Wicked Cries (The Wicked Cries Series Book 1)

by Michelle Areaux

  The rest of the day was uneventful. I went to my classes and was placed, without fail, at the back, in the last empty seat. Most of the kids didn’t even notice me come in.

  When the last bell rang, I felt relief. I wanted to get home‒well, to my new home.

  I went to my pre-assigned locker and placed the large textbooks I'd been given into it. I didn't have any homework, so I only had some notebooks to take home with me. As I walked into the parking lot, the air grew colder. I shrugged it off‒fall was in full effect though it was only late August, and winter was right around the corner.

  I drove home listening to the carefree sounds of John Mayer. When I got home, both of my parents were in the living room.

  "Sadie, is that you?" My mom called, her voice straining as she spoke. "We're in the living room. Can you come and help us move some furniture?"

  I dropped my backpack near the stairs and walked into the living room where I found my parents pushing our big-screen television set into the corner of the room. I smiled and wondered how in the world I was going to be able to act as if everything was still normal.

  "Sadie, help your mother move the couch," my dad called, motioning toward the large leather couch in the middle of the room. He continued to move the heavier furniture around as my mom and I moved the couch and reclining chairs into suitable positions.

  Pleased with how the living room was turning out, my mom inspected our work.

  "This is starting to look like home." She smiled and placed her arms around my shoulders. I smiled back as I looked around the room. I couldn’t bear to break the news to my delusional mother, but this house looked nothing like home. Our home in California had floor to ceiling windows that let lots of light in. It wasn't old with creaky floor boards. This place didn't feel like home, and I wasn’t sure if it ever would.

  "Sadie, we can finish up down here. Why don’t you go up to your room and start unpacking? I found the boxes with your bedroom decorations and put them in your room."

  I smiled at my mom, rushed out of the room, and ran up the stairs and into my bedroom which was so filled with boxes, I had to kick them out of the way to make a pathway. I began to open the boxes, finding my baby blue bed comforter, and picture frames displaying the fun times I had with Amber and Lia. Placing my items neatly around the room, I decided to take a picture to send to Amber and Lia. As usual, I wasn't paying attention and bumped into the side dresser. The jolt knocked my phone right out of my hand and onto the slick, wooden floor.

  "Darn," I mumbled to myself as I stooped to pick it up, straining and stretching my short arm behind the long dresser. I had to place one of my hands against the wall for support as I reached for it, my hand feeling around the space, sweeping dust balls and other objects‒I wasn't sure I wanted to know what they actually were‒away.

  I noticed the uneven spot in the wall when my hand brushed against a lump underneath the faded wallpaper. Curious, I began to peel the paper away. Strips of the faded paper fell to the floor, landing on top of my purple Chuck Taylors. My fingernails scraped against the wall, cutting into the skin beneath them as I coaxed the glued paper from the wall. What pieces didn’t crumble onto the floor, sliced into my fingers, making each subsequent paper tug burn.

  When agitation and impatience overwhelmed me, I brushed the debris from my jeans and decided to move the dresser to get to the strangely uneven spot in the wall. I stood up and put all of my body weight behind the large dresser. The sight of my small frame straining against the large solid oak dresser which refused to move even an inch as I huffed and moaned must have been hilarious. I felt my face grow red and hot as I continued to force all one hundred and five pounds of my body weight against the barrier.

  After several attempts, I finally succeeded in moving the large piece of furniture enough for me to see the opening in the wall. To my surprise, it was a small door, hidden in plain sight behind the wallpaper on the wall of my bedroom.

  Wondering what lurked behind the door, I reached for the small silver knob and turned; it stuck. I pulled harder, and with the second try the door swung open, and I fell backward, onto the floor, stirring up dust balls that made me sneeze. I sat up, brushed the dust and mothballs off my jeans and peered through the open space to see another opening, further into the black passage. The space seemed unreal, something you would see in one of those science fiction movies.

  I crawled it, through cobwebs and thick dust. Small rodents and larger ones I attempted to ignore, scurried past my feet. I waited for my eyes to adjust and correct my vision, but the dark was too dense for me to even see my own two hands in front of my face. With each movement further into the space, I contemplated retracing my steps and returning to my bedroom.

  At some point, I decided I was insane for crawling into a hole in my bedroom wall, and that enough was enough. I attempted to maneuver myself into a position in which I'd be able to turn around and return to the opening in the wall.

  That was when my left hand landed on an object with a leathery texture. Fearing a dead rat, I jerked my hand quickly away and bumped my head against the low ceiling. Though the space was cool and damp and smelled of mildew and dust, I paused a moment to feel around the black tunnel once more and found a square, leather-bound book lying on the floor.

  Grabbing it, I turned and crawled quickly back into my room, shut the small door behind me, and stood up, gazing down at what I held in my hands. The lighting in the room was despicable, so I walked over to the window and sat down, using the natural light to illuminate the book. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the book lying in my lap was brown and leather-bound. The binding on the side was brittle and chipped away in my hands. A thick layer of dust covered the book, hiding the words written on the front cover. When I wiped it off with my hand, a name appeared. After another dusting, I was just able to make out the words: Elizabeth’s Journal in faded black ink. The dark brown leather cover was cracked and the pages inside were a deep, rusty yellow.

  I stared down at the leather journal. My parents were still downstairs‒I could hear my parents talking‒but fearing an intrusion, I stood, walked over to the bedroom door, and peered out into the hallway to make sure no one would see what I'd just found. It was silly and immature, but the book was my treasure and I wanted to discover its contents on my own. Maybe it belonged to a young woman who'd written down all of her adventures. Or maybe it belonged to someone who knew Nathaniel Hawthorne, documented their time together, and could offer me some insight into his life. The possibilities were endless.

  I went back to my spot under the window, contemplating returning the journal back to its hiding place. Was this wrong? Would I want someone reading my own, personal journal?

  Perhaps she was a young girl, like Anne Frank, who'd left behind important documents, detailing some horrific event in history. Or maybe she was just a young girl, like me, who'd occupied our home years ago and left behind a journal she'd hidden from her pesky siblings.

  I gave in to my curiosity and carefully opened the book taking every precaution so as not to destroy the historical document, fearing the pages might otherwise crumble or tear. The light from the window provided a natural shine illuminating the pages so that I could read it.

  As I began to read, my eyes widened, and my mouth clenched tightly.

  Reader: if you are glancing over the words on this page, I am long gone. I live in a world of persecution and anger. Fear has ravaged my young, tired, and thin body. I write these words so future residents of Salem will know the truth of the events that happened to me and my family in 1696. I will begin today, documenting my experiences as I flee persecution. Let me begin by noting what has led me to write this memoir of my life, for I may not be able to complete this before I, too, am led to the gallows and persecuted for witchcraft.

  My mother, Mary, and younger sisters, Margaret and Sarah, have already been hanged, having been accused of practicing witchcraft. My father has fled the village, fearing he, too, would be next to hang a
t the gallows. I am left to stand alone.

  The events that I record begin in October. I will detail the events from the most painful experience of my eighteen years, October twelfth, 1696. May God have mercy on my soul.

  Chapter Five

  I slammed the book quickly shut, allowing the information to soak in. What had I just read? Could this be true? I'd learned about the Salem Witch Trials in my social studies classes, but I'd never considered the reality of the stories.

  No, No. My brain seemed to shout. I was already haunted by the dead; I didn’t need to read about them, too.

  I moved about my room trying to ignore the journal on my bed.

  Was this a diary? Was it a real journal, or a story? The small book seemed to scream at me each time I passed. I tried everything to stop thinking about it: I went for a jog down the block; I took a long shower; I watched several episodes of trashy television; and I even broke down and wished some angry dead girl would show herself to me to deliver some stupid message‒anything to make my discovery seem less real.

  When I couldn’t take it anymore, I slowly re- opened the diary. Fearing I'd tear the pages, I flipped gently through until I'd found the spot where I'd stopped reading. I continued to read the story that had been penned and left behind by a young girl, unable to shake the feeling it was fate that had brought me to the book. I'd never really believed the stories behind the Salem Witch Trials, but now that I was holding on to a document that proved me wrong, I was intrigued, and wanted to learn more, so I continued reading:

  The fall air swept through the town following an angry mob. Screams of anger raised into the misty air as the town joined together on this fateful October night. Hiding within the church’s walls I sat perched beneath a windowsill, anxiously watching for a sign of the release of my family. As the crowd grew, my heart sank deeper into my chest.

  I knew there was about to be a hanging. I watched as my family was pushed and taunted by the townspeople on their slow and final march to the gallows. I sat there, helpless, wanting to scream for them to stop, but the words remained buried deep within my chest, unable to escape.

  Governor Bradford stood on a wooden platform next to a large tree, holding three nooses in his hands. A wicked smile crept over his wrinkled and tired face. His gray hair blew in the wind as he awaited the accused.

  "Bring the witches to me," he shouted over the loud mob. Three husky men placed the nooses around their thin necks. They stepped onto three buckets, their feet barely able to balance bodies as they looked out over the crowd. Their eyes searched the crowd, and I knew they were searching for me. My mother never spoke. Her face remained emotionless. I looked through the church's window to make eye contact with my other, and our eyes met over the distance. We spoke to each other without having to say any words.

  Tears ran down my cold cheeks and dread took hold of my body. I pressed my hand against the icy window, reaching out to my mother. There was a loud cry and my eyes darted to my two sweet sisters who were sobbing as they begged the crowd to set them free.

  "Hang the witches," a man shouted from within the crowd.

  The crowd chanted the phrase, raising their fists into the air. "Our beloved Salem has been cursed," Governor Bradford began. "These witches have brought evil into our sacred village and tonight they shall be no more." The townspeople grew silent as Governor Bradford gave his speech, and their faces became silent as they awaited the hanging. Some of the older women held their bibles as they said the Lord’s Prayer under their breaths. New mothers held their babies tightly, while their husbands stood in angst as they awaited the event.

  "They shall hurt our town no more," Governor Bradford said loudly, and the buckets were kicked out from under my family's feet. The impact of Bradford's leather boot against the tin sent a chilling ring into the silent night air.

  The bodies hung in the air, swaying back and forth as the wind blew through the trees. As the crowd watched in menacing delight, the only sound that could be heard was the creaking of the weight of the bodies as they hung from the branches.

  I clasped my hands to my mouths in an attempt to hold my screams inside and fell to the hard, cold floor. My hand was cupped so tightly against my lips that they pressed the layers of skin into my teeth, and I tasted salty blood as it seeped onto my tongue. The pain was minimal when compared to the heart-wrenching terror coursing through my body.

  For a long while after, I lay staring out into the dark night. The moon glistened through the window with a bright ray of light as warm tears trailed down my cheeks.

  After what seemed like an eternity I pulled myself off of the floor and chanced a look out the window. The bodies were gone. The husky men must have taken them to be buried, but I was unsure. The townspeople had dispersed, returning to their comfortable homes where they would seek relief after having sent a mother and her young daughters to their deaths.

  Seeing that it was safe for me to leave, I walked slowly to the door, hesitating before reaching for the doorknob. After fortifying my strength, I opened the door and stepped out into the cold, dark night.

  Chapter Six

  I stopped reading when an eerie sensation flowed through my body. Cold chills ran down my spine, causing me to shudder. I wiped away a lone tear running down my cheek. The light outside had begun to fade as the night sky returned. I ran over to the light switch next to my bedroom door, flipped it on, relocated to my bed for more comfort, propped myself up on my pillows, and jumped back into the story. Never had I been so fascinated with a story in my life. I'd spent so much of my life running away from the dead, but this time, it was different‒I felt a connection with this girl. It was almost as if I could feel her fear, and I was able to anticipate her next thought. I felt repulsive for mocking the history of the town. I'd laughed at the stories of the witch trials, believing that if they weren't a myth that the people most likely deserved their punishments, but now that I was reading Elizabeth's story, I realized how wrong I was. I had to read more; I had to discover more.

  The ink on the pages had faded and I had to lean in closely to make out the words.

  Reader, I must go even further into the past. I must tell you why I am in this situation at this point in time. As I write, I can hear the chants of the townsmen as they hunt for their prey. I smell the burning torches as the light leads them to me. The black, night sky will only provide me protection for a short while.

  My family came to Salem along with the Puritans. My father was a farmer who enjoyed taking care of his family. We owned a small amount of livestock, but it provided us with enough food and wealth. Many of the men worked as fishermen. As beautiful as it seems, our town has many problems within its borders. I was not allowed to go to school with the boys, so my days were spent doing chores. Honestly, I did not mind. Cooking and cleaning only took up a portion of my day, and the rest of my afternoons were spent talking with my mother and sisters. We were all very close. I can still hear their voices, laughing in the night, even as it haunts my dreams. I blame the views of the elders for the downfall of this seemingly perfect society.

  Some of the young girls in the town of Salem began to exhibit bizarre behavior. Two girls, Alice Goode and Ann Proctor, told their parents they saw images in the night. They were my sister’s friends, sweet girls who befriended the wrong person. The townspeople began soon accused them of witchcraft after Mrs. Whitt saw them come out of the woods, carrying what she described as mysterious objects. Our local priest, along with the town’s justices, examined them, and they were condemned for practicing witchcraft and arrested. Before they were able to proclaim their innocence, without the right to a fair trial, they were hanged in front of the town.

  Our town thrived on its faith, but the idea of witchcraft and evil entered our secluded community, frightening many away.

  Since then, our village has pressured many of the women and children to accuse others of witchcraft. Justice was forgotten. One by one, people were jailed, executed, hanged, or burned at the st
ake, most of them women, though some were men.

  On a beautiful sunny day in mid-September, I caught my first glimpse of what was to come. I was walking down the road to my friend Emily’s home. As I reached the entrance to the yard, I saw my sisters talking with Alice and Ann. I waved, but in the midst of their excitement, too busy giggling and gossiping amongst themselves, they did not see my gesture. Stopping to view the beautiful innocent scene before me, I watched as Alice and Ann pointed into the woods‒they must have been telling each other scary stories or imagining scenes that might have played out in the crowded forest.

  When their play time was over, they said their goodbyes and Alice and Ann ran into the woods. Children were forbidden to enter those woods and the girls knew this. The elders claimed a witch who craved innocent souls lived in those woods. The legend was that she worked witchcraft and spoke to the Devil. I never believed this myth, imagining our parents did not want us to risk being hurt or attacked by a large animal instead.

  Regardless, I knew not to go into those woods, but I was curious to know why Alice and Ann could possibly expect to find there. I was careful, or so I thought and watched my surroundings as I ventured into the forbidden woods after them, and was surrounded by a cool, misty air, the tree tops having formed a blanket which blocked the sun from shining through. The ground was uneven, covered with broken tree limbs and uprooted tree roots. I walked slowly, jumping at every sound, be it a loud owl in the treetops or a small animal rustling through the bushes. I watched my feet, paying attention to each and every step when I heard a noise up ahead. I looked up and realized my surroundings had drastically changed. Gone was the once lively forest, replaced by something akin to a dark dungeon. The wind blew harder, almost knocking me over. Rather than a live, dark green, the trees had become bare.

  My heart pounded in my chest, as I'm sure Elizabeth's had, and I shook my head, closed the journal, and returned it to the secluded space behind my dresser. The words that had rushed off the page were mind boggling. I didn’t know what to think or do with this information.