The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  Inside the Bell House, all was not as it seemed.

  Lucy was not knitting; she was worrying a quilt in her hands as she sat in her rocking chair, staring at the empty fireplace.

  Drew, Zach and Williams weren’t playing; they were fighting. Zach had decided that he’d had enough of Williams’ increasingly autocratic behavior, and that he wasn’t going to be ordered around anymore. Drew sat on the sidelines, secretly hoping that Zach would win so that he, too, would be free of Williams.

  Suddenly, there was a silent detonation of light within the room, so bright that it effaced all details and washed out their surroundings for a moment.

  Lucy and the boys threw their hands over their eyes, but as soon as it happened, it was over, not fading just instantly vanishing.

  “What was that?” asked Lucy.

  Luce, it’s me, came a voice that was barely recognizable as the Witch’s. It was ragged and tattered, a little louder than it had been in the recent past, but still sounding as if it were coming from a great distance.

  “Betsy? I’d thought you’d gone for good. What do you want?” Lucy muttered.

  The boys looked strangely to their mother. They moved to her, gathered around her.

  Oh, Luce, I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.

  “Is that why you came back?” Lucy asked, gathering her children into her arms.

  Yes. I came back to say goodbye.

  “Aren’t you coming back?”

  I… have to go away for a while. It was all I could manage to get these few brief moments with you to say goodbye.

  Lucy shook her head. “Why?”

  I must rest… a bit. No other reason.

  “Well, I’d just assume that you took your leave and never returned.”

  I… could not live with that, whispered the Witch.

  “I can’t live any other way,” answered Lucy. “Please, just go. Leave me.”

  The Witch let out a whimper. Then, I shall. I’ll miss you all.

  There followed a tremendous rumbling from the fireplace, so great that chunks of mortar fell from the hearth. A loud, hollow explosion sent a cloud of dust and ashes rolling into the room.

  Outside, the remains of the chimney blossomed into the air, and sparkled as they caught the moonlight, and fell back to earth.

  For a moment, as brief as the blink of an eye, there seemed a dark shape within those motes and spangles, leaping up from the confines of the earth, throwing itself into dissolution upon the moonlight and the cold, cold stars.

  * * *

  After a quiet, late dinner with Liz, John took his pipe and a pouch of tobacco outside to smoke on the porch. It was a dark, clear evening, the bright light of the full moon casting a silver, faux-daylight over the landscape.

  He tamped the tobacco into the pipe, lit it, and coaxed it into a steady glow. The smoke he blew out was iridescent blue in the glow of the night.

  John?

  He turned slowly toward the door of the house, expecting to see his wife calling him to bed. But there was no one there.

  “Witch?”

  Yes, it’s me. But please, no recriminations or threats. I know you don’t want me here, she pleaded before he could say more.

  “Then what is it you want?”

  To say goodbye… and to give you a gift.

  John took a long puff on his pipe, held in the smoke, and let it out. “I want nothing from you. Unless, of course, you can bring my father back.”

  I believe in what I have done, though you may never. Such is the nature of my purpose.

  John smoked thoughtfully for a minute. “Where were you for so long that you come back only now?”

  The Witch seemed unwilling to answer. I don’t know. Someplace away from here. It was like what sleep must be to you. I was afraid, alone.

  “Is that where you’re going now? Back there?”

  Yes.

  “May you have a long and restful sleep,” John offered.

  The fire in John’s pipe had died, and he struck a match to relight it.

  “So, you’ve said your goodbyes. Make good on your promise and leave,” John replied.

  Yes, I will. But first, I have a gift for you. And I’ll give it no matter your desire to have it. Hold out your hand.

  John didn’t comply for a moment, then thrust out his hand. Immediately, he felt a large drop of water strike his cupped palm, and he instinctively closed his fist around it. When he opened his hand, something inside caught the red light from his pipe, reflected it a thousand times.

  “A diamond?” asked John in astonishment.

  Yes.

  John’s face compressed into a mask of fury. “You’ll not pay me off for your guilt!” he yelled, cocking his fist and hurtling the gem into the woods near the house.

  The Witch remained silent as the small stone whickered through the dense leaves, into the undergrowth and was lost.

  The worth of any gift is decided not by the giver, but by the recipient, she said, a note of defeat in her voice. Well, then, that is what I came for.

  “Then, for God’s sake, leave. I can bear no more of you.”

  Very well, John. I go now. But I’ll be back in seven years to see you. No refusals, for I will accept none. Until that time, take care, John.

  Her voice embraced the night, and she was gone.

  John finished his pipe, sat heavily down on the porch steps. Above him, the stars flickered like a million tiny gems, mocking him.

  John put his head down and cried. The pipe slipped from his shaking hands, dropped to the ground.

  And the ember within flared, cooled, and subsided.

  EPILOGUE

  I FEEL I AM ALONE

  1828

  FORTY-ONE

  As the sun came up over the hills, the first rays of a cool, spring day touched the Bell house. A light wind shook the trees, roused them from their slumber. They awoke with the drowsy whisper of stirring leaves.

  Few people stirred on the property. A woman dashed back and forth along the whistle walk between the kitchen and the dining room, carrying covered dishes. Several men moved grain sacks and barrels near the entrance to the barn.

  One man sat atop a bale of hay, two palsied hands clasping a rough, gnarled cane. He watched the other men with detached interest, his mind seemingly occupied with other thoughts. “What you doin’ up so early, Adam?”

  He turned to see the silhouette of a larger man, highlighted with tinges of color from the emerging sun. “I’m not dead,” muttered Adam. “Why in hell should I keep to my bed?”

  The shadow laughed, moved closer.

  “Well, you’re feeling better, that’s for sure,” Sam responded, putting his hand on the older man’s shoulders. “I just wish you felt good enough to help. There’s a lot of work pilin’ up.”

  Just then a small girl darted by, a rush of giggles and smiles. Around her neck, a small diamond pendant swung, sparkled as it caught the early morning sun. Behind her followed an equally giggly Anky.

  “Belle, girl, get back here,” Anky yelled in mock anger, and the girl laughed all the harder, turned a corner.

  “Get her, Anky!” yelled Sam in encouragement.

  “She’s a spark,” said Adam.

  “You better believe it,” answered Sam, watching Anky round the same corner.

  “Hey, Sam!” snapped a harsh voice from near the barn. “Quit your damn jawin’ and get over here and help. There’s too much work without us having to pull your load, too.”

  “Just like his Pa,” whispered Adam.

  “Coming, Mr. Bell,” shouted Sam. “Shush, old man. You want him to hear you?”

  Adam snorted in reply, and Sam patted him once on the back, loped to the barn.

  “Damn it, what have I told you about your jawin’, Sam?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bell. Just makin’ sure Adam was all right.”

  “Sorry ain’t gonna cut it no more,” argued the short, powerfully built young man of seventeen, with deep-set blue
eyes and flaming red hair.

  Sam was bigger in bulk and height, and took advantage of this by looming over the younger man. But the boy held his ground with a bitter, deeply etched scowl on his round, florid face. “I want your sorry black ass in that…,” he continued.

  “Williams!” came another voice from inside the barn.

  John came walking behind that voice, and Sam relaxed a bit. The elder Bell grabbed the young man by the front of his shirt, moved him against the wall roughly, and held him there.

  “Damn it, Willie. I’ve told you about using that kind of language. And about treating them that way,” he snapped. “I won’t have it.”

  Williams glared into his brother’s face, and set his jaw. “John, he was shootin’ the breeze again with that old nigger over…,” he protested, squirming in John’s grasp.

  Instantly, John struck the boy across the face with the flat of his gloved hand. The impact of it rocked Williams’ head, knocked it against the wall of the barn.

  “Listen,” John whispered, putting his face into Williams’. “Pa might have thought it right to treat them that way, but I don’t. Once more, and I’ll knock you out for the season.”

  Williams’ face flushed, the mark of John’s blow standing out on his cheek.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Williams answered through clenched teeth.

  “Now apologize.”

  Williams’ eyes went wide. “What?”

  “Apologize. To Sam. Now.”

  “Mr. Bell, that ain’t…,” Sam protested.

  John held his free hand to Sam to silence him without turning.

  “Apologize,” he repeated.

  “I won’t apologize to no damn nig––” That was as far as he got.

  John leaned into the blow, and Williams, unprepared for its quickness and ferocity, reeled under its impact, slumped sideways along the wall to the ground.

  “If you won’t apologize, I will,” growled John. “And that’ll be your payment every time I have to apologize for you. Remember that.”

  He turned to Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam. Won’t happen again.”

  John shook his hand, gave him a tight smile.

  “C’mon inside and let’s see what needs doin’.”

  Williams picked himself up, using the wall for support. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth.

  “Go to the house and get cleaned up,” said John to Williams before entering the barn. “Let’s forget about this.”

  Williams spun in the direction of the house, stalked off with clenched fists pistoning at his sides.

  Inside the barn, John led Sam aside, away from where the other slaves were stacking bags and barrels.

  “I’m sorry again, Sam,” he said. “What he really needs is a father to rap him upside the head every now and again. And I’m just not here enough.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Bell. Really. I can handle Williams.”

  John ran his hands through his thinning, graying hair, and rubbed his eyes. It was early in the morning, but he already looked tired. He looked tired all of the time now, since he devoted half of his time here and half to running his own farm.

  “It’s not okay,” he sighed. “I need someone here I can rely on. And Zach… well, Zach’s afraid of his shadow. Drew’s too young, else I’d put him in charge.”

  “I understand,” said Sam, and he did. There were simply not enough men to go around. Money was tight after a year or two of bad crops, and John couldn’t afford to hire. Still, he was fair to all of the slaves and worked just as long and hard as any of them.

  And he hadn’t once mentioned having to sell any of the slaves to pay debts, even though Sam suspected there were plenty of them.

  “I want you to take charge here,” John said, surprising Sam out of his daydream. “Any resistance you get from Willie, you just ignore.”

  Sam was flabbergasted, said nothing.

  “I mean it, Sam,” John said, noticing the look on his face. “I want you in charge here. I trust you.”

  “Thanks, sir,” said Sam, smiling back.

  “All right, enough jawin’,” laughed John, clapping him on the back. “Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  Indignant and humiliated, Williams stomped back into the house, and let the door clap shut behind him. He made no attempt to wipe away the blood that was flowing freely from his nose and mouth as he stormed into the sitting room.

  There, like a fixture or a forgotten piece of furniture, his mother sat in her tattered, faded chair, turned to the window with her back to him. From this vantage, she gazed out onto a world she seldom visited anymore.

  The room had a closed, musty, ancient smell to it that had begun to permeate the entire house as of late. It was primarily because Lucy seldom allowed Naddy or any of the servants to clean while she was in here, and she was always in here.

  “Ma!” snapped Williams, planting his hands on his hips and waiting for her response.

  She turned to him slowly.

  Lucy Bell had aged half a century in only seven years.

  Her hair was white and long, pulled back into a haphazard bun that squatted atop her head like a ruffled bird. Her face had the pleasant blankness of senility, lined and wrinkled like a wet bed sheet. Her shaking hands clutched at the ragged remains of a quilt, turned it over and over, worrying little bits of it away.

  “Williams,” she smiled, not noticing, or choosing to ignore, his blood-streaked face. “How are you today? Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “Yes,” he sneered, twisting his face in contempt at her. “Do you notice anything about me?”

  “You’re bleeding, dear boy,” she said, smiling again.

  “Right, mother,” he answered mockingly. “I’m bleeding because John beat me again. How long are you going to let this go on? He’s coddling the niggers, letting the whole farm fall apart.”

  Lucy’s beatific smile faltered. “Don’t say that.”

  “What? That the farm’s falling apart? But it is, mother. If only you’d…”

  “Niggers. Don’t say that word in my house. I don’t like it,” she said, but her tone was still light and conversational.

  Williams rolled his eyes, wiped absently at the blood that had trickled down his neck, seeped into the collar of his shirt. “The house is going to hell, and all you and John seemed to be worried about are the god damn niggers!”

  He took two heavy, menacing steps toward her, his eyes raging.

  “How much has to happen before you see that the niggers are taking advantage of John and all of us? I can see it, and I know what to do about it,” he ranted, advancing closer to her.

  “Are you all blind? If it were up to them, the farm’d go bust, and we’d be eating cornhusks in a shack! This wouldn’t even be happening if Pa were here! He’d be…”

  “Williams!” came a deep voice from the hallway. “Get away from her!”

  Williams’ flushed face drained. He stopped moving, turned slowly.

  Drew stood in the doorway, blocking any retreat.

  And Drew had grown.

  Only 13, he already towered over his stockier brother by a good foot. And he was built solid, massive. His face belied this size. It was still boyish, crowned with an unkempt mess of strawberry blonde hair.

  “What the hell are you doin’ in here, Willie?” he grated between his clenched teeth. “I thought I told you to leave Ma alone, Willie. Am I gonna have to tell you again, Willie?”

  If Williams had possessed a tail, it would have flicked between his legs. He may have been the older brother, but he knew, from painful experience, that Drew could beat him senseless if he chose.

  “I was just leaving,” he swallowed, skirting to the edge of the room and heading toward the door.

  Just as he thought he was going to scoot out unscathed, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, clamped down hard, and spun him around.

  “Willie, I told you. One more time, and I’d not only say something to John, bu
t I’d thrash you myself. If I find one mark on her, one bruise, John’s gonna know that she didn’t fall down the stairs last time. And you? I’ll break your legs,” Drew whispered.

  “I didn’t do anything, Drewry,” he argued, attempting to twist from his brother’s grip with no success.

  “Why all the blood? Who hit you?”

  “John. Now let me go!” Williams protested.

  Drew opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a rumbling that shook through the house. A vase of flowers tipped over, crashed to the floor. A mirror fell, shattered.

  Lucy watched all of this placidly, as if she shared no tie, no involvement to what was going on around her.

  Drew let loose of Williams, who just stood there.

  A curious, high-pitched wailing noise pierced their ears.

  “What’s going on?” someone yelled from the staircase. “Is it an earthquake?”

  Zach appeared in the doorway, his eyes bugged maniacally.

  Here! boomed a loud voice that vibrated on the air.

  “I knew. I waited. And I knew,” Lucy cackled, exposing teeth that were a dull yellow.

  Yes. I promised, and I’ve come back! said the disembodied voice.

  “Witch?” Williams was the first to ask. “Is that you?”

  Yes. It’s me. I’m back. Did you miss me?

  Drew stood in shock. He’d been so young during her first appearances that he scarcely believed the tales of her antics or his own vague recollections. Now, seven years later, he was confronted by the reality of their truth.

  Zach had no doubts. He began to tremble when he heard that voice, uncontrollable spasms shaking through him. To steady himself, he braced his hands on the wall, squeezed until his knuckles were white.

  How are you all? My how you’ve grown.

  “I knew… knew… believed. You’d come back, Betsy. Back,” mumbled Lucy.

  Oh, Luce, moaned the Witch. What has become of you?

  “… knew… I love you, Betsy. You wouldn’t leave me… and you came back! For me…”

  Ah, what has happened? Luce, I begged you to take care of yourself.