Because of her mother’s passing Rose Mary and I were very close, and she would often visit my parents’ homestead. In fact our parents were close until the day Rose Mary’s family perished in a wendigo attack, and only she survived. My father never forgave himself for being unable to save his friend and his family.
When we came of age at ten years old, my father took us both out to the woods. I must recount that both Rose Mary and I were most afraid of what my father was about to do. Until this time we didn’t know about hunting, we thought our parents were simple farmers. But, of course, that was not the case. My father took us a mile from the house into the darkest recesses of the woods and I will never forget the sight before me. Tied to a tree, chained with iron shackles, was a naked man shivering in the cool night air. Rose Mary squealed, but then held her tongue. I, however, knew that my father wouldn’t have shown us this strange sight unless there was a lesson to be learned. He handed Rose Mary and I a flintlock musket each. The weapons felt heavy and unwieldy in our small hands.
“What are we to do with this?” I asked.
“Just wait and watch,” my father replied sternly.
As the moon rose full over the woods, slowly the man before us started to snarl. Then he began to arch his body, howling in pain as silver hair sprouted over his entire body. Eventually what stood before us was a man no longer, but rather a most uncommon beast—a wolf.
So hideous and frightening was the sight that Rose Mary cowered and I wanted to turn away, but my father insisted we keep our eyes on the creature. Still shackled to the tree, the wolf paced and gnashed his awful teeth. He lunged at us as if there wasn’t a man inside him at all.
“See the animal before you,” my father said, “he was once a man. A good man. But he has been unfortunately cursed. He was bitten by a creature, much like the creature you see before you now. It’s in his nature to roam these woods and hunt and eat humans. The man inside him would surely be appalled by such acts. But the animal, it’s his instinct. What do you think the man would feel if tomorrow he woke up and remembered all the awful things his animal self had done in the night?”
Rose Mary piped up, “He would surely feel most awful.”
“Exactly Rose Mary, he would hate himself. He would be ashamed, and he might even turn his rage upon himself. But he won’t stop. He can’t stop, because this animal is inside him. The one blessing is that he won’t remember his actions as a beast once he turns back into a man. But he will kill. So what do you think this man would ask us to do?”
“He would surely ask us to kill him to save the people he might kill,” I offered. “If he was a good man he would.”
“You are exactly right, Nathaniel. You are such a smart boy. He would ask us to kill him. So the question is. Who will help this man tonight?”
Rose Mary and I looked at one another. Neither of us had ever held a gun, much less thought of killing a man. But it was without question the right thing to do. The animal that paced and growled before us would do much harm. Harm that the man inside of would be horrified at.
Rose Mary and I agreed to level our muskets at the same moment, thus neither of us could singularly feel guilty for killing the creature. And that is what we did. Father told us that only a silver bullet would kill the animal. As much as I was saddened about our act, it was the right thing to do.
I recall that story because that animal was a man beneath. And it is always an awful thing to kill a man. But there is a greater good to be served. As I go into the fight tonight with my own two sons by my side I will tell them that story, because it’s with a heavy heart that I know there will be lives lost. We must kill the witches, or we ourselves will be killed. Though they are most undoubtedly human, they are evil. And we must eradicate them.
I consider myself a most lucky man for having lived the life I have. I found a most loving and wonderful wife early in my life and my three children are my ultimate joy. This hard and sometimes lonely life of hunting would be intolerable if it wasn’t for them.
Dear family, if you are reading this, I’ve either lost my facilities or come to my end. Please remember that I love you all. I will meet you in heaven most surely.
Your father,
Nathaniel Campbell.
THIRTY-THREE
In loving memory of Nathaniel Campbell and Rose Mary Campbell, loving parents to Thomas, Caleb and Hannah.
My siblings and I thought it appropriate to close my father’s journal with the last entry relating his death. Perhaps later generations will be able to draw wisdom from his sacrifice. The remaining pages have been written by Thomas Campbell, age fifteen, Fall 1692.
The night that my brother Caleb and I broke my father out of jail, the village of Salem had turned to chaos. After my father confronted the magistrates and unveiled Prudence as a witch, most of residents went into hiding. Rightly so, for they had sat within a few feet of her for weeks, under her spell and believing every accusation she made. Upon discovery, Prudence fled. The night that followed would be the last night my father and mother spent in this corporeal realm. This is what happened.
Later that night, we retreated to our home. When we opened the door we realized that the witches had been there before us. Our mother had disappeared. She had set out our secret signal that something had gone wrong, so we knew that she had been either forcibly taken or was already dead. Our parents made up this signal for us when we were small children and they would go out hunting. If something bad happened, Father told us to turn over a tea cup and leave it on the kitchen table. That is what we saw when we entered the silent house. It was our mother’s sign to us.
My father was weakened from exhaustion and lack of food in prison but he wouldn’t stop to rest. He immediately pulled up the hidden door set underneath our kitchen table—built into the floor we had an arsenal for emergency use. Now was such an emergency.
We armed ourselves and forced my father to drink a warm cup of broth, then we set out for Constance’s property. We knew that Constance and Prudence were close to accomplishing a most evil task. So evil of a task that my brother and I hardly wanted to think of it. Raising the devil wasn’t something father had trained us against. Raising the devil would essentially make Hell on Earth. Both my brother and I knew that we must defeat the witches or risk losing the entire New World to evil.
Hannah made sure we were all warmly wrapped up and we left her behind, well armed, to guard our home. Father kissed her on the forehead before leaving.
“My dear girl,” he said, “you are the strongest, smartest young woman to walk the face of God’s great Earth. Do not ever change.”
A single tear streaked down Hannah’s cheek as though she already knew what was in store for my father.
“Don’t behave as though you will never see me again,” she said. “I’ll make sure there is a home for you to come back to.”
We took my father’s horse, our most sure-footed and silent. We would tie him up away from the fight in case one of us needed to flee or fetch help. Though I think we all knew there was no more help to get.
As we approached Constance’s residence, the lights of a hundred witches’ lanterns showed through the trees. Most of the figures were obscured behind a small knoll, so we could not see where our mother was. Father gave us the signal to wait. We sorted out our weapons on the damp ground. After a few minutes, the congregation of witches began to chant, their horrible voices building in strength and power as they continued.
Then a sound echoed through the woods which will be forever burned into my soul: my mother’s screams.
We grabbed our guns and crawled up the hill on our stomachs. Down below was a most horrific sight. A hundred witches chanted in unison, most no more than resurrected bodies of rotting flesh and bone. These putrid, wretched beings were now animated living things once again. Their voices were pitched low and threatening, and the noise continued to build, until our heads felt full of the horrible sound.
The witches moved around a great f
ire built in the shape of a ring. Inside the ring a hole was filled with perfectly round rocks. In front of the fire a large platform had been erected. This is where my poor mother kneeled. I knew she was scared. As proficient a hunter as she may be, no one could face down a hundred witches and not fear for her life.
Terror washed over my father’s face. There were many more witches than we had previously thought, the resurrections more numerous than we could ever have imagined. There must have been many more murders than we had discovered. All those people, including poor Abigail Faulkner, had been used as sacrifices for these resurrections.
I thought about the innocent people that the magistrates had sent to the gallows. They were not among the witches. The accused were all good, God-fearing, innocent members of the church, yet they had been put to death.
At that moment, two more witches appeared out of the woods dragging the body of a man. He seemed to be alive. Closer inspection revealed it to be Reverend Parris. The witches brought him to face a witch who was dressed in ceremonial garb. As she turned her head, I saw with a shiver that it was Prudence. She shot out her arm and lifted his petrified face to hers. The chanting halted and her sneering voice carried to our ears through the still night air.
“Why Reverend, why are you so scared? It is I, innocent little Prudence. Perhaps my station takes you as a bit of surprise. But you didn’t really think all those innocent people were really witches did you? Well I suppose you did. But it had to be done. You would surely have paid much too much attention to the dead bodies popping up around Salem Village if we hadn’t created another antagonist for you to concentrate your foolish beliefs. You sir, and I say this having known my fair share of men of God, are a pitiful, greedy human being. The kind of man who doesn’t deserve the respect of anyone.”
Reverend Parris cried out like an infant.
“Why have you brought me here? I am not one of your evil clan.”
Prudence smiled. “But you are, Reverend. You blindly followed a group of hysterical children, and you used them to do your bidding. One by one you eradicated your enemies.”
“I don’t know what you speak of,” the Reverend moaned.
“Tsk, tsk, Reverend. Of course you do. Don’t you remember the nights you spent with your sweet little niece by the fire? Where you would placidly recount who you thought might be practicing witchcraft? What impressionable young woman wouldn’t want to please you. Especially one so easily swayed. That is how you made sure everyone in the village with whom you had a disagreement was jailed or hanged.”
“That’s not true! I’m not what you say,” the Reverend cried.
“Don’t try to deny it, Reverend. Make your peace with God, this will be your last night on Earth. You’ll be meeting Him soon enough.”
With that she flicked her hand and the Reverend flew up in the air. He landed on the ground some distance away with his leg at a most unnatural angle. He cried out in pain. But Prudence ignored him, turning her attention instead to our mother. Mother was silent, but I knew she was afraid.
My father turned to Caleb and I.
“Boys, we will surely be outnumbered. We are but three against a hundred powerful wtiches. You must go ask for King Philip’s help. We need more men. Unfortunately we didn’t part on good terms last we spoke but try to convince him of our need. If we don’t stop the witches, our world as well as Philip’s tribe and way of life will be endangered. The Necronomicon could destroy the entire world. Please get him and his men. They must come.”
Caleb and I nodded. We knew the Wampanoag Indians were fierce warriors, they had killed many colonists from Boston to the territories north. Caleb and I had never traveled east to their land; moreover, we had never gone such a distance alone. King Philip had fostered a friendship with Father and he had always come to our house. The thought of a long, hurried journey on horseback through the night was daunting but the moonlight would light our way.
We said goodbye to Father, slid back down the hill and silently slipped away. We led the horse for a mile over the meadow so our retreat wouldn’t be heard by the witches. Riding tandem, we escaped east.
We rode hard, crossing dark fields and still darker woodlands. We crossed over a series of streams and soon came to a cliff that led down to a river. Beyond the water lay the woods that bordered King Philip’s territory.
We crossed the river at a shallow point, keeping our legs raised clear of the rushing water. By necessity we made a disturbance, and as soon as we got to the other side we knew that one of Philip’s scouts had seen us. Within a mile, we came to a clearing and found ourselves surrounded by Wampanoag Indians. These men were fierce, proud people and when they moved you could see their power and skill. We dismounted and waited, soothing our agitated horse and soon King Philip came forward.
I approached him respectfully.
“Please accept our humble apologies for arriving without invitation. But my father, your friend, Nathaniel Campbell, urgently needs your help and that of your men.”
King Philip was a most handsome man, tall, powerful. He ran his nation deftly and had the skills of any colonist negotiator. I didn’t know whether I would be able to convince him to help. Any fifteen-year-old would have been nervous, and I was shaking in my boots.
“Why should I put my men at risk? Your father is a most kind and learned man, but I cannot lead my men into a battle which doesn’t concern them,” he said.
I thought for a moment. I wasn’t sure what my response should be. He was right, of course—why should he put his men in danger? I knew I had to be cunning without being defensive or impolite.
“Gracious King, there are witches in Salem who are conspiring to open up the gates to Hell—they are trying to summon the devil. If they succeed, the evil will spread past the boundaries of our colony to you and your people. Your men would be drawn into a fight with the creatures of Hell. The witches will not heed the river which is a barrier between your nation and our colony.”
“Your Christian gods do not frighten us, we have our own protector spirits,” King Philip replied.
“I’m very respectful of them,” I said, “as is my father. However, the evil that will unfurl over this land will be too great for even your most powerful protectors. I understand caution. My father speaks of it often. But in this is not the time for prudence, this is a time for action. I beg of you to lend us some of your men.”
“You do not require my presence?” King Philip asked.
“We would like nothing more, for you are a powerful warrior, but my father wouldn’t think of asking you to put yourself at risk. You have a great nation to run.”
King Philip thought for a moment.
“I always appreciate a courteous word from a colonist, but I must refuse your plea. My nation and its safety is the most important thing and I cannot lead them into peril.”
I nodded respectfully. What else could I do? Caleb opened his mouth to protest, but I shot him a look to silence him. We bowed and received a gift of fresh water in a skin from King Philip’s wife, and then we left. Once we were out of earshot, Caleb began to weep.
“Stop that,” I said. “We will find a way to defeat the witches. But not if you have such soft resolve.”
Caleb wiped away his tears and we dug our heels into the horse’s sides to push it forward and back into the river. That’s when we heard the pounding of hooves from behind us. King Philip had allowed his men to fight. They came in full warrior regalia. Caleb and I were filled with hope and we gave them our thanks. They followed us back across the river.
It was another hour at full gallop to reach the village and then ten minutes to get to the edge of Constance’s lands. We dismounted a mile away and led the horses closer. The Indian horses were well trained and didn’t make a sound as we approached.
My father saw us coming and came to meet us. He greeted the men’s leader, who was King Philip’s brother, and together through gestures—for the brother did not speak English—they made plans. The I
ndians would circle the witches while my father created a diversion, and with guns drawn Caleb and I would free our mother.
The Indians moved off silently to take their places.
When I peeked back over the knoll a most unsettling sight lay before me. My mother had been led down to the ring of fire, and the witches encircled her, their voices louder than ever. Constance led the crescendo of chanting, calling upon the four Princes of Hell to rise.
The first she called forth was Belial.
Seeing the dire situation before us, my father started the attack with swift signal to King Philip’s men.
Moments later, the Indians emerged from the woods. The orange firelight illuminated their painted brown-skinned bodies and they looked like other-worldly warriors. In an explosion of action, they attacked the witches, their large sticks and spears impaling and beheading the enemy in turn. Muskets were drawn and bullets flew.
Seizing our moment, in the midst of the chaos, Caleb and I ran down the hill, stumbling and tripping toward the fire. It seemed the resurrected witches were easily brought down with a musket shot to the head or a quick stab through the heart.
However, Prudence and Constance proved to be much harder to defeat.
When Caleb and I reached the bottom of the hill, Prudence attacked us from the left. Caleb pulled back his musket to shoot, but she grabbed it and flung it into the fire. It landed on the rocks with a clatter. She flew at Caleb and caught him by the neck. He was thrown down with such force that his body made a mark in the earth.
Grasping a burning log from the fire, I swung it at Prudence’s head from behind. She flipped over to face me, somehow unhurt, and flinging the log from my hands, she encircled my neck with her fingers. I fought to breathe, realizing as I choked that my adversary must be weaker than she had been, since she was using physical force for her attack rather than spells or the black arts. It seemed most of her energy had been sucked away by the resurrection still taking place a few feet from our fight.
Supernatural: One Year Gone Page 19
