The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  “How you mean?”

  “A man like this here Jack don’t leave holes when he’s dead. He makes ‘em when he’s alive. Tears them out of people’s hearts and souls,” he said, then spat in the direction of the grave.

  “What do you think will happen?” asked Sam, taking up his shovel again and starting to fill in the remainder of the hole.

  “To the farm? John’ll take over, and we’ll all be the better for it. He’s a good man, kind and fair. He’ll do fine by us. Things will go on. They always do, for better or worse. I think this here’s our time for better.”

  “What about to them? To the Bells?”

  Adam frowned, squinching his brown features into a mass of wrinkles. “Don’t know. There was bad inside that family, so mean and hateful and angry that it spilled out.”

  “You mean the Witch?” Sam asked in confusion. Feeling the angry glare of the other three men as he dawdled, he shoveled two or three piles into the grave in quick succession.

  “Yep. Now, Jack’s gone, and she’s fading. Maybe things’ll get back to normal. But I doubt it. Sometimes even a bad tooth holds the other teeth together in the jaw. Pull it, and they all come loose eventually.”

  With that, Adam lapsed back into a meditative silence.

  Sam thought of what he’d said as they stomped the clotted earth down over the buried casket, as if trying to erase the slope of its outline.

  * * *

  The trip home through the cold, grey early afternoon was quiet. Powell drove, freeing John to ride with the coffin and attend to the burial. The rest of the family would not be coming to pay their final respects at that brief ceremony.

  Powell sat between Betsy and Lucy, and he kept the horses at a brisk trot. In back, the boys were bundled beneath several thick wool blankets. They jumped and bounced with each jolt of the wagon’s wheels over the rough, frozen ground, but said nothing.

  When the wagon finally pulled to the Bell house, Powell helped the women out and to the front door. Left to their own, the boys climbed down morosely, followed the women inside.

  Powell remained outside for a few moments, giving the family a chance to seek its level.

  The house was in mourning. The windows were draped with black bunting, giving them the appearance of weary, baggy eyes. The bunting was the only acquiescence to grief Lucy would allow.

  Stomping his feet to keep warm, he thought of how Jack’s death was affecting the family, particularly Betsy. She seemed quiet and contemplative, but not really sad.

  Even though he knew why—even though he never cared for the man himself, and cared even less now because of this knowledge—he was worried by Betsy’s lack of emotion.

  Behind him, the front door creaked open.

  “Are you going to stand outside all afternoon, Mr. Powell?” he heard Betsy’s voice. “For you’ll surely catch your own death.”

  “No, Ma’am,” he smiled. “I’m coming in right now.”

  He took her hand as he entered, and together they walked down the hallway, her large, black skirt rustling against the walls.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She went upstairs. She had a headache and asked not to be disturbed for a while,” answered Betsy with little evident interest.

  She tugged him along into the dining room, where the table was laid out with a variety of foods and baked goods. Williams, Zach and Drew were seated, and Naddy was helping them fill their plates.

  The boys looked up at Powell and Betsy, but said nothing. It looked to Powell as if eating was the last thing on their minds, for they picked at their plates once Naddy set them down.

  “The neighbors were all kind enough to bring all this food over to save us from having to cook for a few days. Stay and have lunch with us, Richard. It’s the least we can do to thank you for your kindness the last day or two. Besides, I know you don’t have any proper food in that dreadful house of yours,” she said, leading him to a seat.

  “Dreadful? Well, despite that comment, I will stay for a bit,” he said, pulling her chair out and helping her get seated. “It does seem quite a spread.”

  Naddy handed them plates and made sure they had silverware before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “How are you boys?” asked Powell as Betsy loaded food onto his plate.

  They each murmured responses that were totally incomprehensible, yet plainly glum. Only Drew seemed truly interested in the food, but he watched his brothers carefully, uncomfortable being the only one eating.

  “Here you are,” said Betsy, handing the heaping plate back to Powell, who began laughing.

  “I’m not sure I can hold all this, much less eat it.”

  “Nonsense,” she answered, filling her own plate with decidedly more dainty portions. “It will probably be the only decent food you eat all day.”

  “Can we be excused?” Williams said, putting his fork down.

  “But you haven’t eaten a bite, Willie,” Betsy protested.

  He stared back at her.

  “Oh, very well,” she relented. “But don’t disturb Ma.”

  The three stood in unison, Drew still clutching a hunk of bread, and left the room without another syllable.

  Powell watched them leave. “I hope they’ll be all right.”

  Betsy took a demure bite. “They’ll recover,” she said after she had finished chewing. “I did.”

  * * *

  Drew and Zach followed Williams through the back hall of the house until he reached a door. Williams spared one brief look behind him before opening it.

  The door led to a seldom-used guest room on the ground floor of the house. With so few guests as of late, it had become a quiet, forgotten cul-de-sac, visited only irregularly to clean it and change the sheets on the bed.

  Williams waved his brothers in, looked down the hallway to make sure they hadn’t been seen, then quietly closed the door behind them.

  “Why’d we come in here, Willie?” asked Zach. Behind them, Drew was climbing into the huge, canopied bed carved from dark wood. It had been their Grandpa Bell’s, and their Pa had never let them as much as touch it.

  Zach heard Drew behind him, and spun on him. “Drew, don’t you get up there! You know…”

  “It’s all right, Zach,” interrupted Williams. “Go ahead, Drew. You can get up there.”

  Drew waited, looked from brother to brother, then hopped up on the bed.

  “Willie, we’re gonna get in trouble for bein’ in here,” moaned Zach.

  “No. No, we won’t, Zach. No one cares anymore. So, we’re gonna spend the rest of the day and the night in here.”

  “Why?” asked Zach, visibly agitated.

  “Because I don’t think the Witch knows about this room. She’ll leave us alone in here. Everyone’ll leave us alone in here,” he answered, shrugging out of his jacket and loosening the buttons on his shirt.

  Of course I know about this room, silly Willie, came a soft voice, barely above a whisper.

  Zach and Williams both started. Drew pulled the covers over his head.

  “Witch!” hissed Williams in as loud as whisper as he dared. “Get the hell out of here! Leave us alone!”

  Your Pa’s only gone a day, and you’re already cussing, she chuckled. That’s not a good sign. Why are you hiding?

  “To get away from you. Now get out of here!” Williams snapped.

  Hiding from me? What have I done?

  “You killed our Pa,” answered Zach, then flinched as if expecting to be struck.

  Yes, came her simple response. Yes, I did.

  “Just go away,” whined Zach, his courage rising with each second he wasn’t hit.

  I am going away. I’m fading, and I’m sure that will make you very happy, she said sadly. But I wanted to make sure you were all right first.

  “What do you care anyway?” asked Williams.

  I care a great deal. That’s why I did what I had to, even if you don’t understand. Even if you never understand.

&nbs
p; “You killed our Pa because you like us? How dumb do you think we are?” asked Williams.

  I know it hurts now. But in time, you’ll forget. You’ll go on and make something of your lives and be good men. I know that, she said, almost pleading with them.

  “I think you’re stupid!” said Drew from beneath the covers.

  That made the Witch laugh. I think so, too, Drewry. Because I couldn’t find another way. Maybe a wiser soul than me could have, but I didn’t. I did the only thing I knew how.

  “I’ll never forget what you did. Never,” yelled Williams. “I’ll never forget that you killed my father!”

  Something grabbed the front of Williams’ shirt, pulled him off the ground by it.

  Listen, you ungrateful little snot, spat the Witch, as angry as she had ever been with any of the boys. You will go on, and you will forget this. Damn it! I can’t be responsible for everything. From here on out, it’s your life. If you want to hang on to the memory of that corrupt son of a bitch, then go ahead. Throw your life away. It’s not my fault!

  With her last word, she let loose of him, and he dropped to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, fighting back tears, he grabbed Zach, hustled him onto the bed.

  Hell, Williams, she sighed. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…

  “You talk about my Pa bein’ a bad man. But the only one I see that’s mean and bad is you! Get out of here and leave us alone!” he yelled, and with that, he did begin crying.

  I’m leaving Williams, she said. And I’m sorry for hurting you… all of you. But I’m not sorry for what I did. I can’t take care of anyone’s problems anymore. They’re your own now, just as they’ve always been. Take my advice: Hurt now and recover, then go on with your lives. Or hurt forever and become bitter and twisted inside. It’s up to you, not me.

  She took a deep breath, half expecting a response that never came.

  And faded.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Lucy sat in the chair she had brought in when Jack lay in a coma just a day or two ago. The door was closed, and the room was dark and silent. Lucy stared at the empty bed where Jack had died as if it still held his strangely still, dying form.

  It was made now, Naddy had seen to that. Freshly made with new sheets. Lucy found it hard to believe someone had died in it. Every trace of Jack—his smell, his impression in the mattress—had been erased from this intimate piece of furniture.

  Try as she might, she still could not weep for him.

  She thought of their courtship, their marriage, their children.

  Nothing penetrated the shell of her carefully constructed composure, no matter how hard she hurled it. She simply could not summon one tear for the man she had been married to for so long and birthed five children to, all conceived in love.

  Though this made her all the more sad, yet she could not weep.

  The cup of tea and slice of fresh bread Naddy had quietly slipped into the room earlier lay untouched on their tray near the door. A scum had formed on the surface of the cold tea, and the bread was now hard.

  It didn’t matter, for Lucy didn’t think about eating. Food seemed secondary to her right then. Though it would fill a certain emptiness, still it could not touch the essential void inside her.

  Luce? came the Witch’s voice. Luce?

  “Yes, Betsy?” asked Lucy without thinking.

  The Witch took no notice of the use of this name. Are you all right? You’ve been up here all day. And look! You haven’t even touched the tea and bread I had Naddy bring up, she scolded.

  “Thank you, but I have a headache. Perhaps later.”

  Any later and the bread will be stone, the tea, congealed, laughed the Witch.

  Lucy didn’t laugh, didn’t reply.

  What is wrong?

  Then, Lucy did laugh, coldly. “My husband is dead. Is that not enough for you?”

  What could I do? You left me little choice.

  “You took away the father of my children,” Lucy pressed. “How will I explain it to the boys? And what of me? How will I recover? How will I go on?”

  So, we finally reach the core, said the Witch, her voice low and bitter.

  Lucy’s face fell, and she crumpled into the chair.

  How will you recover, eh? That’s what it boils down to, doesn’t it? mocked the Witch. I’m disappointed in you, Lucy. You didn’t seem to have any problem recovering from what he did to your daughter, did you? No problem turning your back on that pain.

  Tears spilled silently down Lucy’s cheeks, her jaw clamped shut, and her lips quivered.

  Yet you worry about how you’ll recover from the death of that beast? Listen well, Lucy Bell. I have been more patient with you than with anyone, because my love for you runs deep through me. But even a mighty river is not depthless, and you are not entirely blameless in what transpired.

  Though I killed Jack, my very existence arose from things that were partially your responsibility. I may have taken much of that burden upon myself, and I can carry it for a while, as I have. But in the end, it is yours to bear. How you live, how you learn, how—and if—you recover from this are all up to you.

  Although I would love to see you move on, learn, forgive, revel in the joy of the rest of your life, I cannot force this upon you. This is a lesson for your soul. You must learn from it, or you will be forced to take the test again and again until you do. Each time, the ante will be upped. Each time, it will become more difficult to master, until it overwhelms you completely.

  Live, dearest, the Witch pleaded, her voice cracking with strain. Take joy in the fact that your daughter is healed, that a great crime has been punished. That a dark soul was given the freedom to seek its penance.

  Gather your family to yourself and love them. Learn from your faults––and those of others. Forgive Jack. But most of all, go on with life. Don’t let this darken your soul. It is more than I could bear.

  Lucy felt a pair of phantom arms wrap around her, enfolding her in an embrace.

  At first, she resisted. Then, tired and emotionally drained, she relaxed, and slumped into it. A few minutes later, she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  Throughout the night, the ghostly arms held her close, and soothed her nightmares.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sam was awakened by a scream.

  At first, he lay in bed, stunned, thinking he was dreaming. Until, that is, a sharp elbow jabbed him in the side.

  “Sam!” came an urgent, breathless voice. “Wake up. I think it’s time.”

  “Time?” His heart jumped, and he rolled over in bed, jostling her.

  “Careful!”

  “Is it… now?”

  She laughed in the darkness and sought out his face with her hands, guided her own to his, kissed him. “Go get Naddy,” she panted. “I don’t think it wants to wait no more.”

  “Naddy. Naddy,” he chanted, rolling out of bed and fumbling about on the floor. “My pants. Where are my pants?”

  “I tell you to pick them up every night,” she chided. “Ahhh.”

  “I can’t find them,” he panicked.

  “I think you can fetch Naddy without your pants. Everyone’s gonna be seein’ me without my drawers on. Hurry!”

  “Right.” Sam stood, careened into the darkness.

  “Light a candle, Sam,” she warned, breathing hard. “You’re gonna kill yourself.”

  “I’ll wake everyone up,” he protested.

  “I’m gonna wake everyone up in a few minutes anyway. Hurry! Ahhhh. Ohhh!”

  “Damn!” he muttered, then a candle flame sprang into life. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Just hurry!”

  The light bobbed away.

  Anky lay alone in the darkness and was afraid. She’d been afraid of the dark since she was a little girl. But now, she was seventeen, and she’d never had a baby before. What if she had it all alone, here in the darkness?

  Anky? came a soft voice from that night. Is it time?

  “Witch? Ahhh. Uhhh. Yes,
it’s time, Witch.”

  Where has Sam gone off to? Has he left you?

  “No, Ma’am. He done gone after Naddy,” she said, smiling.

  Do you need anything?

  “Stay with me. Ohh! Just stay with me until they get here,” whispered Anky.

  All right, dear. You just relax, said the Witch.

  Anky felt a weight settle onto the bed next to her. Hands were upon her, lifted her, moved her. It felt as if she were lying in someone’s lap. Another hand reached out to stroke her temples.

  Don’t be frightened, said the Witch.

  “I’m not,” answered Anky. “I’ve never been frightened of you.”

  The Witch considered this. Why not?

  “Ohhh! That was a big one,” she groaned. Then, Maybe I understand you. I think you just want to be loved, like everyone else.

  For a long, long stretch of time, the Witch said nothing, merely continued rubbing Anky’s forehead. When she spoke again, her voice cracked. Would you like to hear a song? I know a pretty one.

  * * *

  “Push now, girl. This baby ain’t gonna just drop out,” coached Naddy, bent between Anky’s splayed legs. “Come on, now!”

  Anky huffed and puffed, building up air and courage for another push, then trembled as she bore down on the weight that had settled low in her body. “Ahhh!” she yelled through gritted teeth.

  Naddy looked up briefly, nodded to Sam. He stood by with a cloth dipped in cool water, and, at Naddy’s urging, mopped Anky’s head with it. Even though the room was winter cold, Anky’s exertions and the heat from the nearby fireplace were making her hot.

  Sam drew the cloth back and forth obsessively across her forehead until either Naddy signaled him to stop or one of Anky’s annoyed hands tore it away.