The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  “Now, that was a ride!” Jackson beamed, all hair and teeth as he climbed slowly down from the driver’s seat.

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” muttered Jeffries, looking around the Bell spread appraisingly. “Though that’s not quite how I’d have put it.”

  Jackson headed for the front door and stopped suddenly. He patted his shoulder, then his chest, and looked back toward the wagon in bewilderment. Then, he rolled his eyes. “Damn!” he barked.

  “Sir?” asked Jeffries.

  “Oh, I left my blasted jacket hanging back there on a tree. “Rachel will shoot me. She got that for me not more than a month ago.”

  “I’ll send a man back to get it,” said Jeffries, walking off toward the gaggle of men just as another separated himself from that group to join Jackson.

  “Dr. Mize,” greeted the General, deferentially as he approached. “Interesting morning, eh?”

  “Most interesting, General, sir,” said the man, without much inflection or interest.

  Like his voice, Dr. Franklin Mize’s demeanor, his very appearance was bland. He was short, shorter even than Jackson—who was not a tall man. His face was pudgy, with limp, uncolored hair and eyes like two raisins pressed deep into uncooked dough. A pair of brass spectacles clamped the end of his nose, and he peered down these as if supremely bored with what he saw through them.

  “Well, let’s see if anyone’s up and about… ah, here’s someone now,” said Jackson, and they turned to see two slaves approach from the barn.

  “Welcome, sirs,” said Adam. “You must be General Jackson and his company. Mr. Bell’s expecting you in the dining room. Breakfast is just finishin’ up.” Adam turned to lead them into the house, and remembered what it was that Sam, standing nearby, held. “Oh, yes,” he said, taking it from Sam and holding it out to the General. “I believe this is yours.”

  Jackson took it from Adam, held it up, and slipped into it.

  The dark coat fit him perfectly.

  “Yes,” he answered, speechless. “How…?”

  “I ‘spect Mr. Bell will tell you all about that. Or she will. This way, sirs,” smiled Adam.

  Jackson and Mize followed Adam through the front of the house and into the dining room, where the breakfast dishes were being taken away.

  Whereas Jackson strode face forward through the house, his steps quick and measured, Mize slowed to examine each room, peer into doorways and up stairwells, handle bric-a-brac. He held a small glass vial before him, gave it a vigorous shake upon entering each room, and held it up for close examination.

  When the General entered the dining room and was greeted by Jack, John and Lucy, Mize was still a room behind.

  “General Jackson, sir,” greeted Jack, engulfing the man’s smaller hand in his own bear-like paw and shaking it warmly.

  “Colonel Bell, a pleasure to see you again,” said Jackson, returning his handshake. “Lucy, I want to extend my personal gratitude to you, my dear lady, for acceding to my rather rude imposition.” He took her hand, and kissed it lightly.

  “You’re quite welcome, I’m sure, General Jackson. But you’re no imposition at all. We were quite delighted to get the chance to see you, particularly Jack.”

  “John Bell, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Jackson caught John’s eye looking behind him, heard the doctor muttering in the next room. “Excuse me, this is an acquaintance of mine. Doctor,” he called, motioning sharply for Mize to come forward.

  Taking his own sweet time, the portly little man obeyed. Upon entering the dining room, he thrust the little vial into the air, agitated its contents.

  “My goodness! What is that?” gasped Lucy.

  Jackson put his hand on Mize’s, pulled it and the vial down.

  “This,” he began in some exasperation, “is Dr. Franklin Mize from Kentucky. He’s the surprise I hinted at in my letter.”

  “Dr. Mize,” said Jack, warily shaking the man’s clammy, fleshy hand. Mize looked at him so intently that Jack glared back in anger. It didn’t seem to register, for the doctor’s eyes slid over him, then Lucy, over to John, before disregarding them altogether.

  “A pleasure,” he said, then stalked to the far corner of the room, where he gave Jackson a dirty look before producing his odd little vial again and examining it intently.

  “This is a… surprise, General,” said Jack fumbling for words.

  “Now, Colonel, I know I’ve imposed, and I know bringing strangers into your house is an even greater imposition. But not only am I interested in this Witch of yours, I think he may be able to help.”

  Lucy regarded Mize dubiously as he snooped around the room. “Him?”

  “He has a reputation,” explained Jackson.

  “Of that, I’m sure,” said Jack.

  “Let’s discuss it at dinner tonight, shall we? I’ve brought some fine wine and the best Tennessee whiskey I could get my hands on. And I think Mize may surprise you.” Jackson clapped Jack on the back, and a transient smile crossed his face.

  The General took it to mean that everything was settled.

  “Tell me, Colonel, I had thought to see a lot more in the house,” whispered the General. “There’s all this talk of floating furniture, disembodied voices, strange lights. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, General, sir,” Jack answered. “But the Witch does as she will. She obeys no compulsion but her own.”

  “I know that, sir,” he laughed, leading Jack from the dining room to introduce him to the men outside. “I already know that.”

  Lucy and John took a deep breath as they left the room. John kissed her lightly on the cheek, prepared to get back to work, when he remembered Mize. The doctor was examining a window casement, every now and then jiggling his container energetically.

  John flashed his mother a questioning look, and Lucy shrugged.

  * * *

  The dining room was aglow with a thousand rich lights that evening—reflecting from the polished silverware and the sparkling China. The early evening sun lit the entire room a warm reddish-gold, dotted here and there by the muted fires of the silver candelabras.

  Guests had begun entering the room, admiring the sumptuousness, wondering where they’d be seated: General Jackson, resplendent in full military regalia; Dr. Mize, in a loose-fitting, drab-brown suit; Dr. and Mrs. Hopson; Rev. and Mrs. Johnston; Richard Powell; Hank Gardner and his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Gardner.

  The Bell family—Jack, Lucy, John, Liz and Betsy—brought up the rear of the party, and Adam closed the dining room doors behind them. Williams, Zach and Drewry had eaten earlier in the kitchen, which was, to them, a treat, and were already in bed by the time dinner started.

  After a brief blessing and grace from Reverend Johnston, the first course of a light soup was served. The servants busied themselves in uncorking and serving several bottles from the hoard Jackson had brought with him—a fine Portuguese Madeira, a deep-crimson French Burgundy, and a pale and sweet, if unpronounceable, German white wine.

  Initially, conversation, while cordial, seemed a little hesitant. It was as if the diners were awaiting a guest who hadn’t yet shown. Jackson had worn through much of his childlike exuberance and curiosity, and was becoming bored. He compensated, perhaps overcompensated, for this with a thickening veneer of Southern politeness and civility.

  But it was very apparent to the Bells—even though Jack was quietly happy that the Witch, for whatever reason, had chosen not to show.

  Even the endless courses of food didn’t slow the questions about the last war that came from all over the table; especially, so it seemed, from Mr. Gardner, who fancied himself something of a military historian, albeit of the armchair variety.

  A sort of life crept back into Jack, too, as talk drifted back to 1811 and 1812, though it might have been the wine. He listened attentively, even participated in the give and take when Jackson recounted the now legendary Battle of New Orleans—events still viv
id in Jack’s memory.

  After much discussion of the war, there was a long lull in conversation. Naddy and Saloma took the opportunity to quickly clear the dinner plates, refill water goblets and straighten a little before bringing in the dessert, chilled cherries and cream.

  Dr. Mize had sat silent through the entire meal between Mrs. Hopson and Hank at the far end of the table. He resisted any attempt to draw him into a conversation, and he answered any questions with a single word or a perfunctory shake of his head.

  However, when dessert was served, Mrs. Johnston finally succeeded in getting him to talk. She was seated directly across from him and was acutely interested in the surreptitious movements of the gentleman, conducted at odd intervals under the table. He seemed to be holding something that he studied intently.

  “Dr. Mize, whatever are you doing?” she finally blurted, curiosity getting the best of her.

  “Madam!” he yelped, startled at having been caught.

  From the other end of the table, Jackson bellowed, “Oh, hell, Mize, I forgot about you. I think it’s time everyone knew why you’re here. You see, Dr. Mize is a spirit hunter.”

  “A what?” asked Dr. Hopson, whose professional curiosity had been aroused from the moment he had heard the odd little man introduced as a “Doctor.”

  “A spirit hunter,” repeated Jackson. “Found him up in Kentucky when I heard of your problems here. I secured his services to help. Tell ‘em, Mize.”

  Mize looked at him blandly.

  “Dr. Mize,” Jackson corrected.

  “Yes, well, dear lady,” he addressed Mrs. Johnston, holding his vial up for all to see. “What you saw was this.”

  “What is it?” Mrs. Johnston asked.

  “Ah, this is a spirit detector. Basically, it’s a hazel twig suspended in a solution comprised of various secret ingredients. In the presence of a spirit, the hazel exudes a substance that alters the color of the solution. I’ve been studying it all night, as you’ve noticed, and so far I’ve seen nothing. Forgive me, General, Mr. and Mrs. Bell, but I think we’re in the midst of a fraud.”

  As if to prove his point, he gave the vial a hardy shake.

  Oh, good Lord! I can’t take it anymore, brayed the Witch, her voice landing in the room with the impact of a cannon ball. Stop shaking that useless damned thing, you great fool!

  Jackson leaped from his chair, stood looking down the table at Mize.

  Jack sighed heavily, drained his glass in one gulp.

  Mize, with an admirable amount of restraint, held the vial aloft, the tiny hazel stub swirling around inside.

  “Is this the Witch?” asked Jackson.

  Of course it is, General. Sit down, I’ll tend to you later, she snapped. Now, Mize, put that useless piece of theatrics away. We’ve got some things to discuss. Good Lord, man, you could have at least gone to the trouble of actually getting a piece of hazel. That’s plain old oak.

  Mize set his jaw, gave the vial another fierce shake.

  As he did, several gasps came from those around the table as they noticed a color change within the vial. Mize, too, wrenched his attention back to the glass, and his eyes widened at the activity within, as if he had never seen it happen before.

  The clear liquid turned a dusky, blood red, seemed to coagulate. Then, the cork popped from the container, sailed across the room, and the thickened liquid bubbled out onto the clean, white tablecloth.

  Drawing in a sharp breath, Mize dropped the vial.

  I’ll clean that mess tomorrow, Luce, don’t worry, apologized the Witch.

  Mize snatched his napkin and wiped the liquid from his hand. His eyes circled the air warily. “To whom am I speaking?” he intoned in a voice that was so overly dramatic that Betsy tittered behind her hand.

  You’re the spirit hunter. Don’t you know? the Witch asked.

  “You claim to be a spirit, then?”

  I claim to be nothing. Sort of like you, Doc. I just let people believe what they will. And they will, believe me.

  Mize blushed, losing a little of his tightly buttoned calm.

  “Witch,” interrupted Lucy. “How nice of you to join us. Would you like to meet our guests?”

  Ah, yes. General Jackson, hero of the War of 1812. How are you, sir? Thanks for coming so far to see me.

  Jackson’s mouth moved for a second, trying to find words. “Thank you… ma’am. A pleasure to meet you, as well. I was beginning to think that we’d not have the opportunity.”

  Ah, but we did. Remember out on the road? I brought your jacket back.

  “Of course. And my wife would thank you for that, were she here. I knew it was you.”

  You’re an astute man, sir, she commended. That’s why I let your wagons proceed. That and I wanted to taste the whiskey you were bringing, Mr. President.

  “President?” Jackson blanched, and he dropped his napkin.

  That’s right. Lucky number seven.

  “Incredible,” he whispered. “Will I do a good job? Will I be remembered?”

  For the twenty-dollar bill. Not much else, I’m afraid. Greater men before, greater man after. Such is life, General.

  As they talked, no one noticed Mize, sweating profusely, rifle through his jacket, and remove something that he kept out of view below the table.

  Lucy was comforting Mrs. Gardner, who had not experienced the Witch before, and who was on the verge of hyperventilation.

  “Witch,” pleaded Lucy. “Could you visit at another time? I’m afraid Mrs. Gardner isn’t feeling well.”

  Oh, just give her a drink or three, and she’ll feel right at home. Right, Stew?

  Mr. Gardner gasped, stood. “How dare you?” he yelled, his face red and straining. “This is an insult. Margaret, Hank, we’re leaving this instant!”

  He turned to glare at Jack, who only raised a toast to him and quaffed it.

  Oh, leave then, sniffed the Witch. Stuffy old patricians make me sick anyhow. And if you think Betsy is going to marry your shit of a son, you’d best think again.

  Jackson took all of this in like a spectator at a fistfight, sipping from his wine glass as his eyes followed the action.

  Mr. Gardner pulled his limp wife up, stormed from the room, leaving Betsy sobbing and Hank standing in amazement.

  Well, get going with your parents, you wretched thing, the Witch prodded. There’s nothing more for you here.

  As Hank moved from the table, Mize pushed his chair back, stood. He brandished the object he had kept hidden. “Prepare to return to Hell, spirit!” he screamed with more intensity than he’d shown all evening.

  The flintlock’s polished barrel and bronze grips gleamed in the candlelight, and there was a tremendous roar, a burst of flames and smoke.

  For a moment, all was chaos.

  People screamed, fell to the floor, along with dishes and chairs.

  Hank dashed from the room to follow his parents.

  Only Jack remained where he was, drinking obliviously.

  Quiet followed, and Mize set the discharged pistol onto the table, sat and calmly joined Jack in a glass of Madeira.

  You ass! roared the Witch. A silver ball? You could have hurt somebody.

  An invisible slap sent Mize to the floor, uttering a little, squeaky scream.

  You aren’t a spirit hunter. Christ, you’re not even a doctor, such as they are in this time, ranted the Witch, hauling the pokey little man to his feet. You’re nothing but a fraud, taking advantage of ignorant people. And for what? Money? Prestige? You’re too contemptuous of everything to even desire these.

  She plopped him heavily into a chair, his mouth forming a perfect little “O” of terror.

  You know nothing of the spirit world. Hell, your understanding of this one leaves much to be desired.

  Mize, regaining his senses, shook off her hands. “I don’t know what you are, but I can assure you that you’re not of the spirit world.”

  Oh, be quiet. You make me sick. You should make yourself sick as well.
/>   As soon as she said this, Mize raised his hands to his mouth, but too late. With a great heave of his prodigious belly, he vomited onto the table. It landed with a tiny thump!, and everyone looked to it in queasy fascination.

  It was a single, unblemished silver bullet.

  No, spoke the Witch. I mean you should be really sick.

  Mize stood shakily, and held the edge of the table.

  Mrs. Hopson and Liz, who now flanked him, took several steps back as his body trembled. His shoulders pumped as if they were bringing up something from a great distance. His neck bulged and became misshapen, a large lump visible through the rolls of fat.

  A huge, chunky spurt of yellowish vomit splashed across the table, scattering Betsy, John and Mrs. Johnston. It was mostly the meal he had just consumed—his silence had allowed him to eat every bite of everything put in front of him.

  But within the muck were silver balls—dozens of them.

  Hundreds of them.

  And still Mize vomited.

  Gouts of the stuff, now taking on a decidedly more metallic look and sound, squirted from his bug-eyed, frightened face, and clattered to the floor. The carpet was covered with sticky silver balls.

  Lucy, feeling her gorge rise, yelled. “Stop it! Stop it!” Then, she broke into a coughing fit, which caused her to fall breathlessly into her chair.

  John rushed to her.

  I guess that’s sick enough, said the Witch, and instantly Mize stopped.

  He stooped there for a moment longer, a thick ribbon of drool connecting his head to the floor, before righting himself and dashing from the room.

  Understandably, dinner broke up soon after.

  * * *

  Jack awoke to the light of the candles guttering out as they burned down to their bases. Opening his eyes, he looked across the bare expanse of the dining room table with his cheek pressed against the tablecloth. A wine glass lay before him, warping the room seen through it. An odd smell, sour and metallic, lay heavy on the air, and there was a strange, scratchy noise that drifted in and out of his perception. He lifted his head, and the room tilted wildly. Groaning, he surveyed the room to locate the source of that annoying sound.