Take Me Back To Salem [Part 1: The Request]

    There was a faint knock on the door—just one and his nerves spiked. He looked at the clock, hands fidgeting and breaths shortening, but the time didn’t match.

     Eleven fifty: ten minutes earlier than usual.

     Maybe it’s just a visitor, he thought to himself with the aim of soothing the nerves, but another voice in his mind opposed. Nobody ever comes here; the closest house is twenty or thirty minutes away. (Cutting through the woods, maybe fifteen.)

     And another knock slashed the silence. This time, though, a thunder followed, which made a slight shudder crawl through his spine, and he began humming.

     He took a stand, limbs as rigid as a wooden plank. One step, then another, all the way until his bare toes found the carpet’s comfort before the door. He paused for a second there, thinking about how to address the situation, but he ended up laying his hand over the knob anyway and opening the door.

     “Hi,” she greeted, a toothy grin plastered on her lips.

     An owl cried in the foremost tree, and he felt the odd sensations she’d bring with her every single time.

     “Hey,” he replied, feeling somber veils suddenly draping over his night-colored eyes.

     “I got you something,” she said, and he took a second to get a good look of her. The navy blue dress she wore fit her perfectly. It almost seemed like her hair was glowing that night, auburn ringlets cascading over her ivory skin. She looked stunning.

     “Thank you,” was all he could say.

     “May I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

     She was right. He could feel the wind, too, he could see the giant oaks—they almost looked alive, like giants—swaying their merciless branches, and he most definitely saw the way her skin goosed in reaction to the frosty droplets, which were starting to fall from the black sky.

     And he pondered, for a slight second he did, memories flashing through his mind. A particular one, nevertheless, came to him, standing out unlike the others.

     She wore that beautiful, white gown, which fell in a carefully puffed skirt. Her arms were shielded by laced sleeves, and the most gorgeous veil draped over the most delicate of faces, hiding it behind.

     “Harry?” she asked, causing the memory to fade away and forcing his lips to forge an answer—a well thought through one.

     Pondering would make her suspect.

     “Sure, yes,” Harry said hesitantly, stepping aside and letting way for her to come in. He did his best to keep his expression as stoic as he possibly could. (He had never been good at that; she always knew when he was uncomfortable.)

     “You changed some things around, didn’t you?”

     “Yep,” he said, absent in his own distracting thoughts.

     Why was she here so early? (Why was she here so early today?) He wasn’t ready just quite yet, and with one glance, he caught a change in the old, Grandfather Clock’s needles.

     Eleven fifty two. Two minutes? That was it?

     “You’re here early…” he pointed out recklessly, biting his lip with regret a second later.

     “Oh,” she said, humming while tracing delicate circles over his dusty, wooden bookshelf with her fingertips. “I wanted to surprise you. That’s all.”

     “So you brought me a gift.”

     “Yes!” She turned her head, smiling. Like he’d said the one thing she truly wanted him to say. And Harry’s heart hammered louder inside his chest, the thuds breaking the short silence before her tiny fingers dug for something in her pocket.

     “You didn’t really have to get—”

     “But don’t be silly, Harrison! What kind of wife would I be if not?” Harry’s heart halted, his breaths shorter than ever. She didn’t seem to notice—or disregarded it if she did—the single sweat drop running down his temple and continued. “It’s your birthday; don’t be like that.”

     She was telling him how to live?

     “Um…okay.”

     “All right, you ready?” she asked with enthusiasm, her hand beginning to come out of the pocket.

     “Yep,” he replied simply, unwilling to provoke any unnecessary trouble. He had done that once before and suffered from the consequences.

     The dead never forgive. He learned that lesson.

     “I thought about you the minute I saw it.” Her eyes remained fixed on his, and she finally took out whatever she’d been digging for in the pocket.

     A couple of excruciatingly long seconds later (and his mind hadn’t stopped working against him) he saw her fingers laced around a tiny, white box.

     “What is it?”

     “Open it.”

     Slowly, his fingers accepted the box, opening it in a swift motion. Waiting would make it worse. “Wow,” he murmured, uncertainty infecting his thoughts, and a second thunder roared outside. He knew this one had been close by. He counted the seconds from when he saw the light filter through the tarnished window: two and a half.

     “Do you like it?”

     He took the silver chained necklace out, observing the small crucifix hanging from it. Carved in it were the words: Amor Vincit Omnia. “Love conquers all things?”

     She stepped toward him. He stood near the warming fire of the old chimney, and her hands were soon curling over his neck. They were cold, almost as if it was a faint memory of how they felt rather than an actual sensation. “Yes. Like us.”

     “Like us,” he repeated. “Right.”

     “What’s the matter?” She asked, actual intrigue in her tone, and he worried. What if he upset her? That wouldn’t end well. She caressed his cheek—or at least she tried. “You seem off tonight…. Did I do anything wrong? Are you mad at me? Do you not want this anymore?”

     “No,” Harrison said, swishing his head nervously. “It’s just…I’m not feeling great today.”

     “You used to love your birthday.”

     “With you, I did.” He looked into her eyes, which appeared to be glowing against the paleness of her face. “I miss you.”

     She swallowed. A soft, hurt moan coming out of her mouth before she spoke. “Me, too.”

     “It gets boring here.”

     “Remind me what you do,” she pleaded, placing her forehead against his forehead. The almost inexistent sensation was perfect, but he wanted more. He wanted to feel her again. Really feel her.

     “I wake up at seven a.m., brew my tea, spend some time reading, eat, read more, have dinner, and then I go to bed.” He smiled. “Sometimes I take strolls in the woods. I go to—”

     “Tumbus Creek?” She asked, and Harry knew there was a smile on her lips even though his eyes remained closed. “I miss our walks there.”

     “I like to walk for hours until I reach town,” he said, the nerves he’d felt before dissipating.

     “Have your spoken to Father Wilkins about getting your job back? You just seem so lonely now that you’re not helping him at Church.”

     “Is that why you gave me the small crucifix?”

     She drew some space between them, a frown now lowering her factions. “They want you to be as devoted as before. Most of them think you have been losing your…faith.”

     He puffed his chest just to let the air out a second later, taking a step back and pacing around the room. “Is this why they let you see me so early?”

     “Harrison—”

     “Is that the reason why or not?”

     “Yes,” she murmured, ashamed, and he stopped pacing.

     “I’m tired of this.” He felt his blood boiling. He knew his face would turn red soon—if it wasn’t already.

     “I’ve tried convincing them, Harrison,” she said, apologizing. “But they won’t listen…. It’s all because of that stupid deal we made.”

     “They didn’t play fair,” he uttered under his breath.

     She saw him on the verge of busting into yelling, so she stepped forward and stood in front of him but once again. “I know that, Harry. Still, what do you lose? Go to Church tomorrow, talk to Father Wilkins, and fix things.”

     “You mean go back to old habits? Go back to being a part of a hypocritical group of people who sell the town of Salem ideas that only benefit them in the end? No thanks.”

     “They will revoke out privilege!” She snapped, horror reflected on her face.

     “Is it worth it, though?” His question seemed to startle her more, this time inflicting pain rather than shock, so he fixed it. “Are you happy?”

     “I get to see you, Harrison…. That’s all that it takes to make me happy.”

     “What about the other six days of the week? Where do they send you? Are you alone?”

     “We’ve gone over this. I can’t tell you. They won’t let me.”

     “I see you every Sunday for half an hour or so, and that’s only when they feel generous. How am I supposed to live like this?”

     “You were scared before…” she pointed out, and he sighed. “Why?”

     “Storms get on my nerves,” Harrison said. As if on cue, another thunder broke through the heavy rainfall against his zinc roof. “And I wasn’t expecting you yet…. It’s always midnight.”

     “Yeah, midnight,” she repeated, her eyes fixed on his chin. “I gotta go soon.”

     “How soon?”

     “Three more minutes; they don’t want me to stay longer today.”

     “What would you like to do?” He said, his voice low and his forehead tighter against hers.

     “I’d like to see you put that necklace on and promise me you’ll fight for us.”

     “Is that a command or a request?” He asked, pushing for some space between them while his fingers laced around the silver crucifix with doubt.

     “Do you not love me anymore, Harrison? Is that it?”

     He grunted, a loud grunt he feared even his neighbors from twenty miles away heard. “Being frustrated over a lack of answers and concrete explanations isn’t related to how much I care for you, because I do.”

     “Then show it,” she demanded, her eyes glistening. He knew she couldn’t cry, though. Not anymore. “Find Father Wilkins and arrange some things so that they don’t have to take the matter into their own hands.”

     “Look into my eyes and tell me you want this,” Harrison pleaded, and the clock’s ticking announced him an unavoidable faith. “Tell me this isn’t just fear talking instead of your heart.”

     “All I’ve ever wanted is to be with you. That’s why I chose you.” She guided her hands to his, wrapping them around the necklace. “This,”—she looked down at their fingers brushing against each other—“This is what it takes for us to be together.”

     “They’re liars,” her muttered, memories flashing through his mind again. Those of the Church’s fowl actions.

     “So are the people in town,” she said, scowling at their hands now. “They separated us.”

     “But—” he couldn’t finish speaking when the giant clock’s chimes began resounding through the small house. First one, then the second, and in the third, she spoke.

     “I have to go now.”

     “No,” he said, sounding more like a complaint rather than an order. “You can’t just leave like that now.”

     “Happy birthday, Harrison,” she whispered in his ear, her hands letting go of his. Like they’d turned into air. “Think about what I told you and do what your heart tells you to do.”

     “Wait,” he called out, seeing her back facing him as she walked toward the door, suddenly appearing outside. “Don’t go yet!”

     “I love you,” she mouthed, and this time, he saw one tear running down her cheek.

     “I won’t let you leave. Not again.” He took a deep breath as the clock stroke its eight chime. His legs propelled him forward without the need of a conscious command, and he saw a smile on her face when he slumped out of the door. Still, as if they were smarter than him (and they were) strong winds blew him backwards, water blinding his eyes until he fell to the mud.

     He’d forgotten he was barefoot, making him continuously slip before he finally managed to steady himself just enough to look up, and she was gone. With the final champ, her spirit faded into nothing, leaving Harry’s lost eyes looking into an imaginary horizon that they created—his hand still clenched to the silvery necklace.

     “Elise!”

     The scream hurt his throat, and it almost seemed like laughing voices—voices meant to taunt him—answered back. Through the now constant thunders, heavy rain falling upon him, and a rowdy cloud of unanswered thoughts, he dragged himself to the house’s entrance and put on his shoes as fast as he could.

     The mud didn’t matter anymore. The rain wasn’t a factor he cared much about, either. Everything appeared to vanish, replaced instead by a driven thrill of compromise and guilt piled up in his gut. “They took you away from me once,” he growled, slamming the door shut after himself. “I’ll find a way to make things right again.”

     One day a week isn’t enough, he thought, stepping on the slippery mud again while rain poured over him. “If they don’t want to tell me, fine,” he breathed. “I’ll find out myself.”

     I’m gonna get you back, Elise….

     And so Harrison parted, his heart with her and his mind reminding him the way to Father Wilkin’s chapel under the thundering sky.

     But a loud yelp was heard in the distance. 

END OF PART ONE.