The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  * * *

  Adam wiped his hands on a clean rag handed to him by Naddy. When he was finished, he handed it back to her and smiled.

  “You go on, now. We’ll stay with Anky a spell.”

  Naddy looked uncertainly to Anky, asleep in a bed curtained off from the rest of the slave quarters with a quilt, then to Sam. She scowled at him, but he was too absorbed to notice.

  “Don’t worry none,” Adam assured her, patting her shoulder. She collected a pile of bloody rags, a pan of water and a pitcher that sat on a table near the bed. Pulling back the quilt, she huffed out of the room.

  Adam waited until he was sure she was out of earshot.

  “Lucky you found her,” he said, sitting on the foot of the small bed. Anky stirred a little and moaned.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Sam.

  Adam gave him a hard, appraising look.

  “What happened, boy?”

  “After I found her? I brought her here.”

  “No. What really happened?”

  Sam looked down at the floor, swallowed hard, and frowned.

  “You know, Naddy thinks you done it.”

  Sam’s head snapped up. “Hurt Anky? I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I know that, boy. What I don’t know is what really happened. I’m still waitin’ to hear that.”

  Sam sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging.

  “I found her…”

  “That much I knows already.”

  “… with Mr. Bell.”

  Adam’s face didn’t change, though his eyes seemed to droop at the corners.

  “He was… he had… he…,” Sam stammered, desperately searching for a word to convey the full scope of Jack’s crime. But he gave up; he could find none.

  “All right, calm down. So you found ‘em. What then?”

  Sam hesitated again, began fidgeting. Adam realized that the young man was on the edge of tears.

  “Boy, tell me what happened, damn it. I need to know.”

  “He said he was gonna kill me, Adam. He was gonna kill me,” Sam blurted out, breaking down. “So’s I hit ‘em. I hit ‘em, Adam! Oh, God, what’re they gonna do with me?”

  Adam stood and put his arms around the young man.

  “You hit ‘em?” asked Adam. “Lord, boy, why didn’t you just kill ‘em and be done with it? Then at least you’d have done something worthwhile before they hung you.”

  He nearly did kill him, said the Witch.

  “What do you mean?” asked Adam without missing a beat.

  He damn near beat him to death. I came on them too late to stop it, though. Jack’s in pretty bad shape.

  Adam pulled away from Sam. “They found him yet?”

  Yes. I led John to him. He’s in the house now being seen to by Doc Hopson.

  “Lord, boy. What have you done? They’ll be here any minute, ready to string you from a tree. Sweet Jesus! What were you thinkin’?”

  Sam stared into space, not responding to Adam.

  They won’t be coming. They know nothing about Anky. And as far as the beating goes… I did it, interjected the Witch.

  “You?”

  I couldn’t let a fool take credit for doing something so smart. They’d kill him. But they can’t touch me.

  “So, they don’t know about Sam?”

  Keep him inside for a day or two. Summer flu or something. Say Anky’s had some problems with her pregnancy. They’ll have plenty of other things on their minds, they won’t even notice.

  Adam shook his head. “Thank you.”

  Don’t thank me. I didn’t want… don’t want to do any of this. But it seems I have to.

  “Thank you anyways.”

  But she had gone.

  * * *

  Lucy stood away from the bed where Jack lay, covered from the waist down. From the waist up, bandages swaddled his bruised chest and his misshapen head. They were stained a light pink as blood soaked into them.

  Jack stirred as Hopson worked on him, bathing his wounds with a wet cloth, dabbing at the scrapes with ointments and unguents. Jack’s swollen tongue prevented him from uttering any more than a few gurgles of protest before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  When Hopson finished, he washed his hands, repacked his vials and instruments. Taking Lucy by the shoulders, he lowered his face to hers. “Lucy, you say the Witch did this to him?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Listen to me, Luce. I’ve been a friend for a long time, and, God willing, I hope to be one for a long time to come. Leave this house. Now. Take Jack and the children and the slaves and get out of here. There’s something evil here, and it’s not playing games any longer.”

  “I can’t leave, Dr. Hopson. This is my house,” she answered, as if talking to a wayward child.

  “Damn it, Luce! Look at him!” He spun aside, pulling her before him so she could stand at the foot of Jack’s bed and look down upon him. “If she could do this to him, she can do it to you, to Betsy, to anyone! This is not funny banter or parlor tricks anymore. She’s almost killed Jack. If John hadn’t found him…”

  “She won’t hurt me. I know it.”

  “Can you be so sure she won’t hurt Betsy?”

  At that suggestion, Lucy lost some of her quiet resolve, and looked away.

  Hopson took a deep breath, his face reddening. “If you stay, Luce, you do so against my advice, against the advice of everyone you know.”

  Lucy smiled wanly at him, placed a hand against his cheek. “Thank you, Dr. Hopson. I know you’re worried about me, but it’ll be all right. In the end, it’ll be all right.”

  Hopson looked at her, but could not return her smile. He pulled away from her hand abruptly, snapped his leather case shut. “If you must remain, then, at least let me know when there’s something I can do for you. Especially with Jack in his present condition,” he sighed.

  “John’s around, and he’ll look after everything.”

  Hopson nodded and left Lucy and Betsy alone in the hot, dark room with Jack.

  * * *

  Powell has just sat down to an early dinner, when there was a great disturbance on the roof of his cabin. Startled, he knocked over his water glass, which spilled across the table and shattered on the floor.

  “Damn!” he muttered, pushing away and going to the door. He expected to shoo away a raccoon or squirrels, but when he opened his front door, a gust of wind pushed at him, past him into the room.

  Powell! came a long, moaning voice from nowhere as the wind died away.

  “Witch? What is it? I’ve just sat down to…”

  I’ve done it. Really done it, she interrupted.

  He went back to the table, sat down and eyed his meal. Suddenly, his appetite seemed less than it had been a moment before. “Done what?” he grumbled, poking at the fish.

  Hurt him.

  “Hurt? Hurt who?” Powell asked, raising his head and forgetting about the meal congealing before him.

  Not Betsy, his heart thumped. Please, God, not her.

  Old Jack Bell, she said, hooting in laughter, an abrupt change from her frightened and confused mood of just seconds ago. It’s begun, Richard. It’s begun.

  “You’re not making any sense, Witch, if indeed you ever did,” calmed Powell. “Now slow down a bit and explain yourself to me. You hurt Jack Bell?”

  Yes. Damn near killed him, she snorted. Mind if I drink?

  “I didn’t know you did,” he answered as a dark brown bottle of some strange and ancient alcohol dropped onto the table before him and uncorked itself.

  Neither did I. Care to join me?

  “No thank you.”

  The level of liquid within the bottle dropped several inches, and Powell was treated to a series of loud and ill-mannered swallows and gurgles.

  Ahhh! she sighed.

  “You almost killed Jack. Why?”

  The Witch ignored the question, took another draught from the bottle. Powell began to smell the blowsy, sharp tang of liquor ooze around hi
m.

  Then, the answer fell upon him with a weight that nearly made him reel from his chair. “It’s Betsy, isn’t it? This has something to do with what Jack’s done to her!”

  And just what would you know about what Jack has done to Betsy? asked the Witch in a low and menacing tone.

  “I don’t know. Conjecture.”

  Hah! she laughed, and the bottle on the table bubbled down another inch. Well, it’s not conjecture on my part.

  Powell noticed with a detached, empiric calm that the spirit slurred the word conjecture into something approaching cahnjeshur, as if she really were drunk.

  “What do you mean?”

  Oh, why be coy, schoolmarm? Jack raped his daughter. Fucked her. Hell, he’s fucked almost everyone in town. Has he gotten you yet?

  Blushing, Powell assured her he had not.

  That’s why I’m here. He made me. Made me what I am.

  “And that’s why you almost killed him?”

  Oh, I’ll kill him, teacher. Make no mistake. I will kill him.

  “For hurting Betsy?”

  It seems I must. I don’t want to… most of the time. But events force my hand. I have to save Betsy, have to punish Jack! It’s my purpose, Powell. Do you understand me? My god damn purpose! She howled the last words at him, and the bottle was drained empty.

  “We all have a purpose, Witch.”

  Not you. Not mortals. You choose your purpose.

  “Chosen freely or thrust upon us, what’s the difference? We all have something that compels us.”

  How spiritual that sounds coming from a man of science, she sneered.

  “If you are truly a spirit, you would know that God invented science, too. One does not preclude the other.”

  She fell silent at that.

  “Will you protect Betsy, then?” he asked after a while.

  Yes. I so want to be Orpheus descending into the Underworld to charm Hades into releasing Eurydice. But it seems all I’m capable of is beating him over the head with my lyre. My whole existence is like a bad Greek tragedy. I’m Electra sent to do Oedipus’ job.

  Powell was at a loss for words. “I don’t know what you want of me, spirit. I can’t help you. I can’t offer you advice.”

  You can answer a question for me, she whispered, and he could sense her voice fading away.

  “Yes, Witch?”

  If you do something you know is wrong, but you’re forced to do it, is it a sin?

  “That would be better asked of Reverend––”

  Answer!

  Powell thought for a moment. “I guess that would depend upon whether one was truly forced by a greater power. Or if he were merely forcing himself.”

  But she was gone.

  THIRTY

  Hank Gardner climbed from the wagon and handed the reins of his horse over to one of the young slaves without a word. Walking to the door of the Bell house, he straightened his jacket, ran a hand through his thick, brown hair, brushed at his trousers. The door opened slowly, no more than a crack, and Naddy appeared on the other side.

  “Yes?” she asked, blocking the way with her thin body.

  “I’m here to see Betsy,” he said, trying to push past her.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Gardner. I’ll haves to check with Mrs. Bell,” she said, quickly closing—and bolting—the door in his face.

  He stood there incredulous for a moment, lifted his hand to rap sharply on the door. With his first knock, the door was swung wide open, and Hank’s fist arced through empty air.

  “Come in,” Naddy invited, stepping aside as Hank entered.

  He cast a sour look her way, sidled around her.

  “Mrs. Bell’ll see you in the sitting room,” she called after him.

  Hank paused outside the room, took a breath and recollected himself before going in.

  “Good afternoon, Hank,” said Lucy between a needle held in her teeth. She was busy mending a quilt that spilled over her lap.

  “Good afternoon, Ma’am.” He looked around the room and wondered where Betsy was, why Naddy had brought him here to see Lucy.

  “What brings you here today?” Lucy asked, concentrating on the quilt.

  “I’m here to see Betsy,” he responded.

  “Of course,” smiled Lucy, looking up from her quilt. “But why?”

  “Excuse me?” Hank asked, confused.

  Lucy stopped working. “This has been a difficult week for everyone, Hank, but particularly for Betsy. She really shouldn’t have any disturbances. She needs to relax. So, I merely want to know what your plans are before I agree to let her see you.”

  Hank mentally ground his teeth. Why was she making this more difficult than he had planned? But he was smart enough to know that Lucy was sizing him up, and too smart to let his real feelings show.

  “I know that, Ma’am, and I agree,” Hank smiled, regaining his slick momentum. “That’s why I thought it might be best for her to get away for a while into the fresh air. So, I brought a picnic lunch I thought we could share this afternoon.”

  Lucy frowned at his too-anxious, too-willing-to-please demeanor, but thought of Betsy. Seeing what the Witch had done to her father had unhinged an opening deep within Betsy. And she had withdrawn into that niche, pulling the door shut behind her.

  More than ever, Betsy had become a cipher, closed and blank to all around her. Getting out for a pleasant afternoon—even with Hank—might do her some good, Lucy admitted.

  “All right, Hank. I’ll send for Betsy,” agreed Lucy. “Just remember that she’s been through a lot recently, over and above everything that’s happened in the last six or seven months. Do you understand?”

  Hank smiled, and the image of that eager, vulpine grin burned itself into Lucy’s memory, became the image her mind called forth in years to come whenever she remembered him.

  “Of course, Ma’am. I’d planned to take her back to my parents’ house later so we could plan some of the wedding, but I can see now that this wouldn’t be the best time for that.”

  Lucy nodded, unable to think of anything to say back to him. “Naddy!” she called, and the housekeeper came into the room.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Go and tell Betsy she’s got a visitor.”

  Naddy flashed out of the room and up the stairs.

  “It’s up to her, Hank,” cautioned Lucy. “She’s got to decide whether or not to go.”

  Hank watched the staircase, nodded his head in barely concealed annoyance.

  After a moment, Betsy came down the steps slowly, as if measuring each one. When she saw Hank, she smiled, but it was more out of habit than of any emotion.

  “Betsy,” Hank called, rushing to her. “How are you?”

  She looked at him in silence for a second, no expression on her face. Then, “Why hello, Hank. I’m fine.”

  Her voice had a dreamy, misty edge to it that reminded him unpleasantly of their encounter in the little wooded copse near the church.

  Shaking away that feeling, he took her hand. “I thought you and I would have a picnic today, Bets. Are you ready to go?”

  Betsy continued to fix him with her dull, unfocused stare as she considered his invitation. “Yes, Hank. That would be delightful,” she responded, taking his arm as he led her to the front door.

  “I won’t keep her long, Mrs. Bell,” Hank said, turning back to Lucy and flashing that darkly cunning smile again.

  Lucy watched them go in silence.

  It suddenly struck her why his smile bothered her so, why it flashed like summer’s heat lightning in her mind.

  Jack Bell had smiled that way, too, when he was young.

  * * *

  Hank helped Betsy into the wagon and snapped the horses into motion.

  It was a warm late September afternoon, with just a hint of the coming fall’s coolness. Some of the leaves were beginning to turn color, and there was a wistful, earthy tang in the air that gently presaged the end of summer.

  In the fields, the harvest had b
egun, and Hank watched disinterestedly as a large group of slaves toiled away in the midday sun, leaving wakes behind them in the sea of corn.

  Betsy said nothing as they proceeded, and this was acceptable––actually preferable––to him. He found he had little to say to her these days, much less so than in the past when he had been compelled to woo her. With their engagement now public, Hank felt the strictures of chivalry and even civility slip away from him as if they were broken chains.

  She was his, and he could do with her as he pleased.

  Today, he intended to prove that.

  * * *

  The wagon clattered southwest down the main road that ran in front of the Bell home and formed the southern boundary of Bell property. Betsy asked no questions about where he was taking her, and showed little interest at even being with him at all.

  About a mile from the house, Hank pulled the wagon off the road and into a stand of dense pine trees. Jumping down, he tied the horse to one of the trees, and went to the back of the wagon.

  Two packages lay in the bed. One was a tightly tied parcel. The other was a simple woven basket that held a loaf of bread, some cold beef, a wedge of cheese, fruit and two bottles of wine. Planning this afternoon, he had thought the wine a necessary component for what he intended. Now, looking at Betsy sitting nearly catatonic in the wagon, he realized that the wine and even the charade of the picnic were no longer needed.

  With a quickening pulse, he realized that he could probably take her wherever he wanted and do to her whatever he wanted with no pretense at all.

  Swallowing fiercely, he ignored the picnic basket, walked to the other side of the wagon to help Betsy down. She smiled again, vapid and empty, as she took his proffered hand.

  Holding her hand firmly in his, he led her into the woods at a brisk pace.

  Only then did she show any interest in what was happening.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve something special to show you,” he answered, his voice husky with exertion and anticipation.