The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  Naddy leapt aide, and Johnston caught a quick glimpse of faces at the breakfast table turning to him, mouths slack, eyes wide. But he could not afford to stop.

  Lurching around a corner, he and Sam reached the staircase. Johnston paused a moment to groan inwardly at the prospect of carrying all this dead weight up those stairs, but he pressed on. Taking a step at a time, he was surprised how quickly and easily they were able to ascend. A few steps later, they had placed Jack as gently as their weary muscles would allow into his bed.

  Johnston collapsed into a nearby chair, gasping for breath, feeling the muscles of his arms and calves and back twitch. When he regained his breath, he turned toward the open door.

  Lucy stood framed there, pale and apprehensive. Behind her stood a number of smaller bodies, all pressing to get into the room around her. She succeeded in holding them back, though.

  “I found him this morning. In the church,” Johnston explained, accepting a glass of water that Sam had poured and pressed into his shaking hand. “He was praying. The Witch beat him.”

  “Again?” Lucy groaned. “Dear God. How bad is it? Is he all right?”

  She saw the blood on his face, his sleeves, the legs of his trousers.

  “I don’t know,” answered Johnston softly. “He’s alive.”

  “The blood…?” she asked.

  “From wounds on his hands and feet. She… better just to show you,” he said, a tremble passing through him as he stood.

  He took one of Jack’s hands, held it up.

  The wound he had seen earlier that morning in church was gone.

  Not healed.

  Disappeared. As if it had never been there at all.

  “There were cuts here. Punctures that went through his hands,” Johnston said, laying that hand down and examining the other in confusion. “They’re gone now.”

  Only then did Lucy step into the room and go to the bedside, allowing a spill of bodies to fall into the room behind her.

  Gently, she reached out to touch Jack’s swollen cheek, his blue lips.

  “Is Pa gonna be all right?” asked Zach, tugging at his mother’s apron.

  She ignored him, so deep was she in her own thoughts.

  “Run and get Doc Hopson, son,” said Johnston, putting his hand on the young boy’s shoulders. “Get him here quick.”

  Over Zach’s shoulder, Johnston saw Betsy standing in the doorway, an equivocal look on her face. She looked at the reverend as if she were wrestling with some part of herself without being able to gain the upper hand.

  “Is he gonna be all right?” Zach repeated forcefully.

  Johnston turned back to Zach, touched by the boy’s dogged concern. “I don’t know, boy. Now, get going.”

  As Lucy began to cry, Reverend Johnston rose quietly and slipped from the room, following Betsy.

  Johnston caught the door just as Betsy flung it closed forcefully on her way outside.

  “Betsy!” he called after her. “Betsy, wait! Please!”

  Her angry stride carried her to the pear orchard before she turned back to him. “What?”

  Johnston stopped close to her, wavering between reaching out and comforting her and keeping his distance from her anger. She seemed like a flame to him, hungry and avid for life.

  Was this what Jack had seen in her? Johnston wondered. Was this what had driven him over the edge? And more importantly, was this what Jack had stolen from her?

  With this realization, the cruelty of Jack’s crime mounted in Johnston’s mind until it not only merited punishment, it demanded it.

  He chose to hold his ground against her. In lieu of reaching out to her, he wrapped his thin, ineffective arms around his chest, gathered warmth to protect himself from the light, chill wind that rattled the dead leaves of the pear trees.

  “I know,” he said.

  Her eyes snapped to him like twin whips, but her face, for a moment, lost its sharp anger.

  “You do?” she answered in a small, quavering voice, more like a child; more like the Betsy he was accustomed to.

  “Yes, I do. The Witch told me. And I’m sorry… sorry that none of us knew. Sorry that none of us could help when you most needed it. But, we can help now… if you let us.”

  Her eyes teared at his words, but they didn’t leave him. “He hurt me,” she whimpered.

  “I know, child. I know he did. And he was wrong. But he knew it. Deep down inside, he knew what he did to you was wrong. And this morning, he was asking God for forgiveness.”

  Those words hit her wavering facade, smashed through it. “God? Why was he asking God for forgiveness? He didn’t do anything to God. He hurt me. He should have asked me to forgive him,” she spat back.

  “Could you have? Could you have forgiven him?”

  “No.”

  “Can you forgive him now?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he knew that. Maybe he was seeking forgiveness in the only place he knew he’d get it if he asked.”

  “It’s still not right that God should be able to forgive something that happened to me. He has no right. I’m the only one whose forgiveness matters. And he’s not getting it.”

  Johnston noticed the glint of tears in her eyes, but just as he did, she spun away from him.

  “Maybe that’s why she’s here—to open his eyes, to open your eyes. Maybe she’s here to punish him, too, I can’t say. I do know that you may hate him now, and I won’t argue with you there. I’m not sure that even I can forgive him now. But in time I will forgive him, just as you will.”

  “No!” she shouted. Then softer, “No.”

  “Let yourself heal. Let yourself forgive. He may have taken many things away from you, Betsy. But no matter what he did, he can’t take that from you if you don’t let him. No one can.”

  Betsy’s shoulders rose and fell in little heaves, and Johnston heard stifled sobs coming from her. Then, he did go to her, and placed his arms around her. And she did not shy from his comfort, but rather turned to him and buried her face in his chest.

  Johnston held her in his arms as she cried.

  The wind swept crackling through the dead pear orchard, carrying away the dried leaves and her tears.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I love you, Powell, came a voice from the darkness.

  He had made himself comfortable in a chair near the fireplace, a copy of Gulliver’s Travels in his hand and a half-filled glass of whiskey on a table at his side. Lost in the pages of the book and the other half of the whiskey, he was unsure whether what he heard was real.

  You could at least respond, she snapped, but her voice seemed weak and soft, barely above a whisper.

  “Witch?” he asked, letting the book fall open onto his chest and looking around the room. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Oh, Powell, she chuckled, amused by his befuddled response. You’re so unassumingly endearing. That’s why I love you.

  Powell frowned, and the dancing firelight accentuated the folds of his face. “You’re drunk again,” he snorted, picking up the book as if to ignore her.

  It was plucked from his grasp and hurled into the fireplace.

  “Hey!” he shouted, struggling to disentangle himself from the quilts that covered him. “My book! That’s a first edition!”

  Shh! commanded the Witch, and a weight settled into him, pushing him back into the chair, ending his struggles. Relax, Powell. I want to talk with you.

  “Let me up!” he protested, wriggling beneath her invisible form. “I can’t believe you did that. That was one of my favorite books.”

  Calm yourself. This is more important. I need to speak with you while I’m still able. I don’t have much time left.

  Powell relaxed somewhat at that. “What do you mean? What’s going to happen?”

  I think you already know that. Once that’s done… I’m not sure. I’m already getting weaker. I can’t wait any longer for you. At this pace, you’d be courting her when she’s 90 years old.

&n
bsp; “Courting who?”

  Betsy, of course, you addlebrained schoolmaster! Who do you think?

  Powell swallowed, blushed. “Me court Betsy? I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be… it’s just out of the question, that’s all! I’m twice her age.”

  Oh, no one cares about your age. Besides, she loves you, the Witch said.

  Powell was thunderstruck, but managed to maintain some level of disbelief in what she said. “How do you know this?”

  Do you know what I am, Powell?

  He thought about this. “I’m not sure that I…”

  Just say it. It may not fit your parochial science, but it’s just you and me here.

  “Are you… somehow part of Betsy?”

  You know how I came to be. I overheard old Doc Hopson talking with you about it months ago.

  “Yes. I’m sorry that I didn’t––”

  Don’t apologize. It doesn’t matter now. But as part of Betsy, I know what she knows, think what she thinks. And I love you, just as she does.

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” he stammered, shifting uncomfortably beneath her weight, which began to feel a little too intimate, too real.

  You love her, too.

  “Yes. I do,” he responded, in awe of uttering it aloud.

  Well, then what are you waiting for, Powell? Tell her. She isn’t engaged to Hank Gardner anymore. I saw to that. What more do you want from me… from her?

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “No, it’s just not possible.”

  You’re going into politics. You’re going to be the state representative for this county. So, you won’t be her teacher anymore. You’ll be her… whatever it is that politicians are to people.

  “How did you know that? I’ve told no one!” Powell croaked in a shocked tone.

  Why do you persist in being impressed with the least of my abilities? I ask again, why are you waiting?

  “I’m afraid,” he confided. “Afraid of being foolish, of being old.”

  Foolish is the heart that has never known rejection, she answered. She loves you, and she’s as afraid as you are. Afraid of seeming a foolish young girl. Afraid of you rejecting her.

  “Me reject her?” he asked. “Good Lord, I’d be crazy.”

  She, too, said the Witch. See her, Powell. Tell her. Don’t let her slip away. She needs you more than you’ll ever know.

  I need you.

  Powell felt the weight on his chest float away, but something deeper still pressed on him, squeezed his heart.

  And you need her. Look at this place! Even in the dark, it’s a disaster. Don’t you ever clean? Books in the fireplace! she tsked.

  The copy of Gulliver’s Travels rose from the fire unscathed, drifted through the air and settled back in his hands. It wasn’t even warm.

  Powell paid little attention to it. He ignored her voice, too, as it faded into the evening, leaving an impression that floated serenely on the air for a while longer.

  Later, he fell asleep in the chair with the book covering his breast, thinking of the secret sound of Betsy’s heart… and how he longed to hear it again.

  * * *

  Zach heard them coming before they even reached the barn. He crouched lower in the cramped space behind the two enormous corn cribs. Each of the cribs was filled to overflowing with part of the harvest––dried, husked ears of feed corn.

  His hiding space was perfect. A single, narrow passage led between the cribs, navigable only by a child.

  He’d agreed to play hide and seek with Williams and Drewry, but only to get away from them.

  Zach did not want to be found today.

  The air where he had secreted himself was cold and damp, musty with the smell of corn. To occupy himself as he sat and thought, he wriggled kernels out of one ear that jutted from the crib, worrying them loose like dead teeth from a dried, yellow smile. Once removed, he absently flicked them at a cow in a nearby stall, who swooshed her tail in annoyance at the offending niblets.

  “He must be in here!” Zach heard Drew announce with a gleeful shout as the barn door creaked open. Zach huddled lower still in the darkness, held his breath as footsteps dashed around him.

  Go away! he shouted in his mind. Just go away and leave me alone! I don’t want to play… ever.

  But their laughter and squeals and taunting calls for him to come out went on. He pressed his hands to his ears and drew his knees up to his chest to block them out.

  “Drew!” he heard Williams’ voice hiss very near. “Come here!”

  Zach’s dark-adjusted eyes snapped open, and he saw a shadow looming in the passage between the cribs. He pushed even farther back, until he was pressed flat against the rough barn wall.

  There was the sound of heavy, close breathing, then a hand loomed from the darkness, flailed, and touched him.

  “Hah!” crowed Williams. “I knew it! Come on out, Zach. We found you!”

  But Zach pulled away from him, began to cry in thick, heaving gasps.

  “Go away!” he panted. “Just… go… away!”

  Zach saw Williams’ face swim at him through the swirling black sea of his tears.

  “What’s wrong?” Williams asked, his hand finding his younger brother’s shoulder. The tone of his voice expressed genuine concern, and Zach looked up at him.

  “He’s gonna die, Willie,” he squeaked. “The Witch’s gonna kill ‘em!”

  Williams sighed, dropped down next to him, pulling Zach into a hug. Drew, not quite sure of what was transpiring, joined them, hugging Williams’ leg in silence and sucking his thumb.

  “You shouldn’t outghta say that, Zach,” said Williams. “Pa’s not gonna die. He’s getting better.”

  “He’s not better, Willie,” whined Zach in protest. “He’s hurt real bad. And she’s gonna hurt him again.”

  “She’s hurt all of us, Zach, but she’s never killed anyone,” Williams explained. But his tone had changed, and Zach was not the only one to pick up on it. Now, it sounded as if he were trying to convince not just Zach but himself.

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t hate us like she does Pa. She wants to kill him. She said so.”

  “To who?” demanded Williams.

  “To John. I heard him talkin’ to Ma yesterday. He said the Witch told him that she was gonna kill Pa,” Zach responded.

  Williams digested this piece of information in silence.

  “Willie?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think… he did something bad? Like she said?”

  “No!” snapped Williams so violently that Drew started. Zach felt his brother’s arm go rigid around his shoulders and tighten. “Don’t say that, Zach. Don’t ever say that. Pa’s a good man. He’d never do nothin’ wrong. No matter what that old Witch says. Why would you believe her anyway? She lies about everything.”

  Then, inexplicably, he, too, burst into tears. Thankful for the blackness, he scrubbed them shamefully from his cheeks, and wiped their heat onto his pants legs. When he caught his breath again, he noticed that Zach had resumed crying. And Drewry sobbed noisily.

  Williams pulled Drew to him and sat the boy on his lap. With his other hand, he reached for Zach. Breathing hard, Zach pushed it away. But Williams was insistent, and he tugged Zach to him and hugged them.

  Gathered in that tiny clutch, they held to each other for bravery.

  For a while, Williams fought his own tears.

  * * *

  Powell wondered at his sanity the whole way to the Bell house.

  He had spent the morning shaving, dressing in a suit—his best, though a little threadbare—tying and retying his tie several times in exasperation before letting it lay as it wanted.

  The doubt caught up with him when he had surveyed himself in his little mirror and saw the imperfect reflection of an aging bachelor within the bubbled glass: awkward, desperate, ridiculous.

  He might have called the whole thing off then and there if he hadn’t already asked John Bell—who, in the absence of i
nput from father or mother, was acting as the head of the household—if he might not pay a call on Betsy this morning and begin courting her.

  With bemused surprise, John extended an invitation and his blessing.

  Now, Powell was stuck, a victim of his own dumb ego, inflated by that damned Witch.

  Where was she anyway? She’d been awfully quiet.

  He rode in dejected acceptance, sure he was going to be the source of ridicule and pity, ultimately the recipient of heartache. But he was determined, nonetheless, to get on with it.

  Halfway there, the oppressive, grey December air that soaked the landscape broke apart into fine flakes. By the time he reached the Bell farm, snow had powdered the ground and the nearly bare trees.

  The Bell house stood out from the whirling snow, as quiet as a tomb. A thin plume of smoke rose desultorily from the main chimney, circled up and into the grey clouds like a gaseous umbilical cord linking heaven to earth.

  Powell dismounted and paused before the house. He remembered passing it on a cold, clear winter’s night that now seemed an age ago; remembered the tiny candlelight that bobbed and weaved in the windows, ascending into the house.

  He shivered in spite of himself and the other feelings crowded inside of him because he now knew who had been behind that flame, holding it, guiding it.

  Someone so dark that Powell doubted that a thousand candles could fill the gulf of his inner darkness. So he chose, instead, to fill it with the stolen light of innocence and beauty.

  He found, to his shame, that even that light could not slake the ravenous black void inside him. On the contrary, it grew from it.

  Now, that same man lay in bed, near death, no doubt because that deeply hungry darkness, deprived by the Witch of its violent, hateful sustenance, had finally turned upon itself in an apotheosis of self cannibalism.

  This led Powell to wonder, again, what he was doing here, his hand poised to knock at the door.

  With all of this going on, why would Betsy even entertain the notion of being courted… and by him?