A fantasy story based on facts about 911 and a Halloween full moon.
Even six weeks after the World Trade Center attack on September 11, 2001, the nation continued to mourn the loss of over 3000 innocent victims when two airplanes crashed into the towers.
Several days ago, the editor of the Sacramento Daily Sun burst into my office. “Clive,” he said. “Pack your bags. You’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, to cover their Halloween celebration. Let’s give the subscribers something to think about besides the 9/11 tragedy.”
He had me at, ‘pack your bags!’ With yet another gut-wrenching editorial on my computer about the 341 firemen lost in the Towers, I was up for anything to get away from the twenty-four-seven news cycle.
October 31 is big news in Salem. Every year, 250,000 visitors swarm the city to experience haunted houses, costume balls, live music, dances, and holiday parades. This year, due to a full moon scheduled on October 31, the first full moon on that date since 1974, Salem planned even more spectacular events. Apparently, the occurrence of a Halloween full moon happens only four or five times each century! The next one isn’t expected for another twenty years, October 31, 2020!
Entering Salem, I was impressed by the witches and goblins, pumpkins and ghouls decorating houses and businesses, much like we decorate for Christmas back home. Witches are big in Salem all year long, due to the history of the Salem witch trials, but this year, even more so, what with the full moon phenomenon. Apparently, Salem’s city fathers thought the citizenry had grieved the 911 tragedy long enough and should get their minds back onto business as usual. Let the nation grieve if it must. Salem would strike while the moon was full!
Cornstalks lined the streets. Jack-o-lanterns hung from each lamp post. Shopkeepers dressed as witches and warlocks, ghosts and vampires. Every shop window displayed witches and cauldrons, spirits and ghouls. Tourists clamored through the town atop horse-drawn hay wagons and carts.
I ate lunch at a little diner and delighted in the attentions of a charming waitress with long black hair, sparkling gold eyes, and fluttering lashes. With a glance, Jenny churned up feelings I hardly remembered, being a widower well past middle-age, and an almost regular church goer.
Imagine my surprise when she handed me a napkin with a message inside. Meet me outside tonight. 11:25 P.M. Come alone. I must see you.
I left my lunch half-eaten and stumbled outside to ponder the situation. With her charms, she had the pick of any young man; what could she possibly want with me? I interviewed shopkeepers and snapped photos of the holiday events that day and well into the evening. Even knowing it was a fool’s errand, at 11:15 P.M, I was drawn back to the diner like a moth to a flame.
****
At 11:20 P.M. Jenny wiped down the last table, flipped over the CLOSED sign and locked the café door. She had nearly given up hope of the middle-aged man with silver-white hair and mustache arriving at the last possible moment to change her destiny?
Jenny wrapped her cape around her shoulders and stepped out the front door. There Clive stood, a puzzled expression on his face. She was blessed with a sixth sense, knowing when the phone would ring or a visitor was at her door. An oppressive spirit had even settled on her the morning of September 11, feeling something evil on the horizon. She had powers over men, but on this night of night, with the full moon overhead on this auspicious date, her fate lay in the hands of a stranger. Without his cooperation, she could not escape the family curse.
“Hello. Thanks so much for coming.” Jenny placed her hand on Clive’s arm, in an effort to bend his will to her own needs. “You’re the only one who can help me.”
“I’m happy to oblige. But why ask a stranger? Don’t you have family or friends who could help you?”
Jenny lowered her head, brushing her lashes against her pale face. Her lips trembled as a tear trickled down her cheek. A curl of white hair tumbled onto her forehead, seemingly out of place among her mass of black curls.
“Here, here, now. None of that.” Clive brushed Jenny’s hair back into place. “I’ll help you if I can, my dear. Don’t cry.” He tipped up her chin and dried her tears with his handkerchief. “Now, give me a smile and tell me all about it.”
“I fear you’ll think me crazy, sir, but I swear I speak the truth.” Jenny sat on a bench and began an inexplicable tale.
“I am a descendent of the judge who unjustly hanged Sarah Good as a witch in 1692, right here in Salem. Since Sarah Good’s death, the judge’s descendants have suffered a terrible curse. Upon the rare occasion, only about four or five times each century, when the full moon is overhead on All-Hollow’s Eve, any of the judge's female descendants between the age of 18 and 21 is in grave danger.
“As the full moon is upon us this night for the first time in 27 years, and to avoid the curse, I must find a middle-aged man with long silver-white hair, who resembles the judge who sentenced my poor ancestor, Sarah, to death. Before midnight, a drop of this man’s blood must be placed on a particular stone that stands at the edge of town.” Jenny’s dark lashes fluttered.
“Would you shed a drop of your blood on Sarah’s commemorative stone to save me from the curse?”
“What kind of curse, my dear?” Clive raised perplexed eyebrows.
“It is so terrible, I dare not speak it aloud.” Whispering these words, Jenny clung to Clive’s shoulder and wept piteously. Would it be enough to convince him to go with her to the stone? And, once there, could she muster the courage to do what she must do to stave off the curse?
****
Clive was speechless. Never had he encountered such a stunning creature that so captivated his heart within minutes of meeting. Never has such a ridiculous tale so captured his imagination. He was inclined to leap from the bench, take her by the hand, and race to the stone in question. Only with great difficulty did he pummel his rash impulses into submission and sit back on the bench, staring into the starry sky.
The full moon hung blood-red over the city, casting an orange glow across the sidewalks, still churning with costumed tourists, jostling and laughing, their joyous songs of nonsense carried into the black sky on the night wind.
The young woman stirred in his arms, her sobs finally ceased. She dashed tears from her cheeks and looked up at him. “You will help me, won’t you? I’m so desperate. We only need a teeny-weeny drop of blood, really. I’d be ever so grateful.”
If she truly believed her outrageous tale, considering the unusual request, even a gentleman couldn’t help wondering, how grateful? On the other hand, just exactly how much was a teeny-weeny drop of blood and just how crazy was this charming girl? Clive shivered. A thin cloud crept across the center of the moon, seeming to cut it in half.
Clive glanced at his watch. 11:40 P.M. “Well, let’s get on with it. Can we walk to the stone?” He would humor her and see where all this would lead. His hand rested around a small penknife in his pocket. If a tiny drop of blood is all it takes to satisfy her fantasy and win her gratitude, I can do that.
The wind whistled overhead as the cemetery loomed into view. Groups of tourists ambled amongst the gravestones. Raucous laughter burst from the direction of Bridget Bishop and Martha Corey’s graves, also victims of the 1692 Salem witch trials. From the sound of merriment coming from the shadows, one would think it was an amusement park rather than a cemetery.
Jenny squealed as a man dressed as a vampire loomed from the bushes. Clive put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She was really a dear little thing, and his heart stirred. He wanted so to calm her fears. Perhaps he’d bring her coffee in bed tomorrow morning…
Sarah Good’s commemorative stone gleamed in the moonlight.
Jenny ran her fingers over the grooves in the stone forming the letters– Sarah Good 1653 – 1692 “Poor thing. I’m so sorry, Sarah. Please forgive my ancestor.” Jenny glanced at her watch. “Are you ready?” She drew a huge serrated bread knife from her purse. “We don’t have much time. I only have two more minutes. Clive?” Jenny’s beautiful smile, only moments ago holding so much promise, faded, replaced by a fiendish leer. Only his blood splashed across the accursed stone would make her smile now.
At the sight of Jenny’s wild eyes gleaming gold in the moonlight, Clive stepped back. The thrill of the lovely lady and moonlight adventure faded and common sense prevailed. Jenny would not settle for a pricked finger and a drop of blood. With the knife in her hand, she crept closer and closer with murder in her eyes.
“Hold on, there, young lady.” Clive backed away, glancing left and right. Where had all the costumed tourists gone? The witches and ghosts and had disappeared at the first sight of Jenny’s knife.
In the distance, Clive heard the town clock begin to strike. Twelve o’clock…the witching hour. Bong…bong…bong. The hour that a real witch, if there was such a thing, might easily murder a stranger to thwart her twisted notion of an imaginary family curse.
Bong… bong… bong. Clive’s dull evenings suddenly held more appeal. He wished he was back in New York, playing solitaire, and had never heard of Salem. Bong… bong… bong.
Bong… bong… Jenny shrieked and rushed at him, the knife raised...
Paralyzed with fear, Clive put up his hands, closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the death blow. Bong! Midnight!
Seconds ticked by. Clive opened his eyes, ran his hands up and down his chest. “I’m still alive?”
Jenny’s cape and the bread knife lay on the ground. She had waited seconds too long past the stroke of midnight but… Where was Jenny?
Sarah Good’s gravestone gleamed in the moonlight where a small black cat huddled on the stone, her tail whipping around her black toes. A white blaze crept over her nose, across one golden eye, ending beside her ear. She stared up at Clive, terror in those golden eyes, enough to soften the hardest heart.
“Jenny?” Clive whispered, stepping closer to the stone. He’d never believed tales about witches turning into black cats, but... He stroked the little cat and peered into her eyes. He gasped. Jenny’s golden eyes stared back. The curse! “Only my blood could have protected her from the curse. She needed me... She still needs me.”
He would write his 2000-word newspaper story about Salem, about the haunted houses and the costume ball and the decorations and the Halloween parades. The story would be colorful and for a few minutes the Sacramento Daily Sun readers could forget the tragedy that took almost 3000 lives on September 11.
He would write about tonight being the first full moon on October 31 for the last twenty-seven years, but he would not write about a 300-year-old curse that turned a Salem witch into a little black cat. Who would believe it?
Clive cradled Jenny in his arms. “Don’t worry, Jenny. You don’t have to worry ever again. I promised to help you, and I won’t abandon you now."
.....
If you enjoyed this story, check out my 13 mystery novels at Amazon. Black cats are my favorite!!
A woman wearing dark glasses and a large black hat crept through the front gate and pulled it closed behind her. She tip-toed down the sidewalk toward the house. Did she imagine she couldn’t be seen from the house? Black Cat lowered his ears. What is she up to? She’s up to no good, that’s for sure.
