The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  Looks passed from person to person. Heads shook in affirmation. Indeed, they nodded, she was not even here today for this important event.

  Lucy paid little attention to what transpired after the Witch’s initial pronouncement, though. She sat looking dumbly at her hands—so old, so lined—as if some great truth that had been standing mute before her for a long time had finally revealed itself to her.

  And yet, y’all find it hard to believe, the Witch continued, that dear old Kate would consort with spirits, use them to achieve her ends? Lie with the Devil himself. You know she hates the Bells. Because they have something she wants. Desperately.

  That insinuation was not lost on most in the crowd, and it produced another swell of whispered talk.

  Lucy looked up at that minute to refute the Witch, instead saw Jack striding toward them. His face was a red, roiling, apoplectic mass. His eyes were so narrowed they seemed completely, tightly closed. “God… damn… you!” he shouted, stretching each syllable into a cavernous, echoing roar of pain and frustration. “Get the hell out!”

  Jack…? the Witch asked, uncertainty thick in her voice.

  The crowd separated, backed from him, and he penetrated to its center, where he spat and fumed and paced like an enraged bull.

  “Yes, me!” he snapped, froth flying from his lips. “Jack Bell! And if you must kill me, then be done with it. Don’t hurt my family or malign anyone else, much less a fine woman who’s practically a widow.”

  Jack, I…, the Witch stammered, obviously discomfited. It was just a joke.

  “I’m done with your jokes!” he shrieked. “Whatever you’re here for, do it and be gone! I can’t take any more. You’re… driving… me… mad!”

  Jack brought both hands to his head, clutched his skull as if he meant to pull the flesh from it. As everyone looked on, motionless with shock, he fell to his knees weeping, bowed until his forehead rested on the earth.

  Luce? the Witch appealed, as she rose to her feet and went to her husband. No one helped her or went to Jack as he shivered there on the ground, his body racked with great, heaving sobs.

  “Jack,” Lucy whispered, taking his arm and trying to pull him to his feet.

  At her touch, he threw back his head, released a long, plaintive wail, and lashed out at her with a closed, solid fist.

  Lucy side-stepped it, felt the air of its passing.

  Flattening her own hand, she whipped it through the air toward him.

  It struck his cheek squarely, sharply, with a loud report of flesh on flesh. Jack’s upturned face rocked on his thick, bullish neck, and his eyes snapped open.

  She took his arm again, and this time he let himself be lifted.

  John threw off the spell that had fallen over him, moved from the crowd to help his mother. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried Jack to John’s wagon, and helped him up. Jack sagged in his seat, his body seeming to collapse in on itself like a poorly constructed house.

  At that moment, Hank and Betsy appeared, hand in hand, walking slowly from around the back of the church.

  “Hey!” Hank shouted. “We’ve got an announcement. We’ve finally set a date to get married.”

  The Witch, who had been silent during the greater part of Jack’s breakdown, came to life once again. Married? she cried. No! Not to him!

  This was followed by a disturbance in the air, a gust of wind, as if the Witch had hurled her essence toward Betsy, curled around the girl.

  No, Bets, she whispered into the girl’s ear. Tell me it isn’t true. Say you aren’t foolish enough to follow through on this. Say you won’t marry Hank Gardner.

  “But, we’re betrothed,” she said, and Hank turned to look strangely at her. She realized that he didn’t hear the Witch; no one heard her voice now except Betsy.

  So what, you ninny? Women have broken engagements before. Break it, Betsy. Please. It’s for your own good, child. Tell me that you will break it, pleaded the Witch, on the edge of hysteria herself.

  “I’m marrying Hank Gardner,” was Betsy’s simple reply.

  NO! shrieked the Witch, and this everyone heard. You dumb bitch!

  Betsy was struck a tremendous blow, the sound of which ricocheted off the hills and trees. She sprawled to the ground even before the sound faded, before anyone—even Hank—thought to help her.

  The Witch’s anguished cries faded as John rushed to Betsy’s side, lifted her gently, slid her, too, into the wagon, where she slumped against her father’s unconscious body, their arms entwined.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Williams picked a pebble from the pile he had scooped together, turned it over in his hand. It was smooth, worn by countless ages of river water tumbling over it, rounding its corners.

  He considered it quietly, his back against an ancient tree which dabbled its exposed roots like a timid bather’s toes into the cold waters of the Red River. Impulsively, he took the stone between thumb and forefinger, and with a deft movement of his wrist, sent it sailing across the river, skipping at shortening intervals until it disappeared near the far bank.

  “Five.”

  “Was not,” protested Zach. “I saw it. It was only four.”

  “Who cares?” Williams said, scattering the cairn of rocks nearest him, and leaning his head back against the tree. “This is boring anyway.”

  “Well, what do you want to do, Williams?” whined Zach, angrily flinging the flattest skipping stone he had found, one which he had been saving to surprise Williams with. It tumbled ungainly through the air, hit the water, sank from view.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we better think of something ‘fore the Witch finds us,” said Zach.

  Williams opened an eye. “Where’s Drewry?”

  Zach chopped a hand through the air, roughly indicated a direction down river.

  “Better make sure he’s all right,” Williams said, pulling himself up.

  “I’ll find him,” groused Zach. “At least it’ll be something to do.”

  Zach walked away along the muddy bank with his head bowed.

  Williams watched him depart, angry and sad. Both of these emotions confused him, because he could not fathom why the sight of Zach leaving in such low spirits would cause them to come to the fore so strongly within him.

  Things had changed since the Witch had arrived in the Bell house. Not much talking went on anymore that wasn’t about her in some way or another––what she said, what she did. Although she paid very little attention to the boys anymore, her presence still resonated among them. They still felt as if they were being watched, and listened to.

  Maybe, in a strange way, that was it. Not only did she pay them scant heed, it was as if both their parents had also forgotten them. All three were left to their own most of the time. While people comforted Betsy or Lucy or Jack, no one seemed to ask the boys if any of this was disturbing them.

  The simple fact that their own parents were powerless against it was shattering in and of itself. If they couldn’t protect themselves, how could they protect Williams and his brothers?

  Drewry never left sight of at least one of his older brothers and had taken to sucking his thumb at all hours of the day. Zach barricaded doors behind him, jumped at the slightest sounds, and slept with the covers pulled tight over his head.

  Williams? That was the hardest of all for him to admit, because it did affect him. The Witch, and his parents’ impotence against it, made him feel more vulnerable, more insecure than he had ever felt before.

  He was helpless to protect those the Witch hurt—his younger brothers, mainly. They looked to him, but there was nothing he could do to ensure their safety any more than could their parents. This bothered him more than anything, though there was no one to tell it to.

  So, he watched his younger brother walk away with a sick, sour feeling swirling in his stomach, unsure exactly why, unsure exactly what to do about it.

  Here you are, came the Witch’s voice out of nowhere, only vaguely startling h
im. Where are your brothers?

  “Drew’s down river. Zach went to find him,” Williams said in a monotone.

  Are you playing something? Can I get in on it?

  “Nope.”

  Nope, what? You’re not playing anything or I can’t get in? she asked.

  “We’re not playing anything.”

  Well, then, what are you doing?

  “Nothing.”

  Great! I need a rest. Can I join you?

  Williams shrugged, closed his eyes.

  Is something bothering you, Willie?

  Williams felt that powerful push of emotions come upon him again, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly against it. But it was no use. Tears seeped through, spilled down his cheeks.

  I can see that something is. Is it me?

  Williams said nothing, swallowed, shook his head.

  You don’t like me very much, do you? she asked.

  Williams blurted it out without thinking. “No.”

  There was silence for a while. Only the birds chirping in the trees, the rustle of the wind, and the water slipping across the rocks in the riverbed filled the air.

  I guess as I can’t blame you, she said, sighing. I don’t know what it’s like to be a child—I’ve never been one. Never will. But, I can imagine that it shouldn’t be like this, should it?

  “No,” Williams said, scrubbing the tears from his eyes with the dirty heel of his hand, leaving a smudge across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

  I’m sorry, you know, though it probably doesn’t help. Sometimes things happen in a life that don’t particularly seem good for you, even though they might be for someone else. You understand?

  “No,” he sniffled.

  You will when you’re older, believe me. People you love leave you—or are taken from you. Your fortune goes up and down. The world changes. And it all happens with very little regard for you.

  “Why’re you here?” Williams cried. “Why’re you hurting everyone?”

  The Witch drew in a breath and let it out. Why do you think I’m here?

  “I don’t know. You hurt everyone,” Williams said. “You must be a devil.”

  But I really don’t hurt everyone, now do I? I don’t hurt your mother.

  “You hurt Bets and Pa,” he countered.

  Like I said, sometimes things happen that hurt some and help others, she replied patiently.

  “Help? Who are you helpin’?”

  I don’t know if you’d understand even if I told you. I don’t even know that you should. But I am helping someone. Believe me.

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t like you,” Williams yelled, closing his eyes against a new flood of tears.

  Are you afraid of me? the Witch asked, curiously tender.

  “Yes.”

  Oh, child. I’m not for you. I won’t hurt you.

  “My brothers…”

  I won’t hurt them either. Really.

  “But my parents and Betsy?”

  What if Zach took something that belonged to you––say your best Sunday suit of clothes––and ruined it. Would your parents punish him?

  Confused, Williams hesitated. “Uhhh, sure.”

  How would that make you feel?

  “Good, I suppose. If Zach really did that––which, he wouldn’t––he’d deserve it.”

  But how do you think Zach would feel? Even if he knew he deserved it.

  “Not so good, I guess.”

  And Drewry?

  “Drew? I don’t know.”

  He’d be caught in the middle. He loves you both. But he sees one suffering and another benefiting, as it were. How do you think he’d feel?

  “… confused?”

  How do you feel right now?

  “Confused,” he said, this time with no deliberation.

  There you have it.

  The Witch’s words circled maddeningly around Williams’ head, making little sense. “Have what?”

  I’ll do what I have to do and leave. Your life will go on. I’ll be just a small part of it. You’ll scarcely remember me. She let him sit in silence for a while, until they heard splashing and voices approaching from the northeast. Here come Drew and Zach, she said. You want to see something funny?

  “I don’t think…”

  I’m not going to hurt them, Willie. I promise. Just have a little fun. You know, the kind of fun you used to have before I came.

  Williams considered this doubtfully, but finally assented. “All right. But, promise.”

  I swear. Watch.

  * * *

  The spade hit the object with a metallic K-CHING!, and Drew dropped to his knees beside Zach and began digging with his hands. It didn’t take him long to uncover it. “Look!” he squealed, bringing it into the sunshine.

  It was heavy, and it took both of the boys to lift it from the dirt. It was a rusty-brown color, roughly the size of melon. Zach dropped the shovel and stared at it.

  The skull grinned back at them, its mouth filled with dark earth.

  Alas, poor Hiawatha! I knew him well, laughed the Witch.

  Drew set the relic down quickly, almost dropped it. “Is this yours, Witch?” he asked, putting his thumb in his mouth without even bothering to wipe the dirt from it.

  Sure is. Handsome devil, wasn’t I?

  “Were you a boy?” asked Drew.

  Yes, sir.

  Drew’s eyes rolled in his own skull as he tried to reconcile this with the Witch’s obviously feminine voice. “But… you’re a girl,” he protested.

  Moving up the ladder, that’s all, she cackled. Keep digging. There’s treasure’s there, I know. I can feel it in my bones.

  That brought about a gout of laughter from her that was several minutes in ending. By the time their father arrived, the boys had produced a pile of bones, stacked like cordwood near the widening hole in the ground.

  Jack stopped behind them––the boys still unaware of his presence. “What the hell are you boys doin’?”

  Zach almost jumped out of his skin. He shrieked, threw the shovel into the hole, and fell to the ground.

  Drew merely wet his pants, a darkening stain widening at his crotch.

  “Well, the Witch… uhh… she told us that she was an Indian… and she was… uhh… buried out here… and that there was treasure… so Drew and I…,” stuttered Zach from where he sprawled. Drew sucked his thumb wide-eyed, drooling a thin, muddy line down his chin.

  Jack’s face screwed into a mask of anger. “Witch!” he thundered.

  Why, Jack, hello. You haven’t made it out of your bed since last week’s breakdown at church. Are you sure you’re well enough to be outside?

  In fact, Jack Bell did not look at all well. His hair floated wild on his head, and his eyes burned with a fever that seemed to rage deep, deep beneath his skin.

  “Don’t toy with me, demon! What are you telling my children?”

  Just what he told you. And you can see that I wasn’t lying to them, she said, a little petulant.

  Jack turned to Drew and Zach, then to the pile of bones at their feet. They flinched at the touch of his red-rimmed eyes. “I thought I raised you better than this. This isn’t the Witch, and there’s no treasure. When you gonna learn that everything she says is a lie.”

  Not everything, Jackie boy, she added. How do you know that’s not me? That I’m not the spirit of an Indian brave, angry at your trespass onto my sacred land? Unless, of course… you know.

  Jack turned away from the boys, hid his eyes.

  You do, don’t you? You know who I am, she said, a little excited, a little incredulous. Tell me. Please. Her last words came out strained, pleading, and Jack turned his face to the sky.

  “You don’t know what you are,” he said, with dawning realization. “You know why, but not what.”

  I don’t need you to tell me what I am, if that’s what you’re implying, she replied, laden with sarcasm.

  He ignored her. “This is just some poor dead Indian you boys have
dug up from his final rest. Now, you put all this stuff back and cover it over real nice, hear me?”

  Yes, Pa, said Zach, pulling himself to his feet.

  “Then get in and get cleaned up for supper, ‘fore your Ma sees you. She’ll have a fit.”

  “Yes, sir,” they both responded. Zach retrieved the spade as Drew dropped bones back into the hole.

  Jack turned, walked to the house, and the boys watched him go before throwing the first spade of dirt over the bones.

  The Witch, if she watched their reinternment, remained silent.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jack immediately recognized the tight, flowing script covering the heavy envelope, and his backbone stiffened unconsciously, through force of habit.

  My Good Colonel Bell:

  I hope this finds you and your family well. At the hazard of appearing a gawker or hanger-on, I should like to visit you in the next fortnight, with, of course, your kind permission. I should like to tell you it is primarily to reminisce on our late action, taken together, against the British in New Orleans, but were I to do this, I fear it would be a lie––and not to be believed by such a man as I know you to be.

  Rather, to be blunt, I have heard from reliable sources in the area that you are experiencing some highly unusual and spectacular manifestations from what is reputed to be the spirit world. These rumors, if there is some foundation to them, have frankly piqued the interest of this old skeptic.

  If you and your family are amenable to my visit, please write and extend your invitation. If my letter is too forthright or rude, please forgive me. I would be most willing to extend my sincerest apologies in person. I also will have, in my company, a surprise you may find most pleasant under the circumstances. Please advise.

  Your Friend and Former Comrade-in-Arms,

  Gen’l. Andrew Jackson

  “Oh, Lord,” Jack muttered.