Lords of Salem (15 page)
It made him jittery just being there. No, these three were hardly his audience. And they clearly hadn’t read the book—not even a page! They hadn’t even said anything about the specifics of the book to him. Herman, who had spoken to him the most, had gotten the title wrong. It was all Francis could do not to groan when that happened, but he’d held back and just gently corrected him, just like Alice would have told him to do. No, this was already a serious disaster.
There was a commercial on, for Anderton Auto. Those crooks! He couldn’t imagine that anybody who would be interested in his book would get their car repaired at Anderton Auto. Even the commercials were telling him he shouldn’t be here.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned over, saw Herman’s face. Man, that guy had a big head. “Ready?” Herman said.
He shrugged, not sure what to say.
“Calm down, man,” said Herman. “We ain’t gonna bite. Just be yourself. It’s gonna be all right.”
The commercial wound down, slowly fading into the background. The woman, Heidi, put on some headphones, leaned toward her mike, and began to speak.
“That’s right,” she said, her voice expressing an enthusiasm that couldn’t be read in her face. “Anderton Auto is now open on Sunday. Anyway, if you’re just tuning in, we’ve got a guest in the studio. We’ll be chatting with Francis Matthias, author of the book”—she paused, looked down at the book in front of her—“
Satan’s Last Stand: The Truth about the Salem Witch Trials.
”
At least she’d gotten the title right. Maybe it’d be okay after all.
“Hello,” said Francis. “Heidi, I am happy to be here.” He winced. Two minutes in and he already sounded stilted and uptight, like he had a stick shoved up his ass.
“Heidi, may I?” asked Herman.
Heidi rolled her eyes. “Yes, you may,” she said, her voice revealing nothing of the eye roll.
Herman grinned, turned toward Francis. “So, Francis, tell me exactly how many people were actually executed during the Salem Witch trials.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but that other Herman, White Herman, cut in. “And more important,” said White Herman, “were any related to Dr. Frankenstein?”
He felt his blood start to boil—they just weren’t taking this seriously! But Alice, he knew, would want him to keep his cool. He took a deep breath and then responded.
“A good question, Herman,” he said. “Approximately twenty-five in all if you include accused witches who died while in prison…” He thought he might end it there, but both Hermans were looking at him, waiting for him to go on.
Ah, what the hell,
he thought. “And as far as I know, none were of any relation to Dr. Frankenstein.”
Whitey laughed. “Twenty-five? Are you serious? I thought there must be hundreds. I have to admit I’m disappointed by that number and especially by the non-Frankenstein lineage.”
How was he supposed to answer that? He just stared at the microphone.
“Professor Matthias,” said Heidi, “correct me if I’m wrong here, but wasn’t Dr. Frankenstein only a fictional character?”
“Yes,” he said, thankful for the correction. “Yes, I believe he was. And the book
Frankenstein
didn’t appear until nearly thirty years after the Salem Witch trials.”
“So what you’re saying is that the book
Frankenstein
was based on the Salem Witch trials?” said Whitey.
“Um, no,” said Francis, confused. “I wasn’t suggesting that at all. There’s no relation between the two.”
Whitey laughed.
Am I being toyed with?
wondered Francis.
Or is this man just an idiot?
He wondered if he should have said something else, or if he should go on now, but Heidi was already asking a new question.
“Hang with me on this, because it might seem like a ridiculous
question,” she said.
Oh no,
he thought,
not a promising start
. “Were there any quote unquote ‘real witches’ in Salem in the seventeenth century?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, today we have a large group of practicing Wiccans living in Salem, which is a positive, earth-centered religion. They sometimes refer to themselves as white witches. It might seem strange to think they would gather here, at a site where witches were persecuted in the past, but they claim to be curing the place of the evil that took place here. But I assume you mean…”
He let his voice trail off. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get caught up in this sort of conversation. It wasn’t really what his work was about. It was a historical examination, for God’s sake, not some hippy-dippy mystical speculation.
“You know,” said Heidi, “classic witches with actual powers of some sort? Any of those?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, no. There is no such thing as witchcraft. Witchcraft is nothing more than psychotic beliefs brought on by a delusional state of mind.”
“So, nothing.”
Hadn’t he said just that? Couldn’t they move on to something else? He sat there staring at her, shaking his head, but she wouldn’t ask another question. He imagined Alice at home listening. She’d be disappointed. He wasn’t playing the game; he was messing it up.
He made an effort. “Nothing,” he said.
But the woman wouldn’t let it go. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe she wasn’t the nice one after all.
“Not even the teeny-weensiest incident of supernatural activity ever occurred?” she asked. Even the way she asked he found belittling, an assault on his dignity. No, it had been a huge mistake to come on the show. He could see that now. He never should have agreed to do it.
When he spoke again, there was a harshness he couldn’t keep out of his tone. “I thought I was quite clear the first time you asked,” he said. “You can ask me again, but the answer is still no.”
But still the girl didn’t stop. What was wrong with her? “How can you be so sure?” she asked. What was she, someone with aspirations to witchhood? He was losing his temper now.
“I can be sure because I am a reasonable person,” he said angrily. “I do not believe in supernatural nonsense any more than I believe in Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.” He turned toward Whitey. “Or Frankenstein for that matter.”
“Whoa, my brother,” said Herman. “Don’t be ragging on Frankenstein. I’ve got film fest tickets to move.”
But Frances was going now and couldn’t stop. “In fact,” he said, stabbing his finger toward Heidi, “the idea of ‘real witches’ as well as the mindless cinematic trash like
Frankenstein versus the Witchhunter
—”
“Witchfinder,” interrupted Whitey.
“Witchfinder, whatever,” said Francis. He took a deep breath. “This inane garbage completely undermines the social importance of the witch trials themselves. Can’t you see that? That is exactly the problem with this country. Everything has to be a joke or a headline. History means nothing anymore.”
His anger was starting to run out of steam. He tried to calm down and wind it up. “History isn’t about the past,” he claimed. “It’s about defining who we are in the present.”
When he finished there was silence. Maybe he’d gone too far. He felt a little stab of regret; he’d promised Alice that he’d get her the tickets she wanted, but there was no way he could do that now, not with the tirade he’d just given them. There’d be hell to pay when he got home.
Heidi was looking at Herman, who was looking back at her, gesturing for her to go on. She lifted her shoulders and shrugged, gestured back to him. White Herman was deliberately not looking at either of them, staring down at his soundboard. No, he’d gone too far.
Finally Heidi spoke. “So which are we, then?” she asked. “Descendants of witches or descendants of murderers?”
For a moment a dull anger rose up in him. She was still trying to play the game, still trying to get him to say something sensational and irrational. But another part of him told him not to get angry. It wasn’t her fault—she was just doing her job, trying like so many people in Salem to sell something by using their history of destruction and violence. It was indicative of a problem with the country at large, but it wasn’t her fault. Probably it hadn’t been her who had insisted on interviewing him. Probably it hadn’t been the idea of any of them—hey, they just worked here. They were just as much victims of it as he was. And getting angry like that just made him tired.
“Both,” he said wearily. “We are the descendants of witches, and we are the descendants of murderers.”
She stared at him, a little surprised by his answer, and then White Herman jumped in and took over. “I could have told you that just by looking at the crowd at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning,” he said. “And speaking of defining who we are in the present, I think we need to define some present… It’s time for…” Whitey reached out and hit a button on the board. A recorded intro of a drumroll began to play, followed quickly by the sound of glass being smashed.
“Smash or Trash!” said the intro tape in an unnaturally deep voice.
That was it, then, thought Francis. His five minutes of radio fame were over and they were moving on to some novelty segment. Smash or Trash, whatever that meant. He’d made a fool of himself, probably came off as a pedantic old idiot. Oh well, what else was new?
“Today I think Heidi is going to provide us with the victim,” Herman was saying.
The victim?
wondered Francis. What were they talking about? They weren’t going to start doing prank calls, were they?
“That’s right, Herman,” said Heidi. “This one is a little different from most. I have no info about where this came from. Strange handmade box with a weird symbol on it that just showed up in my mailbox here at work, no return address, nothing, and with an unmarked record inside. All I know is the group is called the Lords.”
“The Lords,” said Herman. “I assume they are from around here, so we’ll just call them the Lords of Salem.”
The Lords of Salem?
Francis was a little shocked, not sure he’d heard right. Was this another joke they were playing on him? Had they read his book after all?
“Excuse me,” he said. “Did you say the Lords of Salem?”
Herman looked over at him, a little annoyed. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Francis Mattias, ladies and gentlemen. You got to remember, Francis, we’re still on the air.”
Probably just a coincidence,
Francis told himself.
I’m sure plenty of bands out there would take a name like that.
And it wasn’t exactly the band name either—they were just the Lords, right, and it was Herman who had tacked “of Salem” onto them.
No, it was just a coincidence. Nothing to worry about.
“The phone lines are now open, so get ready to smash or trash!” said Herman.
Or maybe it was the Lords of Salem, thought Francis, but the band had been founded by someone who had read his book, who knew what the name meant. Yes, that was a possibility, too. The book was just out, but bands were changing their names all the time. Maybe they had put together their album and decided on their name at the last minute…
On the other side of the studio, Whitey started the record. Initially he put the needle at the end of the record rather than at the beginning and then seemed surprised when nothing happened. Maybe he really was an idiot, thought Francis. He tried it twice that way and then put the needle where it was supposed to go. The music started up right away, and everyone took their headphones off.
“Hey, it’s going the right way,” said Whitey to Heidi, gesturing at the record. “What do you make of that?”
“I guess your turntable is possessed,” said Heidi to Herman.
“Not my turntable,” said Herman. “Last I checked that was how records played.”
“Yeah,” said Whitey. “That’s what I said. It’s going the right way. Last night it wasn’t. It was playing backward.”
“Backward?” said Herman. “Nah.”
“I shit you not,” said Whitey. “Ask Heidi.”
Herman turned to her. She nodded. “I know it sounds weird,” she said, “but that’s what happened.”
Herman stared at her a moment, then shook his head. “Naw, you guys are both messing with me,” he said. “Or you just had too much to drink last night.”
Backward?
wondered Francis.
What were they talking about? And what was it about the music that was making his skin crawl?
A sound like women chanting, but distorted. Instruments that sounded damaged and as if they were deliberately being played wrong. Maisie Mather was naked in bed with her gangly boyfriend Jarrett when she heard the song on the radio.
Maisie was a WXKB girl, born and bred. It was the only Salem-based station that played classic rock, and it had stuck to that for years. She had curly black hair and was petite, not bad to look at but no raving beauty either. But she liked the way she looked; she was comfortable with it, and with herself. Maisie had lived a charmed life. She’d lived in Salem all her life, had even lived on the same block with her parents until finally moving out a few years back and into her own place. She’d grown up feeling loved and protected, and the knowledge that her family was old-Salem blood had given her a sense of privilege and belonging that she’d come to rely on. Her parents had accepted that privilege but had always played down her ancestor Judge Mather’s relation to the witch trials, and she had at first, too. But once she was older she’d embraced it, deciding that she might as well accept it rather than run from it. That was why she’d gotten involved with the Witch Museum, why she’d made a gift to the museum of Judge Mather’s papers once her parents had died.
It was still hard for her to think about their death. It had been so unnecessary, and the officer at the scene had said it was a hundred to one shot, that the wreck wasn’t all that bad and that they should have
survived. Indeed, the people in the other car had all walked away without a scratch. She was still getting over that, and she never got into a car without thinking about it and wondering if, had she been in the car, she would have died, too.
She’d gone to college at Boston University, commuting every day from Salem. At the time, she’d told herself that once she graduated she was done with Salem and with Massachusetts in general, but no, apparently not. She didn’t know if it was inertia or an unwillingness to abandon her parents even though they were dead or what, but every time she got up the nerve to leave, something happened to keep her here. Last time, she’d even had a job arranged in California, had bought the plane ticket and everything, when she’d gotten a call to say that the company had been taken over and the job no longer existed. After a while, she started thinking of it as fate and figured she’d be here pretty much forever.