One Night in Salem

by Amber Newberry

  Poppy grew red in the face at the thought of it. Stupid Bobby. I’ll show him.

  He would be at this party, she knew that for sure, after all his talk about it. She would have to find an opportunity to play a prank on him when she got there. She pondered her options as she walked straight down Lafayette Street. As she passed the police station, Poppy crossed to the other side of the street, keeping her head down, as if her scheming and her guilty conscience might be sensed by an officer on duty. Poppy turned right onto Essex Street, hurrying past the attractive window displays of the shops. Some of the stores were still open, and there was more traffic here, both in the street and on the sidewalk. Poppy zigged and zagged around other pedestrians along Essex until she came to the corner across from the six-story Hawthorne Hotel. Poppy was too young to remember it being built, but one of her earliest memories was at the hotel’s opening, watching the celebratory parade march by, leaning against the ornate iron fence of the Common.

  Crossing Hawthorne Boulevard, Poppy walked up to the same section of black ironwork fence. She dropped her bindle on the ground, sat next to it, and untied it. Pulling out the pillowcase, she laid it on the grass and smoothed it flat, then placed the tailors’ chalk and shears on the makeshift workspace. She draped the sheet over her head, grabbed the chalk, and while feeling for her eye sockets with her free hand, she traced around each of them with the chalk-wielding one. Removing the sheet from her head, she held it up to the glow of a nearby streetlight, and could just make out the thin blue line enough to cut around the two circles somewhat neatly. She placed the scissors and chalk into the pillowcase and stood up, draping the sheet over her head once more. The eye holes matched up to her eyes, more or less, and Poppy felt pleased with her ghostly endeavor. She bent and found the pillowcase, and started off.

  Poppy began to circumnavigate the Common in search of her classmates and the legendary party. She had expected to find a steady stream of costumed children to lead the way, but the Common and the streets around it were empty. She sensed someone watching her from behind, and turned her head to see if it was a classmate, but found her eyes focused on the white weave of her costume, and had to spin around on her heels to survey the street behind her. She heard no footfalls and saw no one at first, but then found the eyes staring at her, an imposing figure: a man with a broad brimmed hat and wide shoulders cloaked in a flowing cape. His stern, unblinking gaze was focused directly at Poppy. Poppy’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt conspicuously small and alone. She turned to flee, but stopped herself to look again, adjusting the holes in her sheet for a clearer view. I would be frightened of such a man, she thought, giggling nervously to herself, if he weren’t made of bronze and permanently affixed to a boulder. Poppy sighed, and the statue of Roger Conant continued to stare at her, forever unblinking.

  Poppy turned away from Roger, shaking off the strange giddiness from their encounter. She scanned the Common and the houses around it, and from where she stood, she saw a figure hurry down the sidewalk and turn into a path next to one of the mansions. The person was dressed head to toe in white. Someone in costume, Poppy thought. She sprinted across the Common, past the Washington Arch gateway and out the other side of the iron fence. She stopped running when she reached the pillar and urn flanked front gate of a three-story brick mansion, covered with ivy. The curtains were drawn, but she could see glimmers of flickering light where the draperies met. She heard a chorus of voices inside singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

  Poppy began to open the gate to walk up to the front door, but then she had a wicked thought. Bobby Walker will be here, and I want the chance to scare the pants right off him. Slowly, quietly closing the gate, Poppy headed down the path next to the garden, where she had seen the costumed figure enter before, and found the side door. She pushed the thumb latch down and opened the door just wide enough to sidle through. Stealthily, her back pressed against the wall, Poppy inched the door closed silently. She adjusted her eye holes and looked around.

  She was in a dimly lit hallway. A line of white teeth ran diagonally up the wall across from her: the balusters of staircase. At the foot of the stairs, she could see two white rectangles against the dark wallpaper: two doors. Poppy chose the door facing the bottom of the stairway and found herself inside a small, narrow room. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with cabinets, the top ones glass-fronted and displaying all manner of serving vessels. There was a cut-out under the top set of cabinets on one side, for passing food from the kitchen, so the door opposite the one Poppy had entered surely led to the dining room. Poppy pressed her ear against the door. She could hear a woman speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, but heard no sounds of joyful children enjoying a raucous Halloween party. Poppy inched open the swinging door and pressed her face into the crack, until she could just see into the next room.

  It was the dining room, but no one was supping at the table. The room was lit only by candles placed around its perimeter. From her vantage point, Poppy could see two brass candelabras on the sideboard, wax dripping in uneven blobs down their tapers. In the dancing glow of the candles, a group of men and women sat around a circular table, shoulder to shoulder, each with their palms pressed flat in front of them on top of the table. Facing Poppy’s direction was a woman in a green sequined evening dress. She wore a satin turban of the same emerald green color, and about her neck were several strands of long pearl necklaces layered over a cascading collar of dazzling diamonds. Every facet of her ensemble caught the candlelight, making every slight movement of her torso, even as she drew air into and out of her lungs, into a shimmering spectacle. She spoke, eyes closed, hands pressed against the table like the others, “We beseech you, child, make your presence known. Are you here with us?”

  Poppy held in a breath. She was certain she was trespassing—this was no children’s party. Even with her eyes closed, did this bedazzled woman know Poppy was there? The woman continued to speak, “Use the table, child. Have you come to us through the portal of white light?” Suddenly, the table rocked back and forth, with a muffled clunk-clunk of its feet against the carpet. This elicited gasps from the crowd gathered around it. Poppy was awestruck, her mouth hanging open in amazement, concealed beneath the shroud of her costume.

  “Are you the spirit of Alice Hastings?”

  The table rocked back and forth again. One of the women began weeping, her shoulders shuddering, and then began to wail, “Alice. My poor Alice. Alice!” The table began to rock rapidly, and the group struggled to keep their hands pressed against its top.

  “Mrs. Hastings,” the emerald clad woman addressed the weeping one, “I need you to stay calm. Alice’s spirit is very active.”

  Mrs. Hastings only wept more loudly, gasping for air between her sobs. “I need to know,” she croaked between ragged breaths. The emerald clad woman closed her eyes and asked, “Alice, are you safe in the arms of our Lord?” The table remained still.

  “Alice, are you lost? Does your spirit not rest?”

  The table tipped violently, and Mrs. Hastings began to wail like a banshee. Suddenly, the table flipped up and smashed itself against the exterior wall, its legs smashing through the windows, and then toppled down over the sideboard. Poppy, startled, leaned on the swinging butler’s door with her full weight, falling headlong into the dining room.

  As Poppy stumbled to her feet, the scene in the room was bedlam. The table had knocked over one of the candelabras from the sideboard, and flames began to lick up the drapes, smoke hanging in the air. The emerald clad woman was struck by the table on its return to the Earth and was lying prone on the floor under it. One of the women was loudly reciting the Lord’s Prayer in a corner, clutching at a gold cross on a chain around her neck.

  The wind blew in the broken windows, whipping the drapes about and fanning the flames. Poppy flailed her arms for balance as she repeatedly found her feet tangled in the mess of her costume. The wind tunneled through the room, the remaining lit candles guttering, wax dro
plets splashing on the mantle and table beneath them. The gust caught the fabric around Poppy, blowing it behind her as she finally steadied herself. Mrs. Hastings caught sight of Poppy in the chaos, a full apparition in white, haloed in smoke, her costume flowing about her like ectoplasm, and began to scream, “My child! My child!” As the burning draperies began to set the wallpaper alight, one of the men found his senses and doused the flames with the seltzer bottle from the bar cart.

  Poppy turned and bolted back through the swinging door, and her sheet caught in it, dragging the costume off of her as she crashed through the pantry. Running through the hallway and bursting out the side door, Poppy missed the granite step down to the garden path and fell, landing on her hands and knees, sliding across the brickwork. She moaned softly as tears ran down her face. As she clamored to her feet, wiping dirt and blood from her skinned palms onto the skirt of her dress, she found herself face to face with a girl of her own age. She appraised Poppy with forlorn eyes. Poppy could see every detail of the girl’s narrow face and bobbed hair, her dropped-waist tiered skirt dress, and her Mary Jane shoes, but every bit of the girl and her outfit was stark white. Poppy could also see straight through the girl to the silhouette of the trees in the garden and the hedgerows along the walkway, and even through the Mary Janes to see the bricks below her feet, as if this girl was made of silk chiffon. The girl held out a translucent hand to Poppy and said, “Are you okay?”

  1672

  what they did not know

  Linette Kasper

  They speak of attack in town, so on the outskirts, we prepare.

  There is unrest amongst the savages. The saved ones that live alongside us say it is not them. They claim the ones doing this are the pukwudgies—malevolent creatures from their folklore. They say they are trying to start a war between us.

  Do we dare trust them, or are they agents of the Devil as the others are, still linked to their past? We watch their actions with leery eyes, expecting. With the heightened fear, it only takes one act of deceit to turn the village against them.

  Another night of waiting and wondering. We retreat to our homes as the sun descends below the horizon, shuttering windows and settling into evening routines. The few houses along the road are dark and quiet, everyone and everything hushed. They prefer night because by the time we see them, it is too late.

  I watch through slits, pondering if this night will be different from the last. Behind me in the room, Mother sits by the fire holding my brother, the babe swaddled tightly as she rocks him with a soft prayer. Father sits opposite her, listening to the house, as Amelia plays quietly on the floor with her poppet.

  I return my attention to the world outside, scanning and waiting. For what? I am not sure.

  It is dark, save for the small, amber glow of fires in nearby homes breaking the monotony of the blackness. The pale light of the waning moon barely illuminates the road, casting faded shapes that move slightly with the eerie wind whistling through the cracks in the house.

  I turn and check on the family, still in the same positions as before, though now Father is dozing. I smile and return to my watch. No change.

  Time passes slowly and my eyes begin to droop. A sound startles me and I jerk awake. Mother nudges a sleepy Amelia and urges her to bed, climbing the ladder to the upper floor with her in the lead.

  I stay, continuing to watch the road. I move to another window and spy the blackened woods across from us. I focus, watching the edge for movement other than the wind. If they plan to attack, they will come from here. Branches full of colored leaves dance, waving up and down as the trunks sway gently back and forth, enthralling me.

  The trees stiffen along the line and the woods are still. I stare, wondering if the wind ceased, but realize it has not as it continues to whistle tunelessly through the house. I glance over my shoulder at Father, slouched in his chair next to the glowing embers of the dying fire.

  Turning back, I catch a figure emerging from the woods, tall and pale. Then another appears behind him, as if from nowhere. Then another. A few more follow, slowly staggering toward us, as if out of the trees themselves.

  I back away, turning and rushing to Father before shaking him awake. He bolts upright. “What is bothering you, William?” he questions.

  “The savages…they prepare to attack!” I exclaim, shaken as I return to the window. He follows, bending and peeking through a slit.

  I do the same, finding the figures much closer. They have a faint aura, as though their sallow skin is reflecting the feeble light of the moon. They seem dressed in shrouds, but only in pieces, the rest of their body bare. Their faces are gaunt and almost hollow with eyes like black, fathomless pits.

  Two approach the house as the others continue farther to the next. In their hands are small axes. They stare at us with blank eyes, their mouths open as if in a scream, but no sound comes. Father pulls me away from the window, directing me to fetch Mother and Amelia. I climb the ladder with haste and alert them, leading them back to the front room where Father has the cellar door open and ready.

  A loud bang erupts on the front door and Mother jumps. Amelia begins to cry, and as Mother calms her, Joseph stirs with soft whimpers. She quiets him as another raucous thump echoes through the house. Swaddling him tighter, she guides Amelia below.

  Father urges me to join them, but I hesitate. Another blow. “Quick, William! You must!”

  I concede, descending below as Father slowly lowers the door and then covers it. I crouch at the bottom of the steps as another bang echoes, followed by a loud crack. Searching the floorboards above us, I find a small knot hole and move quickly to it, spying through it. The savages stand in the broken doorway as Father grabs his musket, loading it and aiming at them. One continues forward, unafraid, with weapon raised.

  He fires, the ear-splitting sound deafening us. Mother consoles the younger ones as she recovers, and I check to see if we are safe. Peering through the hole again, I find both savages still standing, unharmed. Father reloads and shoots again with no result.

  One of them runs at him, bringing his axe down upon his shoulder, and I shout, rushing to the hatch and struggling to open it. The sound of tearing flesh and Father’s groans twist my insides, but I continue to fight with the stubborn wooden door. The savage strikes him again, and through the thin slit between it and the floor, I watch as he drops to his knees and then falls back, his eyes across from mine.

  “F-Father?” I call quietly to him.

  “Warn them,” his raspy voice rattles before a long exhale.

  His eyes stare blankly into mine as he lies still. Then his body begins to jerk as the savage retrieves his weapon once again. The other joins him, and my eyes stray to them as they turn and head back outside. I push harder on the hatch, but it refuses to move any further.

  I back down and sit, gathering my thoughts. Father is gone. I must keep my family safe now.

  Softer footsteps sound above, and I move back to the hole, figuring another savage has entered. Instead, a creature with spiny, gray skin skitters across the floor. It approaches Father’s body, standing atop it and snarling with teeth as sharp as the tip of a knife lining its mouth. It stares at him with vehement, black eyes set in a human-like face.

  It leans close to Father and listens, its large, crooked nose inches from his face. In one swift motion, it shoves its clawed hand through his chest. I gasp, and it pauses as I quickly cover my mouth and hold my breath. It glances around as the savages re-enter the room and points a bony finger toward the upper floor. They abide without protest.

  Returning to Father, the creature slowly pulls its hand from his chest, bringing with it a dimly glowing form. A sharp-toothed grin spreads across its face as my father stands before it, eyes as black as the savages with his mouth open in the same soundless scream. Then, with a flick of its claw, he disappears.

  The savages return and the creature nods at them. They move to lanterns lit on either end of the room, knocking each to the floor. A c
ackle erupts from the creature as it scurries out the door, and the savages disappear in the same manner Father had.

  As the flame spreads from the rug to the chair, I back away and turn to Mother, whispering, “We must leave. Father is gone and the house is ablaze.”

  Maintaining her composure, she gathers up Amelia and Joseph and we head to the outside cellar door. I climb the steps and force it open, making sure we are safe to leave. I send them ahead, closing the doors behind me, and then I hear a shriek.

  Turning quickly, I find one of the creatures attacking Mother as another grabs Amelia. She is dragged away, screaming, as Mother fights to keep Joseph, whose shrill cries pierce the night. I run to help Amelia, but I am slowed as something hits my leg. Glancing down, I find a small quill protruding from my calf. I pull it out and instantly feel dizzy, collapsing to the ground.

  I watch as Amelia disappears into the black woods with the savages. I call after her, but it is too late. Turning to Mother, I drag my body toward her as she wrests Joseph away from the creature before running toward town. My vision blurs and my head aches and I want to sleep. I fight it and focus, praying she makes it, but then I see one of the creatures signal a savage. He raises his bow and sets an arrow, and as he fires it, I shout a warning, but I am too late as it pierces her heart.

  She halts, her back arching as Joseph slips from her hands. I cry out as another arrow flies into her and Joseph drops to the ground, his cries silenced. She falls to her knees and then her body hits the dirt, her eyes staring as blankly as Father’s had.

  My vision blurs again as a creature approaches, standing over her before shoving its hand into her back and pulling her spirit from her body. Her illuminated form glances down at the babe, and then she slowly raises her head and looks at me with hollow eyes and gaping mouth before disappearing like the others. The creature moves to Joseph and picks him up, calling to the savages and other creatures as they trudge back toward the woods, other children in their capture.