The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  * * *

  The plain, boxy white shape of the clapboard church faded into the snow. Jack Bell had already been to Reverend Johnston’s house, where Mrs. Johnston, with a roll of her eyes, indicated that her husband was down at the church… again.

  Unfinished, the new church was an unassuming little building set in a clearing at the rear of the Bell property, close enough to Johnston’s home for him to hover over every detail of the church’s construction.

  Although it wouldn’t be ready until spring, Jack got a sense of what the church would look like as he tethered his horse to a nearby tree. As plain as plain could be; more plain, in fact, than any church he had ever seen.

  Johnston had been clear on his ideas for the building’s design from the start, and the families in the area seemed to appreciate his sense of austere propriety. Johnston had not even wanted a spire on his church—which was how he thought of it—but in this, he was overruled by the families who were paying for its construction.

  The spire was not yet built, and the little whitewashed cube of a building now looked like nothing so much as a block of ice; a featureless, pristine structure, so forgettable that even God might be forgiven for overlooking it.

  As Jack approached, he could see Johnston’s dark form through the windows, flapping about here and there like a trapped bird. His mouth was moving, and Jack could hear shouting. For a moment, he wondered who Johnston was talking to, since there was only one other horse tethered outside. As he neared, it became apparent what Johnston was doing.

  “For the LORD GOD SAID…!” Johnston roared, throwing his arms wide and spinning around to face Jack.

  “Sweet Jesus!” he shrieked, stumbling backward a few steps.

  “If you get this worked up preaching to nobody, I can hardly wait to see you when it’s packed on Sundays.”

  ‘You scared the life out of me,” Johnston said, ignoring Jack’s remark. “What do you want?”

  “I was on my way home from the Batts’ place, and I thought I’d stop by to see how you and yours were faring,” answered Jack, stepping to the middle of the empty room. The floor was littered with sawdust, wood scraps and nails, and raw timber beams arched over him.

  “I was over at Bill Nies’ workshop the other day to see the pews,” Johnston said. “They look beautiful. He said first spell of good weather, he’d be over with a few men to get them in. He’s also working on the pulpit, and should have that done presently. I think,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and strutting across the floor, “we should be in here no later than end of April or early May. All that’s left outside is to put the spire up.”

  “Well, I gotta admit, Reverend, it looks pretty good,” Jack said. “I had my doubts at first, but it seems as if it’ll all come together.”

  Johnston said nothing, glowed with pride as he watched Jack survey the room; his footsteps crunched across the floor.

  “I didn’t know how you’d fare as a preacher. But I think you’re doing something really good here.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” Johnston replied, quietly stunned. It was the first time Jack had said something nice about him, and it was all the more meaningful because it was about something Johnston had really come to care for—something he thought Jack held in low regard.

  “I came here because I need to talk with you as a reverend and a friend,” Jack said, moving toward the tall, narrow windows that lined the south wall. Bright white light glared in through them, but Jack didn’t squint or look away.

  “Of course.”

  “I expect your complete confidence in what I’m about to tell you.”

  “What we say here is between you, me and God,” Johnston intoned, a touch too solemnly for Jack’s taste.

  Facing the windows, Jack recounted the events of the last three weeks, glossing over some details, downplaying others.

  It left Johnston slack-jawed nonetheless.

  “You’ve seen this? Heard it?” he asked when Jack had finished. Jack Bell was a private man, not one disposed either toward superstition or pouring his heart out to people and asking for help. Under ordinary circumstances, he would not have been standing there telling Johnston these things at all.

  Either Jack was pulling his leg or it was even more serious than he’d let on.

  “Of course I’ve seen them!” Jack snapped, turning from the windows. “Do you think I’d be here making a fool of myself if the boys told me they’d seen a ghost? Everyone in the house is seeing things, hearing things. I’ve barred the slaves from even coming in anymore. And now it’s starting during the day.”

  Johnston wrapped his arms around his chest tightly, considered what Jack had told him. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Do? How should I know? You tell me, you’re the man of God. What is it that preachers do in situations like these?”

  “Lord, I don’t know,” Johnston moaned, wringing his thin, cold hands. “But I don’t think I’m up to it. I mean, I’m all right reading Scripture and singing hymns and all, but this…? You might want a real… an expert, like Reverend Gunn at the Methodist church over in Port Royal.”

  “Why would I take my problems all the way over there?”

  “I don’t know,” Johnston replied, clearly uncomfortable. “Why did you bring this to me?”

  “Lucy wanted me to ask. I didn’t want to bring it to anybody. Now, I’ve asked,” Jack continued. “Frankly, I didn’t think you’d be able to do anything, either. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t know what anyone could do to help at this point.”

  “I’ll do it,” blurted Johnston, color rising to his face.

  Jack didn’t begrudge him a church any longer, and would actually listen as he stood before a congregation and preached. But when it came right down to it, Johnston realized, he was still not a real preacher in Jack’s eyes.

  Johnston seized on this as an opportunity to show Jack how wrong he was. In a way, maybe God had set these events into motion just to prove something to Jack—and maybe even to Johnston himself.

  “Do what?” Jack frowned as he prepared to leave.

  “Whatever I and the Good Book can do to help.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The snow still covered the ground the next evening, and the full moon was luminous in the clear, cloudless sky. Blue, not black, was the color of this night, and the moon imbued the landscape below with a million dazzling shades of the color, from the deepest midnight of the sky to trees and hills carved in silver intaglio against the azure air. The snow, blindingly bright in the day, was subdued by gentle moonlight, shimmered like the cold stars twinkling above.

  A sleigh glided across this shining, pale sea, pulled by a single horse whose breath came out as puffs of blue powder. The dim noise of bells jingled, making the night seem colder still. The sleigh passed in front of the Bell house, raising a spray of crystals like new constellations in the dark.

  Light spilled from the house, red and yellow and orange, and the smell of burning wood and cooking meat filled the sharp air.

  Reverend Johnston gave the reins a tight snap, and the sleigh slooshed to a stop at the front door. Standing shakily, he threw the heavy woolen wrap off himself, and climbed down from the contraption. He helped his wife down just as the door behind them opened.

  “Reverend, Mrs. Johnston, come in, please,” said Naddy, a strange tone in her voice. She helped them with their coats and wraps as they knocked the snow off their feet.

  “What the hell did you get here in?” asked Jack, stepping forward and shaking the reverend’s hand, inclining his head to the preacher’s wife.

  “Our wagon’s broken, so we borrowed Kramer’s sleigh for the evening,” Johnston replied.

  “Naddy, find Sam and have him get the horse stabled and the sleigh stored for the night. And get that trunk brought up to their room,” he said, leading the Johnstons in where the fire blazed. “Come in, warm up. Dinner is almost ready.”

  “Reverend, Doris, how good of you to come,” said Lucy,
rising from a chair as they entered the room.

  “Luce!” Mrs. Johnston exclaimed. “James has told me what’s been going on.”

  Lucy hugged the preacher’s wife, released her. “Please, let’s not talk about it now. We’ve a splendid dinner, so let’s enjoy the company. After dinner, when the children are in bed, we can talk.”

  “If it’ll keep until then,” Jack muttered.

  “It’s been quiet so far,” Lucy said.

  Jack shrugged, led the guests into the dining room.

  The rest of the family was already seated––Betsy, Williams, Zach and Drewry. There was not a sound from any of them. And it wasn’t as if the Johnstons’ entrance had ended any conversation or other goings-on; that would have been heard from the sitting room.

  The entire house was preternaturally quiet; no creaking, no footsteps, not even any clanging or banging of dinnerware as the servants walked food in from the kitchen.

  Jack gestured for them to take their seats. Johnston helped his wife into hers at Lucy’s left, took his own to the left of Jack’s at the head of the table.

  “Would you kindly say grace for us tonight, Reverend?” asked Lucy, and all of the assembled heads swiveled to face Johnston, who inclined his own.

  There was a distinct, loud chime as Johnston finished, which he assumed was the signal for the servants to begin dinner.

  He noticed, however, that the children exchanged worried looks.

  The dinner was bounteous, as Lucy promised. Saloma hefted in an entire roast turkey, and Naddy brought a platter with a dozen tiny, crisp quail, arranged with their tied legs pointing off the platter.

  The two women brought in more and more plates and bowls, until there were so many dishes it was hard for people to remember what they had sampled: candied sweet potatoes, smoked trout, preserves and bread, roast beef, mashed potatoes, turnips, hominy.

  It took a good fifteen minutes for everything to make the rounds completely, and still everyone was quiet. Dinner proceeded under this pall of silence for roughly thirty minutes. As the dishes were cleared for dessert, Johnston heard a noise. He looked around the room to determine what it was and where it emanated.

  Breathing.

  Just as he identified it, he noticed that the others heard it as well.

  Now, real silence filled the room as the breathing became louder, more labored. It was a raspy, male sound, deep and throaty and heavy, gulping in huge breaths, exhaling as if having the air driven from it.

  “Jack, is this what you were talking about?” Johnston asked, looking about the room awestruck, his heart quickening.

  Jack nodded tightly. “Naddy, Saloma get the table cleared. Betsy, boys, say your goodnights and get up to bed.”

  Of the group, Naddy and Saloma moved the quickest, whisking the dirty dishes away. The children, on the other hand, filed grimly past the guests, excused themselves and went up the staircase.

  All save Betsy, whose smile was almost a sound itself in the quiet room.

  To Johnston, there didn’t seem to be anything behind that smile.

  Still, the phantom lungs filled and emptied loudly in the room.

  “Let’s go to the sitting room.” Jack stood and gestured slightly in that direction. Once there, he poured himself and Johnston each a small glass of whiskey. “I know you don’t drink anymore, Reverend, but I think tonight…”

  “I quite agree,” Johnston said, taking it with shaking hands. Downing the liquor, he handed the empty glass back to Jack, who refilled it bemusedly.

  “This is not the spirit we asked you here to get rid of, Reverend,” he laughed.

  “I didn’t think… didn’t believe…,” he stuttered, clutching the glass and sitting down. “How long has this been going on?’

  Jack and Lucy exchanged looks.

  “Ever since she got sick a month ago,” answered Jack, sipping at his drink.

  “No, that’s not quite right,” answered Lucy. “It really started after she got better.”

  “Well, you poor dears!” said Doris, taking Lucy’s hand as they sat side by side on the couch. “How have you been able to live with this for so long, with no help from anyone? James didn’t want me to come tonight, but I see I did the right thing. I’m here to help, too.”

  Lucy squeezed her hand, and the two women embraced.

  “You say,” interrupted Johnston, “that these activities began after she… does anyone else hear that?”

  Conversation ceased, and a low buzzing could be perceived just over the crackling of the fireplace.

  “What is it?” Doris asked, visibly shaken.

  After a minute, Jack responded. “Voices.”

  Johnston began to protest, but stopped. Because it did sound like voices. Hundreds of them, high and low, soft and loud, male and female, all talking together, but far too distant to distinguish exactly what was said.

  “Just ignore it. It’ll go away in a few minutes, to be replaced by something different, yet equally annoying,” Jack responded, draining his glass and refilling it.

  THOOM-THOOM-THOOM! came three thunderous explosions that rocked the house.

  Doris screamed.

  Johnston jumped, dropped his drink onto the rug.

  Jack, though he twitched a bit, betrayed no emotion.

  Lucy only blinked.

  “Hahahehehehehoohoohoohoo,” came a voice, rolling lyrically through the air, masculine and sarcastic.

  “Dear God,” whispered Johnston, his pulse racing.

  Movement from the fireplace caught their eyes, and they turned to see a lit candlestick lift, holder and all, straight up into the air, move quickly and levelly toward Jack, who stood his ground.

  Doris fainted, crumpling into Lucy’s lap without a sound.

  As the candle neared Jack, it dropped to the ground as if it had struck an invisible barrier before him.

  Almost negligently, Jack tipped his glass, poured the last remaining drops of whiskey onto the candle, extinguishing the flame as it smoldered on the rug.

  THOOM-THOOM-THOOM! came the rumblings again, followed by a series of short, sharp screams from upstairs.

  “The children!” yelled Johnston.

  “Take care of them, I’ll see to Doris. Hurry, for God’s sake!” Lucy ordered.

  Johnston followed Jack as he bounded up the stairs; the noises became louder as they neared the top. When they reached the second floor, Johnston faltered, let Jack go on ahead. What he saw made him dizzy, and doubt his sanity.

  The hallway was lit by bursts of intermittent, hazy light, like blasts of lightning. Doors lining the hallway on both sides flapped open, shut, and open again, sounding like clapping hands.

  Zach dashed from the boys’ room, but as Johnston looked on, a blanket shot snake-like from the doorway, twined around his ankle, tightened. The boy screamed as the cover snapped taut and began reeling him back into the room.

  Jack leapt into the fray, grabbed Zach, kicking and screaming, by his outstretched arms. Incredibly, he strained against whatever held the other end of the cover, the cords in his neck standing out.

  Johnston staggered forward, determined to lend whatever assistance he could. As he approached, he saw Zach shield himself from a series of invisible blows. His screams were deafening, hysterical.

  Johnston watched handprints—red, angry handprints—appear, covering the boy’s cheeks and arms.

  “Son of a bitch!” roared Jack. “Let him go!”

  With malevolent intelligence, the blanket went limp, and Jack careened to the opposite wall, folding Zach close to his chest to protect him.

  Zach was crying so hard he seemed on the edge of hyperventilation.

  Johnston stopped the swinging door to the boys’ room, and pushed it open onto eerie pulses of grey-green light. Then, three, four, five candles, which were scattered across the room, flared into life. They floated on the air, their wavering, inconstant light revealing a nightmarish scene.

  The boys’ furniture was smashed to bits
, ripped down to sticks of wood and strewn everywhere. Blankets, pillows and sheets danced about like ghosts, whirled around the room.

  Peering into the chaos, the reverend spied Williams and Drewry, hugging tight to one another in a corner, their eyes tightly closed. “Willie, Drew! Come here, boys!”

  They opened their eyes, looked his way, but didn’t move.

  “Help us, Reverend!” pleaded Williams.

  But Johnston found himself rooted to the spot, quite unable to go to them.

  “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA,” barked the phantom voice, loud enough to be heard clearly in the confusion.

  “Damn you to hell!” yelled Johnston, and he wrenched his feet backwards, sprawling to the ground.

  Pulling himself up, he nearly ran over Betsy, who had wandered into the hallway. “Child, get downstairs with your mother!” he shrieked at her, shaking her by the shoulders.

  She registered his presence in only a vague way, turned and went downstairs, oblivious to what was going on around her.

  Johnston frowned, turned to see Jack still slumped against the wall, rocking Zach in his arms. At that instant, he felt the overwhelming urge to leave, to run from the house screaming, pulling his hair, to plunge his fevered face into the cooling snow. But then he remembered the trunk in his room. The trunk with his Bible in it.

  Almost tripping in his haste, he rushed past Jack to the guest room. The door stopped its mad swinging as he neared, allowing him to enter the room unmolested.

  This room was untouched, and the trunk sat at the foot of the turned-down bed.

  Rushing forward, he knelt before it, undid the straps, threw it open. He smelled the book’s leather binding, the earthy must of its pages even before he saw it. Closing his hands on it and rising, he dashed from the room, and slid to a halt in the boys’ doorway.

  They still cowered in the corner as the bed sheets danced around them.

  His hands shaking, Johnston flipped the Bible open, dropped it, and snatched it up again. “Mark, Mark, Mark,” he chanted, leafing rapidly through the heavy book. His eyes scanned the pages, which were hard to see in the capricious light.