Witch Water

your wall?”

Now that the palm-reading session was in stasis, Letitia slouched back on the couch. Fanshawe remained standing when she began, “I don’t know how much of the story you got from the Baxters, but back then no one in town would’ve suspected Wraxall of having anything to do with the devil worship—”

Fanshawe remembered the explanation. “Because everybody loved him, right? He paid for the town’s improvements and loaned money to the locals.”

“Exactly. In fact, Wraxall’s character was so unimpeachable that the townspeople didn’t suspect him of heresy even after Evanore was executed.”

“Execution by barreling,” Fanshawe added.

“Yeah. Pretty groaty folks back then. But Wraxall himself built most of the town. He even built the church. He never missed a Sunday service except for a few times he was traveling abroad. Anyway, Evanore was caught red- handed with her coven, performing a conjuration, a ritual that required the use of the blood from newborn babies. So that was the end of her.”

“Right,” Fanshawe recalled. “But Wraxall himself wasn’t suspected of any heresies until years later—”

“Four years later, to be exact. In 1675. Some witnesses saw Wraxall performing a Black Mass in the woods, and after his death, they found his diary, which spilled the awful beans about what he and Evanore had really been up to since Evanore had entered puberty. Do you…” Letitia fidgeted. “Did anyone tell who how they got the newborn babies for their blood rituals?”

All Fanshawe could say was, “Yes.”

“Oh, good. I really don’t get a kick out of repeating that. But anyway, Wraxall’s diary—which was eventually acquired by the Baxters when their family bought the inn— implicated Rood as well. So Rood’s name was big time mud just like Wraxall’s. See, Rood’s relatives were so ashamed by the terrible things Rood did, they had to completely dissociate themselves. So they changed their name.”

Fanshawe looked intently at her.

“From Rood to Rhodes.”

“Ah. Your last name.”

She nodded. “Callister Rood’s parents built this house. I’m one of his direct descendants.” She held up her hands. “That’s why his picture’s on my wall. Not that I think highly of him. But I keep it there as kind of a curiosity piece for tourists who have questions.”

Tourists like me, Fanshawe thought. Unbidden, though, he needed to know, “Was Rood executed too?” All too well, he remembered his visions from last night. “Or did he commit suicide?”

Letitia’s gaze darted to Fanshawe. “He hanged himself. I didn’t think I told anyone that, including the Baxters, because I figured the inn’s history was grim enough. Old Baxter wouldn’t want guests finding out an apprentice warlock strung himself up on the property.”

“But the Baxters didn’t tell me.”

“Then who did? There’s no record of it. All the documents kept by the High Sheriff and the scrivener of the court were lost in fire in 1701.”

Fanshawe stalled, then lied, “Just a hunch.” What could he say? Oh, I saw Rood hanging by the neck last night with the Witch-Water Looking-Glass. See, I’d taken it up to Witches Hill to peep in windows because I’m a pervert…

“Just a hunch, huh?” Her smile crossed with a disbelieving smirk.

“Makes sense for Rood to hang himself in order to avoid the ‘death-by-barreling that Wraxal and his daughter suffered.”

“Evanore, yes, but actually, Wraxall himself didn’t die by barreling—”

Fanshawe rubbed his chin. “I could’ve sworn Abbie or Mr. Baxter said he was executed similarly…”

Suddenly Letitia slumped more on the couch. “If you really want to know about this gross stuff, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to repeat it to Abbie or her father. I’m on good terms with them, I guess, but I don’t really know them that well. They might get mad at me for not telling them everything I know. They might think I was smearing their hotel.”

Fanshawe cut to the chase, still standing in front of the picture. “I promise not to repeat anything you say, to anyone.”

She looked as though she barely believed him. “Wraxall died in the house. He’d been arrested once by the sheriff, put in jail, but somehow Wraxall escaped, probably with Callister Rood’s help. The same night of his escape, he died in the room with the attic trapdoor.”

Fanshawe gulped loudly.

“When the sheriff and his men went to re-capture Wraxall, they found him dead. His heart had been cut out.”

“Ooo,” Fanshawe uttered.

“After the witness reports, it was always believed that the townsfolk were so enraged over Wraxall’s blasphemous deceptions that they didn’t even want to wait for a trial—”

“So they took matters into their own hands?”

Letitia nodded. “And sliced him open and cut out his heart.”

“But you said it’s always been thought that that happened.”

“Um-hmm. I’ve already told you Wraxall left a diary—”

Fanshawe almost but not quite interrupted her to reveal that the warlock actually had two diaries, one of which he’d just found last night, but the desire to say so retreated back into him like a spring-loaded tape-measure.

“—but Callister Rood, my charming ancestor, left one too. Nobody’s seen it—”

“Nobody but you,” Fanshawe presumed.

The awkward woman touched her lip, appraising Fanshawe. “Would you like to see it?”

“I’d appreciate it very much.”

Letitia got up, disappeared into another room, then returned as fast. She passed Fanshawe a small book of mottled dark-blue leather whose binding was merely a string of tanned hide tied through the folded creases of parchment, just like Wraxall’s diary. He opened to a random page. Also like Wraxall’s diary, most of the stanzas of scribbling were blurred by the passage of time; however, unlike it, the diction was a lot less sophisticated than Wraxall’s, indicating a lower level of education.

Last nighte-time so did I kiddnap yung Ann Clark from her beddroom, a girl known to be thick of wit and slow of mind. Uncomely, she be as wel, but that matters naught, so spake the Squire. Afore this act, I lit ye Hand of Glory on ye threshold, which werk’d so potently that nevur once did Mr. or Mrs. Clark stir from their slumbering, potent enough in the fact that I—impatiently as is oft my wont—engag’d in karnel knowlidge with Mrs. Clark, and on my honur never did she wake dispite the vigur with witch I put my seed in her. Wearupon I next comence to abscond with yung Ann through whose mouth I ty’d a smitch of flannel to hold her tongue, and lash’d her wrists. Into ye Squire’s house I took her, where ye Squire stood in wait, seaming qwyte pleas’d. I rend’d ye girl in ye attick chamber and hall out her innards whilst Squire Wraxall reed especial words of intursseshuns for coming Rite of Beltane, which he dost call preeker-sory prayers.

Fanshawe realized, Rood’s describing the abduction of a child or young woman, for some Satanic rite that must serve as a precursor to a more important ritual. The bald acknowledgment right there on the page made Fanshawe feel frozen in place. He flipped forward, finding that many passages were even more illegible than Wraxall’s diary. Midway, though, he deciphered this: To-daye I ask ye Squire why no longer he partake of ye pleashures of Evanore’s loynes as dost he hath many tymes afore so to make ye babys for ye grist of our Master, so he spake bak to me: “Good sarvant Rood, ye evill prokreeayshun which so thralls our Benefactor is—yea—a yung man’s art, and a vital man’s privalige who mayest be one with Lucifer. Lo, in my long yeers, I mine own self am not anye longer so vital,” and aft’r shewing a calm countenance, he so explayn’d verily that in his age he hast lost his manly vitality, and that ye seed of his loyns ist like now that uv a palsy’d man, no longer able to act as once it wuz.

Fanshawe glanced to Letitia. “So Wraxall was impotent?”

“Toward the end of his life, yes. From what I gather, the last three or four babies Evanore gave birth to weren’t Wraxall’s; he was simply too old—started shooting blanks, couldn’t swing the bat anymore, you know?”