Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  Jonathan pressed his fist to his mouth in appreciation and bit back a smile.

  “Thank, God,” Carolyn muttered.

  “Huh?” Dodger’s eyes remained on the monitor.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  Production moved on to another section of the script, and Carolyn took a well-deserved break.

  Michael, with an overseas call with Terrence, removed himself from Carolyn’s side and into her trailer. She strolled—in requisite witch costume sans hat—down a deserted path along the northeast section of the park.

  She enjoyed the smell of the fresh air. Like turquoise. The sounds of seagulls cawing and the ocean lapping a stone wall filled her senses. The farther she strode, the less she could hear of the production—Dodger’s harsh voice and the protesters’ cacophony.

  Carolyn welcomed the tranquility of the harbor. Anchored boats jostled against their moorings and variant-colored buoys marked spots where fishermen kept lobster traps. Finally, she happened upon the park’s amphitheater. She remembered it from childhood, when she attended various events held there over the summer—jazz festivals, big-band tributes, and performances from local bands.

  Since the entire park had been shut down for the film, she had no reservations in climbing the two steps to the concrete platform. It would’ve been too unnerving around others.

  Not since the award show had she been on a stage. Longing to connect—at least physically—to one, Carolyn took center, removed her high heels, and stood barefoot upon it. While she loved performing—the thrill of entertaining others, the music, and the lights—it also unnerved her. Deep down, she fathomed why and equated it to him. The fear he’d instilled in her, and the secrets he insisted she and Michael keep. While in moments of solitude such as this, she allowed the horror Seth Stevenson inflicted to creep into her consciousness.

  She shivered. Despite the day’s heat, the cement flooring remained cool. The bastion of weeping willows that surrounded the stage did their job well. Empty rows of park benches dotted a grassy embankment and circled the concert hall. This was the spot where she had stood as a child, looking out at the seats and imagining fans cheering her name.

  Thoughts of Seth Stevenson vanished and the bridge to “Could It Be Magic” played in her head, the same part of the song from the night at the VTV Awards—the moment just before she lost her connection to it. It echoed in her mind as if it were real. She hummed the melody’s transition from the first verse. Her body swayed in time to the music. She closed her eyes and let the imaginary song absorb her.

  On cue, she muttered the beginning of the second verse, and her arms, on their own accord, rose. A few lyrics in and her body twirled and the sleeves of her witch’s cape flapped through the air. She continued singing, gazing out at the vacant park benches, and let her voice rise. She hadn’t sung in some time. To do so felt freeing. She rocked to the sound of violins.

  Beyond the grassy knoll, a ray of sun broke through the branches of a willow, blinded her, and reminded her of how the spotlights often did the same. With the music still flowing through her body, it mixed with the sun’s warmth.

  Her favorite part of the song, the build, approached. She had each note memorized. Every ounce of her wanted to belt it out, and as she started to, she sensed something wrong. The cast and crew felt miles away. She was alone. Since the award ceremony, she’d had someone at arm’s length. Carolyn’s voice quieted.

  A wave of fear flowed forward and panic rose.

  A tall, dark silhouette of a man flashed onto the stage, and a chill raked through her.

  She spun around but saw no one. Turning back, the shadow now vanished from the cement flooring. Above, a cloud meandered through the trees and the stage grew cool.

  A raven thrashed out of a trash can.

  “Ah!” Carolyn flinched and clutched her robe.

  A wrapper fell from the bird’s grip as it flew away.

  “It’s noth—”

  “Trot trot to Boston, trot, trot to Lynn.” A childhood rhyme took the place of the song in her head. “Watch out, Carolyn, you might fall in.”

  Terrified, she ran from the stage, jumped off the short platform and onto a paved walkway. Her bare feet carried her up the center aisle and to the grassy embankment. Turning, she looked down at the stage, expecting to find someone chasing her—like in high school, decades ago. But no one was there. She stopped, caught her breath. “I’m not insane.” She put her hands on her haunches and rubbed her burning quads. “It’s all in my head. I’m just imagining—”

  A scream from the direction of the set pierced the air.

  “What the…?” Carolyn spun toward the production’s location.

  Another screech. Unmistakably Berniece’s. “Dear Lawd!” Her voice enhanced over the megaphone. “Someone call 911!”

  Carolyn ran toward the crew.

  “Help! Call 911!” Berniece wailed. “Someone get a doctor! Someone call a doctor.”

  When Carolyn reached the set, Dodger’s red face marked his fury.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, nearly toppling over the director’s headphones, most assuredly slammed to the ground in a fit of rage.

  The director shook his head.

  “Rebecca?” Carolyn moved in the direction of the parking lot, where Berniece’s pleas for help arose, and stopped when she happened upon Rebecca hugging her chest, face blanched.

  “Rebecca, are you o—”

  Rebecca pointed to a shaded area beyond the line of wooden horses.

  “Emily!” Berniece gasped. Carolyn could only see the back of the witch’s head.

  Rebecca put a hand to her heart. “I could…I could feel the flap…flapping of the wings.” Her voice wavered and she hurried to Bernie’s call.

  “The flapping of the what?” Carolyn rushed after her.

  “The bat man,” Rebecca said without turning around.

  Carolyn held her cape at the hem as she followed. “What are you talking—”

  “Oh my God! Emily!” With a metallic clank, the megaphone dropped from Berniece’s grip, and she knelt in front of a woman slumped beneath a willow. “Emily.”

  A No Farce of Witches in Salem placard leaned up against the tree. Carolyn hoped what she saw was theatrical-blood dripping down the sign and not the real thing. She grew dizzy, put her arm on Rebecca’s shoulder, but the girl’s trembling invoked her concern, and she brought Rebecca near.

  Chaos ensued. Onlookers screamed and rushed both to and from the area where the lifeless body of a middle-aged woman lay at Berniece’s feet.

  Once the police, fire crew, and an ambulance arrived, Berniece and Rebecca retreated with Carolyn to her trailer.

  Into a seat in the trailer’s kitchenette opposite Michael, Berniece slumped. “She vomited blood.”

  “Who is…was she?” Carolyn leaned against the sink to help steady her nerves. The crowd had assumed the victim dead, but it had yet to be officially pronounced.

  “Emily Litchfield. She’s from Loni Hodge’s coven.” Rebecca’s color remained ashen, and she took up residence beside Bernie.

  A knock at the door startled the group. “Police.” Two officers stepped in.

  For several minutes, Berniece recounted her discovery of the victim to the officers. “She told me earlier she was going to rest…her being tired from the heat and all. Next thing I know, she…I went over to her and tapped her on her shoulder. She slumped sideways, and her eyes rolled back in her head. And then the blood…” Berniece pressed a hand to her forehead. “A torrent.” She choked back emotion.

  “That must’ve been when I felt the flapping of the wings,” Rebecca muttered, eyes glazed.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” said an officer, looking over the top of his sunglasses.

  “Oh, nothing,” Rebecca said and caught Carolyn’s stare.

  “You think she had an aneurysm?” asked Berniece. “Blood dripped from her mouth and nose at first, like what happened to my aunt.”

  “We’ll let the ho
spital determine that,” said the other officer.

  A helicopter thundered overhead, and Rebecca bolted up.

  “It’s probably the media,” Carolyn said. “Relax, Becky.” The girl’s anxiety made her own worsen.

  By the time the police left the trailer, trucks with large satellite dishes on them had parked along the town’s tiny streets, and more choppers roared above.

  The buzz around the set grew too intense to stay. Dodger, hiding his annoyance with a low grumble, called it a day. Carolyn removed her makeup, dressed in her street clothes, and the group, including the witches, left for the hotel.

  When they got to the Hawthorne, Michael suggested they relax with some tea in the tavern. After a bit of conversation there—with reporters dotting the Common in clear view from the window—they moved to Carolyn and Michael’s room and sat on the floor with a borrowed Monopoly game from the lobby.

  “I’m so bad at this.” Berniece had calmed some, and she moved her boot game piece to jail. “I ain’t good with real money, let alone fake-colored bills.” She fiddled with her play bills tucked under her side of the board.

  Rebecca rolled the dice. “Playing a game is good, Bernie. It’ll keep your mind off things.” Her hand trembled as she moved her dog three spaces. “It’s nice of Carolyn and Michael to let us hang here.” She sat on her hands.

  “Sure is.” Berniece swung her legs out to her side. “You know, my momma used to make these game pieces over at the Parker Brothers plant down yonder.”

  Rebecca passed the dice to Michael. “Oh, really?”

  Michael rolled his turn. “That’s right. They used to make Monopoly right here in Salem. No wonder the Hawthorne has so many of these games lying around.” He moved his cannon to Free Parking.

  Carolyn rolled the dice and moved her top hat to Oriental Avenue. “All right. Who owns?” She embraced the company of friends. It minimized her angst at both the death of the protester and any shadowy figure watching her on stage.

  “I do,” Michael said. “Pay up.” He held out a palm.

  “Hmm. Money goes to money,” Carolyn said, followed by an elbow from Michael.

  “Oh, look!” Berniece pointed to the muted television. “The news is on.”

  Carolyn grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  A picture of the Cantor Productions logo cut in next to a female news anchor. “In Salem today, sudden death jinxed the filming of an occult movie, a Jack Cantor production, being made on location in the Witch City. Protesters have plagued Witches of Salem since it began filming there just a few weeks ago.”

  “I’ll say.” Rebecca dug at a fingernail.

  “Today, in an eerily tragic event, Emily Litchfield, a fifty-three-year-old resident of Salem, and a member of Loni Hodge’s Wiccan Society, died—just off the set while cameras rolled. She suffered a cerebral hemorrhage after spending the day protesting the movie. Litchfield was pronounced dead at the scene. She and hundreds of others have been opposing the film in protest of their religion.”

  A picture of Berniece talking to a news reporter flashed across the screen with the words Film Witch Consultant under her name.

  “Hey, it’s Berniece,” said Michael.

  “Shh.” Carolyn turned up the volume.

  “She was complaining of a headache,” Berniece said to the reporter. “I told her to sit under the willow tree and ’lax in the shade, it being hot and all. And that’s where I later found her.”

  The news cut to the mayor, alongside the president of the Massachusetts Film Office. “This film fails to portray the ideals Salem holds about our citizens and our heritage,” said the mayor, a balding fat man in a gray suit. “And now this.”

  With tears in her eyes, Loni Hodge appeared on the television with the words President of the Salem Wiccan Outcasts underneath. “Emily was a decent person—real sweet and loving.” Her lip quivered, and she sneered. “This movie is a farce! It’s a crude, mean portrait of modern witches. It’s a disgrace. The City of Salem, the Massachusetts Film Office, and anyone involved with it should be ashamed.”

  The TV flashed back to the newscaster, a young blonde in a light-blue outfit. She turned to a man in a teal suit sitting beside her. She shook her head. “Such a tragedy. Randy, this film also features actress and singer Carolyn Sohier,” she said, as if informing her colleague, who nodded.

  Carolyn dropped her Monopoly money.

  “If you recall,” the blonde said to the camera, “several weeks back, Ms. Sohier projectile vomited on live television at New York’s VTV Awards.” Tapping a set of papers onto the glass counter in front of her and leaning back in her chair, she flitted between the camera and the man beside her and said, “Some are now speculating the singer did so, Randy, as a publicity stunt.”

  Carolyn bolted upright on her knees. “Publicity stunt!”

  Michael grabbed her elbow.

  “Next, gang violence in Dorchester has a mother of three asking—”

  Michael took the remote and shut off the television.

  Part II

  On and Off the Maine

  From Seventies to Snow

  While a team from Cantor Productions readied the Maine location, filming continued on a soundstage in Los Angeles, where Carolyn played the role of Marigold to Dodger’s delight, and their relationship edged toward improvement.

  “Juniper, help!” Carolyn imagined an erupting volcano, as scripted, on the green screen behind her. A large fan plumed an air-conditioned breeze her way, and she pulled wisps of her black wig from her mouth. Mud—or Hollywood’s version of molten lava—burped from a pot and splattered onto her tattered black robe. She hollered.

  “Hold on.” Juniper, a man with blond locks and a chiseled chest, swung on a rope to an area beside her yet separated by a chasm.

  Sounds of a plane thundered overhead and make-believe bullets pelted the ground.

  “I’ll save you, my love.” Juniper held his arm to indicate, as planned, that he got hit in the shoulder with shrapnel.

  Carolyn approached the actor and let the shackles on her feet hold her back. “Juniper! Have you been hit?”

  Juniper gritted his teeth. “I’m fine, just a little scrape.” He limped toward the edge of the cliff. “Marigold, summon your broomstick.”

  “I can’t.” She parted her hair in the breeze. “My magic…it’s gone.”

  “And cut!” Jonathan Dodger rose from his chair and clapped his hands in a slow, steady beat. “Perfect! Nice work, guys.”

  A team rushed to Carolyn’s side, removed the chains off her legs and helped her out of the harness she wore under her dress and used to initially fly her onto the rock.

  “My men to the rescue.” She raised her arms so they could have better access to the straps. “God, this contraption itches.” She scratched her side and directed her attention to Phineas, the actor who played Juniper. “The things we do for art.”

  “Art?” Phineas motioned for someone to help him off the platform. Impatience showed on his face.

  “Call it what you like. As long as I’m having fun, it’s art.” Carolyn removed her wig.

  “Fun? The only reason I’m doing this piece of crap is for the money.” He breathed a sigh of relief when someone came to his side. “Finally. Get me out of this goddamn flying contraption.”

  A hand reached out to help Carolyn off the platform. “Ms. Sohier,” said the pudgy assistant.

  “Why, thank you so much.” She lifted her dress, so she could see her way down the stairs, and let the man lead her.

  Jonathan Dodger neared. “Beats Salem, eh?” For whatever reason, in California, he sought amends with the actress.

  “Beats dying women, tourists, and clamoring witches.” Carolyn took to the canvas chair with her name on it. “You know as well as anyone you can only do so much on location.”

  “Thanks again for coming to LA. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  Carolyn didn’t trust his calm demeanor. An assistant with a si
lver tray came with a pot of tea and placed it by her side. “Thank you, my dear. This place is like an icebox. You’d never know there’s a volcano about to burst.” She nodded to the green screen.

  The assistant’s blue eyes fell on Dodger.

  “I’m fine. Just some water would be good.” Dodger wandered over to the cameraman.

  Michael came out from the canteen carrying two bottled waters. “Got ’em.”

  “Of course you do.” Carolyn held her teacup. “God forbid Michael Coligliano be trumped by a Hollywood assistant.”

  Michael sat in Dodger’s chair. “All this fuss and I won’t be needed anymore.” He unscrewed the water and handed it to Carolyn.

  “I’ve got tea.”

  “I don’t trust Dodger. They probably poisoned the pot.”

  She kicked him playfully. “Stop.” She took a sip from her cup. “Hey, if Jonathan sees you in his chair, he’ll have a coronary.”

  “Not anymore.” Michael leaned back and put a leg over the armrest. “I got one on that man.”

  Carolyn furrowed her brow. “Don’t let him fool you. There’s still a villain in there somewhere. Just give him a few hours for his anxiety pills to wear out.”

  “Michael.” Jonathan approached. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

  Michael took his leg off the armrest.

  Dodger held out a hand. “No, no. That’s fine.”

  Michael and Carolyn exchanged a glance, and her best friend grinned.

  “He was just leaving.” Carolyn took her tea. “Michael, we have to flesh out the next scene. Would you mind?”

  Michael rolled his eyes, sighed, and left.

  Dodger sat down.

  Carolyn fussed with her blouse. “So, is this picture turning out to your liking?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, I’m happy.” Carolyn placed her teacup down.

  “You’ve made a big improvement the last few weeks.” Dodger removed the cap from the water Michael left.