Night Terrors 2

Night Terrors 2

By Jason Wallace

Smashwords Edition

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Published by:

Jason Wallace on Smashwords

Night Terrors 2

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Wallace

Table of Contents

Hammer of the Witches

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Hideous: The Revenants

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Death’s Lair

The Diary of Heather Summerall and the Evil of Adams House

The Sins of the Past

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

11 Strangely True and Very Absurd Tales

Hammer of the Witches

Chapter 1

October 13, 1518, the day of infamy for a small village deep in Somerset, England, lauded many rings of the church bell. It was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, as set by Emperor Constantine so many centuries prior, though, if it had been in keeping with the real Sabbath, it would have been Saturday. Much was quiet, save for the dinging and ringing and clanging of the bell, set high in the tower of the local church. England, though ruled by the twenty-seven-year-old Henry VIII, was still a staunchly Catholic nation. The MALLEUS MALEFICARUM, Maleficas, & earum hæresim, ut phramea potentissima conterens, or, simply, the Malleus Maleficarum (Hammer of the Witches, applied specifically to females) had been, by and large, condemned by the Church, though it was the Papal Bull 'Summis desiderantes affectibus' that allowed for the book to be written in the first place, as the Catholic Church felt that witches were not being sought and thoroughly prosecuted. It was Pope Innocent VIII that admitted a theory that men and women could have sexual relations with demons, astounding many but adding to the general hysteria regarding witches. It, a book detailing how one must deal with those that were accused of witchcraft or any other forms of sorcery, was, according to the Pope, not to be used. It was never fully sanctioned by Rome and would never be, but despite the Pope’s ruling, its use could not be stopped, particularly by royal courts.

For the people of Somerset, some of them being the predecessors and even ancestors of those that would, a century later, flee to Massachusetts and form the Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay colonies, the Pope’s authority was largely suspect and, in some instances, much discarded, particularly in the case of dispelling witchcraft. Somerset lay far in the southwest of England, within and without the Duchy of Cornwall, as it has always held lands belonging to the titleholder of the Duchy but is not a part of the lands known as Cornwall, this part of that place nestled just outside of the Quantock Hills, a great distance from the King or the reach of his mighty proclamations, not that he, in all of his revered wisdom, said much on the enforcement of papal doctrine. Henry himself was already beginning to question most issuances from the Pope, especially those regarding marriage and divorce. Were others to disobey Rome, it would not be a terrible grievance in the eyes of the young king.

On this October day, seven women accused of witchcraft were to be purified. The Malleus Maleficarum, or, in its broader sense, the Malleus Maleficorum (applied to both sexes) was the instrument for seeing such trials to fruition, trials by torture and death. The craze that swept Salem, Massachusetts, in 1692, was nothing before unseen. It was a tradition carried over and passed down through generations of the overzealous. No matter the order by the Pope that stated no use was to be made of the book, that it was entirely false, it was used for two centuries, sometimes, directly consulted, at other times, as in the case of those in Massachusetts, largely remembered orally. Throughout Europe, its use could not be stopped, and Somerset was no exception and nothing barring of wider acceptance, as it would be used not even twenty years later during the Spanish Inquisition.

The gray, overcast sky painted a dismal picture of forlorn and almost ecstatic displeasure for so many, turning unwelcomely to a cold and incessant drizzle, soaking all of the people of the county, spread wide yet thin, nothing to downpour but to only make one greatly miserable. The palpable and still-hanging gloom blanketed the land, a near natural terror of sight speckled to and fro. Some said it to be perfect for the day, going so far as to call out that God Almighty wept for the sentence soon to be passed upon wretched and unrepentant souls. The hope of a number of others was that the rain would not last long enough that it might wet the fires that would light the air that evening.

Rebecca Sayman, Abigail Woodhall, Mary Martha Daniels, Dorcas Aetelrow, Sarah Phearson, Jayne Westerall, and Priscilla Primmy Avery sat in the magistrate’s hold, not far from St. Michael’s Church, awaiting the fate that would be dealt them later that day. Mass was soon to begin, and the few of these women not already awakened, most of whom spent all morning deep in prayer for deliverance from their just and forgiving Master, were violently shaken from sleep by the tolling of the iron casting. It was six o’clock, time to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but four of the women had already done this several times each and once together, in addition to their other prayers, all wishing to be given pardon, praying that the loving God would somehow grant their leave of the place, that His hand might come down from Heaven and strike down the accusers, or, at least, break loose the chains fastened tightly around the ankles and wrists of the innocents.

Priscilla, Primmy, as most called her, and Rebecca immediately joined in with the actions of the five others, reciting prayer after prayer, in dire hopes of nothing more than a chastisement being brought against them. It was Abigail Woodhall, however, that pretended to pray in such a manner. She, in fact, said nothing regarding deliverance, except in the way of smiting one and all that laid claim against her and the others dead where they stood or sat, hopefully, in the most extreme of ways, asking that some have their skulls split and others, to have their hearts ripped from their chests and shown to them, that they could see how black they were and what was in store for the self-appointed judges of their inferiors.

Abigail was the lone guilty party in all of that inner chamber of the keep, if her crimes could constitute guilt. The six with her had never so much as said one word contrary to anything taught to them, save for the occasional questioning of the local priest and the local magistrate. Nothing remotely hinging on blasphemy had ever been uttered from their lips, but such accusations leveled against anyone above their stations, even if only made in minor instances and bearing on nothing serious, were seen as reason enough for them to be suspect of heresy, that itself plenty to lay claims of witchcraft at their feet. Rebecca and Dorcas, however, had never said even that much. Theirs were particularly pious and gentle lives, hardly a complaint ever issued from either of them, but they did not always do as told and seemed to disobey their husbands, never correcting their ways, even though they were both beaten repeatedly by their men, allowed this because of the Rule of Thumb, a law stating that a man could beat his wife, as long as he used nothing wider than his thumb to do so.

The bell seemed never to discontinue its ringing, carrying on for hour after hour, though it was scarcely more than a minute. Every clang reminded all of the women of what they would suffer later. Within themselves, each knew that there would be no way to find respite from it all. A better fate could only be in dying long before the trials began. Many objected to the trials beginning on such a day, but the priest and the magistrate insisted that it was the perfect occasion, as the Lord’s work is best to be done on the Lord’s Day.

You stick your ‘and in there, the women could hear directed from one man outside of the door to another. My ‘and ain’t goin’ near ‘em! The magistrate says we gotta feed ‘em, but I ain’t losin’ my ‘and if one of ‘em tries to bite it!

When the jailer that spoke these words looked at his right hand, he saw torrents of blood streaming to the sides and down to his fingers, as if his hand had been nearly severed from its wrist. When he closed his eyes and looked back, the blood was gone. His hand was as fine and present as ever it had been. The other man saw nothing of the matter and did not believe his companion when told of the sight.

Now, thou art having fits. Give thine heart solely to the Lord, as it is His day and His will. If thou leavest thy full being to Him, thou shalt have the fullest measure of joy in this life.

I do give to the Lord. I also trust these women to be devils. We all shall be better looked after when these harlots of Satan be stripped of flesh. I ain’t desirous to be wailed upon by such beasts of the dark. As I said, Blyth, you feed ‘em!

Blyth, seeing no harm in doing as he was bid by the magistrate, to still provide sustenance to the women, until their hour was come, opened the door and dished out seven bowls of grainy and poorly-cooked porridge. There you are, thy morning meal. I pray that thou all givest freely of thyselves to the justice of the One True God. He may find mercy still for thee, but we, His servants, cannot. Thou all should eat what will likely be thy last meal on this earth.

Mass that day was particularly somber and stirring of anxious feelings within the parishioners. Some wanted a spectacle and felt that the women accused of witchcraft should all be immediately burned, while others thought that such an occasion could, perhaps, be swayed away, that there might be some small chance of salvation left for the women. Seven stakes were already constructed and waiting to be secured into the ground not far from the church, in the public square. The priest and the magistrate knew that there would be no earthly forgiveness for the women and that, no matter how much confession or refusal of such that there might be on the women’s parts, the acts of inquiry and cleansing would be made. The priest finished his sermon, breaking from the Latin liturgy enough to complete in English, by encouraging all in attendance not to think of the matter as unnecessary or in any way unfit for such a day, that the women, if condemned, must be made pure, must have their horrendous sins taken from them, by way of fire, perhaps, even in some hope that they might be spared the eternal continuance of such, that they might be allowed some place in Heaven, or, at least, Purgatory, until such time as the Lord Almighty saw fit to release them from their bonds.

For some within the church, this would mean the loss of a sister, an aunt, a cousin, or in the case of a few, the loss of a daughter or mother. Primmy Avery had two small children, forced to hear what they did not understand but what their father knew fully well to be the sentence of his wife, to leave him bereft forever and to attend to the raising of a son and daughter without the care of their mother, to be pained for the rest of their days. He accepted, however, that there might be some truth to the accusation and that the priest knew better than he in such affairs. Abigail’s frail mother, Beatrice Margery Woodhall, hunched in her pew, could hardly fathom or make peace with what was soon to happen. Abigail had been accused and arrested largely for being a woman nearing thirty years of age yet remaining unmarried. For this, she was suspected by her neighbors and even those whom she called friend.

Father, the old woman shouted, making difficult attempt at standing from her place far to the back of the church, her head painfully raising with her arthritic body. Father, I wish not to interrupt or object, but how does the Lord allow the blood of the innocent to be spilled, to face condemnation for committing no crime? My daughter is fair and good. I am but an old woman and am of no consequence to most, save the Lord. He knows my heart and my will. My life has been spent in hopeful service, to do all that has been commanded of me, to never naysay or speak ill of others, to give all that ever I could to those in greater need, to be of unflinching repose and forthright servility. A daughter is a blessing of the Lord, one of the faint few of such in my days. I ask but little of Him. I grant all possible by my wearied hands. I speak not with the fancier languages of the learned and question not my place in this world. I ask only that intercession be made, that granting of clemency be considered, that a return to full and proper station be allowed within the limits of holy minds, greater and closer to God than mine.

Child, boomed the priest, standing high at his pulpit, glaring fearlessly at the woman so far removed from him but clearly visible. Thou must accept the judgment of God! Thou shalt not be contrary to the justice of this, His holy church! Nor shalt thou speak so openly, without invitation! Be seated and no more open thine mouth!

Father, I wish to obey thy commands, as thou art surely the truest of servants here, yet I cannot bring conscience to such a thing and cannot give over my daughter to death so plainly. If thou wilt condemn an old woman for only speaking the pains of her heart, do as thou will! If my place be in Hell for these words, I gladly take my place where it shall be! With this, Beatrice resumed her seat, receiving countless looks of sheer terror and deplorability from all around her and even many that were not so close.

A loud and boisterous, Blasphemy rang throughout the cathedral, and despite the priest’s many attempts to assuage the murmur, there was no silence possible. The word continued again and again, growing in volume and picking up the voices of those that had remained silent previously, until there seemed to be a unified chant issuing. Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Eventually, this word transfigured itself, becoming, Away with the blasphemer! Let her join her daughter!

The service did not end as was anticipated or wanted. The priest quickly called for two volunteers to remove Beatrice Woodhall from the church, to take her straightaway to the magistrate’s keep, though the magistrate himself was in attendance and planned to do exactly the same. The magistrate proudly marched before Beatrice and her captors, leading them to the inner chambers of the keep, though Beatrice, frail and pained as she was of body, was more dragged the last fifty feet than walking. There were no more shackles within the keep, all that could be found or made now occupied by the other seven.

The prayer and meditation of the seven beleaguered women was interrupted, so much so that Rebecca and Sarah sprung up, jolted by shock and awe, both of them banging hard into the stone walls behind them, Rebecca’s head bouncing off harshly, causing her a terrible headache and a great deal of faintness, as though she might pass out soon. In truth, she had a concussion, which would, later, make things much more difficult for her executioners but much easier for her.

Mother, Abigail let out, trying to crawl to where her mother was thrown against the north wall. Mother, why are you here?

I spoke in the church on behalf of bereavement of heart and loss of child. I made attempt to sway judgement away from thy course, the old woman stammered, most of her speech audible to her daughter, though a few words were assumed.

Speak not for me, Mother. Speak for us all. We all are one. We all are condemned for naught, for no more than error of those calling themselves pious. Poor, pitiable Dorcas is here for nothing but having disobeyed her husband, that being only because she cannot hear and oft did not know what the words of her husband to her were. Do not cry or pray for me, Mother. Cry for these, my sisters. Pray for them. I will confess nothing and admit nothing. I go to my end faithfully, though I do wish terrible things upon these, the men that brought me to unfair judgment. If that is, alone, criminal of me, I cannot repent for it and refuse so to do. May I be forgiven one day for it. I will not cry, even at the fated hour, save it be for you, my mother. Abigail slunk back toward the east wall, unable to reach her mother as she spoke, and though Beatrice would have happily met her daughter and embraced her, she was far too removed of physical faculty to do so, grievously harangued and punished already. She had no husband left to her, and her sons had been both killed years prior, in skirmishes that required their services on behalf of their lord. She had no one but Abigail and sought the very death that was sure to soon come to her. If Abigail were taken from this world, she would gladly be taken from it as well.

It was deemed, by the magistrate, that the women would be interrogated before their trial began. One or two would be handpicked for the interrogation, to see what information that person or two persons might divulge against themselves and the others. If all went well, not all of the women would necessarily have to be tortured for information, though, in all fairness, it was the occasion that the magistrate waited for for many years. Never before had such heavy accusations of heresy and witchcraft been leveled at anyone in the region. Had it been ninety-one years later, at the passage of an act of King James I, and the formal establishment for building Shepton Mallet, Somerset’s main house of correction, the local magistrate might not have such a lengthy say in all such formal matters but would, instead, might have to turn the women over to authorities higher than himself. Thankfully, for his own sick delights, the women could be treated as he wished to have them treated, and there would be no interference from forces legal or spiritual. If those whom would be tortured willingly incriminated themselves and the rest, the affair might be closed soon enough to satisfy the public with the display of proper punishment; however, if that were done, there would be an absence of pleasure for those carrying out the sequence of events.

The Malleus Maleficarum proscribed that suspected witches be detained for upwards of a year before applying torture as incentive to give confession; however, Magistrate Haystead insisted upon beginning the necessary steps to ridding the town and even the region of the witches that many now claimed had plagued them. The book itself stated that witches were known to prey upon the good and just but in another place, stated that only the weak were susceptible, while at the same time, claiming that judges could not be influenced yet should protect themselves with salt and sacrament. Haystead had some desire to be rid of the witches but more, to inflict a great deal of pain and to exact revenge, as he not only hated all that he thought to be such denizens of