“Take it down,” the captain roared. “Take it down and bury it! Now!”
After a palpable hesitation, a few of the braver officers came forward to deal with the head on the pike. When it was gone, the captain staggered back into his tent and fell on his knees, vomiting his breakfast onto the ground. Mother of God, what was happening to him?
Taking long, slow breaths, the captain reminded himself that the woman was dead and that the curse of a native could not prevail over a good Catholic like himself. Could it?
He had cleaned himself up and donned a new uniform by the time his officers came to report that the head was buried deep beneath a stone. He nodded his thanks and started giving out the day’s orders as if nothing had happened. And nothing did happen for the rest of the day. As they realized the haunting—or whatever it was—had ceased, the activity around the camp grew cheerful. They had foiled the curse of the native woman! She was dead and buried and would haunt them no longer. The captain went to sleep in good spirits. They would stay here for a week, he decided, before making their way northward. It would do the men good to have a rest.
He was awakened the next morning by a man’s scream coming from the edge of camp. He was up and armed as soon as his eyes opened, prepared for an attack by the area natives. He ran outside and joined the other men racing toward the sound, swords drawn. At the edge of camp they found an officer shivering from head to toe. When he saw his comrades in various stages of dress waving their swords, he pointed to the tree beneath which the woman’s head had been buried. Hanging from the tree were long, silky gray strands blowing in the sea breeze. The captain gasped, shivers running up his arms and spine. It was her hair! The woman’s hair!
Then the man nearest the officer, who was a bit of a daredevil, stepped forward and grabbed the hair off the tree. “It’s moss, you fool!” he said. “Just moss!”
Just moss, the captain repeated to himself. But it was unlike any moss he had ever seen before—not on this island, not in Florida, not anywhere in the Spanish empire. And it looked just like her hair . . .
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” the captain said aloud. “Break camp. We’re heading north!”
“Yes, sir,” his men replied. With many a backward glance toward the moss now lying on the ground, the soldiers hurried away to do as he ordered. When they were gone, the captain buried the moss in the earth under the tree. They would leave this cursed place and travel north to fulfill their mission.
The captain didn’t relax until they had marched many miles to the north. Just to be safe, he inspected the trees around the clearing where they made camp that night. There was no sign of any long-haired moss growing upon them. Good.
The captain slept soundly that night, undisturbed by the rising wind that came in from the sea. He was the first one up in the morning. As he stepped out into the grove of trees, his eyes were caught by long, gray strands growing from every branch. The trees were covered with hair! No, not hair, moss, he corrected himself. But he remembered the native woman’s curse: “If you do this evil deed, I swear my spirit will follow you wherever you go!” And the moss had followed him up the coast. He stood frozen to the spot as his men awakened around him. One by one, they came to stare at the moss-trimmed trees. The moss blew frantically back and forth in a breeze they could not feel. And the captain could sense the dead woman’s gaze upon him, though her head was buried far away.
“Let’s go,” he snapped, finally breaking the uncanny silence. Without a word, his men broke camp, and they hurried away without pausing to eat. The captain could feel the eyes of his men on his back as they marched, though none dared speak of what they had seen.
They paused at midday to break their fast. While they ate, the captain could see the bare trees growing moss. It slithered down the trunks and slid up and over branches, gray and silky and waving in a nonexistent breeze. The troop hurried through their meal and almost ran out of the clearing. As they marched northward, the moss followed them. The few times he glanced over his shoulder, the captain saw moss growing over the bare trees in their wake. He felt sick to his stomach, and it was only the force of his iron will that kept his meal down.
Grimly they continued their journey. A breeze sprang up from the sea, and on the breeze was a familiar voice—a woman’s voice. “I will follow you,” it whispered in the captain’s ear. “I will follow you.”
They only stopped marching when sheer darkness forced them to pause. They camped on the beach well away from the trees, and the men built a huge bonfire. Only the captain’s tent was erected that night, and he went into it reluctantly, still hearing a voice on the breeze. Or was it only in his head?
When the captain did not emerge from his tent the next morning, the officers went inside to check on him. His bed was rumpled but empty. Alarmed, they hurried outside and began searching the beach for their commander. And then they saw a figure dangling from a gnarled oak at the edge of the beach. The men hurried toward it and saw their captain hanging by the neck from a thickly tangled skein of gray moss. The moss had strangled the life out of him and was growing all over his dangling body.
The men stared at the moss-covered figure in terror. Finally the daredevil soldier cut him down. The officers ordered camp broken down, and the troop retreated south toward St. Augustine, abandoning all pretext of obeying orders now that their commander was dead. They stayed as close to the shore as they could, trying to avoid the trees. The moss followed them.
When the company broke up in St. Augustine, the soldiers were reassigned to other units and sent many places around the world. Wherever a soldier from that ill-fated unit journeyed, the moss followed him. In time the newly christened “Spanish” moss covered the whole South; a silent witness to injustice revenged.
Spanish Moss
35
West Hell
Jacksonville, Florida
Now Big John de Conqueror was just about the holiest man that ever lived. Everybody in Florida loved Big John, and the animals, well, they did too. Big John would fly on an eagle’s back to many places us regular folks couldn’t go, and he saw many strange things and met many strange creatures.
Big John was just about the happiest man that ever lived too, only he didn’t have a wife, and he wanted one. So whenever he flew out on his eagle, Big John kept a lookout for a nice girl that he could love and marry.
One day, Big John was taking a trip down to Hell to make sure everything was working properly down there. As he was flying over Regular Hell, he caught a glimpse of the devil’s beautiful girl-child. Well, Big John de Conqueror, he fell in love with the devil’s daughter lickety-split. He landed his eagle near her and they talked for hours. The devil’s daughter, she loved Big John right back. So Big John asked her to marry him, and she agreed. They were going to elope, because there was no way the devil would agree to his daughter marrying Big John. But the eagle was only big enough to hold Big John, so they decided to take the devil’s famous pair of horses, Hallowed-Be-Thy-Name and Thy-Kingdom-Come.
Well, Big John got up on Hallowed-Be-Thy-Name, and the devil’s daughter jumped up on the back of Thy-Kingdom-Come, and they rode those horses up toward Earth. But one of the imps told the devil what was happening, and faster than lightning the devil leaped on his famous jumping bull and pursued Big John and his daughter.
The devil’s daughter looked back and shouted to Big John de Conqueror, “My daddy’s coming! What should we do?”
Big John turned Hallowed-Be-Thy-Name toward West Hell and cried, “This way!”
But the devil’s daughter stopped Thy-Kingdom-Come. Big John turned to look at her and saw that she was shaking with fear. “Oh, Big John,” said she, “I am afraid to go to West Hell. My daddy won’t even let the imps go in there because it’s so hot and tough and only the worst sinners stay there.”
Big John rode back and took her hand. “I will protect you,”
he said to the devil’s daughter. She saw the goodness shining out of Big John de Conqueror and agreed to ride through West Hell with him. They could both hear the devil getting closer, his jumping bull roaring angrily, so they rode as fast as they could. It got hotter and hotter as they hurried through West Hell, and some of the vile sinners tried to pull Big John and the devil’s daughter off their horses so they could ride away from West Hell. But Big John was as strong as he was good, and he chased them off.
But the devil caught up with the couple before they reached the end of West Hell, and the devil and Big John started to fight. And what a wrestling match it was, what with Big John being so holy and the devil being so evil. Big John and the devil struggled and fought and wrestled and boxed. They rolled through pits of fire and scared the sinners so much that the sinners vowed to be as holy as the angels in the future if only the devil and Big John would just stop fighting. The devil’s daughter was crying and shouting and encouraging Big John and shaming her father. And when Big John got ahold of the devil and tore off his arm and beat him with it until the devil surrendered, the devil’s daughter shouted “Hallelujah!” with relief. Then, she gave Big John a kiss.
So Big John and the devil’s daughter were married right then and there, while the devil grumbled and put his arm back on. And Big John passed out ice water to all the sinners in West Hell, who were so thankful that the fighting had stopped that they were all on their best behavior. Before Big John left with his bride, he turned the damper down in some parts of Hell and told the devil he would turn West Hell into an icehouse if the devil ever turned the heat back up. Sometimes during winter, the parlor in Hell gets chilly, and the devil has to build a fire in the fireplace to keep warm. But he doesn’t dare turn up the heat because Big John told the devil that he and his missus and his family won’t come visit unless the devil keeps the heat down. And the devil knows Big John means it.
West Hell
36
The Bell Witch
Adams, Tennessee
Great Aunt Esther was working in the vegetable garden when I strolled through the front gate. She was a spry lady in her eighties, with a shock of white hair, snapping black eyes, and the vigor of a much younger woman. She waved a hand toward me.
“Jenny-girl! You’re just in time to help me with these weeds,” she called.
I grinned, picked up a trowel, and joined her in the garden.
“Shouldn’t you be sitting in a rocking chair knitting or something?” I asked her.
“Shouldn’t you be packing to return to that fancy school of yours?” she retorted.
“I don’t leave for another week,” I replied, carefully sitting down among the tomato plants. Great Aunt Esther would never forgive me if I squashed something. “Dad was saying this morning that you might be able to tell me something about the Bell Witch.”
Great Aunt Esther sat back on her heels and peered at me from under the brim of her large straw hat.
“Lord, child. Whatever brought that to your mind?”
“Some of my friends were talking about the Bell Witch, and I thought it was interesting. You grew up near Adams, didn’t you?”
“I surely did,” Great Aunt Esther drawled. “And I heard more stories about the Bell Witch than I can count, each one wilder than the one before. It seems like everyone within fifty miles of Adams had at least one Bell Witch story to tell in those days.”
“Did you ever meet the Bell Witch?” I asked.
“Lord, child, how old do you think I am?” Great Aunt Esther asked, quite offended by my question. “My great-granddaddy, he was the one who knew the Bell children. He and John Bell Jr. were in the Tennessee Militia together. They fought under Old Hickory in the Battle of New Orleans.”
“Who is Old Hickory?” I asked.
Great Aunt Esther shook her head in despair. “Don’t they teach you children anything in those fancy schools? Old Hickory was the nickname of General Andrew Jackson. You have heard of Andrew Jackson?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of Andrew Jackson,” I snapped, embarrassed by my show of ignorance. “He was the seventh president.”
“Well, at least you’ve learned something at that fancy boarding school of yours,” Great Aunt Esther said. “When I was very small, I remember my great-granddaddy telling me about the time Old Hickory met the Bell Witch.”
“Can you tell me the story?” I asked eagerly. Great Aunt Esther considered my question with a sour look on her face. She was a stickler for polite manners. I quickly amended the question. “Would you please tell me the story, Aunt Esther?”
Great Aunt Esther smiled approvingly. “I would be delighted to tell you the story, Jenny-girl. Why don’t we go sit on the porch and I will get us some lemonade.”
We went up to the house, washed off the dirt from our gardening, and settled into wicker chairs on the front porch with ice-cold glasses of pink lemonade. Great Aunt Esther made the best lemonade in the county.
“Now I warn you, Jenny-girl,” Great Aunt Esther said, “there are probably a hundred different versions of the Bell Witch story floating around the county at any given time. All I can tell you about the Bell Witch is the story as it was told to me by my great-granddaddy. If you want ‘truth’ and ‘facts,’ you would do better to read one of the books that have been written about the Bell Witch.”
“I would like to hear your story, Aunt Esther,” I said promptly, bouncing a bit in my chair from pure excitement. Great Aunt Esther gave me a look that told me she did not consider my behavior up to the standards of a Southern lady. I sat still.
“The Bell family,” Great Aunt Esther began, “moved to Robertson County from North Carolina sometime around 1804. They were a God-fearing family who were leading members of the community. The spirit that plagued the Bell family first made its presence known in 1817. According to my great-granddaddy, the spirit commenced its activities by rapping on the walls of the house. Shortly thereafter, it began pulling the quilts off the children’s beds, tugging on their hair, and slapping and pinching them until red marks appeared on their faces and bodies. It would steal sugar right out of the bowl, spill the milk, and taunt the Bell family by laughing and cursing at them. Really, it was quite a rude spirit!” Great Aunt Esther paused to give her personal opinion. She took a dainty sip of lemonade and continued her story.
“Naturally, all this hullabaloo caused great excitement throughout the community. People would come from miles around to meet this spirit, which would gossip with them and curse at them and play tricks on them. According to my great-granddaddy, John Bell and his family would feed and entertain all these guests at their own expense—not an easy task. The house would get so full that people were forced to camp outside.
“When Old Hickory heard about the Bell Witch, he decided to pay a visit to the Bell home. The general brought a party up with him from Nashville. They filled a wagon with provisions and tents for camping out, to avoid discomfiting the Bell family.
“General Jackson and his party approached the plantation, laughing and talking about the witch and all its pranks. The men were on horseback, following the wagon with their supplies. They were boasting of how they would best the Bell Witch, when suddenly the wagon stopped short. Tug and pull as they might, the horses could not move the wagon an inch, even though they were on flat ground with no trace of mud. The driver shouted and snapped the whip, but the horses could not shift the wagon. General Jackson asked all the horsemen to dismount, and together they pushed against the wagon, to no avail. The wagon would not budge.
“Old Hickory had the men examine the wheels one by one—taking them off, checking the axles, and then reattaching them. There was nothing wrong with the wheels. They tried to move the wagon again, whipping up the horses, shouting, and pushing. But still the wagon would not budge. The men were completely flummoxed. What was going on? Then the general shouted, ‘Boys, it’s the witch!’
“An eerie voice answered Old Hickory from the shrubbery: ‘All right, General. Let the wagon move on. I will see you again tonight.’
“The men looked around in astonishment, for they had seen no one nearby. At once, the horses started moving without any prompting from the coachman, and the wagon rumbled along the road as if it had never been stuck at all.
The Bell Witch
“Old Hickory and his men were sobered by their strange experience. Suddenly the idea of camping out was not very appealing, even though one of their men was supposed to be a professional witch tamer.
“When the general’s party reached the house, John Bell and his wife extended every courtesy to their distinguished guest and his friends, offering them food, drink, entertainment, and quarters for the night. But Old Hickory had only one entertainment in mind. He had come for witch hunting, and nothing else would do. After dining with the Bells, the whole party sat waiting for the spirit to put in an appearance. To while away the time, they listened to the boasts of the witch tamer, who had a gun with a silver bullet that he meant for the spirit. The men were secretly amused by the man’s vanity, yet they found his presence oddly comforting after their strange experiences with the wagon. Here was someone who could handle the spirit.
“The hour grew late. Old Hickory was restless and the men were getting drowsy. The witch tamer began taunting the spirit and playing with his gun. Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps crossing the floor. Everyone snapped to attention. Then the same eerie voice they had heard on the road exclaimed, ‘I am here. Now shoot me!’
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