by Mark Tufo
Ellen, ignoring her father now, struggled to her feet and moved toward the portrait. She stared at it, trying to clear the illusion, if that's what it was. But the portrait's smile grew wider, until it could not be denied. The teeth showed, brilliant and white, and a distant laughter seemed to emanate from it. Giggles at first, then outright laughter, growing in intensity, and in her own voice. She looked at her father, and his eyes were horror-stricken.
He heard it, too.
She turned toward her bedroom and walked slowly, steadily toward it. Meditation would help her cope with both the newfound power and the sudden realization she had just experienced.
Chris was alive. She hoped to God her father did not realize it. She reached her bed and fell down onto the welcoming mattress. Tears of thankfulness rolled down the sides of her face. As her father appeared in the doorway, she willed the door to close. Ellen did not want to see him now. Perhaps not ever again.
The door moved. Ferguson Carver stepped back, his eyes wide. A split-second later, it slammed in his face.
Ellen sat bolt upright in her bed and screamed.
“Ellen, wake up. Ellen and Allyson, whoever is listening, awaken. Come back to us now.”
The voice in her mind seemed real.
“It is Isabel, Allyson. Come back to us now.”
* * * * *
As Allyson’s fingers fell from the portrait, Emma took her hand and squeezed it. Peter whispered to her, and Isabel used calming words to ease her back to the now.
When she opened her eyes she flew into a panic. “Oh, my God! Chris, did you see? Did you die? You didn't! I know it! Oh, my God!”
“Take it easy, Ally,” Peter said. “I’m not Chris, I'm Peter. And I'm okay.”
“Her heart rate’s coming down,” Emma said, holding her wrist. “Thank God.”
Isabel's eyes were filled with concern. “Something very disturbing happened. I felt it even before we brought her back.”
Allyson stood suddenly and looked at Peter. “He thinks he killed you! My father tried to kill you, Peter!”
“That one scared all of us,” Emma said. “I'll bring Matt back in.”
“Why did it scare you? What happened?”
Peter knelt beside her and took her hands in his. “The portrait, Ally. It . . . well, it changed.”
Allyson's eyes opened wide. “Did it smile?”
Matt had come back into the room with Emma, visibly shaken. “Oh, it smiled, all right. Fuckin' smiled a big smile and laughed, too. Scared the shit out of me.”
“So you saw it while you were inside?” Peter asked.
“Yes, I did. It's what told me you were still alive. Chris, I mean.”
“Peter, you're quick on the keyboard,” Emma said. “Write down what you know and what Ellen saw after you left the portrait. Don't leave out any details.”
“Got it.”
“It was like watching a movie on that canvas,” Matt said. “Thing just started . . . I don't know, shifting.” He was visibly disturbed.
Peter went to work writing down his memories of the experience, then questioned Allyson. Her memories were bizarre, but clear.
Isabel was busy looking through the pictures. A moment later she stood. “Peter, come here, please.”
Peter stood from the laptop computer and went to her.
“See this?”
“It's one of Chris's paintings.”
“Look at the edges of this one.” Isabel showed him. Black-brown, crinkled flakes adorned the outside of the canvas.
“It's burned.” He reached for it, but Isabel pulled it away quickly. “No, Peter. Not yet.”
Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “God, I almost forgot. No, I'm not ready to go back in yet.”
“I don’t think you need to go back, Peter,” Isabel said. “Chris lived, and that’s all that matters.”
“Good. I have other worries. About Ally.”
“I, too, have concerns.”
“I'm still having the nightmare, Isabel. The one where Ally . . . well, I'm not sure who it is anymore, but she dies. She's wearing . . .” His voice faded as a frightening thought entered his mind.
“Peter, they are important, but—”
“Isabel,” Peter said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. He moved closer to her. “The dress. It's the same one Ellen wore in the portrait. It's the same one Emma and I found in the trunk. And it's the one Ally is wearing in my nightmare when she bleeds to death.”
Isabel took his hands in hers and squeezed them. “She's not ready to hear this yet. Are you absolutely sure?”
“Let's go.” Peter stood and Isabel followed him to the table. He turned to see Emma and Allyson in the bedroom, Allyson lying back on the bed, Emma sitting beside her.
“I'm not sure why we didn't see it right away,” Peter said, holding up the faded dress.
“The color is not nearly as vivid as in the portrait. The wrap in the painting obscures some of the dress, too,” Isabel said. “But it is the same.”
“And it's the same as in my dream. I never want Ally to put on this dress.”
Isabel looked into his eyes, and touched his shoulder. “We must not close any doors, Peter. I have learned some important things, but any one of these items may be the key to understanding everything.”
“Is this a private meeting?” Matt asked.
“Nah, Matt. Just talking about the dress. It's the same as the one in the painting.”
Matt looked at it. “It is! I guess the shawl or scarf or whatever that is kind of hid it.”
“Yep,” Peter nodded.
“Hey,” Matt said. “Did you ever bring Glenn in to see if he's part of this?”
“I tried, but he's too damned busy. I never got a word in edgewise when I called him.”
Isabel looked at Peter. “We must know, Peter.”
“I'll go over to his house tomorrow morning. Maybe I'll bring a picture and see what happens.”
“I need you all here with me for a bit longer,” Isabel said. “We're done for tonight, but there is something I must tell you. It is very important news about who you once were.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER NINE
The four around Isabel's table wore disbelief on their faces. Peter stared at Isabel, not sure he could accept it. No, not really believing any of it.
“So we're witches,” Emma said.
“Yes.”
“Cool,” said Matt. “Like Bewitched.”
Isabel smiled. “You have questions. I'll try to answer them with what knowledge I have.”
Peter stood and paced the room. “So who are we? Do you know who was who?”
“Or which witch is which?” asked Matt.
“Cute,” Emma said. “But I think we'd better take this seriously.”
“That coming from you?” Matt laughed.
“I know. I'm freaked out. Just when I thought it couldn't get any freakier.”
“Back to my question, Isabel,” Peter said. His face was set and he had his arms folded over his chest. “Do you know who we were?”
“Yes, I told you earlier that you had another name. You’re Galen Bishop.”
“So that makes me Elliot Corey, I suppose,” Matt said.
“Since you are not evil, I suppose it does,” Isabel said.
“And me?”
Isabel turned toward Allyson and said, “I feel a closeness between Galen and Katherine Burroughs. That same closeness exists between you and Peter, and between Chris and Ellen. I would imagine you've been lovers throughout time. Emma, you are clearly Margaret Cloyce.”
Peter put his hands on Allyson's shoulders and rubbed them gently. “But how did we find one another? How did we all come together again and again?”
“You are drawn together. Though you have forgotten your purpose with each incarnation, with each new life, the spell you cast over three hundred years ago does not forget. You have always had the opportunity to accomplish what you promised. You are the first group to com
e so close to understanding your purpose.”
“How many groups, or incarnations have there been?” asked Allyson. “Since when, 1694?”
Isabel picked up a pen with her arthritic fingers and began writing on a piece of paper. At the top she wrote 1694, then more numbers, dates, added, more numbers, then looked up.
“Back then the life span was not very long. It’s increased with medical advancements. So if we calculate, and try to estimate it, consider your ages, my age, and other things, I think you are likely the fifth incarnation of the original four. It depends on whether you were killed when you were younger or near the end of your lives. We don’t know this, and likely won’t ever learn it.”
Peter stood up and began pacing the room. “So you’re saying these others never even had a clue? Never learned anything about what they were to do?”
Isabel shrugged. “It was a hastily cast spell, as I said. They were likely already feeling the lick of the flames against their skin when they decided to follow. Better to destroy the Evil One later than never, don’t you imagine?”
“Are you sure, Isabel?” Peter asked, persistent. “I mean, that we're the first to understand it? Maybe others came close, too.”
Isabel stood now, leaning on the table to stand, the pain of age in her eyes. “I've not yet told you what your purpose is,” she said.
“I think we all realize that,” Peter said. “Maybe we should hear the whole thing before we decide if your explanation makes sense.”
Emma glared at Peter. “Web, the answers are here. Isabel has a pretty damned good percentage for accuracy, and you had better open your eyes. What she says feels right. It explains a lot to me, and we can't afford to doubt it.”
“I don't mean to sound like an asshole, Em. And Isabel, I do respect what you've done so far. I can't explain it, but I know you're good at it. I’m sorry if it sounded like I don’t have faith in you. I do.”
As Peter mentally prepared himself for what Isabel was about to reveal, he sat beside Allyson at the table and took her hand in his. He looked her in the eyes and squeezed gently.
Isabel opened a book to a page marked with a feather. She moved toward the dim light bulb in the middle of the table and sat once more. “You were apprehended by a renowned witch finder named Gillett Hornsby. Hornsby was well known and despised throughout most of the community, as most witch finders were. Hornsby, however, was particularly ruthless, and the five of you were perhaps the only true witches he ever apprehended.”
“The five of us?” Emma looked at the others.
Isabel nodded. “There was another, a very powerful, very dark force captured with you. A sorcerer named Murdock Vickar.”
Isabel stopped for a moment, lifted the book close to her eyes, and lowered it again. “This book is not old, but it does a good job detailing the beginning of the witch trials, Peter,” she said. “Something you should understand before we go further.”
Turning to Matt, she said, “Matthew, will you read it aloud for me? My eyes are not suited just now.”
“Sure,” he said. He took the book and slid the lamp toward him. Clearing his throat, he began:
“On January 20, 1692, nine-year-old Elizabeth Parris and eleven-year-old Abigail Williams began to exhibit strange behavior, such as screaming, convulsive seizures, trance-like states and mysterious spells. Within a short time, several other Salem girls began to demonstrate similar behavior. In Mid-February, unable to determine any physical cause for the symptoms and dreadful behavior, physicians concluded that the girls were under the influence of Satan. By late February, services and community fasting were regularly conducted by Reverend Samuel Parris in hopes of relieving the evil forces that plagued them. In an effort to expose the 'witches', John Indian baked a witch cake made with rye meal and the afflicted girls' urine. This counter-magic was meant to reveal the identities of the 'witches' to the afflicted girls. Pressured to identify the source of their affliction, the girls named three women, including Tituba, Parris' Carib Indian slave, as witches. On February 29, warrants were issued for the arrests of Tituba, Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne. Although Osborne and Good maintained innocence, Tituba confessed to seeing the devil who appeared to her 'sometimes like a hog and sometimes like a great dog'. What's more, Tituba testified that there was a conspiracy of witches at work in Salem.”
“This is eerie,” Allyson said.
Matt looked up from the book. “Yeah. I'm getting chills reading it. Amazing people were ever so stupid.”
“What are you talking about?” Emma said. “There were witches. We're proof of that. They just caught the wrong ones.”
“Usually,” Isabel said. “Not in your case.”
Matt continued:
“As March commenced, Magistrates John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin examined Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborne in the meeting house in Salem Village. Tituba confessed to practicing witchcraft. Over the next weeks, other townspeople came forward and testified that they, too, had been harmed by or had seen strange apparitions of some of the community members. As the witch hunt continued, accusations were made against many different people. Frequently denounced were women whose behavior or economic circumstances were somehow disturbing to the social order and conventions of the time. Some of the accused had previous records of criminal activity, including witchcraft, but others were faithful churchgoers and people of high standing in the community. “
“Do I need to keep reading?” Matt asked.
Isabel shook her head. “No. You understand how it began, how the hysteria helped it spread. In those times if you confessed, you might save your life. If you did not, it was almost certain death. Unfortunately, the forced confessions perpetuated the belief by magistrates and witch finders that witches were everywhere.”
Emma looked directly at Isabel. “Where do we go from here, Isabel? How can we use this information to discover why we’re here?”
Isabel drank from her cup of tea, and smiled. “Hypnosis, I believe. If I remember how to do it right, it may be used to reveal each of your powers. Through suggestion and, shall we say, interaction.”
Allyson looked around at each person and shuddered. “Are we ready for this yet, Isabel?”
“I believe so,” she said, nodding.
“What comes of it?” Peter asked. “What's so important about knowing?”
“Good question,” Matt said.
Emma took Isabel's hand. “We appreciate all you're doing, Isabel. I'm not sure why you are doing it.”
Isabel smiled again. “As I said some time ago, I am involved. I cannot say how yet, but in the past you will meet me.”
“You still didn't answer my question,” Peter asked. “What good is knowing our powers?”
“I believe,” Isabel said, “once you know what powers you possessed, you may then nurture them back to their former strength. The mind is an amazing thing. Once it is aware something is possible, it can break through barriers once believed impenetrable.”
“So if we accept that these powers are possible,” Emma said, “we can . . . what, reinstate them?”
“Essentially, yes.”
* * * * *
The next morning Peter picked up the phone and called his brother at the office.
“Glenn Webster.”
“Glenn, it's Peter.”
The voice on the other end of the line transformed from serious to playful. “Petey, my brother! To what do I owe this pleasure? And keep it short. I'm busy, you know.”
“Yeah, freeing the guilty and making the innocent suffer.”
“You're hilarious. What's on your mind.” The tone was serious again.
“I want to have lunch with you today. Maybe El Torito”
A pause on the line. “Let's see. I'll have to check with Satan first. He keeps me on a tight leash, you know.”
“Funny.”
Glenn laughed hard on the other end of the phone. “It's your opinion, Pete, not mine. But seriously, I have court this morning.”
“C'mon, what kind of trial is it? You're good enough to get out early for a quick bite. You have my cell phone. Call me when the judge recesses for lunch.”
“It's a rape trial. What's so important?”
Peter got a bad taste in his mouth. His brother would be defending the rapist, using all his talents—which were substantial—to get him off.
“Just want to show you something,” Peter said. “See if you know anybody in some pictures I found.”
“Pictures? Well, I'll let you know. Keep your phone turned on and I'll call if I get a chance.”
Peter hung up the phone. He and Emma would hit the internet and if necessary, UCI’s library, and pore over obituaries while he waited for Glenn. He wasn't sure his brother would call, but if not, he didn't want to waste the day waiting for him. He picked up the phone again and punched in Emma's number.
“Em, you ready to ride?” he said when she answered the phone.
“Been waitin'.”
“It's only nine-thirty.”
“Been up since three o’clock, Web.”
Peter laughed. “You, too?”
“You, too?” Emma asked.
“Hell, yeah. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. Have your cigarette and coffee, and make me a cup.”
“Already am and I will.”
Peter hung up the phone and brushed his hair, noticing it seemed a little higher over the mole on his forehead than it used to be.
* * * * *
Emma had a list of dates in front of her, each one marked by a name. “I say we start with our birthdates and work our way backwards.”
“The reason is?”
Emma slapped his forehead with the heel of her hand. “Duh! We know we were born after they died, so it makes the most sense. That way we only search the days prior to our births until we find them.”
Peter rubbed his head and said: “Makes sense.”
“And you're supposed to be a teacher. Phht.”