Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  As fascinating as these communications were, she also detected elements of revenge. They grew louder, more intense, as if she was their only hope to help escape the hell that held them captive and attached to this property. This particular aspect disturbed her the most.

  Denise tossed out her thoughts the best she could as she composed herself, looking at the cameras. The show must go on.

  “So much has happened here, layered over three generations and a century of time. It’s difficult to sort through all the activity.”

  Ned spoke. “Can you go back to the first property that burned down, killing seven people?”

  Denise had performed her due diligence. She was prepared with facts and figures that needed no pomp and ceremony to fascinate the audience.

  “Let’s go back to the summer of the year nineteen-seventeen. The day was Thursday, June twenty-sixth. Jonathan and Elizabeth Jacobson owned this land. They were Amish and had five children. Three boys and two girls, ages four to seventeen.

  “They, with the help of their Amish community, erected a house and barn. They farmed these twenty-five acres with corn and lima beans. On one fateful night, all members of the Jacobson’s family died while the house and barn burned down to smoldering ashes. There was no explanation as to how the fires started. By the time neighbors arrived to help, both structures were hopelessly engulfed in flames.”

  Denise looked at Ned and Henry as they walked beside her, engrossed with her story. She walked up to and around the large shed.

  “This was where the first barn was built. As was the second. The property exchanged hands five times until nineteen sixty-four, when a young couple named Kevin and Barbara Turner bought the property. A second house and barn had been built by one of the previous owners in nineteen twenty-seven.”

  Denise kept a slow but steady pace across the lawn, ignoring the humidity that made breathing difficult. She felt this was the best way to deal with the barrage of communications battling for her attention. She envisioned a rope lassoed around both houses, linking them together through the fifty years that separated the terrible events killing nineteen people. She expected to find that same linkage moving forward to Murcat Manor.

  “The Turners turned the place into a commune: a classic Sixties hippie haven. Many people came and went over the next three years. Stories of wild parties, drugs, free love, backyard rock concerts for days at a time—like mini-Woodstocks—and anti-establishment signs and banners everywhere.”

  She took a breath. “Basically, everything the Sixties are remembered for defined the Turner place. Anything went. There were rumors some people of the commune were also into the dark arts. To what degree is not known.

  “But neighbors who lived in this community back then, whom we interviewed earlier this evening, tell stories that most of the locals stayed away from the Turner place. They all knew strange things were occurring here and wanted nothing to do with the steady pace of hippies and vagabonds that frequented the property.”

  Denise continued across the midnight moonlit lawn. “There’s no reason to walk to the boundaries of these twenty-five acres. All the activity occurred, and is occurring, in the house. And, there is a strong sense that what happened in nineteen-seventeen, and again a half-century later, is at work once again. The questions are, what, and where is it?”

  Denise found herself at the backdoor of Murcat Manor. She realized she was being drawn back into the house, as if whatever presence inhabiting the bed and breakfast was not afraid of her. It wanted her to return. She was being challenged. This had never happened. Most presences tried to detour her from continuing. She stared at the door knob, trying unsuccessfully to conceal a gasp.

  Denise felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, but somehow suppressed a terrifying scream fighting to leave her mouth.

  “Hey. Take it easy.”

  Ned’s voice and words were calm. She looked into the two cameras while the men filmed her. Henry and Johnny stood speechless.

  “Are you all right?” Ned said. “Do you want me to take the lead for a while?”

  Denise, sharp as ever, broke the awkward moment with a fake laugh. “Sure. I’m fine. There’s just a lot of activity here. That’s all. It’s hard to wrap my head around everything that’s going on right now. Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

  Ned was genuinely concerned. She could see it in his eyes. Both his hands were now on her shoulders.

  “Are you sure?” He looked at his watch. “We still have over two hours. There’s no need to rush.”

  Denise dismissed Ned’s suggestion with a second phony giggle and reached for the door. “The only place left to explore is the basement,” she said with a guileful smile to the cameramen. “Let's go.”

  Chapter 42 The Basement

  Emily Livingston lay quietly, rolled up on her belly, her head buried in her soft folded paws. The perfect pillow. She waited patiently in the darkness of Murcat Manor’s basement. It had been her turn to be the sentry and let most of the other cats rest.

  As nocturnal beings, they would normally be up and about by now. But they needed to conserve their energy for this special night’s hunt, which was about to begin.

  But Joseph Meci—Mec—oh, forget it. Indian Joe it is. She sensed she’d seen him before. But she was only in the second year of her sixth life. The only explanation was they had met during her past life. Could he have visited the Turner place?

  She searched her memories, which were quite coherent, over the past four centuries. There were hundreds of diverse people of all ages, race, religions and spiritual beliefs—or no beliefs at all—that came to the commune. Some sought enlightenment or they wanted to become ‘turned on’ into the world of psychedelic drug culture. Most were, to some degree, ready to “tune in, turn on, and drop out”—the call of the generation to snub their noses and turn away from status quo society, in search of wider more liberated horizons.

  Others were attracted to the dark arts that some practiced. It was a community where anything was acceptable. It was a ‘happening’ of searching for meaning in life and spiritual awareness through the new and exciting Holy Trinity: sex, drugs, and rock and roll. For the happy hippies, it just didn’t get any better than the Turner place. The farmhouse was as close to Nirvana as could be found anywhere on earth.

  Until Rebecca torched and cauterized the place into smoldering smithereens, killing everyone, including Emily and the rest of the cats.

  Scores of faces scrolled across Emily’s mind, but she failed to connect any to Indian Joe. In the commune, people shared interests, possessions, and resources. There was a blending that discouraged individuals to be conspicuous outside of physical features.

  When he had entered Murcat Manor earlier that day, the stranger displayed no distinctive mannerisms such as an accent or a limp that would make him stand out. With each successive non-match, the more concerned she became. In fact, she was becoming downright scared.

  The man harnessed powers. She perceived they were ancient, mystical, and powerful. Abilities she was not familiar with and could be difficult, if not impossible, to combat. He was a threat to her and the rest. That much she was sure.

  But so far, all he had managed to do since his arrival was go to The Frontiersman Room and sleep. Perhaps, he was just an old timer losing his mind, alone and lost in the present and trying to relive the traditions of ancestors long since passed.

  Regardless, she couldn’t let her guard down. Not tonight. She had to take preemptive measures to ensure he would not be trouble.

  Emily summoned Isabella, Angel, and Rachel, who had agreed to forego the extra sleep and monitor his room. They were stationed at the top of the stairs where they could see the door to the Frontiersman Room.

  “Anything yet?”

  “Nothing,” Isabella said. “Do you want us to wake him? Could be a lot of fun to throw him into the mix.”

  “No. Better that he rests. He’s pretty old and might sleep through the night. We’ll deal wit
h him tomorrow. For now, I don’t want him to interfere with what we have planned for the cast of American Ghost Stories.”

  Across the basement, along the familiar and empty work bench Raymond Hettinger had promised to do work on but never found the time, Annie, Chloe, Scarlett, Helen, and Jacqueline also waited in silence. Emily designated Annie second in charge of this event and was confident she could lead. Together, they would take out the cast of American Ghost Stories.

  Her second in command, Rebecca, was stubborn and difficult to manage. Emily needed those involved in this scheme to know their parts and follow through as a team. This was not the time for one of them to take an independent stand at the last moment. She could not afford the chance Rebecca might again start a fire and bring Murcat Manor down in a murderous gigantic bonfire of wood and mammal flesh.

  Rebecca, who had torched the Allen’s house in Battle Creek a month earlier when Bob gave her to the young couple the first week they were open. And the Turner place almost fifty years ago. And the Amish farm before that.

  No. Emily would not allow for a repeat performance tonight. She left the extremely talented but rebellious cat upstairs to be in charge there along with Midnight, Esther, and Madelyn. They were to lounge in the living room where they could see what, if anything, was happening on the ground level.

  Time to check in upstairs. “Rebecca, how are things up there?”

  The reply came quick and snappy. “More boring than spending an evening alone with Bob balancing his checkbook. I’m so frustrated. How could you put my sister second in command, while abandoning me up here? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Absolutely nothing. That’s the point. You haven’t burned down the place tonight.”

  “Night’s not over, yet.”

  “What about the freaks?”

  “The Goths and vampire wannabes are scattered across the house, hoping for the best place to be should a metaphysical event take place. Can I set them on fire?”

  “Honestly, I can’t tell if you’re kidding or serious. To be safe, the answer is no.”

  Directly above, Emily heard the back door to the kitchen open. Footsteps shuffled onto the wooden floor. Muffled voices were laughing and having too good of a time. The energy increased as the crew walked overhead toward the basement door.

  Emily had an idea. She thought of Esther sending the burst of energy that sent Sophia Johnson flying head first down the stairs. Since she possessed all the individual abilities, she should be able to do something similar.

  Emily squeezed her eyes shut and cleared he mind, then sent a quick burst of energy upward. Nothing special. Just a little something to cause a jolt and let Denise know there was something waiting for her through the basement door.

  She knew her strike found its mark when there was a stutter in their steps and the voices fell silent.

  Time to alert the rest of her feline friends. Emily sent a soft but stern call. “Look sharp, sisters. It’s time.”

  Emily stood and performed a quick stretch. “Annie. Chloe. Scarlett. Helen. Jacqueline. Ready to go?”

  “We’re ready,” Annie said.

  “Remember, we have the advantage and the element of surprise. We’ve gone over our plan. You all know your parts. We’re on the offensive. Denise will lead in a defensive manner. At least until she sorts through her surroundings. Then, she’ll attempt to be the aggressor. We’ll have to strike before she’s able to do that. Helen, you disabled the cameras they set up here in the basement?”

  “Sure did. It was easy. The only live cameras will be the ones the cameramen have on their shoulders.”

  “Excellent. And remember to leave the cameramen alone until the very end. We need them to film everything. After that, they’re fair game. Feel free to be creative with them.”

  Above, the doorknob to the basement door turned and a sliver of light stabbed through the darkness. It expanded into a portal as the door opened, illuminating the flight of steps descending into the cellar. At the top the stairs, the cast of American Ghost Stories combined to form a single long shadow down into Murcat Manor’s subterranean world that was the cats’ domain.

  “I have a last minute idea. I’ll disable the main light to the basement,” Helen said.

  “Nice.”

  Emily loved the unrestricted improvising her sisters added to her structured scheme. She could hear the click-click-click as Ned flicked the light switch up and down.

  “Not working. Weird. Murcat Manor is a newly built residence with all the modern technology. I’m surprised a simple light switch isn’t working.”

  Denise peered over Ned’s shoulder. “Nice touch. But typical,” she mocked. “We’ve seen this before. Whatever’s down here, this is child’s play. As was that little burst you sent us in the kitchen, whatever that was. Try as you might, I’m not frightened by you.”

  Ned turned on his flashlight and swept the beam back and forth across the basement. Denise craned her head and bent down, looking around. “I see six pairs of shiny green orbs down there. Hello, kitty cats.”

  “Flashlights on,” Ned said. “Everyone. Let’s go. Stay close and follow me.”

  A cameraman took the first steps down, walking backward to film the crew. Ned’s beacon of light was followed by three more luminous torches piercing the darkness. The second cameraman brought up the rear. Johnny was the last to enter.

  “It’s getting stronger,” Denise said with much excitement. “I can feel the energy everywhere on this property. Outside. Around the tool shed, which is the former barn. Certainly inside the house. But no more so than right here in the basement.”

  Denise maneuvered between Ned and Henry to take the lead as they stepped onto the cement floor. She walked down one long wall and shined her flashlight on herself, her fingertips touching the cinderblocks, and turning her head for the camera.

  “This is a haven of activity unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m not sure we can cover everything in three hours. The activity here in Murcat Manor is truly astounding.”

  Denise pranced back to the work bench, almost dancing, snapping her fingers as if she found her groove. Her head bobbed as if following the beat in a nightclub. She strutted like the finest looking babe in a singles’ club and knew everyone—the guys because she was so hot, and the gals because they were jealous—was looking to see what she would do next. She grinned wide and shone her flashlight on the work bench, then on the shelf Emily laid on.

  “Six lazy cats. Sleeping in the dark basement at one o’clock in the morning. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Um, they’re just lazy good for nothing cats.”

  Denise shot him a look of despise. “That was a rhetorical question.” She slapped Henry’s forehead. “This is exactly why I have millions of Twitter followers and yours could be counted on your fingers.”

  Emily was enjoying the conflict forming between the crew. She knew it was there, latent underneath the smiling for the cameras. She discerned Denise had a problem with pride—too much of it. And once the cameras rolled, she didn’t like to be challenged.

  Denise spun on her heels and shone her flashlight at Emily, challenging her, invading her space. “And here we have Debbie’s favorite cat. The one who seems to be the queen of Murcat Manor’s feline clan.”

  She gave Emily a brief but distinctive disrespectful smirk. Emily stared back, laughing inwardly, allowing Denise to think she was the queen bee tonight. The anticipation was almost as good as what the grand finale would be.

  Pride in an opponent was the greatest weakness one could display. Vanity upon vanities, Emily thought. Denise Forsythe was so young and beautiful. She enjoyed much success at such an early age and had an emerging audience of adoring and lusting fans. But, in Emily’s eyes, this only made Denise typical and predictable.

  Oh, I’m going to enjoy this beyond measure.

  Denise smiled triumphantly, presenting the contents of the shelf like a game show model. “And t
ake a look at this, guys. Commercial sized dented cans of fruit cocktail. Hah! I have to admit even I’m amazed at the vision of these dented cans from earlier today. I mean, what are the odds. Damn, I’m good.”

  Denise turned her head, flung her hair from side to side, and treated the audience with her wicked sexy smile. “One aspect of being a paranormal investigator is that I’m also a numerologist. We focus on specific digits and their order, values, and their sums.

  “We look for interpretations of their derived values, while attempting to determine their meaning in our cosmos and how they vary throughout different cultures. For the sake of tonight’s show, I’ll present my knowledge and experience and tell you what I think they mean.”

  Denise cleared her throat. “There are six cats here in the basement with us. The number six has various meanings, depending on the culture and the time period. But what I’m getting, right here right now, is six is the number of man. More specifically, the sixth commandment of the Old Testament comes to mind: Thou Shalt Not Murder.

  “And that commandment has been broken at least nineteen times on this property in the past, and five times recently at Murcat Manor. If we can conclude one of the many evil elements that has its roots in Murcat Manor, it carries the name of Murder.”

  Denise reached out and petted Emily.

  Oh this is just too rich, Emily thought. She’s trying to control the situation. Tell me I’m no more of a threat to her than any normal harmless cute little kitty would be. Pathetic. I have four hundred years and five previous lives of roguery and murder to stack up against you. Six, counting my earthly human existence.

  Emily purred for the cameras and allowed her eyelids to droop, reveling in the immensity of her pernicious and insidious ruse.

  “There are thirteen cats total in this bed and breakfast. The number thirteen is associated with corruption and disintegration that results in revolts. So we have identified a second root that has its tentacles wrapped around this bed and breakfast: Rebellion.”