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“This is a town matter. And as we do in all town matters, the voice of democracy will be heard.”

The Widow Talbot, from the wealthier part of town, stood up and said with perfect composure, “I tend to agree with Mr. Mathers. We can't just send them to Doodletown three times in a row and turn them into psychological wrecks, can we? That's what happened to Arthur Roth, and it destroyed his sanity. Honestly, I think that's much more inhumane than a good cracking of the whip for a mere five minutes.”

Steve sat looking at the scene in disbelief, and he felt the hairs in the nape of his neck stand on end. This was turning obscene fast. If this woman, this very model of respectability and refinement, could stand up with such sangfroid and declare herself in favor of public shaming, of public torture … then the floodgates were open.

“Besides,” Mrs. Talbot continued, raising a finger, “if people have indeed been so irresponsible as to associate with the witch, I think it's a good idea to set an example for everyone. You have my blessing.”

An approving hum, but nervous nonetheless, watchful.

“And what is wrong with simple custody?” Grim insisted. “We have a cell block under the church. We can strip them psychologically and convince them of the seriousness of what they've done. We…”

“You've made your point, Grim,” someone in the audience called out. “Why don't you just sit down?”

The voice met with general approval and Grim looked around helplessly. Steve felt an instinctive need to stand up and speak out against this charade, but Jocelyn grabbed his hand and pressed it hard against her stomach. “I don't want you to say anything, Steve. Think of Tyler and Matt.”

He looked at her in amazement, but when he saw the fear in her eyes, it all became clear. The last time, with Arthur Roth, the townsfolk had forgiven him for his reckless idealism. This time would be different. The collective madness was too far gone; the meltdown was irreversible. Right now they were heroes because they had tracked down the parasites who had stoned the witch and smoked them out of their holes … and it might just be better to remain heroes.

“They'll take a vote,” Jocelyn whispered. “Have faith in their common sense.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't.” He looked at Pete for support, but Pete was staring into the distance with the vacant expression of a man who has just seen his worst nightmare come true. His fingers were clenched around Mary's, and Steve saw that he had absolutely no intention of standing up.

Think about Tyler. You knew this was going to happen.

But not … this!

Come on, who are you kidding? Of course you knew. Keep your mouth shut or you'll pay the price.

“Dad, I want to go home,” Tyler whispered anxiously.

Steve looked at his son and grabbed his hand. It could have been Tyler up there on trial. He could entertain all the fantasies he wanted about floating down the Hudson with his son, but if he didn't appreciate what was at stake now, he might well forfeit his chances. So Steve leaned back … and said nothing.

The rest of the trial passed by in a haze. Mr. Şayer made an emotional appeal. His house had already been destroyed; could they at least show mercy for his son? He spoke about building bridges and getting past ethnic differences. He spoke about humanity and decency. He spoke with a heavy accent and was dragged away by enraged onlookers as he wouldn't stop speaking. A fight broke out, and Mr. Walker tore himself loose from its core, threatening to go to the media if they went ahead with their punishment. But neither the menacing looks of the townsfolk nor the councilman with his Doodletown were needed to reveal the obvious: that Mr. Walker was a broken man who would resign himself to the situation. And wasn't there a hint of acceptance on his face? If it had been someone else's son, he would have voted in favor.

Griselda Holst also objected in tears. She was given the most time because the townsfolk liked her the most. Still, Steve understood it was just a formality and wouldn't make a bit of difference. The people smelled blood and were eager to vote. The butcher's wife reminded the crowd of Jaydon's tragic history of abuse by his father and the emotional damage that had caused this atrocity, and she concluded with a plea to let her Jaydon be treated rather than punished. “Please, dear friends. We know each other, right? Don't you all come to see me every week to buy your steaks? Your hamburgers? Your veal cutlets? Your chicken wings? Your pâté?”

“Get that woman out of here before she starts listing the whole fucking meat department!” some smart-ass shouted. It was a tasteless joke, but the comedian got what he wanted: Griselda was led away, weeping uncontrollably.

It was finally time to vote. The councilman asked all those in favor of the sentence to raise their right hands. Many hands went into the air, including those of three Council members. Then Mathers asked everyone who opposed the sentence to raise their right hands. Steve raised his hand high … and to his enormous relief he again saw many hands in the air. And now, too, there were three Council members among them—including Robert Grim, of course. Steve felt a spark of hope. The vote had been indecisive. It was impossible to tell which held the majority. That meant that a large group had had the common sense to silently turn away from this mockery, thank God.

While the written vote was being prepared, Grim took the floor once again: “Folks, don't be stupid. I know this is what the Emergency Decree says, but it's a joke. Keep this in mind: If the moment ever comes that we are freed from Katherine's curse, will you be able to look each other in the eye with this on your conscience? Will you be able to dance around the church and sing, ‘Ding-dong! The witch is dead,' if there's blood on your hands? Please be sensible!”

Then began the endless, shuffling procession past the podium, where four packs of printer paper had been ripped out of their packaging, and people were given felt-tips to write down an anonymous “yea” or “nay.” Because they were up front, Steve, Jocelyn, and Tyler were among the first voters. Steve dropped his makeshift ballot into the voting box—the same box that had been used only a week earlier for the presidential elections. Last week they had been voting for who would get the key to the White House for the next four years, Barack Obama or Mitt Romney. It was an absurd link with a reality that Black Spring had completely lost sight of.

It took at least an hour before everyone, including those who had trouble walking, those in wheelchairs, and those who had been waiting in the cloakroom and up on the balcony, had voted. The sorting and counting of the ballots by Council members took another twenty minutes. Steve lost sight of Jocelyn, Tyler, and the VanderMeers and had never felt so miserable and alone, despite the fact that many townspeople grabbed hold of him and wanted to know exactly how events had unfolded. At a certain point he became aware of a sudden, hyperreal image: The people around him not only resembled but actually
were
people of yore, wearing rags that stank of mud and disease. If he were to walk outside, Deep Hollow Road would be a cart track, the bell in the steeple of an ancient nearby church would be chiming, and the year would be 1664.

Steve was both relieved and dead tired when Colton Mathers finally asked for order in the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention. I shall test your patience no longer. With one thousand three hundred thirty-two votes for and six hundred seventeen against, the demanded sentence has been accepted.”

A shock wave of horror shuddered through Memorial Hall as people realized how many of their neighbors and friends, in the safety of anonymity, had been seduced by sensationalism and gut feelings. There was cheering and there was anger, there were those who cried and those who screamed for a rebellion, but most were satisfied that justice had been done.

The councilman continued: “The sentence will be carried out this coming Thursday at the place of the traditional All Hallows Burning, at the intersection of Deep Hollow Road and Lower Reservoir Road. It is the duty and responsibility of each and every one of you to witness the sentencing. I therefore suggest that we set the time at the first light of dawn, to reduce the impact on the public order and your own work schedules. Let us pray that we learn a lesson from all of this and put this mutiny behind us once and for all. Lord, our Father…”

Mathers led them in prayer, and most of the community joined in. These were people who had known each other all their lives, who respected each other and loved each other in their own peculiar ways, as they usually did in small upstate towns. But Steve noticed that they had all undergone a radical change. He felt it even more strongly when they slunk away a little while later, silently and with averted eyes. A resignation had fallen over the townsfolk that Steve found even more uncanny than the earlier tension.

They looked like people who knew they had done something dreadful, something irreversible … and something they could easily live with.

 

TWENTY-ONE

BLACK SPRING PREPARED
for execution of the sentence as if it were a holiday. The original seventeenth-century cat-o'-nine-tails was taken out of the display case in the Town Hall's small Council Chamber. It was a fine specimen: a nicely decorated rod with nine leather cords, each one two feet long with a knot at the halfway point and little lead balls at the far end. The instrument had not been used since 1932. Colton Mathers brought it to Dinnie's Shoe Repair especially for the occasion and instructed her to impregnate the leather with oiled wax so it could stand up to vigorous lashes without snapping.

Theo Stackhouse, who had been a garage owner and car mechanic the week before, eagerly accepted the office of town executioner and was summoned to the stables of the councilman's estate on Wednesday night. He practiced first on a leather saddle, to master the art of flogging, and then on a floundering, bound calf, to prepare himself for the reflex of living flesh. That night before he went to bed he took two Advils for the intense aches in his upper arm, but despite the pain, he slept like a baby.

Griselda Holst didn't sleep at all that night. Even though her own flesh and blood was about to become the center of attention, she felt overwhelmed by a sense of submission. And she was not alone: All the people of Black Spring seemed to have succumbed to the same resignation. If he hadn't been too painfully attached to the matter, Pete VanderMeer, as a sociologist, might have drawn similarities with countries in which people willingly submit to Sharia law. It was precisely for this reason that no one would stand up in protest or notify the authorities. Even those who had voted against the sentence thought perhaps it was all for the best. They just wanted to get it over with so they could get on with their lives.

So instead of worrying about Jaydon's fate, Griselda spent the night praying to Katherine. On her bare knees, on the little rug beside her bed, she asked for forgiveness for her apostasy. As penance, she tried to chastise herself by whipping her back with Jaydon's belt. But it all felt a bit clumsy and awkward and as soon as it really began to hurt Griselda thought,
This is not my thing,
and stopped.

If instead of going through all that hassle she had been looking out the window, she would have seen her son, Justin Walker, and Burak Şayer being silently escorted through the cemetery by nine burly men. The accused were led into Crystal Meth Church, where they went down the same circular stairway that Griselda had taken so often to keep Arthur Roth alive. In the vaults, Colton Mathers read the sentence aloud. At first the boys thought he must be joking, but soon the screaming began—first startled, then frightened, then hysterical. It was a hideous screaming, a bone-chilling expression of pure human suffering and desperation. And as soon as the door had been shut with a bang, they found themselves alone underground with the dead of the surrounding graveyard, and it seemed as if the dead were screaming with them.

The screaming woke the owls. It woke the weasels.

And somewhere in Black Spring, the witch stopped whispering … and listened.

The next morning, November 15, people began arriving before daybreak to assure themselves of a good spot. Just like at the Wicker Burning two weeks earlier, the intersection was blocked with crowd barriers that were placed in a circle around the wooden scaffold. The scaffold itself had been built by Clyde Willingham's construction company: a six-foot-high platform, nine feet square, with something on it that looked like an A-frame swing made of wooden trestles. The crowds gathered far out into the rainy narrow streets around the intersection. It was typical overcast New York weather and they all wore ponchos and rain hoods that glistened in the light of the streetlamps, but they were considerate enough to leave their umbrellas at home in order to keep from blocking the view. Sue's Highland Diner did a brisk business selling steaming coffee and cocoa from an outdoor stand to ease the pain of waiting. Those lucky enough to have friends living in nearby houses sat high and dry at upstairs windows. Many of the old and rich had gathered in the rooms of The Point to Point Inn, which had been made available at criminal hourly rates to compensate for the necessity of transferring Outsiders to out-of-town accommodations.

Of course Robert Grim was in charge of the practical implementation of all of this. He had hermetically sealed off the town on all sides, put up fencing, and posted voluntary patrol officers at the borders. It was tricky, but with careful planning, the roads only had to be closed off for one hour before the first flush of rose began bleeding into the east. As all retailers had been ordered by the Council to reschedule or cancel Outside services, the roadblocks went almost unnoticed, and only a few cars had to be turned away.

Robert Grim was disgusted. He was disgusted by all of it. He was disgusted by the people and their hypocritical, disguised lust for blood. He was disgusted by their opportunism and their treachery. He was disgusted by Mathers, by the executioner, by Katherine, and by the boys who had stoned her. And he was disgusted by himself, because he didn't have the guts to stand up to this disgusting circus.