The Witching Hours, page 1
THE WITCHING HOURS
Short Tales for Rainy Nights
by Victoria Danann
Copyright 2024 Victoria Danann®
Published by 7th House Publishing, Imprint of Andromeda LLC
Read more about this author and upcoming works at VictoriaDanann.com
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Contents
THE WITCHING HOURS
PREFACE
THE MISSING INGREDIENT
CROSSROADS
CRAWDAD CREEK
CABBAGES and KINGS
TOLL STOP
JIGGER OF JIN
CURIOUS GOODS
Victoria Danann ®
PREFACE
1687
John Ewing Campbell knew the English had suspicions that his wife, Cameron, was the source of too much good fortune. Their entire lives they’d pretended to be devout Presbyterians and live by the teachings of John Calvin. But people tend to become envious in malignant ways when a farm’s crops are consistently better than their neighbors. Drought, flood, fire, or plague, the Campbell family was healthy and prosperous. John’s cows often gave him twins. His chickens laid more eggs than the family needed so they always had extra to sell. Insect infestations that decimated other farms somehow passed them by.
When ne’er-do-well boys set fire to their newly built barn, it caught, but didn’t burn down. The intense heat only served as a treatment of the green wood, seasoning and hardening, so that the structure was sturdier than ever before. Like many events in the Campbells’ lives, the fire, set with malice, turned out to be more blessing than curse. Though it wasn’t the family’s goal to call attention to themselves, the blackened structure stood as a stark warning that ill will toward the Campbell family could result in peril for the perpetrator.
At the end of the spring harvest in 1687, John Campbell took the proceeds netted from a record sale and told his wife to get ready for the journey to America. Cameron was worried that their two little towheaded girls were too young to withstand the arduous trip. She’d heard stories. Two of her brothers, the ones who’d survived Cromwell’s bloody war, had been sent to America in chains. No word of how they’d fared had ever reached her. She didn’t know where they were or even if they were alive. Maybe they were free. Maybe they’d been enslaved. She might never know. She knew the risks of undertaking the journey, but agreed with her husband. Staying was fraught with more danger than going.
Tragically, Cameron’s worst fear came to pass. Their younger daughter contracted a fatal fever on the way to Massachusetts. Cameron was inconsolable about the death and the fact that the beautiful little lass wasn’t buried in the ground in a respectable manner. Instead, the body had been wrapped and dumped in the sea.
Cameron kept insisting that, if she’d had access to her “things”, her child would’ve lived. The witness of her mother’s profound sorrow burrowed deep into the heart of the daughter who survived, and made her determined to protect loved ones.
By whatever means.
John and Cameron Campbell had four more children, all boys. They cast soul-deep vows to the winds of America and planted genetic seeds that took root, spreading far and wide.
THE MISSING INGREDIENT
“Yer choice be scarce, girl,” said Goody Elder. “Yer husband’s dead and yer farm is a plat of grace. A prize it is. And they’ll be a’comin’ for it.”
“This is my home. My children and I have nowhere else to go.”
Prudence Blackwell had been a widow a scant time and Goody Elder knew the young woman was inexperienced with the sort of evil that comes when dark places of the heart are awakened by greed and selfishness.
“Aye. ’Tis exactly that,” said Goody Elder. “The reason why ye must call upon the Dark One to send one of his servants to protect ye. Calling on the Light may help ye quicken the end of this life, but the Light is beyond mortal coil and will no’ fight for ye here and now. Only dark can overcome dark. Ye must believe an old woman. The pain of age means little if it can no’ help one such as yerself. Know this. They’re comin’. They’ll be about takin’ yer house, yer farm, and puttin’ yer children to work before their time. Gods know the wee ones’ll no’ survive a single winter of it.”
Prudence knew Goody Elder was sincere. She knew the old woman believed what she was saying and wanted to help, but Prudence knew the people of Fairforde. She’d lived there all her life. They would not suddenly change from well-wishing neighbors to the wickedest of demons that Goody Elder described. Prudence had lost her young husband, but that was no crime. Both of them were Fate’s victims. Tavish had died in a tragic mishap through no fault of his own.
Tavish had just begun rigging the wagon for a drive to the town when their normally steady horse was spooked by something on the ground. He’d been caught in the traces and dragged to his death. It was the sort of story farmers employ as a cautionary tale when teaching their children to respect the power of large animals.
Prudence was sure that any hour nigh her good Christian neighbors would be arriving with food, gentle words of comfort, and offers to help her work the farm. So, she continued to say the words Goody Elder told her to say while she pressed and ground the pestle into the hardwood mortar brought from England by John’s grandmother on one of the first passages.
Prudence was meticulous by nature. So, it hadn’t been hard as she’d gone about performing every step of the task with pretend precision. She was careful to do everything Goody Elder instructed. All but one thing. She knew it didn’t matter since the whole of it was folly. Going through the motions was intended as a kindness done to appease a raving old woman.
“There,” Prudence said, “all is done.”
“Take the paste outside and paint it on the facing of your door. Don’t be stingy. Use a generous dollop.”
With measured politeness, Prudence did as she was told. She stepped outside into the chill and smeared the foul-smelling concoction on the facings above and beside the door while Goody Elder looked on.
“There,” said Goody Elder, with a well-satisfied sigh, content it was a job done well. “I shall sleep well this night. As will ye.” Goody Elder carefully wiped the mortar and pestle with a clean cloth then threw the rag onto the fire. Spell residue was known to sometimes take on a life of its own. “Will be on my way then.” She pulled her cloak tight around her old bones and set out into the night.
Just as she’d predicted, Goody Elder slept well that night. In fact, she was in her own bed asleep when the good townspeople of Fairforde came for Prudence by light of torches, armed with Bibles and chains. The mayor and councilmen looked upon her as if she was a stranger, calling her witch and binding her with more force than necessary. She stumbled as she was led away without so much as a cloak to fend off the chill of wind. She looked up to see her kindly neighbor, Jamison Brown, towering over her with a look of coldness she’d not seen before. No one offered to help her to her feet. It was then that full recognition of Goody Elder’s truth began to settle on her young, naïve mind.
When she heard her children crying, she tried to turn, but the iron collar around her neck prevented a last look. It was too late to take the old woman’s words to heart and follow the prescription precisely.
Three days later, after a parade of indignities that don’t deserve mention compared to the tortures she’d endured, the entire town gathered to watch their native daughter put to test. Her protests and denials of witchcraft had only earned her more mistreatment. She’d been honest when she’d denied practicing the craft. After all, she hadn’t included the final ingredient. It had been willfully omitted as would be an expected duty of a good Christian woman. She’d been polite and respectful to an old woman, but she’d not been tempted by the Devil and had not summoned his help.
“If ye be not witch,” the mayor said, “you’ll drown, be blessed, and the good Lord shall claim ye. If ye be witch, as accused, ye’ll be hanged and dismembered. Your body will be scattered in the deep forest for wild animals to devour and your name shall never again be spoken. The story will spread and serve as a warning to others who think to cavort with evil spirits and bring the Devil to Fairforde.”
According to the pronouncement of the mayor and councilmen, Prudence was blessed by drowning and buried in the churchyard among other good Christians. Her children could not attend since they’d become the property of deserving landowners. So, the only tears shed at her burial were those of Goody Elder. She would live out her days and die with a constant burden of guilt, thinking something had gone awry with the remedy she conceived to save the innocent young family.
Truth be told, Goody Elder’s charm was without flaw. In time long past, when she’d been a girl known not as Goody Elder, but as her given name, Brigid Campbell, she’d learned the spell from her mother who’d been a wisewoman in the Scot lowlands before undertaking the voyage to America.
Goody Elder had been a good student and memorized her lessons perfectly. It wasn’t the charm that was at fault. It was Prudence’s lack of belief. She spent the last three days of her life in convulsive throes of sorrow and regret for having dismissed the old woman and her instructions. She’d tricked Goody Elder by omitting a crucial ingredient and compounded the sin by lying about it. Her last thought, as her lungs filled with brackish river water, was to wish she could correct that one mistake. That was not to be.
The spell, however, once partially set in motion, could be described as a gun loaded, but not fired. Goody Elder had wiped the mortar and pestle thoroughly and burned the
cloth, but some residue remained and permeated the pores of the wood. And there the unfinished rite would remain, dormant, for a very long time. Waiting for completion.
Brigid Carmady stared at the small fire as she sat at her late husband’s opulently appointed study, just off the foyer, and wondered if she should drop her husband’s name and go by her maiden name, Campbell. She’d never been completely comfortable with her husband’s name. Making pronouncements that Carmady was her name always felt like a lie. She didn’t consider it long before deciding to keep the same name as her boys. She wanted them to be proud of their name, even if it did lack the romance and history of her own surname.
Careful to leave the study double doors open, she was situated in the best location to get work done and be alerted to any emergencies that should arise. With three boys between the ages of seven and twelve, emergencies were more rule than the exception.
She swiveled to briefly look out the window. The gray wintry day matched her sense of loss. Loss was a euphemism for the constant reminder of Steve’s absence that felt like an open hole in her heart. But there was no time to indulge in grief.
At first there was a flurry of activity centered around funeral arrangements, having the boys out of school, and people coming and going. Since they’d made their home not too far from where they’d both grown up, there was no shortage of support from family and friends. Aunts and cousins took turns manning the kitchen, organizing food deliveries. With so many people in and out, someone had to make sure there was food and drink available for guests. Someone had to make sure dishes and glasses were picked up and cleaned.
Inevitably, and in some cases regretfully, people returned to the drumbeat of their own lives.
As it had a dozen times in as many minutes, Brigid’s gaze wandered from the window to the fire, which was doing its damndest to appear cheerful, then back to the bills on top of the large mahogany desk in front of her. She’d arranged them in a very neat stack, all four corners perfectly in line. As she stared, she wondered if the exaggerated neatness made it appear that there were more bills or fewer bills. Perhaps if she removed the crucial documents from their outer envelopes and discarded what wasn’t necessary, the reduction in packaging would help with the visual.
There was never a shortage of something else to think about.
Her eyes refocused on the pile of bills. When she and Steve signed a thirty-year mortgage to buy the house and furnished it on credit, Steve was a rising star at his insurance agency. Every time he wrote a policy, he chalked up a hefty commission for the initial sale and got a percentage of every payment made on the policy for as long as it was kept up by the insured. Since Steve was a gifted salesman, that meant their income threshold grew every month.
He was fond of saying, “The sky’s the limit!”
When they’d bought nice cars on five-year loans and used credit cards to take the boys on expensive vacations, they had every reason to believe their cash flow would continue to thrive and outpace their obligations. When they’d spent a fortune on initiation dues to join an exclusive golf club, they’d considered it an investment. After all, Steve would have access to hundreds of people with thick portfolios of assets who didn’t mind over insuring. She’d said they should, maybe, pay off their student loans first, but he’d said the interest rate was so low it made more sense to spend money to make money.
He'd said it was their responsibility to make sure the boys were in the right place at the right time; that they needed to socialize with the sort of kids who would someday be valuable contacts. It was hard to argue with that. Like every loving parent, Brigid wanted the best they could give their sons.
Now, on a dreary Sunday morning with snow clouds hanging low on the horizon, the flowers had long since been deposited in the trash. The food and friends had stopped coming. Now, without any welcome distractions, she sat wondering how in heaven’s name it might be possible for a man who made his fortune selling insurance to overlook buying a life insurance policy for himself. A dozen times a week he’d preached the consequences of an unexpected fatality to prospective clients, especially where it concerned the untimely demise of the principal breadwinner. He must’ve somehow thought his streak of good luck included being personally impervious to the end that has claimed every other living soul since the beginning of time.
Brigid had been over her options a hundred times, each time hoping she’d come up with an idea that was brilliant and previously unsung. The solution remained disappointingly absent. Every option she thought of resulted in a riches-to-rags outcome. It wouldn’t be so awful if only she was affected, but the boys… They’d be facing the biggest change. There’d be a move to humble digs, possibly new schools. No more golf lessons. No more Disney cruises. No more bedrooms custom outfitted to look like the interior of the Millennium Falcon. No more extravagant Christmas mornings.
When the dust settled, they’d be dealing with the loss of their father and the loss of life as they’d known it. When they were old enough to understand such things as life insurance policies, they’d ask questions. They might develop hard feelings toward their dad and, as angry as she was with Steve for being stupid, she didn’t want that.
They’d married soon after graduating from Connecticut U. She used her degree in journalism to land a job as receptionist at Vanity Fair and hoped, or dreamed, that it might someday become an opportunity to write for her favorite magazine. But an unplanned pregnancy demanded a change of plan. They’d talked about having a family someday. In another decade. Or maybe the one after that. Steve was upbeat about the news, unflappable as he always was, and said that fate had just made an adjustment to the timetable. He called it a blessing and made it feel true when he squeezed her in a big hug, lifted her off the ground, and turned in a spin until she giggled.
They bought a classic Cape Cod house painted dark gray with white trim just a half hour’s drive away from her sister. Brigid fell in love with the house and the nice size two-acre lot. Highly rated schools. Charming town within a ten-minute drive. It wasn’t a column at Vanity Fair, but it was a dream worth living.
For the most part, she’d never regretted their choices. She knew the terms housewife and soccer mom were pejoratives in certain circles, but she’d fallen into the routines of raising a family naturally and felt comfortable with her role in the family. Of course, everything had hinged on Steve being a faithful husband and loving father who also provided funding for their lifestyle. The last box to tick, remaining healthy and alive, wasn’t something she’d taken seriously. Given the lack of life insurance, neither did he.
He’d been a loving husband and father. He’d also left her with three boys and a stack of bills that included student loans.
It’s always a mistake to believe things can’t get worse. Their income, residual commissions, had stopped. Dead. Just like Steve. She’d called the office to let them know the mailbox was empty, but was told there was no mistake. Her eyes had glazed over when the legal department began going over the fine print of employment.
The coffee cup she reached for was empty. After a glance at her watch, she decided it was too late for another cup. Besides, it was almost time to start dinner. She could resume shuffling bills around the next day.
Just then she heard the thunderous uproar of three boys trying to be the first one down the wood stairs. She switched off the desk lamp.
“Mom! What’s for dinner?”
The boys were not gripped by grief as one might expect. They knew their father was gone to heaven and not coming back. They were suitably sad at the funeral. But once the official rites were past, they pretty much resumed life as normal. She’d read somewhere that children are more traumatized by a change of residence than a change of personnel.
Her youngest was a little more sensitive than the other two, but so long as he was kept occupied, he’d weather the experience.
Brigid wanted to respond by saying something like, “Fresh minestrone soup made with organic, locally grown vegetables and all natural, cage free roasted chicken”. But when she opened her mouth what came out was, “Pizza and movies.” A cry of delight went up. Then she said, “It’s Kenny’s turn to pick.” That was met with two disgruntled brothers who were sure they didn’t want to watch anything baby brother might choose.
