Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  I spat out sarcastically, “Father Jacques, I presume?”

  On his lap he held a Bible. I recognized it as my own. The cover so frayed, and yet the title remarkably untouched and clear.

  “You were looking for this?” He held it up but I said nothing. When I did not reach to take it, he tossed it on the floor.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Utter nonsense.”

  “Leave my house at once!” I ordered. “You are not welcome here.”

  “Your house?” he bellowed and laughed so loudly that the very foundation seemed to shake from it. “Why, this is my house, Annabel. This is my favorite century, so I have adopted it as my own. Now, I return for my wealth and my wife, and I find you in the most ungainly flesh. Tsk, tsk.”

  “I am not the wife of Urbain Grandier. I am the wife of a man whose flesh you stole.”

  I looked in his eyes as squarely as I could, for the fire from them seared my flesh. It was a frightening experience to confront this demon, this disciple of the devil, as beautiful as any God.

  “You ambiguous bastard,” I wanted to cry out. He might have easily been called Adonis or Zeus. I trembled before him, though I did my best not to.

  He stood and came toward me. He towered over Malcolm, who was not a short man. I noticed the squared-off lines of his jaw and the great broad shoulders under the priest’s robe. As he held the cross in his fingers, I noticed the smoke that fizzled from his flesh. He smiled at me as his skin continued to burn.

  “If you were a prettier man, dear Annabel, I would have my way with you. Perhaps I should, anyway.” He walked close to me and spun me around. “Perhaps, you are not so bad.” He laughed loudly, as I released myself from his hold and ran to the Bible. I held it up before me like a shield.

  “Begone, demon!”

  He was laughing so hysterically now that he had to sit. I noticed that he rubbed his eyes with his hands.

  “The Bible means nothing to me, little Annabel. No power there. It’s useless information. Don’t tell me you believe the rubbish of those old fanatics.”

  I held the Bible close to my chest and bent my lips to kiss the edges.

  “Jesus,” I whispered. “Send him back to hell.”

  “Ha!” he spat at me. “You fool! Why not worship Goethe or Spinoza? Jesus was a bully to inflict such dribble on humanity for three millenniums.”

  I looked up quickly. “Three millenniums?” I remembered what Philippe had told me, the discovery of God in 3082. “What happens then?” I asked him.

  He came and knelt before me and took my hands in his.

  “The dark decent. The age of despair. The shattering of hope.” He rose to kiss me then, long and hard upon my lips, until I felt his arms force back my own, until I could not move.

  “You bastard!” I turned my head to spit out the saliva he had left on my lips. “God lives.” I managed to free myself from his embrace. “Jesus will not die. Not ever.”

  He slapped me then, so hard that I fell back and felt my neck as it snapped. He had stunned me, but he had not killed me.

  “You share your aunt’s blindness, Annabel. Jesus hides in parables. I am alive in man. I foretell the future, like Nostradamus. Jesus is lost to antiquity and to the feeble prayers of those who praise him. I host humanity. The world is my kingdom. Jesus lies beneath the stones and weeps. I walk among the clouds and laugh.” He came to me and took both my hands again. “Am I of God?” he asked me. “Or is God of me? Did I need the challenge of God’s eternal goodness to amuse me for eternity, or was I created to amuse God?”

  With that, he took my head and pressed it against his testicles so that I felt them forced against my mouth. He pressed me hard against him until I ached from it. I heard him laugh as he continued to press, and the organ grew from behind the priest’s robe as he continued to force my face between his legs.

  “Behold, Annabel,” he whispered. “God’s creation or mine?”

  * * * *

  In a flash, he was gone. I sat, unable to move for several minutes, and then, just as I was able to lift myself from the floor, I heard the front door slam. Meredith Mae called out my name.

  “Grandmamma!” I could hear the distress in it.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked her as she flew into the room.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I even went to Catherine’s. She said you left there by eleven.”

  “I spoke to Silas, and then I sat by the old square near the jail,” I told her. “You’ve been crying. What is it?”

  “Emie is gone. She went to Philippe and Papa. I tried to pass through with her, but she forbade it and insisted I stay here with you.”

  My heart sank. I had hoped we would all be able to pass into the dimension that held my son and Philippe, but I also knew how concerned she was about her brother’s wound.

  “Do not worry,” I whispered. “She will return them to us safely. I am glad she was finally able to move through.”

  I kept my arm around Meredith Mae. The devil’s presence seemed to linger about us, like must after a long rainy season.

  “I have had a visitor from hell,” I told her.

  “Urbain?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” she looked up at me sadly, “you are about to witness yet another demon. It is Thursday evening. Malcolm always visits his father on Thursday evenings. You probably should keep up the tradition or the old man will just come here looking for you.”

  “Perhaps he can shed some light on William’s murder,” I told her. “I’ll leave promptly.”

  As I stood to gather my things I heard the devil’s laughter reverberate in the angry thrusts of the wind as it threatened a late summer storm. But it was not low and manly laughter as it had been in the library. What I heard was a maniacal, staccato giddiness that followed me through the streets of Brooklyn like an evil child in pursuit of a weaker one. I pulled my hat down over my eyes as the sky opened. I barely made it to Ebenezer’s door before the rain raged in a thunderous outburst and fell about me like a sword from the ancient god Zeus, demanding reverence.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  No one answered my knock as I stood huddled under a partition in front of Ebenezer’s house on Willow Street. The rain continued to saturate my suit as I rapped upon the door. I feared the lightning would certainly strike me from behind as it shattered the night with an uncanny repetition. I was just about to investigate whether or not there was a rear door to try when Beth Ann suddenly called to me. I was startled to see her, for it was Ebenezer I had expected.

  “Father, what happened to your key?”

  I hurried inside and immediately took off my hat, which had been thoroughly drenched. She took it from me and shook it furiously. I watched as the rainwater fell to the floor and lay on the wet wood, causing tiny puddles around her feet.

  “I will get you some hot tea. Meanwhile, give me your coat. We’ll hang it in the back to dry.”

  I got out of my coat and looked for the old man.

  “Leave your shoes here, and I’ll bring you a pair of Papa’s slippers,” she said as she left the room. I noticed she spoke very quickly and her eyes darted all over, never resting anywhere.

  “Thank you, daughter,” I said and walked into a large parlor after removing my shoes. I assumed Ebenezer was somewhere in the house, for certainly he would not be out in this horrid storm.

  The parlor was dark and the drapes were drawn against the city street. I had an uncomfortable feeling as I stood looking at the room, as though I were seeing something cast aside, something once precious to someone but no longer valuable. The lamps were lit low, but I was still able to notice how terribly untidy the room was. There were papers thrown all over the floor and used pipes were left on tables that had not been cleaned. The ashtrays still held tobacco, and some of the chairs had torn threads in the faded fabric.

  I walked to the fireplace and stared at a large oil painting of two small girls. The children in the painting appeared wick
edly and sadly mature. It unnerved me to look at them. There was something salacious about the entire environment that thoroughly disgusted me.

  I was still staring at the painting when Beth Ann appeared with my tea and the slippers. She handed me the cup and then sat before me to put the slippers on my feet. I noticed she caressed my legs a moment before sliding on the soft leather shoes that had to be worked a bit to fit Malcolm’s extra-large foot. She sat across from me and continued to move her eyes quickly, as though she were searching for something.

  Finally, I spoke. “How are you this evening, daughter?”

  “Proper, Father. Very proper.”

  She spoke so quickly that I barely understood her.

  “And Rachel?” I inquired. “How is Rachel?”

  “Also proper, Father. Rachel is a proper girl.”

  I noticed that I myself was picking up her speed as I asked her where the child was.

  It was then she giggled. “She’s a good girl, you know. A very good girl.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. I realized she did not answer my question directly so I asked her where “Papa” was. She giggled again. “A very proper man,” she said, “Papa is.”

  Oh dear; the girl is quite deranged.

  I sighed deeply and sat back in my chair. I noticed the dust that flew about me as I positioned my body against the cushions.

  “You look different, Father,” she said to me.

  “Oh yes. My beard. I have shaved it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tell me, Beth Ann,” I began. I wanted to see if I could, at least, get some information out of her. “Were you ever asked to identify Meredith Mae for that attorney Catherine hired?”

  “Of course,” she whispered as she leaned down and began to pick up tiny debris from the rug. I could not exactly tell what it was she had found to extricate.

  “And you could not identify her?” I continued.

  “Of course not,” she said as she continued to pick at the debris. She had positioned herself so far over the rug that I could not see her face.

  “Tell me dear, where is your husband?”

  By this time I was quite concerned that a woman who appeared this incompetent was bringing up a child. She raised her head to look at me, but said nothing.

  “Your husband, dear girl. Where is he?”

  Her eyes kept darting all over the room and never met my own. It is difficult to explain, but I knew she was staring directly at me, from her perspective, even though her eyes never ceased their movement. I remained silent for several moments, awaiting her answer, but she only continued to sit and move her eyes about.

  I stood quickly. I burned with a fever that I was sure had scorched my flesh but I did not know what had caused it. What in God’s name is the matter with me? I felt so dizzy I thought I might fall. From a great distance I heard the devil’s laughter, like the annoying hum of a ubiquitous fly, and in a flash, Ebenezer stood before me as if he had been flown in from some unknown destination.

  “Malcolm, my boy. What has kept you?”

  I stared at the old man though I wanted to knock him down. He was as thin as a twig, and his scalp was pink and covered with large brown marks and wisps of thin white hair. His chin hung like a chicken’s gullet and his teeth were as brown as the used tobacco in the unwashed ashtrays.

  “Father,” I said. “I was held up with some business at hand. My apologies.”

  He laughed as he winked at me and walked slowly to a chair. “Ah, well, you are here now,” he said, as he used his cane to help drop his body into the torn and once regal button-back chair. Once he was seated he turned to smile at me. “What business at hand has you so busy, boy?”

  “I am trying to clear Silas’s name. I do not believe he killed his father,” I told him as I stared into his eyes. He was breathing very heavily and he kept placing his tongue under his lip and moving it as though he were utilizing it as a toothpick.

  “What do you care whether or not Silas killed his father?” he asked, as he stared now at Beth Ann, who still continued to pick tiny pieces of debris from the rug. I noticed she put the debris into the palm of her other hand, though I saw not one speck of anything there.

  “An innocent man is in prison. Haven’t I some responsibility for that?”

  He laughed and I could swear I heard his bones rattle. “No, I don’t believe you do,” he said.

  “What do you know of the murder, Father?”

  I leaned forward now in the dusty old chair and held my hands together in front of me. The old man raised his eyes to the ceiling a bit and then closed them as he spoke.

  “Crazy family you married into, boy. That wife of yours can trace her line right back to them Salem witches.”

  “What has Maebelle’s family to do with any of this?” I asked.

  He opened his eyes and looked at me, eyes shadowed by mountains of skin and haunted like the blood eyes of a slaughtered calf.

  “Well, I always thought it was funny when that girl of Maebelle’s came home, after all them years, and proclaimed herself as Patience’s granddaughter. Well, we knew she was telling the truth, but be damned if we’d let on to that, hey boy?” He laughed and slapped his leg. “She was still the same little pretty thing she was when she left.”

  “So you wouldn’t identify her?” I asked, sitting up further in my chair until I was almost at the edge.

  “Hell, no. What’s the matter with you, boy?” He leaned his head back and closed those awful eyes. “Yes, pretty thing she was. Ah, pretty, pretty little thing. We tried to get our hands on that one, hey son?”

  When I didn’t answer he turned to me and smiled.

  “Well, got ya that house and all that money, didn’t it, son?”

  I lowered my eyes and stared at the tip of the old man’s shoe.

  “Nice house up there by the river, hey, boy? Strange though, the way that priest came in and redid it right before you got it, lucky thing for you. Damn place looks like a museum. Must be worth a fortune.”

  I swallowed so hard I almost choked. “What?” I exclaimed. “Father Jacques? Why would he redo my house?”

  “What are you all excited for now? You got it, didn’t you? What do you care?”

  I wondered why neither Emie nor Meredith Mae had mentioned that it was Father Jacques who had decorated the house in my absence.

  “When did Father Jacque refurbish the house?” I asked the old man as he looked at me quizzically.

  “What’s the matter with your memory, boy, and where the hell’s that beard of yours?”

  “Look, Father. This is important. When did the priest restore my house?”

  “Right after Meredith Mae came back. Before that, there was some servant girl living there and she wouldn’t let the priest touch it. Then, when Patience’s granddaughter returned, Father Jacques talked her into restoring it. Told her it had once belonged to his grandfather, or some bull crap like that. Anyway, the girl thought the place was tired and agreed to it. Damn priest has money. They say he don’t honor his vows, you know.” Ebenezer laughed. “Those priests must want it bad, eh?”

  I sank back into the chair and held my face in my hands.

  “Child is waiting for you, boy,” I heard him say.

  “Who do you think killed William Davenport, Father?”

  “Ask that slick little French boy. The one that’s got Catherine lifting her skirts.” He leaned forward on his cane and smiled so broadly that I could see every rotten tooth in his mouth.

  “Or better yet, ask Catherine.” He laughed loudly and used his cane to position himself comfortably. “Go on to the girl, Malcolm, before she falls asleep.”

  I walked to Beth Ann so that I stood between her and the old man.

  “Where is the child?” I asked her.

  She didn’t answer me, but I followed her eyes up the stairs and surmised that Rachel was in one of the upstairs rooms.

  Suddenly, I understood what Maebelle had meant by contrition. I leaned in close to
her face and whispered, “God forgive you.”

  I climbed up the stairs and called out Rachel’s name. I walked down the hall and looked in the tiny bedrooms but it wasn’t until I got to the far room that I found her.

  She lay in a large bed with crumpled, dirty sheets that smelled like the old man’s breath. The girl was not crying, but she held her fists tight on the sheets and looked past me.

  “Rachel?” I whispered.

  She did not answer me. I came and sat at the edge of the bed. I felt her body stiffen, but still she did not look at me.

  I reached to take her hand and it lay listless in mine. I brought my hand to her face and tenderly brushed her long, dark hair aside and stroked the tiny cheeks. I felt the tears form in my eyes. The child glared at me.

  I took her in my arms and felt her body go limp at my touch, as if she would not have cared if I had strangled the very life from her. I began to cry, as if my tears could choke this wretched Malcolm to death.

  “You’re safe now, little girl,” I told her. “There will be no more harm to you.”

  I picked the child up in my arms, but not before I wrapped her in a blanket I found in an open chest that reeked of nidorous fumes, as if charred by fire. I then took her downstairs. The old man and Beth Ann stood to their feet when they saw me.

  “Father, where are you taking her?” Beth Ann ran toward me.

  “Malcolm, what are you doing?” Ebenezer asked as he tottered at the end of his cane.

  I walked to Beth Ann. It was not pity I felt, and yet I knew that pity would have been entirely appropriate.

  “You bring your own daughter here to be raped by this vermin?” I said to her as I turned to Ebenezer.

  “Watch your mouth, boy.” Ebenezer raised his cane and I realized he still had the strength of a much younger man.

  Beth Ann looked at me in that odd way of not looking at me. “Papa is a fine man. A fine and proper man,” she said. She began to pace back and forth. “Papa is a very fine man, a very fine man!” she screamed at me.

  I walked to the old man. “If you send the authorities for this child, I will break every bone in your body. I will snap off your limbs as if you were tonight’s dinner.”