The Salem Witch Society

by K. N. Shields

  “She didn’t come back for you. Didn’t try to save you when you were being hanged.”

  “Why would she?” Whitten answered.

  “But now, all these years later, you found people who would stay with you. All through this ritual.”

  “Peter was never a true believer, but he’d do whatever I told him … always did. Blanchard was true, even though he was a fool. He thought all this, all the work I was doing, was to bring his mother back. That I would waste my time … to bring back such a plain and useless spirit as that.”

  “You’ve chosen George Burroughs’s spirit instead. Why?”

  “Why?” Whitten set the jar holding one of his gruesome trophies back down on the bench. His attention was now squarely on Grey. “He is the Master. The greatest conjurer that’s ever lived in this country … that has ever set foot within a thousand miles of here. He was appointed, he would rule as king when the new order was raised. The Master brought the Black Book, his book … into my hands exactly two hundred years after his betrayal and hanging. The Riddle of the Martyrs … declares that the ritual is to be performed on the cycle of the Master’s death. And here it is.”

  There was silence for a few moments. Helen thought she heard a voice call out in greeting, alongside the rumble of passing wheels, but the sounds held a distant, airy timbre.

  “You realize, of course,” Grey said, “that you’re a lunatic. To believe in witchcraft and all this, your master, Reverend Burroughs. It’s madness.”

  Whitten’s eyes darted back and forth between Grey and Helen. She felt a palpable knot of fear the moment she met his stare. At least Delia’s not here. No matter where she was, it had to be better than being trapped in this tiny room with Jack Whitten and his insane, murderous eyes.

  “Madness? Consider this, Grey. If you speak … a few lines to her today”—Whitten nodded toward Helen—“tomorrow she tells them to a friend, who relays them to me. Next week … I repeat them back to you. Probably half the words are changed. Would you wager five dollars, let alone your … eternal soul, on how well those words were kept in just one week?

  “Yet you worship a god nailed to a post nearly two thousand years ago. You follow the words of a man that were written down after his death … by men who did not know him, in a language you cannot speak. Words passed from mouth to ear how many times? Passed through how many languages? Subject to the whims of how many men’s tongues and pens? You cast yourself out onto the sea … and cling to that wreckage: the misheard and mangled words of your crucified god, corrupted over centuries to the point where they are no more credible than barroom hearsay … backyard gossip. And you believe that those words will save your soul. I call that madness.”

  Whitten’s voice was getting louder, stronger as he went on, a spark growing in him. “Tell me, have you ever heard your god’s voice? Has he ever even spoken to you? And not in some … some ridiculous sign you create for yourself: a drop of water on a statue’s face … a rainbow or a sudden piece of good fortune. I mean an actual voice … speaking directly to you? No? Well, my god speaks to me. His words are given to me every day, to heed and follow. So I ask you, which one of us is truly mad to do our god’s bidding?”

  “So after you got a hold of the Riddle of the Martyrs,” Grey said with no more outward excitement than if he’d been asking for a recipe or the steps to some chemistry experiment, “why bother killing Father Coyne?”

  “I thought he might be growing suspicious.”

  “And you poisoned him with the abrus seeds.”

  “He retreated to his family’s home, and I accompanied him. It was a perfect cover from which to conduct our affairs.”

  “How long until you murdered him?”

  “Not long—months ago. I let Peter kill him. He’d earned it.”

  “You kept his body, and that was what they pulled from the ashes of his house. And what about Geoffrey Blanchard on Gallows Hill? You let Peter carry out that murder as well, even though it was you the Blanchards hanged all those years ago.”

  “Not murder, Mr. Grey, sacrifice. And that pained me. I’d have liked to slit the little toad’s throat myself. But”—he motioned toward his leg—“I was unable to go so soon after I was shot. It was disappointing, but now I see the Master’s hand in it all. I am still alive to complete the ritual and accept his return.”

  “You seem to have little remorse over your brother’s death.”

  “Sacrifices are required of us all,” Whitten said.

  “So Geoffrey Blanchard had arrangements at the hospital to come and go—bribed a guard, I suppose. His excursion out a week ago was to communicate with you, make final plans for the last phase of the ritual. You made assurances, lured him to Gallows Hill with the promise of a ritual he believed would bring his mother back to him.”

  “He never understood the true purpose of the riddle. He actually thought, when all was done, he’d see her risen in the flesh once more.” A twisted grin spread across Whitten’s face.

  “So you admit that the Riddle of the Martyrs doesn’t produce the dead?”

  “In the flesh? Of course not,” Whitten said. “The called spirit of the Master exists again within the flesh of the Servant.”

  “Within you? Ah, so that’s the purpose of the disappearing moon. And the riddle’s references to the vessels being poured out. Emptied and prepared. Some sort of symbolic wearing away of your soul, making room for the spirit of the Master.”

  “Not symbolic, Grey. My soul will give way before the Master. He shall live in me.”

  “And what becomes of your soul?”

  “Sacrifices are required of us all.”

  “I do have one final question,” Grey said. “What exactly do you plan to do when your invocation fails? When you realize you’re still the same weak, ineffectual, stuttering child you’ve always been. The memories of beatings, the constant hunger, strange men grunting and rutting in the room beside yours, separated by that tattered curtain. The feel of that rope burning into your neck. No one coming to save you. There’s no one coming to save you now, either.”

  The hint of a smile that had flickered across Whitten’s face for much of their conversation now vanished. “Soon you will see, Grey. Then you will believe … in those last few moments before you die. You will know the truth of all things. Your god’s empty promise. There will be no judgment … no redemption. And my god will rule over you. My spirit will pass into … nothingness, and I will be joined with the Master. He will complete his work. The world wasn’t … ready two hundred years ago; it is now.” Whitten stepped back and spread out his arms.

  “And there shall be the trumpet sounded, and it will be heard many miles off … and then they all come one after another to be made witches. And the Master will pull down the Kingdom of Christ and raise up the Kingdom of the Devil … who was always the true teacher and rightful God of Man. And the Master will abolish all these false churches in the land, and so go through the country. And the Master has … has promised that all his people should live bravely, that all persons should be equal, that there should be no day of resurrection … or of judgment, and neither punishment nor shame for sin.” Whitten fell silent, still staring at Grey.

  “You know,” Grey said, “you just reminded me: Since Geoffrey Blanchard is dead, there’ll be a vacant room at the Danvers Lunatic Hospital. It’s rather luxurious inside. And the grounds are lovely. Depending on your behavior, you’d have upwards of an hour a day of outside time. Supervised, of course.”

  Whitten took a small step forward and launched a boot into Grey’s midsection. “I thought perhaps to spare you … for a while, anyway. You seemed to fit. With your Indian blood, … so like the Master’s shadow helper. But I can see now that you deserve to die as much as the others …” Jack Whitten struggled to produce the next word, and as he did, there was a noticeable thud from below. His eyes went wide. Whitten tilted his head and listened for several seconds before leaning in toward Grey again.

  “Oh,
you’re a clever one. Distracting me so. You will suffer for this.” He stepped over to Helen, bent down to grab her by the arm, and thrust his billhook close to her face. “Up!” he hissed. “Any trouble and I’ll slice your throat.”

  Her legs were not bound, but she was still a bit unsteady from the aftereffects of the chloroform. Whitten held her in front of him and stepped toward the trapdoor, so he could look down the short, curved staircase. He waited there half a minute, blade poised at Helen’s neck.

  “I know you’re there,” he finally called out. “My god reveals your secrets to me. Step forward or I’ll kill her.”

  76

  From where he stood, beside the final set of steps, Lean could see the shadow of a human form within the rectangle of faint light coming down from the trapdoor. He took a deep breath and whirled around into view, his pistol aimed up to where a dark-haired man wielding a billhook held Helen before him.

  “Toss that up here!” Whitten shouted down to Lean.

  Lean didn’t flinch. Helen shook her head at him, pleading with her eyes for him not to listen to the madman. The blade pressed into her neck, and she let out a stifled yelp. Lean lowered the gun slowly, then tossed it up the staircase. It landed beside the killer’s feet.

  “Delia’s alive!” Lean called out.

  Helen’s eyes went wide with unmistakable joy. She didn’t seem to notice the killer’s recoil that caused him to poke her neck again, hard enough to draw a bead of blood.

  “You lie!” Whitten shouted.

  “We pulled her from the pyre on Cushing’s.”

  “I saw the blaze,” Whitten said.

  “You saw that red-haired witch of yours. She went up fast, whoever she was.”

  The killer pushed Helen aside and bent to grab Lean’s pistol. Lean ducked back into the shadows, grabbing a loose piece of wood from one of the shelves that held the observatory’s signal flags. He expected to see the killer descend, but instead the room went dark as the trapdoor slammed shut.

  Inside the observation platform, Grey watched as Jack Whitten set Lean’s pistol aside and grabbed his long wooden staff. The man struggled to get the wooden bar into place above the trapdoor. He wedged the top beneath a windowsill and started forcing the base under the lip of the door leading outside. With one fluid motion, Grey rolled himself up to a sitting position, got his weight over his crossed ankles, and forced himself upright. His hands were bound before him, but he had enough mobility to grab the rope Whitten had tied to the hook in the ceiling. Grey took hold of it and looped the rope twice. As Whitten finished jamming the trapdoor closed, Grey dropped the rope circle over the man’s head and yanked the ends, drawing the cord tight about Whitten’s neck.

  Whitten spun around and was met with a backhanded blow from Grey’s bound fists. He fell back against the doorframe, then drew the billhook from his belt. Grey was on him in an instant, seizing Whitten’s wrist and slamming it through a windowpane. The billhook clattered to the floor. The trapdoor banged, and Grey realized that Lean was throwing his weight against it, not realizing it was blocked.

  Whitten tried to reach Lean’s pistol on the floor. Grey slipped his foot forward and kicked the gun, which slid over the doorjamb out onto the deck. The attempt to grab the weapon had put Whitten off balance, and Grey threw his weight forward. Whitten clutched at Grey, but the momentum carried both men through the open door.

  The two men spilled out onto the narrow walkway surrounding the observation platform. Grey was on his side as he grappled with the killer. He saw his pistol nearby, where it had slipped out the door during the struggle. He let go of Whitten and stretched for the gun. He just reached the butt with his fingertips when Whitten clasped his wrist. There was a stinging on the back side of his hand as Whitten dug his nails into Grey’s flesh.

  Grey jerked his body, flailing forward toward the gun. Whitten released his wrist and also grasped for the gun. The two of them struggled for control of it for a second before it slipped away, toward the edge of the deck. It passed under the bottom edge of the railing that circled the deck. The gun wobbled there for a split second, then disappeared over the side.

  Whitten pushed away and scrambled to his feet. Grey bolted up as well but, hampered by his bound wrists, he was a half second too late. The man was on him again, pushing him back to the waist-high railing. Grey’s foot slipped out from under him. The deck was not level; it sloped away slightly from the building. The unexpected slant caught him off guard and gave Whitten the advantage needed to overpower him. Grey’s lower back pressed into the rail. The killer’s hands were at his throat, pushing, forcing his head back so that Grey arched out over the railing. He grabbed at Whitten’s hands, trying to break the man’s grip.

  Jack Whitten was small but surprisingly strong. Grey didn’t have enough leverage; he was losing the battle, unable to pry the killer’s hands from around his neck. Grey stuck his right foot between two of the railing’s balusters, twisting his lower leg around for support. Then he let go of Whitten’s grip and went for the throat instead, his fingers clutching, searching for the man’s windpipe, desperate to crush it. Grey strained to work his thumbs between the double strands of the rope that he had tightened around the killer’s neck.

  He tried to force the killer back, to gain equal footing. The two stood that way for several seconds, each pushing at the other, both with every bit of strength they possessed. Grey was struggling to draw enough breath through his clenched teeth. At some point he bit his tongue, and blood-specked spittle flew from his mouth with each fierce exhalation.

  Grey stared into the man’s eyes. There was a crazed glee there, a dark, bottomless rapture. Each man continued to choke the other, but the length of rope around the killer’s neck was interfering, keeping Grey from getting a solid grip.

  Where the hell was Lean? Grey glanced through the glass, into the observation room. He saw Helen there on the floor, kicking with both legs, trying to snap or dislodge the solid wooden staff that was jamming the trapdoor shut. He saw her look out toward them. By the flickering candlelight, Grey caught Helen’s stare: equal parts fierce determination and terror.

  He turned away, looking back into the face of Jack Whitten. Lack of oxygen was making dark spots appear before his eyes. He would be done soon. Beaten. Dead. Fear began to well up inside Grey, quickly boiling over into a fury, a burning, consuming anger toward the inhuman murderer who, with every second, was strangling the life out of him. Grey tried to focus. His eyes locked onto the length of rope that was angled toward them, dangling from the hook inside the observatory.

  In an instant, Grey shifted his hands, from trying to clasp the man’s throat to instead clutching Whitten’s robe. He twisted his ankle free from around the baluster and jerked up and backward, yanking the killer toward him. The sudden, unexpected reversal in weight completely surprised Jack Whitten; he had no time to react. With their combined effort pushing back against the rail, the momentum was too strong.

  Grey’s feet left the deck, and he teetered on the rail, then toppled backward, yanking on Whitten as he went. The killer’s body came with him over the side. As they fell, Grey released the robe and grabbed the man’s body in a bear hug, tighter than he had ever clasped anything in his life. They fell clean through the air for another second before the rope around Whitten’s neck snapped them back. There was the clear sound—a sickening crack—and then the momentum slammed them into the outward-sloping side of the building.

  Grey struck against the observatory sideways, his left shoulder taking the force of the blow. That arm went dead, and he slipped down, with only the grip of his right hand on the killer’s belt to support him. He took several deep gasps of air, then pulled himself up enough so that he could wrap his own legs around those of the dead man to whom he clung. Finally he glanced down—there was nothing but hard ground five stories below. Looking up, he saw Lean at the railing, fiddling with the rope.

  “Hurry!” called Grey.

  Grey’s strength was f
ading, and he couldn’t hold on much longer. Within seconds another length of rope came cascading down the side of the building.

  “Take hold of this one,” Lean called out to him.

  Grey flexed his leg muscles, tightening the grip on Whitten’s body. Then his right hand shot out to grab the new length of rope, and he wrapped it around his forearm several times. He reached out with one leg, then the other, snaking each around the dangling rope. Grey began to rise, and at the same time Whitten’s body sank toward the ground. He realized that they were both suspended by separate ends of the same rope. The deadweight of Whitten’s body, along with Lean’s pulling, was hoisting Grey back up toward the observation deck. He gave another look down and watched Whitten’s dark form dropping in jerky motions toward the earth.

  A few more pulls and Lean was able to tie off the rope, then reach over the rail to grab hold of Grey. Once he was safely onto the deck, Lean slipped back into the observation platform to loosen Helen’s gag.

  “Where’s Delia?” she pleaded as Lean cut away the ropes from her wrists.

  “Home. Tom Doran’s there with her.”

  “Oh, thank heaven!” Helen clasped Lean in a hug, then started shaking her arms, trying to regain circulation. She breathed deeply several times as she fought to control the wild pendulum of emotions she had endured that night. Then she caught sight of Grey standing in the doorway. She struggled to her feet, with Lean’s assistance.

  “Are you out of your mind! How could you—What were you thinking? Were you trying to kill yourself? And before … that whole time … just ignored me.… Why were you … blathering on and provoking him … ? Lucky he didn’t kill us both.”

  Grey was in visible pain from his left shoulder, but a smirk appeared as he listened to Helen’s rant.

  “This is not funny. I watched you throw yourself over the edge. I thought you were dead! Do you understand—How could you? You are so …” Helen stepped forward with her hand raised, about to slap Grey cross the face. “So absolutely maddening.” Instead of striking, Helen reached out, grabbed Grey’s lapels, yanked him down to her, and kissed him full on the lips.