Deadly Harvest

by Heather Graham

  “So what are you up to in town today? You certainly came in early, whatever it is you’re doing.”

  Rowenna didn’t give them a reason for being so early. She didn’t care if people knew that she was sleeping with Jeremy Flynn—she just didn’t feel the need to broadcast the news. “I want to do some reading. Anyway, I think I’ll go wander around a bit till the library opens,” she said, standing. “I’ll see you all later. I want to stop by the shop and pick up something to wear.”

  “You didn’t eat your breakfast,” Adam pointed out.

  No, she hadn’t, but she didn’t feel any need to make them feel bad by explaining why.

  “I just wasn’t hungry, I guess. Not to worry—one thing you can always find around here is a place to eat,” she said, then waved and left them, stopping by the counter on her way out to pay her breakfast check and her friends’ check, as well.

  Out on the street, the sun was rising higher, and the air was cool and clean. It was a beautiful day.

  She headed to the Peabody Essex Museum, which she knew would be open, and spent some time there going through history. The reading room offered insights into the past, but she grew restless when she didn’t find what she was looking for—even though she wasn’t certain just what that was. When she left, she stopped for a cup of coffee from a local beanery, then meandered along. Her mind wandered back to the article she’d read about Hammond Castle, and from there she started thinking about the haunted history of the area.

  Like the legend of the Harvest Man.

  Was there any truth behind it?

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  She decided to make her next stop the Eastern Massachusetts Museum of History, a small private museum known locally simply as the History Museum.

  She hurried along the pedestrian mall and turned onto the side street where the museum was located. As soon as she rounded the corner, she saw the big sign that read History! Just History, and Nothing More!

  Strangely enough, the museum was actually owned by out-of-state businessmen, but her friend Daniel was the manager, and he had put together a staff of full-and part-timers who all knew and loved the area, and its history and legends.

  She was disappointed to find that Daniel wasn’t in, but June Eagle, a junior at Salem College, was there, sitting behind the desk and reading a magazine.

  “Hey, Rowenna, I heard you were home,” June said, dropping her celebrity tell-all and getting to her feet. She walked around the counter to give Rowenna a quick hug. Her eyes were sparkling. “I heard you’re going to be harvest queen this year.”

  “The rewards of being born in the area,” Rowenna said, hugging her back.

  “I think it’s more than that. I think you really are our local queen,” June teased. “So what brings you here?” she asked, and then her smile faded. “Oh. It’s the body in the cornfield, isn’t it? I’m so sorry—they say you found it. I can’t believe something like that could happen around here. I mean, closer to Boston, maybe, but here…?”

  “There aren’t any cornfields closer to Boston,” Rowenna pointed out.

  “I have to admit, I’m frightened.” June shuddered visibly. “So…what can I help you with?”

  “I want to look up some of the old legends—specifically the Harvest Man,” Rowenna told her.

  “Okay. Hang on and I’ll get you the key for the library,” June said.

  Rowenna felt special. Only a privileged few were given the key to the library.

  June reached into the desk drawer and found the key, then handed it to Rowenna. “Call me if you need anything,” June said. “Mornings are pretty quiet this time of year. People seem to like coming later in the afternoon. Anyway, I should be studying for my ancient-literature class, but I’m not in the mood. I’ll just be out here delving into the latest exploits of Britney and Bran-gelina.”

  “Go for it,” Rowenna told her, and headed back toward the library.

  Like so many of the small local museums, the different sections were separated by half walls and heavy drapes. The library was in the back, so Rowenna took her time, enjoying the exhibits as she passed.

  The first room was dedicated to the Puritans and showed them gaining a tiny foothold in their new land. One tableau showed them building a town, with the local natives hiding in them. The area was known as Naumkeag to the natives. And although the first Thanksgiving might have been a time of friendship for the settlers in Plymouth, by the time the settlements around Salem were founded, the Puritans were beginning to realize that there were many different tribes, and some of them were warlike. Many of the settlers saw the natives as pagans, the devil’s own brethren. And more than anything, they feared the devil’s work.

  She moved on to the display about the witchcraft trials, which covered the situation not just in the New World but in Europe and the rest of the Christian world at the time. Practicing witchcraft was illegal, but the problem was that a person didn’t need to do anything in order to be accused. Fear, delusion, even jealousy, was all the motive necessary. It was difficult to understand how entire societies could fall prey to the resulting hysteria and think that it was salvation, but Salem’s sad history was proof enough that it could happen.

  Past the witchcraft exhibit, before she even reached the library, she found what she’d unknowingly been seeking. The aftermath.

  First there were tableaus and accompanying explanations regarding the way the scandal had ended. Nothing like accusing the governor’s wife to cause an uproar. And maybe the people were getting sick of the deaths of so many good people, as well. But then, as the witchcraft craze began to end, new fears arose.

  And the Harvest Man was born.

  She had been through the museum a dozen times before, but now she stopped at the Harvest Man display and really studied it. He was depicted as tall, wearing a flowing dark cape and a headdress of fall leaves. He was also taller and broader than the usual man, though he was human. A painting by a local artist of the early 1700s hung behind the mannequin in the display case. In the painting, the Harvest Man’s cape was decorated with fall leaves to match those on his headdress. His arms were lifted to the sky as he stood in the middle of a field.

  A cornfield.

  The rows of cornstalks were green and lush, rich with the promise of food for the coming winter.

  Around him, half-hidden by mist, women and girls cowered. They were naked but tastefully painted, ducking down and covered by their long streaming hair, arms chastely crossed over their breasts. They, too, wore headdresses of fall leaves.

  Another painting, this one next to the display, also depicted the Harvest Man in his dark cape and crown of leaves, this time standing above a lone young woman, who was kneeling down as if in supplication. The Harvest Man carried a scythe, and there was something ominous about the scene. The harvest meant plenty for the people, but the painting implied that the Harvest Man demanded blood in exchange for the bounty of the fields. It was an old belief, common all through pagan history.

  Rowenna stopped to read one of the explanatory signs. Winters in the late 1720s had been harsh, and many families hadn’t been able to feed all their children. Some of those starving young people had “disappeared,” supporting the belief that the Harvest Man came at night and took his due.

  She moved on, rubbing her arms for warmth, as if the temperature had actually dropped while she was there.

  The mannequins in the next room were actually wax figures modeled on real people—real murderers, each as infamous in his own way as the Harvest Man.

  The first wore a steel breastplate with a helmet circa the mid-1700s. He was Andrew Cunningham, who’d been tried and found guilty of the murder and rape of several young women in the Colonies, but he’d disappeared before his execution. Beside him was another wax figure—with eerily realistic eyes—dressed as one of Roger’s Raiders, a British unit of the Revolutionary War. His name was Victor Milton, and he had also been suspected of murder—and never apprehended. Th
en again, he had been fighting for the British. Perhaps the hatred of the people had labeled him a murderer, just as hatred, greed and jealousy had once made people cry “Witch!”

  There were two more figures in the room. The first wore a Union officer’s navy dress coat. He was David Fine, and when his unit had left the area, the bodies of three young women had been discovered decaying in the woods. The last figure was dressed in a suit that was nearly contemporary. His name was Hank Brisbin, and he had gone to the gallows in the 1920s. Dying, he had announced that he would live forever, that he had already lived for hundreds of years and would never die.

  The hangman’s noose had silenced his words.

  “You’re afraid it’s happening again, aren’t you?”

  Rowenna had been so engrossed in the figures that she gasped at the sound of the voice and jumped, her heart thundering.

  “Sorry! Oh, Rowenna, I’m so sorry!”

  It was only her friend Daniel.

  “Dan! You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

  He looked so distressed that she quickly laughed and said, “I’m sorry.” She hurried over to give him a quick hug. “I’m just…edgy. I guess the entire community is edgy.”

  He smiled. “I swear, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  She laughed. “I was just…thinking.”

  “Yeah. Scary, huh?” Daniel said, and let out a soft sigh. “They still don’t know who she was, huh?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Rowenna told him.

  He shook his head. “It’s so terrible. I guess at least for now we can be thankful that she wasn’t Mary Johnstone.”

  “You met Mary, huh?” Rowenna said.

  He shook his head sadly. “Oh, yeah. I told them they should get their fortunes told—I even told them I thought Damien was good—and to make sure they saw the cemetery.”

  “Dan!” Rowenna said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I’m not. I don’t. It’s just…I keep trying to remember that day. They were both so nice, you know? They didn’t walk in and ask if we had any bones from the witches’ graves or pieces of bark from the hanging tree, or act…fucking ghoulish, the way so many people do on Halloween. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right—I’ve heard the word before,” she said.

  “I just feel so bad. I keep thinking there has to be something….” His voice trailed away. “So Junie said you’re here to use the library.”

  “I’m just trying to find out more about the past, about the Harvest Man.”

  A quizzical smile crossed his features. “The past? You think there really was a Harvest Man and now he’s been awakened again?”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly. Too quickly? she wondered. Who was she trying to convince?

  “Then…?”

  “I’m wondering if there’s a psycho out there who thinks he’s the Harvest Man. I mean, look at your exhibit. This guy—” she pointed to the most recent of the suspected murderers in the gallery “—Hank Brisbin. He died claiming that he’d live forever.”

  Daniel laughed. “Yeah—and he choked on his words.”

  “But he thought he was more than human. The world is full of nutcases.” She looked away from Brisbin as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him anymore. “Anyway, it was just an idea.”

  “Who knows? Maybe someone out there is crazy.” Daniel broke off and grimaced. “Of course whoever killed that woman is crazy. But maybe he’s crazy like a fox. You know, trying to get away with murder—maybe get rid of his wife or girlfriend by making it look like some kind of weird ritual, so he wouldn’t be suspected.”

  “That’s a stretch,” Rowenna told him.

  “I just don’t think this was someone trying to get away with killing his wife or his girlfriend.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mary Johnstone. She’s still missing.”

  “Okay, but maybe—just maybe—she’s missing for another reason.”

  “You’re suggesting that she has disappeared on purpose, trying to get even with her husband for cheating on her?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s not unheard of.”

  Rowenna shook her head. “Mary’s the wife of a cop—she knows she’d face charges.”

  “For what? She’s an adult. She can disappear if she wants to.”

  “I’m pretty sure they could find something to charge her with—make her repay the cost of the investigation or something—but that’s not the point. Her purse and her phone were found in the graveyard. All her credit cards, her ATM card and her money,” Rowenna said. “I never met her, but from what I understand, she loved her husband and she had a fabulous career as a dancer. Why would she run away?”

  “You’re probably right. I just hope they find her before…Well, I just hope they find her safe and sound.”

  “I do, too.”

  Dan grinned suddenly. “So what’s going on with you and this new guy I’m hearing about?”

  She blushed. She hadn’t been expecting the question, especially in the middle of a far more serious conversation.

  “Um, well, I worked with him in New Orleans. He’s a private investigator.”

  “Were you on a case with him?” Daniel asked, his eyes brightening.

  “No, no. I just went on a radio talk show with him. We did one of those point-counterpoint things. He was there to raise funds for a children’s home, a place for orphans and abused kids, so the show was a way to draw attention to the cause. People love to listen to debates, especially when they get a little heated.”

  Daniel laughed. “So you argued with the guy by day and got cozy by night?”

  “Something like that,” she said, blushing again.

  “And Joe is okay with this?” he asked.

  “Joe has been after me to have a life again for a long time,” she told him.

  “Still, it has to hurt him some, don’t you think?”

  “I think that Joe is my friend, and that I’m not going to avoid him. And, I’ll admit, I was actually more worried about the fact that he thinks private investigators are a pain in the ass more often than they’re useful. But he and Jeremy seem to be doing all right together.”

  “Well, good. I’m happy for you. It’s nice to know things are working out for you.”

  “We’re not engaged or anything. We’re seeing each other, that’s all. I don’t know where we’ll go from here.”

  “Do any of us really know where we’re going?” he asked with a philosophical shrug.

  She laughed. “I do, at least right now. To the library. Want to join me?”

  “Absolutely. Come on through.”

  They passed through several more exhibit rooms dedicated to the Revolutionary War era, the War of 1812 and the days of the whalers and the great sailing vessels. There was a room filled with pirate fact and fiction, and another focused on Laurie Cabot, who had brought not just modern-day wicca to Salem but also the tourist boom that was now so crucial to the area’s economy.

  At last they reached the library, where only teachers, professors and serious students were allowed. It was Daniel’s favorite part of the museum, Rowenna knew. He liked to let the college students work with the exhibits—they were all more artistic than he was, he’d once told her—but the library was his domain. He was a voracious reader, and he kept a bookcase here of his personal books for whenever he had a spare moment, apart from the scholarly works, and antique books and manuscripts, the museum had bought or that had been donated by local residents.

  She found herself glancing through his personal collection, thinking she might borrow something to read later, when she had finished with all her stops for the day.

  She wasn’t going back to Jeremy’s rental house without something to keep her mind off things.

  “You love books,” she said aloud.

  “Yeah, anything,” he agreed cheerfully.

  He was telling the truth. He had two shelves of classics, including Poe, Shakespeare, Dickens, Defoe and more.
Contemporary fiction came next, with alphabetically arranged sections devoted to fantasy and science fiction, mysteries and thrillers, and horror. She was a little startled to see that he also had a collection of romance and erotica.

  “Don’t laugh,” he said.

  She didn’t laugh, but she couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, a good book is a good book.”

  “I read for knowledge as well as entertainment.” He grinned. “I’ll have you know my knowledge of so-called women’s fiction makes me very popular with women when I go out at night. And I, unlike those macho types who look down their noses at my choice in reading material, know what women are looking for in the bedroom.”

  “Good for you,” Rowenna said cheerfully, and then her smile faded as she remembered the corpse she had found and the fact that Mary Johnstone was still missing. “I feel guilty for having fun, you know?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, I know,” Daniel said, his voice husky. He shook his head in frustration. “I really wish I could help.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can find,” Rowenna said. “Dare I hope there’s a section on the Harvest Man?”

  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I have a section for everything.”

  “You’re beyond anal,” she accused him.

  “You bet,” he told her with a grin. “To your left, behind the desk, in the glass enclosed case. I’ll even trust you with one of our real treasures. It was written by a man named Ethan Forrester in 1730.”

  “Okay, let’s go by era, then,” she said as he reverently handed her the book. She took it with the same respect.

  “No coffee or anything else to eat or drink while we’re in here,” he told her gravely.

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” she assured him.

  They read in silence for a while. Daniel finished with one book, frowned and picked up another.

  Rowenna immersed herself in Ethan Forrester’s The Way of the Devil.

  Forrester had probably been considered a forward thinker for his day. Of course, he had had the advantage of hindsight. He could look back on the witchcraft hysteria as a man who had been a child at the time of the executions and had seen what happened firsthand, though through a child’s eyes.