Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  Rebecca scraped a hand through her bangs, only to have them fall forward again. What do we do? This is all a—

  “Omm.” Berniece’s mouth formed an O, and odd sounds followed, like a cow singing. “Moo…Moe, Larry, and Curly.”

  Carolyn snickered, and a peacock feather plumed into the air.

  “Bernie!” Rebecca tsked and flipped hair back in irritation.

  Carolyn quieted and breathed softly.

  “Ah, omm!” Berniece’s voice grew louder. The space between her two front teeth showed when she inhaled with gusto.

  Rebecca tapped a finger to the floor. “Omm.” She grabbed the candle from the coffee table and placed it by Carolyn’s head. Closing her eyes, she held her hands above Carolyn. “With this wax that is falling”—she cleared her throat—“bring Carolyn Sohier to her calling.” Her hands itched, and she rubbed them. “Um…on the island she can gloat, her voice like an angel it will float.”

  A clap of thunder shook the house, and the three of them flinched.

  Post Magic

  The following morning, Rebecca and Berniece sat on the inn’s foyer stairs. Berniece wrote a letter to a friend watching her shop back in Salem. With Carolyn outside—as told to them by Michael—they were eager to see if their magic worked. According to the Book of Shadows, results would appear after sunrise the next day.

  Rebecca eyed a drunken production assistant on the couch—to the right of the inn’s check-in, adjacent to an old and broken telephone booth carved in rich mahogany. An empty whisky bottle lay on the floor beside him. Probably couldn’t make it up the stairs.

  While Berniece continued writing, Rebecca rose and walked about the area. The opaque glass panels of the telephone cabinet caught her reflection as she meandered down the hall toward a small bathroom, went in, did her business, and came out.

  “Still nothing?” she yelled to Berniece.

  “Ain’t here yet.”

  Rebecca felt a connection to the old hotel and ran a hand along the front desk as she reentered the foyer.

  Berniece put her letter down and looked over to her. “You think it worked?”

  The hall’s heavy front door swung open, and a cold draft of air mixed with a bit of snow flew in.

  The PA awoke.

  Carolyn shut the front door and kicked off snow from her boots. “Oh my God. I haven’t seen this much snow in years.”

  The assistant shot up from the bench and ran down the hall.

  Rebecca leaned against the check-in counter.

  Carolyn sat down where the assistant left. “Dodger’s going to have a fit.” She pulled off a boot. “I bet he never thought we’d have a winter setting for the picture.” She pulled off her other shoe. “We’re already weeks behind schedule, and now this. It’ll be interesting to see how he finagles the weather into the story.”

  Berniece hoisted herself up with the help of the banister. “He’s going to ruin it if he keeps changing things.”

  Carolyn looked at Berniece. “Cantor will just shoot more in LA.” She put on a pair of slippers left by the coatrack.

  Berniece stood next to Rebecca. “You feeling okay this morning, Carolyn?”

  “Feel great! I had a lot of fun with you both last night.”

  Rebecca glanced at Berniece and back down at Carolyn. “We did, too,” Rebecca said.

  “That snow thunder was loud.” Carolyn straightened and unzipped her parka. “I decided to get up early and help the boys clear the walkways. I’d’ve preferred a jog, but not in this weather. Shoveling is good exercise.”

  The stairs squeaked, hinting the arrival of an upstairs guest. Julia Hartfield, in a pair of gold Jillian Adore heels and holding in her hand a stack of papers, strutted down. “Oh, my.” She looked at the clump of snow on the carpet. “What is that?”

  “Snow.” Berniece stretched a hand to it. “It’s a New England thing. Want to make a snowman?”

  Julia sighed and sauntered down the rest of the steps. “God, I miss California.” She walked gingerly across the carpet and held out pages to Carolyn.

  Carolyn stood. “Ah, Julia.” She looked down at her. “Would you mind taking this back upstairs?” Carolyn placed her coat in Julia’s outstretched arm.

  “Uh.”

  Carolyn walked away. “No new pages, Julia. I’ll work with what I got yesterday and improvise the rest.”

  “I don’t think Jonathan—”

  Carolyn spun around. “I don’t care what Jonathan thinks. I’ll do as I like.” She smiled, took off her hat, threw it on top of her coat—still in Julia’s arms—and went upstairs.

  Rebecca and Berniece smiled at each other, turned to Julia, and shrugged.

  That evening, during a break in filming, Michael and Carolyn strolled under a starlit sky. Carolyn sang an Anita Baker song a cappella. Bundled in coats, mittens, and hats from Viola’s stockpile, they ambled down Neptune Lane toward Wisteria Beach.

  The sound of the crusted snow crunching under their feet returned once Carolyn finished. “That song’s been brewing in my head all day. I just needed to sing…get it out.”

  Michael put his hand through her arm. “It was beautiful, as always.”

  She leaned into him. “I know you like that song.”

  He kicked a pine cone along the path in the snow. “It’s nice to hear and see you back on your game.”

  “Thank you. Sometimes I just have to sing. It’s just doing it in public that’s the problem.” She stopped walking. “Remember as kids we could just express ourselves through creating…through art, just for the fun of it?” She roamed forward.

  Michael nodded. “Uh-huh. We used to watch The Rose and sing show tunes, you and me.”

  “As we grew older,” Carolyn said, “we had to go and make a business out of it—perform, worry about talent, and being good.”

  “Well, you sang beautifully, as always. Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been unable to sing in front of an audience? For how long?”

  She scratched her ear with her shoulder. “It just sort of crept up on me last year. Small venues are okay…like the set in Salem. Maybe here.”

  Michael stopped and turned to her. “Why last year? What happened then?”

  Carolyn blew into her mittens, rubbed her hands together, and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  Michael didn’t say anything.

  They traipsed over to the dock and from it, looked out at the lights of Bar Harbor. Their breath plumed into similar-looking clouds as the chill bit the air.

  “I’m glad we’re here in Maine.” Carolyn wrapped an arm around his waist. “I actually like it up here.”

  “Did working in Salem seem a little too close to home?” Michael looked at her.

  She walked out onto the pier.

  “Carolyn…we went through a lot as teenagers.”

  She put her hand out. “We don’t need to relive it.” Their past had been buried, and she preferred to keep it that way.

  He put his gloved hands into his parka’s pockets. “When did you find out about being in this picture?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime last year.” She knew where he was going with this. Salem. Peabody. Their teenage years. Its connection to the film.

  He raised an eyebrow. “About the time your stage fri—”

  She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand and led him toward Wisteria Road. “C’mon, let’s head back.”

  The stillness of the night exaggerated the scuffing of the snow in their steps. Something about a cold, dark night heightened the sounds. Like it did in Peabody that winter. Carolyn shook her head.

  Last year, when Rudy told her about the possibility of a principal role in a Cantor-Dodger collaboration, at first she was excited and agreed, but when he later explained that it’d be filmed on location in Salem, she grew wary—too close to home. Since moving from the area, she’d rarely been back. Interesting. It was about the time my performance anxiety ramped up. “Hmm.” Stage fright had her in therapy for years.

&nbs
p; “Well, as for those two bumbling witches,” Michael said, “I can’t believe you let them put a spell on you.”

  Carolyn smiled. “It was all innocent, nothing serious. They’re only trying to help me.”

  “How do you know? They could have conjured up some evil spirit or something.”

  “Why?” Apprehension wrought her face. She pushed it aside and grinned. “Do you believe in spooks?”

  He jumped out in front of her—hands up in surrender. “I do believe in spooks! I do! I do!” He chuckled.

  She pushed him away and laughed. “I was just trying to help them out. They want to get into some witch thing back in Salem. It’s good for them to practice their craft.”

  “What are you, some Wiccan guinea pig? I can’t believe this is coming from the same girl who didn’t even watch The Wizard of Oz until college because you were scared of the flying monkeys.” He took her arm, and they strolled again. “And you drank with them? You never drink.”

  “Relax. I had only a few glasses of wine. I’m thirty…something years old. It’s about time I grew up.”

  “Thirty—”

  “Uh, don’t say it. I don’t want to admit I’m getting any older.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “So when’s Terrence’s flight coming in?” she asked.

  “There’s been a slight itinerary change…after dinner tomorrow. Oh, and guess who’s flying in with him?”

  “You told me Josefina’s coming.”

  They wandered back, and when they approached the embankment that led to the inn, they stopped by the overturned dory. A shopping bag pinned underneath it flapped in the breeze. The area around the boat was clear of snow, like a wind tunnel had blown it all away.

  “What’s this?” Carolyn bent down and pulled the bag out from its clasp. “I don’t like to see trash, especially plastic, in nature.”

  “Probably just blew underneath there from the dumpster.”

  Carolyn went to place the bag in her coat pocket but recognized the packages inside. “Empty laxatives…? And ipecac packages?”

  Michael peeked inside it. “Someone wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Rudy used to use these in his drugging days. Binge. Get bound up. Purge.”

  “Good Lord, your manager is a loon.”

  She shoved the bag and its contents into her pocket. “Yes, he is, but I still hang onto him. I guess.”

  “That you do.” Michael walked ahead. “Has anyone heard from him?”

  “He usually goes to the Keys when he needs a break.” She fiddled with the cardboard package and bag in her pocket.

  “Like his prize client getting sick on stage?”

  She stopped and pulled the package from her pocket. No. “You don’t think he…” She couldn’t finish the statement.

  Michael looked to the empty medicine packages in her hand. “What?”

  “When I…” She shook her head. “In order to get me out on stage that night, he fed me candy.”

  “You’ve always had a sweet tooth.” He looked to Carolyn. “Are you suggesting that he fed you laxatives and ipecac before going out on stage? Why would he—”

  “Not intentionally.” She sighed. “C’mon, let’s go in. It’s cold out here.”

  A New Book

  With no vacancy at the inn, Viola’s home boarded the overflow. The cast and crew regularly traipsed in and out.

  “We can’t just go in there,” Berniece said. “It’s the old lady’s house.”

  Rebecca rubbed her bare arms to warm them. “Everyone else does. C’mon, it’s cold out here. She won’t know. She’s sleeping. Something tells me—”

  “Because it just ain’t right…” Berniece looked up at the widow’s watch. “That’s the lady’s private property.”

  Having watched Viola’s comings and goings over the past few weeks, Rebecca’s curiosity got the better of her. Why does she go up to the widow’s watch every night? The small glass enclosed area surrounded by a low-rising rail atop her house’s roof would flicker in candlelight after dinner when the innkeeper would spend time there. Rebecca didn’t want to invade the woman’s privacy, but her life seemed an open book with the crew taking over her space. Something compelled Rebecca to look into the roof walk.

  “Bernie, we’re witches. It’s our duty to investigate.” She trotted over to the house. “Besides, I just want to see what it’s like up there. If we get caught, which we won’t, we’ll just say we got lost in the house or something.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s a great excuse.” Berniece followed. “Has that black hair dye gotten soaked into your little head or something?”

  “You’re just scared.”

  “Damn right.”

  Inside, they snuck past Sasha, studying the parlor and jotting down notes. When they got to the house’s third floor, Rebecca pulled a hood over her head. “Now you be quiet, you hear?”

  “I ain’t said nothing.”

  “Shh.”

  “I never said—”

  Rebecca huffed and snapped open the latch on the door. “Just keep it—” She winced as the door creaked. She placed a hand over a hinge.

  “Why you talk me into this shit, I’ll never know,” Berniece whispered.

  Rebecca sneered.

  They eased their way up a secondary small set of stairs, and at the top opened another door.

  Moonlight filled the roof walk’s room of glass.

  “Wow,” Rebecca muttered and stepped gingerly over to one of the windows. “Look, you can see the lights from Bar Harbor.” She kept her voice low.

  Berniece moved to a pane on Rebecca’s left. “Hey, look-ee down there. You think that’s Boston?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “No, you can’t see Boston from here.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “It’s probably Portland or something.”

  Berniece moved to the center of the room and put her candle down on an oak table. “Oh my God, Becky.” She put a hand to her heart. “Oh my God!”

  “Bernie, shh! Keep it qui—” Rebecca’s mouth fell open.

  On the table, lay a leather-bound book with a raised triquetra—a three-pointed symbol, a telltale sign of a witch’s book of shadows—taking up most of the cover. Beside it sat an old doll with one closed eye and an empty socket for the other. Cracks riddled the face. A tattered and torn dress covered the doll’s body. A lace sleeve hung over a missing arm.

  Berniece picked up the Book of Shadows. “You think she’s a witch?”

  “Nah, she couldn’t be.” Rebecca pulled the book from Berniece’s hands. “Let me see.” She flipped open the first page. “It belongs to her late husband, John Arthur Dorr.” She pointed to the name on the inscription. “That’s the guy whose picture she has hanging in the foyer. He died in the fifties or something…out at sea.”

  “Maybe she come on up here to wait for him to sail back, like in that Disney—”

  “Berniece, this isn’t Pete’s Dragon or something.”

  “You think he was a witch?” Berniece asked.

  “Only a witch would have a Book of Shadows.”

  Berniece grabbed it back. “Got anything good in it?”

  “Careful, Bernie, don’t rip the thing.”

  “I ain’t gonna ‘rip the thing.’ I just want to read it.”

  “Let’s take it downstairs.”

  “Becky. You crazy?” Berniece spoke softly. “That old lady’ll know it’s gone.”

  “We’ll get it back up here before tomorrow night. She only comes up after dinner.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Shh. I think I hear someone.” Rebecca blew out the candle and tiptoed over to the door as it slowly shut. Rebecca’s heart thumped.

  The room stilled in quiet. They looked at each other.

  Fear wrought Berniece’s face, her stomach rumbled, and a small squeal came out her backside.

  Rebecca fanned the air. “Oh, Berniece, why do you have to fart when you get nervous?” The door slowly reopened. />
  Berniece cupped her hand to her mouth and another gaseous emission followed.

  They backed up.

  The door pushed fully open, hitting the stairway wall.

  Berniece yelled into her hand and pressed her back against a window.

  A gust of air flapped a sheer curtain hung beside an open window.

  “Hold on.” Rebecca went over to a window. “Bernie, Bernie.” She closed it shut. “It’s just the wind.”

  “Ain’t my wind.”

  Life Should Be a Musical

  Acadia National Park’s forty-seven-thousand-plus acres encompassed most of Mount Desert Island and the associated smaller isles off the Atlantic’s coast. Prior to filming, Carolyn had never been to the area, but something about it felt homey. Having close-knit friends tucked away with her in a quiet corner of the country felt comforting. Anticipating the arrival of even more allies—she always loved Terrence, and even Josefina, in an odd way, had her own charm—brought joy to the actress. Plus, things on the set were looking up. Maybe she was a decent performer after all.

  From what she’d heard, the town of Trenton’s Hancock County-Bar Harbor airport—with only two runways—offered daily services to Boston. The summer season witnessed most of its business—the wealthy, in their private aircraft, flying in to vacation. Yet, despite the infrequency of fall flights, Terrence’s Learjet still managed a two-hour delay.

  In the passenger seat of a red F-350 driven by the inn’s bar back Dave Ingalls, Carolyn held the dash as they went over a bump. “It’s nice to get off Summerwind for a bit.” She turned to Michael in the backseat. “You must be excited to see Terrence. It’s been awhile.” She knew the answer, didn’t even need to ask, but the banter between the three had hit a dry patch, and she felt compelled to reengage conversation—a light mood she wanted to last forever.

  Michael’s eyes widened as he nodded. “Going to attack him, first thing, when we get back to the hotel.”

  “Michael.” Carolyn looked for a response from Dave; finding none, she let the hum of the road accompany them. It felt odd to be off the set. While only having been on the island for a few weeks, Carolyn had grown accustomed to it. The intimacy. The small-town feel—one she never knew. “On the main,” as Viola called it, was busier. So many cars yet a paltry comparison to New York City or even Salem. Lights. The island had few. Even the stars didn’t shine as bright on the main.