Her Dear & Loving Husband

by Meredith Allard

  James paced the storage room, jogging himself into remem-bering the scene. Some memories were so difficult to see clearly, either because he couldn’t or didn’t want to. It was so long ago.

  “After Elizabeth was arrested I’d go to the jail where she was being held. I pleaded with the magistrates in charge of the trials, self-important imbeciles who were pleased that now everyone would see the power they could wield. I tried to explain how it was all a mistake. My wife had no marks on her that would identify her as a witch. She never conjured spirits. She never sent her specter to harm anyone. I tried to find out who had accused her, but no one would answer me. They said it would all come out at her trial. They said there were even more witnesses than I knew of to corroborate the accusations. What other witnesses, I asked? But no one would say.

  “They tried to confiscate everything we owned as they had done to others who were accused, but my father said it was his property so they left us our house and everything in it. People we knew signed their names to a petition stating they had never seen my wife in any act of witchcraft and we were faithful mem-bers of the church. But someone had accused her, someone weak and petty, and then others, women she considered her friends, people she trusted and loved, began corroborating the lies. Yes, they saw her use spells, they said. Yes, they saw her specter doing harm to others or consorting with Satan in the night.”

  “Who accused her?” Timothy asked. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I heard whisperings that it was her sister-in-law, her brother’s wife, who made the first claims against her. She was an unpretty woman, her sister-in-law, bloated, spotted, and pale, with strings of black hair that flew out from under her white cap. The gray, swollen bags beneath her eyes held years of untold scorn, or an excess of ale. I knew she was jealous because Eliz-abeth was happy with me while she was unhappily married to Elizabeth’s stubborn, overbearing brother. I suspected it was true, that she was the one who made the first claims, but I never knew for certain. Then Elizabeth was moved to the jail in Boston.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the jail in Salem was overflowing with accused witches. I began staying in Boston and sitting outside the jail. Some nights I even fell asleep there. I just wanted to be close to her. I knew she was suffering and I wanted her to know I was there. Then people began whispering about me, saying I must be possessed since I wasn’t acting like myself. But I didn’t care. Every day I asked anyone I could find if he could help me. The magistrates and the reverends, the constable and the townsfolk stepped past me like I wasn’t there, a specter myself, and I knew I was putting myself in more jeopardy of being accused. But I had to help my wife.”

  “Is that when you were turned?”

  Timothy was leaning toward James, hanging on his words, as if he were fascinated hearing about the life of another of his kind, as if he had never heard another’s creation story before.

  “It was August 1692,” James said. “One night past midnight I was sitting outside the jail, and a man in a black cloak stopped to stare at me. When I saw the amused smile on his lips I thought he recognized me from somewhere. He stared until I was un-nerved, like I was being watched by the evil specter himself, the master wizard everyone in Salem was determined to find. It was an odd sensation, the prickly way your foot feels when it falls asleep, but I decided there was no reason to be concerned. He was a strong-looking figure, but he didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon of any kind. He stepped even closer, still inspecting me.

  “‘Is your wife in there?’ he asked, nodding at the jail.

  “‘Aye,’ I said.

  “‘I can help you,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  “I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t know how he might help me, but I didn’t care. I would have followed him anywhere and back again if it would help me help my wife. He led me to a quiet corner of town. All the bantering noises and jostling crowds from the day had cleared away, and there was no one else around. Houses were dark. The sky was dark. I don’t remember even the light of one star to help me see what was coming. The only sounds were the ripple of the wind and the exhalation of my own breath.

  “‘You shall thank me later,’ the man said, that amused smile still lingering. He stepped so close I could smell the blood on him. I tried to run, but his claw-like grasp was too strong. His long face became a mask of gruesome evil as he gripped his teeth into my neck the way a pit bull will latch its jaws onto its victim and shake and shake and not let go. That’s all I remember. I woke up later. I don’t know how much later—hours, days, weeks.

  “You know what it’s like. Everything was nothing. When I woke up I was alone inside an abandoned house, poked awake by the streams of moonlight peering in through the mud-caked window. Once I was awake I could feel my human body dying, and I didn’t understand the ultrasensory perception I suddenly had. I was crazed with hunger, and it was only instinct that told me how to feed myself. It took some time to realize that I was unnatural somehow, but I didn’t know what I was and I was frightened of myself. There was no one to teach me how to live this way be-cause whoever turned me had disappeared.”

  “He left you alone the way the one who turned me left me alone,” Timothy said. “That’s when Howard found me.”

  “That’s right. He didn’t even stay around until I woke up. I had to figure everything out for myself.

  “Then a few nights after I regained consciousness I remem-bered Elizabeth. Can you imagine—I had to remember my wife. I tried to go out to the jail during the day and was flattened by the agony of standing in the sun and I ran back inside and hid away from the light. The next night as soon as I felt strong enough I made my way back. By then I knew I had gained extraordinary hunter’s skills and I was determined to break Elizabeth free and escape with her somewhere far from Salem.

  “When I arrived at the jail the first person I saw was an ornery old woman wearing rags and missing her front teeth. She recog-nized me when I didn’t recognize her. Perhaps I had seen her be-fore, but I was so crazed from the change that nothing I saw made any sense.

  “‘I want to see my wife,’ I demanded. ‘Bring her to me.’ My voice sounded strange to my ears, as if I were growling.

  “‘You’re late aren’t you,’ said the old woman. ‘You haven’t been here for some time. Figured you’d returned to Salem and heard the news by now.’ She grinned because she knew what she had to say would crush me. She seemed to enjoy my impending heartbreak.

  “‘Where is my wife? Bring her to me!’”

  “‘You know I can’t bring her to you. She’s a prisoner. Besides, she’s dead isn’t she. Died yesterday. She was dropped in the common grave this morning.’

  “My heart had already stopped beating before that night. When I woke up alone in the abandoned house I felt my heart race to an abnormally fast rate, and then like a wind-up clock whose time is up it ticked slower and slower until it stopped completely. Then, when my heartbeat was gone, I stopped breath-ing. For nights I sat alone, huddled with my knees to my chest, waiting to feel my consciousness slip away along with my missing heartbeat but it never did, and in my lifeless way I stayed alive. Then when that haggard old woman told me so cruelly that Elizabeth died I felt my life cease again, only this time with a painful slice of recognition that I would never see my wife again. I felt like the old woman ripped me in half with a blunt butcher’s knife, and I couldn’t hide my sorrow. It was the first time I cried since I was turned and I didn’t realize that blood was flowing down my cheeks as freely as if someone cut a human’s artery over my head and let it bleed over my face. The old woman’s eyes grew wide as she watched the red stream from me, and she backed toward the wall making the sign of the cross.

  “‘‘Tis true then,’ she hissed, her face flashing with false piety. ‘Everyone says you’re a demon and now I see ‘tis true. You’re bleeding from your eyes and only demons bleed from their eyes. And if you’re a demon then she was too.’ She made the sign of the cross again. ‘I knew t
hat one was a demon. I could see it in her couldn’t I. Demon!’

  “I felt myself flush with a heat-filled fury. I flew to the old woman and pressed her skull into the wall, leaving a ring of blood where her head had been. I was ready to crush her. She tried to struggle against me, but she was no match for my new strength.

  “‘My wife was no demon,’ I said. I made no attempt to hide the thunder in my voice.

  “‘But you are,’ she said. She spit her words in my face. ‘You’re bloodstained and white as a specter and cold as the dead. You are the work of the Devil. Be gone, Demon! Even God cannot help you now, son of Satan!’

  “‘I may be a demon,’ I said, ‘and God may not be able to help me now, but He cannot help you either.’

  “I bent to tear her throat but I heard voices outside the jail and I didn’t want to be seen. I knew I couldn’t let others know what I was. I let the old woman go and left at a flash, hiding until a man arrived to relieve her from her duties. Once she was outside she glanced around and shivered as she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders though it was August and hot even at that late hour. I don’t know if she saw me jump out from the sha-dows as she passed me. She never screamed. I grabbed her, dragged her away, and fed from her until she was dry inside. I was more brutal than I needed to be. Even after she lay dead I broke her bones and tore her flesh and took my frenzy out on her corpse. I didn’t know how else to handle my heartbreak then. To this day I wonder if I could have saved my wife. Perhaps if I had arrived at the jail sooner I could have escaped with her some-where and helped her get the medical treatment she needed.”

  “Medical treatment was pretty primitive in the seventeenth century,” Timothy said.

  “Then maybe I could have turned her and she would still be here with me today.”

  “Did you know how to turn someone then? You were new to this life yourself.”

  “No.”

  “Then how could you have turned her?”

  “I don’t know. There must have been something I could have done.”

  “I don’t think you should blame yourself, James. I don’t see how you could have helped.” Timothy thought a moment. “It must have been hell for you in those days.”

  “Even worse than the hell of being turned against my will was the hell of losing my wife. It’s terrifying to know you’re telling the truth and no one believes you. How do you convince people when they won’t be convinced?”

  “But didn’t the accused victims have trials? Didn’t they get a chance to prove their innocence?”

  James laughed another wicked laugh. “The trials were a mockery of justice. Elizabeth never had her day in court, but if she had I would have tried to convince her to plead guilty. Those who were charged and still living were the ones who would plead guilty to witchcraft, while those who were executed wouldn’t plead guilty to a crime they didn’t commit. By the autumn of 1692, more than one hundred people were charged with witchcraft and imprisoned.”

  “I never knew so many people were victims of the witch trials.”

  “Twenty-seven people died. Some were executed, and some died in jail like Elizabeth. Our friend was crushed to death for two days under the weight of man-sized stones.”

  James stopped pacing. He looked at Timothy, saw the boy’s folded hands, his bowed head, and thought he had shared too much. But Timothy needed to know the danger a new hunt could bring.

  “I’m sorry, James. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course, those who were hung as witches weren’t witches at all while the real demons ran around turning unsuspecting victims. People were so busy pointing fingers at each other they missed what they were looking for when it was right in front of them.”

  “Do you think we’re demons?”

  James considered his answer. If he said no, we’re not demons at all, he would have been lying. He didn’t know how else to explain how they stayed the same despite the passing years, how they were alive when their bodies were dead, why they craved blood. Yet if James said yes, of course we’re demons, Timothy would have stopped listening. So he compromised.

  “I think some are demons, and others, like us, try to exist as humanly as we can. It’s up to us to decide which way we’re going to go.”

  “Humans can be demons too.”

  “You’re right. I think humans are afraid to consider the existence of our kind because they fear the violence we might do. But I’m more afraid of humans because of the violence I’ve seen from them. That’s why we have to stay undercover. Not everyone is ready for us.”

  “I understand,” Timothy said. “You’re afraid they’re going to do what they did to Elizabeth, accuse innocent people. Or worse.”

  “I don’t want to see another hunt. Living through the witch hunt was hard enough.”

  “Don’t worry, James. I won’t talk to the reporter. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Even the little bit he had described to Timothy didn’t come close to explaining the horror of it all, but he couldn’t speak about it any more that night. They straightened up the mess in the storage room, pulled up the shelves, stretched out the dents, and placed the incense and candles into some semblance of order. They tried to make it look like they had never been there, but James was afraid that when Olivia looked around everything would be wrong. And then, without another word, Timothy left looking as spent as James felt.

  When James walked into the hub of the store Jennifer nodded at him. He thought she heard the crash in the storage room, and he was going to tell her he would pay for any damage. She pointed at the door instead.

  “I told you she’d be here,” she said. “There’s your girl.”

  James saw her through the window. Sarah. Sweet Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. The girl who looked like his Lizzie Sarah. She was shivering from the cold autumn wind, but she smiled shyly when she saw him. He greeted her at the door.

  “Please,” he said, extending his arm in that old-world gesture. He led her outside where it was cold, but there was a food stand a few steps away and he bought her some hot chocolate. She offered him some, which he politely declined, and they walked to the edge of the wharf where they could see the bay riding out to the Atlantic Ocean. They stood close to each other, Sarah sipping from her styrofoam cup, watching the smooth water lap like a kitten’s tongue at the edge of the shore. He wanted to reach out to her, touch her dark hair, bury his nose in her sweet scent, kiss her forehead, ask her how she was feeling. Was she still frightened by the awful vision she saw when he walked her home? There was so much he wanted to ask her. But since there were so many questions he wouldn’t answer about himself, he felt selfish for wanting to peel away the layers of Sarah Alexander. But he couldn’t stop his need to know her. She was so like his Lizzie.

  Across the wharf James saw Jocelyn and Steve Endecott, dressed for Halloween as Sonny and Cher. As they walked to him he saw their surprise to find him there, standing next to a woman, a beautiful woman at that. When Sarah wasn’t looking, Jocelyn nudged him, but he was too embarrassed to answer her unasked questions. Then Sarah saw some people she knew from the college, other professors James wasn’t acquainted with, so she walked across to talk to them. Jocelyn nudged James again.

  “She seems nice, James. Human too.” She stroked Steve’s cheek and he smiled. “There’s something irresistible about humans, isn’t there?”

  James looked to see where Sarah was, still talking to the professors. She couldn’t hear them from where she stood.

  “She doesn’t know,” he said.

  “She doesn’t know?” Jocelyn couldn’t hide her surprise. “You need to tell her, James. It’s not going to be good if she finds out by accident.”

  Steve nodded in agreement. “She might be afraid at first, God knows I was, but if she’s the one for you then she’ll handle it. If you care about each other you’ll find a way to make it work.” He smiled lovingly at Jocelyn. “Like we do.”

  “You sound like Jennifer,” James said.

 
“Jennifer is usually right about these things,” Jocelyn said. “Here she comes.”

  In a moment Sarah was back beside them. Jocelyn and Steve made their excuses and continued down the wharf, Jocelyn’s white go-go boots snapping on the floor, her beaded sixties-style dress swaying behind her. She flipped her long black wig over her shoulder and gave James a meaningful look as she walked away.

  He looked at the sky and sighed. It was getting late for Sarah.

  “May I escort you home?” he asked.

  He offered his arm, which she accepted without hesitation.

  “Take me to the House of the Seven Gables,” she said. “It’s near your house, isn’t it?”

  “Are you certain?” He didn’t want a repeat of her terror from the night when he had only mentioned the Witch Dungeon Museum.

  “I want to see it.”

  He tightened his arm around hers. “This way,” he said.

  As they continued away from the bay, down Congress Street, then Derby, he could see her watching him. He wondered if it was obvious by looking at him that he was an entirely different creature than her. Jennifer took great joy teasing him about wearing glasses when he didn’t need them, but there was a reason behind the Clark Kent disguise. He had been nearsighted and wore glasses when he was alive—they called them spectacles then. After he was turned his blue eyes turned black, the pupils fully dilated, like someone had used a black marker to shade his irises. The contrast between his nighttime eyes, ghostly pallor, and fair hair was jarring. He noticed people’s confusion, their eyes darting between his hair and his eyes, and he thought from their puzzled expressions that they were wondering why his eyes were so dark when the rest of him was so light. He wore the glasses to minimize the contrast, and it worked well enough. People no longer stared at him like he was a Picasso painting, his facial features too far to the right or misplaced on a diagonal somehow.

  Sarah was still watching him, which made him more con-cerned about what she saw. Would she still smile when she saw me if she knew the truth, he wondered? He knew he needed to tell her, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. He didn’t want to lose the opportunity to know her because she was afraid of what he had become.