Rob Zombie: Lords of Salem

Behind him, sitting at a small wooden table whose surface was nicked and charred, was his brother Virgil. The family resemblance was clearly visible, despite Dean’s eye patch and the fact that a good half of Virgil’s face was torn by deep scars, the result of the swipe of a bear’s claws. The bear’s skin was lying on the packed dirt floor beside the table, and Virgil rested his feet on its head. Beside it, next to the table, was a goat chained to the wall, eating from a large bale of straw. On the table before him was a battered pewter plate in which sat part of a haunch of meat, charred on the edge and raw in the middle.

“Anything?” asked Virgil. He reached out and caressed the goat, which baa ed once, then continued to eat its straw.

Dean shook his head. “Something’s happening,” he said, “but not too close. Maybe nothing much.”

Virgil nodded. “You’re starting to see ghosts,” he said.

“Aye, brother,” Dean said, and continued to chew on his chunk of meat, stopping only to spit out a bit of buckshot still lodged in it.

Virgil turned back to his plate, slicing off a bit of the haunch and swallowing it all in one gulp—gristle, tendon, and all.

“I noticed,” said Dean, and then swallowed deeply before continuing. “During morning services, I noticed the Widow Parsons was looking my way again. I think her mourning period might well be coming to an end.”

Virgil shook his head. “Hallucination of a lustful mind, my brother,” he said. Then he laughed. “That widow will be mourning ’til you are sleeping in a dirt hole feeding worms.”

Dean regarded him with irritation. “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “I’ll take down that woman just as I did this young doe. Once I set my sights, brother, my aim is true.”

Virgil smiled. He shook his knife at Dean, the piece of meat impaled on the end of it shivering. “I doubt Widow Parsons would be as delicious to the taste as this blackened flesh,” he claimed.

Dean relaxed a little, even smiled. “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “Nothing more delicious than a healthy woman craving meat.”

“True,” said Virgil. “Too true.”

There came a loud pounding at the front door. Both brothers froze. Dean finished his piece of meat and then wiped the blade of his knife clean on his trousers.

“Not ghosts after all,” said Virgil.

“No,” said Dean. “Told you there was something out there.”

“Maybe it’s the widow come a-calling, ready to be courted. Either that or someone just realized they’re missing a goat.”

“Mark my word, the widow awaits behind that door. The stench of finely roasted meat has done its job and brought her hither.”

But Dean did not pocket his knife as he approached the door, instead holding it casually but at the ready in his hand.

Behind the door were Hawthorne and Mather, both dressed in black traveling garb now. Mather had lifted his cane again, was preparing once more to rap on the door with it. He stopped when Dean opened. The latter smiled, wiped his beard with the back of his hand, the other hand quickly sheathing the knife.

“Greetings,” he said. “And to what honor do I owe this nocturnal intrusion?”

“It is time,” said Hawthorne.

For a moment Dean stood there motionless, a questioning expression on his face. And then suddenly his expression changed, his eyes narrowing.

“You are certain? When we wanted to proceed before, you preached caution. What has changed?” he asked. “You have proof?”

“As much proof as we need,” said Mather. “I have seen the red smoke.”

Dean turned again to Hawthorne, who simply nodded. “Now is the time to act,” he said.

Dean nodded, turned, and called back into the room, “Virgil!”

“Aye, brother,” said Virgil, still slowly eating the haunch of meat.

“Our brothers in God are here. Reverend Hawthorne claims it is time.”

“Time for what?” asked Virgil. But when Dean didn’t answer he pushed back from the table and stood. “I see,” he said.

“Sharpen the tools,” said Dean. “We’re going hunting.”

“Already have, brother, already have,” said Virgil. “A dull blade is of no use to anyone.”

Dean turned back to the door. “Well, Reverend, we shall be the Lord’s instruments of just destruction, his means of righteous anger. Direct us toward the demons and we’ll gut their bellies as we would any fatted hog awaiting slaughter.”

Chapter Five

They moved quietly through the night, the four of them traveling along the forest path single file. They all wore dark cloaks. Two of them had their faces hidden within their hoods. And they all had faces that were covered by dark masks emblazoned with rough-sewn death’s heads. Memento mori , remember that you will die. Moonlight caught the death’s heads and made them stand out faintly against the darkness, and with their otherwise dark clothing it was as if disembodied skulls were floating slowing down the path. It caught, too, on the blades of the weapons that a pair of the masked figures held: two huge splitting axes slung over their shoulders.

Even from a distance, they could make out the red smoke rising from the hovel’s crude chimney. It had an unearthly glow to it. Yes, this was the Devil’s fire.

They entered the clearing that contained the hovel and slowly spread out. Hawthorne approached the door silently. He depressed the latch lightly with his finger and then placed his hand against the door and pushed. The door, apparently barred from within, did not budge.

He slowly circled the house, the others following him as he examined the walls. After a moment he stopped, examined a section of wall up and down, and then nodded. He gestured and the masked Magnus brothers came forward. Together they heaved up their axes and began to chop.

The first few blows did but little, but after a moment the wooden wall began to splinter and crack, slowly coming asunder. Would they simply make an opening, wondered Hawthorne, or would the zeal of the brothers collapse the hut? Perhaps the easiest way to resolve this, he thought, would be for the hovel to collapse and for the witches to die beneath its weight.

But soon the hole was large enough for the Magnus brothers to shoulder their way in, Hawthorne and Mather following close behind.

What Hawthorne saw filled him with dread. The only one of the women on her feet was Margaret Morgan, who stood stock-still, her legs quivering, playing a simple haunting melody on a violin. The fire was high and strange, the color wrong, and around it, writhing at Morgan’s feet, were the rest of the coven. They were naked, their bodies painted with strange symbols, and they moved over and across one another, moaning with ecstasy. They embraced one another but tried, too, to couple with the ground, and one even had blackened and burning fingers where she had thrust them into the fire. With one or two it was as if their skin was covered with unnatural shadows that moved and twisted back and forth in a way not canny with the light cast in the room itself. On the sole bed in the corner was the body of a slaughtered woman, trussed to the bed, gutted, most of her abdomen missing, the bed and dirt floor beneath it slick with her blood. He recognized her: Krista Seward. She had been pregnant. He cast his eyes around for the child, but could not find it.

He felt his skin crawl. Any doubt that he’d had that these were witches, that this was a coven, immediately vanished.

The Magnus brothers went straight for the fire, kicking aside the convulsing witches in their path. With their axes they scattered the coals, stamping their way through the flames and kicking sparks and embers onto the witches around it. Some of them seemed to come back to themselves, brushing off the embers, ceasing their writhing and crying out, and becoming conscious of their surroundings. Others, however, seemed not to notice even as the embers burned their hair and flesh and the room filled with the stench of it. There was a roaring sound coming from the fire and it suddenly and impossibly rose up again from the scattered ashes, and Dean Magnus’s death’s head mask smoked and caught fire. He tore it off, laughing, sparks sizzling in his beard, and beat the flames out against his leg. He and Virgil continued to kick and hack apart the fire until with a whoosh the fire diminished, its color returning to normal.