The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  “Did she speak to you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Drew looked to Betsy. She squeezed his hand.

  “Oh,” he remembered, turning back toward them and giving Hopson a suspicious look. “You’re not here to make me drink somethin’ bad, are you?”

  * * *

  Betsy asked one of the slaves to see to the horses, and she led the two gentlemen into the front parlor, where they were greeted by Lucy. Betsy went upstairs, and Drew followed behind her like a duckling.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Hopson, Mr. Powell,” Lucy said. “Please, sit. Would you like anything to drink?”

  “No, Ma’am,” they both answered, and Powell was struck by the difference he saw in Lucy since he last had seen her.

  She looked refreshed, revitalized, as if she had not only caught up on her sleep, but overtaken it. Her eyes were bright and clear, and her manner warm and bubbly.

  Powell wondered that this would be so, given her indication that the disturbances had increased.

  “I’m so glad both of you have come today. As I’ve said, I need your help with something.”

  “So we’ve heard, at least in whispers and gossip, Luce,” answered Hopson. “What can you tell us?”

  “I don’t think I’ll need to tell you,” she smiled, full of wry and irony. “I think she’ll tell you all you need to know.”

  “Who?” asked Powell.

  “The Witch.”

  “Who is this Witch?” Hopson asked. “One of the slaves?”

  “No, no. The spirit in this house. She’s told us she wants to be called the Witch.”

  “She told you this? She talks?” Powell asked, leaning in toward her.

  “It’s nearly impossible to stop her,” Lucy laughed.

  There came a sound as of someone clearing their throat loudly, almost as if announcing a presence.

  “Oh!” Lucy exclaimed, lighting up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Powell.

  “The Witch. Say something, spirit.”

  They waited for a moment.

  “Yes, please do, Witch. I’d love to speak with you,” Powell said, feeling a little silly.

  “Oh, well. She speaks and doesn’t of her own will.”

  “Does she speak… a lot?” asked Hopson, still eying his surroundings warily.

  “Oh, yes. And at all hours, even during the day.”

  “And you call her she?” Powell asked. “How do you know?”

  “Well, by her voice, Mr. Powell,” Lucy answered, a tone of subtle sarcasm in her voice.

  Powell smiled, blushed, and nodded his head.

  “Of course. What does she talk about… when she does?”

  “Everything. She’s really very interesting––religion, philosophy, goings on in the world, what the neighbors are doing. I’m afraid much of it is above my head.”

  “What the neighbors are doing? How does she know this?”

  “I don’t know. But just yesterday, she told me that you were down by the river washing your…”

  Lucy stopped, clapped a hand over her mouth. Now, it was her turn to blush.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Powell,” breathed Lucy. “I was not supposed to say anything about that.”

  Powell, who suddenly remembered what he had been washing yesterday, blushed, too. How could anyone have known? He had been all alone.

  The cool, analytical voice that dominated his brain had a ready answer. Someone saw you.

  “That’s… that’s quite all right,” he assured her. “She told you this?”

  Lucy nodded, and tried to keep from laughing.

  “Mrs. Bell,” began Powell, clearing his throat. “Has there been anyone else around when these voices are heard or when the other disturbances occur?”

  “Yes. Everyone here has seen them.”

  “Has Betsy been present?”

  Lucy thought a moment, the smile falling from her face as if the ground below it had sunk away. “At some, yes.”

  Powell took quiet note of her reaction.

  “I don’t want to seem indelicate, but is it possible that Betsy is… somehow behind all of this?” he asked, measuring his words with care.

  Lucy’s lips tightened. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t think that’s possible.”

  “You’ve seen what magicians can do, what the different mystics and mediums can perform,” said Hopson, who had been following the conversation with interest. “They’re just tricks. Certainly, we’re not accusing Betsy of doing any of this, but it is an area that should be explored.”

  Powell nodded, turned back to Lucy.

  Her smiled had returned.

  “You’re certainly welcome to try. That’s why I invited you here. I want to find what is causing this.”

  “Well, so do I,” said Powell. “But I must warn you. Everything in nature has a simple, scientific explanation. And from what I’ve heard, there must be a simple explanation for what’s going on here. At this moment, all signs point to Betsy as the most likely culprit.”

  Lucy still smiled.

  Do they think Betsy is capable of this? asked the Witch.

  Before anyone could react, Powell and Hopson were pelted with objects that fell from above them.

  “Good Lord!” yelled Hopson, leaping to his feet.

  Powell raised his hands to deflect the bombardment, but said nothing. When it ended, a pile of hazelnuts and blackberries lay at their feet.

  Dig in, gentlemen. They’re as real as they look, the Witch urged.

  Powell looked to Hopson, picked up a blackberry, and looked at the ceiling. The berry was plump and juicy, fresh and utterly real. And blackberries weren’t in season.

  He brought it cautiously to his nose, sniffed it, took a nibble. “It’s a blackberry,” he whispered, then he popped it into his mouth.

  Well, you can certainly tell why he’s the educator in these here parts, said the Witch. Come on, Doctor, eat up or I’ll be insulted. I had to go a long way to get them.

  Hopson, his face pale, reached down quickly and picked up a nut.

  “This is incredible,” said Powell, rising, searching the room.

  Thanks, professor, the Witch answered. What are you looking for?

  “You.”

  Well, you’re not going to see me in this lifetime, I can assure you.

  “Oh, and why not?” he asked, poking into a corner, behind a cabinet.

  Because I don’t want to be seen.

  “Of course you don’t! Then we would know who you really are.”

  Luce, he still thinks I’m Betsy. I thought you said he was a learned man.

  “Now, be polite, Witch,” chuckled Lucy. “He’s only doing what I asked.”

  If it was anyone else, Luce––

  “I know.”

  Well, Mr. Powell, call Betsy down. She’s upstairs…

  “Of course she’s upstairs. Where else could the nuts and berries have come from?” he asked. “Betsy! Come down here, please!”

  “Mr. Powell?” came her voice from upstairs, distant and not at all like the Witch’s.

  Hopson picked up on this immediately.

  “Yes, could you join us in the parlor?”

  They heard a door open, close, and footsteps.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked when she had come down the stairs.

  “We were just talking to someone, and we thought you might be able to tell us who it was,” he asked in a gentle tone.

  Betsy wrinkled her face in bewilderment and smiled. “Oh, you were talking to the Witch,” she said.

  “Well, we were talking to someone claiming to be a witch. Do you know who that might be?”

  “No, I don’t,” she answered.

  Oh, you moron! snapped the Witch. He thinks it’s you. He thinks you’re doing all of this.

  Powell, who had been focusing on Betsy, faltered. Her lips had not moved; her expre
ssion had not changed.

  “You think I’m…,” she began, narrowing her eyes at Powell, color rising in her face. “How could you think I would do any of this?”

  Or even be smart enough to be capable of it? the Witch interjected.

  “I thought you were a friend,” Betsy said, ignoring the interruption. “I’m sorry you think so little of me.”

  I’m surprised he thinks even that much.

  “Shut up!” snapped Betsy at the air.

  “Betsy,” Powell pleaded, astonished at the interchange between Betsy and the Witch. “I’m sorry, but you must see how this looks.”

  “Yes, child,” said Hopson, standing as well. “This could be part of your previous illness, a manifestation as it were. Maybe you’re doing this unconsciously…”

  She does everything unconsciously, snickered the Witch.

  “That’s enough,” warned Lucy.

  Powell shook his head, trying to clear it. “It’s apparent that something is going on here that transcends both Dr. Hopson’s understanding of medicine and my understanding of science, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?”

  “Quite.”

  “But though a thing may transcend science, it may not transgress it.”

  Hear, hear! rooted the Witch.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” calmed Lucy, standing, too. “Please. This isn’t getting us anywhere. Where did the fruit and nuts come from?”

  “There could be a crack in the ceiling through which they were dropped,” said Powell, still not ready to concede the point.

  Hopson nodded quickly, as if his neck were broken.

  A crack in the ceiling! Oh, that’s rich. And you agree, doctor? Do you see a crack? laughed the Witch.

  Hopson shot into the air, floated up toward the ceiling.

  “Dear God in Heaven!” he yelped, flailing his arms.

  Get a good look, said the Witch. See anything?

  “No! No, I do not!” he yelled. “Put me down!”

  “Yes, put the doctor down, please,” Lucy said in an even tone.

  Once down, Hopson slumped into the chair.

  The Witch laughed, long and raucous.

  “You see, Powell, that’s the thing about science. If you want to stay on the straight and narrow with it, it forces you to invent rational answers that are more convoluted than the simple, unscientific truth.”

  Powell swallowed, patted the doctor sympathetically on the shoulder.

  I suppose I should calm down before Luce gets cross with me, sighed the Witch. Oh, well, Doc, you made a great trick monkey. Here’s a treat for you.

  Without a sound, a bunch of bananas materialized in the air over him, fell into Hopson’s lap.

  “We really must be going,” he said, standing and all but sprinting for his coat on the rack by the door.

  “Sorry to be of so little help,” said Powell, shaking Lucy’s hand.

  Powell turned to Betsy, tried to catch her eyes, but she turned from him with a little toss of her head. Without warning, he remembered the sound of her beating heart, heard through Hopson’s stethoscope weeks ago. It seemed reflected in her shining hair, her beautifully upturned nose. His heart clenched, in the midst of all the other mysteries, and he knew.

  Good Lord, Powell, you’re in love, he thought, with a touch of rue.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage to croak before turning to join Hopson at the door.

  It was a pleasure to meet you both, said the Witch. Do come back often. Watch the bananas, doc. They’re fresh from the West Indies, a little green. Give you gas something bad. And you, Powell…”

  Powell sensed the air moving around him, felt a strange pressure on his cheek.

  A kiss.

  He blushed, followed Hopson out of the door.

  That Powell… I think I like him, gushed the Witch after the door had closed. Is anyone else interested in him? Or do I have him all to myself?

  “You’re very impolite,” Lucy chided her.

  That may well be true, but it doesn’t answer my question, Luce. How ‘bout you Betsy? Interested in an older man?

  With a little, “Harumph!” Betsy flounced from the parlor back upstairs. Not before her mother saw her cheeks redden, though.

  I think she likes him, too, Luce. Oh, well. I suppose I’ll try to find another man who meets my standards. Do you know anyone?

  “Oh, Witch,” Lucy sighed. “Leave me be for a while.”

  * * *

  The road was still sloppy from the warming weather and melting snow. Hopson and Powell’s horses splashed mud along their flanks and the riders’ legs. The sun was dropping, and with it, the temperature. A smear of brilliant reds and oranges gave way dramatically to a lustrous blue, then brilliant black. Already the stars began to peek out high above them.

  “What do you think?” Powell asked after they had ridden a while in silence.

  “I don’t know what to think,” breathed Hopson, sounding as if he was glad to finally talk about it. “The Bells are a fine, outstanding family. Forgive me, Powell, but I just don’t see how Betsy could be doing the things we saw. The feeling I had when I was lifted off the ground… it was indescribable.”

  “I fear I pushed too hard, and insulted Betsy. I should have waited until we knew more. It just seemed so likely that it was her. Am I to believe in spirits in this day in age?” Powell mused, shaking his head. “There must be an explanation for what is happening in that house, and I intend to find it.”

  “I’m sure there is, Powell. But have you considered the possibility that the explanation is even more terrible, in its way, than the manifestations themselves?”

  Powell stopped his horse, fixed the doctor with a curious gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know that I can tell you. It’s of a very delicate nature, and I’m not sure of its significance… or even its relevance to the events at hand.”

  “Damn it, man! If you know something, out with it. At this point, anything would shed a little more light.”

  Hopson licked his lips and conducted a short, internal debate. “I must have your assurance that this will go no farther, Powell. You must understand,” he said, overriding Powell, who was about to give his quick promise. “What I’m about to tell you is of a highly intimate nature. The only reason I’m telling you is because it might—might—be related, though how, I don’t know. And because I must tell someone. My conscience has eaten at me since I discovered it and didn’t say anything. But you must understand. I didn’t know, still don’t, who I’m protecting by keeping silent. And who I’m hurting.”

  “Doctor!” Powell interrupted. “I’m sorry to be so impatient, but out with it! It’s cold, I’m tired, and I’m very curious. It will go no further, I swear.”

  “Very well,” he said, taking a deep breath. “When I was at the house the evening Betsy recovered, I removed a tumor from her womb.”

  “Mrs. Bell never told me that. I was never quite sure exactly what had been wrong with Betsy.”

  “That’s hardly surprising. Jack was clear that he wanted no one to know about it.”

  “I fail to see the connection, though. Other than the seriousness of such an illness, why should it concern you?”

  “Two reasons. First, it was like no tumor I’d ever seen. It was just a mass of tissue, healthy tissue. And there was no blood, none at all. Just muddy water.”

  “What?”

  “Dirty, muddy water. I was astonished. But, there is more. During my initial examination, I found that the girl’s hymen was ruptured…”

  Hopson let his voice trail off, allowing Powell to draw his own conclusion.

  “The Gardener boy?”

  “Perhaps. But haven’t you heard? This Witch has a particular hatred for Jack.”

  Powell digested this for a moment. Then, in a sickening flash, it all became clear, and he nearly reeled from his saddle.

  “Doctor, you’re not implying…?”

  “Have a care, Powell!” he shushed him. �
��I’m not implying anything, merely drawing your attention to something. As I said, I don’t know what it means—medically or otherwise.”

  “You’re quite sure it was… ruptured? Not missing or malformed?”

  “I’ve been a doctor long enough to know my girl parts and my boy parts.”

  “No offense,” breathed Powell, absorbing this new piece of information, trying to fit it into the rest of the expanding puzzle.

  “This has been a rather trying afternoon for both of us. Care to stop by my house for a brandy before going home? Maybe we can continue this discussion in more comfortable surroundings… and more private.”

  “Doctor, that is the first thing I’ve heard tonight that I do have an answer for. Yes,” Powell smiled, and they urged their horses on.

  * * *

  Powell didn’t return home until nearly 11 o’clock. Hopson’s brandy and warm fire, plus his wife’s insistence to stay for dinner, had kept him there far longer than he had intended. But the company and conversation were a welcome change to his usual meager dinner and book, particularly on that evening.

  He knew his cabin would be dead cold, so he was glad to have the brandy blazing in his gut as he collected an armful of firewood before going in.

  A few minutes later, the fire was restored to vigor, and he was slumped in a chair directly before it. There, he lounged for a while, stretching his tired limbs, warming his cold feet, and staring at the flames as he reviewed the day.

  He was surprised, and somewhat amused, to find his first thoughts were of Betsy Bell. What an idiot he had made of himself before her, calling her integrity into question as he did. And right there in front of the girl!

  Foolish old man! Well, if I had any chance before, I certainly have none now.

  Thinking of the Witch, whatever she was, made his mind race, so he put that aside, rose and went to bed.

  Suddenly sleepy, thanks to the brandy, he pulled off his coat and a few articles of clothing, tossed his glasses onto a nearby table, and fell into the rumpled bed, pulling the heavy blankets over him.

  * * *

  Much later that night, he was awakened by movement in the bed with him. The covers were pulled back, and cold air washed over him, hitting him like a slap in the face.