The Greatest Witch Hunter

18 September 1938

I learned of an effort by the WPA effort to produce a typescript set of all the known documents related to the Salem witch trials. I sent a telegram to Archie Frost, the Clerk of the Court in Essex County. He agreed to meet me tomorrow morning. I will take the morning train from Boston to Salem.

20 September 1938

Yesterday, the 19th, was an eventful day. I met with Mr. Frost and saw his work, The Salem Witchcraft Papers. He had gathered all the known documents from the witch trials, ones stored locally, plus several from Boston and New York. He explained the difficulties in transcribing the documents into modern English, as some were nearly illegible, consisted of just a few lines, or recorded by several different authors.

Mr. Frost told me of a young woman who was quite helpful with transcribing and seemed quite well versed in both the history of the witch trials and persons living then. I mentioned I would like to meet her, and after a telephone call from Mr. Frost, she agreed to accept us at her home.e

Being a nice day, we took the short walk and arrived at a slightly weathered, but still stout, 17th-century home. We passed several such homes, including the Turner House, now renamed the House of Seven Gables. Mr. Frost introduced me to a charming young woman named Morgana, but instantly, from her smell, I suspected her to be a dark witch.

A short while later, Mr. Frost returned to his duties. Morgana was everything Mr. Frost had promised, and the conversation flowed freely for several hours. The day winding down, I invited her to dinner at the Hawthorne, and she was quite agreeable. After going upstairs to change into evening attire, I scouted the house for evidence of witchcraft, finding a large stone table in the basement, various glass containers of potions and herbs, many dark symbols, and a leather-bound book that defied my attempts to open it. I am certain she is a dark witch.

Her intellect and personality were an equal match for her unnatural beauty. I cannot say if the enchantress succeeded in seducing me, or perhaps vice versa, but after dinner, we adjourned to my room for a night of passion. Her sexual abilities and desires were unquenchable, and I was grateful for the oysters I had at dinner. Mutually exhausted, we drifted off to sleep in each other's arms. I considered finishing her off while she slept but feared any scream would invite unwanted queries.

On the morning of the 20th, I offered to walk Morgana back to her house, but she indicated she would be perfectly safe. If her witching powers matched the intensity of her dark smell, I believed her and pitied any scoundrels who might cross her path. She expected several friends to be there for lunch but hoped I would stop by afterward. I assured her I would be most charmed and suggested 1:30 p.m.

I returned to her house with a bouquet and concealed my dagger behind it. After opening the door, I handed the flowers to a smiling Morgana, quickly following them with my blade. The first slash produced a gash on her left arm as she raised it to shield herself. Throwing the flowers back at me, she was off in an instant, opening a lead of several steps. I pursued her into the parlor in time to see her pass into her kitchen, toppling over two chairs, before continuing out the back door. In my pursuit, I tried to leap the chairs, but my rear foot nicked one and threw off my balance. As I landed, I stumbled and slammed into the kitchen door. Steadying myself, I exited the house, exiting into a large backyard. There was no sign of Morgana. Up in a tree, I noticed an odd-looking black bird perched on a branch. It seemed to have a hurt wing and stared at me intently. I will pick up Morgana's trail tomorrow.

21 September 1938

I returned to Morgana's abandoned house in the morning. Having been stung by my blade, I do not expect Morgana to return anytime soon. Assuming her escape was by train, I went to the station and spoke with a worker, learning a woman of her description had boarded the train to Boston the prior evening. I returned to the Hawthorne Hotel to gather my baggage, but as I prepared to follow, a great Hurricane struck without warning. The torrential rain and wind halted all travel. Morgana escaped me, for now.

22 September 1938

The solid brick structure of the Hawthorne survived the blow, the brunt striking Rhode Island and Long Island. Travel is impossible, but the bar here is well-stocked with good Irish Whiskey, and I have time to reflect on my encounter with Morgana. Perhaps the whiskey has opened my mind, but could Morgana be the infamous Morgan le Fay, the half-elven creature from the King Arthur legends? That she is a powerful witch is undeniable, but her knowledge of 17th-century Salem and its arcane language is uncanny. Morgan le Fay is famed for her beauty and sexual desires, and I can vouch for both. Is she so powerful that she could conjure up a hurricane to halt my pursuit?

At dinner, Morgana had mentioned Bridget Bishop. It is well known Bridget Bishop was the first one hung for the crime of witchcraft, but few know the Hawthorne sits on the site of Bridget Bishop's apple orchard. The stories Morgana related, so rich and detailed, are as if she witnessed them. Was she in Salem at the time of the witch trials, as a witness, or did her malignant presence cause them? Had I met Morgana under better circumstances, and were she not a dark witch, I may have fallen in love with her.

November 25, 1938

While here in my Boston office, I perused a copy of the New York Times and saw a photograph of revelers in Central Park enjoying a rare late Thanksgiving snowfall. To my good fortune, in the background of the photograph, there appeared to be a woman resembling Morgana. Could this be where the beast has fled?

I immediately dispatched a telegram to the Times, and the photographer responded later that day. He confirmed both the location of the photograph and its recent vintage. I tore out the photograph and made travel arrangements.

November 26, 1938

I booked a room near Central Park and strolled onto the snow-covered grounds. I spotted a pillar near the Bethesda Fountain with the carving of a witch flying on a broomstick, a crowing cock, a bat, and an owl. Perhaps there is some concentration of magic in this park for the dark witch to draw upon.

Locating the stone structure from the photograph, Belvedere Castle, I found the tower to be of medieval design, and the entire structure contains many Gothic features. It is currently used for weather observations, but the area has fallen onto hard times, and the city only recently cleared out the last squatters.

I spoke to the weather staff in the building, showing them the photograph, but none remembered seeing Morgana. From them, I learned a great deal of WPA work had been done, filling in a reservoir, adding a Great Lawn, and upgrading several buildings. As for the Castle itself, I learned the original plans included a second tower, but work was interrupted due to lack of funds. I wonder if the Beast has managed to find a forgotten chamber in these incomplete works. As I continued my search, I spotted a bronze cockatrice on one of the transoms. The presence of this two-legged serpent with a rooster's head greatly reminded me of a basilisk, and further increased suspicions her lair lay nearby.

November 27, 1938

I disguised myself today and observed people passing through the park, hoping Morgana was still hereabouts. My red hair and beard are all too easy to spot, so I purchased a box of brown cake mascara. The emulsified mixture of waxes, soap, and coloring effectively transformed my beard, the messy process increasing my respect for women who apply this daily.

Donning old clothing, I walked into the park. People bundled up against the bitter cold, and I spotted no one resembling Morgana. The park was much larger than anticipated, so I concentrated my observations on the area around Belvedere Castle. Doing little but watch, I was cold, stiff, and tired from sitting all day. The forecast offers little relief from the frigid cold, I shall limit my hours the next few days and pray for moderate weather.

December 3, 1938

A successful day at last! Much warmer today, and the snow greatly diminished. It was nearly dark as I watched Morgana walk by. She paid me no notice in my humble disguise. I covertly followed her to the rear of the Castle, my task complicated by the absence of foliage. From behind the trunk of a large tree, I watched her lithely jump over a low stone wall into the woods. I advanced and crouched down behind the same, peering over the top in time to see her pull apart a section of brown vines covering an old foundation wall, then disappear into an obscure gap in the stone.

Equipped with neither dagger nor lamp, I returned to my hotel for a hearty dinner and to prepare for tomorrow. I intend to enter her lair at dawn. I have dispatched a telegram back to my assistants in Boston to inform them I had located Morgana, let them know my plan, and I hope to follow with a successful report in the morrow.

"That was the last entry in his journal. We received news of his death two days later. Witnesses claimed he was shot in front of a theater, and while there were holes in his topcoat and suit, there were none on his body. His death was a mystery, and we immediately suspected Morgana was involved. I traveled to New York with his other assistants, and we were able to claim his body and retrieve his possessions from the hotel. Not long after, we spotted Morgana back in Salem, apparently no longer fearful of the witch hunter, as if she knew his fate."

"We were told your great-grandfather's body had this amulet around his neck. It's a star inside a circle, a well-known Wiccan symbol for protection. The five-pointed star represents the four elements of earth, air, water, fire, plus the spirit. The circle symbolizes their interconnectedness as one. We are unfamiliar with the other symbols and writing or where your great-grandfather may have gotten it. Because of the gold chain, we assume he valued it quite highly. I think he would like you to have it."

She handed Finn the amulet, and he placed it around his neck. "That was quite a story. Almost too much to take in."

My mom said, "You need to think about all you have heard, and whether you want to follow in your great-grandfather's footsteps to become a witch hunter. The Halloween festivities are a special time of year in Salem. Go and enjoy the rest of the day. We will meet back here tomorrow morning at ten and see if you have reached a decision or have further questions."

==========

POV FINN

==========

*********

CHAPTER 6 - A Dark Witch?

*********

So much had already happened this morning, and checking the time, I could hardly believe it was only 10:30. At least it was a nice sunny day. I approached a street corner and saw three well-dressed women engaged in conversation. They broke up just as I arrived, two crossing the street and the other turning right, the same direction I was going.

The woman was perhaps thirty years old, tall, and lean, neither thin like a fashion model, nor well-muscled like an athlete, but a rather pleasant mix of the two. She was wearing a long-sleeved black dress with close-fitting black lace sleeves. As she turned, the figure-hugging fit offered me a quick glimpse of a pair of large, nicely rounded breasts. This contrasted with her loose, flare-style skirt. Hemmed just above her knees, it twirled and swished with each step, drawing my attention to her smooth, tanned legs and black heels. The curls of her long black hair extended just below her shoulders and bounced gently as she walked. Along with an air of confidence, she looked too beautiful and well-dressed to be within reach of ordinary men. Once I saw her, I couldn't look away.

As I passed through the spot where she had been standing, I detected a lingering scent of smoke. She might be a dark witch, so I channeled my great-grandfather and followed her. After a short walk, she turned into the front yard of an old house. I knew a bit about colonial architecture, and it appeared as if this might be a First Period home, built before 1725. The house had two stories, with the typical clapboard siding, weathered to a medium grey. The roof was steeply pitched to shed snow, and a large central chimney rose from a sea of wooden shingles. Two large gables were split across the front, framing the entrance with its simple batten door.

I wanted to get closer to check for 'witch signs', like the ones my great grandfather found in Central Park. While the decorative white picket fence was no obstacle, the manicured flower beds, neatly trimmed shrubs, and slate walkway offered no cover. A thick row of dense shrubbery shielded the back, but I noticed a thin spot where I might pass unobserved. With only a single window facing the side of the house, I might at least get a look at the rear. I pressed myself against the side of the house, skirting several bushes, and ducked beneath the one window. Nearly there, I felt something grab my leg! A vine had entangled my foot! As I tried to pull free, other vines moved towards me!

I paused, and fortunately, so did the interconnected and overlapping vines. Had it been dark, I surely would have screamed in terror. Reaching the back edge of the house, I peered around the corner. The backyard was much deeper than the front, surrounded by a tall wooden wall. Several very old and quite large trees stood, with some still bearing withered leaves. The rest offered no surprises, consisting of a stone patio, a bit of grass, and shrubs. The atmosphere would be quite spooky under a full moon.

I started working my way around, hoping to peek into a back window, when I spooked a large white cat. I watched as it fled toward a propped open basement window, then disappeared. Perhaps this was my opportunity to quietly enter the house. The black-painted interior of the glass created a mirror-like finish to block prying eyes. I still had no confirmation this was the house of a dark witch, and so, like Alice, I followed the furry white creature down the Rabbit Hole.

I dove headfirst through the window, only too late realizing I was hurtling toward a very solid-looking flagstone floor. I extended my arms and prevented a disaster, did an awkwardly angled roll, knocked over some candles on the floor, and came to rest against the base of a rather large stone table. I hoped the noise of my arrival did not filter upward to the house's occupant.

As my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, the rest of the room slowly revealed itself. The exterior walls were stone, above them a wide plank floor supported by several large hand-hewn beams. The remainder of the room was a scene from an occult horror movie, except this was real!

Around the massive stone table, a circle of unlit candles lay on the floor. The table itself looked much too heavy to be moved. Was the house built around it? There were odd stains, and I wondered how they had been made. My imagination kicked into high gear. How many victims or unholy creatures have been sacrificed here? Against one wall was a long worktable, with several glass jars filled with unidentifiable contents, the labels written in odd characters I could not decipher. In the middle of the bench, propped open on a wooden stand, lay a leather-bound book similar to the one shown to me by Lizbet's mom.

Several doors led from this main room. One, dimly lit by several grow lights, contained various green plants intended for unknown purposes. Another led to a rather ordinary and surprisingly modern laundry room. Next to the washing machine was a large hamper, and above it an opening in the floor. Perhaps a laundry chute? The hamper was about half full but might reveal from whence the smoky odor came.

A lingering smokiness clung to a pair of white yoga pants and a matching top, but I couldn't be sure of the source. Was it sweat, witch pheromones, or does she smoke cigarettes? Next, an odorless skirt and blouse ruled out the latter. But I still had no proof of her dark witch pheromones. Digging further, I located a pair of panties and inhaled them as I held them to my nose. The gusset removed all doubt as to the source of the intense smokey scent. I had to get back and tell Lizbet and the others what I had uncovered.

The soft scrape of a shoe against the stone floor? I turned, still clutching the panties to my nose, and there she was! The dark witch! She opened her hand and blew a white powder towards my face. Slow to react, it hit me in the face, and I collapsed to the floor, unable to move.

*********

CHAPTER 7 - To Catch A Thief

*********

I was still aware as the dark witch grabbed me by my collar and dragged me one-handed into the main room. With her other hand, she grasped my belt, and easily tossed me up and onto the large stone table, like a sack of potatoes. She rolled me onto my back and carefully spread out my arms and legs. Shit! I recognized the position. A powerful magical shape. A pentagram!

"You are trespassing in my home."

I moved my head and neck, but nothing else responded. As I looked up, I saw her glance at my immovable hand. To my horror, I realized it still clutched her panties.

"You are nothing but a disgusting panty thief."

A white cat jumped onto the table and moved towards my head, where it sat down and stared at me. "Thank you for letting me know we have an intruder, Katya. They'll be an extra treat for you tonight." The cat stood up, and as it turned away, it swished its bushy tail across my face. I decided to try playing innocent to keep her from finding out my true intentions. She may loathe a panty thief, but I hoped she would have no cause to detain one or harm one.

"What are you doing in my basement?"

My throat was dry, and my tongue felt funny as if numbed in a dental chair. I tried to talk and issued a hoarse gurgle.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

I tried harder, clearing my throat with a raspy cough. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I followed you here. You are right, I am a worthless panty freak. When I saw your basement window propped open, I had to get a pair of your panties. Please don't hurt me. I'm sorry. I promise I'll never come back."

She responded, "You are right in more ways than you know. I am quite beautiful. The paralyzing powder affects your brain in two ways. First, you can talk and move your head but have no control over any muscles from the neck down. Second, it clouds your brain and masks your memory. When you awaken tomorrow morning, you will remember nothing of this. The powder is not dangerous, but there is no antidote except time."

I asked, "Are you, I mean, are you a witch or some kind of mad scientist?"

She did not answer. Thinking it better to change the subject, I tried architecture. "This is a great old house, when did you buy it? It has elements of a First Period home, maybe pre-1700."

"I didn't buy it," she replied, "I built it. My name is Morgana. Now, thief, what is your name?"

The paralyzing powder may not have stopped my heart, but her words did. Could this be the same Morgana who killed my great-grandfather? Impossible! She looked to be no more than thirty years old. Has she found a way to defeat Father Time? Could she be the immortal half-fairy, Morgan La Fay? Would she remember my great-grandfather and our identical names? Not daring to risk it, I responded, "I'd rather not say."

"Very well," she said. "I will check your wallet."