The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  “You can’t tell me that not one person heard an entire chimney explode. Damn it, look at this!” he spun on Sam, grabbing him by the lapels of his ragged coat. “You mean to tell me that no one in your cabin heard this?”

  “No, sir. Same as no one in yours heard either.”

  Jack glared into Sam’s dark, emotionless face.

  “Pa!” said John. “Sam didn’t blow up the chimney. He’s trying to help.”

  Jack turned to his eldest son, his face softening, his grip on Sam’s coat loosening. “Well, no matter how it happened, we’d better work fast to make sure we can have it back up by nightfall. It’s gonna be a cold one, and your mother won’t forgive me if we end up shivering through it.”

  Sam looked at John dimly.

  “How we going to do this all alone before nightfall?” he asked. “We still got to fix the windows in our place.”

  “There should be some glass in the barn. Have some of the younger ones and the women get to work on that. I’ll get Jurgen Kramer. He built the damned thing in the first place. He’ll know how to get it fixed fast. It’s only the section above the roof that’s destroyed.”

  Sam shook his head and gave John a look of studied, quiet disbelief as he went to get the younger slaves.

  * * *

  John brought Kramer back with him later that morning. The slight, young German spent a few minutes scrambling on the roof, poking through the pile of rubble. “Mr. Bell,” he finally said, motioning for him. He stood by the cairn of stones Sam and John had made.

  Kramer hefted one of the larger stones. “We’re able to use these again. And we’ll be able to finish today. But, I’m curious. What happened?”

  “We’re not sure. We didn’t hear anything,” offered Jack.

  The German’s eyes narrowed at the explanation. “Didn’t hear anything! Your chimney crumbles around your heads, and you don’t hear anything!” he said, pulling at his beard.

  He lifted the stone, stuck it in Jack’s face. “Anything strange about this stone, Mr. Bell?”

  Jack took it from him, turned it in his hand. A heavy, pale-grey stone, oblong in shape, just like all the others at his feet. “No,” he said, a little impatiently. He wanted Kramer to stop with the theatrics and get busy. The day was wasting.

  “Nothing?” Kramer asked again. Sam and John stepped into the group and examined the rock as well.

  “Mortar! Where’s the mortar?”

  All three of the men looked closely at the stone in Kramer’s hands.

  “None of the stones have mortar on them,” the German said, “A mystery, ya?”

  “How’s that possible?” asked Jack.

  “It’s not,” laughed Kramer. “It’s impossible.” The German walked toward his wagon to gather his tools.

  “Well, then how did it happen?” yelled Jack after him.

  “You tell me,” he said without turning.

  FOUR

  Rev. Johnston stood before the small congregation. His arms were waving, and the rustle of his Sunday suit was like a chicken’s frantic wings over the sound of the people’s upraised voices.

  The good reverend seemed bound to the family of birds. His features were lean and sharp, his nose a curving slash that hung over his mouth like a beak. Dark and nervous eyes peered above that nose, flicking here and there, never alighting for very long. Long, tapered fingers pushed from his sleeves, clawing at the air.

  Reverend was the title the people had given Johnston. He was a quiet, unassuming farmer, whom the community had pressed into service as acting minister. The nearest church, the Baptist Church of Port Royal, was too far for most to travel, and the reverend there was too busy to attend to the spiritual needs of the relatively few residents of Adams.

  Johnston had taken the duty, hesitantly at first, conducting services at the Bell home while a new church was built on land donated by Jack Bell. After a while, he began to enjoy his new position, and had even begun to correct people when they called him Mr. Johnston.

  As the last few notes of The Saints’ Delight faded, Johnston bowed his head for a moment.

  “I thank you all for coming today. May God bless you and keep you until next we meet. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Bell have graciously invited everyone to help themselves to cake and coffee.”

  * * *

  “As usual, Reverend, a fine service,” smiled Jack, clapping Johnston on the back. “You keep on getting better, we may be forced to ordain you!”

  Johnston smiled thinly. He liked Jack—the man was perhaps his best friend in the community—but he didn’t enjoy talk of his not really being a minister.

  “Oh, come on, Johnston,” laughed Jack. “Aww, hell, Reverend Johnston. Get a cup of coffee and a piece of Luce’s cake before it disappears.”

  Jack’s arm enveloped Rev. Johnston’s slight form, pulled him into the sitting room. A fire crackled, and a long table loaded with coffee cups and plates and cutlery stretched before the window.

  “Mr. Bell, Rev. Johnston,” came a voice that caused the two men to turn. Richard Powell came forward out of the crowd, his hand extended. Jack shook it roughly, disdainfully; Johnston gave it a short, sharp pump.

  “So, Schoolmaster, how goes things?” asked Jack.

  “Things, Mr. Bell, are fine. I trust you and your family are well. I heard tell of some disturbance in the house a night or two ago,” said Powell, taking a sip of coffee. He knew that Jack didn’t take well to gossip.

  “Trouble, Powell? Weren’t no trouble, just a problem with the chimney, that’s all,” he answered, turning his back toward the men and making to walk away.

  “They say the chimney exploded,” said Powell, still smiling.

  Jack’s back went rigid, then he turned; his face flushed.

  “They do, do they? Well, they’re wrong. It fell over in the night, that’s all. I had Kramer patch it back together yesterday. Any man with an ounce of education can see,” he said, gesturing curtly toward the roaring fireplace, “It works now.”

  As if on cue, the flames, which had been leaping up to lick the insides of the chimney, sputtered, dwindled.

  “Harry!” yelled Jack, and nearly everyone in the room jumped, studiously avoided turning toward its source. The young black houseboy, no more than 10 years old, leapt forward from some corner of the room, practically tripping in his haste to answer the summons.

  “Yes, sir, Master Bell.”

  “Tend to the fire, boy,” Jack growled as conversation resumed its previous level. He spun on Powell. “Are they saying anything else I might need to know, Mr. Powell?”

  “Kramer told me that he thinks the chimney is haunted and that it should be blessed.”

  At that, Jack laughed. Rev. Johnston, who had been following the discussion like a bird caught between two cats, joined in.

  “Ahh, that’s rich coming from a learned man! Kramer told you that, did he? A haunted chimney! Lord, preserve me.”

  “Oh, I agree. I could no more believe a haunted chimney than I could a sea monster in this day and age. But that’s what Kramer is telling people.”

  “I’m going to kick him all the way back to Germany,” Jack groused, stuffing the rest of a piece of cake into his mouth and chewing it fiercely, as if it were a particularly tough piece of the little mason’s flesh.

  “Still,” pressed Powell, “I was walking past your home early Saturday morning and happened to see a light bobbing across the upstairs windows. Maybe it was the ghost?”

  Jack blanched, took a step toward the schoolteacher.

  Suddenly, the fire Harry had been tending erupted in a geyser of flames that raced up the chimney, gushed from the hearth.

  From somewhere in the room, a girl screamed.

  Several people rushed to Harry, who had sprawled backward, singed by the flames. They lifted him to his feet, making sure he wasn’t injured. Others went to help Betsy, who had fainted.

  Jack’s face was red as his beard, his eyes bugging from his head. Powell had dropped his smile,
but remained calm.

  “I’ll have no talk of ghosts, sir. It upsets my family and scares the niggers.”

  “I meant no offense, Mr. Bell,” said Powell, proffering his hand.

  Jack looked at it for a moment, turned and strode toward the gaggle of people gathered near his daughter.

  “You really shouldn’t press him so, Powell. One day…” warned Johnston, who seemed to gain several inches in stature when not in Jack’s presence.

  “I thought it might be today,” Powell said, walking toward where Jack was lifting Betsy to her feet. “Is everything all right, Miss Bell?”

  “She hasn’t been feeling well lately,” said Lucy, pushing Jack aside, and shooing away Powell. “I’ll just take her upstairs where she can rest, and we’ll send for Doc Hopson.”

  Lucy walked her out of the room, and Jack followed them with his eyes until they disappeared.

  “I would be more than happy to go after the doctor,” said Powell, moving to grab his coat.

  “I’ll fetch the doctor myself.” Jack snapped his finger at Naddy and strode to the back of the house.

  Powell stood holding his coat, feeling everyone’s eyes upon him.

  John caught his attention, shrugged an apology for his father’s actions.

  Powell donned his coat, turned to say goodbye to Rev. Johnston, whom he had assumed was right behind him. But Johnston crouched by the fireplace, one hand touching the mantel, the other across the stone lintel. His lips were moving.

  Powell stepped toward him, somewhat bemused that Johnston had actually bothered to memorize biblical quotations. Then, he realized what Johnston was doing. He was blessing the fireplace.

  Just then, he heard a report from high within the chimney. The sound was sharp, stone on stone, too high up the stack for anyone to have caused it. He looked at Johnston, who was struggling to his feet.

  No one else seemed to have heard it.

  “Must be settling,” Powell said, but Rev. Johnston’s face remained tightly drawn.

  Powell glanced at the fireplace once more, slid into his coat, and said his goodbyes.

  FIVE

  The knock came as Lucy was walking through the entry hall, after just having come downstairs from seeing to Betsy. It was late Sunday afternoon, and she was on her way to make sure supper was coming together.

  The rapping startled her, and she dropped the tray she carried. The empty China cup and saucer shattered on the front hall rug.

  Taking a deep breath, Lucy steadied herself before answering the door.

  “Mrs. Bell, I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” said the young man on the other side.

  “Not at all, Hank, come in, please,” Lucy said, drawing the door open.

  He caught sight of the shards of China scattered across the carpet. “I hope I wasn’t the cause of that, ma’am.”

  “Just clumsy,” she said, her face flushing. To hide it, she dipped down before him and began picking up the pieces.

  “Mrs. Bell, please!” Hank protested, taking her arm and giving her a gentle tug. He knelt and collected the pieces for her. “You’re being too kind. I was the cause of this, so cleaning it up is the least I can do.”

  Lucy smiled down at him, and for a moment, her heart softened. This is the man my daughter will marry. I had better learn to live with him, she thought.

  Hank Gardner was one of the county’s most fashionable young men. His family lived on an estate just the other side of Port Royal, smaller than the Bells’ 1,000 acres, but the Gardners possessed more liquid wealth.

  Hank was just 20 years old, a striking figure, and was considered a catch for any girl in Tennessee. Trouble was, as far was Lucy could see, he knew it, loved it and used it. Lucy found him too ingratiating, too polite, too circumspect.

  “Just leave the rest, Hank, and I’ll have someone see to it.”

  He looked around for someplace to put the China shards, flashing Lucy another smile as he thrust them into his own pocket.

  Lucy felt like rolling her eyes, but she didn’t. Barely.

  “I heard about Betsy’s collapse this morning, so I rushed over. I hope it isn’t inconvenient?”

  She considered this for a second. “Well, Naddy’s up there… I guess you can stay for a while, but not too long. Doc Hopson is on his way.”

  “I understand, ma’am. Thank you,” he said and dashed up the stairs, his tall riding boots clumping on each step.

  Shaking her head, Lucy looked at the floor.

  He’d tracked in mud.

  * * *

  Hank knocked lightly on Betsy’s half-opened door and immediately heard a stifled gasp. He pushed the door open, more forcefully than he’d intended, and saw Betsy’s alarmed face. “Bets, are you all right? I didn’t scare you, did I?” he asked, moving to kneel at her bedside, ignoring Naddy who stood there, too.

  “Hank!” Betsy said. “I didn’t expect anyone.”

  “I startled your mother downstairs when I knocked, too. You both seem a little on edge,” he let his eyes drift casually across the blankets to see what she was wearing underneath.

  “I just fainted, that’s all. Mama sent for Dr. Hopson, and he’ll be here soon,” she said, oblivious to his probing eyes.

  Hank turned to Naddy, who had seen Hank’s look and knew his intent all too well. “You can leave.”

  She scowled at him and looked questioningly at Betsy, but the girl didn’t say anything. Naddy turned and stomped outside to stand in the hallway, leaving the door open a crack so she could monitor what was going on within.

  “How do you feel?” Hank asked.

  “I felt strange this morning, exhausted. But I feel better now.”

  “You certainly look good enough for a kiss,” Hank said, and she blushed.

  “Hank,” she whispered. But she didn’t stop him from bending to her, softly pressing his lips against hers.

  His hand slid along the bedcovers, slipped beneath.

  “Hank!” she protested, pushing him away. “Not here. Naddy…”

  Hank fell back a step, his eyes glazed, his hands clenched at his sides.

  Somewhere below, a door opened, footsteps followed.

  “Hank, sit and talk with me, or they’ll send someone up when they don’t hear voices!”

  He smiled ferociously, and it scared her a little. Hank’s smile was one of the many things about him that scared Betsy.

  “Soon, we’ll be married, and I’ll touch you anywhere, anytime,” he said, easing into an armchair near the window.

  His words did little to alleviate Betsy’s distress.

  “Jesus!” Hank screamed, suddenly leaping to his feet. Turning, he took something from the chair’s seat, held it to Betsy. “Darning by the window?”

  A needle.

  “Is everything all right in there, Miss Betsy?” came Naddy’s voice from the hallway.

  “You’ll be okay for the reception at my parents’ home this Saturday?” asked, ignoring Naddy altogether.

  “I feel fine. Don’t worry, Hank, I’ll be there,” she said, smoothing the covers, drawing the sheet almost up to her neck.

  “You won’t embarrass me, of course.”

  His smile was pointed and sharp. “Well,” he said, slapping his knees as he rose. “As you’re unlikely to allow me to crawl in there with you…”

  “Hank!”

  “… I suppose I must be going.” He lifted her chin with one hand, brought his lips to hers, and gave her a rough, lingering kiss. “I’ll be by to pick you up on Saturday.” Hank paused at the open door, smoothed his clothing, and disappeared down the steps.

  Betsy clutched the covers, listened to him leave. She heard him exchange greetings with John, could picture John’s disgusted look.

  For a moment, brief and clear, she understood how John felt. She thought of how Hank pawed at her, so like her nightmares…

  A chill seized her. She wrapped the covers more tightly around her and called for Naddy to bring another cup of hot tea.


  SIX

  “Doc Hopson,” said Naddy, wiping her hands on a cloth and ushering the doctor in. “Come inside ‘fore you catch your death of cold.”

  “Where are Lucy and Jack?” he asked, setting his case on the floor and unbuttoning his coat in the dim lamp light.

  “They’re just inside having coffee. Can I fetch you some?”

  Hopson nodded distractedly as he proceeded to the sitting room, where he found the Bells sitting together near the fireplace, locked in a fiercely whispered discussion. The doctor cleared his throat to announce his presence, and they both turned quickly toward him.

  “Dr. Hopson,” said Lucy, gathering her skirt and standing. “We’re so glad to see you.”

  “I’m sorry, Luce,” he said, taking her hand. “The Boswell boy had another spell, and I was out longer than I thought.”

  “Hopson,” said Jack, thrusting his hand at him.

  “Jack,” answered the doctor, just as flat. “Where’s the patient?”

  “Upstairs in bed. Been there all afternoon with no medicine,” Jack grunted.

  Hopson ignored him, turned to Lucy. “What happened?”

  As Lucy recounted the fainting spell, Naddy rushed in with a cup of coffee, which she pressed into the doctor’s hands. He thanked her, his attention focused on Lucy. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “What the devil does that mean?” snapped Jack, interposing himself between Lucy and the doctor. “What are you saying… what have you heard?”

  “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re referring to. I merely meant have either of you noticed any other symptoms?”

  Hopson moved to one side, again ignoring Jack, who fumed.

  “She’s not been sleeping well,” answered Lucy.

  “Well, I’ll go up and take a look. Why don’t you wait here until I finish,” he said when Lucy moved to accompany him.

  Taking his bag, he went up the steps.