Chapter 5

When I arrived home, I immediately called the Putnam residence. Mrs. Putnam answered immediately. After listening to my story, she told me that Reverend Putnam kept a journal of the event.

She was busy packing to join the Reverend but understood my situation and invited me to their parsonage to inspect the journal. Although she said nothing about her husband's incident during our brief phone conversation, she seemed aware of my danger and wanted to help, or perhaps it was just the impression I got from our brief conversation. I canceled my appointments for the rest of the week, tossed a couple of changes of clothing into a suitcase, and pointed my car west.

Massachusetts is not a large State. I took the Turnpike west and arrived in Reverend Putnam's town less than three hours after hanging up the phone. Compared with the overpopulated almost manic feel of the coastal towns, the atmosphere is quite a bit different in the western part of the state. I drove into the town and think it would easily fit into the Vermont countryside. Norman Rockwell might have used it in his paintings without making any changes. In fact, Norman Rockwell had lived in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, not very far south of the town I in which I found myself.

Locating the church and parsonage turned out to be easy. I quickly recognized the glistening white church I first noticed in Danielsford. It sat near the middle of the village. The just as sparkling white parsonage sat beside it, connected by an enclosed breezeway. The parsonage and breezeway were absent in Danielsford.

Mrs. Putnam answered my knock. She was a trim, tall woman of around forty who looked younger than her age. Attractive with brown hair and eyes, she dressed in the prim, modest way one would expect of a preacher’s wife with plain dark blue dress that ended below the knees. In her right hand, she held a pair of what looked like over-the-counter reading glasses.

"I began assembling my husband's papers as soon as you called." She moved aside and motioned me in.

"You were with him when it happened?" I asked.

She replied instantly. "We were both trapped in something like time warp or whatever you call it. I'll tell you what I know. There's much more in his journal. I have the papers collected and sorted for you."

"I'm sorry," I said. "You're busy."

She smiled. "Reverend Conant told me you may be in danger. I called him shortly after we hung up. He wishes he could be here to help and asked that I assist any way I can."

"Do the police realize what happened here?" I asked.

She glanced back into the parsonage. "Not that I'm aware. Really, if they knew, what could they do?"

I started to answer and nodded. It was the same comment I heard from Reverend Conant. She was right. I nodded and followed her into the parsonage.

She led me into the sitting room. For the next couple of hours, sprinkled with interruptions from several telephone calls, she told me the story. It sounded unrelated to my trouble, but I hoped a clue might surface.

"We awoke that morning at five-thirty. My husband is an early riser. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until he walked out the door. He faithfully took a one-hour walk every morning. He had a mild heart event a few years ago. His doctors advised him to walk five miles a day. He hadn't more than stepped out the door when he rushed back in to tell me something had happened, but he didn't say what.

"I went to the door and looked out. My first impression was to think I had to be dreaming. The town, our town, was gone. It was as if something took the church and our home and moved them somewhere else during the night."

"Danielsford," I said.

She nodded. "We weren’t aware of the name until later. At that moment, neither of us knew what to think. We were speechless."

"I think anybody would be."

"We stood on the porch for it seemed like the better part of an hour. We just stared at this new old place. I waited to wake up. It had to be a dream, you see. Nothing else could explain it."

"When did he find the casket?" I asked.

"Later in the day," she said. "We spent most of the morning trying to make sense of it all. The phone didn't work, so we were incapable of calling anyone. We even tried to leave but, this will sound crazy, we drove south out of town and came right back in from the north. He tried going north and ended up coming in from the south. The town wouldn't let us go."

"I could leave," I said, telling how I found the place and how I returned.

"All I know is that we couldn't get away. Maybe you could because you came into it. We were here when it came."

"Makes sense. Did you meet any of the people?"

"I'll put on some coffee." She stood and left the room without waiting for a reply. A few minutes later, she returned.

"The people," she continued, taking her seat. "Mr. Putnam enjoys people. He couldn’t wait to go out and meet them. I took walks but never did more than greet those I saw."

She told me she walked around the Common but most of the people seemed to avoid contact. "They tended to be quite standoffish toward me."

"A woman named Bradbury?" I asked. “She had a store.”

"She’s the one in the coffin." She locked eyes with me. "Her name is Mary Bradbury."

I opened my mouth and closed it. I now had the confirmation telling me I was right.

"A young lady said she had been condemned. She mentioned the trials. I suppose she was talking about the Witch Trials, in Salem."

"So you said," said Mrs. Putnam. "I knew she couldn’t be the Mary Bradbury who was charged and convicted in Salem. That Mary was an elderly woman in her 70s.”

"Did you happen to find out how she died?" I asked.

"She was hanged, just as your young lady said. Be right back." Mrs. Putnam left and returned with two cups of coffee. She continued immediately. "A year after the Witch trials ended, the townspeople hanged her. As she stood with the rope around her neck, she cursed them. It's all in the journal."

"They weren't punished?" I asked. The information she gave me confirmed a couple of my questions. The woman in the coffin was tried and hanged as a witch.

"I don't know and doubt there's a way to find out. Officially, the Witch Trials were over. Unofficially, it seems they continued in other places. Remember, the Puritans were the dominant force in the Colony. The Royal Governor said certain evidence could not be used, but he could also look the other way if he even knew. Spectral evidence was no longer admissible, but people could still be arrested and hung for being a witch based on other proof."

"Still, the people trusted your husband enough to tell him that."

"About the hanging and the curse," she said. "They seemed to speak freely to him. People tend to do that with him."

She told me the Reverend based his assumptions on information I didn't and might never have. He had spoken with the villagers and learned things. I hoped he put the information in his journal.

"Well," I said, "At least I have a chance.”

"Remember, they didn't beat her, Mr. Jackson. They're trapped. And," she added. "Danielsford will appear again. You might be saving others who may come onto the town in the future."

She gave me a thick brown folder containing the journal.

"It's getting late," she said. "I have other matters to attend to. The folder has the original papers my husband wrote. Please take care of them. Are you staying at the motel?"

Where to stay hadn't crossed my mind. I told her I planned to check in there for the night.

"You can return them tomorrow. I hope they have what you're looking for."

***

The motel was a small affair that had seen more prosperous times. The town had no industry and no tourist attraction other than the fall foliage and maybe the following deer hunting season. Hunters wouldn't add much money to the town or the motel. Deer season is not the event in Massachusetts it is in the three New England states to the north.

I didn't waste much time worrying about what kept the motel or village alive. I was more interested in reading the journal, hoping to find a way to keep me alive.

I opened the folder and laid the papers out on a small, round table sitting beside the bed. Before long, I realized Putnam had been quite meticulous and detailed. He included everything he saw and experienced, however small, about Danielsford and its residents. Maybe he sensed the danger and felt it best to be precise in hope something he wrote would be relevant.

An hour into my reading, I realized it to be too much to try to absorb in a single sitting. I concentrated on trying to find the information that may well save my life.

Sifting through the pile of notes, I found a part concerning the woman. It read:

"The coffin was discovered early in the afternoon of the first day. When it appeared, or if it had always been there, I cannot say. Until then, my wife and I functioned in what I will describe as a state of shock. My mind still refused to accept what had happened. The appearance of the roughly made wooden coffin at the altar only added to the confusion.

“People from the town clustered in small groups nearby. None would admit bringing the box to the church, nor did any of them approach me with an explanation as to who rested in it or what they expected of me. The coffin had been nailed shut. I immediately discerned the nails holding it together were of a type seldom seen in centuries. They appeared to be of new manufacture but of an old style, made of iron and having a square head.

“The coffin, too, looked newly made. The wood seeming freshly cut. They made it by hand of a series of boards nailed together over an oblong frame. Again, I wondered what they expected me to do with the deceased.

“Obviously I made the assumption they, the people of the village whose names we did not then know, wanted me to lay the person to rest. At that moment, I could not even say whether a man or woman rested inside the homemade coffin.”

I put the papers back in the folder and stood. It was nearly seven in the evening. I decided to take a short walk to clear my head and, if anything remained open, find a bite to eat. I noticed a small restaurant, or diner, near the edge of town when I drove in. It was only a few blocks away.

***

Once I stretched my legs and ate dinner, I returned to the motel intending to bury myself in Putnam's papers. I picked up where I had left off.

"The logical thing to do was to enquire as to the identity of the corpse and attempt to learn the family's intentions. I left the church and once again felt somewhat befuddled by the scene greeting me as I stepped outside. Of my town, only the church and parsonage remained. Everything else was gone, replaced by the mystery village. Though I think being still in shock, I somehow managed to keep my wits.

"People milled about on the Common and street. None gave me as much as a glance, as if by ignoring me they believed I would leave them alone. I did not intend to do so. To let any more of the day go by without finding answers to my questions was unthinkable.

"The village had a look of age, but the homes and businesses were clearly of relatively new construction, which I had surmised earlier in the day. When I stepped onto the dirt street, it reinforced my theory. Not only was the town old, but the people also spoke an old form of English. Although understandable, it contained words and phrases no longer heard in my world. I will not attempt to reproduce them, except in certain instances.

"I collared a man who attempted to cross the street to, I presume, avoid me and asked him about the town and the coffin. He answered readily once cornered.

"The town, he told me in his heavily accented English, was Danielsford and the person in my church was named Mary Bradbury."

I put the paper down and nodded. The young woman who spoke to me as I looked in the window had said the store was closed and Mary Bradbury had passed. I picked up the paper and continued.

“I asked about the family's wishes. The man shook his head and told me, 'She were convicted as a witch.' A sense of shock ran through me at hearing the word, in such an environment. It must have shown. The man, who was of average height with a husky, muscular build hastily added, 'She has laid upon us a curse. It need be removed that we may go on.' I'm not certain those were his exact words. They are as close as I can come to replicating them.

"After telling me of the curse, he hurried away, leaving me standing in the street with even more questions."

The Reverend wasn't the only one with questions. I shuffled through the papers. Much of what I read concerned the town. By then, I was no longer certain the town was as relevant to my problem as I had first believed. If I found nothing else about Mary Bradbury and her curse on the town, I had no choice but to wade through the pile again to try to find out if I had missed anything.

At midnight, I gave up. I experienced a sense of calm, something I had missed since the dreams began. Had I, for the moment, escaped the other woman's talons? I doubted it would last, but I knew I ought to take advantage of it and try to get a full night's sleep. Putting the papers aside, I climbed into bed.

Next morning, a Wednesday, after an uneventful night, I awoke almost refreshed. I say almost because the problem remained, along with all the stress accompanying it. After a long, hot shower, I drove the several blocks to the diner and had breakfast. I brought the folder containing some of Putnam's papers with me to read. They were notes I culled from the pile. None of them told me anything about Mary Bradbury or the type of curse she placed on the town. Nor did I find anything about removing it.

It became apparent the Reverend had not found an answer as to how to rid the place of the curse. If he had, I'm sure he would have mentioned it, or done it. Just to be sure, I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Putnam when I returned her husband's journal.

It was while walking from the small diner that I spotted her. She stood in the shadow of a large maple tree, staring at me. Her arms hung casually at her side, partially concealed in the folds of a long, loose, ragged dark dress similar to the woman on the Common.

She looked a bit younger than the other, but all else was similar. I could only assume she was Mary Bradbury, the one who lay in the coffin. I froze half in and half out the diner's door.

"Are you okay?" the cashier asked.

"I'm fine." I glanced at her and stepped out, letting the door swing closed.

The woman standing in the shadow of the tree never moved. She may well have been a statue, only I knew she wasn't. She was quite real. She remained motionless except for her eyes, which followed me.

I had a quick reflection that Reverend Putnam was fortunate to be away. His papers, even if they said nothing about her existence in the 21st Century, confirmed she had once lived.

"Damn, it's still four months to Halloween," said a man who came out behind me. He stared at the woman and shook his head before continuing to his car. I started to call to him and didn't. Would he believe my story, or consider me crazy, as did many others I contacted for help?

After a few seconds, I hurried to my car and drove away. Mary watched me leave, never moving a muscle. I sensed her eyes following me.

"She's here?" Mrs. Putnam asked.

"Across from the diner at the edge of town," I said. "She stood across the street watching me. Another man spotted her." I described him and the car he drove, a white Taurus.

"That sounds like Abel Barrett." She picked up the phone, motioning me to be still. Mrs. Putnam spoke with Abel briefly, thanked him, and placed the phone back on the cradle. She took a breath and looked at me.

"I'm not crazy," I said.

"You aren't. His description matches yours." She stared at the pile of papers on the table and said softly, "Take them with you."

"You should make copies, in case anything happens to me."

She thought for a moment, then nodded and stood. She walked slowly to the window and peered out. "You're right. And my husband wouldn't want them lost."

"What do you know that isn't in these notes?" I asked.

"Everything is in the papers." Mrs. Putnam turned and eyed the journal.

"Do you believe she'll come for you?" I asked.

"Why would she?" She said it so casually she might have been talking about a church social. She picked up the folder and gestured for me to follow. "I'll use the copier in my husband's office."

The parsonage sat on the west side of the church. It connected to the church by a passageway, converted into three small rooms. One served as the office, another did duty as a storage room and the last was a dressing room for the Reverend. Once upon a time, it had probably been a breezeway.

When she finished copying, she slid the papers into a brown folder, handed it to me and ushered me to the door.

“Please take care, Mr. Jackson,” she said. “And stay in touch. I want to know how you make out.”

"I'll call." I took the folder and riffled through it.

"Read the journal thoroughly,” she said. “If there's an answer, I'm sure it'll be in there. I wish you the very best of luck."

I turned and saw the visage standing across the street from the parsonage. Mrs. Putnam had already closed the door. Whether she noticed her, I can’t say.

I stared back at the specter for a second and then hurriedly went to my car, climbed in and started the engine. The specter remained motionless, eyes still locked on the church. The first impulse to hit me was that I needed to escape.

How long would I have to run? The answer was obvious. I would run until I found the answer, or until she caught me. In my rear-view mirror, I could see her standing as motionless as a statue. She hadn't moved and seemed to be focused on the church.

Part of me considered returning, possibly in hopes of saving Mrs. Putnam. Could I save her from a witch who could capture an entire village? I could barely save myself.