Suffer a Witch
Authors: Claudia Hall Christian
Suffer a Witch
Claudia Hall Christian
Cook Street Publishing
Denver, CO
By Claudia Hall Christian
(
StoriesByClaudia.com
)
ALEX THE FEY SERIES
The Fey
Learning to Stand
Who I Am
Lean on Me
In the Grey
Finding North
THE DENVER CEREAL
The Denver Cereal
Celia’s Puppies
Cascade
Cimarron
Black Forest
Fairplay
Gold Hill
Silt
Larkspur
Firestone
JORNADA DEL MUERTO
(
JornadaDelMuerto.net
)
Prisoner Days
THE QUEEN OF COOL
SETH AND AVA MYSTERIES
The Tax Assassin
The Carving Knife
SUFFER A WITCH
Copyright © Claudia Hall Christian
ISNI: 0000 0003 6726 170X
Licensed under the Creative Commons License:
Attribution – NonCommercial – Share Alike 3.0
Kindle Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-938057-27-4 (digital book)
978-1-938057-22-9 (digital chapters)
978-1-938057-23-6 (print)
Library of Congress: 2015913233
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First edition © subscription serial fiction June 10, 2014 – September 22, 2015
Cook Street Publishing
ISNI: 0000 0004 1443 6403
PO Box 18217
Denver, CO 80218
CookStreetPublishing.com
For Rose
Table of Contents
“Shit.”
Emogene “Em” Peres pulled her 1968 Land Cruiser FJ55 into the Walgreen’s parking lot in Danvers, Massachusetts, just as the drugstore’s giant outdoor digital clock said “10:15 a.m.” She winced at the time. June 10
th
had rolled around again, and she needed to be on Gallows Hill at 10:18 a.m.
She parked in a space behind the drugstore next to the embankment. Hopping out of the truck, she jogged between the large granite boulders up the six-foot embankment. Once there, she continued to the flat spot on the northwest corner of the hill. From her vantage point, she could see the drugstore’s digital clock.
10:17 a.m.
She’d made it with a minute to spare. She pulled a vial of rose water, a sage bundle, and a white candle from the back pocket of her denim jeans. She managed to coax a stream of smoke from the sage bundle and splashed the rose water around. Closing her eyes, she muttered a combination of the Buddhist Metta prayer, a Puritan prayer from her youth, and some new-age nonsense. She had just finished when she heard footsteps coming in her direction. She opened her eyes.
“Bridget!” Emogene said. “You can’t be here.”
Even at this distance, she could see that Bridget had been crying. As if it were still 1692, Bridget was wearing a floor-length black cotton dress with a red paragon bodice. Her long, dark hair was arranged in the prim Puritan style. She even wore a handkerchief hat.
“Em!” Bridget rushed to Em’s side.
Bridget threaded her arm through Em’s elbow.
“You can’t be here,” Em repeated.
The women watched the digital clock flick over to 10:18 a.m. The wind picked up, and a breeze blew through the small hill. Bridget sighed.
“I read online that people have seen the ghost of Bridget Bishop here,” Bridget said. Her eyes welled with tears. “Right here. Her specter is supposed to be here at the exact time she was hanged.”
“And here you are,” Em said with a wry smile.
“That’s not what they mean, and you know it,” Bridget said and scowled. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”
Bridget began to cry.
“You thought you’d come here and see the evil ghost that had tortured those poor, innocent girls.” Em’s voice was hard with ancient grief and rage.
“I always felt badly for Mercy Lewis because her boyfriend died in the war.” Bridget bit her lip and nodded. “She lost her whole future. I mean, what else was she going to do?”
“She could have chosen not to accuse hundreds of innocent people of witchcraft,” Em said. “Including you and me.”
Bridget sighed at Em’s logic. Em gave Bridget a compassionate smile, which caused Bridget’s eyes to seep tears.
“They were just stupid little girls, Em,” Bridget said. “They didn’t mean . . .”
“I know you believe that,” Em said. She put her arm around Bridget’s shoulders — for her own comfort as much as Bridget’s.
“I
have
to,” Bridget said. “Look . . .”
Bridget dug around in her small tote bag until she found her cell phone. She poked at the phone for a moment until she found a video. She held it up for Em to see and pressed “Play.”
The video opened with a couple of teenagers talking about the Salem Witch Trials. They went through their research and their logical conclusion that Gallows Hill Park wasn’t where the accused witches of Salem Village were hanged. Instead, they climbed the hill where Em and Bridget were standing.
“Shit, Bridget!” Em said. “Now everyone’s going to . . .”
“Hush!” Bridget said. “You have to see this.”
Em looked around the hill. Seeing no one, she returned to watching the video. The teenagers stood on the hill behind the Walgreen’s and spoke of the ghost of Bridget Bishop. They claimed that Bridget Bishop’s ghost was breaking lights and scaring cats in the area. The ghost of Bridget Bishop was angry.
“I don’t know why they say that,” Bridget said. “I’m not angry.”
“You
do
hate cats,” Em said.
“I’d never scare them,” Bridget said. She glanced at Em. “Sweet things. You know they are guards for witches.”
“I’ve heard that once or twice,” Em said.
“From me,” Bridget said.
“From you,” Em said.
“You sure they’re not seeing a ghost that looks like me?” Bridget said. “I mean, those girls
said
they were tortured by something that looked like me, and . . .”
“The girls were liars, Bridg,” Em said. “The entire thing was bullshit.”
“Don’t swear, Em,” Bridget said. “It makes you seem like a lesbian.”
“There are worse things in the world than seeming like a lesbian,” Em said.
“Like being a lying, stupid girl?”
“Yes,” Em nodded.
Bridget smiled. Em sighed.
“I’m a witch, not a lesbian, Bridget.” Em’s voice was impatient. “So are you. We were made witches on this very hill by the people who . . .”
Bridget sighed, and Em stopped talking. They had had this conversation at least once a year for more than three hundred years.
“Witches don’t have to swear.” Em parroted Bridget’s usual point to appease her. “Even though we’re cursed with immortality and magical powers, we don’t have to be coarse.”
“Exactly,” Bridget said.
She turned on the video, and they watched the young men and women. The ghost hunters were going to have a ceremony around noon to try to soothe Bridget’s soul.
“Are you going to that?” Em asked. “I bet you’d make it fun for them. Plus, you’re dressed for the part.”
“Oh.” Bridget looked surprised. She shook her head. “No.”
Em nodded. The women stood together on the tiny piece of grass and granite where their lives had been irrevocably changed. Bridget sighed.
“God, I hate it here,” Bridget said.
“It’s a pain in the neck,” Em said. “That’s for sure.”
Despite herself, Bridget laughed.
“You going to say a prayer for me?” Bridget asked.
“Already did,” Em said. “Do you need more than one?”
“Well . . .” Bridget gave Em a wheedling look. “You’re so good at prayers.”
Ignoring Bridget’s comment, Em said, “Would you like to light your own rest-in-peace candle?”
“Let’s do it together,” Bridget said.
The women knelt down. Em pushed a small, thin, white candle into the ground on the location where Bridget had been hanged on this day so many years ago. Em snapped her fingers, and flame formed in the palm of her hand. Bridget did the same. The women blew, and the flame jumped from their hands to light the wick of the candle. Bridget sniffed.
“I wish . . .” Bridget started.
“Me, too,” Em said.
Em stood up and helped Bridget to her feet. She scowled at Bridget’s feet. Bridget was wearing shoes that looked suspiciously like those she’d been hanged in.
“You’re wearing your hanging outfit?” Em asked.
“What else would I wear?” Bridget asked. “It is my hanging day.”
Em scowled at Bridget, and the woman smiled at her. They started walking toward the parking lot.
“I did not die in this dress, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Bridget said. “It’s a copy. I told the seamstress that I’m such a
big
fan of Bridget Bishop.”
“That you are,” Em laughed.
Bridget laughed. Em pointed to a white stretch limousine pulling around the Walgreen’s.
“Sarah sent her driver for us,” Em said.
“Goody Good has done well for herself,” Bridget said.
“Don’t call her that,” Em said. “She hates it.”
“I know.” Bridget gave Em a smug look, and Em laughed.
“Are you going to stay here to wait for your young fans or go to brunch with everyone?”
“Are you going?” Bridget asked.
“Uh . . .” Em had planned to avoid this yearly ritual. She glanced at her Land Cruiser.
“Please?” Bridget asked.
Bridget shot Em another pleading look. Em shook her head at Bridget’s innate capacity to manipulate anyone. Bridget gave her another pulse of a pleading smile.
“Sure,” Em said finally.
The limousine stopped in front of them, and Sarah Good’s driver stepped out to open the door for them. He closed the door with a bow.
“Ms. Good asked me to tell you that she will have you back here in time to get to the shop,” the driver said.
“Thank you, Percy,” Em said.
“Help yourself to the champagne,” Percy the driver said.
Em gestured to the bottle of champagne. Bridget nodded.
“You’re working today?” Bridget asked.
Em opened the bottle and poured two glasses.
“It’s not my hanging day,” Em said. She gave a glass to Bridget. Holding up her glass, she said, “To hanging.”
“To becoming a witch,” Bridget said.
Their glasses touched with a soft clink, and they each took a drink.
“Happy hanging day, Bridget,” Em said. “I wish it hadn’t happened, either. But it did. We have to make the best of it.”
Nodding, Bridget smiled and emptied her glass.
“More?” Em asked.
Bridget gave Em a pleading smile, and Em laughed.
“You’re a
witch
!”
A man’s voice laced with vitriol echoed off the storefront. Several people walking on the sidewalk stopped to stare at him. Em glanced to her left to see a homeless man wearing ragged, dirty clothing, long, greasy, grey hair, and a filthy beard leaning against a pillar of the building next door to the Mystic Divine, Em’s metaphysical shop.
“Repent!” the man screamed and pointed at her. His finger turned to point toward the heavens. “Repent or
feel
the wrath! The
hangman
is not far away!”
Em scowled at the man. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“Old habits die hard,” the man said with a grin. “Plus, the acoustics are great here.”
Shaking her head at him, Em shifted her paper coffee cup to her left hand and dug around in her purse for her keys. The man walked toward her.
“Ye be a
witch
!” The man’s voice came like a thunderbolt from a pulpit.
Em yelped with surprise. The plastic lid of her coffee cup dislodged, and her coffee spilled on the ground.
“George!” Em said. “You made me spill my coffee.”
“Sorry, Em,” Reverend George Burroughs said.
“You should be,” Em said. “God, you smell awful!”
George gave her a gap-toothed smile.
“That is
not
a compliment,” Em said.
George laughed. He leaned in to hug her, and she waved him away.
“Get inside,” Em said.
George slunk into the shop. He stopped near the door and turned to hug her. Em shook her head. She gave him a key and waved her hands toward the stairs in the back of the shop. Whistling an ancient hymn, George went through the shop like a pungent parade. He took the stairs in the back and disappeared upstairs.
Em’s eyes lingered on the door to her apartment a moment longer than she’d have liked. Shaking her head at herself, she started opening the small shop. She turned on Tiffany floor lamps and put away the few things left out the night before. The Mystic Divine specialized in all forms of spirituality. The most ardent evangelical Christian and the Wiccan could both find the tools and education they needed to live their spiritual life. The store was laid out in such a way that there were nooks for reading, small private rooms for spiritual readings, and two larger group rooms in the loft upstairs. Em picked up a microfiber cloth and dusted the section on Gurdieff’s
The Fourth Way
. The shop made most of its income off of religious counseling and psychic readings. George was a particularly popular tarot reader.
She glanced at the door to her apartment and wondered if he was reading tonight. Longing welled up inside of her. In her mind’s eye, she saw him standing under a stream of warm water in his shower. Feeling her presence, he smiled and gestured for her to join him.
