Vampire Magic

by D C Young

  Julia shook her head. “It’s unfortunate.”

  The two women stood outside the bedroom door for a few silent moments wondering what to say to each other when suddenly there was a cry from Bridget’s room and they both took off running towards the sound.

  “She’s convulsing,” Jade said in a panic as soon as the door flew open.

  Julia ran around the bed and lifted Bridget’s head, placing it securely in her lap while Erika pulled the throws from the back of the couch and tied Bridget’s legs to the bedposts. Julia took a leather address book from the night stand and placed it firmly between Bridget’s teeth so she wouldn’t bite or swallow her tongue. The witch seemed to be in a full trance; her eyes were rolled back and she was mumbling ‘Elizabeth’ over and over again.

  “What happened here?” Erika shouted.

  “We were just talking about her craft and how things were for a witch when she first came to America, then suddenly her eyes rolled right back into her head. She recited what I think was a list of names and then she started shaking uncontrollably. Since the shaking started all she’s been saying is ‘Elizabeth Proctor’, over and over again.”

  “What did she say?” Julia asked, “Before the convulsions started.”

  “She said, ‘Samantha Moon, Tammy Moon, Rennie Telfair, Kingsley Fulcrum, Yemaya’. And she said that three times.”

  “Jade, come here and take my place,” Julia said. “Both of you watch her and call for me if it gets worse. Otherwise, make no attempts to wake her; let her ride it out. She’s dream walking right now, I have no idea where she’s gone.”

  ***

  Salem, Massachusetts. 1692.

  As Bridget walked into the court room she felt a sudden chill and hunched her shoulders in her coat. Realizing that the chill wasn’t coming from any cool air, but from the icy stares of the gathered crowd that had come to watch the proceedings, Bridget straightened her form, raised her chin slightly and let her eyes scan over the crowd. When her gaze passed over the Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam, Mary Walcott, Marcy Lewis and Elizabeth Hubbard, the group of teens suddenly flung themselves to the floor and began convulsing.

  “What manner of witchcraft are you conversant in?” Judge John Hathorne asked, obviously disturbed by the way the girls were carrying on.

  As calmly as she could muster, Bridget smiled and looked out at the sea of stern faces. “It takes all of these people to witness my innocence?”

  “It will be the duty of this court to be the judge of that, Miss Bishop,” Judge Hathorne countered. He looked toward the girls who had calmed themselves and were sitting upright in their seats once more. “Were you girls, just now, afflicted by this woman?”

  “I was,” each of them testified in turn.

  Was he really going to take the word of the five teens who had very obviously been playing a dramatic role and were inflicted by nothing more than teen boredom?

  “Surely, your honor, you’re not going to accept such a blatant display as testimony,” Bridget said in a dignified tone.

  “This court will accept the testimony that it sees fit!” Hathorne warned, pointing a long, bony finger in her direction. “You will not speak out of turn again.”

  Bridget remained quiet while she watched each of the girls speak of how they had been afflicted by her spells and witchcraft. Bridget was certain that it would make no difference how she testified on her own behalf. A decision had already been made concerning her guilt and the trial was little more than a drama, acted out as a mere formality.

  “She called the devil her God,” Ann Putnam said. Throughout her testimony, she’d kept her eyes wide and spoke in a tone that made one think that she’d witnessed pure evil. The audience, including Judge Hathorne, his assistant, Jonathan Corwin, and the panel of clergymen that had been assembled as a jury were completely drawn in by her. She began to sob and spoke in a quiet tone. “She tried to make us sign the book of the devil.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Putnam, but I didn’t hear that last part,” Judge Hathorne said. “Could you repeat what you said?”

  Sitting up straight and quickly putting off her sobbing, Ann spoke clearly and succinctly, “She tried to make us sign the book of the devil.”

  Everyone in the room sucked in a deep breath of air and then turned their eyes toward Bridget.

  “How do you respond to this, Miss Bishop?” Hathorne asked.

  “I’m as innocent of these accusations as an unborn child,” she replied. “I have had only a little bit of interaction with two of these girls and don’t know the other three by anything other than their reputations, but as to the accusation of trying to “make” them do anything, I have no idea what they are talking about.”

  “She did it as a specter!” Mary Walcott shouted. “She might not have been there in person, but she did it as a specter. She did most of her afflicting as a specter.”

  “As a specter?” Judge Hathorne asked. “Explain what you mean, Miss Walcott.”

  “I can explain it using an example,” Mary replied. “It wasn’t something that happened to me, but it happened to my brother, Jonathan. She came to him as a specter and tried to tempt him to go off with her to… to…”

  “To what, Miss Walcott?”

  “To mate with her and become her consort,” she blurted out.

  The audience gasped and turned their turn gaze upon her again. Bridget rolled her eyes at how ridiculous the accusation was. In unison, all five of the girls rolled their eyes as well.

  “Did you see that?” Someone in the crowd pointed out. “She has them under her control right now!”

  “Sit down, sir!” Judge Hathorne ordered, pounding his gavel on the wooden block in front of him. “You will not make a mockery of these proceedings through outbursts, is that understood?”

  A mockery of the proceedings? The entire trial is a mockery of justice. Bridget instantly realized that anything she did would work against her.

  “Miss Walcott, will you please tell the court what else happened during this struggle between your brother, Jonathan and Miss Bishop’s specter?”

  “As he was struggling with her, he tore her coat. The same one she is wearing now,” she said, pointing at Bridget. “Just above the left elbow.”

  “Miss Bishop would you stand, please, and allow the court to examine your coat?” Hathorne asked.

  Knowing that it was an order rather than a request, Bridget stood, knowing that to deny them the opportunity to view the very obviously torn sleeve of her coat would only cause a frenzy of disbelief in her innocence. The tear was so obvious that any fool could have made up such a story on the spur of the moment. Worse yet, however, an entire room of fools was going to believe Mary Walcott.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let it be known to the court that the sleeve of Miss Bishop’s coat is torn just above the left elbow as the witness had testified,” Judge Hathorne announced in a booming tone. He turned toward Mary and spoke more amiably. “Thank you for your candor, Miss Walcott.”

  There was a moment’s pause while Jonathan Corwin came to Judge Hathorne’s side and whispered something to him. After a brief exchange, Hathorne turned the floor over to Corwin.

  “Are you married now, Miss Bishop?” Corwin began.

  “I am,” Bridget replied.

  “To whom?” he asked.

  “Everyone knows that I am the wife of Edward Bishop,” she replied.

  “Is Mister Bishop here today?”

  “No, he’s in Boston on business.”

  “Boston on business? Your own husband is so unconcerned about your fate that he didn’t bother to join us here today and lend his support to his loving wife?”

  “He believes that the charges are as ludicrous as I do,” she responded. “And is just as certain as I am that I will be cleared of these charges.”

  “Were you married before, Miss Bishop?” Corwin asked.

  “I was married twice before,” she replied. “I have been widowed both times.”

  “Wid
owed both times?” Corwin raised his eyebrows and looked around the room as he played up his conspiratorial expression for them all to see.

  “That is correct,” Bridget replied, already knowing that Corwin’s expression, regardless of any substance behind it was going to be accepted as evidence against her.

  “You’ve been accused of practicing witchcraft before, haven’t you?” Corwin asked.

  “I was.”

  “In July of 1680, isn’t that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Let me read testimony from Miss Bishop’s second husband; testimony that was given at that trial in 1680. ‘She was a bad wife, the devil had come to her bodily, and she sat up at nights with the devil.’ Not very favorable words for describing a loving wife.”

  Over the span of several hours, more of the same testimony was brought into the court in the forms of various persons making the claim that her specter had done various evils to each of them. Bridget bore the testimonies the best she could without reaction, because the five teens watched her closely and mimicked every reaction, which was seen as damning evidence against her. At one point, she was even dismissed to be physically examined by a group of women, who returned to the court to declare that she bore a third nipple, which was a true sign of a witch. Frustrated by the way that she had been treated, Bridget had finally had enough.

  “I am no witch!” she shouted and stopped a foot. That reaction sent the five teen girls into fits of stomping, throwing themselves on the floor and convulsing.

  “Have you not to do with familiar spirits?” Hathorne asked in a stern tone.

  “I have no familiarity with the devil,” Bridget responded.

  “How is it then that your appearance doth hurt these?”

  “I am innocent,” she repeated.

  “Why do you seem to act witchcraft before us, by the motion of your body, which seems to have an influence upon the afflicted?”

  “I know nothing of it. I am innocent to a witch. I know not what a witch is.”

  “How do you know then that you are not a witch? How can you know, you are no witch, and yet not know what a witch is?”

  “I am innocent of a witch,” she said, finally, resting upon that fact alone. What evidence could she present that would sway a court and an audience that was so completely stacked against her?

  There were a few moments of discussion among the clergymen, Corwin and Hathorne while everyone looked on and whispered to one another quietly. Bridget did her best to avoid their eyes, but it was impossible, she was surrounded by eyes; accusing eyes, all of them. After the discussion ended, Hathorne returned to his place behind the bench.

  “Miss Bishop, would you please stand?” Judge Hathorne ordered.

  Bridget stood, already knowing her fate and feeling the seeds of bitterness begin to grow inside of her.

  “As I said at the outset of these proceedings, this court would decide the truth of the accusations brought against Bridget Bishop. Through the testimony of a cloud of witnesses and evidence that has appeared right before our very eyes in this courtroom, we have gotten to that truth. In the examination of Bridget Bishop in Salem village court of Essex County on this 2nd day of June, 1692, we find Bridget Bishop guilty on five counts of practicing and exercising witchcraft.”

  The joy of the crowd immediately leapt into all of their faces. Bridget noticed, especially, the satisfied smirks of the five teens that had started it all.

  Hammering with his gavel to restore order, Hathorne continued. “As the ruling magistrate of Essex County, it is my duty to make certain that restitution is paid to the community for the afflictions done to the persons of all that have come before us today. Since damages to a life cannot be paid for with the use of gold, there must be some other means of exacting that restitution. Therefore, I am ordering that Bridget Bishop, on the 10th day of June, 1692 be hanged by the neck until dead. That will be all!”

  Chapter Ten

  Rennie Telfair’s Strange Tale

  Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.

  “Mom, this place seems strange,” Tammy said to Sam as she helped her daughter get unpacked. Sam stopped what she was doing and gave Tammy all her attention.

  “What do you mean?” she asked sitting down on the bed. Tammy sat beside her mom and thought for a moment. She wasn’t quite sure how to explain what she felt when she had psychic episodes. It was something she’d been working on with Sam and Allison. “You remember what Allison told you about focusing on exactly what you’re feeling and associating the feeling with emotions that you’re familiar with?”

  “Yeah, I tried that and there’s only maybe three words I can come up with for this one.”

  “And those are?”

  “Creeped out, anxious and scared.”

  “I don’t want to creep you out any more than you already are, Tams but that’s not a real good combo you got going there.”

  “Oh, really mom? Ya think?” They both burst out laughing at Tammy’s brand of sarcasm.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve felt that way on an off ever since we landed in Savannah.” Tammy’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s a very old city and so are a lot of the little townships and houses around the area. It’s a hot bed for paranormal activity.”

  “Guess they don’t call it one of America’s most haunted cities for nothing, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But this house, though,” Tammy continued. “It just feels like there’s something more to it than all of that. Have you felt… or seen anything in particular?”

  “There’s several spirits here. Old inhabitants, mostly Mr. Telfair’s family still hanging around looking out for him.”

  “Why haven’t they crossed over?”

  “I think they’re not yet done with what they have to do.”

  “Will you tell him about them?”

  Sam laughed. “Something tells me that Mr. Telfair is quite aware that he’s not living here alone.”

  ***

  That night after dinner, Mary Lou and Rick took the children down to the boat dock to feed ducks and take pictures. Samantha stayed behind to have a private talk with Mr. Telfair. He’d delayed their business for long enough as far as she was concerned and there was no way she would be able to enjoy the weekend if she didn’t get their long anticipated interview out of the way.

  The conversation took place over a digestif; Rennie favored Drambuie but poured Sam a small glass of sherry.

  “It will aid digestion,” he started, handing Sam the glass.

  “No matter what is being digested,” Sam finished as she took it from him.

  The exchange made Rennie smile.

  “As you know, I have a story to tell you, Samantha. I can only hope that it has been worth the wait.”

  “I’m sure it will be, and even if it isn’t, the chance to see your wonderful home has been satisfying in itself.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Actually, that’s not a practice of mine, Rennie. Life is quite complicated already; insincerity is superfluous.”

  “Indeed.” Rennie Telfair settled deeper into the armchair he was sitting in and crossed his legs. “I think I’ve made it plain that I witness the shooting Mr. Fulcrum’s client was involved in, but what I’m not sure I’ve made clear is that Mark Ambrose is innocent… at least of the charges laid against him. He shot that man dead… but it was not in cold blood.”

  “Okay. Why don’t we start at the very beginning? Where were you when you saw all this? Which direction where you heading and why were you there in the first place?” Sam held up the tape recorder so she could capture every detail on tape as Rennie spoke.

  “I was standing by my Mercedes on the second level of the parking garage on Elm branch road. I’d just left a client’s apartment where I’d been showing her three very rare books I thought she might be interested in, so I was at the rear of the car placing them into the crate in the trunk. I heard a shout from below and what sounded like a
heated argument and instinctively I looked over the ledge to see what was going on. The two men were on the sidewalk below me arguing and when the deceased, Mr. Collins, pulled out his gun, the accused, Mr. Ambrose yelled out, “Call the police! This man is about to shoot me!”

  “Did you?” Sam asked.

  “Did I what?”

  “Call the police?”

  “No, I didn’t. By the time I had pulled out my cell phone, Mr. Ambrose had produced a firearm of his own and shot Mr. Collins. I would still have called at that point but I could already hear the sirens approaching.”

  “So you saw and heard it from start to finish?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Samantha because I only found out what the argument was about after the fact.”

  “After the fact? How did you manage that?”

  “Mr. Collins filled in the blanks for me?”

  “What?”

  “He told me everything when he visited me here a few weeks ago.” Rennie could see the confusion on Samantha’s face so he continued with an explanation. “Collins’ spirit hasn’t crossed over yet and I doubt he will until things have been set right. In fact, he still comes to talk to me every once in a while. I take the opportunity to ensure him that justice will be done.”

  “I must be missing something, Rennie. You said Kingsley’s client was innocent but how is that possible if his victim’s ghost is waiting around to see justice served?”

  “I said Kingsley’s client, Mr. Ambrose was innocent of murder,” Rennie clarified. “That is a fact; he shot Mr. Collins in self defense. The reason for the confrontation between the two is what makes this story a lot more interesting though. You see, both Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Collins are what we in the paranormal community refer to as channelers. They get messages from the spirit world and sometimes instructions on what to do with that information. Apparently, they were both contacted by a very powerful spirit, a mother deity known as Yemaya, who has some very serious plans for New Orleans at present. They came across the information by chance and the being insisted it was not to be passed on; she would deal viciously with anyone who posed a threat to her plans.”