The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  He came from a long line of God-fearing men going back to the famed preachers of Massachusetts Bay, who’d lived there when the colony was rife with witchcraft. It’d been his ancestors, in the years after the trials, who’d continued to be watchful for the Devil’s workings within God’s people. They, along with a few faithful followers, had formed a group called the Brethren, religious folk who wished to practice the strong faith of those who first settled the land. Carrying on the traditions of his forefathers, Reverend Deodat Townsend had become a travelling preacher, moving across the Frontier to spread the Gospel. He quickly gained a reputation for having a beautiful singing voice, knowing the Bible by heart, and having the ability to “put evil to flight.” There’d been plenty to distract the people—preachers who peddled false miracles, salesmen of all stripes (hawking brushes, pots, scissors, knives and patent medicines), tawdry circus folk in gaudy tents (bearded ladies, legless men, snake charmers and fortune tellers)—but Deodat had something to offer that no one else had. Upon hearing stories of the magic and witchery that existed in the wilderness of the West, Deodat Townsend guaranteed, hand to God, that he could take care of whatever witchery might be troubling a place with no questions asked.

  Francis had inherited his grandfather’s personal effects after he had passed—a Bible worn and faded from much use, a small collection of relics from his days on the frontier, and a parcel of writings passed down from the Brethren (sermons, mostly, pertaining to the wages of sin). When Francis’s mother had cleared out the room where his grandfather had died, she took all the bedding from the mattress and stripped the pillows of their linens. The pillow on which the old preacher had rested his head felt oddly cold to the touch. Slicing the ticking open, she’d discovered a wreath of feathers buried within the stuffing, large enough to fit on a man’s head. She’d cradled the thing to her breast and called it a glorious sign—a feather crown made by the angels to show her that Deodat had made his way to Heaven. His father, thinking it evil, had thrown the crown into the fire. “It’s a sign of dark magic,” he’d said. “Proof that the witches who’ve plagued this family cursed him to die.”

  The one thing that Francis had gained from his grandfather that no one could cast aside was his fervent desire to banish evil. Yes, he knew that it was only by God’s will that evil existed, but he also knew that the reason it was there was so that men of God could expose and destroy it. Only by such shining examples could the most rebellious naysayers be brought into the fold. Sometimes his intolerance for sin was so great, he became overwhelmed with a longing for stocks and thumbscrews, pressings and hangings. Choking on his impulses, he’d cried to Heaven with clenched fists, “Dear Lord, what would you have me do when the world allows so little punishment for sin?”

  He was glad of the faith of his new congregation and the way they clung to his every word, but no amount of Temperance meetings or weekly Bible study could stop the storm of iniquity that was brewing outside the chapel doors. What would his grandfather think of the times in which he lived? Of this city, so rampant with sin? Surely he would say that it was filled with opportunities for righteous men to carry out the work of the Lord. Francis prayed every night for the chance to stand up to be led to the dwelling places of evil so he might cast it out.

  Mr. Beadle’s housemaid Lena McLeod had been one answer to that prayer. So had the little Gyspy girl he’d met in the park. The waif had been more a challenge to him than the maid, sent to him as a test. He’d been fooled into thinking that because she was a child there was still goodness inside her, but it hadn’t taken him long to discover that was not the case. When he’d asked her to recite the first Bible verse that came to her mind, she’d spat at him and spoken a string of foul words instead. She’d acted sweet then insolent, repentant then wicked. When none of that had succeeded in breaking the Reverend’s resolve, she’d pressed herself against him and tried to seduce him. She turned out to be a devil in a child’s dress. Perhaps she’d been sent to torment him by Mr. Beadle’s maid or some other deceased witch. His father had always warned that a witch’s curse couldn’t be undone just by killing the witch who spoke it. “Their words stay alive long after the fact. Sometimes gaining more power after death,” he’d instructed his son. The Gypsy girl had come at him, eyes filled with fire, cursing and taking the Lord’s name in vain. He’d struck her with the back of his hand and she’d fallen in a heap on the floor. Her scalp had blossomed red with blood as her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Remembering the words of the two men in black suits who’d come to his door after Mr. Beadle’s maid had died, he’d retreated to his bedchamber and prayed until dawn, hoping that they might return and do as they had done before. At first light he’d gone down to the cellar to discover that the little girl was gone, no trace of her to be found. Falling on his knees he’d said a prayer of thanksgiving, praising God for releasing him from the foul little devil. The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways.

  Checking his watch again, Reverend Townsend saw that it was nearly nine. Although he was tempted to leave the parsonage in search of greater challenges, he knew he should get on with composing his sermon. Walking to the bookcase, he pulled out his grandfather’s Bible and read the inscription: Let this book be the Light that guides you through the Storm. In recent weeks, when he’d been at a loss for inspiration, he’d taken to the practice of Bible dipping to assist him in his work. Last Saturday, after letting the Bible fall open on its own, his finger had landed on 1 Timothy 2:12: But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. The words had then flown from his pen to the page as if guided by providence of angels. He’d titled the sermon, “Against Intuition.”

  Women often say they have a “knowing,” a “feeling,” that something is right or wrong. They’ll claim they’ve seen the answer to a great dilemma in a dream. Who are they to claim the gift of prophecy? What force compels them to speak such lies? More often than not their words are merely a ploy to get others to do their bidding. When caught, they say it was nothing but a silly, foolish game. They insist no one got hurt. But this sort of deceit is no laughing matter. It is a terrible crafty tool of women, especially when used upon trusting men—a tool of Satan himself. I say to all gentlemen, do not be fooled by women’s talk of intuition. I say to all women, do not be used by Devils as a mouthpiece for Satan’s foul words. The only special knowledge he’ll afford to you is misery. The only thing you’ll gain is regret.

  Taking the Bible in hand, Francis set it on its spine. Closing his eyes, he prayed for the Lord to lend divine assistance. “Not my will, Lord, but Thine.” As the book fell open and he placed his finger on the page, he discovered something he was sure he’d never seen before. Sticking up between the Bible’s pages was a small unbound leaflet, written in a stranger’s hand.

  “An Attempt to Cure Witchcraft”

  For, though it be Folly to impute every dubious Accident or unwanted Effect of Providence to Witchcraft, yet there are some things which cannot be ascribed otherwise. That the following Account will afford to him that shall read with Observation, a further clear confirmation, that, there is both a God and a Devil and Witchcraft.

  Early in the year 1693, Reverend M. travelled from Boston to Salem. He had it in his mind that he might deliver a sermon to the good people there and also gather an accurate accounting of what had taken place during The Great Storm of Witchcraft. Upon his arrival he’d found that in the months since the witchcraft tryals, things had gone considerably quiet, especially when it came to Apparitions and Accusations. By and large, people spoke as if the thing had never happened, or at least as if they had no real knowledge of it. When pressed, no one could even point to the exact location of the hangings on Gallows Hill. “You must ask so-and-so,” one man would say. “I know nothing,” another would profess. “Perhaps Mr. D— can be of help, he has the longest memory of anyone in the Neighbourhood.” These cries of ignorance went on and on from farm to farm and house to hous
e, but Reverend M. would not be dissuaded. He was determined to stir the pot as it were, knowing that the Devil could not so easily be put to rest.

  During his visit, two odd things occurred to further convince him that witchcraft in this Country was alive and well.

  One: The leafs his sermon had been written upon were lost and the only explanation he could find was that they’d been stolen away by spectres. (This was later confirmed by yet another strange occurrence.) “These notes were before the Sabbath stolen from me, with such Circumstances that I am somewhat satisfied, the Spectres or Agents in the Invisible World were the Robbers.”

  Two: He held discourse with a Mrs. Carver (assumed to be an honest, God-fearing woman), who had been strangely visited with some shining Spirits, which were good Angels, in her opinion of them. “She intimated several things unto me, whereof some were to be kept secret. She also told me that a New Storm of Witchcraft would fall upon the Country, to chastise the Iniquity that was used in the willful Smothering and Covering of the Last; and that many fierce Opposites to the Discovery of that Witchcraft would be thereby convinced.”

  Not long after the good Reverend returned to Boston, he was called to minister to a young servant girl named Mercy Wylde who had fallen into fits one Sunday after church. Seeing that the girl (just seventeen years of age) was clearly afflicted in the manner of the Damsels of Salem, the Reverend determined that he should retire with her to a nearby house to assess her condition.

  In the course of his examinations he began to suspect that the girl had been bewitched. Some time before, at the height of The Great Storm, Mercy Wylde, on her way home from market, had come across one Sarah Gowan who was chained to the wall of the prison. Sister Gowan, since hanged at Salem for witchcraft, called to the girl and begged for tobacco. Fearful of the woman, Mercy had refused and thrown sawdust in her face. The woman, revealing her true nature, cursed the girl to suffer for her unkindness.

  In Reverend M.’s words: “I had many Entertainments from the Invisible World in the Circumstances of a Young Woman horribly possessed with Devils. The Damsel was cast into my cares by the singular Providence of God; and accordingly I kept Three Successive Dayes of Prayer with Fasting on her behalf, and then I saw her Delivered. (For which I kept a Time of solemn Thanksgiving.) But after a while, her Tormentors returned, and her Miseries renewed; and I did alone in my Study fast and pray for her Deliverance. And unto my Amazement, when I had kept my third Day for her, she was finally and forever delivered from the hand of evil Angels; and I had afterwards the satisfaction of seeing not only her so brought home unto the Lord that she was admitted unto our Church, but also many others, even some scores of young people, awakened by the Picture of Hell exhibited in her sufferings, to flee from the Wrath to come.”

  The following is an account of the trials and tribulations of Mercy Wylde.

  Reverend Townsend was taken away from the page by the insistent ringing of a bell. Sister Piddock had arrived to collect the Sunday sermon.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1880 The Evening Star

  FREEMASONS TO ASSEMBLE

  Tomorrow, October 9th, at approximately three o’clock, a grand parade will take place along Fifth Avenue from Madison Square to Central Park. Some nine thousand Freemasons from within the city and without will assemble to march through the streets to Greywacke Knoll. This momentous gathering is to mark the dedication ceremony for the pedestal on which the Great Obelisk will one day sit.

  Although the obelisk has only recently made landfall, the marble pedestal on which it once stood was transported through the city to Central Park in early August. While its journey was far simpler than the Needle’s, it was still quite a feat to move it, requiring thirty-two horses in sixteen pairs to pull it to its destination. Since that time, the pedestal has been waiting for preparations at Greywacke Knoll to be completed, so it might be set in place and properly dedicated prior to the obelisk’s arrival.

  October 8, 1880

  Dear Aunt Lydia,

  What would you say if I told you I’ve been visited by ghosts? Regularly and often! I would’ve mentioned it sooner, but I wanted to be certain that I wasn’t suffering from a passing illness that’d put me temporarily out of my head. Lest you think me mad, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did, I can assure you that what I’ve been experiencing is quite real and true. The spirits talk to me and I with them just as naturally as I used to do with you while sitting at the dining room table.

  As you might imagine, this has stirred up a fair bit of excitement at the teashop. Happily, Miss Thom and Miss St. Clair are inclined to be understanding of such things, due to their ongoing interest in the unseen world.

  I hesitate to describe how it all works because to do so would surely take several more pages, and even then I’m not sure I could do it justice. Suffice to say it’s all happened rather suddenly. Perhaps one day soon you’ll come for a visit so I can demonstrate my new abilities for you in person.

  Your loving niece,

  Beatrice

  An Unsent Letter.

  BEATRICE FOLDED THE NOTE, tucked it inside an envelope, then threw it into the fire. She’d write a less revealing, more reassuring missive to replace it, later, one that still extended an invitation for Lydia to visit. One that included the parade but not the ghosts.

  Settling herself on the floor of her room in front of a small parlour stove, she propped the stove’s door open to gaze at the fire’s dancing flames. She’d recently learned the practice of scrying from Eleanor, and found it to be a fitting way to end the day. It helped her push unimportant thoughts aside and focus her mind.

  “Hold a question in your thoughts and let your sight go slack,” Eleanor had instructed. “Watch carefully. Be patient. Eventually a vision will appear within the flames. Give whatever comes to your attention measured thought and consideration. Scrying allows us to see with sight beyond our own.”

  “How will I know when I’ve seen what I’m meant to see?” Beatrice had asked. “Surely there must be some sign of assurance that comes along with the visions? Gooseflesh, flushed cheeks, a whisper of affirmation?”

  Shaking her head, Eleanor had replied, “That’s something you’ll have to discover for yourself.”

  Although Eleanor had described several ways to scry—staring into a bowl of water, gazing upon a darkened mirror, keeping watch on the night sky—Beatrice found she preferred the fire. She’d always appreciated the warmth and comfort a fire could provide, always felt a certain reverence for its potential for destruction. The idea that flames could also hold insights meant only for her was tremendously appealing.

  Since the night of her demonstration at the hotel she’d felt the urgent need to learn all she could about the art of witchcraft, as quickly as she could. Everyone who’d been in the salon that evening, including Adelaide and Eleanor, had been concerned that what’d transpired with the scrubber girls’ spirits had taken a terrible toll on her. Instead, it had firmed her resolve to embrace her destiny wherever it might lead.

  As she watched the fire consume what was left of the letter, she thought of how she’d felt while under the influence of the maids’ spirits. Even when the ghosts of the scrubber girls had been speaking through her, she’d never felt frightened or consumed by their presence. Her soul hadn’t been possessed, as everyone had feared, but rather she had felt as if she was acting on the girls’ behalf. Given the depth of their sorrow and anger, allowing them to speak through her had seemed the best way for her to properly convey their message. Not that she’d thought through any of that in the moment, but she’d always been fully aware of what was taking place and she’d been willing (even glad) to be the ghosts’ vehicle.

  Predictably, Adelaide and Eleanor had landed on opposite sides of the fence when it came to advising her on what to do next. Eleanor wished to err on the side of caution. “I’m fearful of what might happen if you move too soon, too fast. Don’t be afraid to take your time with things. There’s no need to rush.” Adelaide had bee
n absolutely giddy over the prospect of her undertaking regular communications with spirit. “Perhaps you could hold consultations here at the shop. Enlist one or more of your ghostly companions to look into situations on ‘the other side’ on behalf of the living.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Eleanor had protested.

  Though encouraged by Adelaide’s enthusiasm, Beatrice had sided with Eleanor on that point. She couldn’t just call forth spirits with a snap of her fingers or get them to do her bidding as if they were ponies in a circus. Spirits, of all sorts, shapes and stripes, were everywhere, all the time (unless otherwise banished from a place), and prone to make themselves known to her however and whenever they liked. Eleanor had done an excellent job of keeping them out of the teashop, but whenever Beatrice set foot outside the door, she was confronted with a deluge of the dearly departed. It was confusing and alarming each time it happened, and she’d soon gone to Eleanor for more advice. “Is there anything that can be done to make them less…eager?”

  “Don’t feel you have to talk to each and every one that vies for your attention, or you’ll surely go mad,” Eleanor had said. “They’re fully aware that your gifts are taking hold. They see them in you as clearly as I see the freckles on your nose. You must foster the power to open and close yourself to their supplications as you see fit.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Through strong will and practice. It’s not dissimilar to throwing off unwanted advances from a gentleman. Be confident as you make your way through the world. Hold your head high. Don’t be afraid to cast an uninterested eye on those you wish to repel, be they living or dead. Wave them off, speak your peace, shout if you must. Be direct. There’s no need to be polite. Even then, some may pester and persist. In such cases, you’ll need to resort to more extreme measures.”