The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  You do, you know. Hate him. Because that part of you is me. Anger, betrayal, shame, madness, hatred. All that is me is yours. And you have reclaimed a bit of that.

  “No. No.”

  Yes, dear one. I told you before, the truth is a dreadful thing.

  “No, I can’t…”

  You do.

  “He’s my…”

  Yes.

  “… Daddy!”

  Yes.

  (Sobbing) “And I hate him! I do hate him! He hurt me, and I hate him for it!”

  Yes.

  “And you’ll kill him?”

  Yes.

  (Sobbing)

  Betsy?

  “Yes.”

  I forgive you. Forgive yourself.

  “Hate. I hate…”

  You’ve hated yourself long enough. Forgive yourself. You’ve merited it.

  (Sobbing)

  (Silence)

  “And you?”

  I? I… will go on.

  “Will you forgive yourself?”

  My hatred hasn’t begun yet. Not yet.

  Not yet…

  * * *

  Jack?

  “Yes?”

  I’ve outfoxed you, you rascal! Boxed you in, kept you out of the hen house.

  “Kill me. Finish it.”

  Soon. Your wait is part of the package.

  “I cannot bear more… the light, it presses down on me… blinding…”

  Light? What are you talking about, you scoundrel?

  “Light. Overwhelming. It burns me.”

  Jack, I am surpassed. You always manage to both repel and interest me.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  What doesn’t?

  “Whether, in the end, it’s you or the light. One or the other will kill me.”

  I don’t understand you. Have you been drinking?

  “No.”

  Do you know what I am?

  “Yes.”

  Do you know why I am?

  “Yes.”

  Do you know what I must do?

  “Yes.”

  Have you anything to say?

  “I am sorry.”

  At one time, that might have been enough. That time is long dead.

  “I know.”

  Then, you know that this changes nothing.

  “Yes.”

  I will take my leave of you now, Jack. And so it begins.

  (Silence)

  “I want you to know that I… never mind.”

  It, too, changes nothing.

  “Yes. Nothing. Goodnight, Witch.”

  Goodnight, Jack.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was a chilly morning, a sharpness in the air that seemed more a dire taste of winter than a subtle harbinger. Now, the season turned blunt and straightforward, making little pretense for itself and the changes it brought with it. It seemed to carry an uncaring weariness about it, as if some part of the earth were no longer saying, Here I come, but rather, Here I am.

  Into this still, cold early morning, Jack came, closing the back door of the house and drawing his coat tight around his neck. From a distance, he was a comical figure. He practically swam in the coat, for it was made to fit the old Jack, stouter and taller. It flounced merrily around him as he shambled to the barn.

  Up close, Jack seemed anything but comical. His face was tight and drawn, haggard and colorless beneath his shock of red hair. He still wore the shadows of the bruises inflicted upon him in the cornfield. The faded yellow-purple of their healing gave his face a hollow, shrunken aspect; his eyes a sallow, sunken cast.

  Even his hair, once as red as fire, seemed drained of some essential heat. The hunch of his shoulders, the pinch of his features, the strange dullness of his eyes pointed to something within Jack that had expired, a fire that had been banked or extinguished.

  Quietly, he led a saddled horse from the barn into the grey shroud of the morning. He walked it slowly down the lane, until they reached the dirt road. There, away from the house, he climbed atop the horse and trotted away.

  From the east, the sun had begun to cast a diffuse glow, a pearlescent red that beaded on the horizon like shiny new blood on the edge of a knife. Its intense color spilled over the hills, dripped from between the gaps in the tree branches left by falling leaves, squeezed from the air itself like crimson tears.

  Jack, tight-lipped and grimacing, kept the horse at a moderate trot. Soon, his objective was in sight.

  The new church.

  It stood like a white cloud against the mounting storm of the dark backdrop of pine trees that piled up against it. Its spire thrust up into the darkness, a wedge of white that culminated in a small, brass cross.

  The rising sun caught the tip of the cross, lit it like a fiery beacon. This bloodied crucifix was reflected in Jack’s glassy, vacant eyes as if its image had been burned into him.

  Jack dismounted and tied the horse to a nearby tree. From his vantage, the clearing in which the church stood took on an altogether different appearance. No longer did the tall, imposing trees seem to hunch over the little church. Now it seemed that they leaned away, cowered from it, let the sun shine unimpeded down upon the tiny building.

  The door of the church was unbarred, and Jack entered, letting it slip closed silently behind him.

  Inside, his every movement was echoed: his breath, footsteps across the wooden boards, the rustle of his clothing. Making his way to the pulpit, he stopped near the front row of pews.

  There, on the wall before him, was another cross, and this, too, caught the sunlight. It seemed to pulse upon the wall, throbbing in scarlet agony, as if the torment suffered upon its original had soaked deep into the core of its metal.

  Jack fell to his knees before it and wept.

  “God!” he cried in a tortured voice. But it was all he could say, all his quivering lips could form.

  Kneeling there, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving, he began to pray, quietly at first, but as he regained control, his words became clear.

  Catching his breath, he let his head fall forward, until his forehead rested against the front of the pulpit. “Help me,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  She knows, came the Witch’s voice. Only a slight tremble in Jack’s shoulders betrayed the fact that she had startled him. I told her.

  “I know.”

  She knew already, but had covered it. I merely revealed it to her. She hates you.

  “I know.”

  I could do it now. They wouldn’t even have to move you that far to throw your sorry ass in a pine box and say a couple of useless prayers over it.

  Jack slumped against the pulpit, his body collapsing in a heap at its base. “Do it. Just get it done with,” he breathed.

  I’m not that stupid. I’m to kill you here in church while you’re praying to God for forgiveness? she asked, heaping sarcasm onto her words. Does it make sense to fulfill my revenge by killing you when you’ve made your peace with God? When you’re good and ready to accept whatever punishment—or, Heaven help me forgiveness—you’re likely to get from Him?

  Jack lifted his head, resumed praying in a loud voice, ignoring the Witch. “Lord in Heaven, I’m not a worthy soul, but please forgive me,” he shouted.

  No, she continued, too, as if she didn’t hear him. When you’re doing something that’s more of your nature—beating a slave or cursing at one of the children or finding someone new to rape. Maybe then, but not now. Not when all I might do is give your black soul the release you so desire. Not when I might only send you to heaven.

  “I swear to you, God, that I am sorry. I can make amends…”

  Praying ill becomes you, Jack, she sneered. And it won’t do anything to help you, won’t do anything except prolong your suffering. Death is not always the worst, Jack. Rather, in vain to wish for death, and not to compass it.

  Jack continued beseeching the air, and for a time, the Witch said nothing.

  No, she finally said, and it was little more than a whisper. No, yo
u have to stop. You have to quit praying.

  “I have sinned in your face. Betrayed the trust of my family. Wife. Daughter…”

  Damn you, she shrieked. You mustn’t do this. I can’t… you can’t be sorry. Not now! Not now, damn you! Why weren’t you sorry before? It’s too late now! Too late!

  Still, Jack’s muttering continued, his hands clasped before him.

  SHUT UP!

  In mid-sentence, Jack’s voice caught, and his hands flew to his throat, clawed at his neck. “Gaww!” he yelped.

  There, she gloated. Now ask for forgiveness. Now that your tongue is as swollen and black as your soul. Pray your heart out. She laughed hysterically, peals of high-pitched, bitter mirth resounding loudly in the small church.

  Jack could feel his tongue swell in his mouth, as it had before in the cornfield. It seemed to grow larger this time, to fill his mouth completely. It pressed against his teeth, straining as if intent on snapping them. It bulged his cheeks grotesquely, threatened to cut off his windpipe.

  Swallowing as best he could, Jack raised his head. “PORGIB BE! PORGIB ME!”

  The Witch’s laughter ceased instantly.

  A bolt of pain shot through Jack’s throat, and he pitched headlong to the ground with a gurgling cry.

  You will stop, Jack. Or I’ll kill you here, redemption or no. I’ll take my chances.

  Jack pushed defiantly off the floor, began muttering again. His tongue almost entirely blocked the passage of his mouth, and this time his sounds possessed not even the hint of real words.

  Stop it, Jack, she warned, her voice wavering on the edge of control. Stop!

  He was struck a tremendous blow, which knocked him backward from the pulpit, and sent him sprawling to the floor in the aisle. Jack’s eyes clenched tightly against the promise of another blow, and his swollen lips moved silently, a thin line of bloody spittle tracking down his chin.

  STOP!

  Another, then another blow struck him, in succession almost too rapid to tell one from another. Jack curled into a fetal position under this assault, biting down on his horribly distended tongue. Tears coursed down his cheeks, and the drool trickling from his mouth turned bright red.

  For a moment, all was dark.

  And he lost consciousness.

  * * *

  Rev. Johnston rose early that brisk late October morning. Dressing quietly beside his sleeping wife, he went downstairs and built up the hearth fire, which had been banked for the night. As the kindling caught fire, he darted about the kitchen making a light breakfast of toast and coffee.

  With the fire roaring and the coffee boiling, Johnston stood looking out the window, admiring the brilliant color of the sun as it rose above the tiny church.

  His church.

  All week, Johnston looked forward to Saturday morning. Then, he would rise early and clean the church, polish the wood or perform minor carpentry and other repairs. The longer it stood, the more it felt like home to him; not just God’s home, but his home. Even more so than his own.

  The strong smells of coffee and toast brought him back. Pulling both out of the hearth, he sat at the small table. He got no more than a short, scalding drink of coffee, however, when the Witch interrupted.

  Reverend! she whispered.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed in reply, sloshing hot coffee over his hand and arm.

  Well, I tried to be quiet on Doris’ account. If she’s up now, it’s no fault of mine, she harrumphed.

  “You really do need to learn how to knock or something,” he replied testily, wiping at the coffee on his arm. “Whatever do you want?”

  Thought you’d like to know that there’s a sinner in the church… right now. As opposed, I guess, to Sunday mornings, when the place is filled to the rafters with them.

  Johnston scowled, put down the sopping napkin. “What do you mean?”

  You better go over there and see. I think he needs your personal ministrations about now, Rev. Before he gets any nearer my God to thee.

  Johnston hesitated for a moment, pushed away from the table and went quickly from the house. He saw Jack the moment he threw open the church doors.

  Jack was unconscious. He lay on his back near the pulpit, and Johnston could just make out the slow rise and fall of his respiration.

  He rushed to his friend’s side, knelt to check him. When he took Jack’s hand, his heart faltered. It was warm and slick, and he turned it over in his own.

  There was a smear of sticky blood across both of their palms.

  Dumbfounded, he raised Jack’s slack hand into the light.

  Under the heel of his hand, in the middle of his wrist, there was a wound that penetrated Jack’s wrist completely.

  His heart clenched in his chest, and he dropped Jack’s hand. It landed with a meaty slap that resounded through the church.

  His head spinning, Johnston lifted Jack’s other hand.

  Its wound was identical.

  What do you think, Rev?

  Johnston struggled to clear his mouth of dust and outrage. “It is… an abomination.”

  Unable to control himself, Johnston glanced at Jack’s bare feet.

  Two hairlines of blood pulsed from their wounds, tracked across the polished floor.

  “Did you do this?” Johnston gasped, feeling for a pulse on Jack’s neck.

  Yes, she said, her voice sarcastic and spiteful. He has sinned. And he had the audacity to ask for forgiveness. If he really wants forgiveness, let him suffer for it. Earn it.

  “What has he done to merit such torture?”

  Done? snorted the Witch. He has violated trust. Destroyed love. Hurt. Hated. Betrayed. Is that not enough?

  “Who are you to punish him for this?”

  Who are you not to punish him? shot back the Witch, a twinge of contempt edging into her strained voice.

  “A man. And a man of God. Christ has forgiven more than this…”

  Not this. Never this. He burns for this. Here on earth or in hell, it makes no difference.

  “What is the crime?” Johnston implored. “What has he done that is so heinous that it can’t be–”

  HE RAPED HIS DAUGHTER! HE MADE ME!

  Johnston felt the room spin around him, and he reached out to steady himself. Falling into a pew, he caught his breath. “Raped…?”

  And I hate him for it, the Witch answered, in a voice as soft as his. As does she.

  “God,” Johnston sighed, covering his face with his hands. “Good God.” He wanted to disbelieve this spirit, but he could not.

  Yes. Good God. He couldn’t tolerate it, so he sent me to avenge her. To punish Jack for his sin.

  “I don’t accept that,” Johnston snapped, lifting his face from his hands.

  Oh, really? And why not?

  “Because the God I worship is not like that. My God…”

  ‘Your God?’ What’s this crap? You’re not even a real minister. You don’t know God from your own ass.

  Bristling, Johnston leapt to his feet. “I may not be a real minister, as you say. But that does not move me any farther from God. Certainly no farther than you. I don’t know what you are, but you are certainly not sent from God. That I’ll never believe. My God forgives anything. As long as the sinner genuinely asks forgiveness. Nothing is outside my God’s power to forgive.”

  Did you bring him here?

  Silence. Then, grudgingly, “No.”

  “Then, he came seeking something from God that he could not give himself. He sought forgiveness.”

  NO! she roared, and Johnston staggered under her anger and dismay. But he clung to his convictions and the core of strength he had finally found within himself.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Whatever you are, you, Jack, me, we all answer to God. There is no escape. And we’re all covered by his grace. There is no exception.”

  Can you, then, forgive him, Reverend?

  Johnston considered this. “I don’t have to. I’m just a man. I only have to accept the fact that God
will.”

  But it doesn’t sate my purpose. It doesn’t fulfill my being.

  “And what will?”

  His death.

  Johnston looked back at Jack, noticed his oddly swollen face, distended jaw and bluish lips.

  “You’ll do as you must,” he answered. “No one here has the power to stop you. You alone are answerable to God for your actions.”

  I should let him go unpunished, then?

  “Why do you insist that it’s your prerogative to punish or forgive him?”

  Because, Reverend, she answered. That’s why I was made.

  “Then, why not kill him here and now. If you’re truly God’s creation, He wouldn’t mind if you carried out His will in His own house.”

  For a stretch of minutes that seemed to float on, there was no reply. Thinking she had left, Johnston moved to Jack.

  Not here. Not now, she finally answered. But soon, very soon. Because it’s the only way.

  “For what?”

  To calm the soul.

  “His or yours?” he answered, but he felt her departure.

  His final question hung on the air unanswered.

  * * *

  Johnston had some difficulty getting the comatose Jack into his wagon. After fifteen minutes of exertion dragging his body down the aisle in the church—and some help from a distraught, yet silent, Doris—he succeeded in wrestling him in and starting off for Bell’s house.

  By the time he arrived, the sun was up, and activity on the farm was bustling. He drew the wagon to a halt near the rear of the house.

  Sam rushed over, glad to see the minister and anxious to help. When he reached the wagon, his eagerness vanished.

  “Help me get him inside,” breathed Johnston, going around to the back of the wagon and taking Jack by his feet.

  Under the silent gaze of the other slaves, they hefted him out of the wagon and huffed him across the yard. Although Jack had lost a considerable amount of weight during the last few months, he still weighed nearly 200 pounds.

  Naddy answered the door with a smile for the reverend. Like Sam, her smile fell away when she saw Jack.

  “We need to get him upstairs into bed,” panted Johnston, whose slight muscles and frame quivered on the verge of failure. “Quickly!”