Candlemas Eve

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  Jeremy looked at Rowena and took a deep breath. "Uncle Fred, it's a long story."

  Wilkes sat down at the table. "I got time," he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  December 24, continued

  The night was dark and still, moonlit by the indistinct silver orb which floated half hidden behind the thick black clouds. Gwendolyn came to the parsonage and opened the front door very gently, hissing slightly at the creak of the hinges. She tiptoed up the stairs, went to the door of the parsonage apartment, and pressed her ear against it. She froze in place, listening, but even her sensitive hearing could detect nothing more pronounced than a few gentle snores. She remained frozen in place, smiling maliciously, and then carefully, oh so carefully, turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. She crept into the dark and silent room.

  Jeremy had fallen asleep upon the sofa, worn out by his day of labor and the excitement at home which had followed it. She could hear a soft humming issuing forth from the rear bedroom where Rowena was straightening up her boyfriend's messy abode in preparation for her own habitation. A light crept out from beneath the closed door of the bedroom, and a soft voice was coming from the room next to it. Reverend Wilkes was sitting at his desk, reading softly aloud from his Greek New Testament as was his after-dinner custom.

  "En archain ain ha logos," he said quietly, "kai ha logos ain pros ton theon, kai theos ain ha logos . . ."

  Rowena was busy, Wilkes was preoccupied, and Jeremy was asleep. There would be no better time than now for what she was planning. A virgin's blood. One must have a virgin's blood.

  She moved silently from the doorway to the sofa, her gentle footfalls making nary a sound upon the old, worn carpet. She knelt down beside the sleeping boy, smiling at him cruelly. "Jeremy," she whispered. She leaned her face close to his and whispered again, "Jeremy" He opened his groggy eyes, but before full wakefulness could arise in him his semiconscious mind was drawn deep into the eyes which stared into his, the two orbs burning with green fire which seemed to bore into his soul. "Jeremy," she repeated.

  "Y—yes—?" he muttered.

  "You are sleeping, Jeremy," she whispered. "You are dreaming. You are dreaming of peacefulness and calm, of warm sunshine and quiet, cool breezes."

  "Yes," he whispered, "yes . . ."

  He seemed to be lying upon a blanket of cool grass in midsummer. The warm sun was beating down upon his bare skin and a gentle, soothing wind was sweeping over his body.

  "You are happy, Jeremy," she said. "You are happier than you have ever been in your whole life. You are happier than you have ever imagined you could ever be."

  "Yes. . . ." He smiled. Such joy! Such contentment! He could see his own face somehow, and his expression was one of uninterrupted happiness, of imperturbable peace.

  "When you hear my voice speak to you of peacefulness and calm, then shall you go to the place of warmth and rest. Then shall you go because I send you there. You must heed my words and obey them, that you might go there."

  "Yes . . . yes . . . " he whispered.

  "Soon, my dear Jeremy, very, very soon, I shall come to you, or Adrienne shall come to you, and you shall listen and you shall obey. Do you understand?"

  "I . . . understand."

  "Then shall you be taken to a place of warmth and light and ease and joy, a place of endless happiness and warmth and pleasure."

  "Yes," he whispered. "Happiness . . . pleasure . . ."

  He rolled over on the cool grass and the summer sun beat gently down upon his bare back as he reached out to embrace Rowena. She was lying beside him, smiling and murmuring wordless expressions of love and desire and need. He ran his hand over her warm belly and soft breasts as she entwined her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer to her.

  "Row," he muttered. "Row . . . I love you, Row . . ."

  "Jeremy," she breathed in Gwendolyn's voice, "pleasure, calm, happiness, if you heed my commands."

  "Yes,"' he whispered. He placed his lips upon hers and she responded eagerly, parting her lips and drawing his tongue deep into her mouth. He squeezed her breasts gently at first, and then tightened his grip as he felt the need grow within him, as his loins began to burn with desire.

  And then her face changed. It was no longer Rowena whom he held. A rotting human skull gazed up at him from a decaying and cadaverous body, and the creature's grip on him was viselike and unrelenting. One bony finger reached over and plunged into his throat, releasing a flow of blood which seemed to inundate the field. But he welcomed the assault, he welcomed the hideous laughter, he welcomed death.

  "Jeremy!" Rowena said, shaking him roughly. "Jeremy! Wake up!"

  He sat up on the sofa and looked at her stupidly for a moment. Then he blushed slightly and smiled. "Row! I just had the weirdest dream!"

  She sat down beside him and kissed him lightly on the lips. "So I gathered. You were groaning in your sleep."

  "Yeah, I'm not surprised," he laughed. He noticed that she had donned her coat. "You going out?"

  "Just across the street. I figure I'd better go over and get some things if I'm gonna be staying here for a few days. It looks pretty quiet over there, and I'm kind of hoping that everybody's gone. I really don't want to meet any of them, especially Daddy or Gwen."

  "Makes sense." He looked around the room. Rowena had switched on a table lamp. "Where's Uncle Fred?"

  "In his room, reading," she replied. She rose to her feet. "Look, I'm gonna go over there now. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Okay. I'll wait up for you," he said. Jeremy watched her close the door behind her and then fell almost immediately back to sleep. In a few moments he was snoring soundly.

  Rowena walked out into the cold night air and pulled her collar tight around her throat. She crunched her way through the snow and glanced quickly through the front window of the old inn before pushing open the door. She entered the house quietly, not wishing to meet or speak with anyone, wondering where her grandfather was, wondering if she would have the opportunity to speak with Adrienne, wondering if she really wanted to. She mounted the stairs to her bedroom and once inside closed the door softly behind her.

  Rowena sighed, partly from relief and partly from unhappiness, and then took a small suitcase from her closet. As she was filling it with clothing and books, she heard the door open behind her. Damn it! she thought. She turned around apprehensively.

  Karyn Johannson waddled into the room. She was pale and weary, but she managed a smile. "Hiya, kid. Hot times over at the parsonage today!"

  Rowena returned her attention to her suitcase. "No kidding."

  Karyn chuckled. "Your father was fit to be tied when he came back this afternoon. I understand that Gwen didn't get along too well with that old man over there."

  Rowena turned and faced the other girl, noting with distaste that Karyn's long, stringy red hair was matted and unwashed, that she exuded a slight but detectable odor of sweat. "You know, Karyn, I don't understand you at all."

  Karyn sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, good Lord! You're pregnant by a guy who hasn't said one thing about marrying you, you drink like a sailor on shore leave and do all kinds of drugs all the time. I know that you think all of this witchcraft stuff is nonsense, but you seem to get a kick out of all this!"

  Karyn laughed easily. "Look, Row, I love Lukie, okay? I know he's an asshole sometimes, but so is everybody else. I'll do whatever he wants to do, and hang around with whoever he wants to hang around with. I mean, it don't make no difference to me, you know?"

  "But your baby!" she said with exasperation. "God, Karyn, all those drugs, all that liquor—!"

  Karyn got awkwardly to her feet. "Jesus, Rowena! I just came in to say hi and make nice, and you start a goddamn lecture!" She waddled out the door, saying, "You're as much fun as a fart in a space suit."

  Rowena closed the door which Karyn had left open and then finished packing. As she took her toiletries from the top of the bureau
, she remembered a small bottle of perfume which she had purchased for Adrienne as a Christmas present. Despite all that had transpired, she still felt sorry for the girl, still felt an urge to protect her from herself and others. She could not forget that night in the motel room when she had held and soothed and comforted the frantic girl. I might as well give it to her, Rowena thought. I'm sure she's around somewhere. I don't want to run into Daddy or that bitch of his, but maybe she's in the room she stayed in before, by herself.

  Rowena took her suitcase in hand and stuffed the bottle into the pocket of her parka. She opened her door carefully and leaned out into the hallway. She neither saw nor heard anyone. Probably all went out to eat or something. Karyn probably didn't have the energy to go with them.

  She tiptoed down the hallway and peeked into her grandfather's room first. Old Floyd was sitting in a chair by the window, staring morosely out at the fields which stretched out behind the old inn. "Gramps?" she whispered.

  Floyd turned his head and smiled at her. "Hello, honey," he said softly. "I thought you—?"

  "I'm staying at the parsonage for a while," she said. "I just can't stay here with all these horrible people here. I hate Gwendolyn, I hate Daddy, I hate his band, and I just can't stay here."

  He held his old hand out to her and she stepped forward and took it. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm sorry, Grampa. I don't want to leave you here all alone like this."

  He patted her hand gently. "It's the best thing to do, Rowena. I don't want you to be here right now anyway. Not with all these goings-on."

  "Why don't you come over too? I'm sure Reverend Wilkes can put you up. In fact, he'd be happy—"

  "No," Floyd shook his head. "I've lived in this house all my life. I ain't gonna let my son and his sick friends drive me out of it. But you go back over to Fred's. You stay there till they all leave."

  "Okay," she said and kissed him again. "Where is everybody, anyway?"

  "Went over to Piermont, most of 'em. Karyn stayed here. So did that other poor girl."

  "Adrienne? Where is she?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Don't care much, either. You go on and git, Rowena." He turned away from her and stared once more out the window, lost in thought, lost in regret and sorrow, in anger at himself and in fury at his son.

  She left his room quietly and then went to the room where she hoped she would find Adrienne Lupescu. She pushed that door open and looked inside. Adrienne was sitting on the bed, sewing. "Hi, Adrienne," she said as she entered.

  Adrienne looked up, startled, and then smiled warmly. "Oh. Rowena, it's so good to see you! I've missed you so!"

  Rowena felt her heart go out to the poor, lonely girl. "Are you all right? I mean—"

  "Aye, all is well with me," she sighed. "They did not touch me after that night."

  She knew what it was to which Adrienne was referring, but she chose not to discuss it. She remembered having become angry at Adrienne that night and now regretted it, realizing that the girl was not responsible for her actions. It was her mental illness which had forced her to obey Gwendolyn's orders and submit to Herricks's assault. "What are you doing?" she asked. "You making something?"

  "Aye," she replied, holding up a black lace cloth. " 'Twill be part of Gwendolyn's trousseau."

  "It's lovely," Rowena said politely. Black for a bride, she thought. It figures.

  "The wedding will be in a few days, and there is much to do." She resumed her sewing.

  Rowena put her suitcase down and reached into her pocket. She took out the perfume bottle and handed it to Adrienne. "Merry Christmas," she said.

  Adrienne stared at her for a moment and then took the bottle from her. "For me? A gift?"

  "Yes," she laughed. "It's a Christmas present. Merry Christmas!"

  Adrienne stared at the bottle with disbelief and then began to weep softly. "I—I have no words—"

  "You can say thank you," Rowena said.

  "Th—thank you," she wept.

  Rowena sat down beside her on the bed. "Hey, jeeze! Don't cry! I just wanted to get you a little something. It isn't much!" Adrienne hugged her impulsively. "You are so kind, Rowena. You are so good."

  Rowena blushed, growing uncomfortable. "Come on, cut it out. It's just a bottle of perfume, for Pete's sake!"

  " 'Tis the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, truly the kindest thing!" She hugged Rowena tightly and continued to weep.

  Rowena felt tears rising to her eyes as well. What a life this poor thing must have had, she thought sadly, to get so worked up over a cheap bottle of perfume. "Come on, Adrienne, take it easy. Take it easy!"

  "I am sorry," she said. "It is just that you are so—" She shook her head and brushed away a tear. "I am sorry."

  Rowena gazed at her for a moment and then said, very, very tentatively, "Look, Adrienne, I'm staying across the street with Jeremy and his uncle. Why don't you come with me? You shouldn't stay here. Gwendolyn isn't good for you, she's bad for your nerves."

  Adrienne laughed sadly. She took a small handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose loudly. "I cannot, Rowena. I am bound to her in all things. It is my debt, my punishment, for what I did in Salem three hundred years ago."

  Rowena took her hand. "Adrienne, I know all about this delusion you and Gwen have, but you must understand that none of it is true! You are Adrienne Lupescu. You have never been anyone else."

  She shook her head. "I am Mary Warren. I was born in Salem in 1672. Abby and I hanged ourselves in a stable in Boston in 1702. I was returned to earth last Eve of All Hallows."

  Rowena sighed. "Adrienne, dammit, that isn't true! Daddy is just taking advantage of your illness. You have a problem, and you need help. All that you're doing by staying here is making yourself worse, making your sickness worse!" She squeezed her hand. "Come with me, over to the parsonage. Please."

  Adrienne shook her head again. "I cannot. But you should go back there. This house is not fit for you. You are too good for it." She returned her attention to the lace.

  Rowena stood up and took her suitcase in hand. "If you change your mind, just come on over, okay?"

  "Yes. Thank you. And thank you for the gift." Adrienne seemed to be avoiding her eyes.

  Rowena left the room and walked quietly down the hallway. She took no precautions, having been informed by her grandfather that Simon and company had gone into Piermont. Drinking, most likely, she thought. That's where Lucas always goes.

  She left the inn and walked across the icy street toward the parsonage, holding her parka closed against the cold wind. The door of the parsonage opened before she reached it, and Reverend Wilkes walked out into the night air, all cloaked and scarfed and earmuffed. "Rowena," he called out. "Did you get everything you need?"

  "For a few days, at least," she said. "Where are you going, Reverend?" They met in the middle of the street.

  "To the church," he answered. "I leave it open all day in case anyone wishes to come in and pray. Got to lock it up for the night."

  "You shouldn't be going out in this weather," she said solicitously. "Why doesn't Jeremy go and lock it up?"

  "Oh, he does," Wilkes said. "But now that he's got himself a job, and a hard one at that, I don't want to keep asking him to do little chores for me."

  "Well, gee, I'll go and—"

  "No, no, child, you go upstairs." He smiled. "The walk will do me good. It's a nice night, anyway. I'll be home soon."

  "Well, okay," she said without conviction. "If you're sure—"

  "Go upstairs, Rowena." He smiled. "I'll be fine." He began to walk unsteadily up the street on his arthritic legs. She watched him for a moment and then went into the parsonage.

  Wilkes grimaced as the pain in his knees intensified, and he stopped for a moment, hoping it would subside. Pride, he thought to himself, foolish pride. You should have let the girl lock up the church. You shouldn't have left it unlocked in the first place, for that matter. No one left around here to attend it, no congregati
on anymore. Last Sunday service I prayed with two women as old as I am. Didn't even preach.

  He started walking again, slowly, feeling the cold seep into his old bones, and reached the church in a few minutes. Thank the Lord this is a small town, he thought as he opened the door and reached in to switch of the few dim ceiling lights which he had left on during the day. Then he closed and locked the door.

  He turned away and began to walk painfully back toward the parsonage when he heard a distant voice call out, "Minister! Reverend Wilkes!" He turned in the direction of the voice and saw a motion across the street. The full moon's light filtered through the clouds sufficiently to reflect from a metallic object moving somewhere in the middle of the old town cemetery. Wilkes squinted his eyes and peered into the darkness. "Minister!" the voice called again as he once more saw the glint of moonlight upon metal. No one was supposed to be in the cemetery at night, he thought angrily. Some young vandals, he thought, kids up to mischief. His fists clenched as he began to cross the street and walk over toward the old graveyard.

  The Bradford cemetery did not belong to the Bradford Congregationalist Church in any legal sense, for both belonged to the town; but as the town's minister, Wilkes had cared for the old graveyard for many decades as if it were part of his duties. No one had been buried there for years, no one in Wilkes's own lifetime, for that matter; but this was of no importance. The cemetery was the place of repose for those who had gone before, and it needed to be respected and tended to, and Wilkes had done both. There had been very little vandalism in the old graveyard over the years, but he had read about such things elsewhere, stones defaced and overturned, old markers uprooted and carried off as souvenirs and conversation pieces. He quickened his pace as best he could and tried to ignore the shooting pains in his knees.

  Wilkes found the gate open. It was never locked but it was always closed. Now it was open wide. He squinted his eyes again and saw once more the glint of moonlight on a moving object. He walked toward the motion and soon was able to see a black-robed figure wielding a shovel, digging into the cold, stony ground. He moved toward the figure and said loudly, "You there! What do you think you're doing?" He was ignored and he drew closer. When he was not five feet from the figure he repeated, "What do you think you're doing? Stop that immediately. I said stop that im—" The blade of the shovel swung suddenly upward and struck him in the head, sending him sprawling onto the ground, dazed and stunned but not mortally injured. He lay motionless, struggling not to lose consciousness.