Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  “Why were you serving the devil’s slave, Philippe? Once Urbain possessed this Michele Guyon, why not leave the devil to his own deeds?”

  “I stayed to protect you. One day you will understand. The demon could not prevent it. He seemed to find it amusing that I insisted on remaining at your side, but unfortunately, I could not control his evil. I came with Michele Guyon in search of you. Urbain knew that we would. He possessed the body of Michele Guyon and left it when he had no further use for it. I had to remain then, for your sake.”

  “Why would Michele allow himself to be possessed by the devil?”

  “Michele is not yet a strong witch. He has mastered what any human being can master with practice, but he does not have the power to overtake the devil at this point.”

  “Why would Michele Guyon be in search of me?” I questioned. “And whose body did they find charred to the bone in the warehouse?” I asked him.

  “A homeless man that fit Michele’s description. Urbain exchanged his clothes with those of his own. He put Michele’s ring on his finger and murdered him there in the warehouse. Then set fire to the building.” He looked at me. “Michele was then dispossessed and returned to his dimension intact.”

  “And that is where he is now?” I asked. “In his own dimension?”

  “For now.”

  “Why did Urbain not kill Michele?”

  “He cannot kill a witch. He can only possess one.”

  “And where is Urbain?”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “What if I do not return to Salem?” I asked sharply.

  “Your son will hang on Gallows Hill. His spirit will linger in darkness and he will be as lost as you are,” he answered.

  “My God!”

  “He lives as a new widower. He has told them that he has a young daughter. He is happy, but in danger.”

  “Have you seen him? Have you been there?”

  “No. Meredith Mae has told me. She visits him while you nap.”

  I felt an overwhelming desire to put a stake through the devil’s heart. I got up and went to the tall wooden doors. I opened them onto the front hall and looked up the stairs toward my granddaughter’s room.

  “I will attempt the journey, but I will take the child with me,” I told Philippe. “I want us all to remain together. I assume you are also coming? I will need you.”

  “Of course. It will not be easy for you to reenter another dimension. Your conscious mind has accepted the order of time, and that concept must be destroyed and replaced with a true vision. Meredith Mae and I will help you. Your granddaughter can dissolve the barriers of time and walk through in her own flesh and blood. But you must kill off this Patience Guyon. Your borrowed flesh cannot yet cross. You must steal a new form as soon as you are revealed in that dimension.”

  “And whose flesh should I steal, Philippe?”

  “Why not the flesh of the girl, Ann Putnam?”

  “Yes,” I said softly. “But, yes, of course. How sweet is justice. Yes, it makes sense to me. But one last thing, Philippe.”

  “What?” He looked at me.

  “Who is Michele Guyon?”

  “I told you. He is my father.”

  Chapter Nine

  The following day I called my attorney, William Davenport, and told him to draw up an estate trust for my granddaughter, Meredith Mae, to be paid to her in her twenty-first year, just in case I never returned. I made provisions for the money to be reinvested and all dividends to be paid back to the estate until that time. I retained the rest of my money in my name, and in the event of my death, I named Meredith Mae as my sole heir. But, I also included a provision for my son. I told William that my son was to share the estate, should he ever be found alive, and that fifty percent of whatever the estate was worth be given him.

  That evening, I informed Maebelle and Malcolm that I would be taking the child abroad to finish her education and we would be gone several years. They were relieved to be rid of us and asked that we send cards and gifts. Maebelle gave us a shopping list a mile long, and Malcolm insisted he be given power of attorney over my estate during my absence.

  “Absolutely not,” I said with a hearty laugh.

  “But Patience,” he began. “Be reasonable. If something were to happen to you, William Davenport would gain a large percentage of your fortune and we would all have to rely on his judgment until Meredith Mae comes of age. Does that make any sense?” he asked as he stared at me with a scowl on his face, as if I were a total fool.

  “William Davenport is my trusted advisor and attorney. I pay him well to ensure the security of my granddaughter. The only vested interest you have in my estate, dear Malcolm, is your own greed.”

  Malcolm let out a long and tedious sigh. Then he gathered up his family and we all said rather cold good-byes. That foolish Maebelle asked me to reconsider her husband’s interest in our well-being.

  “He is a good man,” she told me as we shared the perfunctory hug.

  I looked at this pathetic creature that I had once thrust upon my son in a moment of desperation.

  “No, Maebelle. Malcolm is not a ‘good’ man. He is an evil man. And he would see your daughter starving on the streets of Brooklyn if he had just an ounce of control over her money.”

  Maebelle stared at me in disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “May God forgive you,” she whispered to me before following Malcolm and those horrid children of theirs down the stairs of my home. I would not miss that family, yet the end to which poor Maebelle came would one day cause me sadness. You will know of it soon, as well.

  With my financial affairs in order, we then sent for Emie, Philippe’s sister. Of course, she was not a slave in Virginia, but from Philippe’s dimension of the twentieth century. When she appeared in our parlor one rainy afternoon, I was startled by the familiarity I felt between us, but I quickly dismissed it, for there was so much on my mind. She was a lovely girl, but she seemed so different, so strong and self-assured for a woman. She was not as dark as Philippe, but she was clearly of mixed blood. Her features were delicate, and she hid her very large eyes behind the oddest little wire-rimmed glasses. I noticed that her eyes were not black, but green, like my own. The first time she saw me she put her arms around me and held me so tightly that I thought she would squeeze the air out of me. Philippe said that she was a powerful witch and that they could communicate through meditative writing and thought. Emie would look after the house in Brooklyn for all the years we would be gone. She would tell people that she was in my employ. Of course, Patience Guyon would never return to Montague Street in the nineteenth century, and her body could never be found. If it were, a murder investigation would certainly hinder our plans.

  * * * *

  To dispose of poor Patience we chose a quick and simple wound to the back of the head. After her death, Philippe would bury the weapon and throw the body to the river, way out, where it would drift to the sea and never be found. The spirit of Annabel Horton would return again to darkness. But remember what I have told you. This darkness is not death. For this witch, it is the opportunity for life. And life is not what you think of as time. You think that space is out, and that time is long. But I tell you that time is a curve in the universe—a dimension that does not reach backward or forward. Time curves out into a different perception. My consciousness was also confined by the belief that the past is behind me. Before my physical death, I had to destroy that belief. It was not easy. Philippe made me a labyrinth. For hours I walked it. At some point, in the process of my meditation, I finally began to experience the shattering of space.

  * * * *

  “Human consciousness creates order,” Philippe told me softly as I walked. “Let the order dissolve and feel the power of your soul to push order aside.”

  “Are you really the son of Michele Guyon?” I begged him to tell me.

  “In the chronological year 3082, God is redefined and consciousness is altered,” he continued.

/>   “Then religion must be changed by this new discovery of God?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know that, Philippe? Do you gaze into a crystal ball?” My eyes were closed as I walked. Surprisingly, my voice came out more like Annabel, the human being I had been in 1692, instead of the higher-pitched Patience. “You do not answer my question, Philippe.”

  “Which one?” he teased.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  “I am Michele Guyon’s son. I am born many, many years from now.”

  “Your mother?” I asked. “Who is your mother?”

  “Annabel Horton,” he answered.

  I laughed so hard my sides hurt me and I lost my balance in the labyrinth.

  “You’ll make me fall.”

  “Listen to me. And concentrate!” he commanded. “All humanity is born knowing and forgetting the nature of the universe. You will also forget. You will also remember.”

  “What will I forget and remember, master?” I giggled like a young schoolgirl.

  “Beginnings,” he went on, oblivious to my jesting. “Humanity is constant. Humanity craved life and found itself on earth. Humanity created earth, which is beautiful, but restrictive, and the process of evolution is tedious.”

  “How can there be evolution if all is now? How can anything be tedious?” I questioned more seriously.

  “Humanity imposed order on the gift of life. We feel tedium. We watch time pass and we record history, but all life is contained in the same moment. In the linear year 3082, the human soul will be redefined by a greater evolution.” Philippe walked behind me and spoke in my ear. “It has already happened. All time is contained in space. You must push through the walls of human reality and see with your soul.”

  “What of God? Tell me where to find God.”

  Philippe laughed. “God? How can you find what isn’t missing?”

  “What of the devil? Is he destroyed by this discovery of God in 3082?” I asked.

  Philippe smiled. “God and the devil…the unanswered conundrum. How can God exist if I cannot see the face of God, or the devil for that matter?”

  “I have seen the devil,” I told him.

  “You have seen the devil but not God? Would you recognize darkness if you had never seen light?”

  “Philippe, like most prophets, you speak in riddles.”

  “Prophecy connotes a future. Well then, back to the unanswered conundrum. If the future is created out of the present, then where is the past? If God is the infinite language of humanity, than what language is humanity to God?” He returned my smile and continued. “Are you ready to die?” he whispered.

  Chapter Ten

  I went to my granddaughter’s room. What a beautiful child. Her lips were in a soft pout as she slept. Her thick, rich hair embraced the pillow and looked like it could have been a fine piece of silk. I softly stroked her brow. Her beautiful, dark eyes opened and beheld me like a treasured friend.

  “It is time,” I told her. “You know that I will not feel pain. You know that my spirit will follow yours?”

  The child smiled softly and reached out her arms to hug me.

  “I will go first and lead the way. You must not lose spiritual sight of me, Grandmamma,” she whispered firmly.

  Philippe had promised me that she would not witness my murder. He told me that the child’s body would pass out of this dimension before my physical body was destroyed. I was frightened, of course, but also excited to see my beloved home—to walk beside my father and wade my toes in the river again—to sit in the hard wooden pew of the Lindal Hill Chapel and sing the old church hymns.

  We left the house on Montague Street at midnight and went for a carriage ride down the river. Somewhere, near a short bridge, we stopped. It was raining badly, and there was mud everywhere, but we had waited for the rain. Now that it was here, we were excited to get it all over with. Philippe hid the carriage under large imposing trees. Meredith Mae and I walked up close to the bridge but kept ourselves hidden from the road. It was a fierce, black night. Under a large tree I stared into my granddaughter’s eyes as we held hands.

  “Are you ready?” I asked her.

  She looked at me sweetly and nodded. Soon, she started to sway and hum. I knew Philippe stood behind me with a pistol pointed at the back of my head. I do not know how long it was that we stood together like that, but at some point, I could no longer see the black night or hear the heavy rain. Meredith Mae was all that I saw. I heard nothing either, not even the sound of her singing. Then, in one fantastic second, the body of my granddaughter was replaced with emptiness, and in almost that same instant, a quick, sharp fire in my brain threw back my head, and with some mighty force; I flew out in circles so fast that I lost sight of everything except my own speed.

  Suddenly I stopped moving, and it was then that I knew I had returned to darkness. Through this opaque mist, I could see Patience’s body on the ground. The fear subsided and the anxiety of weightlessness set in. I watched Philippe tie stones around her wrists. The body of Patience Guyon Cummings had fallen in an almost seated position, the white dress now filthy, the hair a bloodied knot, and the shocked still-open mouth that seemed to catch the rain like drops of wine was still.

  Chapter Eleven

  I saw nothing before me. Yet, I was in motion. I screamed out for Meredith Mae, but she did not answer me. I realized then that I hadn’t a voice to be heard. I felt that I was weeping, though I could not shed tears. I demanded that Philippe come to me. But he did not come. I was alone and adrift in a black shadow, which slowly and gradually revealed a white light. The light was three-dimensional, and in it I could decipher movement. I realized that I was looking at a vision of people that appeared to me like streaks of lightning. They had form and seemed to be made up of white fire. No, I was not in heaven and I did not have a ghostly vision. I was looking at life as it is in 1692.

  I no longer had a body of flesh and blood, but I felt myself as a human form. I began to walk, and to feel that I could almost touch the earth, but I felt nothing under my feet. I seemed to be floating, but I noticed that I was able to control the direction in which I went. I was on a street. I could make out a familiar building. People passed me by in familiar dress, and though I could barely see anything but white forms, I detected the familiarity. Everything I heard was distant and terribly low. I tried to touch the ground beneath me, but I could not reach it or feel it. I struggled so to grasp it, to hold something in my hand, but all of substance evaded my touch. Everything I reached for seemed to disappear, though I knew I beheld a material earth.

  I continued to walk. It was not long before I knew exactly where I was. My shadowy vision revealed the lanes of my childhood. I struggled to find Salem Common and the direction of the North River. From there I would find Salem Village. I followed the river toward Northfields and Orchard Farm. I passed people on horseback. The smell of dirt began to tease my senses. I passed by Ipswich Road and the old lane that led to Thomas Putnam’s land. I continued east toward Birch Plain. The Mile Brook of my childhood beckoned me, but I kept along the path that would take me to the cut off that led to my father’s farm. Soon I turned north. I struggled to catch sight of the trees that swooped before me like miraculous arms, that fell to the earth. I could almost see the color green in the dazzling white light of images.

  I stood at the front door of my father’s house. He drifted before me like captured lightning in human form. I screamed out his name, but he did not hear me. My voice came from some faraway chamber that seemed to break up and fall away as I spoke. I entered my home and reached to touch objects that I could not feel. I struggled to lift the plate from the table, but I struggled in vain. From a great distance, I heard prayer. I followed the voice up the stairs and into the room that had once been mine, nearly two centuries ago.

  I could not believe what I beheld! I gasped and screamed, but my voice fell around me like shattered glass. There was my son, Matthew. He was kneeling at the
bedside and he held a woman’s hand. He prayed earnestly. I reached for him but he only stirred and went back to his prayer.

  “Philippe!” I screamed. “Come, help me! Matthew is here!” But my words were lost in this shadow that encased me like a coffin of darkness.

  I struggled to see the woman on the bed—my bed—Annabel Horton’s bed. Who sleeps there?

  I found the opposite side and reached out to touch the girl’s shoulder. As I did, she stirred, and my son’s body stiffened. He watched as the girl’s eyelids moved and slowly opened.

  “Who goes there?” the girl whispered.

  Matthew shot up quickly and ran to the door.

  “Mr. Horton!” he called. “Come upstairs! She has finally spoken!” Matthew rushed back to take her hand. I reached to stroke his cheek, but I could not feel his soft skin on my palm, and I wept bitterly. My weeping was uncontrollable. My despair was so deep that I did not pay attention to the girl, whose eyes had now fully opened. I kept reaching for Matthew’s cheek and screaming that I could not feel it.

  “There is no greater pain than this,” I called to God.

  Suddenly, I knew she had reached out for me, as if in comfort. I struggled to see her face. It looked familiar, but I did not know it. Large tears fell from my son’s eyes. They glistened in the white light, and I could see his happiness. I could feel that a great weight had been lifted from his heart.

  My father ran into the room and passed through the shadow that housed me. He did not know how I longed to throw myself in his arms. “Annabel,” he whispered. “Good God. Our prayers have been heard. She has spoken? Annabel, my child.”

  “Annabel?” I screamed from my darkness. “Annabel? I am Annabel. Who is this impostor?”

  I raged across the room. I sought attention, but I was ignored. Yes, Matthew and my father ignored me, but not the girl. No, the girl followed me with her gaze. This I knew.

  “I am Annabel. Do you not see me, Father? Matthew? I am here. Look here.”