“No,” I said and turned my face away.
“Ah, how handsome I am,” he said as he gazed at his image. “What a soul is this.”
“You are slime on the water’s edge.”
“Dribble, dribble, dribble, just like the dung from the tongue of your precious Jesus.”
“You hypocrite. You dare to wear the robes of God?”
“God? You speak of God? I alone know God. You know nothing but dribble, dribble, dribble.” He danced then. He moved about the room and waved his arms.
“Little Jesus born in a manger, three wise men, and a virgin birth, son of God? Ha! What son of God would perform miracles for the masses and not for himself? Turn wine into water for a measly little wedding and not for the whole of Israel? I turn flesh into spirit. Let Jesus top that.”
“Jesus was resurrected,” I said, despite the fact that I did not want to argue with him.
“Ha! Am I not resurrected, little Annabel?”
“Jesus revealed the truth to us. You reveal nothing but hell.”
“Jesus wanted you all to know the kingdom of God is now. I want you all to know that God has no kingdom.”
“Even you are in God’s kingdom, Urbain.”
“Your mind is dulled by the dung of foul authors. You think Noah had an ark? You think Adam had an Eve? You think Moses had commandments and Jesus came from God’s loins? Ha! Dribble, dribble, dribble.”
“Begone, beast!”
“You are a fool, like Jesus,” he shouted back and pointed his finger. “Follow me.”
“Never!” I hollered. I stared into his eyes.
“Hissssssssssssssssss.” He turned me around to face the mirror above the mantle.
I screamed out in horror. The bastard was right! I had no image in the glass.
The beast fell to his knees. “Hissssssssssssssssssss.”
“Where am I, you bastard?” I screamed. “Where the hell am I?”
He made the sign of the cross.
“Heaven,” he said.
“No!”
“Yes,” he answered. “Most assuredly. You are in heaven.”
It was then that Matthew entered the room.
“Matthew,” I cried and ran to him.
“Jeanne,” he called.
“Jeanne?” I said. “No, Matthew. It is I, your mother.”
“Jeanne,” he called again.
I noticed the beast was on his knees. He appeared to be praying.
Then I saw her. The same Jeanne Elemont that I had seen in the church with Ursula.
“Matthew,” she said as she came swiftly toward him and took the cape from her head.
I watched in horror as he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Are we alone?” she asked.
“Matthew!” I screamed. “Matthew, where is Elizabeth? Matthew, please, why can’t you see me?”
Just then the bastard lifted his head.
“You are in heaven, little Annabel. Sweet, sweet heaven, with that bitch of an aunt of yours and that idiot Elizabeth.”
“We have at least two hours before they return,” Matthew said quietly as he continued to kiss her.
“Oh, this is getting good,” Urbain laughed as he stood.
I watched in horror as my son began to tear the clothes from that wretched woman.
“Come, Annabel. Relieve me,” Urbain called as he fell to his knees and ripped the collar from his neck. “Your son has aroused my passion.”
I ran to Matthew and tried to force him from the woman he now embraced but he could not see me or feel my presence.
“Oh Annabel,” the beast cried. “It is time to make another baby.”
I turned back to look at him, and to my horror the beast had removed all his clothes. I put my hand over my eyes and ran from the room but he followed me up the stairs. I found myself weeping profusely as I ran into the library and hid behind the drapes.
“Annabel,” I heard him say as he tore the drapes from their hooks. “Look, Annabel. Look what ascends for you.”
He reached for me with one hand and threw me to the floor. I saw the beast for only a moment, his foul, wretched body now naked, the rigid phallus crudely commanding. Then he covered my flesh with his own and the world went to darkness. I felt him moving over me. I felt his wretched organ force its way inside me. I heard the bastard moan. I screamed, but no one ran to my aid.
“Shut up,” he said.
“No!” I called out. “You are weak.”
Suddenly, he stopped moving and stared at me.
“What?”
“You are afraid to love me, bastard,” I screamed.
“Don’t flatter yourself, dear Annabel. Love is God’s weapon, not mine.”
“Get off me, coward.”
“Look, Annabel.” He grinned and held a long silver blade before my eyes. I felt myself spin, as if I would never stop. I heard the beast cry out to Satan as he brought the knife to my cheek. Something warm and dark ran down my face. There was a foul smell. I felt myself falling into something I could not control. “Here is proof of my love, proof of my power.”
I cried as I felt the blade cut me.
“Go back to your pansy,” I heard him say. “His seed has filled your belly with a little black bastard. Go in darkness, bitch!”
I felt the devil’s phallus leave me, and I tasted blood. I screamed out. So quickly my soul seemed to snap in two. I tried to open my eyes. I struggled to open them. I could not tell where I was but I felt the comfort of a man’s arms around me. I struggled to free myself, yet the enclosure no longer offended me. Finally, I realized that the darkness had begun to lift and the man above me, making love to me, was not Urbain. His hair was dark, not blond, his touch tender, not rough, his voice sweet and reassuring. I could not control the scream that fell from my lips.
“Annabel,” he said at last. “I love you.”
“Michele?” I cried when my passion ceased.
He left the bed and went for the light.
“And who did you think it was?”
I struggled for a moment to remember how I had wound up in his bed.
“The doctor said there would be lapses.” He looked at me. “Are you having one now?”
“What doctor?” I asked.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“What is it?” I screamed.
“Your face, your cheek is bleeding!”
He ran for a tissue and came to my side. When he wiped the blood away I noticed that his hand was shaking.
“Did I do that to you?” he asked. “Look, I don’t have any nails.”
I touched my face and tried to recall how I got such a nasty scratch.
“How long have I been here?”
“Been where?” he whispered.
“Here with you.”
“You don’t remember?”
“The last thing I remember was Elizabeth and I returning to Ann Peckham’s apartment and finding the dog with Ann’s parents. Is the dog here now? Is she all right? Beauty!” I called out.
Suddenly, the shepherd jumped on the bed and licked my face.
“Annabel,” he said. “Elizabeth vanished. We haven’t seen her for over a year. You don’t remember that?”
“Vanished?” I cried. “Vanished where?”
“The doctor said you’d go in and out of memory. I’m so sorry.” He put his arms around me and held me close.
“Where have I been?” I asked. “What has happened?”
“You don’t remember?” he asked again. “We were married last month. Oh boy, we shouldn’t have made love. Perhaps it was too intense this time. I’m so sorry.”
“Married?”
“Look at the ring you gave me last year. You told me it was in honor of our engagement. Do you remember that?”
I stared at the gold band, the beautiful square emerald. I shook my head.
“It is beautiful.” I said. “But I do not remember giving it to you.”
“What do you recall?” he asked
. “Do you recall anything of the last year?”
“Just coming here from Elizabeth’s apartment. You were missing. I was so worried.”
“You and Elizabeth disappeared for an entire weekend. That Sunday evening, after Elizabeth had regressed us back to Salem, you showed up at my door and asked me where on earth I’d disappeared to, and Elizabeth was never heard from again.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared,” he said. “Really disappeared. It was very sudden and unexpected. I went back to her apartment thinking that if you had returned from where ever you had been, then surely she would follow. But she never did, and it was as if she had never existed. No one had even heard of her. It was very bizarre.”
“Did she ever regress us in time?” I asked him. “I seem to remember some success.”
Michele laughed.
“Well, now I’m not so sure how real any of it was, but you and I both went into a trance, of some sort, and when I awoke from it I found myself back here at my apartment. It was almost like being drunk. I couldn’t remember how I got here. I watched from the window as the Peckhams drove up. I didn’t want to run into them so I brought the dog back over to Ann’s apartment. Then, I returned to Elizabeth’s place to find you, but you were both gone when I got there.”
“You mean you never disappeared?”
“No, I don’t think so, but perhaps…I’m not sure.”
“And then what?”
“You don’t remember anything?” he said.
“The last thing I remember is being here with Elizabeth and the Peckhams, and that horrible Jacques, just as I told you.”
“The Peckhams were killed in a car crash that evening,” he told me. “Their son, Bill, has been in touch with me. He keeps telling me that you’re nothing like the sister he knew, that you were really affected by the boating accident. You haven’t been the same since.”
“Good God!” I cried.
“What is it, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” he asked as he put his arms back around me.
“He put a curse on us all. Yes, I remember now. He cursed us all to hell. That is what killed the Peckhams.”
“I won’t have any more talk of devils and curses. We aren’t going to refer to anything metaphysical or paranormal again. Look, Annabel, we’ve been really, happy for the last year, but you’ve been in a delicate state. Now, with this relapse of yours, well, it’s a result of our continued interest in witchcraft. I don’t want to hear any more about witchcraft again, or anything even remotely related.”
“What happened to Elizabeth?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we look into that?”
“No!” he said. “I will not jeopardize your health, especially now. The doctor has advised against it. I should have listened to him. We’ve been careless. Your memory loss is a result of too much obsession on things that don’t matter.”
“And Jacques? What of him?” I asked.
“Who knows and who cares?” he said. “I’ve never seen him again.”
“But what about us? Are we going to be all right?” I nestled my face on his shoulder and held onto him tightly.
“I certainly hope so, Mrs. Guyon. You’re carrying my child.” He smiled.
“Your child?” I whispered with more joy than I have ever remembered feeling.
“Yes,” he said. “My child. Our child.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I lived a normal existence for quite some time after that evening. How fond I am of those years. Michele was deliciously romantic. He loved old music boxes, and I would find them under my pillow, or I would hear the faint echo of a Bavarian waltz, only to discover a beautifully carved box playing from my dresser. He haunted antique malls and would return time and again with the most delightful old dolls and fine porcelain dogs. He was particularly fond of little Scottish terriers and German shepherds. We would spend hours upstate, collecting old silver, obscure prints, and satin wood tables. He loved traveling to wineries and holding my hand in public. He gave me a birthday to celebrate and made up excuses that appeased my soul’s ambiguity. He eased my anxiety with a sense of balance and stability. I loved him deeply, irrefutably, and eternally.
We did not speak of the past and did not dwell on my own dichotomous image. I did not remember anything substantial about Annabel Horton and came to accept myself simply as Ann Arlin Peckham Guyon. I had no memory of Meredith Mae, or of my sweet Matthew, and I certainly remembered nothing of Ursula Boussidan. I had only a vague recollection of Elizabeth, but Michele avoided any reference to her so my memory faded rapidly. Since my near drowning in the Hudson River, Doctor Jameson Welty had become my trusted physician and insisted that Michele continue to keep me as far away as possible from anything metaphysical. Doctor Jim, as we came to call him, believed that an unnatural interest in the occult too often leads to mental illness, breakdowns, and even memory confusion. So, Michele insisted that we never refer to things of a paranormal nature again. My husband even gave up his own passionate interest in the occult to protect my well-being. Though it was known that I remembered nothing prior to my boating accident, Doctor Jim thought even hypnosis would be a mistake, and insisted that we let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak.
“She is very sensitive,” he told Michele. “Her memory will either return, or it will not. It is for the best that she does not remember her parents, for a while, at least. It takes the grief out of their tragic death until she’s ready to bear it.”
My brief encounter with the nineteenth century vanished from consciousness, and life essentially began for me the moment I awoke in a hospital bed in 1980 and met my beloved Michele. My son, Philippe, was born on a cold, white evening in January, in the year 1982. Two years later, on a lovely July morning, I gave birth to my daughter, Emily Elizabeth Guyon. Since her first year we have called her Emie, after Michele’s grandmother. I was enormously happy, aside from disturbing yearnings to return somewhere that I could not name, much less visualize. I explained away the yearnings as gaps in my memory that I could not fill. I accepted Ann Arlin Peckham’s history as my own, but I knew I had no connection to any twentieth-century childhood, or any parents named Gloria and Mark Peckham. Nonetheless, I claimed Ann’s identity as best I could.
Michele called me “Annabel” and told me it was a pet name. I accepted this. Michele insisted that I not be photographed, and I never questioned his request. I saw myself in the glass as Annabel Horton and I forgot that the world saw me as Ann Arlin Peckham Guyon, not the girl from Salem. I drifted even further away from whatever little memory I had when I first found myself in the twentieth century. Perhaps it was because I was happy and I accepted my life with Michele and the children as being as near to perfect as life could get.
I did have disturbing dreams, mostly about a tall blond man with an evil smile. Sometimes, in my dreams, I encountered my son, Matthew, but mistook him for Michele and did not understand why I would find myself so undeniably sad when I awoke. I complained constantly about my foggy sight because I did not remember my state of darkness. Of course, no doctor could help me. They would prescribe prescription glasses for me, and naturally, I found them useless. I kept complaining that my hearing was poor, though all my hearing tests would show perfect results. I assumed that my sense of taste was missing because of some genetic abnormality. I only ate food to keep my borrowed body alive, yet longed for the missing pleasure of taste that seemed to have the effect of a drug on others. The children often made fun of my cooking and my tin ear, and they referred to me often as “Mrs. Magoo.” But mostly, I appeared as solid a form of flesh and blood as anyone else.
Michele and I raised our children Catholic, for that was the religion of my husband’s family. We were active participants at St. Paul The Apostle, a small Catholic church not far from our new apartment on Morton Street, in Greenwich Village. I was not a religious woman, but I believed unflinchingly in God. I accepted the concept of heaven and hell and knew without question that Jesus had profound vision and was born from the
virgin birth. I turned my back completely on the nemesis, Lucifer. There was only sin and redemption. Evil was an action, not a disciple of the devil that walked the earth and tormented witches with the magic to confront him. I believed that I was serving God, but I could not put words to this knowledge. If Urbain Grandier returned to me during these years, I did not recognize him.
My son, Philippe, was dark-skinned, and Michele said he took after his grandmother, but he had my cleft in his chin and his cheekbones were high. He excelled in school. His passion was history, like his father. When he was a child, he often spoke to me of having a brother, a brother he had visited in his dreams. I laughed and told Michele how cute our son was to harbor such imagination. Once, when Philippe was only twelve years old, he came to my side and stood by the mirror.
“Do you know you are a witch, mother?” he said to the image in the glass.
I laughed so loudly the tears fell from my eyes.
“And what makes you think this, Philippe?”
“Your soul is incarnate,” he said. “You are without your own body.”
I looked into his eyes, but said nothing. He put his arms around me and hugged me tightly.
“I will protect you,” he said before running from the room. “Always.”
A shiver went through me, but I let it pass. When I mentioned to Michele what the boy had said he sat on the edge of our bed and looked away.
“The boy has quite an imagination,” he told me. “I’ll speak to him about it.”
“No, Michele. Imagination leads us to God.”
“No! I will not have you bothered with nonsense of that sort. You are too sensitive for it. It is because of my obsession with past life regressions that you lost an entire year of our life together,” he said.
It was true that I never remembered my marriage to Michele, nor the events leading up to that night I found myself in his bed. This hole in my memory caused him much distress. The time between my seeing Jacques in Ann Peckham’s apartment, and finding myself as Mrs. Michele Philippe Guyon, was a very vague and dark slate on which, unfortunately, nothing was written.
Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem Page 28