The Evil Inside

10

“So, tell me, did you know him before?” Angela demanded, grinning as she turned to look at Jenna, who was doing the driving.

“Yes. No. Not really. I vaguely remember meeting him when I was young. His mom was a doll. She had Sam, no other children, but I imagine she would have liked to have had a daughter, too. She’d kind of babysit area girls, let us have slumber parties and all at her house, so I saw him there. I think, once before, he yelled at me and I called him a jerk.” She grinned. “He’s still a jerk.”

“But your jerk now, I take it?” Angela asked.

“No.”

“Hmm, I could have sworn… I mean, you were at his house when we got here? Still fairly early in the day… And he’s certainly impressive. Size alone. I mean height and shoulder breadth, of course…”

“Well, yeah, definitely he’s attractive. I was attracted, and I fought it for a while because of the circumstances, but then I started thinking about moments, and that we really only get moments out of life…but anyway, he’s a high-powered attorney in Boston-who really laughs at the idea that we actually communicate with ghosts-and I love what we do. I think it’s important. I think we’ve saved lives. And I don’t particularly care what kind of car I drive, and I grew up in a household that believed in magic, and…he’s a hard-core New Englander. Practical all the way.”

“Jackson is practical all the way,” Angela pointed out.

“True-but Jackson has also had his own experiences, so if he’s not as intuitive, he still knows for a fact that there is more out there. And I’m not trying to date Jackson.”

“So, in your mind, you’re looking at a dead end,” Angela said.

“Seriously, where could it go?”

Angela laughed. “You’ll never know if you don’t look through the forest paths at the end of the road. Whatever. I’ll try to stay out of it. So!” she said, her voice denoting that she was changing the subject. “I’ve been here before, and I’ve done all the touristy things in the center of town. What could we do that lies beyond?”

“What is now Danvers was once Salem Village,” Jenna said. “Rebecca Nurse lived out there-and her homestead is out there and, actually, it all started out there.”

“Let’s take a ride,” Angela suggested. “I’d like to reacquaint myself with all this, get a feel for it. Wasn’t Rebecca Nurse supposed to have been a really good person? But was caught up in it really quickly?”

“She was associated with the wrong family, or that’s the way historians see it. Just because the founders were Puritans didn’t mean they were saintly or that they lacked human emotions-like envy, greed and so on. It wasn’t just that. Remember, these people believed that the devil was very real, and they allowed their fears to take them on a roller-coaster ride.”

“And that’s what you feel is happening again?”

“In a way-think about it! Your neighbors have been brutally murdered. That’s damned scary.”

“Driving through Salem, even in the early hours, it didn’t appear that people were terribly concerned-they were out in droves already, and half of them dressed up for Halloween!”

“Because they feel safe-Malachi is being held without bond. The devil is locked away.”

“But we’re looking at modern America. It’s not like people stay indoors at every fright, even without all that,” Angela pointed out.

“Yes, and it’s a city and area like any other-except that it has a tremendous history that we do take with us into modern America. We learned from the Salem Witch Trials. What I’m saying is that there’s no way yet to prove that Malachi isn’t guilty-the evidence, the solid evidence, points to him,” Jenna said. “I’m just saying that because his family was so different, it was very easy for people to accept the fact that he could be an ax murderer. And I also think that we’re looking at what is human and what has been human since the people first began walking around. Why do the sane commit murder? Passion, greed, anger, love-avarice and envy.”

“And you’re sure you don’t believe this just because you can’t accept that Malachi Smith might be guilty?” Angela asked.

“You need to meet him. Once you meet him, you’ll understand. I know that you will.”

She hesitated. “Being emotionally sensitive is a gift we share all share, isn’t it?”

“Let’s hope,” Angela said.

They reached the homestead and it was barren and empty, field stretching out in either direction, the house sitting forlorn in the colors of autumn.

“Damn! I forgot, it’s only open by appointment except for Saturday and Sunday once it reaches this time of year,” Jenna said.

“Let’s call for an appointment,” Angela suggested.

“They’ll probably say no.”

“We won’t know until we try.”

Jenna pulled out her phone and dialed the number on the sign. To her surprise, the friendly woman at the other end of the line agreed to meet them. While they waited, they stood outside the car and looked on at the structure.

“She must have been a truly sympathetic character,” Angela commented.

“They deemed her innocent at first, but the girls put on another show, and she was questioned again. She was mostly deaf, and didn’t answer the questions quickly enough, or misinterpreted or something, and she was then condemned. I’m still in awe that their faith was so strong that they wouldn’t tell a lie to save their lives-those who confessed were saved through prayer, I guess. They paid the bill for being held-for their room and board, and for their shackles-and those who didn’t die in prison were eventually freed. I’d always imagined jail cells or a prison such as we see today, when I was a kid. But they were kept together, and their beds were mats on the floor. A number of the victims died while they were being held.”

Looking across the expanse of property that surrounded the homestead, Jenna suddenly frowned. She pointed. “There’s someone there.”

“Where?”

“By the house!”

“I don’t see…” Angela said.

“The person is gone-she walked around the side.”

“Why would someone be sneaking around the Rebecca Nurse Homestead?” Angela asked.

“Good question,” Jenna murmured.

A car drove up behind them. A woman exited the car and waved to them. “Hi! You’re lucky, I happen to be available. I’m Sandy Halloran, nice to meet you.”

Jenna and Angela both thanked her profusely for coming out and, before they went farther, made a large donation to the upkeep.

Jenna had been here several times before, but it had been long ago. It never failed to tug at her heartstrings to think of a woman who had lived and worked in the heat and bitter cold of New England, who had endured childbirth many times, only to die at the end of a rope.

Angela was fascinated by the homestead, by the sparse furniture, by the hard life lived by seventeenth-century farmers. She listened gravely while their eager guide described Salem Village at the time, the families that constituted it and how family matters and money played into everything. “A lot of people suggested that mold in the wheat might have caused the girls to have hallucinations,” Sandy told them. “I never bought into that theory. Why would only the girls be affected? I think that they started a lie, and perhaps they played it out so well that they believed it themselves. None of us will really know now, will we?”

Angela and Sandy seemed to be having a good conversation so Jenna slipped outside, walked around the house and looked toward the western side of the property, and the graveyard. She remembered that the old section of the graveyard was closest to the old cart road; it was most probable that Rebecca Nurse’s family had taken her body and brought it home, secretly, of course. Witches were not to lie among consecrated graves, and any of the victims who received a proper burial received it because the love of a family member was stronger than the fear of