The Hollybrook Witches

Now seeing her from a distance, I suddenly saw the whole picture. She was hot in more ways than one, and she exuded both sexuality and availability. I followed her discreetly to the elevators. Far enough behind to observe the heads turn to watch her pass. I watched her enter an elevator, and she was alone. The elevator stopped on the second floor, and I charged up the stairs. Carefully opening the door on the second floor, I was too late. The hallway was clear in both directions.

Lucy liked to book rooms on the lower floors. Always the practical businesswoman, she traded the view from the upper stories for the convenience of easier access. This left me with the problem of determining which was her room. I pondered this as I descended back to the lobby. I collected my bag from where I had checked it and headed for my room on the sixth floor.

As I opened my room door, I knew the answer to my problem. I quickly changed into casual warm-weather clothes and donned dark glasses and a ball cap. I then ran down the stairs to the lobby and found the small flower shop. The woman there was accommodating.

"I want to send flowers to a hotel guest," I told her.

"You want them delivered."

"Yes," I said. "I'm leaving, but I want to leave a gift."

"Oh, I see."

We settled on a distinctive bouquet of white and blue flowers.

"When do you want them delivered, and who to?" she asked.

"Right away, to Lucinda Goodson," I informed her.

"Oh, we delivered flowers to her earlier. The order came from elsewhere, but I filled it," she told me proudly.

"A large order?" I asked casually.

"Well, let's say very generous," she said with a smile.

I headed out toward the hotel's main door, but I took a quick turn toward the elevators and waited. In due course, the bouquet arrived. I followed the delivery into the elevator and to the second floor.

On the second floor, the young man carrying the flowers stopped at the third door on the right and knocked. As he did, I slipped into the stairwell and watched my wife open the door to accept the flowers. Now that I knew which room was hers, I returned to my spot at the lobby coffee bar and waited.

As I drank yet another cup of coffee, my mind was troubled by three issues. First, what was going on with my wife? Who was sending her flowers? And would she stay in her room alone tonight? Later, I realized I had assumed that she was alone at that time.

Second, what was up with that strange job interview? Those women knew more about me than they should. And what was their connection to my neighbor Esmeralda?

Finally, my disturbing dreams were becoming too vivid and troubling. I was not inclined to think dreams had any material meaning, but why was I having the same dream over and over?

I watched the elevators and pondered these questions, getting nowhere on any issue. A few minutes before seven, my wife entered the lobby from the elevators. She was dressed for an evening out. I recognized this dress. It was short, tight, and black. It had an extreme décolletage. She wore it to dinner on our fourth anniversary. It had hallmarked the return of my happy and loving wife from the depth of her postpartum depression.

Our fourth anniversary was an evening I long remembered. I missed that dress, but it had not appeared again. In fact, I hadn't expected it to. It drew stares in backward Hollybrook. It was a dress that made a clear licentious statement. It was a fond memory, but just a memory—until she walked from that elevator in Miami. She was wearing her highest heels and sporting diamond earrings. But by far, her most impressive accessory was the older man in the perfectly fitted white dinner jacket. He was tall, with dark hair frosted with gray at the temples. His arm encircled her waist as his hand dipped below and behind.

They were a fabulous couple and turned every head in the hotel lobby. I was stunned. Before I could recover, they were out the hotel door, and as I tried to catch up, I saw a limousine whisk them away.

I returned to the lobby and found a chair on the far side. My doubt was now near a certainty. I realized I was breathing hard, as if I had raced a marathon, and was just as tired. I thought about leaving, but something held me to the lobby chair.

My thoughts were dark. For no good reason, I pulled my phone out and called my Hollybrook Community colleague, Tom Lattimore.

"Hey, Ed," he answered, "I hear congratulations are in order."

"Wh-What!" I stuttered. I was totally perplexed.

"No secrets in academia, old boy. The news you are going to BC is out."

"Oh," I said, grasping his meaning. "It was just an interview."

"Well, not the way the Hollybrook administration is acting. They're in crisis mode trying to figure out how to keep you."

"You're telling me they care that much?"

"They most certainly do. There are a lot of recriminations about how low your compensation package is."

I was never in teaching for the money, and since Lucy had been pulling in big dollars, we hadn't wanted for anything. Vaguely, I knew that others in similar situations at the school were being paid more. It also struck me that no one had mentioned money during that long interview at Chestnut Hill. They talked about my daughters and how I would care for them, but no one mentioned a salary.

Now I saw with my marriage tanking, providing for my children would become my principal concern. It was as if the interviewers—or two of them—knew my situation in advance. I remember the look the women gave Peter when he mentioned my wife. It was as if they already knew I was on my own.

Suddenly, I desperately wanted the information I had called Tom for. I taught Survey of American History from the Civil War to the Eisenhower Administration. Tom taught Survey of American History from the First Colonies through the Civil War.

"Well, my job prospects are very up in the air, but what I called to ask is what you know about the witch trials in colonial Massachusetts."

There was a slight pause, and then he said, "Shit, that's an odd thing to ask."

"I know, but I think it may be important to me."

"Really. Hmm. I'd help if I could, but you know the syllabus. It's Jamestown, the Pilgrims land at Plymouth, and these days, a week talking about the introduction of slavery. Then you skip a hundred and fifty years of darkness and violence to the lead-up to the Revolution. People scalping each other and living in shit up to their navel is not what students pay money to learn about."

"Well, if you don't know, do we know who would?"

There followed a long pause as Tom thought.

"You know," he finally said, "I would talk to the Reverend Peabody. He cornered me at a seminar several years back and talked my ear off about colonial Hollybrook."

I thought I knew who he meant. "He runs the Methodist church at the corner of Main and Broadway in Hollybrook?" I asked.

"Yeah, he's a Methodist, but that church is on the site of the first church in Hollybrook."

We talked perhaps an hour longer, exchanging what little we knew about the world before the American Revolution, but coming back far too quickly to the gossip about me spreading at the community college. Saying good night to Tom, I had just enough time to grab a coffee before they closed up shop in the hotel lobby a little after nine.

I had nothing to do but go over and over in my mind what I had seen of my wife earlier. Who was the man with her, and why did he feel he had the right to hold her so possessively? There were no easy answers, but the doubt that had now, at least in part, been confirmed was morphing into a series of doubts and questions. How long, when did it start, and the ultimate question: WHY?

My phone rang. It was Lucy's nightly call.

"Hello, my love. How did your interview go?" she asked breezily.

Nothing in her voice or her manner gave a hint that she was out with another man. There was no noise in the background. She had learned her lesson from the night before and called from someplace that did not give her game away.

I was flummoxed. I hadn't counted on her calling, but I should have. It was a well-planned lie. "The inter—view," I stammered.

She's out with another man, and she casually asks about my job interview.

"Nothing bad happened?" she asked, clearly concerned.

Something bad had happened. My life had fallen apart, but it had nothing to do with a teaching job. I had to grab hold of myself or I would give my game away.

"The interview went well, but odd. Actually, it was very strange, yet successful."

"What does that mean?" she asked, more relaxed but still concerned.

"I don't know. It was as if there was more to it than an interview. But at any rate, I'm being brought back for the second round."

"Another interview?"

"Yes, the first interview is just a screening process to see who they do not want. The next interview is more serious," I told her.

"Well, that's good then?" she asked.

"I guess it depends on your point of view. Hollybrook Community is all abuzz about my possibly leaving. I spoke to Tom Lattimore tonight, and he knew all about the interview."

"Well, they're just jealous," she huffed. "Have you taken a look around the school? Is it nice?"

"Oh, I've taken a look around. It's amazing what you can see if you look. But nice, I don't think so."

"Oh, you're just afraid of change. It's that New England pessimism of yours," she scolded.

"Not all change is good. It can harm a relationship, even destroy a marriage."

"We'll cope," she asserted. "Look how well my returning to work turned out. I know you were frightened at first, but our marriage improved."

"Did it? You go away every month. You're in Florida right now."

"True, but I always return more loving and ready to be a good wife. We don't need to be physically together three hundred sixty-five days a year. But we need to be together when we are together. Loving, wanting, and needing each other," she argued.

I didn't reply. With silence from me, Lucy assumed victory.

"Well, we both need to say good night. You get a good night's sleep and be ready for your interview tomorrow," she said.

She had assumed, incorrectly, the second interview was the following day. It made sense, since I had planned a three-day trip. I didn't inform her of the mistake.

"Good night, my love," she said.

I said nothing; I simply hung up.

I waited.

***

They didn't return until after midnight. The lobby was empty by then. They came in laughing and clearly a bit high. They weren't drunk, but she was all over him. They didn't see me. They had eyes only for each other. They kissed as they entered the elevator. As the elevator door closed, I watched to see what floor they stopped on, hers or his.

The elevator stopped on two and came right back down.

They don't have two rooms, you idiot. They're together.

It was a realization that crushed the last bit of my ego. It wasn't a casual meet-up. He was her lover, and I was what?

The idiot husband.

I turned and looked around me. It seemed like someone else spoke those last words.

I took the stairs up to the second floor. I watched the third room on the right from the second-floor stairwell. I opened the door just enough to peer out. Few people passed through the hallway. It was late. I waited. I gave them time to get their business on. Patience was my virtue now.

One o'clock came and then half past. I stepped out into the hall. At the third door on the right, I stopped. I pulled out my phone. I called her. I thought I heard the ring sound from within, but that could have been in my mind. The phone rang, and her voicemail picked up.

"Answer your phone, Lucy," I demanded.

I called back. She picked up immediately. She was out of breath, and I could hear the fear in her voice.

"Ed! What's wrong?"

"I called to ask if you liked my flowers."

"Flowers." She paused. "Oh, you sent the flowers. You didn't say earlier. There was no card."

"Not as lavish as his, I'm told. Open the door, so I can see. I'm in the hallway."

There was a little screech, but the door stayed closed.

"Open the damn door, Lucinda. Your husband, who you claim to love, is outside your room in the hallway."

There was a scampering within. She opened the door a crack. She had donned a hotel robe. I pushed the door open all the way. She fell back on her butt.

The rooms are small. There was no place to hide, but he wasn't bothering. He sat upright in the bed. Naked from the waist up. The prodigious hair on his chest was black with a touch of gray like that on his head.

He showed no fear or embarrassment, only some annoyance at his evening with my wife being interrupted. There could be no doubt what this was. I put a mental check mark next to that doubt and moved on.

As I turned to walk away, Lucy found her voice. "Please, Edward, don't leave." I ignored her. She followed me into the hall, still pleading.

"Please, let's talk. I know I've hurt you, but please try to understand."

I pushed the button, and the elevator appeared. I got on, and she went to follow. Then she realized she was wearing a bathrobe over a silk teddy and stopped. As the elevator doors closed, she pleaded, "Please wait. Edward, please don't leave."

I let the elevator take me to the lobby and took another to return to my room on six. My bag was still packed. I grabbed it and headed for the airport. I had no hope of getting a plane that night, but I had to try.

When I approached the reservation desk to change my flight, the hostess smiled and said, "Well, aren't you in luck. There is a plane boarding in an hour, and it still has a seat available."

I would be back in Boston before breakfast, but not without a penalty.

The dream was more vivid than ever. When I reached the meadow, the girl told me the others were dead. Again I felt a sharp pain with the knowledge of my loss. But my children were safe with the black-robed priest. That was where I had been, deep in the northern woods where the priest lived with the natives.

I realized that I would have to act quickly if I was to save the girl. Fear crept up my back as I crossed the little bridge and pushed open the door of my mother's cottage. My home where I had lived with my mother, wife, and children. My wife and mother were murdered, and they were coming for the girl.

I had to hide the girl. I knew what must be done. I advanced to the fireplace with its strange symbols carved into the great, black stones. The circle made of a snake consuming itself. The infant cradled within the circle, and the two wings on either side. I stepped into the fireplace and pushed against the back wall. It moved just enough for a person to crawl through.

I took one last look at her raven-black hair and her flaming-green eyes.

"Now go through," I commanded. "I'll push back the stone when you're in."

"But what about you?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm with God. Sanctified! Now in you go."

I pushed the stone back and made the fire blaze.

Our pursuers would batter down the door. Only blood would do; someone more must die.

When they came, they were wild with fear. It hung upon them and stank of hell, but as they grabbed me, I felt God lift me up.

"Hey, you need to wake up."

It was the passenger seated beside me. It was still dark beyond the plane, but the cabin lights were on, and we were rolling to a stop on the runway.

"I don't know what you were drinking last night, but I would avoid it in the future. Passed out is one thing, but nightmares to boot is another," he mused.

"Hope I didn't bother you," I said.

"No. But I would get some coffee if I were you."

***

The Reverend Alex Peabody invited me for lunch at the parish house. I had called him first thing on returning to Hollybrook. When I got off the plane and switched on my phone, it blew up with messages. I had blocked Lucy at the airport before boarding. By then, she had sent a dozen messages I refused to read. After being blocked, she first enlisted her sister and finally her mother. Both were begging me to talk to Lucy.

My mother-in-law was asking for forgiveness, and not just for her daughter. I wondered what I had to forgive her for. However, before I could speak to any of them, I felt compelled to resolve the dream. It was haunting my sleep, and now it was crossing the threshold from nightmare to reality.

The Reverend was all too willing to speak to me and suggested lunch at the parish house. He lived and worked from a modern home built on the back part of the church property. The building itself, known locally as the new Methodist church, dated to 1790 and was built over the old church foundation that dated to 1670. The original church parishioners were Protestant Church of England dissenters. We now refer to them as Puritans.

The Reverend welcomed me warmly, and he provided a lunch of Hollybrook turkey sandwiches. They consist of turkey, Swiss cheese, roast turkey dressing, and cranberry mayonnaise served on a hard roll. Some versions of this sandwich can be found all over New England, but the hard roll belongs to Hollybrook.

As we ate, Reverend Peabody informed me at length about the abolitionist movement in Hollybrook and our contribution to the Union forces during the Civil War. I let him talk, building rapport, and I hoped earning his trust. As we finished our meal, I broached the subject that had brought me.

"I'm actually seeking information on the witch trials of the late seventeenth century," I began.

"Well, the witch trials were in Salem. There were no witch trials in Hollybrook," he informed me.

"So, no witches here?" I probed.

"I didn't say that, but there were no trials. The accused witches were not afforded that benefit. I'm afraid in those days, Hollybrook was a very backward and violent community."

"What do you know of those accused?"

'Very little," he said, pausing. "There is an old story about five witches that were caught and the sixth witch that got away. You see, the story goes that there are six witches in a coven. They hung five and burned their bodies, but the sixth escaped somehow and has been seeking vengeance ever since."

The Reverend laughed and then added, "It's a story told in the old days on Halloween to scare the children. Nowadays, they have Michael Myer and Freddy Kruger."

"Any idea why some were suspected of being witches?"

"I've asked myself that," he said, musing over an answer. "What few records come down from that time speak of misfortune. Unexpectedly bad luck. All the cows going dry at once. Strange illnesses that seemed to befall some and not others. Ultimately, you have to put it down to superstition."

"How would I check if my ancestors were involved with the accused witches?"

"Come on, let me show you."

He led me into a large room with walls covered in what appeared to be old books. "The church records from 1670 to today," he informed, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Not the real ones, of course. The records before 2000 were taken to Harvard. These are all copies," he said, waving to the walls filled with books.

"Almost all the church's current income comes from genealogical research. People today want to know where they come from, and it is truly amazing what a high percentage can trace their roots to the early settlers of New England."

"I didn't know that."

"Yes, it is not that so many emigrated. Few dissenters actually left England, but they took the admonition to 'be fruitful and multiply' very seriously. I fear, though, that monogamy was more an ideal than a reality among them."

"The more things change," I mumbled.

"What was that?" he queried.

"I was just a little awestruck by your records. But tell me, what are the computers for?" I asked, indicating a long table with several workstations set up.