The Salem Witch Society

by K. N. Shields

  “Peculiar,” said Grey after turning to examine the area. He knelt down and ran his finger along the edge of a small and shallow but perfectly round hole in the mortar joining two of the flat stones.

  “There’s more,” noted Lean. “There and there. Five of them around in a circle.”

  “A pentagram,” said Grey.

  Lean’s mind flashed back to the image of Maggie Keene, her body splayed out to make five points.

  Grey stepped back over to the shelf and returned with a thin candle, which he fitted into one of the holes. “I imagine this is where she put on her displays. Candles at her feet, but otherwise in darkness, with a fire behind her. Tossing in her magic powders. Sleights of hand while the flashes of color distracted the customers. Pulling who knows what from hidden pockets in her skirts.”

  Lean knelt down on the hearth and craned his neck to look up the chimney. He stuck his hand up and ran it around, feeling for any secret hiding spots. The reward was nothing but a palmful of slick soot.

  “A show like that would have been a sight more interesting than what she’s left behind—which is nothing.” Lean placed his hands on the hearth to steady himself as he rose. The fingers of his left hand poked into a seam of grime between two of the stones, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief to wipe at the ooze. He was about to stuff the handkerchief back into his pocket when the thought hit him.

  “There’s no mortar around this one stone. Just wet mud.”

  Lean found a broad-bladed knife in an old washbasin and used it to pry the stone up enough to get a fingerhold and lift it out of the way. On top of the soil lay the flattened remains of a small animal. It was not yet completely decomposed, and though worm-eaten, its skeletal wing frames, pointed beak, and some matted feathers revealed that it had been a bird. Lean flicked it aside with the tip of the knife. The dirt beneath proved to be more loosely packed than it should have been under the pressure of the hearth. He used the knife to dig away the soil, and within a minute the blade made contact, scraping on some still-hidden object. Abandoning the knife, Lean scooped away the dirt with his hands.

  “Glass. Some type of jar.”

  He locked a finger around the small handle and freed the wine jug from its grave. Lean brushed off the damp earth that clung to the outside and sloshed the two inches of dirty liquid at the bottom of the glass jug. There came a faint metallic rattling from inside the jar. After a series of tugs, the stopper came loose. Lean peered in at the yellowish brown liquid before the stench hit him.

  “Ugh!” His wide eyes shot from the bottle to Grey and back again. “It’s piss!”

  With the jar at arm’s length, Lean hurried outside, stooped closer to the ground to minimize splashing, and poured the contents onto a flat patch of earth. Several long, rusted nails and pins landed amid the foul froth pooling in the dirt.

  “Well?” Grey stepped outside and nodded toward the puddle of fermented urine. “Aren’t you going to collect the evidence?”

  Lean smiled, glanced at the bits of metal on the ground, then moved on into the small clearing that surrounded the shack. He glanced around at the murky setting once more. They were only a hundred feet or so from Back Cove. The mudflats were exposed at low tide, and a gentle southerly wind was wafting up the potent scent of tidal decay.

  “This Stitch woman certainly had an eye for locales,” Lean said.

  “I suppose you don’t attract much business if you’re a witch living in a well-kept home on the West End. Customers have expectations, after all. With these types of services, they’re paying for what they want to believe in.”

  “Still, the thought that she actually raised children here …” Lean returned his attention to the shack and kicked around the perimeter. His eyes wandered over the ground once more, making sure there was nothing else to see there in that dismal spot. He noticed a black seam running along the base of the wall, maybe a foot off the ground. He knelt for a closer inspection and saw that the wood was charred.

  “The bottom wood’s still blackened from when it was burned down. She built it back up again after.”

  Grey approached and studied the wood. He crumbled some of the charred fibers between his finger and thumb.

  “I’m beginning to think that this has been a fool’s errand,” Lean said.

  “Perhaps,” answered Grey in a distant voice, “or maybe the things that were seen here years ago, the things that matter, simply remain hidden from us.”

  32

  “It’s protection, a countercharm.” Helen’s voice was tinny coming through the telephone receiver. “Boiling a bewitched person’s urine in a pot with iron nails would not only break the spell but cause it to return and injure its creator. In fact, there was even an instance at Salem involving Dr. Roger Toothaker. Women with medical knowledge were definitely open to suspicion; he was the only male medical practitioner to be named. Toothaker was accused mostly because he told people that his daughter had killed a witch using such a technique that he’d shown her—baking an afflicted person’s urine in a clay pot overnight.”

  Lean made sure Emma was still sitting in the kitchen. Then, in a hushed voice, he asked, “And what about burying a jug of urine like that?”

  “I’ve read of burying these pots outside a doorway to keep a witch from entering a house.”

  “Ever hear of burying one on the spot where someone died?” Lean asked.

  “Bury one with a witch and it was said to keep her from rising again after her death.”

  Lean thanked Helen and hung the receiver back on its stand. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey that he kept stashed at the back of the top shelf in the kitchen. He poured a drink tall enough that it would fall in that thin strip of ground between setting his mind at ease and making him just not care at all about witches and murders for the rest of the night. Half the whiskey went down to fulfill its destiny while Lean wandered over and stopped in his son’s bedroom doorway. The light from the hall slanted across the dark room to reveal the boy curled up in his bed.

  Emma came up beside him and slid her arm around his waist. Lean rested his hand on her far shoulder and gave her a peck on the forehead. Her familiar mix of scented powders and creams made him smile.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked. There was a pause followed by a harsh clicking noise. Owen was grinding his teeth.

  “He’s a worrier. Like his father.”

  “What’s a five-year-old boy got to worry about these days?”

  “Well, his wooden soldiers had a rough go of it today. Heavy losses suffered on the march across the kitchen. I think the burden of command is beginning to weigh on him.”

  “He’ll be bitter and toothless, but at least it was for a good cause. God and country. Once more into the breach.” Lean pulled the door nearly closed, then went and sat down at the kitchen table. Emma went to the sink and started in on the dishes.

  “And what’s weighing on you?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Lean took a drink. “Not a single thing that I can find.”

  “Still with the Portland Company murder?”

  “The man who did it might have been visiting mediums. He’s got some serious interest in hocus-pocus. But as soon as they see what I’m after, they start coming up with everything under the sun. Hoping to guess right and earn a couple dollars.”

  “They’ve told you nothing at all?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say nothing. The last one was in contact with Uncle Michael. Says he forgives my dad for not coming to see him on his deathbed.”

  “Michael? You never had an Uncle Michael.”

  Lean stroked his chin, as if contemplating a new twist. “Well, that explains why Dad was so callous toward him at the end.”

  Emma laughed. “Now see, you learned something today after all.”

  “I’m beginning to think Grey’s right. The whole lot of them are nothing but charlatans.”

  “I have a confession.”

  “Finally.” Lean sat back and folded his hands
across his midsection. “You’re secretly the daughter of royalty, and you’ve just come into a massive inheritance?”

  “Well, yes, there’s that. But I’m talking about something else. About ten years ago, shortly after Father passed. Mother had an idea.”

  Lean raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Fine. It was my idea. Mother and I went to see a woman. She didn’t advertise for it. It was just known that she had the talent. She told us some things that day that no one else could ever have known. Things Father had said to each of us alone. Years earlier. Some things I barely remembered myself until she said them. It was like he was there in the room with us. I know you think we heard what we wanted.” She leaned in and rested her hand on top of his. “But I swear it was real. I still see her on the street once in a while.”

  “I don’t need a genuine medium, Emma. I need to find one that this man has been to and who’s honest enough to tell me what she remembers about him, instead of what she thinks I want to hear.”

  “Her name is Amelia Porter. You should go see her.”

  It took two days and a trip to an old friend at the post office before Lean was able to track down Amelia Porter. She had moved several times in the decade since Emma’s visit, never leaving word of her next address. Her last neighbors knew her by sight but had never spoken to the woman and were unaware of any supposed powers to speak with the spirits of the dead. Her current address on Mayo Street was a nondescript apartment house. There was no sign advertising any sort of business, and the name on the mailbox read “Mr. T. Porter.”

  She appeared on her front steps in a plain dress and bonnet, looking every bit the part of a seamstress or music teacher. There was nothing about her mannerisms that gave any hint of the powers Emma had described. His interest piqued, Lean followed the woman as she strolled toward the waterfront, stopping at a few shops along the way. He trailed her across Commercial Street to a fish market at the top of the Custom House Wharf. He let her complete her purchase of cod and move away from the din of the fishmongers’ calls before he finally addressed the woman.

  “Amelia Porter?”

  She turned, her package clutched to her chest like a threatened child. “Yes?”

  “My name is Archie Lean. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?” From the look on her face, Lean knew she’d played out this scene countless times over the years.

  “I’m sorry, I no longer—I can’t help you.”

  She started past Lean, and he instinctively reached out for her free hand. Mrs. Porter lurched backward, her hand still in Lean’s. He stared into her eyes. There was an emptiness there, something deep and vague he couldn’t focus on. The color drained from Mrs. Porter’s face, leaving her with a blank look. Her hand turned cold, and Lean released his grasp, taken aback at the thought that he had so alarmed her as to induce some sort of malady.

  Mrs. Porter continued to regard him with her frozen stare for a moment longer. When she finally opened her mouth to speak, Lean half expected to see the vapor of her breath, despite the warmth of the summer morning.

  “Come at four tomorrow, Mr. Lean.” She started to move past him, then, with her voice in a sharp whisper, said, “And bring the others.”

  33

  At ten minutes to four the next day, Lean, Dr. Steig, and Helen stood in the dim, heavily curtained parlor of Mrs. Porter. Marks on the rug showed that the table had been dragged in from the kitchen for the occasion. Four straight-backed wooden chairs and a rocking chair were arranged around the table. Mrs. Porter looked surprised when they entered her home, glancing past Dr. Steig as if looking for an additional visitor. Grey had decided not to come, since Lean was perfectly capable of discovering whether Mrs. Porter had been visited by a client who fit what they knew of the killer. Grey declared that anything else the spiritualist had to say would amount to nothing more than an exercise in mutually agreed-upon gullibility.

  Mr. Porter, a bald, meek-looking man, was visibly agitated by their visit. His wife had him remove the extra chair as she herded him off to a back room. Mrs. Porter gave the group a tepid smile. Lean noticed her eyes lingering on the bony, slightly withered right hand of Dr. Steig. She then arranged the visitors so that Lean was to her left. If form held from other recent séances, he would be holding her left hand, the same as in the fish market the day before. Helen was to sit opposite Mrs. Porter, and Dr. Steig was on the medium’s right. Lean wondered whether this was a kindness to the doctor, to spare him any discomfort at the need to share his damaged hand with a stranger, or if it was for her own benefit. He glanced up from the doctor’s hand and saw that Mrs. Porter was watching him.

  “I don’t know why you’re here. But I have the sense that it’s a recent occurrence. A new loss. Sometimes old wounds have a way of becoming tangled up in the present. It confuses things. Makes things difficult to discern.” Mrs. Porter leaned forward to light a new candle in a silver holder in the center of the table. Then she sat back and laid her hands flat on the table in front of her, fingers fanned out as wide as they would stretch. She directed the others to do likewise, so that each person’s fingers overlapped both neighbors’.

  “I can’t promise anything,” she said. “I can’t make the spirits come if they aren’t willing. And I’m not going to tell you things for the sake of you hearing something. I still feel things sometimes, but I will be honest with you. It’s been years since I’ve seen clearly into the Other. I don’t hold out much hope for you today.”

  “But you’ve agreed to try,” said Helen with an encouraging smile.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Porter looked at her with a certain sadness, then turned to Lean, her fingers closing a bit tighter on his. “We can try. But I will need help. My abilities have faded with age. I think the dead prefer the young. More full of life, perhaps.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Tell me who you are searching for.”

  Dr. Steig and Helen both looked at Lean, who weighed his options before answering.

  “A killer,” said Lean, and he watched Mrs. Porter’s eyes flicker open in surprise, then close again. “A killer of young women.”

  There was silence. Mrs. Porter’s chair began to rock, slowly, barely making a sound on the thin carpet beneath them. More than ten minutes crept past with nothing more than all of their breaths disturbing the stillness of the room. Lean’s back was growing stiff from sitting motionless in the hard wooden chair. He tried to stretch without altering the position of his hands. It was then that he noticed Mrs. Porter’s touch growing cold. Her rocking chair slowed and was still.

  “A tower standing in a pool of darkness. It’s thick like blood. It’s filling with darkness. There’s a spark there. A flame? I can see a flame. There’s still time. Dear God, please hurry.”

  There was silence. Lean exchanged glances with the others as they waited for something further. Another minute passed.

  “Floating. In darkness.” Mrs. Porter’s voice began as a whisper, then grew, but was still soft enough that each of the observers leaned forward to hear better. “It’s tight here. The stones were rough, but now I’m floating.” Her neck arched, and Lean could see her eyes rolling back into her head. “Stars. So many.” The words drifted out of her mouth. She gripped Lean’s hand.

  “A little farther, dear,” she said in a lower voice, pleasant still, but urgent. “Look at the lights, John. Do you see them there? Like little halos. He can’t hear me. My mouth is so …” Mrs. Porter pulled her right hand away from Dr. Steig, and her fingertips fumbled about her lips. “That sound—like starlight breaking, icicles falling. What is it?” She answered herself in her second, lower voice. “Nothing, love. Come in now. I’ve got you.”

  Her head swung a bit to each side. “It’s dark here. Twisted shapes. Sharp metal. I can’t see, John. Hold the candle higher. Stopped. Funny.” Mrs. Porter’s head flopped forward onto her chest. “Dirt? Where have we gotten to?” Her hand shot up to her face. She was clawing at something near her mouth. Her body jerked, and she
released a pained gasp, as if the wind had been knocked from her.

  Lean rose from his chair. “Mrs. Porter!”

  Dr. Steig also stood and reached across with his left hand to keep Lean from interfering with the woman. Amelia Porter was now still and silent, her eyes shut. Her husband came rushing into the room. His gaze went from his wife’s motionless form to the faces of the visitors. He stared at his wife and took a step backward, eyes widened in fear.

  “Black.” The word escaped from Mrs. Porter’s lips like a drip from a leaking faucet. “Floating. Nothing in the world touches me.” Her eyes flicked open for just a second, and then her head fell to her chest again. “I’m down below. How? What are you … ? What have you got?”

  Mrs. Porter’s head craned upward, as if she was desperate to look away from the table. “A giant metal circle. Little teeth, minutes on a clock, but pointing out. A cold, dead clock.”

  Her body convulsed in a sudden shock of pain. She slumped forward. Lean grabbed hold of her, cradling her close as he lowered her to the carpet. He was near enough to hear her voice.

  “I know the truth of all things,” she whispered.

  Within a minute, Lean and the others were ushered out of the apartment by an agitated Mr. Porter. They found Rasmus Hansen outside, atop the doctor’s cab, waiting to take them to Grey’s rooms on High Street as previously arranged. Along the way they went over their precise memories of everything Mrs. Porter had said, Lean copying it all down in his notebook.