“William James, come out tonight, for we have things to say; come out, come out, and be about, moonlight will show you the way …”
Insistent voices penetrate your dreams. Late these winter nights, you lie awake. They’ve been haunting you since you moved here, your family’s old estate in rural Salem. At last, you can stand it no longer. Donning warm coat and scarf and a pair of stout boots, you’re out the door. But first, you grab your father’s Glock, in case you find some homeless tramp out there. He wouldn’t be the first you “accidentally” killed for trespassing. Shooting a loser just might rid you of the voices in your head. You almost warm to the idea, but the chill wind rasps your skin and settles in your bones.
Your land at North Shore was once a part of Salem. Your family owned a substantial deal of it. Regular churchgoers, so righteous in their condemnation of those at Trials. Falsely accused as witches, the doomed were often burned alive. But that was long ago, and certainly no part of your affair. Catching a whiff of smoke, your eyes turn to the horizon. A light in the distance, could it be witches’ torches, or pagan’s rites? Your fingers curl around the gun in your pocket. As you near, the shadows take on human forms, their spectral faces pale and still. The Glock forgotten, you’re pinned by a mother’s glare, a father’s snarl, vengeful eyes around the fire. With a gasp, you realize you can see through them.
“William James, even as your ancestors, you’ve carried on most sinful acts with no remorse; driven your tenants to sell out, and granting them no respite. You’ve raped and beaten their women, even children alike. For shame! We’ve come to see you get your due.”
Like a driveling fool, you beg salvation. Deaf to your pleas, the spectral gathering closes in. You must give over, you’re the last of your vile kin. These ones have waited centuries to square things up. Tonight, your flesh will feed the flames.
∼ Marge Simon
© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.
Pen of the Damned 