Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  “I want answers.”

  “I have none.”

  “I am without form.”

  “Have you found your soul?”

  “My children? My husband? Where are they?”

  Now it was his turn to sigh.

  “Time holds them.”

  “How do they fare there?”

  “They fare there.”

  “I must go.”

  “Wait!”

  I turned and watched as his shadow moved across the floor.

  “But I must take form.”

  “Find her!”

  “Find who?” I asked and stared at his face. His features were sharp and well pronounced. I could see the line of his nose, the glow from his eyes.

  “Claudette Moreau,” he whispered. “It is your destiny.”

  “Who is Claudette Moreau?”

  “Find her.”

  “Where shall I look?”

  “In the devil’s heart.”

  “You know Urbain?”

  He smiled and walked away.

  “Wait! I do not know where to go.”

  He snapped his fingers, and I heard the sound of nails on the wood. In an instant, she stood before me; her sad brown eyes smiled up at me; her tongue hung out so pink against the white mouth, and her saliva made a puddle on the floor.

  “Beauty,” I laughed. “How did you get my dog?”

  “She is her dog,” he said. “Her name is Annascha, not Beauty.”

  “Annascha? What does that mean?”

  “Anything.”

  “She disappeared one day. We never found her; how the children wept. How did you get her?”

  “I took her back. I made a mistake. I thought I had found Claudette. She was so similar, so like Claudette, but you see, when I return I become confused.”

  “You were the one that gave the dog to Ann Peckham?”

  “She is looking for her mistress. Perhaps she will guide you to her. Once you have found Claudette Moreau, Annascha will be happy. But then, I will be alone.”

  I looked at Annascha and put my arms around her. The dog licked the air I consumed, and I laughed.

  “She will take me to Claudette?”

  “I think so.”

  “She is a magician?” I laughed.

  “No.” He smiled. “She is a dog.”

  I reached out my hand to stroke her but I had no form to follow through with.

  “I must take a body.”

  “Do not kill.”

  “I kill only evil.”

  He glared at me, and I could see his hand reach out for the space I claimed. I feared for a moment that he was going to banish me.

  “I kill only evil.”

  But the man did not respond. He disappeared, and though I called out he did not answer. I searched the church but could not find him. Only the dog followed behind me.

  “Hey!” I called. “Come back to me.”

  I ran up and down the pews looking for him. The dog ran behind me and barked.

  “Hey!” I screamed.

  Out of the quiet and serenity of the church I heard a door slam. I stood very still. Footsteps followed. A form appeared. Annascha did not recognize the scent and began to growl.

  I felt a heart beating in my chest.

  “Oh my God.”

  I held my hand before my eyes and saw flesh.

  “Oh my God. He has given me form.”

  I looked quickly to the dog and then to the altar. A priest stood there staring at me.

  “Can I help you?” he asked as he walked toward me. “Is that a dog? There are no dogs allowed inside the church.”

  I stood silent. I could not speak. How on earth did I get form?

  “Father?”

  “Good God!”

  “Father? Are you all right?” The priest reached out tentatively and touched my shoulder. Annascha continued to growl and he jumped back.

  “It is all right, Annascha,” I said.

  “You look weak,” the priest whispered as if speaking louder might cause me to fall.

  I held my hand before my eyes. I touched my beard. I picked up the scent of musk from my cloak.

  “Oh my God.”

  “What is it?”

  He had given me his form. I wore his cloak. I carried his scent. The beard I now stroked had been the very beard I had seen on his face. He had given me his form, and I had only known him as an angel. Of course, it could not be. He could not have really been an angel.

  “What is your name? Who are you?”

  I stared into his eyes.

  “Aaah. Julian, Father,” I told him. “Julian Rouvrey.” The name slipped off my tongue easily.

  “Ah, French,” he uttered as he took my arm and sat me down. “You are a curate? You wear a robe.”

  “Yes. I am a curate,” I told him. I noticed that I spoke with a French dialect.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “At the Huguenot St. Pierre-du-March Church,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “Huguenot St. Pierre-du-March?”

  “Yes, Father.” I nodded as I put my head in my hands and rubbed my temple. I was saying whatever popped into my head. “I am a priest from Loudon, but I do not recall how I wound up here. I must have fallen and bumped my head. I cannot seem to remember anything. Can you tell me where I am?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  I looked up quickly.

  “Brooklyn?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “What year is it, Father?”

  “It is Christmas Day. We have just finished our Mass.”

  “What year, Father?”

  “1896.”

  “My God.” I sighed and fell back.

  “What is it, my good man? What is wrong?”

  “1896? Oh God, I am too late; they could all be dead. Yes, surely thirty-seven years have passed. They must all be dead.”

  “What’s that you say, Father? What is it? Who must all be dead?”

  But I could not answer him; sobs tore through my chest, and I could not speak.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Father Terrence Donovan gave me a room at the rectory and had Annascha taken to the basement. For three days he held my head in his hands and fed me. When I awoke from my despair, I saw him sitting there in prayer. When I screamed out in pain, he rocked me in his arms and told me that I was a child of God. I wanted to die and the old priest knew it. I wanted all the illusions of heaven to be real and to sweep me up in the sweetness of angels with harps. I wanted death to be peaceful, and the murky white light to reveal the eternal spirit of my children. I cursed the truth and whispered the lies in my sleep. The heart in my chest ached, and my soul carried the tedium of despair like a bird carries a torn wing. It was not until I had the dream that I relented and squeezed the priest’s hand. Oh, how I welcomed the dream. In it, my son Matthew spoke to me. He waved his hand and whispered that he lived in a seashell. He told me to search the ocean’s floor for the echo of his voice, and like a jewel on a battlefield discovered in the aftermath of war, I grasped this tender dream and did not let go. It was my omen. It was my hope.

  * * * *

  “Well, you seem to be feeling better.”

  The priest smiled; his kind blue eyes appeared like fine light silk. As I looked about me, I was surprised to see that this was the very same church that had stood over forty years ago and had harbored my granddaughter. After I sat up in bed, and had eaten some cereal that a nun must have brought to my room, I could not help but ask Father Donovan if he knew of a Father Jacques. For some reason, it was the first clear thought I had. The old priest scratched his chin and thought for a moment.

  “There was a Father Jacques here at St. Joseph’s right before I came, but he returned to France, I think. I never met him. I heard he died there. Either that or he left the priesthood,” he told me.

  “Really?”

  “Did you know him?” he asked.

  “I knew of him.”

  “Well, you must get some peaceful
rest now that you seem to have your strength back. You tossed around so much in your sleep that I tired watching you. If you like, I will check the books and see exactly when your Father Jacques left our church.”

  “I would appreciate that, Father,” I said. I wondered if the bastard Urbain could have really died, if something so mundane as death could have snuffed out his soul.

  “I will bring you some clean clothes now. Then you will have something to wear when you awake. Your robe seems a bit archaic,” he whispered as he closed the door to my room. “I am just on the other side of the hall if you need anything.”

  As soon as he shut the door, I went immediately to the mirror over the small dresser and searched for my image, my real image, but nothing stared back at me but the concerned gaze of the mysterious Julian Rouvrey. I sat on the edge of the cot and looked at the foreign grasp of fingers that no longer contained the reflection of my soul.

  I must have sat there for only a few minutes before the good Father returned with a pair of shoes, a white priest’s collar, black pants, and a shirt.

  “Take these,” he said. “The pants will be small and the shoes big, but I think they will work for the time being.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I said as I took the clothes from him and laid them on the cot. From my window, I could see a large imposing bridge that seemed to reach across the Hudson River into Manhattan. Of course, I knew it immediately as the Brooklyn Bridge. It must have been recently built, though. I went to the window and stared at it. Father Donovan came and stood by my side.

  “Beautiful structure, isn’t it?” He smiled.

  “Yes. It certainly is.”

  Father Donovan laughed very suddenly, and I turned to look at him.

  “Have you seen the Spider Lady?” he asked with a gleam in his eye.

  “No, Father. Who is the Spider Lady?”

  “Not who but what.” He laughed again. “Well, I will take you downtown and show you the elevated tracks we have running from Court Street all the way out to Coney Island.”

  “And you call these tracks the Spider Lady?” I asked. I had never heard that, nor did I remember any elevated tracks in Brooklyn from my days in twentieth-century New York.

  “Oh yes.” He laughed more heartily now and seemed quite proud. “I wonder if your fair city of Paris has anything like it.”

  I laughed with him. “I cannot remember,” I told him.

  He looked at me seriously. His eyes had a certain sparkle, even though his mouth was set firm.

  “But you remember being in Brooklyn?” he asked me.

  I nodded.

  “What do you remember about Brooklyn?” he inquired cautiously. “When were you here?”

  I looked at his face. Nothing but kindness and concern looked back at me.

  “A long time ago, I think.” I sighed and did not speak for several moments. “Do you know a family named Guyon?” I asked, as if I had suddenly remembered something.

  “Guyon? Guyon?” He scratched his chin again and came to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh yes! Yes, I knew them,” he said after giving it some quiet thought. “My God, I haven’t seen them for a while, but yes, yes I do seem to remember them. It was when I first came to this parish in 1859.”

  I went quickly to his side and sat down. He turned his face to mine.

  “Matthew Guyon. Yes, I remember. He converted to Catholicism right before he married. I counseled him. That’s why I remember. Oh, I was a much younger man then, but I do remember him. He died shortly after his wedding, poor man.”

  “Matthew Guyon? Dead? Are you sure?”

  The old priest nodded. “Yes, I am sure.”

  I swallowed hard and remembered my dream.

  “When was that?” I whispered.

  “Oh, quite some time ago. I don’t even think his children were born yet.”

  I stood up and went back to the window so he could not see my face.

  “His daughter makes it here every now and then, the older one from a prior marriage. They always sit in the very last pew. She comes with her companion. Yes, what is her name now?”

  The priest looked up and scratched his chin so judiciously I thought he would rub away his skin.

  “Meredith Mae?” I asked.

  “Your memory is returning.” He stood and stared at me.

  “Somewhat,” I told him. “Who is this companion of Meredith Mae’s?” I asked and dreaded the answer.

  “They have one of those Boston marriages, you know.” He sat back down again and whispered. “Spinsters.”

  “She never married Callen?” I asked before I could stop myself. I was so surprised that I began to pace the room. It was then I realized for the first time that the good priest had clothed me at some point in an old dressing gown, and I began to feel a bit foolish walking around in it.

  “Callen? You mean old Callen Hall?” The priest laughed.

  I stopped and turned to look at him.

  “Old? Why yes, I guess he is by now. What happened to Callen Hall?”

  “How do you know these people?” the old priest asked.

  “I have a cousin who knew them,” I told him. “Please Father. It is helping me to remember. What happened to Callen Hall?”

  “Well, it was quite a scandal at the time. He was engaged to be married, but he ran off with another woman. The woman worked with Ellen Terry, an actress, I hear. Ah yes! He was engaged to Meredith Mae Guyon, I’m quite sure of it. He ditched her for an actress,” he leaned in and whispered to me.

  “Did he marry the actress?” I asked.

  The old priest nodded. “As far as I know they are still married. He is not a Catholic but she is. Callen had some kind of falling out with the older Guyon, probably over his jilting the daughter.”

  “The older Guyon? You mean Matthew?”

  I kept seeing my son’s face in the dream. He was young and he kept waving at me to follow him.

  “Yes,” Father Donovan said. “His wife baptized the children after his death. That surprised me.”

  “Callen’s wife?”

  “Oh, no, no, Guyon; his widow baptized their children.”

  “Children?” I asked.

  “Twins,” he said.

  “Twins?” I gasped and sat at his side again. “Matthew Guyon had twins? Who did he marry?” I asked and held the sleeve of the priest’s shirt.

  “I don’t know her name. I just saw her once or twice.”

  “Was it Jeanne Elemont?” I asked.

  The priest went to scratch his chin again and thought better of it. Instead he pulled on his ears.

  “What does she look like?”

  I took in a deep breath. “She is cold,” I told him. “Beautiful, blonde, and cold as snow.”

  The priest laughed. “Yes, that’s her. Jeanne Elemont. Must be her. She still looks good. I haven’t spoken to her since his death. She was never much of a parishioner, probably why the children never show up here, but her name and her picture is always in the paper. She gives money to charity; well, why not, makes people look good.”

  “You mentioned twins?”

  “She told me she baptized her children because she likes the ritual. Ha! I remember that. I tried to council her but she disappeared. Is that all religion was to her, ritual?”

  “Father, there were twins?” I asked, trying to bring him back to the matter at hand.

  “Yep, boy and a girl. You couldn’t tell them apart otherwise. I see them around, but never in church.”

  “Father,” I said. “I hope you will forgive me, but you are right about that peaceful sleep. I could use a nap about now.”

  “Yes, of course. I hope I’ve been of some help to you?”

  I put my arms around him and held him to me.

  “Yes, Father. Bless you,” I whispered. “I am going to sleep for a while, and when I awake I will change into these nice, clean clothes you so kindly provided me and take my dog for a walk. I have so much to think about. A walk will help.
”

  “I will go with you,” the old priest said.

  I took his arm. “No, Father. I must go alone. I will think better.”

  He looked at me. His pale blue eyes still sparkled. After a moment, he nodded.

  “You will be careful?”

  “Yes, Father. I will take the address of the church with me, and if I lose my way, I will find some kind soul to lead me back.”

  “We will pray when you return,” he said.

  “Of course.” I smiled and took his hand.

  * * * *

  My head was spinning as I thought about my son, now dead, and my granddaughter, now old and possibly broke. I was tired and knew I needed sleep.

  I took the dressing gown off and stood before the mirror naked. I had nothing on but a gold cross around my neck. Father Julian Rouvrey was an unusual contradiction. He was a big man with delicate hands. His nose was long and his eyes were large, yet his mouth was almost pretty, as his upper lip showed pink beneath the hair that covered it and his lower lip swelled slightly in a soft, moist swell. The hair on his body was black as night and covered him in curly, dark strands that stopped miraculously at his shoulder and did not run down his back. His skin was dark, and yet his eyes were blue. The hair on his head curled and fell to his shoulders. His beard was heavy and needed trimming. He appeared small-boned, yet his phallus was thick.

  The cross he wore appeared to be rusted. When I held it in my hand, I could see that it had weight and was the size of my finger. The chain was carefully linked in the same dull gold. I took the chain off my neck and studied it. I saw nothing unusual except for some dents on the side of the cross, as though someone had tried to scratch something in the rust. There was a compelling beauty to the cross. I went back to the mirror to return it to my neck and stared in utter amazement as my own dear face looked back at me.

  “Good God, my image has returned!” I cried out as I gazed into the eyes of Annabel Horton. There I was, smiling miraculously back at myself from behind Julian’s features. But, when I placed the cross back around my neck my vision disappeared entirely. I stood before the mirror and did this several times and each time I removed the cross, I regained myself, and when I returned the cross to its rightful owner, Annabel Horton vanished back into the obscurity that claimed her.