"I have a new song for you, my love," she whispered as her grip tightened upon his windpipe. "You can use it for your next concert"—and she squeezed—"you can make money with it." She squeezed harder. "Listen carefully. I shall only sing it for you once. Are you listening? Good," She began to sing softly. "Tick-tock, tick-tock, hear the ticking of the clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, hear the crowing of the cock, tick-tock, tick-tock, Peter doth betray his Master, tick-tock, tick-tock, the day of doom approacheth faster, tick-tock, tick-tock, carve the woman on the bed, tick-tock, tick-tock, see the old man lose his head, tick-tock, tick-tock, burn the boy and slice the girl, tick-tock, tick-tock, wipe the Proctors from this world." She smiled sweetly at him. "Do you like my song, Simon dear?"
Simon felt himself fall down hard upon the floor as the choking grip suddenly disappeared. He was alone in the room. She had vanished completely, instantly. He was tempted to persuade himself that it had been a hallucination, but he knew that it had been real. He could still feel the cold, rigid fingers upon his throat, and he was gasping for air.
He heard footsteps running up the stairs. A moment later Lucas, Mark, and Rowena rushed into the room and ran over to him. "Daddy," Rowena said, "what happened?"
Mark and Lucas helped him to his feet, and Mark said, "We heard a thud, like something fell."
"Are you okay, Dad?" Lucas asked. "Did you fall down or—" He looked around the room. "Karyn? Where's Karyn?"
"She must have her," Simon said hoarsely, his body shaking violently. "She must have her. She must have Dad too."
"What are you talking about?" Siegal demanded.
"Gwendolyn!" he tried to shout through his injured throat. "She was here, just now, in this room!" Mark, Rowena, and Lucas stared dumbly at him, the color draining from their faces. Rowena's hands went to her mouth. "We've got to find them, we've got to find them!" Simon shouted. "She's going to kill them!"
"Jesus!" Rowena prayed. "Jesus!"
"Everybody get a gun,"' Siegal said. "Simon, you and Lucas search one end of town, Rowena and I will search the other."
"What good are the guns?!" Simon screamed hysterically. "I tried to hit her, to punch her, but she wasn't even there!"
"Damn it let's not waste time arguing about it!" Siegal snapped. "Let's just do it! Come on, Rowena. Get your pistol." Siegal ran from the room and Rowena followed quickly after him.
Lucas grabbed Simon's arm. "Come on, Dad. We can't just stand here! We have to go look for them!" Lucas pulled his father after him as he ran from the room and bounded down the stairs. They went to the van where Siegal and Rowena were busily rummaging about in search of the weapons. Siegal tossed Simon a shotgun and then found one for Lucas. Rowena already held the .22 pistol. Once he had taken a rifle for himself, Siegal began to run toward the nearest house. Rowena ran after him.
"Hold it, Mark," she said. "Let me knock. Nobody around here knows you. You can't run up with a rifle in your hands and start asking questions!"
"Okay, okay, right. Go ahead."
As Rowena went to the door and began to knock on it, Simon and Lucas ran in the other direction. They began to search house by house. None of the local residents thought it prudent to refuse entry to such obviously distraught, armed people.
Five o'clock.
They broke into the Grange hall and searched through the offices, the closets, the basement, the storage rooms. As the sun began to set, they went back to the inn to find flashlights and lanterns. The Grange hall was searched again, just in case they had missed anything in the dim twilight without lights to assist them. Nothing. They were gathered together by the state police, who had been summoned by the townspeople to quell the disturbance, and the officers were eager to assist them in their search when Rowena explained that two people were missing, kidnapped by a maniac. But when Simon began to jabber away about witches and a family curse, the police drove away with irritated disgust, after ordering them to refrain from any further disturbance of the peace.
Six o'clock.
The old Congregationalist church had been locked and boarded up ever since the disappearance of Reverend Wilkes, and it took the combined muscles of Simon and Lucas and the aid of a crowbar wielded by Siegal to break down the barriers. They burst into the church, calling out for Floyd and Karyn, searching the pews, the office, the cellar, the bell tower. They were not there.
Seven o'clock.
They sped to the state police station, begging for help. Simon shouted that the woman who had killed Jeremy Sloan was going to kill them all, and to placate him the police reissued the already standing all-points bulletin on Gwendolyn Jenkins and Adrienne Lupescu. It was clear to Simon and the others that the police thought he was mad.
Eight o'clock.
They wandered over the fields and farms of Bradford and the surrounding towns, crying out for Floyd and Karyn, sweeping the beams from their flashlights and lanterns ahead of them as they moved, jumping nervously at every sound, crying out in fear at each shadow which they themselves were creating with their lights. Each distant scarecrow elicited a mingling of hope and terror, hope for what it might be, terror of what it might be. There was nothing. The weathered, frozen scarecrows were nothing more than strands of rags keeping silent vigil over snow-covered fields, dead guardians of dead land in a dead season.
Nine o'clock.
They stumbled through the woods amid the evergreens and the naked elms, falling over protruding roots, frightened of the hooting owls and the distant growls of wildcats, listening for the sound of human voices other than their own, hearing none. Their cried of "Dad," "Floyd," "Karyn," echoed through the naked forest, and were unanswered.
Ten o'clock.
They searched again through the old inn, through the barn, through the cellar and the attic and the bedrooms.
Ten-thirty.
They pounded on doors throughout the town, forced entry into a few houses, saw doors pulled shut and window shades drawn and lights extinguished by the few residents of Bradford.
Eleven o'clock.
They tore through the Grange hall yet again, assaulted the church yet again, broke into people's barns yet again, calling out the names with an ever increasing urgency, a growing panic.
Eleven-thirty.
Eleven forty-five.
Simon Proctor stood before his house, breathless, sweating in the cold night air, his face and hands bleeding from his falls in the woods, his coat and hair covered with snow, his eyes wide and wild, his lips trembling, his hands opening and closing spasmodically upon the stock and barrel of his shotgun. "Lucas, Rowena, get into the van. Markie, get them the hell out of here, get them away from here."
"You're coming too, Simon," Siegal said.
He shook his head. "No. I'm staying here. I'm facing her."
"Dad," Lucas said firmly, "I'm not leaving here without Karyn."
"And I'm not leaving without you and Grampa," Rowena added.
Simon screamed. "Goddamn it! Do what you're told! Get away from this town, now!"
"Daddy, I'm not going to leave you here to—"
"Rowena," he shouted, dropping his gun and grabbing her by the shoulders, "do what I tell you to do! I want you and your brother safe, I want you away from here!"
Lucas bent down and picked up his father's gun. He handed it to him and said, "You said earlier that we're all in this together. Well, nothing's changed, except now my girl's missing and my grandfather's missing. I'm sorry, Dad. I ain't no hero. Far from it. But I can't just run away and leave her here, and leave you here."
"Lucas, will you please pay attention to me!" Simon screamed, throwing the gun away. "Get in the goddamn van and get the hell out of here! This is my fault, my respons—"
Three sounds assailed his ears simultaneously, stopping his mouth and sending shivers up his spine. The four people looked around them, seeking to find the source of the sounds.
They heard the church bell, which had not been in usable condition in living memory toll twelve.
&n
bsp; They heard an earsplitting, rending shriek of incredible agony, a shriek of terror and pain.
And then, wafting slowly toward them, borne upon the frigid wind, was deep, throaty, vindictive laughter.
They stood for a moment as if frozen in place, and then began to run toward the church. The church bell had tolled; there had to be someone pulling the rope.
Lucas led them, his eyes wide and wild with fear and anger in equal measure. Rowena followed behind her father and Mark, not wanting to go to the church, not wanting to be left alone.
The church door was open wide, as they had left it not long before. They rushed into the dark building and stood in the aisle between the pews, listening carefully for sounds. The laughter began again and Simon said, "The bell tower! She's in the bell tower!" He led them back toward the narrow, winding staircase which led from behind the narthex to the top of the tower. They stumbled over their own feet as they leapt up the stairs, gun stocks thudding against the old wooden encasement, heavy breathing mingling with furtive whispered prayers. The laughter grew louder as they wound their way up toward the bell tower.
Simon pushed open the trap door and scrambled onto the platform which formed a floor just below the peak of the spire. Mark, Rowena, and Lucas followed immediately after him. They stood together, guns leveled, staring at Gwendolyn Jenkins.
The woman was leaning back against the wooden wall, looking from face to face, laughing softly, confidently. "All come to services at once?" she laughed. "I'm sorry, but the church is closed for repairs."
"Gwen, where are they?" Simon demanded. "What have you done with them? Answer me!"
"Gwen?" she asked with mock confusion. "Who be this Gwen? I know no such person. I am Abby, my dear, sweet Simon, don't you remember?"
"Damn it, where are they?!" he shouted.
"Oh, I do believe they've gone to pay their respects to the minister, that boy's uncle," she smiled. "Such good neighbors they are, the two of them, going to the grave this late at night."
"What grave?" Simon said. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Why, the minister's grave, of course! He's buried not a stone's throw from here, in the cemetery across the way."
"In the cemetery! Gwen, there—"
"Abigail, if you please!"
"—hasn't been anybody buried there in years."
"Nay, but I buried him myself, not seven weeks ago!" She smiled wickedly. " 'Twas a lovely service, my dear. A great pity you could not attend."
Simon stared at her furiously, and then opened fire. The sound of the gunshot seemed to act as a catalyst for Lucas and Mark, and they too began firing at her. She laughed merrily as the bits of hot, burning metal passed through her insubstantial form and tore through the wood behind her. "Death comes but once to us all," she laughed. "I died three hundred years ago. Think you to kill me again?" Her laughter began to fade as her form began to fade, slowly, silently disappearing into the cold air and darkness. "Go to your father, Simon Proctor!" said the faint and fading voice. "Go to your woman and child, Lucas! 'Tis a bad night to be alone in a graveyard!" The laughter and the image faded into nothingness and were gone.
The four people stood in silence, gazing at the now empty spot where Gwendolyn Jenkins had stood a moment before. Where Abigail Williams had stood a moment before. . . "Daddy," Rowena said, tugging on the sleeve of Simon's coat, "come on, come on!"
"Huh?" he asked. He felt numb, drained.
"We have to go to the cemetery, now! She said that's where Grampa and Karyn are! Maybe it isn't too late, maybe they're still okay. Daddy! Come on!"
Simon shook his head vigorously as if to clear it. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go." They descended the winding staircase and ran from the church urgently, reloading their guns as they ran, knowing that the weapons were useless but feeling the urge to have them at the ready nonetheless. They entered the small cemetery quietly, cautiously, looking around them with trembling faces and terrified eyes. Soft laughter seemed to dance upon the naked limbs of the trees which stood just outside the fence. Simon pointed toward the rear of the old graveyard and said, "Look over there. I think I see a light."
Mark squinted through the darkness. "Dim glow. Lantern, maybe, with a low wick?"
"Maybe." Simon moved slowly and carefully toward the light. Mark was right behind him, and Lucas and Rowena, arms around each other, followed. As they drew close to the light, Simon smiled. "Dad! Thank God!"
Floyd Proctor was standing behind an old, weathered, granite tombstone, the plain type which local notables had chosen for themselves in past centuries, a simple upright slab with rounded top and deeply chiseled name and dates. Floyd was leaning against the stone, his left hand folded over his right, his eyes staring ahead of him at his son as he approached. "Dad, where's Karyn?" Simon asked, drawing near to his father. "Dad? Are you okay? Dad?"
Floyd neither replied nor moved. As Simon came close to him, his eyes did not follow his son's motion, but rather stared off at the same spot as before, motionless, expressionless. Simon felt a feeling grow upon him of utter wrongness, of something—something—terribly, terribly wrong. He reached out and placed his hand gently upon his father's hand. It was cold and hard to the touch. "Dad?" he said, and then noticed that Floyd's throat, seen indistinctly in the glow of the dim lantern which sat upon the round at Floyd's feet, seemed bruised and battered, bloody. "Dad? Are you all right?" Simon shook his father gently by the shoulder.
Floyd's severed head, which had been carefully balanced upon the stump of his slit neck, fell forward and bounced once, rolled a few feet, and then came to rest face down in the snow. His body, which had been propped up upon the tombstone, slipped slowly to the ground.
Simon gasped and jumped back as Rowena's scream cut through the silence of the graveyard. He stared down at the back of his father's head, his eyes blinking as if to dispel the horrid vision, and he reached out to Mark Siegal, seeking to steady himself upon his friend's arm. Siegal was no longer behind him. Simon turned to see that neither Mark nor Lucas nor Rowena were facing him, that none of them had as yet seen old Floyd's head drop from his body, that Rowena's scream was unrelated to the butchery before them. They were looking off to the left, to the sturdy, thick branch of a snow-covered oak tree.
Karyn Johannson's legs, bent at the knees, were folded over the branch and were tied by ropes which bound her ankles to her thighs. Her legs were twisted and disfigured, broken in numerous places, pulled wide apart from each other. She was naked but for the scarf which seemed to be dangling from her head, swaying and swinging slowly back and forth between her arms which extended downward toward the ground from her inverted body. A massive, horrible slit had been cut into her flesh from just below her breasts to the crevice of her womb, and the blood which covered her from belly to head testified to the fact that she had been hanging upside down when the knife had torn through her. The blood was no longer flowing, but it had bathed her chest, her arms, her head, even her scarf before death and drainage ceased its flood.
But it was not a scarf which Simon saw dangling from her. It was her long red hair, made redder and thicker with gouts of blood. Her hair hung down straight and tight, as if weighted down. Simon's eyes drifted down from her mutilated form to the end of the ruddy tresses. They had been plaited into a noose, and from them dangled the lifeless, strangled body of her unborn, never to be born, child.
Lucas fell onto the cold ground in a faint as Rowena screamed and screamed and screamed. Mark and Simon fell back into each other, repelled by the vision of massacre which confronted them, and Mark inadvertently kicked his foot against Floyd's head. The head rolled a few feet through the snow and then came to rest upon the stump of its neck. It gazed up at Simon with motionless, lifeless, accusatory eyes.
No time now, Simon thought. Can't mourn, can't cry. No time, no time. "Come on," he said hoarsely. "We have to get out of here."
Rowena was still screaming, her fingers thrust into her mouth, her body trembling so violently that h
er legs seemed about to give way. Simon grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. "Rowena! Snap out of it! We have to get out of here!" He turned to Siegal, who was staring dumbly at Karyn's body as it swayed gently to and fro in the wind. "Mark! Get Lucas! Try to bring him around! Mark!!"
Siegal blinked as if awakening and then, suddenly aware and efficient, grabbed Lucas and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He began to run awkwardly from the graveyard, bent by his burden. Simon dragged the hysterical girl along with him as he too ran madly toward the street.
They reached the van in a few minutes and Mark tossed Lucas into the back unceremoniously. He hopped into the driver's seat and began to race the engine as Simon pushed Rowena into the passenger seat and then leapt into the back of the van, securing the door behind him. "Move, Mark, move!" he shouted.
Siegal threw the engine into gear and hit the accelerator hard, causing the tires to whip against the snow-covered ground for a few moments before they found traction and impelled the van out of the driveway and onto the street. He turned the wheel hard to the left and the van seemed on the verge of tipping over as Siegal struggled to right it. They screeched and slid up the street, shattering the silent winter night with the sound of the frantic engine.
They sped toward the highway along the empty road, traveling at a speed far in excess of the limit, almost spinning out once and always in danger of tipping over when they hit a curve. Something from the luggage rack on the roof broke free and fell onto the road behind them, but Siegal neither stopped nor looked back as Simon kept saying, "Faster, Mark, faster! Get to the highway! Hurry!"
The van swerved suddenly, sending Simon thudding against the pile of suitcases which lined the rear compartment. "Rowena," Mark said rapidly, "put on your seat belt."
She looked over at him, a dazed, numb expression on her face. "Huh? Wh—what—?"
"Put on your seat belt! Hurry up!" He swerved again and the van skidded wildly on the snow-covered road surface.
Candlemas Eve Page 39
