Colonial Horrors

by Graeme Davis

  God knows whither she went, but every time she ran away she would come back betwixt midnight and morning, all wild of face, but weak and wan as though she had ridden long and far. And always after such a time she would go straight to bed and sleep, maybe, for a day and a night. Then she would wake and crave for something to eat, and when food was set before her she would eat, and eat, and eat like a wild creature that was starving.

  III

  Early in the winter the Salem wolf appeared at that place. Such a thing as a wolf had not been seen at Salem for thirty years and more, and folks were slow to believe that it really was a wolf that killed the sheep or the young cattle or the swine that every now and then were found dead and part eaten in the morning.

  But afterward everybody knew that it was a wolf; for one bright moonlight night Eli Hackett saw it as he was coming home from town meeting. A thin snow had fallen, and the night was wonderfully cold and clear and bright. Eli Hackett saw the wolf as plain as though it had been daylight. It ran across the corner of an open lot, and so back of the rope-walk. It appeared to be chasing something, and paid no heed to him, but ran straight on. And then he saw it again when it came out from behind the rope-walk—it ran across Widow Calder’s garden-patch, and so into the clearing beyond.

  After that several others saw the wolf at different times, and once it chased Doctor Wilkinson on a dark night for above a half-mile, and into the very town itself. Then so many people saw the wolf that women and children were afraid to go out after nightfall, and even men would not go out without an axe or a club, or maybe a pistol in the belt. The wolf haunted the town for above a month, and a great many pigs and sheep and several calves were killed in that time.

  Old Patrick Duncan and little Ichabod Graves slept together in the same bed in the attic. One night Patrick Duncan awoke, and found that little Ichabod was shaking his shoulder, and shaking it and shaking it.

  Says Patrick Duncan: “What is it, child? What ails you?”

  “Oh! Patrick Duncan,” says the little boy. “Wake up! There is a great beast running about in the yard!”’

  “What is it you say?” says Patrick Duncan. “A great beast? Pooh! pooh! child; you have been dreaming. Go to sleep again.”

  “Oh, Patrick Duncan!” says the little boy. “Wake up, for I am not dreaming! There is indeed a great beast out in the yard. For first I heard it, and then I looked out of the window and saw it with my very eyes, and it is there running about in the moonlight.”

  Then Patrick Duncan got up and went to the window of the attic and looked out, and there he saw that what little Ichabod had said was true. For there was the wolf, and it was running around and around the yard in the snow, and he could see it in the moonlight as plainly as though it were upon a sheet of white paper.

  The wolf ran around and around in a circle as though it were at play, and every now and then it would snap up a mouthful of snow and cast it into the air. And every now and then it would run its muzzle into the snow and plough through the crust as though in playful sport.

  Patrick Duncan said, “Is the musket in the kitchen loaded?” And little Ichabod said: “Yes; for I saw father load it and prime it fresh a week ago come Sabbath evening. For there was fresh talk of the wolf just then.” “Then bide you here,” says Patrick Duncan, “and I’ll go fetch it.” So by and by he came, bringing the musket from the kitchen.

  There was a broken pane in the attic window and an old stocking in the broken place. Patrick Duncan drew out the stocking very softly, and all the while the great beast played around and around in the snow in the yard below. Patrick Duncan put the musket out through the broken place in the window pane. He took long aim and then he fired. The musket bellowed like thunder, and the air was all full of gunpowder smoke. Patrick Duncan felt sure that he had killed the wolf, but when the gunpowder smoke cleared away, there lay the yard as bare and as empty as the palm of the hand.

  The whole house was awakened by the sound of the musket. They all came into the kitchen, except Miriam, who did not come out of her room. They stood about the hearth listening to what Patrick Duncan and little Ichabod had to tell them about the wolf. Patrick Duncan said: “I took a sure and certain aim, and I don’t see how I could have missed my shot. I could see the sight of the gun as plain as daylight, and it was pointed straight at the heart of the beast.”

  As they stood there talking about it all, the kitchen door opened of a sudden very softly and quietly. For a moment it stood ajar, and then some one came into the house as still as a ghost. It was Miriam, and she was clad only in her shift and petticoat. They all looked at her as though they had been turned to stone, but she did not appear to see them. She went straight across the kitchen and to her room, and they could hear the bedstead squeak as she got into bed.

  Then Dame Graves began crying. “Alas!” says she, “Miriam walks in her sleep and we can’t keep her abed. Suppose the wolf had caught her and killed her!”

  The next day, Miriam was churning in the kitchen. Patrick Duncan came in and found her there alone.

  “I missed my aim last night, mistress,” says he.

  “So I hear tell,” says she.

  “I’ll not miss it again,” says he.

  “Why not?” says she.

  “Because,” says he, “I am going to melt down this rix-dollar and cast it into a slug. I know this much,” says he, “that sometimes a silver slug will go through a hide that will turn a lump of lead. So if ever you see the Salem wolf,” says he, “just tell it that the next bullet I shoot at it will be made of silver.”

  Then the girl stopped churning, and said, “What concern is all this to me?”

  “Well,” says Patrick Duncan, “you know better than I do whether it concerns you or not.”

  After that, and for a while, no more was heard of the Salem wolf. It was said that Patrick Duncan’s musket-shot had frightened the beast away, but Patrick knew better than that. He knew that it was the threat of the silver bullet that had driven it off.

  Then after a while the wolf came back again, and more people saw it, and more sheep and pigs and some calves were found dead in the morning. Then came the worst of all, for one morning Ezra Doolittle was found dead in his own back yard, and his neck was all torn and rent by the savage wild beast.

  That was the first that any one suspected that this was no ordinary wolf, but a man-wolf that was running loose among them.

  IV

  Late one afternoon Abijah Butler came out from town. Deacon Graves was not at home, and so he went down to the barn where Patrick Duncan was milking. “Patrick Duncan,” says he. “ tell me, what do you think ails Miriam Graves?”

  Patrick Duncan’s cheek was lying close against the belly of the cow as he milked, and he did not lift his head. “Why do you ask me?” says he. “Go ask her father and her mother what ails her.”

  Abijah Butler says, “Her father is not at home.”

  “Well,” says Patrick Duncan, “go ask her mother.”

  “So I will,” says Abijah Butler, “but I want you to come with me.’’

  “Well,” says Patrick Duncan. “I will go with you when I finish milking the cow.”

  So after Patrick Duncan had finished his milking they went together to the house, and Dame Graves sat alone in the kitchen at her spinning. Abijah Butler went to her and began speaking, but Patrick Duncan stood by the bench at the window, where he had set the milk pail.

  “Tell me,” says Abijah Butler, “what is it ails Miriam?”

  Dame Graves put her hand to the wheel and stopped it. “You know what ails her as well as I do,” says she, “for you heard what the girl said to her father.”

  “I heard what she said,” says he, “but I fear me that worse even than witchcraft ails her. There are things said about her,” says he, “that I can’t bear to hear; so if I am to be her husband,” says he, “I must know what ails her, or else I must break with her.”

  Then Dame Graves began crying, and says she, “Don’t you be h
ard with us, Abijah Butler; nothing ails the girl, only that she walks in her sleep, and dreams she is awake.”

  Abijah Butler says, “Where is Miriam, now?”

  At that Dame Graves flung her apron over her head, and cried out: “God knows where she is! She ran away half an hour ago!’’

  After that nobody spoke for a little while; then Abijah Butler says, “Where is Deacon Graves?” And Dame Graves said, “He went to town with a load of potatoes; he’ll be back by now, or in a little while.”

  Abijah Butler says, “Well, I’ll wait for him.”

  Then up spoke old Patrick Duncan. “Best not wait till the night comes down,” said he, “for the wolf will be out to-night.”

  Abijah Butler laughed, and he turned back his overcoat and showed that he had his axe hanging at his belt. He clapped his hand to the shining head of his axe, and, says he: “How now! Need I be afraid?”

  Just then Patrick Duncan said of a sudden: “Yonder comes the sledge! Now you can talk to Deacon Graves himself.” Then in a moment he cries out: “How is this! The sledge is empty and the horse is running away!”

  Thereafter, in a moment or two, the horse came running through the gate with the sledge behind it, and the sledge was empty and swung from this side to that. Thus the horse ran past the house with the empty sledge behind it, and so down to the barn. Abijah Butler and Patrick Duncan ran out of the house and down to the barnyard, and there they found the horse and the empty sledge. And the horse was all of a lather of sweat, and its eyes were starting, and it was trembling in every hair.

  “God save us! The wolf!” cries Patrick Duncan. “Here is a bad business! Jump in quick, or we may be too late!”

  So they both jumped into the sledge, and Patrick Duncan turned the horse about and drove away in a fury. And so they drove furiously down the road and toward the town.

  Well, they had gone a little more than half a mile, when, all of a sudden, the horse stopped stock-still with a jerk that near threw them both out of the sledge. The poor creature stood with all four feet planted, and it snorted and snorted. The evening was then falling pretty fast, and Abijah Butler stood up in the sledge and looked. Then he cried out: “God of Mercy! What is that!” Then he cried out again: “God of Mercy! ’Tis Deacon Graves, and the wolf is at him!” With that he leaped out of the sledge into the snow, and even as he jumped he plucked away the axe from his belt.

  By now the horse was leaping and plunging as though it had gone mad and would dash both the sledge and itself to pieces, so that Patrick Duncan had all that he could do to hold it in check.

  Abijah Butler ran through the snow as fast as he could to where the wolf was worrying the man in the middle of the road, and he yelled with all his might at the wolf as he ran.

  The man lay in the snow and the wolf was worrying him this way and that. The man lay still and did not move, and the wolf worried at him as a wicked dog worries at a sheep. And it was so busy at what it was about, that it paid no heed to Abijah Butler or to the plunging horse or to anything else.

  It did not appear to be afraid and did not flee away, so that Abijah ran to it and caught it by the hair of its back and tried to drag it away from the man. And he yelled out: “Hell-hound! Let go!” and therewith he struck the beast a fearful blow upon the neck with his axe just where the neck joins the shoulder.

  With that the wolf instantly let go the man, and whirled about several times in the road, howling and yelling.

  Then it leaped, yelling, over the wall, and ran away in a great circle across the field beyond. And as it ran, Abijah Butler saw it shake its head now and then, and whenever it shook its head he saw that the blood would sprinkle over the snow. Then in a moment or two it stopped yelling and ran very silently—only every now and then it would shake its head and sprinkle more blood upon the snow. So it ran into the woods, and they could not see it any longer.

  They lifted up the Deacon and looked at his hurts, for there was still some light, and by it they could see how much harm he had suffered. He was cut and torn in shoulder and neck, and about the ears and head, but he was in a swoon and not dead, for he wore a fur coat, and the collar of the coat had saved him when the wolf worried at him. Old Patrick Duncan stayed by the wounded man, and Abijah Butler ran across the fields to the Buckners’ farmhouse. In a little while he came running back with old Simeon Buckner and his two sons. Deacon Graves had not yet come fully out of his swoon, so they lifted him and laid him in the sledge, covering him over with the sheep pelts that were there.

  Simeon Buckner and his two sons drove the sledge home very slowly, and Abijah Butler and old Patrick Duncan went on ahead to tell what had happened. Neither said a word to the other, but each looked down at his feet and walked through the snow in silence.

  V

  As they came near the house they saw that there were lights moving about within. As they kicked the snow off of their feet against the door-step, the door was flung open, and there was Dame Graves standing on the door-sill. “Oh, Abijah Butler!” cries she. “Oh, Patrick Duncan! Come in quick, for Miriam has come back home and is sore hurt!”

  Abijah Butler and Patrick Duncan looked at each other. They came into the house. Patrick Duncan took the candle from Dame Graves, and they all went into the room where Miriam lay. She lay in bed with a sheet drawn up to her chin, and the sheet was all stained red with blood.

  Patrick Duncan came to the bedside, and catched the sheet, and pulled at it. Miriam tried to hold it, but he pulled it out of her hands and down over her shoulders. There was a great, terrible, deep wound in the girl’s neck where the neck joins the shoulder, and the bed beneath her was all soaked red with blood.

  Patrick Duncan cried out in a loud voice, “Where got you that hurt?”

  Miriam said nothing, but only covered her face with both hands.

  Patrick Duncan cries out in a still louder and more terrible voice, “Where got you that hurt?”

  Upon that she began whimpering and whining just as a great dog would do, and she said, “Alas! I know not how I was hurt!”

  Then Patrick Duncan cries out, “In God’s name, I bid you tell me how you got that hurt!”

  Upon that Miriam screamed out of a sudden very loud, and she cried: “Torment me not and I will tell you all! I walked in my sleep, I walked out into the barn, and I walked on the haymow, and all the while I was asleep. I slipped from the haymow, and I fell on the scythe blade and cut my neck.”

  That was what she said, and she had evidence for it; for the next day they found that there was blood in the barn where the scythe hung in the corner under the haymow. But the blood was there because she had put on her shift and petticoat at that place before she went into the house.

  They have not hanged any more witches since they pressed old Giles Corey to death. But God knows how such things as this are to be prevented unless the world is rid of such devil’s crew.

  As for Miriam Graves, her wound festered and she catched a burning fever and died of it on the sixth day after she had been hurt, at three o’clock in the afternoon. But Deacon Graves got well of his hurts.

  Abijah Butler went to Providence in Rhode Island, where he joined business with his uncle, Justification Butler; and old Patrick Duncan went to Deerfield to drill a militia company, and was shot by an Indian who had hid in a clearing.

  THE CASE OF CHARLES DEXTER WARD

  H. P. Lovecraft

  1927

  Howard Philips Lovecraft (1890–1937) needs no introduction to the modern reader. His Cthulhu Mythos has gone from being an obscure corner of American outré fiction to a ubiquitous pop culture meme that daily threatens to swallow the Internet.

  The shadow of the Colonial era is one of Lovecraft’s major themes. His fictional towns of Arkham and Kingsport are notable for their old-fashioned architecture, and stories such as “The Dreams in the Witch-House” and “He” face Lovecraft’s protagonists with disturbing echoes of Colonial times that continue to be felt in the present day.

 
None of Lovecraft’s stories is set entirely in Colonial times, but his short novel The Case of Charles Dexter Ward contains an extended passage in which the story’s protagonist learns some disturbing facts about one of his ancestors. Arguably, this section works better on its own than as a part of the original novel, where it interrupts the action to present a great deal of exposition. It presents one of Lovecraft’s favorite themes: the hunger for knowledge leading an arrogant and reckless intellectual into madness and death at the hands of unknowable forces.

  AN EXTRACT

  Joseph Curwen, as revealed by the rambling legends embodied in what Ward heard and unearthed, was a very astonishing, enigmatic, and obscurely horrible individual. He had fled from Salem to Providence—that universal haven of the odd, the free, and the dissenting—at the beginning of the great witchcraft panic; being in fear of accusation because of his solitary ways and queer chemical or alchemical experiments. He was a colourless-looking man of about thirty, and was soon found qualified to become a freeman of Providence; thereafter buying a home lot just north of Gregory Dexter’s at about the foot of Olney Street. His house was built on Stampers’ Hill west of the Town Street, in what later became Olney Court; and in 1761 he replaced this with a larger one, on the same site, which is still standing.

  Now the first odd thing about Joseph Curwen was that he did not seem to grow much older than he had been on his arrival. He engaged in shipping enterprises, purchased wharfage near Mile-End Cove, helped rebuild the Great Bridge in 1713, and in 1723 was one of the founders of the Congregational Church on the hill; but always did he retain the nondescript aspect of a man not greatly over thirty or thirty-five. As decades mounted up, this singular quality began to excite wide notice; but Curwen always explained it by saying that he came of hardy forefathers, and practised a simplicity of living which did not wear him out. How such simplicity could be reconciled with the inexplicable comings and goings of the secretive merchant, and with the queer gleaming of his windows at all hours of night, was not very clear to the townsfolk; and they were prone to assign other reasons for his continued youth and longevity. It was held, for the most part, that Curwen’s incessant mixings and boilings of chemicals had much to do with his condition. Gossip spoke of the strange substances he brought from London and the Indies on his ships or purchased in Newport, Boston, and New York; and when old Dr. Jabez Bowen came from Rehoboth and opened his apothecary shop across the Great Bridge at the Sign of the Unicorn and Mortar, there was ceaseless talk of the drugs, acids, and metals that the taciturn recluse incessantly bought or ordered from him. Acting on the assumption that Curwen possessed a wondrous and secret medical skill, many sufferers of various sorts applied to him for aid; but though he appeared to encourage their belief in a non-committal way, and always gave them odd-coloured potions in response to their requests, it was observed that his ministrations to others seldom proved of benefit. At length, when over fifty years had passed since the stranger’s advent, and without producing more than five years’ apparent change in his face and physique, the people began to whisper more darkly; and to meet more than half way that desire for isolation which he had always shewn.