The Witch of Tin Mountain(62)

Some of the townsfolk look down at the snakes they’re holding, but most of them just stare at me like I’ve got two heads.

“Are you going to tell them what else you’ve done, Josiah Bellflower? I know who you really are.” My voice is strong. Sure. “I know what you’re tryin’ to do. You’re a deceiver. A liar.”

Bellflower snaps his fingers. Everything goes still. People freeze in place—caught up in his trance. It’s suddenly so quiet in the tent, the only sound I hear is the pounding of my heart.

“Ah, Gracelynn. So glad you could come. What do you think? I’m coming up in the world, aren’t I?” He points at a weedy-looking man with a camera, sitting in the front row. “That man’s a reporter from the Gazette. He’s working on a front-page story about my ministry.”

“That’s what you’re after? Fame?”

“No. Although it’s a pleasant distraction. All of this,” he says, sweeping his arms at the frozen congregants, “is just a game to me. Theater. A farce. It means nothing.” He stalks toward me, his eyes lit with that unholy, silver light. “Has she told you yet, Gracie?”

I step backward. Fear threatens to throttle my breath, my voice, but I won’t give him the pleasure. “What are you talking about?”

“Your beloved Granny. Has she told you the truth?”

“Well, seeing as she’s in a coma, thanks to Val, she can’t tell me much of anything right now. So, I guess that leaves you, though I’d be as foolish as your congregation to believe a word that drops from your poisoned lips.”

Bellflower laughs, throwing his head back.

I glance at the piano. Aunt Val’s hands hover over the keyboard, her mouth agape. A water moccasin is curled around her ankle.

“Does Val know you’re just using her?”

Bellflower sighs. “She gets plenty from our arrangement. She’s ravenous. I hardly sleep.”

“So, what’s the point to all this, Bellflower? I reckon if you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now. Yet, you seem set on turning all these townsfolk against me and pinning this drought on me and Granny. Why?”

“The ends necessitate the means.”

“Is that what you said when you killed Anneliese?”

A shadow passes over his lean face. “I didn’t kill her. They did.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “So, you’re the sort who believes your own lies. You’d make a good politician. You should take that up instead of preaching. I’ve heard the pay is better.”

It must be my laughter that does it. His face hardens. He snaps his fingers again, and a cacophony of sound erupts behind my ears. The congregation comes back to life, shouting and hollering their amens and hallelujahs. Bellflower steps behind the pulpit again.

His eyes glint as he gives me a smug grin. “Brethren, did I not just proclaim that evil seeks to undermine good?” he booms. “Here we have one of the very witches who plagues your town. She wishes to cast doubt into your heart. To seduce you from the truth with her beauty and her lies.” Suddenly, I’m surrounded. Bodies press against me. Voices crowd my head, all talking at once, like a hillbilly Tower of Babel:

I always knew something weren’t right with that girl.

Her and her granny are in league with the devil.

She’s always thought she’s better than us.

She killt that woman’s baby.

I clap my hands over my ears, but that doesn’t stop the flood of accusations and threats as the townsfolk close in. It’s not my powers this time. It’s Bellflower. He’s forcing their words into my head, amplifying their voices, making me crazy.

I underestimated him. He ain’t raising a congregation, he’s raising a militia. A wave of panic winds up my spine, and all my earlier sureness flies away. I’ve gotten in over my head, coming here, where he has control of the chessboard.

“Bring her to me, brethren,” he commands, a wicked smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’ll drive out the demon who vexes her.”

The men hem me in, leering. Somebody swipes at my scarf, grabbing the tail. It’s still knotted under my chin. I yelp as I feel it tighten like a noose. It’s Harlan Northrup. I can smell the sweet-sour tang of the sawmill on him. He winds the scarf around his wrist like he’s winding cotton, pulling me closer and closer until I nearly taste the tobacco on his breath and his hands close around my arm. “You little bitch,” he whispers. “Let’s see how uppity you are now.”

I claw at the fabric, wheezing as my air bottoms out. Nobody comes to help me. Nobody cares. Just as my vision starts to flicker and go dark, he releases me. I haul in a breath, my throat stinging with pain. I frantically look for a way out, but there are hands everywhere, grasping at me, pulling me forward. Bellflower steps down from the altar and stares at me a long while, then reaches out, stroking his hand along my neck. At his touch, the pain flees. So, there’s something to his healing touch after all, even if it’s a false balm that fades away with time.

“Kneel, sister,” he commands gently. “And I will pray for you.”

“No,” I rasp. “I’ll never kneel before a man. Especially you.”

“Spoken like a true Werner.” He leans close to me. “Kneel, you foolish girl, or I will set them on you like dogs. Just as I set them on Anneliese. Take the hand that I extend to you and live.”