.”

  Denise followed Ned as he walked back through the living room and into the kitchen, careful to stay in the picture. Ned was the leader, and he was great at working the audience.

  But she was the eye candy who received the most social media attention. Her Facebook Fan Page had hundreds of thousands of fans, and she had millions of followers on Twitter. A large segment of their viewers—especially men—tuned in just to get a load of her off-the-charts sexy gorgeousness.

  “Another guest,” Ned continued, “died in the kitchen while eating. Cause of death; a simultaneous combination of choking and a heart attack. A very strange way to die. And finally, one of the helpers hired for the summer was electrocuted in the laundry room behind the kitchen.”

  “That’s right,” Henry said, taking his cue from The Kid. “That’s five deaths on this very property in a little over two months. Now, the owners of Murcat Manor, Bob and Debbie Stevens, declined to be filmed and are not here for the show. But we thank them just the same for allowing us to stay the entire night here and bring to you, our awesome viewing audience of two million people, American Ghost Stories. Live and uncensored.”

  Denise looked at Johnny, who pointed at her, signaling she was to deliver her line. She sashayed around the massive oak kitchen table for effect as the cameramen followed. Her hips and walk were sensuous. Her eyes bespoke deadly seriousness.

  “As if five deaths on this singular property are not enough to make a believer out of the biggest skeptic that something strange is happening on these grounds, there have been an additional nineteen deaths in two previous houses and barns that once stood here. They burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. Seven poor souls in nineteen-seventeen, then twelve more in nineteen sixty-seven, perished here.”

  Denise couldn’t contain her excitement as she talked with her arms and hands, speaking with the grandest of smiles. She was in her glory. “As Henry claimed, this promises to be our best show ever. Three hours. Live. And it’s midnight with a full moon. What more can we ask for?”

  Denise was pumped and had volumes to say, more so than on any previous episode. The nervousness in her stomach was gone. She was a skeptic, as were Ned and Henry. It was vital to ferret out false leads and phony people who staged a paranormal setting just to get on their show. Credibility with their faithful and growing audience was what helped make their cable program so popular.

  But tonight, she was sure of one thing. Murcat Manor was the real deal. She could feel it. The tingling on her skin. The burning in her bones. And she was barely starting to ramp up.

  “We’ve set up cameras,” Ned continued. “Small devices in all the downstairs rooms, except Bob and Debbie’s bedroom. We’ll respect their privacy. Unless, of course, they come home during the show and we detect activity behind the door.” Ned winked and chuckled.

  Henry moved toward the basement door. “We even have the front and back doors covered.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And the basement. We feel we may be saving the very best for last. You’ll want to stay awake for that.

  “We can go in our two rooms we rented for the night, the Paranormal Room and the Serial Killer Room. The first was once the Disco Room where a married couple from Detroit died. There are eight more themed rooms upstairs. Murcat Manor is a full house tonight. If we’re lucky, some of the guests may allow us in to visit their rooms.”

  Denise waved to Johnny, then pointed at the Goths and Vamps trying with pathetic results, to hide in the background behind couches and chairs. She motioned the cameramen to make sure they got them in their shots.

  After a quick pan of the living room, Ned stepped toward the
back door, leading the crew. He lifted his left arm and tapped his watch. “It’s midnight. So let’s get started, shall we?”

  Chapter 41 Generational Curses

  Tonight at Murcat Manor is the best possible scenario for our fans, Denise thought, wringing her hands in glee and anticipation. And a full moon to boot? She shook her head in awe. It just doesn’t get any better than this.

  All the hard work and sacrifice seemed to line up for this one special night. She felt is if this event was foreordained just for her and this one live episode.

  Denise loved the Goths and Vamps peeking around the corners, running back and forth to get a better view but staying well in the background, jockeying for position and examining her every move. This was adding quality production value for the live viewing audience. And if paranormal activity did happen, the many cameras arrayed around the property would certainly capture the events.

  She followed as Ned and Henry took turns talking to their live audience as they explored the backyard. Even though the Leeds Brothers were not identical twins, internally, they always knew what the other was thinking.

  They often finished each other's sentences and answered for one another. Denise thought doing a show on their lives would be more than a little interesting. She had always been a little freaked out over how twins and triplets could do this.

  Ned turned to her and spoke. “Denise, are you feeling anything?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said in a low soft tone. “Where do I begin?”

  Denise wracked her brain to compartmentalize all the information she was receiving, then place it in some logical progression through space and time that would make sense to her and the viewing audience. Images, voices, a few screams, and other random signals competed for her attention. It was as if the people who died here were crying out to her, trying to tell their story of the injustices that happened to them.