Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  The good Reverend Parris stood before us, his mouth drawn in a somber frown.

  “I will pray for your souls, witches,” he mumbled. “I will pray to banish the evil from your heart. May ye find God. May ye rest in peace.”

  So many of the townspeople came to see us die; what an odd curiosity they shared. They stood off in clusters and prayed, “God rest ye almighty souls.”

  My heart was beating so fast that I might have passed out. My mouth was dry, my eyes nearly blinded by tears. Still, I could see him as he stepped forward, seemingly out of nowhere: a man with an anguished expression. He held my arm with a firm and steady hand. Gently, he led me up the ladder steps.

  “Do not be afraid,” he whispered as he carefully placed a blindfold over my eyes.

  “I am afraid,” I told him.

  His was the last voice I heard, the last face I saw. I had never seen him before, or so I thought. He was not from my village; I was sure of that. He had features so fiercely handsome that even in my desperate state, I noticed and wondered of the familiarity. His hair kissed his brow in tight black curls that shone in the morning sun. His deep, dark eyes gazed with haunting despair into my own. How I hated his pity.

  As the rope was slipped around my neck and the knot pulled close against the nape, I felt his whisper once again as it grazed my ear.

  “Count to three,” he said. “Then turn your head sharply to the right and hold it. Do it, girl, and be spared!”

  But it was quickly that a hand pushed me from the ladder step. My fall was brief. My bone broke and snapped in two. My breath left me. I struggled for air, but there was none to take in. Death had taken me, death as I had understood it.

  I felt my body sway. How odd it was that I could feel anything at all, but I did. I was heavy as a log in water. Suddenly, the heaviness was lifted, and I became light as a feather in the wind. Then I lost touch with the earth altogether. My soul rose, vanished into obscurity. I disappeared into semidarkness, and I would remain in this shadowy dimension for hundreds of your years, except for occasional life journeys back into living flesh.

  * * * *

  Light is no longer the same to me as it is to you. I see your world through shades of gray. All sound in my dimension runs together, and I receive only remnants, discordant vibrations from which to decipher language. Movement appears to me as a brief motion wrapped in gauze and released like tiny bursts into reflections of dim light.

  When I am not in the form of flesh, I live in the confines of shadow. The psychics of your dimension have said that I can be seen floating between the kiss of dusk and the evening moon. Yes, some of you can actually see me, though you are unaware of what I am. You usually ignore me because I vanish so quickly. I simply blend into the surface of your world and disappear, into objects, into trees, into the soft fur of a sleeping squirrel, into anything that will have me.

  Before I begin my tale, you must know this: I can also blend into a human body. I can steal your flesh if I choose. But before you judge me, you must understand my loneliness. You have no idea how desperately I desire the physical senses you so cavalierly take for granted. But please, do not fear me. I will not harm the innocent. Hear me out before you cast any stones. There are secrets in my tale worth knowing.

  The snap of my neck appears to have granted me immortality as a captured soul, doomed to live over and over again in stolen flesh and blood. Therefore, I take bodies in exchange for my freedom. I want you to understand that if I were to ever choose your flesh, I would mean you no harm. I would simply borrow the luxury of your language and take comfort in the pleasure of your warm, beating heart.

  The process of my abduction is painless. You see, the earth holds time. When I consume a body all I do is absorb time. It is quite simple. My soul moves out of one perception and into another. Let me reassure you that though I can take any one of you, I prefer the flesh of those whom the devil favors, and I do not have to go very far to consume the devil’s own.

  * * * *

  Let us go back to how it all began once I realized my eternal fate. The first body I took belonged to my youngest brother. Oh, I did not take him. That was my first and only mistake. I took his third daughter. She was just ten years, but I took her anyway, believing she would be better off, and in due time, she was.

  * * * *

  “Father, look at the light,” Elizabeth cried as she chased me.

  Jeremiah scowled. “Child, do not imagine things that are not there.”

  The fool did not know that Elizabeth could see me through this opaque shadow that I had become.

  “What do I look like, Elizabeth?” I whispered.

  I watched in astonishment as she clapped her hands and giggled. “Pretty, pretty,” she called. My God, she can hear me.

  “Ah, so you see me as I am, as Annabel?”

  But I do not think she actually understood my question for she ran and hid from me, chasing me with her gaze as I flitted across the yard.

  She was a bright child. My brother’s favorite. He favored her a bit too much, if you know what I mean.

  “Come, Elizabeth, sit upon my lap,” he called as he patted his legs.

  He kept the child on his lap for hours, the bastard. A little game it was. He would wiggle her about and would not put her down until after he had rocked and shaken the poor child to death and had soiled his pants with the sin of his evil.

  I took Elizabeth away from that.

  “Forgive me,” I said softly. “You will soon be with me, Elizabeth. Jeremiah will meet the devil on his own terms…and let the devil take him.”

  One night, as she slept, I seeped into her bloodstream like a tick upon a dog, filling her little soul with my own and gently forcing her to leave her flesh.

  “You will be safe,” I uttered.

  I filtered through her blood like a rushing stream until I felt that I had overwhelmed the balance.

  “I am afraid,” she screamed.

  Of course she was afraid; she did not know where she was going. Neither did I. I did not learn what became of her for so many years. I thought she would be with me. I prayed she would be with me, but instead it was I that wound up sitting on my brother’s lap while the fool grunted and groaned in my ear. But Elizabeth was gone. My sweet Elizabeth was gone to a fate that would take me two long centuries to learn.

  So, it would seem, I became Elizabeth. I inhabited her flesh and all saw me as Elizabeth. But my own soul was intact, and when I caught my reflection in glass it was that of Annabel Horton. You see, I always capture the image of my original soul in the looking glass.

  * * * *

  Eventually, my brother Jeremiah fell to his death. I had nothing to do with it. In Elizabeth’s flesh, I became the wife of a very ambitious man and lived to be almost twenty-nine years old. I thought I would see Elizabeth again when her flesh and blood gave way to a dreadfully congested chest full of mucus that drowned her in her sleep, but as her flesh died, my spirit rose again into the solitude of familiar darkness.

  I shall always carry my grief for Elizabeth. My despair has been endless. It was then I swore I would never again consume the innocent. I vowed I would only take evil and alter it through the presence of my soul. It was Jeremiah that should have been forced from his flesh, not sweet Elizabeth. How perfect for me; take only the evil ones, Annabel, and leave goodness alone. Unfortunately, evil does not alter easily.

  Chapter Four

  My youngest brother’s firstborn son, Judd Patrick Horton, married a woman from Topsfield and he took over her family’s farm. There were many offspring. Judd and his wife, Margaret, had five children. Their firstborn son, John Jeremiah, moved his family to Boston in 1747. John’s daughter, Sarah Ann, married a man called Oliver Stokes in 1766, and they had three children. Several years following the American Revolution, their middle child, Andrew, married Hendrika Van Pelt, from a Dutch family, who had settled in Nieuw Amersfoort, in the town of Flatlands, known in your day as Brooklyn.

  After th
eir marriage, Andrew bought a farm on Hubbard Lane, not far from the Flatlands Town Center. In the year 1806, I took their only daughter. Of course, I walked in the flesh many times prior, but I will not take you through so many tedious sojourns. I only tell you of this one because it will have significance later.

  You see, they named the child after me. They found me listed in some tired, old family record and decided on the name, Patience Annabel, for their new daughter. They did not know, of course, that I was called by my middle name.

  “Oh, this is perfect, Andrew: Patience Annabel. And the name shall complement our child, for patience in a woman is surely a virtue.”

  “Our daughter will be as pure as she is patient, as proper as she is prudent.” Andrew playfully kissed his wife. “I wonder what she was like,” he said.

  “Who, my dear?”

  “Why Patience Annabel, my ancestor. Our daughter’s namesake.”

  Hendrika giggled. “Look, Andrew, it says here, right under her name, that they called her the ‘beautiful Annabel’.”

  “And our daughter shall be the same.” Andrew smiled.

  Alas, Patience Annabel Stokes was nothing like me. She was an ugly child who lacked humor and grace. Nonetheless, Andrew and Hendrika doted upon her. I kept my distance for many years, for though I detested the child, I remembered poor Elizabeth and that I had sworn I would never again take the flesh of children.

  Patience Stokes developed into an insipid and vacuous young woman. She was vain and cruel. She tormented the servants with senseless and needless demands, and she constantly belittled the pretty, young maid that Andrew had hired to attend her.

  * * * *

  “What is it, you half-wit? I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  The pretty maid smiled sweetly back at Patience. I admired her reserve.

  “Michele Guyon has arrived, mademoiselle.”

  “Ah.” Patience stood up quickly and primped her hair. “Fetch my mirror, and be quick about it. I will see him shortly.”

  “As you wish, mademoiselle.” The pretty maid curtsied and left through the large double doors that closed off the foyer from the sitting room.

  I watched as Patience twirled around by herself, nearly knocking a vase from its perch. I followed, unseen, blowing her hair out in wisps until each ringlet fell about her face like spiders around a ball of white yarn. Whoosh, I blew and blew again, whoosh!

  “Mademoiselle Patience!” The pretty maid cried as she came back through the doors holding the silver mirror. It’s a wonder she didn’t drop it.

  “What is it, you fool, why do you gape?”

  The poor maid stood aghast, staring at the wild ringlets blown in torrents as if living things had suddenly sprung from Patience’s head.

  “Be quick, you idiot, I must not keep him waiting.”

  The poor maid reluctantly handed the mirror to Patience…who proceeded to scream.

  “Don’t just stand there. Fix me,” Patience demanded.

  Oh, if they could have only heard my laughter.

  “You bungling flea brain, you are hurting me!” Patience cried as I took my exit.

  * * * *

  Bored with her vanity, I slid into the parlor and watched as the handsome Michele took a seat.

  “My manservant, Philippe,” he said to Andrew and Hendrika.

  Michele had traveled to the village of Brooklyn with his young male servant, a boy of nineteen or twenty.

  “You speak English so well, sir.” Hendrika sat, spreading her beautiful orange and gold taffeta dress around her. I only knew of the colors because they were bright enough and penetrated through the fog before my sight.

  “My mother was English,” he said quietly.

  “So, you live over there on Clover Hill?” Andrew asked.

  Michele nodded and politely took the tea that was handed to him by one of the servants.

  I knew that Michele had had a large house built on Montague Street in Clover Hill, the likes of which I had never seen before. I followed him often to keep myself abreast of it. When the house was completed in the winter of 1806 it looked like a temple and had so many tall, large windows peering through pilasters, that I wondered how anyone could afford such luxury. It stood alone, overlooking the river.

  “There’s going to be a steamboat launched in Hoboken. This will soon revolutionize the waterway and make my land invaluable,” he told them.

  “I admire your foresight,” Andrew said. “I hope you are correct.”

  “I would like to extend an invitation to my home on Saturday; will you and your daughter join me?” Michele looked at Hendrika and smiled.

  “Of course.” Hendrika smiled back and sipped her tea, pleased, I’m sure, that poor Patience had managed to snare such appealing male attention.

  “Good, I’ll send a carriage.”

  * * * *

  Though the journey between what is now Brooklyn Heights and the Flatlands was tedious, every Saturday afternoon following his first visit to the Stokes’, Michele would send his large, black carriage to Hubbard Lane for Patience and her mother, who thoroughly enjoyed and anticipated the excursion, despite Andrew’s protests.

  Michele entertained them in royal fashion. Philippe gallantly took their wraps and summoned great platters of food to be brought from the kitchen. I watched with amazement while Michele courted my namesake as if she were a princess. I hovered around her, though of course, she never noticed me. From my shadowy existence, I could make out her short, plump body and her fleshy smile. I shadowed the room from the confines of culinary desire. You see, I longed to nourish my palette with wine and chew the roasted goose that caused Patience and her mother to swoon like idiots.

  Michele seemed oblivious to the spectral vision I cast as I moved around the room, but I could swear the young servant, Philippe, could actually see me hovering about—could feel how deeply I yearned for life. I could have gone anywhere, could have stolen the flesh of the Queen of England, if I had chosen, but I was fixated on this strange romance. I was drawn by an intense compulsion to consume my namesake. I was fascinated by Michele’s passion for her. She ogled him like a street urchin while he showered her with gifts…beautiful European treasures.

  “I love music boxes,” he said. “Here, my dear. I have started a collection for you.”

  Michele lovingly touched the ornately painted top and opened it gently.

  “Can you hear?” he asked as he held the box to her ear. “Listen.”

  The sweet sounds gathered in the air, and Patience pursed her lips and smiled. It was one of Haydn’s string quartets, but to Patience’s tin ear, it might as well have been the corner cat crying for an evening meal.

  Carefully, Michele walked to a cabinet of dark wood. The doors were paned in glass.

  “What have you there?” Patience asked.

  “French bulldogs,” he said and held them out. “Look, how beautiful they are. I brought them all the way from Paris. Notice the detail.” He handed her two from a collection of porcelain dogs.

  “Exquisite.” Patience giggled as she fondled the tiny creatures in her fat, little fingers.

  “Philippe. Wine for the ladies, if you please.” Michele turned and the young manservant bowed at the waist.

  “Yes, sir.” Philippe quickly went to the wine cellar.

  Patience grinned at her mother, who beguilingly smiled back.

  The three sat uncomfortably staring around the room. Patience could think of not a single thing to say to this delightful man, despite inconspicuous nods from Hendrika to speak up.

  “You have decorated your home with such fine things, hasn’t he, Patience?” Hendrika asked.

  “Yes,” Patience replied, untying and retying the bow on her dress.

  “Isn’t it wonderful to see the river from these windows?” Hendrika smiled, encouraging her daughter to respond.

  “Yes.” She’d managed to make a mess of the bow and attempted to fix it.

  I was relived to notice that Michele’s man
servant had returned.

  “I have a passion for rich red Bordeaux. Try this,” Michele said as he handed Patience a glass.

  He tried to teach her to sip the liquid. “Allow the flavor to linger and slowly float to your belly,” he said.

  But Patience could not master the fine art of wine tasting. She gulped it, and the wine dribbled down her chin and caused her to cough incessantly. Michele seemed amused. He always seemed amused.

  He was a magnificent man. He towered over her in height and while his shoulders were broad, his hips were narrow. He was blond. His hair appeared almost white and fell to his shoulders. His face could have been chiseled in stone. His cheeks were high and his skin appeared rough. I could not tell the color of his eyes, though from my ghostly shadow, I imagined an intense blue color that had changed to gray, such as when the sunlight fades and gives way to rain. His lips were full, and his nose was sharply defined by the rugged strength of his profile.

  Patience stared at him constantly. He simply sat back in one of his plush regal chairs and grinned back at her.

  * * * *

  One day, quite unexpectedly, Michele’s carriage pulled up to Andrew and Hendrika’s door.

  “I wish your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Michele told Andrew after seating himself on the chaise, a slight blush to his cheeks. Philippe stood by his side and stared at his feet. Hendrika began to weep and Andrew leaped quickly to his feet and extended his hand.

  “I would be honored to welcome you into our family,” Andrew said proudly.

  * * * *

  Poor Patience, she would never have her wedding night with Michele Guyon. As he came to her bed the night of her lavish wedding, I hid in the shadows. The poor thing was lying there smiling like an eager wench when I took her. I slipped into her as she lay there breathing for him. Her breath was heavy as I lingered across her mouth, letting the air around her lips saturate my soul with delirium. How I longed for it. She felt me take her. She felt my soul cling to hers and force it out. She fought me like a captured animal, but I pushed my light into her veins. I forced my being into her flesh. My possession was quite brief. Within moments I moved in her bloodstream. She had lost. She screamed just once, and was gone.