Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  Standing next to the woman stood a man with a very white shirt on. His hair was black and fell in curls. He was a man of great stature. He held my gaze with his, and I felt as if I had been shot with lightning. But I could not concentrate on the familiarity I felt. I called out for my son. “Matthew!” I yelled. “Matthew!” The man ran to where I now stood. He bent down and whispered. “Go back, girl. All will be well. My God, it’s good to see you!”

  “What?”

  Then Philippe caught up to me and ran to my other side.

  “That man,” I said as I turned to Philippe. But the crowd had thickened and I could no longer see him.

  “What man?” asked Philippe.

  “He is gone. It does not matter now.”

  We turned our attention back to Gallows Hill. The men were being taken from the cart and led to the tree. I watched my son take the steps to the rope. I fell, limp and trembling, into Philippe’s arms.

  “Please, let us go. I cannot watch my son hang by his neck,” I cried. We left the north fields without looking back and rode sadly to the chapel on Lindal Hill. It was there I prayed until dusk. I prayed for the safe flight of my son’s soul to God. I prayed that he had not suffered. I told Philippe to go with Father and collect the body for burial.

  * * * *

  I was alone for many hours. I knew Thomas Putnam would have half the town up looking for me, but I cared not a bit. My son had been hanged for a crime he was innocent of, and were they to throw me in a fire that evening, I would have offered no resistance.

  It must have been dusk when I finally heard Philippe return. He walked slowly toward me. His large, dark, beautiful eyes were filled with grief.

  “We have taken the body back to the farm. He is to be buried shortly. They are all searching for Elizabeth. They think his death has driven her away, perhaps even to take her own life.”

  “He is really dead?” I whispered.

  Philippe did not answer me. The tears that fell to his cheeks were my answer. I pressed my hands into the wooden seat. My cry was unrecognizable.

  Philippe came quickly to my side and together we knelt before the altar. We wept like children, without shame or pretense. We wept from a place so deep in our souls that all else but our grief had ceased.

  We might never have noticed the great shadow that fell over us and covered the chapel in darkness, but the darkness turned so black that we could not help but lift our heads.

  The only light we could see came from the simple cross at the center of the altar. It glowed the purest white I have ever seen. The darkness deepened and chilled the air around us, but the glow from the cross expanded and seemed to swallow the darkness, swallowed it so completely that the little chapel was now completely consumed in white light.

  “Did you see that?” I said, wiping the tears from my face.

  “Listen,” Philippe whispered.

  From a great distance, so great a distance, we heard a gentle hum, as if there were voices from very far off that offered us comfort.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  Then, we watched in amazement as a brief form appeared before us and quickly vanished. It had looked like a man but we could not be sure. The brief image had left us with an overpowering sense of peace.

  “Do you feel that?” I asked Philippe.

  He was just about to answer me when my brother James suddenly came running through the chapel door.

  “Philippe!” he cried. “The body is gone! Matthew’s body has disappeared! Good God. We cannot account for it. God help us.”

  “What do you say?” asked Philippe in amazement.

  “The body! It is gone! We laid it out in Father’s bedroom. When we returned, it was not there,” my brother said frantically.

  “Praise God!” yelled Philippe, and threw his arms around me.

  “Praise God!” I wept and kissed Philippe on the cheek.

  My brother James looked on in horror.

  “Your family knocks on all the doors of the village looking for you,” James finally said suspiciously once Philippe had released his arms from around my shoulders.

  “Yes, Brother Horton. I will return now,” I assured him.

  I caught Philippe’s eyes as my brother hurried him out. They were filled with hope. If only I had known then how much of your chronology would pass before I beheld his blessed face again. But my only thoughts at that moment were about returning to the warmth of our Brooklyn home and finding my family in safety.

  * * * *

  I knew it would be difficult to die, difficult to kill off borrowed flesh. The control of the soul’s flight is not easily mastered, and I had no intention of extinguishing the body of Ann Putnam and exposing myself to the darkness without Philippe at my side. I planned to hide and wait for him to come to me in my father’s barn, for he always knew that is where I hid when I wanted to speak to him, and together we would return to the dimension of 1851. I found the night so black that I could not see the hand I held before me. The moon was a sliver of light in the sky that was covered by a shadowy mist. I decided to walk back toward my father’s farm and wait until I could find Philippe alone. I would shield myself in the barn. Lightning bugs flitted before me as I felt my way east. My steps made crackling sounds in the dirt and the night air smelled like damp wood. I had just started to turn and walk along side of the Mile Brook when I heard a rustle in the trees above me. I turned slowly.

  A large animal was perched in the tree. His ears were pointed straight back, and his face was fierce. He was surely a catamount. The thick coat was tawny, and the eyes of the beast were as vibrant as a sunset, steadfastly holding me in his gaze. The colors of the cat’s eyes shot out of the dark night with a shock of brilliance. In the stillness, I could hear its breath. I did not move. I prayed for God to save me. But God existed in my eyes, as much as in the eyes of the beast. Our value to God was one and the same.

  I stared at the creature. He revealed a terrifying confidence. I begged myself not to stir. I held my breath and watched as he began to move his body slowly toward me. His gaze continued to hold mine. I heard a low, ferocious sound stirring in the back of his throat. His lips curled back, and his sharp, long teeth stretched across the black night like needles.

  I stood very still while my heart pounded and petrified tears formed at the corner of my eyes. I reached in the pocket of my apron for the pistol I had concealed to use against Elizabeth. To my horror, I realized it lay in the field. Then, suddenly, I felt the presence of a man. He was standing on my right, about three feet from my arm. From my peripheral vision I could see the white-blond hair that fell to his shoulders. His hand was extended toward me.

  “Urbain?” I whispered.

  The beast in the tree did not turn but continued to stare at me. Its breathing became more intense.

  “Come to me, Annabel,” said Urbain, as he held his hand close to mine and almost touched my fingers. “Come to me.”

  It took only a moment for me to respond. My eyes never left the cat.

  “Go to hell,” I whispered.

  The animal drew back his lips and I heard a deep growl that slowly increased in power.

  “Come to me, girl.”

  “Did you not hear me, demon? I said go to hell.”

  “Foolish wench.” He laughed.

  Then, like the sound of a whip in the night, Urbain vanished into darkness. I heard the echo of his laughter as it lingered in the humid inertia of the summer air. The catamount moved swiftly. Before I could take my next breath, the animal had leaped out of the tree like a beautifully agile dancer, and bore his prodigious jaw into my flesh.

  I did not die quickly. The mighty head that knocked me to the ground ripped my flesh open with its teeth as it continued to tear at my limbs with its claws. Like a great knife gouging my flesh, the powerful animal tore at me and tossed me about like a piece of meat.

  I could not scream or defend myself. I could not find death fast
enough to escape the profundity of my wounds. I could feel the great weight of the beast on my chest, the vicious ambiguity of the fur against my skin as it was ripped from my body like paper from a box.

  In a matter of seconds, I lay in a pool of blood and watched in horror as the great cat feasted upon my flesh and bones.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Disconcerted to find myself so violently torn from life, I wandered in bleak darkness, confused and much too frightened to stir from my shelter of oblivion. I grieved for Ann Putnam. How could I not, for even she did not deserve the fate that my soul’s flight had bestowed upon her flesh. Whatever memory I carried as Annabel Horton, lost witch of Salem, was shattered by my violent death and lay dormant. I sought God. I wanted to wander peacefully in a place like heaven. I wanted to sit with angels and have God comfort the atrocity of my passing. To my great despair, I was unmercifully alone.

  But do not think that Annabel was entirely forsaken. From my shadow of darkness, I felt my witches’ power like a mighty eagle soaring skyward. Though my loneliness lay as an infinite wound upon my soul, my power to return to life was the elixir that redeemed the fate into which I fell, like an embryo coiled around its innocence, coiled but not incognizant to the power within.

  My despair was a solitary confrontation with the mystery of my journey. In due time, I was healed by a desire to return to earth’s reality and reunite with the chronological order imposed upon it. I had lost approximately two of your years in infinity, so it had been twelve years since I had seen my beloved home. I was ready to return. I willed myself to conjure up the house in Brooklyn. I sketched it into my mind’s eye. Soon enough, I could see the street and the tall, white columns teasing me like an ambiguous apparition. I held the image before me until I could hear faint sounds and see the white light of living humanity move through a gauze of shadow, like lost ghosts. I forced my soul out of darkness and into the dimension I beheld. In what you would refer to as milliseconds, I floated before the house on Montague Street.

  * * * *

  There had been changes. I could feel the differences the last twelve of your years had brought. Many more mansions had been built on the water, and on the side streets off Montague Street there were houses made from brick. I could make out taller structures with lavish windows and steps that led up to front doors that held not two, but three or even four floors. There were many more stores and places of business on the streets of Brooklyn Heights, and far less farmland. Still, I was able to find my home. From my shadowy darkness, I could still see the great, lavish driveway and the tall, gracious windows that stared out over the river as if the house were a breathing thing. The open windows seemed to me like welcoming arms and beckoned me close.

  As I entered the house, I could see that nothing was as I had left it, though I was quite pleased with Meredith Mae’s improvements. I assumed, of course, that it had been she who had decorated my house so splendidly. The drapes around the windows were magnificent. Through my fog of vision, I could make out a green and gold pattern that swooped to the floor and fell from valances. I tried to speak. The furnishings were far more variegated than I had remembered them. I tried to say aloud that my home looked like something out of a painting or a museum, so fine a vista of taste, even more refined than I myself had arranged it. I longed for life just to be able to sit in my parlor again and run my fingers over the silken threads and deep, plush cushions that seduced me from chairs and left me yearning for the pleasure of the body in repose.

  I could barely wait for legs to get me up the stairs and arms to throw around my granddaughter and my son. I had missed them so. The sooner I could find myself a body to inhabit, the quicker I could show my affection. I had given not a thought to whose flesh I would take this time around, whose being I would harbor, or whose blood I would consume. Ah well, there will be time enough to find the devil’s own.

  I longed to see Matthew and Meredith Mae as they came through the open door and sensed my presence. I assumed that Philippe had followed my flight and was waiting, perhaps even nestled in the soft pillows of a chair, just waiting to startle me and ask me where I’ve been. I wondered of his reaction when the poor torn remains of Ann Putnam were found near the Mile Brook.

  Well, there would be plenty of time for catch up. Meanwhile, I would have some fun. I would do funny, ghostly things, if I could master it. I would will a plate to fall from a table or a door to slam. I might even survey the neighborhood and haunt the living earth in a misty light, confuse the human interpretation of the supernatural. I would appear like a faded daguerreotype in a pane of glass and tease reality from my prism of infinite existence.

  I was enjoying my mischievous plans when I could vaguely see two forms appear before the house. I was so excited by the idea of seeing Matthew and Meredith Mae that I found myself spinning around like a top. I was spinning so rapidly that I was almost out of control. Finally, I was able to stop myself and position my shadowy form right at the bottom of the stairs. If I had breath, I would have certainly held it as I waited for the open door.

  To my horror, it was not Meredith Mae or my son Matthew that entered the house. It was that awful Malcolm Jacob Northrup. I recognized him as best as I could from my opacity. I struggled to see who had entered with him. I forced myself close, so close that Malcolm looked up and swatted me away like a fly. The girl that entered with him was familiar. She stared in my direction, as if she could see me. I came closer, so close that I felt an electric currency that pulled me to the girl. It was like being caught in a storm. I felt myself held fast, unable to disentangle. She seemed to hold my presence for a matter of seconds, and then she held her arms straight up and I was released.

  I found myself on the opposite side of the room. Something about my connection to her had strengthened my memory, and I was able to clearly recognize Emie, Philippe’s sister, with her strange wire glasses. She was still staring at me as if she knew exactly where I hovered in the room. Malcolm removed his coat and I watched in horror as Emie took it and placed it in the closet. My God, he seems to live in this house.

  Then I heard Emie whisper, “Yes,” as she continued to look directly at me.

  Malcolm turned sharply. “What did you say?” he asked her.

  “Yes. You are right,” the girl answered.

  Malcolm furrowed his brows. “Right to what? I’ve said nothing.”

  “Oh?” she responded innocently. “I thought I heard you say what a fine day it is.”

  Malcolm looked at her as if he might strike her. “I am going to nap. Wake me in an hour.”

  I watched as Malcolm climbed the stairs and headed toward my old bedroom. I was enraged, so much so that I could barely contain my movements. How dare this bastard move about my house as if he owned it? I felt myself transforming into a red glare of light. Red seems to be the color I become when I feel myself in a tailspin of rage. I flew behind Malcolm. I had become so red a glare by now that I knew I was giving off a light he might be able to see, should he turn in his tracks. Emie reached behind me and was somehow able to hinder my movements. I resisted her. I was furious, but her command was powerful. I turned reluctantly and followed her back into the parlor.

  “I can see you,” she whispered. “Listen to me.”

  I hovered near, though not near enough to be swallowed by her energy again. I could hear her well enough without the intensity of being held in the energy force of another soul.

  “Malcolm has taken over the house. Meredith Mae is on Tilden Street. There is a Catholic church there, St. Joseph’s. A priest has given her a room in the convent.”

  I wanted to speak, to question her, but my voice fell and shattered in the air. Yet, the girl seemed to understand the answers I sought. She leaned forward and spoke directly to me.

  “Your attorney, William Davenport, was killed in 1851. I will tell you more about that after you have found a body to inhabit. His practice was taken over by a man called Louis Boussidan. Malcolm was able to convince him that
Patience and Meredith Mae had perished abroad, for we could produce no letters, no proof of their existence. He then had himself and his daughter, Catherine, declared the heirs to your fortune. We stood by helpless as Malcolm took possession of the house and everything in it. When Meredith Mae went to Boussidan to plead her case he told her that he had no proof that she was Meredith Mae Guyon for all of her papers had been destroyed and no one could identify her or would identify her.”

  My despair could be felt, for Emie began to weep.

  “Please forgive me, Mommy. I tried but there was nothing I could do.”

  I had no time to comfort her. I flew up the stairs so fast that I actually caused a small wind. I found the scoundrel disrobing. He was half naked, his right foot trapped in his breeches and one hand on the bed for support.

  “Vermin!” I cried from my shadowy circle of light as I spun around him with such force that he lost his balance. I slammed my soul into his neck with such vehemence that he began to choke and fall backward until he lay on the bed with one knee up and the other prone. I reached deep into his heart and clung to the beating organ like a vampire thirsting on blood.

  Soon, I felt myself in his arms as I stretched my soul through his flesh. His face now grimaced as I glared my image into his eyes. I began to feel the oddity of his genitals, the massive thickness of his chest and the uncomfortable fat on his belly.

  “I damn you to hell,” I called out.

  He captured me for just a second in his eyes. He screamed and found himself imprisoned, unable to move. I smiled as I took him. I felt his spirit leave with such speed that it rattled me. Someday, you will know the speed of the soul when it leaves. It is like a shot from a pistol.

  But alas, the bastard was now gone, and there I was in his fat and unappealing flesh. I sat on the edge of the bed. I had been made dizzy by my own emotions, emotions that lingered and caused an odd vertigo when I stood. Also, you must understand that it does take a moment of adjustment to harbor the male body when my soul is of the feminine. Though you live in the flesh many times as male and female, your original soul is one or the other.