Bloodlines and Blood Debts

“A soul to journey back,

A body left hollow.

Where you walked, Dorcas Solart, I will follow.”

For a moment, Leta could not breathe. She went to claw at her throat, to open her already gasping mouth for air that wasn’t there, but she no longer had any. They had been left behind with her body in the attic, along with any sense of gravity. Her soul was simply falling, like she had been thrown from a plane and was plummeting down, and all she could see was the void above her.

And then she was suddenly on solid ground again, the only remnant of her journey being a sense of nausea that was attempting to turn a stomach separated from her soul by three centuries. She scanned the small village square she had landed in, not recognizing anything at first. And then she noticed the fountain. It was surrounded by dirt and grass, not the cobblestones that she was used to, but that fountain was unmistakable. A black locust tree carved from onyx, the branches always gently swaying, even if they were made of stone, or if there was no wind. And even back then, or here in 1801, she guessed, its leaves dripped with what older crones like her grandmother claimed was the blood of their fallen sisters. She was definitely still in New Salem, or she guessed as it was still called back then, Preston, Massachusetts.

Leta looked at the people dressed in far too many layers for the sun bearing down from above, searching for a woman with a similar nose or chin, something to clue her in as to which was her ancestor, who she had traveled all this way back for. And then she caught sight of her. Dorcas’ hair was more wavy than curly like Leta’s, and her skin was paler too, almost sickly. Though that was to be expected.

Before she had become known as the ‘Warlock Widow’ by their fellow witches, Dorcas Solart had been called Dorothy Good, who at just four years old had been accused of witchcraft in Salem. Her mother, Sarah, had been guilty of course, but she had been a kind healer, and her daughter had just been a child. Amid the chaos, little Dorothy had managed to escape, and had run down the roads for such a time that had magic not been in her veins she surely would’ve died. Drawn by some unseen force or intuition, she had arrived ragged at the house of her grandparents, John and Elizabeth Solart. News arrived a few weeks after, and they learned of their daughter’s passing. The two of them acted quickly to hide their grandchild in plain sight. Her new family name became Solart, and she was called Dorcas (an unfortunate nickname) from then on out, and they introduced her to the wider village as their daughter, who they had kept hidden until they were certain she would survive the first few years, as so many of their other children had not.

Leta knew her by her eyes, as all the witches of her family had them, even the men. Cobalt blue, as if weaved from the feathers of a peacock, with a ring of gold encircling the pupils. But those eyes, no matter how recognizable, weren’t why Leta knew this was her ancestor. It was because she was standing perfectly still amid the hustle and bustle of the square. And she was the only one who could see her. They continued to stare, eyes locked, until as silently as she had been looking on, Dorcas turned and walked off into the crowd.

Leta stood there a moment more before running after Dorcas, though it felt like treading through water, the air seeming to cling to her non-corporeal form. At least, she discovered, the people going to and fro were not a hindrance, as she seemed to glide straight through them. Dorcas continued to move ahead of her, straight backed and still like a ghost in a horror movie, who would appear directly in front of her the moment she looked away and scare her to death. They continued like this, the long ago witch walking at an even, eerie pace, her descendant wading towards her. And then Dorcas seemed to jerk awake, and began to move and act like a normal, somewhat timid, person. And the reason for her demeanor was fast approaching.

“Where have you been?”

The man in question who was yelling at Dorcas was Fowler Gorey, who Leta supposed was technically also her ancestor. Not that he was much of anything to aspire to by the looks of it.

“I was just at the fountain, watching the people go about their day.”

“You were just watching the people,” he said with an incredulous tone.

“Dorcas, I might’ve hired the governess so that the twins were raised properly, but that does not excuse you from the rest of your duties. Now come home, so you can see to the dinner for tonight.”

Fowler gripped her wrist and pulled her behind him, leading her to the grand yet grim estate that Leta recognized as Willow Hall. Her home, and the home of every Solart before her, all the way back to the pale woman with a low hanging head being led inside.

Space seemed to twist around Leta, until with another nauseous blink she found herself inside the gently swaying manor at night. In her time, the house was much more homely, with photos and paintings lining the walls of the family and random scenes from the artists among them. There were always fresh flowers, kept alive by the magic of the estate. And the sounds; the house was alive, it was one of the few in New Salem that was not only enchanted but possessed consciousness. It creaked all night, breathed and sighed through the day, and gently rocked back and forth. It was because of that that the house went from ‘Widow Hall’ to being called ‘Willow Hall.’ But that wasn’t the sight Leta was greeted with.

The house was bare of decoration, of vegetation, of color. The walls seemed to change in hue by the week, but now they were a drab gray. And the sounds, the ones that let Leta and her family know that their sanctuary was still alive, still protecting them, were now the eerie creaks and moans you would expect from a gothic novel. Leta knew that Fowler must’ve pursued her because she was of a Salem bloodline, but she didn’t know why on earth Dorcas would’ve married him.

Leta heard the cry of a baby, of two, down the hall, and struggled her way through the open air. She arrived at the dining room, still lit by the chandelier that her brother Teddy loved to swing from. There was a spread, a feast, laid out on the table, and at the center was a cake. Chocolate by the looks of it, a flavor banned in Leta’s home, most likely because of this man, she realized. At one end of the table sat Dorcas, with two little babies in their highchairs squalling away as she tried to feed them. And at the other sat Fowler, who was shoveling food down his throat. Dorcas looked up from the twins to stare at him, with a gleam of malice under the sadness in her eyes.

Suddenly, there was a banging at the door, one that could be felt vibrating through the wood of the house. Someone was attempting to get in, and with magic. Fowler looked to the door, trepidation painted across his face as he waited to see if they would get in, like he knew who wanted in. And then the banging stopped, the walls of Willow Hall still standing under assault, which seemed to give Fowler some reprieve, enough to laugh at whoever lay beyond the door. Leta turned back to Dorcas, to find that the woman no longer looked saddened, that gleam of malice now full blown rage. Her lips parted, and then she whispered…

“Ago Vodet Ingressum.”

Leta was not as knowledgeable on Latin as a witch her age probably should be, but she didn’t need to know this exact translation, as the effect was obvious when the door sprung open, to reveal a woman in a dirt stained white gown. She slowly stepped into the house, and made her way down the hall. She looked like she had clawed her way out of a grave, each jerking step making her appear like a corpse had come to life (which was very much a possibility with this town).

“Fowler Gorey.” His name came out as a rasp, like she had been screaming and her throat could not make the effort to sound human.

“You…you are the reason for the fall of my house.”

“Madeline, as you can see I’m enjoying my birthday dinner, if you wouldn’t mind saving your hysterics…”

Before he could finish his sentence, one of the witch’s hands suddenly jolted into the air, coated in a malignant purple glow, and then Fowler could no longer speak. In fact, it looked as if he could no longer breathe. The witch, Madeline, looked as if she was gathering herself, both her power and to speak. “I…I…”

“I curse you, Fowler Gorey, and the seed of your family tree.

On this, your twenty-fifth birthday, I sentence you to death.

May your sons be like the women you set yourself upon, Powerless.

And may they share in your final breath.”

As Madeline ended her curse, the grandfather clock struck twelve. Fowler Gorey was now twenty-five, and dead. The purple light of her curse flew towards Dorcas, or rather her children. They both cried as it approached, but while it simply soaked into the little girl’s skin until vanishing, it swirled around the boy like a small storm. And it was taking something from him, green energy being sapped away and dissipating into thin air. As the last remnants of her spell disappeared, Madeline Rushe fell to the ground, dead.

Leta looked at the scene with horror, trying to get her breath under control. As Madeline’s breathing ended, Fowler’s son’s seemed to swell, crying out at whatever invisible mark the witch’s curse left on him, and his sister’s grew with him, mirrored terror at something their infant brains could never comprehend.

“Lileta Solart, daughter of my daughter.”

Leta spun around to find Dorcas standing to the side of her, having crept close during the eldritch struggle. Her matching eyes once again locked with her own, except now it wasn’t a feeling keeping her eyes glued forward. She couldn’t move as her family matriarch slowly stepped closer, until they were almost sharing breathing.

“You have seen enough, my dear, of the past…” her pointer finger raising until it was level with her forehead, glowing green.

“Time to sort this out in the present.”

A touch to the center of her head later, and Leta was back to that nauseous fall, and she found herself back in her body in the attic of Willow Hall.