The Complete Hidden Evil Trilogy: 3 Novels and 4 Shorts of Frightening Horror (PLUS Book I of the Portal Arcane Trilogy)

by J. Thorn

  Mary saw the Reverend’s face contort in anger at the mention of the Black Man and Satan’s minions. She watched the men looking upon the pulpit in stern consternation from one side of the congregation while the women on the other side blinked the tears from their faces. She wanted out of the crammed church house, to enjoy the few hours of the week on the Sabbath that were not going to be spent scrubbing floors or tending to the hearth.

  “There are such devils in the Church, not only sinners but notorious sinners; sinners more like the devil than others. Some here have communed with Lucifer, have signed his book and consummated that covenant in the most vile, insidious ways. Christ tells us that such are the children of the wicked one, of the Devil. Hypocrites are the very worst of men. Corruptio optimi est pessima. Hypocrites are the sons and heirs of the devil, the free-holders of Hell. When Satan repossesseth a soul, he becomes more vile and sinful. As the jailer lies loads of iron on him that hath escaped. None are worse than those that have been good and have turned from the Lord’s graces; those that might be good, but will not.”

  She stifled a giggle and then glanced at Bridget sitting to her right. Her cousin looked back and smiled with the innocence of childhood in her eyes. Mary thought about what the Black Man had told her about the Reverend, and she smiled at the irony of his sermon on the hypocrites caught in the Devil’s snare.

  “Christ knows who these Devils are. There is one among you, a Judas to the twelve of Christ. Well, who is that? Why it is Judas. Christ knows how many Devils among us, whither one of ten, or twenty. He knows us perfectly and he knows those of us that are in the Church, that we are either saints or devils, true believers or hypocrites, and which amongst us would sell Christ and his kingdom to gratify a lust. We do not think we are such, but the Lord seeeth it. He knows the one amongst you that is corrupt and he will bring his heavenly vengeance to bear on that diseased soul.”

  The Reverend left his gaze on Mary far longer than he should have and she felt it. Mary knew the time had come, and she knew what decision had to be made. The reckoning was upon them and she would not surrender her fate in Salem to the murderous red devils that annihilated her family in Maine.

  ***

  “Tell me the story again.”

  “You’re a foolish, morbid child, Bridget.”

  Mary grabbed the horsehair broom to brush the ashes from the front of the hearth before using a ladle to stir the soup inside of the cast-iron pot. She could see her cousin out of the corner of her eye, clutching a ragged doll to her chest and biting her bottom lip.

  “Tell me what the Indians done to the God-fearing folks.”

  She stopped and turned to face Bridget. Mary peered outside the door to make sure John and Goody Proctor were not within earshot.

  “You know yer mama would put the whip to me if she knew I was telling you more war stories from the frontier.”

  “The Second Indian War, not King Phillips,” Bridget pleaded.

  “You want to know about the raids, am I right?”

  Bridget nodded and sat on the floor at Mary’s feet.

  “It was about this time of year, late harvest,” Mary began. “Maine had been under siege for five days and four nights by the savages. They ended up killing over two hundred of us.”

  “How’d they do it?”

  “It be too gruesome for a girl your age, Bridget. I can’t tell you no more.”

  Mary turned away from Bridget with a wide smirk on her face.

  “Please?”

  “You mention a word to anyone that I told you this and I’ll beat you. You hear me?”

  Bridget nodded yet again.

  “The red devils rode through the town, setting fire to all the houses. They asked us if we wanted to surrender with the prospect of being burned alive, and many good folks came out. When they did, the red devils said they didn’t need no more French prisoners and they struck the men down, and the women.”

  “What’d they do to the children?” Bridget asked.

  Mary shook her head and sighed the same way she had done so many times before.

  “The savages skewered their little bodies, from anus to mouth.”

  Bridget winced.

  “That night, men could be heard screaming about the land as the red devils skinned them alive and then roasted their flesh. They used the women in their fiendish ways and killed them too. Those of us that could get out, me and my folks, we made for Falmouth, to a place we thought was safe.”

  “But it wasn’t safe, was it?”

  “No,” replied Mary. “It wasn’t. A few nights later, while we lay in our beds, the red devils snuck into the village along with a few of the French. They broke through the doors and smashed people’s heads right on the pillow. I saw my mama’s life drain from her face. Nothing but a freak encounter saved me from them too.”

  Bridget waited for her favorite part of the story.

  “The Black Man appeared and the red devils scattered. He approached me and shook his head at the carnage that lay about the cabin. ‘Go south to Salem before they return.’ I’ll never forget those words and the way they slithered from his face like a filthy snake. I did what he said. I ran and ran until I found a farm where they sent word to your daddy, my uncle. You can imagine my surprise when I found out that he lived here, in Salem.”

  “The Black Man saved you,” Bridget said.

  “Or damned me,” replied Mary. She turned and left the child to ponder the possibility of another attack.

  ***

  Mary awoke the next morning with the echoes of the Reverend’s sermon in her head. She had no lingering memories of the previous night, but did not make any assumptions about what that meant. The Black Man worked like the insidious leak in a roof. What started as a trickle could end as a devastating flood. She went about her daily work, feeding the hens at sunrise and keeping the flame in the hearth. The others began their daily activities as well while trying to fend off the morning’s bitter chill.

  “I dreamt of the red devils.”

  “Aye. We all do, coming from the frontier war,” replied Mary.

  Bridget moved through the room whisking dirt from the floor, or at least appearing to do her chores.

  “Other girls been talking about Tituba.”

  Mary stopped and turned to face her young cousin. She glanced about the room.

  “What about her?”

  “They say she can help, with, you know, boys.”

  “That’s a lie. Sinners will pay for it.”

  “She can. They been in the woods with the Venus glass.”

  Mary shuttered the window and pushed the door shut. She grabbed Bridget by the shoulders and forced her into a chair.

  “Who’s talking of this?”

  “Abigail and Betty,” replied Bridget.

  “Have you not heard of the Reverend Hale’s cautions? That glass will bring nothing but diabolical manifestations. You stay away from Tituba, you hear me?”

  Bridget nodded but smiled.

  “This is not to be trifled with. You’d only be whipped for singing and dancing. But witchcraft is a hanging offense.”

  “Then what do you do out in the dark night, deep in the woods? I seen you, Mary. I seen you walking out there.”

  Mary sighed and placed her hands on her hips.

  “That ain’t nothing for you to be worrying about. I know what I’m doing and it’s for the sake of the colony, the Crown.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  Bridget smiled again and the blood drained from Mary’s face.

  “What else have they said about the slave woman?”

  “Tituba?”

  “Of course, child. Don’t play games with me.”

  “They say she’s not from Africa. They say she’s one of the red devils,” Bridget said.

  “She came from Barbados.”

  “Aye,” replied Bridget. “But that is not where she was born.”

  Mary waited. Bridget kicked her feet in the air as th
ey dangled inches from the floor. She leaned back in the chair and grinned at her cousin.

  “Well?”

  “They say she’s an Orik.”

  “Arawak.”

  “Yes, that’s it. From the Arawak tribe. They say she learned the black arts in Barbados.”

  “The Venus glass is not a black art,” replied Mary. “It’s nothing but a silly parlor game played by foolish and troublesome young girls.”

  The last comment wiped the smirk from Bridget’s face.

  “Abigail says all the girls do it.”

  “Because Abigail is foolish and troublesome. You stay away from her, you understand? And you stay away from Tituba too. That’s the devil’s work and you’ll be whipped for it.”

  Bridget shifted on the chair as if she could feel the whacks to her backside. Mary turned away from her cousin to tend to the hearth when the girl spoke again.

  “That ain’t all they say about Tituba.”

  ***

  “Good morning, Goody Parris.”

  “Good day to you, Mary. What brings you out this way, distracting you from your chores?”

  Mary let the subtle accusation slide and swallowed her pride.

  “I was hoping for a word with Abigail.”

  “She’s busy at the hearth,” replied Goody Parris. Her eyes traveled from Mary’s head to her feet where she could see the previous day’s charcoal on the hem of the skirt. “I reckon you ain’t been as busy at your hearth.”

  “One word, ma'am. May I?”

  Goody Parris spun from the door and called out her daughter’s name. Abigail appeared a few moments later, her hands twisting at the apron covering her stained and tattered frock.

  “Mary Walcott is here and she wishes a word with you. I shall expect the water to be boiling when I return from the field.”

  Mary forced a smile at Goody Parris as she backed out of the doorway, allowing Abigail junior to step out.

  “What gossip are you spreading in this town?”

  Abigail smiled at Mary and looked over her shoulder. “None,” she replied.

  “You’re a filthy liar, Abigail Parris. Tituba is not practicing dark arts with the children and you best not be telling those stories.”

  “Who is saying I am?”

  “Bridget.”

  “Right,” replied Abigail. “Bridget speaks of flying horses over the south fields. You seen any of those?”

  A man rode past the front of the Parris place and tipped his hat at the two teenage girls talking on the front step. They smiled and waited for him to pass before continuing.

  “Reverend Hale is in Salem. He’s got books, Abigail. Lots of books. They give him the right to do examinations and if they find out that—”

  “He won’t find nothing ‘cause there ain’t nothing to find. Tituba may have done the Venus glass with some girls. She may have done it with some of the women too. It ain’t witchcraft if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Have you seen him, Abigail?”

  Abigail leaned back against the house and crossed her arms.

  “Hale?”

  “You know of whom I speak.”

  “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me seein’ as how you must’ve seen someone?”

  Mary sighed and looked into Abigail’s eyes. She knew the Parris family well. Everyone did. Their eldest daughter stood with the posture of entitlement and privilege.

  “I’m trying to save us from eternal damnation, from the burning fires of Hell.”

  “Really?” Abigail asked. “By having relations with John Indian? Is that why you’re so concerned about Tituba, ‘cause you’re knowin’ her husband?”

  Mary slapped Abigail across the face. Abigail put her hands to her mouth and fought the tears welling in her eyes.

  “So help me God, Abigail. If you don’t stop with this foolishness you’re going to bring a pointy reckoning to us all.”

  “I’m thinking you’re the only one here concerned about a ‘pointy’ reckoning. I’ve got a pot to boil.”

  “It ain’t John Indian, Abigail. That ain’t who I been seeing in the dark of the night.”

  Abigail walked up to Mary with a fresh, red mark on her left cheek. She grinned and stuck her chin out.

  “Then who, Mary? Maybe we can have Tituba run a Venus glass for you too?”

  “Nothing corporal,” replied Mary. “Hale is right to be concerned, but it ain’t Tituba he should be worrying about.”

  “Spill it, Mary Walcott.”

  “Tis the Black Man. And where the Black Man appears the red devils will follow.”

  Abigail Parris nodded and slammed the door in Mary’s face.

  ***

  Mary dreaded the night. Before her parents had been slaughtered in their bed by the red devils, she enjoyed the solemnity of darkness as a reprieve from her chores. Mary used to dream of seeing Boston, of walking the streets and visiting all of the fine shops the city had to offer. She imagined owning servants and having her meals served on silver platters.

  But the red devils stole that from her. They snatched her future away in the same way the yellow fever would steal the healthy, vibrant young of the colony. She was still unsure how she made it out alive. At times, Mary wished the natives had split her head open as well. She dreamed of an eternal sleep devoid of the dark forces she had to deal with now. The Black Man arrived on the Maine frontier during the raids on Falmouth and saved her. At least that’s what she thought. Now, Mary could not decide whether he was her salvation or her damnation. Either way, she served him, and Mary tired of serving. She thought again of Boston before inching the door shut.

  Mary felt the chill in her bones, the visceral cold intensifying with each passing sundown in October. Smoke curled and drifted from chimneys as the town tried desperately to combat the encroaching winter. She tugged at her stay and then pulled her scarf around her neck while looking across the fields. A few flickers of flame could be seen reflecting off the windows of houses, but none suggesting that anyone remained awake in the dead of the night.

  As Mary walked toward the darkened forest, she thought about her conversation with Abigail and how much the girl really knew. Mary came very close to disclosing her association with the Black Man but then pulled back. What exactly would she tell Abigail? The form of Lucifer that spared her life from the red devils in Maine was now here in Salem, corrupting her mind and her flesh? Would she say that she was in his service? Mary wrestled with these thoughts as her footsteps released the pungent aroma of fallen leaves and ripe apples. She passed a row of fruit trees and was not even tempted to pull a Devonshire Quarrenden from the branch and sink her teeth into the crisp, sweet apple.

  It was the loss of the mundane pleasures that angered Mary. The red devils, the Black Man, the frontier violence: they stole her childhood, her innocence. She mourned the loss for herself but also for the others more vulnerable, even her loose-lipped cousin, Bridget.

  She looked back at her house atop the hill as she reached the edge of the forest. The night appeared tranquil and peaceful, and yet Mary would never have that security again. For her, it would always be a time when hidden evil revealed itself to corrupt what was left of the righteous. The path lay before her and she could see it with a clarity that others could not. They may have caught a glimpse of her entering the trees, but the way would remain obscured to all but her. Mary paused and, for a moment, considered turning her back on the path and returning home, barring the door, and hiding. But she chased the foolish thought from her head. She was a young woman, not a child. Children hid from problems but women faced them. At least the strong ones did, and Mary thought she was regardless of the emotional scars left by the red devils.

  The trees hung low and the leaves falling from the branches created a silent, dark storm beneath the canopy. The birds were gone, and the natural creatures remaining in the forest were silent. What appeared to be a vibrant, thriving environment in the long days of summer felt more like the underworld now. W
ith the addition of eternal flame, Mary thought she could be walking through the gates of Hell.

  She pushed deeper until the forest was so thick that it stole what little light remained in the sky. Even with the leaves falling, the silence and darkness suffocated the life from it. Mary felt the familiar fear welling up in her throat. Whenever she moved closer to the Black Man, her body revolted in ways that became recognizable. Her eyes fluttered and her heart raced in her chest. Mary heard the snapping of a twig and spun to face the noise.

  “Who is it?” she asked. Mary realized what a foolish question it was. She knew exactly who was there.

  But then another sound of cracking wood came from behind her. It took Mary several moments to figure out that there was more than the Black Man in the forest, there were others here too. She started to run down the path toward the spot where she would meet him. Mary knocked branches aside and nearly tripped over her own skirt. She pulled the fabric up at the waist and pushed her legs harder. The noises intensified in pace with her acceleration until it sounded as if a herd of mountain lions was in pursuit. Her cap fell from her head and Mary’s long, blonde hair fell to her shoulders and spilled down her back. Sweat ran down her cheek despite the night’s chill, and she ran as hard as she could, deeper into the void. Mary hopped a downed tree, sprinting to the place where the Black Man would wait for her. For once, she was running to him for safety instead of trying to escape his clutches. She turned and felt a brush of air on her cheek. She collapsed to the ground, falling to her knees and putting her hands in her face. Mary had no desire to identify her pursuers.

  “I see you have met my familiars.”

  She looked up to see the Black Man standing before her with his arms spread wide.

  “The ancients called them gakis.”

  “Make them go away,” she cried into her hands. “I don’t want to see them.”