by Ami McKay
Looking at the other people lined up to see the dead, Jenny recognized the two girls she boarded with.
“I’m here!” she cried, as they came towards her body.
“I think that’s her,” Elsie said, putting her hand to her mouth. “I think it’s Jenny.”
“I’m not so sure,” Mae said. “It’s hard to tell, the body is so rotten.”
Elsie pointed to the clothes hanging on the rod. “That’s her corset there, the one she’d never let me borrow.”
“Lots of girls have corsets like that.”
“But do them same girls carry around a rabbit’s foot on a ribbon?”
“Well so what if it is Jenny?” said Mae. “We can’t claim her. We’ve got no money to bury the body.”
“We could at least tell them her name.”
“And run the risk that the coppers might think we done her in? No, thank you, ma’am. Let’s get out of here.”
Elsie took one last look at the body before they turned to go.
Nose pressed to the window, Jenny waved goodbye.
Once the pair was out on the sidewalk, Elsie asked, “You think it might be that preacher who did it? Who slit Jenny’s throat?”
“Even if it was,” Mae replied, “there’s a tale no one would believe, especially not from a pair of whores.”
“Ain’t you scared?”
“Of what?”
“That it might happen to you?”
“I just won’t go to Madison Square no more, and neither should you.”
“Guess that rabbit’s foot weren’t so lucky after all.”
In as much as the devilish workings of the witch persisted upon the girl (for they could be seen in the damsel’s eyes) I continued to visit the haunted chamber in which she was kept. Through experiments and prayer I endeavoured to put a stop to the Invisible Furies rising within her and to turn her heart by whatever means God saw fit.
It is a dark dispensation of Divine Providence that such an innocent should be under the influence of the Fiends of Darkness. Although I could not see or hear the evil that entertained her (and I hope I never shall) it was made known to me by various means, most prominently by the words uttered from her mouth when a course of Godly questions were put to her. Oh how she begged to learn how she might thwart the temptations of that diabolical witch! For some time I carried on with the questioning, followed by much prayer and fasting. No exercise of religion gave so much vexation unto the evils that beset her as the singing of Psalms.
As the third night of her seclusion approached, the afflicted girl was finally and forever delivered. Prayers poured forth from her mouth, unbidden.
—from An Attempt to Cure Witchcraft: The Story of Mercy Wylde
A Brand Pluck’d Out of the Burning.
AFTER RECITING A lengthy prayer of thanksgiving, Reverend Townsend rose from his knees and turned to his desk. Among the books and papers that littered its surface was a shallow brass bowl containing the coiled length of Beatrice’s hair. The edge of the bowl was inscribed with the words, GOD LOVETH THE CHEERFUL GIVER. Taking the long red lock in hand, he admired its sheen, its softness, its fiery colour. He’d hated taking it from her, but he’d known that it had to be done. Vanity was generally the first weakness witches seized upon in the young women they wished to control. They first used a thousand Flatteries and Allurements to induce her unto a compliance with the Desire of the Devil. They showed her very splendid garments, and thence proceeded onto greater glories, which they promised her if she would sign away her soul. Did he need any more proof? How crushed the girl had looked when he’d told her he’d destroyed her dress, that terrible, whorish gown given to her by that witch. Tonight he would burn her hair as well, to cast out any dark workings that might dwell within its strands.
Although his path had been quite difficult, he felt progress had been made. Late last night he’d entered the damsel’s cell to find her docile, the evil within her stayed. The witch’s mark hadn’t returned, and the brand that’d replaced it was flushed and bright with blood. To test the power of God’s touch upon her, he’d loosened her bonds. She’d remained quiet and still, only groaning softly. Amen! Glory to God! And glory to Him for revealing the witch’s dwelling to him through Sister Piddock. The good news that the foul women were being cast out onto the street was more proof that his prayers were working. But there is cause to fear that she who afflicted Mercy is as dangerous and damnable a witch as ever was in the world. If only the words of this young woman were enough to prove it so.
Beatrice woke from a fitful sleep, somehow returned to the straw mattress and dressed again in her shift. She would’ve thought she was back to where she’d started, but the painful, angry burn on her thigh and the aching lump at the side of her head told her different. She rose, gingerly, and made her way to the bucket in the corner of the cell. It had been emptied. Squatting over it, she urinated, then stoically wiped herself with the hem of her shift.
In front of her she spied a stray lump of ashen coal that’d escaped the scuttle the preacher had used to heat his brand. Picking it up she found a discreet spot on the wall, behind the mattress, and scraped two dark marks onto the stone, one for each night she’d been here. She tucked the coal inside a hole in the mattress to save it for future days, how few or many there might be. It felt remarkably good to make those two small marks: proof that she was here. Oh how she missed paper and pen and the flow of ink as her thoughts turned to words on a page. She’d never thought of writing as an act of defiance, but those two marks proved it to be so. Her need to leave something of herself was overwhelming. If she was to die here, she wouldn’t let him forget she’d lived.
What kind of ghost would she be? Would she be carried off to some happy plane where her mother and father resided? Or would she be stuck in this dank cellar, sad and confused, like Lena McLeod?
Sitting back down on the mattress, she brought her mother’s face to mind, loving, gentle, kind. Then she spent a good long while composing a letter to Lydia. She pictured her hand moving across the page, saw the words falling in line, one after another. What wonders the city holds! How happy I am to be here! There are so many marvellous sights to see, so many opportunities ahead! If I don’t see you before, I’ll visit you for Christmas. I wouldn’t miss your plum pudding for the world!
Plum pudding. Eggnog. Roast turkey. Giblet gravy. Cherry cordial. Her hunger was its own animal, growling in her belly, pawing at her brain. To tame it she thought of Eleanor’s dream tea, hoping the mere memory of the scents of lavender, mugwort and lemon balm would ease her mind. She thought of Eleanor’s wise and patient teaching and Adelaide’s style, and her sharp wit. She thought of Dr. Brody’s dedication to finding the truth, Perdu’s shining, curious eyes, Judith Dashley’s kindness. Were they looking for her? She hoped they weren’t in danger.
She thought of the ghosts who’d crossed her path, and all the strange, wonderful things she’d learned since she’d come to New York. Why had she walked away from the hotel? All she wanted now was to be back at the teashop, curled up on her bed. Closing her eyes she pictured the walls of her room lined with pages of newsprint and the notes she’d made from Eleanor’s grimoire. She saw the bottle on the windowsill that held her witch’s ladder.
It was the one spell she knew by heart. She felt as if it lived inside her. She could do it now, make it here. She tore the hem of her shift and worked to unravel some threads. She had no feathers to tie to it and the hair on her head wasn’t long enough to braid along the ladder’s length, but she hoped that what Eleanor had said was true—the more you strive to make magic, the more likely it is to find you. If so, then it was worth trying to cast the spell.
Just then Lena’s ghost appeared at her side, brought forth by the sound of ripping cloth. “Are you planning to do away with yourself?”
Beatrice replied, “Why would you think that?”
Sticking out her tongue, the lonely spirit tugged at an imaginary rope around her neck. “That’s what
I did.” Looking around she said, “Though I’m not quite sure how you might go about it. There used to be a window over there with bars across it, but after I did the deed, a man came with a trowel and bricked it over.”
“That’s not what I mean to do.”
“But what are you doing?” Lena begged. “Maybe I can help.”
Finally freeing a long piece of thread from her shift Beatrice said, “I’m making a witch’s ladder.”
“To curse him!” Lena clapped her hands. “I’ve heard of such charms, but I never saw one. They say you can cause great illness that way, even death. I wish I’d known how to make one, I would’ve cursed him myself.”
Beatrice wound the thread around her finger, thinking, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about curses. I’ve only made one witch’s ladder before, and it was to make a wish.”
Grinning, Lena whispered, “A curse is just a wish turned on its head.”
“All I want is to be free from this place,” Beatrice said.
“What do you care how it happens?”
Tying a knot in the end of the thread Beatrice began to recite the spell. “By knot of one, my spell’s begun…”
Lena reverently repeated the words.
The sound of Reverend Townsend’s boots echoed on the stairs.
“He’s coming!” Lena whispered. “You’re done for if he finds the charm!”
Beatrice tucked the thread in the mattress alongside the piece of coal.
Reverend Townsend entered the cell, wooden rod at his hip, prayer book in one hand, a low stool in the other. Pipe clenched between his teeth, he shut the door and sat himself down on the stool. Opening the book, he brought out a notice that’d been folded and stuck between its pages.
Smoothing the paper flat, Reverend Townsend cleared his throat. “You are Beatrice Dunn?”
You are a witch. No one to be trifled with.
From where she sat, Beatrice could make out the word MISSING across the top of the page and what seemed to be a likeness of her face. “Yes,” she said, incredibly relieved that people were searching for her. Maybe it would scare the preacher into letting her go.
He stared at her with great concern. “She means to find you.”
“Who?” Beatrice asked. Did he know of Eleanor and Adelaide?
“The woman who bewitched you.”
Lena tapped on Beatrice’s shoulder and hissed in her ear, “Deny everything, or else he’ll kill you.”
Beatrice shook her head. “I’m not bewitched.”
“That’s what she wishes you to think.”
“Who?”
“The witch.”
“How am I to know her if she doesn’t have a name?”
Lena laughed.
Reverend Townsend scowled. “Do you believe in witches?”
“Deny it!” Lena urged.
Beatrice tried to keep a clear head, but Lena was so close she wasn’t sure which thoughts were hers or the ghost’s. “I don’t know what a witch is.”
“How can you be sure you’ve not been bewitched if you don’t know what a witch is?” the Reverend pressed.
Beatrice brushed the spirit away. “If I were to come across any such person as you imagine, I should think I would know it.”
“How?”
“By God’s grace.”
“Who is your god?”
“The god that made me.”
The preacher smiled at her. “Do you believe in the Devil?”
“I do,” Beatrice answered, staring him straight in the eyes.
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Only in the evil deeds of men.”
“Have you ever seen strange creatures lurking about?”
“What sort of creatures?”
“Those not of this earth.”
“Goblins or fairies?”
“If you like,” Reverend Townsend replied.
“No. Never.”
“Do you ever hear voices when no one’s there?”
Lena flew in front of Beatrice’s face and shook her head. “You must deny it!”
With innocent eyes, Beatrice said, “Only those who bid me to do what’s right.”
Reverend Townsend shifted forward on his stool. “As in angels?”
“If you like.”
Closing his eyes the preacher paused for a moment of contemplation. Then looking at Beatrice, he said, “If you expect mercy from God, you must look for it in confession.”
“I’ve nothing to confess.”
“I beg you, dear girl, give glory to God and confess the name of your oppressor to me or all will be lost.”
Beatrice couldn’t bear the thought of Adelaide or Eleanor suffering, especially not because of her. She would not give this man their names. “If you wish to think me a witch, so be it. If you wish to kill me, then do so.”
“I’ve said nothing of death,” Reverend Townsend stammered. Gripping the handle of his rod, his eyes narrowed. “Who spoke to you of such things?”
“Nobody,” Beatrice insisted.
“Is someone whispering in your ear? Tell me what they say—I demand it.”
Lena frantically whispered in Beatrice’s ear. “If you know the Lord’s Prayer, recite it now.”
Beatrice bowed her head and began to pray.
Our Father, which art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.
Amen.
Heart softened, the preacher knelt in front of Beatrice. “Amen!” he exclaimed. “Praise God.”
As he sang a psalm of thanks, Lena McLeod’s ghost plucked a long red hair from the sleeve of his jacket. “Take this,” she said and handed it to Beatrice. “Use it wisely.”
My dear Beatrice,
I was glad to receive your most recent letter and to find that you are happy in your work and life in the city. Life here in Stony Point is uneventful, as ever. Just the way I like it.
With that in mind, I’ve decided to decline your invitation to visit for now. Autumn is here, winter not far behind and I would much prefer to make the trip in spring, thus giving you more time to get to know the place so you might give me a tour of your New York. Please understand that delaying my visit doesn’t mean you’re not welcome home anytime. Would you consider coming to Stony Point for Christmas? Miss St. Clair and Miss Thom are welcome to join you, of course.
I read about the grand parade put on by the Masons in honour of the obelisk’s journey to Central Park. It seems as if you and your teashop were right in the middle of the celebrations! I hope it wasn’t too noisy and taxing for a country-raised girl. Not that you haven’t taken up and mastered every challenge that’s ever been handed you. I know I rarely say it, since sentimentality isn’t my forte, but I’m proud of your stick-to-itiveness and your pioneering spirit. I like to think perhaps I’ve even had a bit to do with it.
Be curious, smart, and safe, as I know you always are.
With affection,
Lydia
St. Clair and Thom.
ELEANOR MEASURED ROSE petals, hawthorn berries, St. John’s wort, lemon balm and lavender into a waiting pot—a blend of buds and roots meant to soothe a broken heart. Catching a glimpse of Adelaide’s face across the room, she added a second dose into the pot, thinking she’d better make enough for two.
Adelaide had returned from the morgue tired and shaken. Taking Eleanor aside, Dr. Brody had said, “I’ve an errand to run, but I’ll be back this evening. I imagine it might be good for you two to spend some time together.” The more Eleanor got to know him, the more she realized just how lovely he was. “Thank you,” she’d said. “We’ll see you tonight.
”
—
The two women sat at the table by the front window sipping their tea in silence. They’d agreed not to talk of the eviction notice, at least not for the time being. Since Beatrice had disappeared, every minute felt like an hour, every hour, a day. The end of the month seemed a lifetime away.
Eleanor retrieved Lydia’s letter from the pocket of her apron and passed it to Adelaide. “This came in the post today.”
Adelaide scanned it, then set it on the table. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Should we write to the woman? She’ll be expecting a letter from Beatrice in return.”
Adelaide shook her head. “She wrote the letter before Beatrice went missing. Maybe the girl is back in Stony Point, safe and sound. If we send a frantic note about not knowing where she is, whatever tale Beatrice has spun for her aunt will be torn to shreds.”
“I have to believe if Beatrice was back home, she would’ve sent word by now. Even a telegram.”
Adelaide poured more tea into her cup. “How long do we search for her?”
Eleanor crossed her arms. “How can you ask that?”
“I’m as worried as you are,” Adelaide insisted. “But I also wish to be practical, for both our sakes. How long before we decide it’s more likely she’s dead than alive? What do we do when we’ve run out of places to look? Haunt the same spots, day after day, eventually becoming ghosts of ourselves?”
“She’s only been missing for two days.”
“It feels like a hundred.”
