Rob Zombie - Lords of Salem

And then the figure took a step out into the hall.

Thursday

Chapter Forty

Francis had a stack of books out already, several dozen of them, and a bunch of crumpled photocopied articles as well, but he still hadn’t found what he was looking for. There had been so much that he’d read when he’d been writing his own book, pages and pages, and so much that he hadn’t been able to fit in—even with his computer files and index cards and scrawled notes it was anyone’s guess where he’d find what he’d been looking for.

But he’d find it eventually; he was sure. It was here. It was just a question of time. He pulled another book off the shelf, a cheap paperback with a broken spine called Mass Hysteria in Salem, Mass. , and paged through it. He read some of his marginalia within it, and then thought, no, probably not that one, and shoved it back in. Another book, Witches in Salem: A Cultural Anthropology , he kept out longer, thinking it more likely, but no, nothing relevant in the index, and nothing revealed by a quick scan-through. Sighing, he dropped it onto the desk, as something to comb through more closely later.

He scanned farther down the shelves, pulled out a dark hardcover called The End of the American Witch . Maybe yes, it was this one.

And when he began to page through, he came right to it. He read for a moment, nodding his head, and then carried the book out of the room.

“Alice!” he called. “Alice?”

Where was she? Why could he never find her when he wanted to show her something. No, not wanted—needed. This was important.

He wandered out into the living room looking for her, but she wasn’t there. Not in the kitchen either. Had she gone out when he wasn’t looking? Maybe she’d told him and it just hadn’t registered because he’d been looking through the books. Yes, that was possible. He had a hard time focusing on other things when he was caught up in his research.

“Alice?” he called again, a little louder this time, and this time heard her voice from inside the bedroom. “What?” she said. Only when he went into the bedroom she wasn’t there. Had he misheard? What kind of game was she playing?

“Alice!” he shouted. “Can you come help me with something?”

“What?” she shouted back. She was in the bathroom. He should have realized. He went to the door and pressed his face close to it.

“I need you to play something,” he said. “On the piano.”

“I’m in the tub!” she shouted back.

What did that have to do with it? he wondered. He checked the doorknob and, finding it unlocked, went in.

The room was still steamy from the heat of the water. Alice liked her baths hot enough to cook off a layer or two of epidermis. His glasses immediately fogged up. He closed the door behind himself, shuffled over the honeycomb tile to the edge of the claw-foot tub.

“Francis!” she said, and covered her breasts with her arms. Why should she bother doing that? He’d seen her naked countless times before, and she looked great like that. There was no cause for her to be embarrassed.

“Look at these pages from John Hawthorne’s diary,” he said, and held the book toward her.

“Can’t this wait five minutes?” she asked.

“Why?” he asked, surprised. He realized he had it turned to the wrong page, flipped through it until he found the right one. “Most of the books just give a transcript,” he said. “But this one gives a facsimile.”

He settled on the toilet seat, holding the book where she could see it. He pointed.

“Now look here,” he said. “This book reprints a few of the surviving pages from Revered John Hawthorne’s diary. A very fine reproduction, too.”

“I thought that diary was considered to be the writing of a lunatic,” Alice said. “You yourself told me that, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said patiently, drawing himself up a little. “It is true that many believe it to be the writings of a man in an advanced stage of dementia, but that’s not important right now. My point is that he refers to this coven of witches as the Lords of Salem… then that DJ Heidi tells me that this music from ‘the Lords,’ the one they played after I spoke, was sent directly to her.”

Exasperated, Alice chuckled. “So?”

“Let me finish,” said Francis. “Heidi’s full name, you may be surprised to know, is Adelheid Hawthorne. She is directly descended from Jonathan Hawthorne.” He had her attention now, he could see. “On top of that, we have this incident of slaughter in which Maisie Mather butchered her boyfriend. Maisie Mather is a direct descendant of Judge Mather, who, according to Hawthorne’s diary was directly involved with Hawthorne in the execution of this Lords coven.”

For a moment they just stared at one another.

“Strange, no?” said Francis.

Alice nodded. “And your point is?”

Francis took a deep breath. “Well,” he admitted, “I’m not exactly sure what my point is. That’s why I need you to play something for me.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Alice, “but if you insist, let me get out of the tub and I’ll meet you at the piano.”

“I’d like that,” said Francis. Satisfied, he stood back up, still scanning the book, and wandered out of the room. A moment later he was back. “How long do you think you’ll be in the bath?” he asked.

“I just got in,” said Alice.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Francis.

Alice sighed. “I’ll be out soon, I guess,” she said.

“Soon,” said Francis. “Yes, that sounds good. Soon. Okay, I’ll be waiting.”

Heidi felt like she was sleepwalking, dead on her feet. Maybe this is a dream, she thought. Maybe she was still asleep, lying in her bed, waiting for the nightmare to begin.

But it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt real. She was here, and the sun was out; the air was crisp but there was no wind. She was walking through the streets of Salem with Steve, and walking past people who seemed normal and real enough, and some of them were even people she knew. Some of them knew her and nodded as she passed or even spoke, and she did her best to nod or speak back, though from the way they looked at her, the concerned looks they gave her, she could tell that they knew she wasn’t all there.

Why was she so tired? Last night, for once, she hadn’t had any dreams. At least not any she could remember. Come to think of it, she hardly remembered anything after the radio show itself, and even that came only in bits and pieces. She remembered vomiting in the bathroom, remembered the embarrassment of Herman coming after her and dressing her down and accusing her. How dare he? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, okay, she admitted to herself, maybe she hadn’t told him everything, hadn’t told him about smoking the joint, but she’d only done that because of the dreams, to calm herself down. It wasn’t like it mattered—she’d told him the important things. After that, she remembered the show itself, remembered muddling her way through it, and then Whitey had put on the Lords again and something had happened. It was like she’d just phased out. And then she’d woken up in her own bed, hours later, sun streaming in on her. No dreams, no memories, nothing. But still, somehow, even more exhausted than she’d been the night before.

But Steve had to go out and so she’d groaned and heaved herself up and fed him and then they’d gone, and now here they were and she’d forgotten her sunglasses to boot, so she had to wince and squint. Hell of a start for what was sure to be a miserable day.

She let Steve lead her. She followed him to the green and gold sign that read SALEM WITCH TRIALS MEMORIAL, and then let him lead her down the brick path and along the stone wall. He went slowly, sniffing his way, occasionally lifting his leg to mark his territory.