The Accuser's Confession

How far do beliefs go?

The woman under my bed has no face. She had one, once, but it was so long ago, I think she would have forgotten what she's supposed to look like if my mirror didn't show her. Sometimes, under the right light, I think I can see her rotted brain through the dead tissue that hangs in her eye sockets. There are a few patches of skin that still cling to her skull, but they have turned a moldy gray-green color as she slowly decays; she tries to hide her appearance from herself by hiding behind my white bed-skirt. Of course, I pretend she's not there and continue to brush my long, dark hair; eventually I twist the strands into plaits and step away from the large mirror in front of my bed.

 

She never follows me out of my bedroom, but the bed-skirt flutters the second I step through the door. Today has been pretty exciting, since I've moved to Massachusetts from Washington. She came along, too; no matter how many times I move, or how far away, she always follows. The two of us have been together for a very long time, after all, and she seems determined to stay until she gets what she wants. What she doesn't understand though, is the fact that what she wants is infinitely out of her reach. The pact, after all, bears my name and not hers; even though we two have been immortalized by history. My reflection looks at me steadily as I sit and unbind my hair, it makes my face seem softer and much younger as it cascades about my shoulders. I can see her, between my feet, glaring at me with eyes that are no longer there.

 

As some have said: The eyes are the windows to the soul; they have no idea just how true that statement is, in a way. If a person is powerful enough, they can gather enough energy to possess sway over another, and manipulate that person's soul to bend it to their will. Eye contact is required for this sort of spell, even though prolonged exposure will eventually blind the subject because the eyeballs disintegrate in their sockets. How do I know this? Why, I did it to her, of course. She was only 9 years old the day I took her face, except that her soul didn't like my body too much. She had a fit, no big deal; except my new body followed her example and had a fit, too. That was when I had the most brilliant idea to create some mischief. Some of the neighbors were already suspicious and jealous enough of each other, so it was easy to breathe the whispers of witchcraft into their hearts. Their concealed viciousness, aside from being absolutely delicious, allowed me to influence her and some others into absolutely beautiful performances. My dominance over her increased more and more.

 

In the end, almost 20 innocents breathed their last, thanks to my marionettes, and more than paid the price of my contract; I was free to do as I pleased for the rest of eternity. A few years after I broke her soul's link to my body, she gained enough control to run away, but that was unacceptable. History believes I became a prostitute and died as such, and I am disinclined to correct this. Why would I tell the historians of today that I really did find her wandering the streets in search of a place to spend the night? Or that a thin blade found a home in hear heart and stained her tattered dress a lovely ruby red? Or that I, myself, am the one who put her under my bed in the first place? Nobody would believe it. Witches are only a story, after all; a tale to frighten little ones into staying indoors after dark, right? Right. Excuse me as I have a laugh at this foolishness. I stopped aging the day I killed her, and I do believe she hates me for it. Her old face is made even lovelier with the products of today; and in all certainty it's her hatred that has tied her to me. It allows her to forever be by my side, unable to grasp her revenge.

 

"Salem is lovely this time of year," I say to her as I remove my clothing and watch her in the mirror; my pale skin glows in the moonlight as I distantly hear her howls of rage. She will never live again, even if she manages to kill me, and her face shall remain mine, even as she dwells behind the remains of the one I cast off. At the new sunrise, our routine begins again, but I decide it's time to stop pretending. As I stand at the threshold of my new bedroom, I pause and look in the mirror; she is there, watching. Waiting. A smile tugs at my lips as I turn and leave. "I'll be back . . . Elizabeth." She is surprised, I can sense, and it brightens my day. As I leave my room, I feel the warm sunlight on my skin; I can hear a dry and raspy whisper carried in a nonexistent wind "Abigail..." Since when is she powerful enough to communicate with me? There is a trickle of fear at the back of my mind, but I pay it no attention. besides, that is no longer my name. I stopped being her over 300 years ago.

 

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Doctor's Notes:

 

Patient displays varying amounts of destructive behavior. She has continually refused to take her medication and incites other patients into sporadic acts of violence upon each other and the nurses. She perpetually insists that she is actually Abigail Williams, an accuser during the 1692 witch hysteria here in Salem. That delusion is what prompted my colleague, Dr. Meenk, to transfer her to this facility. it seems her delusions have only increased in potency. The 'woman under the bed' could possibly be a representation of her young cousin, Camile, who died at the age of 9 due to poisoning. The patient insists on keeping a porcelain doll beneath the mattress at all times and flies into a rage when the doll is touched or moved. The doll's features have been obliterated with what appears to be white paint. My professional recommendation is that she be kept in a straightjacket and away from other patients. She truly believes she is an immortal witch who possessed the body of a young girl; her confidence in this makes her a danger to both herself and others.

 

                  Morgan Rydel, Doctor of Psychiatric Medicine

Author's Note

The first sentence of this was floating around in my head all morning yesterday until I wrote it down. Once I wrote it down, I couldn't stop.