The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

“Wake up,” she called to Beatrice. “Wake up!”

  Beatrice stirred, exhausted and hungry, her throat aching with thirst. Squinting across the room she noticed a bright light eking its way through a crack in the wall. Within the glow was a spirit, or was it an angel? As it drew near, she realized it was no heavenly being.

  Head listing, the ghost stared at her, an angry red ring showing around her neck, face mottled in the colours of a nasty bruise—yellow, purple, blue.

  “Who are you?” Beatrice asked, unsure but not afraid.

  “Who are you?” Lena repeated, touching the tip of her finger to Beatrice’s forehead.

  Adelaide’s voice sounded in Beatrice’s head. You are Beatrice Dunn. You are a witch. You’re no one to be trifled with. “I’m Beatrice,” she answered, “Beatrice Dunn.”

  “Are you a witch, Beatrice?”

  She paused to think. Would a witch have gotten herself into such a mess? Was that why she was there? Were Adelaide and Eleanor looking for her? Were they in any danger? Maybe she was better off just being a girl from Stony Point.

  “Well are you a witch, or aren’t you?” the ghost demanded. “I don’t imagine you’d be here unless he thought you were.”

  “Who?” Beatrice asked.

  “The Reverend.”

  Beatrice wondered what a reverend could possibly want with her.

  “He’s terrible,” Lena said, frowning.

  The taste of blood blossomed in Beatrice’s mouth. Her head throbbed.

  Tugging on the hair at the back of Beatrice’s neck, Lena said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Where am I?” Beatrice asked.

  “The parsonage,” Lena replied.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Nearly a month, I think. Three days alive, the rest dead.”

  “Did he kill you?” Beatrice asked wondering how many days she might have.

  Laughing, Lena answered, “He thought he might, but I didn’t let him. I beat him to it! He couldn’t kill me and they couldn’t catch my ghost.”

  “They?”

  “The Collectors. A pair of ghouls dressed in black suits and gentlemen’s skins. They snatch up witches’ bodies once they’re dead.”

  Beatrice swallowed hard. “They work for him, this Reverend?”

  “No, they work for someone much worse. I don’t dare say his name, but I’ll spell it for ye.”

  A pebble rolled across the floor to Beatrice’s feet.

  As Lena spelled the name, “P-A-L-S-H-A-M,” the pebble etched a series of letters into the dirt. M-A-L-P-H-A-S.

  A chill travelled up Beatrice’s spine. “Is that who put me here?”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs leading to the cellar.

  “Hush!” Lena cried as she disappeared into the crack. “He’s coming!”

  Beatrice used her foot to erase the markings from the dirt.

  The door opened with a jolt and a tall, dour-faced man entered the room, tin pail in one hand, lantern in the other, a thick wooden rod slung at his hip. The heels of his patent leather boots thudded on the dirt floor. His dress was more like that of a military man than a man of God, his trousers tucked into his boots, his coat decorated with braided stitching, his lapel adorned with a shining medal that bore a silver cross. An engraving in the centre of the medallion read, To give light to those that live in darkness. Hair slick with oil, dark moustache neatly trimmed, he had an intense, greedy look in his eyes that led Beatrice to think he expected her to be impressed by him.

  Stepping back, she put distance between them and tried to quell her fears.

  “My child,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I’m Reverend Townsend, the pastor of the Church of the Good Shepherd.”

  Looking him in the eye she asked, “Why am I here?”

  “I saved you,” he said, setting the lantern and pail on the floor. The pail contained a crusty hunk of bread and a small canteen. “Don’t you remember?”

  She recognized him now. “You scared off that man, yesterday, in the park.”

  Smiling he said, “And I saved you again last night, outside the hotel.”

  Could the ghost have been wrong? Beatrice wondered. Maybe he didn’t wish to do her harm after all. Then again, if he’d meant to save her, why had he brought her here?

  Inspecting the wooden bucket in the corner, Reverend Townsend frowned with disgust.

  “I’d like to go home now,” Beatrice said moving towards the door.

  “Not yet,” he said, blocking her way.

  “Am I not free to leave?”

  Gripping the wooden rod at his side, his eyes narrowed. “Not now.”

  The rod was a formidable weapon, fitted with a leather grip and sporting an iron tip. Beatrice knew he’d use it to stop her if she tried to flee. “If you let me go, I’ll not tell a soul,” she begged. “I swear it.”

  “Don’t try to trick me. That’s the Devil talking through you, and I’ll not hear it.”

  “Please,” Beatrice begged, “let me go home.”

  Grabbing her by the shoulders, Reverend Townsend shook her hard. “That foul woman has bewitched you! She’s got you under the influence of devils and demons.”

  A series of memories flashed in Beatrice’s mind. The cruel hateful look the Reverend had given Adelaide in the park. Her muffled screams as a moist rag covered her mouth. The sound of his voice in her ear before everything went dark.

  “Let me go!” she demanded, struggling to break free.

  Holding her fast he hissed, “Fight all you want. Say whatever the Devil tells you, but do not think that you can hide it.” Turning her loose for a moment, he snatched the hunk of bread from the pail, then seized her again. “Eat this,” he said holding the bread in her face, “if you wish to prove me wrong.”

  Although her belly was churning with hunger, the bread smelled foul, like urine. Lips tight, she turned her head, repulsed.

  Lena McLeod’s ghost flew out of hiding and whispered in her ear. “Gobble it down, my dear! Keep it in your belly for as long as you can.”

  Beatrice closed her eyes and opened her mouth to accept the Reverend’s challenge. Taking the bread on her tongue she did her best to swallow it, but besides having a terrible odour it was sickeningly thick with salt. “I can’t,” she whimpered in apology to the ghost, before gagging the thing up and spitting it out.

  Reverend Townsend began to pray. “Thank you Lord for exposing the evil that dwells within the afflicted. May she be cleansed by your might so she might walk the path to righteousness.”

  Breaking from his grasp, Beatrice dropped to her knees and grabbed at the canteen.

  Pulling it out of her hands before she could drink from it, he held it over her head.

  “Please,” Beatrice hoarsely pleaded, “I need water.”

  Reverend Townsend uncorked the vessel and put it to her lips. Grasping her by her hair, he let her briefly drink. “That’s enough,” he said. “We mustn’t indulge your appetites, not while that witch still has a hold on you.”

  Beatrice slumped to the floor. It was clear the Reverend was a madman. She wished he would leave her alone so she could think. She needed to survive long enough to go free.

  Reverend Townsend used the cold iron tip of his rod to lift the hem of Beatrice’s shift. She wasn’t sure if he was toying with her or searching for something.

  “Where are my clothes?” she asked, scared that he intended to violate her, worried that he already had. “Where’s the dress I was wearing last night?”

  “That witch’s garb?” he sneered. “It’s been done away with. Turned to ash.” Smacking the side of the rod against the palm of his hand Reverend Townsend said, “Disrobe.”

  “No,” Beatrice said, shrinking away from him, clutching at the thin white fabric of her gown.

  “Disrobe!” he ordered again, this time grabbing her by the arm.

  She tried to scream but her voice was gone. Wild with fright, she kicked his shins, scratched at his face,
bit his hand so hard it bled.

  Reverend Townsend cracked his stick against the side of Beatrice’s head.

  She fell to the floor in a heap.

  —

  Head aching, Beatrice opened her eyes to find she’d been stripped naked. Her hands and feet were bound with rope, and she was gagged. The scent of smouldering coal filled the air, coming from a scuttle near the door. Reverend Townsend was circling around her, lantern in hand, chanting a strange rhyme.

  By lamplight and fire’s spark,

  Help me find the witch’s mark…

  By God’s will and grace divine,

  Help me spot the Devil’s sign…

  He went once, twice, three times around before he found the thing he was searching for. “There!” he exclaimed, shining his lamp on the pale freckled skin of Beatrice’s left thigh. “I’ve found it.”

  She knew exactly what he’d spotted. The dark red stain on the tender curve of her leg had been there since her birth.

  Crouching next to her, he placed his hand on her leg, then circled the mark with his finger. “She’s touched you,” he said, his voice soft with indignant wonder. “She’s poisoned your body as well as your mind. She’s marked you as her own.” Taking his rod to the other side of the room, he knelt and muttered a secret prayer. When he returned to Beatrice’s side, the iron end of the stick was smoking and hot, the emblem of a double V on its tip glowing red.

  She flinched at the sight of it, fearing what was to come.

  “Be still,” he said holding her fast with a steady hand. “It will soon be gone.”

  Turning her head she closed her eyes as he came at her with the heated brand. A fettered wail caught in her throat as her flesh sizzled and burned.

  The Office of Missing Persons.

  ELEANOR WAS SITTING on a bench at Police Headquarters waiting to speak with the men who ran the Office of Missing Persons.

  She’d been there for three hours, staring at the two doddering gentlemen, Mr. Osmund and Mr. Kimball, as they went about their work. Although she was seated only a short distance away, the waist-high partition that separated her from their twinned desks might as well have been a brick wall, fifty feet long and five storeys high. With long grey beards tucked inside their waistcoats and white hair flowing past their shoulders, they were impassively hunched over a vast collection of ledgers in which they recorded the particulars of the city’s vanished souls. Every so often they looked up from their desks to stare longingly into the distance as if they were a pair of apes caged within the menagerie at Central Park.

  “Excuse me,” Eleanor said, as she’d done every quarter hour since she’d arrived. “Could you spare a moment?”

  Both men looked at her and then at each other.

  “Mr. Kimball?” Eleanor said to the gentleman on the right.

  “Osmund,” the man corrected her. Pointing to his companion he added, “He’s Kimball.”

  Eleanor swore the last time she interrupted the pair it was the other way around. Thank heavens they can tell each other apart, she thought, because surely no one else can.

  “Mr. Osmund,” she tried again, weary with waiting. “I’ve a missing person to report.”

  “Ah, yes!” he said with sudden enthusiasm. “We are aware that you’re still here. Mr. Kimball will address your concerns.”

  Mr. Kimball scowled at his companion, then went back to his work.

  Adjusting her skirt, Eleanor settled in for the next quarter hour. She hoped Adelaide and Dr. Brody were having better luck than she was.

  Taking up a newspaper that’d been abandoned on the bench, Eleanor saw that it’d been folded open to the missing persons section.

  Our lynx-eyed detective police need some widely spread organ to aid in their searches. Our illustrated paper is the only organ in America which combines immense circulation with amplest artistic resources. Perfectly reliable portraits pronounced by friends to be correct. Faithful facsimiles, striking likenesses, official information. Provided by G. Davis, exclusively for Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper.

  The listings of vanished persons were sandwiched between several notices for lost jewellery and missing dogs. Transcribed from police reports or placed by concerned individuals, they were meant to entice readers to take up the search. A few of them were accompanied by finely drawn illustrations.

  Eleanor caught her breath as she counted how many women were on the list. Sixteen out of twenty this week alone, all under thirty years of age.

  MISSING: GRETTA BUSKIRK: Twenty-two years old. Short. Thickset. Full features, pug nose, coarse voice. Has a small slit on right ear. Black hair, dark complexion and eyes, and speaks with a slight German accent. Last seen October 3rd at Broadway and Bowery. REWARD OFFERED, alive or deceased.

  MISSING: BONNIE FLANNIGAN: Nineteen years of age. Light complexion, light brown hair. Green eyes. Petite. Last seen at Union Square on October 1st wearing blue calico dress. Last known words were to her sister, Polly. “Don’t wait up for me tonight.” Loved by family. Unaccountably absent. Dear Bonnie, please do not forsake us.

  MISSING: LENA MCLEOD: Twenty-five years old. Tall. Thin. Long brown hair. Blue eyes. Last known residence, Vinegar Hill, Staten Island. Was employed as a housekeeper at the Beadle residence. Brother from Scotland wishes to find her. He can be reached at the Seafarer’s Mission in Fulton Landing.

  Heart filled with dread, Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to read any further. “Excuse me,” she said, “Mr. Kimball, Mr. Osmund?”

  As she waited for their response, another woman walked through the door. Lean and confident, she wore a dark tweed suit, a Phrygian cap, and carried a worn leather satchel at her side. Settling on the bench next to Eleanor she asked, “Been here long?”

  “A few hours now,” she replied. “I’d advise you make yourself comfortable. You may be in for a wait.”

  Wiping her hand on her skirt, the young woman held it out to Eleanor. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal and stained with ink. “Georgina Davis,” she said. “Leslie’s Illustrated. Pleased to meet you.”

  Eleanor accepted Georgina’s hand. “Eleanor St. Clair, and likewise.”

  Getting up from the bench, Georgina whispered, “Let’s see if we can’t move things along.” Taking a small wax-paper sack from her satchel she held it in the air and gave it a hearty shake.

  The clerks turned in unison, their eyes lit with childish curiosity.

  “Georgie,” Mr. Osmund said. “Good to see you!”

  “Are those lemon drops?” Mr. Kimball asked. “For me?”

  Georgina took aim and tossed the crumpled bag so it landed in the centre of the line where the men’s desks were butted together. Smiling she teased, “Be good, boys…share and share alike.”

  Before long the two men were smiling and puckering while licking sugar from their fingers.

  “I suppose you’ve come to gather names for the vanished persons column?” Mr. Osmund finally asked.

  “That I have,” Georgina replied. “But I believe the fine lady over there was here first.”

  Motioning for Eleanor to approach, the two men took up their pens, ready to assist her.

  “I’ll be damned,” Eleanor muttered, shaking her head. “What witchery is this?”

  Georgina gave her a wink.

  Taking turns the men asked Eleanor a series of questions—first Mr. Osmund, then Mr. Kimball (and so on and so forth).

  “Name?”

  “Eleanor St. Clair.”

  “Not your name,” Georgina whispered. “The name of the missing.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Eleanor said. “Beatrice Dunn.”

  “Age?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen, you say?”

  “Have you checked the theatres?”

  “Or the Tenderloin?”

  “Or the East River?”

  Eleanor scowled and crossed her arms.

  “Nationality?”

  “American.”

  “Height?”r />
  “Five foot and a bit.”

  “Say, five foot one?” Mr. Kimball asked.

  “One and a half?” urged Mr. Osmund.

  “Two?” offered Kimball.

  Eleanor stood and pointed to a height just below her own.

  “Five foot three,” Georgina declared with a confident nod.

  “Weight?”

  Eleanor held out her hands to indicate the size of Beatrice’s waist, then compared it to her own.

  “One hundred and ten pounds,” Georgina said. “Approximately. Hair colour?”

  “Red.”

  “Clothes last worn?”

  “A party gown of black silk crepe de chine, embroidered with Egyptian glyphs in gold.”

  “Sounds fancy,” Mr. Kimball said, eyebrow raised.

  Sighing, Eleanor brought out a carte-de-visite of Minnie Stevens wearing the gown, and placed it on the man’s desk. “That’s not her, but it’s the same dress.”

  Mr. Kimball took the photograph and stared at it for a moment before handing it to Mr. Osmund. The two men looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

  “Date and time gone missing?” Georgina asked, prompting the men to stay on task.

  “Saturday, October ninth, between seven thirty and eight o’clock.”

  “In the evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Place last seen?”

  “The Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mr. Kimball said, as if that had explained it all.

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Osmund added, taking a similar tone.

  “Is something wrong?” Eleanor asked.

  The men exchanged knowing looks but refused to answer.

  “To what would you attribute Miss Dunn’s disappearance?” Mr. Kimball asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Eleanor said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “If you had to guess?”

  “She had no enemies, no troubles that couldn’t be solved, at least not that I know of.” Eleanor didn’t want to complicate matters by mentioning the girl’s involvement with ghosts. The pair of codgers would have a high old time with that.

  “When it comes to girls of a certain age,” Mr. Osmund explained, “we generally find they tend to follow certain paths…”