Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  * * * *

  But alas, it was not my destiny to live out my final years in this century, happily ensconced in our house with my beloved husband. No, my days as Ann Arlin Peckham Guyon, in the early twenty-first century, were sadly limited. I would eventually return to this dimension to record my tale and to live out my life in a form other than Ann’s. But first, let me tell you how poor Ann’s death came about.

  It was after Michele and I bought the house on Montague Street from the church that owned it in 2001 that Annabel Horton’s magic would be called upon once more. But, you must know by now that after is a term I use to appease your anxiety. It has definition in your language, but it does not really exist, not anymore than a word such as before. These words do not describe anything at all useful beyond the stasis of vocabulary.

  Remember this: that which was, is—and that which will be, has been.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  After several successful publications and years of tenure at New York University, Michele was offered an excellent position as Dean of American and European History at a small Catholic college in Brooklyn Heights. The college offered to subsidize most of the cost of a beautiful old house on Montague Street, not far from Saint Francis College. We learned that the house was built in the early 1800s and poorly modernized in the early 1900s and then restored to its original form around 1910. The last owner died in the house and left it in a will to Our Lady of Fatima Church. The church rented out the house for a number of years until the cost of repairs became too burdensome. So, it went up for sale in the year 2000. It remained on the market for one year, until Michele and Philippe saw it and fell desperately in love with it.

  “There’s something about the house,” Michele told me. “It beckons me as you do, dear woman. It has cast its spell upon me, just as you have,” he said as he kissed me.

  I laughed, because I knew that if Michele and Philippe loved it, then Emie and I would have a terribly hard time convincing them otherwise.

  “I hope we fall prey to its magic, as well,” I told her.

  * * * *

  And I shall never forget the morning I saw the house on Montague Street; it was in the dimension of time and space known to you as the chronological year 2001. Of course, I had no memory of ever seeing it before, nor did I have memory of ever being in the borough of Brooklyn, but while driving over the bridge that separated the two boroughs, I experienced an overwhelming sensation of fear.

  “I do not wish to live here,” I said suddenly. “Something is frightening me.”

  Michele gave me a concerned glance. It was late spring and my children were now between semesters, and were spending the hiatus with us in the city. Philippe put his arms on my shoulders from the rear seat of our car.

  “Wait till you see this house, Mother. Am I right, Father, won’t she change her mind then?”

  Michele reached for my hand.

  “It’s a beautiful house, Annabel, and the streets are lined with nothing but trees and lovely old nineteenth-century brownstones, but they are young compared to this one.”

  I looked out the window. The closer we came to Montague Street the more my anxiety gathered. Finally, Michele stopped the car in front of the tired, old house. I turned and stared in disbelief. It seemed to contain my history, familiar and mesmerizing in its knowledge of my soul. Someone had painted the glory of its columns yellow, and it looked a bit rundown, but it was certainly whispering its secrets to me like the shadow of prophets at my lips.

  “What do you think?” Michele asked as I stepped out of the car.

  “Take me inside,” I whispered. “It speaks to me.”

  “It is out of proportion with the others,” Emie cried. “It looks haunted.”

  “That is because it is indeed very old, my little wizard, and needs our loving touch,” Michele told her as we all ran to the door.

  * * * *

  Houses have whispers. You can hear them from the corners of rooms as you walk too swiftly by, and notice, too casually, that it is not your laughter that lingers in the echo of some indiscernible word. Houses have spirits you can feel in the night, movement passed off as creaks in the floorboards. Houses are built, as churches are built, sacred and coveted. People always say it. Houses are haunted. Yes, that it so, but it is not by ghosts from any past who linger there. Houses are haunted by time, and time is but a chamber that echoes the soul’s eternal presence.

  I loved the house the moment I stepped foot inside of it. The initial fear I had felt crossing the Brooklyn Bridge vanished, and I felt that I was home. I knew that I belonged in the unusually large, appointed rooms, and I was comforted by something melancholic in the old grandeur. My children giggled, the way they used to when they were toddlers, and they playfully ran through the open doors and up and down the stairs. My husband walked slowly around, touching the walls as if he might claim them forever, caressing the wood and the banister, and the sills of the windows in the same way he has put his hands upon my face and stroked me before a kiss.

  We gave the church our offer that afternoon and we moved in within a few months. Despite the fact that the evenings were warm, I noticed a mild chill throughout the house, but then, rather quickly, the chill would pass. I attributed this dampness to years of vacancy. But I could not find excuses for the chambers, areas in space that are vulnerable to other dimensions. Many houses contain them, and this one certainly did. I often saw shadows when I glanced through. I found my children staring into them, even coming out of them and disappearing back in. I avoided comment, simply because Michele wished to pretend that they did not exist.

  However, we were both aware that the library, which was particularly beautiful, seemed to be the most haunted of all the rooms. I always avoided it. Michele insisted on working there even though he often retired from the room in a foul and nasty mood. Still, we never spoke of the house’s magic, and if my children were inspired by the ominous possibility of the chambers, and were practicing their craft in that house, I was unaware of it.

  Philippe was staying with us that summer before returning to Connecticut College in the fall, and Emie was enrolled at Columbia University and lived at home. It was a wonderful summer. We were all having a grand time plastering the walls and tearing down old wallpaper. We had a big backyard, and I spent a great deal of time there planting flowers and sitting under a glorious old oak tree that provided such ample shade from the sun. I did not understand, at the time, why Emie and Philippe spent so many hours inside the house, when the weather was so delightful in the yard, but then again, there was so much to do inside, so much renovation to keep them busy, and my children had always been unusual. I never knew what to expect from them.

  * * * *

  Emie and Philippe had always preferred their own company and had very few friends outside the family, so I thought it very unusual when I heard a strange voice coming from Philippe’s room one day, one that I did not recognize. I stood at my son’s door and listened intently to see if I could make out whom he was speaking with. The voice that I heard did not seem familiar to me. I knocked on the door and waited for him to let me in. I felt that if he had brought a friend to his room then I should have at least been introduced. I was shocked to find him alone.

  “Philippe,” I said. “Whom on earth were you speaking to?”

  “Mother, you must return.”

  “Return where?” I asked and noticed the seriousness of his expression.

  “Father says I shouldn’t speak to you about this. He says it’s nonsense, but I know differently. Father is not confronting the truth.”

  I stared at him, confused that my grown son had been talking to himself.

  “Philippe, I am going to insist that you tell me exactly what is going on.” I went and took his hands in mine. “Whom were you speaking to just now?”

  “Matthew,” he told me. “When I walk through the chamber I can speak with him.”

  “Matthew?” I said. “Who is Matthew?”

  �
��That’s not important at the moment, Mother. It’s what he tells me that’s important.”

  “What does he tell you?” I asked.

  “That you are a witch with great power, that we are all witches,” Philippe blurted out and held my hands tightly. “He wanted to come through to you, but I told him you might be harmed by it, that your memory was damaged and Father would be furious.”

  “What poppycock.” I laughed.

  “Urbain Grandier is your nemesis, Mother. Do you know the name?” he asked.

  I looked at him in astonishment. Then I put my arms around him and held him close to me.

  “Where did you get this nonsense?”

  “I told you, from Matthew,” he said.

  I tried to soothe him, but he broke from my embrace.

  “He put a curse on you for being related to Claudette Moreau. It was she who turned him in to Cardinal Richelieu in 1634. Urbain was a priest who turned on God and raped the nuns of the Huguenot St. Pierre du March Church.”

  “Philippe, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “This house has another time, Mother. I have traveled through to another dimension. Come, you can see through time as well.”

  With that he stood up and took my hand and began to lead me through the chamber.

  “No!” I screamed. “No, Philippe I will not go there.”

  He studied my expression before he spoke. “Emie and I…” he broke off, yet held my eyes. “We have a gift, Mother. We have always known it.”

  I said nothing. Finally, he took my hand again and began to lead me out of his room.

  “Philippe, where are you taking me?”

  “Come, Mother. Please,” he said and pulled me down the hall. “Emie has been trying to connect to Elizabeth. She always has great success in the library. If you will not walk through the chamber, listen then to your own daughter.”

  “Elizabeth?” I said. “We have never mentioned Elizabeth to you. How do you know about her?”

  “She came to us in Emie’s trance,” he said.

  The door of the library was closed when we got there. I did not wish to enter, but Philippe was insistent. Whenever I researched for Michele I avoided the room, despite its beauty, and worked instead from my own sitting room, a small sunny place beyond our bedroom.

  “I do not like that room, Philippe. Must I go there?”

  I stopped before it and put my hands over my heart.

  “Emie is there, Mother. Please come, I think she is in a successful trance,” he told me and opened the door.

  “What?” I cried as I rushed in and ran to my daughter’s side. My little girl was lying on the rug, on her back, humming like a hungry bird.

  “Good God, Emie. What are you doing?” I demanded as I sat beside her.

  Philippe grabbed my arm. “No, Mother. Don’t startle her. Just listen.”

  “Annie? Annie?”

  The voice coming from my daughter’s throat was clearly not her own and sounded very small, like a child’s.

  “My God,” I said as I stared at her.

  “Elizabeth is here,” the voice droned like some dead spirit.

  “Elizabeth?” I cried out.

  “Danger.”

  “Elizabeth?” I said again and rubbed my temples. “I remember you. Where are you?” I asked. “Please do not hurt my daughter.”

  Philippe sat beside me and held my hand. “It’s all right, Mother,” he insisted.

  “1857. Remember?” the voice asked, while Emie appeared perfectly safe, and in a very deep sleep.

  “No.” I said. “I only remember that you vanished. I wound up back with Michele but you were gone,” I said quickly, fearing now that the voice would somehow disappear, and though I was frightened for my daughter, I did not want to lose it.

  “Murder.”

  I sat back. “Murder? What do you say?” I asked.

  “Enemies,” the voice said.

  “Enemies?” I whispered and held onto Philippe.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What enemies?”

  The voice sighed. “Have you memory?”

  I shook my head as if she could see me.

  “No,” I said finally.

  “Two years have passed here,” the voice uttered in a barely audible whisper.

  “Elizabeth, where are you?” I asked.

  “In small form.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come,” she said. “I need you.”

  “Where must I come? I do not understand.” I began crying.

  “1859.”

  “1859?”

  “Yes.”

  “I cannot travel in time.”

  “Annabel Horton, lost witch,” the voice uttered.

  “No!” I screamed.

  “I will help you,” Philippe said.

  “I cannot!” I screamed again.

  “Please, Mother. My brother, Matthew, is in danger.” Philippe hugged me close.

  “Try,” the voice was very low, as if it were losing power.

  “My son is a witch?” I said. “Answer me, Elizabeth. Answer me!”

  But before I realized it, Emie sat up and looked at me.

  “Good God, Emie. What is going on?” I asked, still horrified.

  “Mother,” she said. “You must return. Matthew will be murdered. Elizabeth is trying to save him. He will listen to no one but you.”

  Oddly enough, I laughed. “Have her tell this Matthew to save himself,” I said as I looked at Philippe. “Send Elizabeth to him.”

  “I can’t, Mother,” he said. “Elizabeth cannot help him now. You are the only one who can save him.”

  “This is preposterous.”

  “Mother, please. You must trust us,” Emie whispered as she took my hand and pulled me toward the chamber, for the library contained the most actively visible pull of gravity in the house.

  “Matthew has told me that you cannot pass through the dimensions of space without giving up the body you are in because you are incarnate, not real flesh and blood. So, we must walk through the chamber, Mother,” Philippe said to me as he took my hand. “It may work for you as it does for us.”

  “No!”

  “But you cannot pass through time without dying. Matthew has told me that,” Philippe said. “The chambers may allow you to.”

  “I will not walk through the chamber,” I told him.

  “All right then, let’s try a trance. Perhaps that will work.” He looked at me and sought my eyes, pleading with me to trust him.

  “Philippe, I cannot move without memory,” I whispered, praying that Michele would not return early and find his family tempting the occult.

  “I will help,” a voice suddenly said from the shadows.

  “Good God,” I whispered. “Who is that?”

  My son stared at the stranger.

  “Urbain,” Philippe uttered.

  The demon laughed.

  “Why, I thought I had just blinked since I saw you last,” he said to me.

  “We don’t need you.” Philippe stood and glared at the shadow he cast on the floor.

  “Oh, but I think you do,” the bastard sneered.

  “Begone, beast!” Emie suddenly stood up. “Return to hell and taunt the noxious souls that worship you there.”

  The demon laughed loudly. Then, he came and stood before us. His yellow-white hair fell into his eyes, and his shadow moved across the floor and held us in its somber grasp.

  “Like mother, like daughter, I see.”

  Philippe touched my forehead and asked me not to look the devil in the eyes. Emie stood by my side.

  “He is not really here,” they whispered. “He cannot be.”

  “You cannot move her body.” Urbain grinned. “You cannot move the corpse she covets. Would you send her without flesh to kill again?”

  I could see that he wore a priest’s robe, though he still remained in shadow. A foul smell came from where he stood.

  “Don’t look at him, Mot
her,” Philippe whispered.

  “He has a knife,” Emie said.

  I heard his laughter. It was so shrill it hurt my ears.

  “I am lord,” he said.

  “Ha! Lord of what?” Emie screamed.

  “No!” Philippe said sharply. “Do not speak to him.”

  “You are pathetic.” The devil laughed. “Bone and ash. Smoke and fire. Who said it? Shakespeare? Your soul tells an idiot’s tale of sound and fury, signifying, in the final analysis, nothing but your mindless passion. God is nothing. That’s the cruel joke of it, isn’t it? Your God is an empty word, a white canvass, a burp on the universe.”

  “Go to hell,” Philippe said.

  “Maggot.” Urbain’s shadow moved about the room, his foul odor filling the air and causing me to choke. The blade gleamed in his hand.

  “You need my help, little ninnies that you are. Only death moves the soul. Only life can move the flesh. She is without flesh. She is…how shall I say it? A phantom, an apparition, a doppelganger.”

  “You moved her flesh once. Matthew told me that you did.” Philippe said.

  The demon stepped out of the shadows and put his foul face right up to Philippe’s. I could see the lines around his eyes.

  “Listen to me, you idiot. I moved that which does not exist, not that which does.”

  My son stood tall and stared back at him.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I turned the hourglass over. I moved the clock ahead. I fumbled with the brilliant notion that time is precise and reality is that which you know, not that which you are too stupid to comprehend.”

  With that he knelt and pulled me down to him. He grabbed my hair and held the blade before me.

  “You want motion, bitch?” He grinned. “Unfinished business.”

  “Jesus, protect her,” my son cried out just as the bastard shoved him aside and brought the blade slowly to my chest and pressed it toward my borrowed heart. I heard my children screaming. It was the last thing I heard before the breath blew out of me, and I felt a mighty lunge, as if I’d been shot from a canyon. The bastard’s laughter followed me. I felt a sharp pain. In my mouth there was blood. Somewhere, I felt pain again, terrible pain. I tried to move, but I was too much like stone. I felt despair so deep I thought I might drown in the pull of it, but then, it passed and lightness returned.