"What the hell are you doing?" Simon asked. They were speeding along a straightaway, and Simon had felt the telltale smoothness of a skid as the van had swerved.
"Simon, look out front!" Mark Siegal said urgently. "Look out on the road ahead of us!"
Simon pulled himself forward and grabbed the headrest of Rowena's seat. He peered out through the windshield into the darkness and saw a figure standing at a distance in the middle of the road. It was Gwendolyn Jenkins, or Abigail Williams, or whatever the creature was now after so many centuries with its body in the earth and its soul floating upon the lake of fire. It was she, and it was not she. It was a human form, but it was somehow insubstantial, translucent, the beautiful countenance which Simon had kissed so many times now appearing to be a mask of sculptured glass covering a rotting and decaying skull. She raised her arms as if in greeting as the van sped toward her, and as Siegal swerved again and passed by her, Simon could clearly see the bones of her arms and hands moving beneath the cloudy, transparent skin.
"She keeps ahead of me somehow," Siegal said. "This was the third time. I don't know how the hell she's doing it."
"She isn't doing it,"' Simon muttered. "Satan is doing it. There isn't any other explanation."
"Save it for the stage act, man," Siegal spat. "I'm scared enough. I don't need no Devil shit right now."
"I'm not kidding, Mark."
"I don't give a shit, Simon! I just want to get—" He swerved again and Gwendolyn-Abigail's laughter drifted in and then out of the interior of the van. "Jesus Christ!" Simon thought quickly. "Don't try to avoid her."
"What?!"
"Don't try to avoid her. Run her down."
Mark nodded dubiously. "Might not help."
"Cant hurt."
"Those bullets went right through her back in the bell tower. Didn't even muss her hair."
"Okay, so maybe we'll go right through her too. Listen, man, she may—shit!" he cried as Siegal swerved again to avoid the grotesque figure which had appeared once again in the middle of the road. "Damn it, Mark, run her down! She may be trying to make us drive off the road and wrap ourselves around a tree or something. If she passes through us as we run at her, then no harm is done. And maybe we won't. Maybe we'll leave her spread out on the road. Jesus, Markie, try it, will you?!"
Siegal nodded. "Okay, okay." He paused. 'There she is again."
The phantasm stood motionless upon the solid yellow line in front of them, a hundred yards away. Her arms were raised and her laughter reached them even from the distance, even over the roar of the engine. Siegal gritted his teeth, accelerated, and aimed for her. The motionless figure seemed to rush at them as they approached, and as they struck her and felt no impact, heard no sound, Simon allowed himself a sudden hope that he had been right, that her insubstantial form presented no physical obstacle to them.
And then he saw that as the van had passed through her she had entered it, that she was there with them, that she was sitting on Mark Siegal's lap, her legs straddling him. She laughed through the glass mask of human features, through the rotting teeth and decaying skull, and a funereal voice said, "Thank you for giving me a ride, kind gentlemen." It was not Gwendolyn's voice. It was not a woman's voice. It was not a human voice. The bony fingers reached up and grabbed Mark Siegal's temples. He screamed when the cold appendages grasped him, releasing the steering wheel and struggling impotently against the unrelenting grip. The van began to rock back and forth uncontrollably as his knees struck the steering wheel repeatedly in his struggle with the specter. She gazed down at him with amusement, and then gave his head a mighty twist, cracking the neck, turning the head around once, twice, three times, leaving it staring backward at Simon, an expression of shock, pain, and unutterable fear emblazoned upon the staring face.
Simon's screams mingled with the insane laughter of the creature as the van careened of the road and struck a large tree head-on. He threw his arms over his face as he felt himself thrown forward against the rear of the front seats, felt himself skim painfully over them and crash through the windshield. He hit the ground hard, missing the tree itself by inches, and he skidded across the snow and the rocks and the naked branches, coming to rest at last against a bank of snow.
He lay there, dazed and injured, numb and cold. He heard a low moan from behind him and he tried to turn over to look, but the excruciating pain in his side told him that he had broken a few ribs. He was able to move, however. At least his spine was intact. Slowly and painfully, he moved upon his stomach, swiveling around so that his face would point in the direction of the van. When at last the battered vehicle was in view, he was able to see in the dim moonlight that Rowena was moving in the front seat. "Row . . ." he said softly, feeling his entire frame rack with pain from the simple act of speaking, from the simple effort of breathing. "Rowena," he said again, and saw her turn her face toward him from behind the shattered windshield. She slumped forward, unconscious, still held in place by the seat belt she had so fortuitously affixed.
"Lucas," he called out. "Lucas! " There was no answer from the interior of the van. Simon turned his head to the side and saw Mark Siegal, his head still facing backward, impaled through the chest upon a branch of the tree.
He heard footsteps, numerous footsteps, moving slowly closer, crunching upon the hard snow. His heart began to beat wildly and his fingers scrabbled upon the ground, seeking to impel his injured body away from the approaching footsteps. He saw three figures moving stiffly through the dark woods, the moonlight dancing in their eyes as they drew near. Panic mounted in his brain and then was replaced by a sudden flood of relief.
"Tommy," he tried to call out. "Larry, Carl. Over here. We're over here."
Mahoney, Herricks, and Strube lumbered over the uneven ground and sidled between the bare trees.
"I don't know what you guys are doing here, but you couldn't have come at a better time," he said joyfully. "You won't believe what's happened tonight. Jesus, I don't half believe it myself!" Larry Herricks bent down and grabbed Simon beneath the arms, pulling him to his feet. "Ouch! Hey, take it easy, Larry! I think I cracked a couple of ribs!" He looked into Larry Herricks's eyes. They were cold, empty, expressionless. "Larry? . . ." Simon felt his panic return. He struggled to free himself from the cold grip, pushing himself away from Larry Herricks. He was not able to break free, but he was able to push himself far enough away to see the gaping hole in Herricks's chest where once his heart had beat.
Herricks was dead, Strube was dead, Mahoney was dead, their hearts torn from their bodies, their corpses animated by some infernal power, their deaths certainly orchestrated by Simon's mortal yet immortal enemy. Herricks threw Simon across his shoulder and began walking slowly, steadily back up toward the road. Simon could see Mahoney tear the seat belt from its mooring and drag the unconscious Rowena from the seat as Strube ripped open the back of the shattered van and pulled Lucas out into the cold night. Mahoney cradled Rowena almost lovingly in his dead arms as he followed Herricks back up toward the road, and Strube, draping Lucas across his shoulder in the same manner as Herricks had done with Simon, followed behind.
The strange procession moved in line along the deserted country road, only the dim moonlight illuminating their movement, only Simon's terrified weeping breaking the stillness and the silence. An occasional hoot from a hungry owl and the distant howl of a dog enraptured by the moon were the only other sounds.
The three dead men and their burdens entered the sleeping town of Bradford and moved silently up the single narrow street. Simon's cries for help were not heeded by the villagers. For one thing, he was so weak, so injured, and so frightened that he could barely raise his voice above a whisper, and in addition, he and Mark and Lucas and Rowena had spent so many hours that night running around the town and making noise that even if people had heard him, they would have ignored him. Simon tried to talk to Herricks, tried to talk to Strube, to Mahoney, tried in desperation to awaken some human response in them. It was of no ava
il. They were not under the witch's control as Jeremy had been the day of his death; they were not living men whose wills had been taken from them, whose lives were still theirs and might yet be reclaimed. Dead men, walking corpses, animated dust. That was all.
They proceeded up the dark street, past the old gas station, past the Grange hail, past the Proctor Inn and the general store above which once Jeremy and Reverend Wilkes had lived, past the old residences. They came to the spot in the road between the church and the graveyard, the graveyard where Karyn's body still hung from the tree branch and swayed in the cold wind, the graveyard where Floyd Proctor's head still gazed blankly, up at the starless sky, the graveyard where, somewhere, the remains of Reverend Frederick Wilkes were mingling with the soil.
But they did not turn to the graveyard. The three dead men slowly turned toward the church and began to walk steadily toward it. As they drew near, Simon thought he heard music; as they entered the old colonial building, he was certain that he heard music, the music of a harp and a lute, blending in gentle, delicate harmony. Simon tried to shift his position on Herricks's shoulder, tried to look in the direction in which he was being carried, tried to discover what was awaiting him in the front of the old church. And then his heart thumped loudly in his chest as the lute and the harp were joined by two female voices.
"A sad time for lovers, so they say.
'Tis a sad time for lovers, so they say.
For the leaves have all fell down
And the body's in the ground,
And we're meeting one last time on this dark day.
The death snow has fallen on the grass,
And the death snow has fallen on the grass.
The life is almost done
And the course is almost run,
And the bell tolls the eve of Candlemas."
Simon Proctor began to weep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
February 1, Candlemas Eve
The three dead men shuffled down the aisle between the pews. Piles of rope were resting on the floor directly in front of the altar, and each grabbed a coil. As Herricks began with stiff fingers to bind Simon hand and foot, Simon looked to the right, to the space before the pulpit. Gwendolyn and Adrienne—Abigail and Mary—were sitting on two folding chairs, singing.
Strube tied the ends of two strands of rope to Lucas's wrists and then tossed the other ends up into the air. They looped over the rafter of the old wooden building and then fell back toward the floor. Strube pulled easily, mindlessly upon them both, hoisting Lucas upward, and then tied the ends to the base of the lectern at the left of the altar. The unconscious boy, still deep in shock from the sight of the mutilated body of his girlfriend, dangled two feet from the ground.
"A tear for the damned, and mourn them well.
Shed a tear for the damned, and mourn them well.
And sing a sorrow song
For the time will not be long
'Ere they greet the lord of darkness deep in hell."
Abigail and Mary, eyes closed, ignoring the proceedings, sang on. Mahoney tore Rowena's clothing roughly from her body, and she seemed to rise slowly to consciousness as the cold hands touched her warm skin, but she was too confused, too injured to resist. When she was naked, Mahoney threw her onto the communion table and began to tie her hands to one set of legs and her ankles to the other. She tried to rise to a sitting position, but he thrust her roughly down upon her back and then completed his task. She lay helpless upon the altar, arms stretched out behind her, legs stretched out in front. When she came fully awake and understood her situation, she began to weep. "Daddy," she cried, and Simon's heart seemed to break.
"On All Hallows' Eve the wind is high,
And on All Hallows' Eve the wind is high,
The Midsummer moon is bright
And 'tis dark On Walpurgis Night,
And on Candlemas Eve the children die."
The two women continued to play their instruments, humming the melancholy melody, and Simon watched as they began to grow indistinct, as they began to fade into the gloomy, candle-lit darkness of the interior of the old church. Their images and their music seemed to disappear simultaneously. They were gone.
Simon was lying, bound, in the front pew. He struggled to rise and found that the ropes which had been affixed to his hands and feet had been attached by another rope to the pew itself. He could sit up, but he could not move from his position. In front of him, Rowena lay motionless upon the communion table, motionless but for the trembling of her breast as she wept. To the side, Lucas hung from the rafters, and the low moan which escaped from his lips told Simon that his son was alive, injured, and awakening. Mahoney, Strube, and Herricks stood against the wall beside the lectern, completely immobile, no movement in their dead eyes, their chests unmoved by breathing.
"Daddy?"
Simon sighed and sniffed back his tears. "I'm here, baby."
Rowena leaned her head in his direction. There was a bruise upon her forehead at the point where she had struck the dashboard of the van, and a small trickle of blood stained the right side of her lip. "Daddy, what are we gonna do?" she asked, her voice broken and frightened.
He shook his head. "I don't know, baby, I don't know. I don't know if there's anything we can do!"
They were silent, but for Lucas's repeated moans. The cold wind whistled through the old rafters, caused the candle flames to dance upon the wicks, sent flickering ghostly shadows drifting upon the walls and floor. The candle flames danced in the open, staring, dead eyes of the three bodies which stood against the wall, stood as if waiting, stood as if ready to obey their next commands.
Simon took a deep breath. "Gwendolyn!" he shouted. There was no response. "Gwendolyn!!" he shouted again, and only silence replied. "Gw—" he paused. Then he sighed and said softly, "Abigail?"
"Welcome, Simon dear" Abigail Williams said from behind him. "So happy you could come tonight." Simon Proctor turned his head to see the two women he had known as Gwendolyn Jenkins and Adrienne Lupescu walking down between the pews toward the front of the church. Abigail and Mary drew close to him. Both were attired in simple black dresses with white collars and small white caps, and as they came to a stop in front of Simon, Abigail flared her skirt outward at the sides with her hands and spun about prettily. "Do you like it?" she asked. "I wore it just for you."
"Gwen—"
"Tosh! And just when I thought you'd finally learned to call me by my true name!" She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "So disappointed I am in you, Simon Proctor! Truly I am!"
"Okay, then, Abigail! I beg you, I beg you, to have pity, to have mercy, if not on me then at least on my children." Tears began to roll down his cheeks. "They've never done anything to you, they've never hurt you or lied to you. I'm the one who you should be mad at, not them!"
She sat down beside him on the pew and stroked his brow affectionately. "Poor fellow, you still don't understand, do you? I am long-suffering, but when I take revenge, my revenge is inexorable. Do you see your friends over there?" She nodded at the three corpses against the wall. "I killed them two days ago. And do you know why?" She paused. "I killed them because it would hurt you to see them dead! I killed them just to hurt you!" She smiled again. "Don't you understand? Killing Lucas and Rowena will pierce you to the heart, Simon dear."
"Abigail—please—"
"Shall I tell you how I killed them?" Her green eyes twinkled merrily. "I sent out my spirit against them, as I had done before against that damned minister."
"Wh—what are you—?"
"Oh, you did not know of that? Aye, when you and I and the others were drinking and making merry in the tavern across the river, I sent my spirit out against the minister." She laughed. "I buried him alive. 'Twas delightful!"
"No—you couldn't have you—"
"But I digress. Where was I? Ah, yes, I sent my spirit out against your friends and ripped their hearts from their bodies. They were most upset. And, by the way, your friend Mr. He
rricks has quite a foul mouth!"
Simon stared at her with disbelief, more terrified of the cold, conversational tone of her speech than the content of her words. "How—how can you do things like this?" he stammered. "What kind of creature are you that you can do these things?"
"I told you, months ago," she replied easily. "I am a witch."
"But—"
"And more than a witch, 'tis true," she nodded, looking down pensively and then looking back into his eyes, a sudden fury suffusing her face. "I am a woman who is sick to death of Proctors! I am a woman who destroyed herself three hundred years ago for love of a Proctor, who was driven from her home by the vindictive hatred of a Proctor, who spent three hundred years suffering the agonies of hell for hope of a Proctor's love, who was dragged up from the pit by the stupid incantations of a Proctor child this last All Hallows' Eve, who gave herself once again to a Proctor, and who was once again betrayed by a Proctor! That is what I am, Simon, my darling," she hissed, "my dear, sweet love!"
"But you can't—" he wept, "you can’t—"
"Ah, but I can, and I shall. I shall free myself of you and your damnable family, and live out the rest of this life as I wish. I am returned to the world a young woman, and I shall dwell again upon the surface of the earth and live out another life, doing what I will, going where I will, taking what I will! Someday I shall die, someday return to hell, but what of it? Three centuries ago I signed my name in the Devil's book, and it cannot be erased, so I shall not waste this life fearing the approach of death. Indeed, I shall revel in death! I shall be a harbinger of death, a black angel, visiting vengeance and destruction upon all who anger me!"
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