Supernatural: One Year Gone (26 page)

“Father?” Caleb whispered.

“Caleb. Dear boy.” Nathaniel reached through the bars and grasped his son’s shoulder affectionately. “How on Earth did you get in here, and how do you think we’re going to get out?”

“Thomas thought of something. Don’t worry,” Caleb replied with a smile.

Reaching into his jacket for his tools, Caleb deftly picked the lock on the cell just like his father had taught him.

The two Campbells moved swiftly and silently down the corridor, they turned a corner and paused. The guards were close by. Caleb gestured for his father to wait.

At that moment, they heard a terrible wail of pain coming from outside the jail.

It was followed quickly by a sudden commotion as the guards rushed outside to see what was going on. Nathaniel and Caleb crept cautiously down the stairs and toward the entrance to the building. The guards had all fled outside, bar one, who Nathaniel swiftly took care of with a carefully placed blow to the head.

From the gate of the jail in the distance, Nathaniel and Caleb could see a bonfire surrounded by robed figures. It looked like a gathering of witches but in actuality, as Caleb explained briefly to his father, it was a series of sticks clothed in Hannah’s old dresses. The guards crept closer, convinced by the firelight casting strange shadows that they were about to surprise a witchy gathering.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel and Caleb slipped away. As they ran, Nathaniel looked to his youngest son.

“Well done, Caleb,” Nathaniel said. “Are you okay?”

“All those poor people in jail. They’re not witches, Father.”

“I know. We’re going to take care of this, I promise.”

They hurried to find Hannah and Thomas.

Dean flipped the pages and noticed a note written in different handwriting in the top right-hand corner of the journal:

This is the last journal entry by Nathaniel Campbell.

Fall 1692

Much joy and pain I feel tonight. As I write this, night falls around my cozy house. A home filled with my family and love like nothing else. But it is tonight that I must go out and fight perhaps the most hideous evil I have seen in my many days as a hunter.

For posterity now seems to be the perfect time to recount my induction into the profession of being a hunter.

It was very fortunate that my family and Rose Mary’s met on the treacherous voyage to the New World. As it turned out, there would be two families of the same profession in this New World, hers and mine. Of course, this was before we both were born. My father and Rose Mary’s father fostered a strong friendship and created a pact to protect each other’s families. With that pact they also promised to pass along the family profession. Sadly, Rose Mary’s mother died in childbirth in 1650. This brought our two families even closer. My father had married a hunter, and my mother’s mother was a hunter too.

Because of her mother’s passing Rose Mary and I were very close, and she would often visit my parents’ homestead. In fact our parents were close until the day Rose Mary’s family perished in a wendigo attack, and only she survived. My father never forgave himself for being unable to save his friend and his family.

When we came of age at ten years old, my father took us both out to the woods. I must recount that both Rose Mary and I were most afraid of what my father was about to do. Until this time we didn’t know about hunting, we thought our parents were simple farmers. But, of course, that was not the case. My father took us a mile from the house into the darkest recesses of the woods and I will never forget the sight before me. Tied to a tree, chained with iron shackles, was a naked man shivering in the cool night air. Rose Mary squealed, but then held her tongue. I, however, knew that my father wouldn’t have shown us this strange sight unless there was a lesson to be learned. He handed Rose Mary and I a flintlock musket each. The weapons felt heavy and unwieldy in our small hands.

“What are we to do with this?” I asked.

“Just wait and watch,” my father replied sternly.

As the moon rose full over the woods, slowly the man before us started to snarl. Then he began to arch his body, howling in pain as silver hair sprouted over his entire body. Eventually what stood before us was a man no longer, but rather a most uncommon beast—a wolf.

So hideous and frightening was the sight that Rose Mary cowered and I wanted to turn away, but my father insisted we keep our eyes on the creature. Still shackled to the tree, the wolf paced and gnashed his awful teeth. He lunged at us as if there wasn’t a man inside him at all.

“See the animal before you,” my father said, “he was once a man. A good man. But he has been unfortunately cursed. He was bitten by a creature, much like the creature you see before you now. It’s in his nature to roam these woods and hunt and eat humans. The man inside him would surely be appalled by such acts. But the animal, it’s his instinct. What do you think the man would feel if tomorrow he woke up and remembered all the awful things his animal self had done in the night?”

Rose Mary piped up, “He would surely feel most awful.”

“Exactly Rose Mary, he would hate himself. He would be ashamed, and he might even turn his rage upon himself. But he won’t stop. He can’t stop, because this animal is inside him. The one blessing is that he won’t remember his actions as a beast once he turns back into a man. But he will kill. So what do you think this man would ask us to do?”

“He would surely ask us to kill him to save the people he might kill,” I offered. “If he was a good man he would.”

“You are exactly right, Nathaniel. You are such a smart boy. He would ask us to kill him. So the question is. Who will help this man tonight?”

Rose Mary and I looked at one another. Neither of us had ever held a gun, much less thought of killing a man. But it was without question the right thing to do. The animal that paced and growled before us would do much harm. Harm that the man inside of would be horrified at.

Rose Mary and I agreed to level our muskets at the same moment, thus neither of us could singularly feel guilty for killing the creature. And that is what we did. Father told us that only a silver bullet would kill the animal. As much as I was saddened about our act, it was the right thing to do.

I recall that story because that animal was a man beneath. And it is always an awful thing to kill a man. But there is a greater good to be served. As I go into the fight tonight with my own two sons by my side I will tell them that story, because it’s with a heavy heart that I know there will be lives lost. We must kill the witches, or we ourselves will be killed. Though they are most undoubtedly human, they are evil. And we must eradicate them.

I consider myself a most lucky man for having lived the life I have. I found a most loving and wonderful wife early in my life and my three children are my ultimate joy. This hard and sometimes lonely life of hunting would be intolerable if it wasn’t for them.

Dear family, if you are reading this, I’ve either lost my facilities or come to my end. Please remember that I love you all. I will meet you in heaven most surely.

Your father,

Nathaniel Campbell.

In loving memory of Nathaniel Campbell and Rose Mary Campbell, loving parents to Thomas, Caleb and Hannah.

My siblings and I thought it appropriate to close my father’s journal with the last entry relating his death. Perhaps later generations will be able to draw wisdom from his sacrifice. The remaining pages have been written by Thomas Campbell, age fifteen, Fall 1692.

The night that my brother Caleb and I broke my father out of jail, the village of Salem had turned to chaos. After my father confronted the magistrates and unveiled Prudence as a witch, most of residents went into hiding. Rightly so, for they had sat within a few feet of her for weeks, under her spell and believing every accusation she made. Upon discovery, Prudence fled. The night that followed would be the last night my father and mother spent in this corporeal realm. This is what happened.

Later that night, we retreated to our home. When we opened the door we realized that the witches had been there before us. Our mother had disappeared. She had set out our secret signal that something had gone wrong, so we knew that she had been either forcibly taken or was already dead. Our parents made up this signal for us when we were small children and they would go out hunting. If something bad happened, Father told us to turn over a tea cup and leave it on the kitchen table. That is what we saw when we entered the silent house. It was our mother’s sign to us.

My father was weakened from exhaustion and lack of food in prison but he wouldn’t stop to rest. He immediately pulled up the hidden door set underneath our kitchen table—built into the floor we had an arsenal for emergency use. Now was such an emergency.

We armed ourselves and forced my father to drink a warm cup of broth, then we set out for Constance’s property. We knew that Constance and Prudence were close to accomplishing a most evil task. So evil of a task that my brother and I hardly wanted to think of it. Raising the devil wasn’t something father had trained us against. Raising the devil would essentially make Hell on Earth. Both my brother and I knew that we must defeat the witches or risk losing the entire New World to evil.

Hannah made sure we were all warmly wrapped up and we left her behind, well armed, to guard our home. Father kissed her on the forehead before leaving.

“My dear girl,” he said, “you are the strongest, smartest young woman to walk the face of God’s great Earth. Do not ever change.”

A single tear streaked down Hannah’s cheek as though she already knew what was in store for my father.

“Don’t behave as though you will never see me again,” she said. “I’ll make sure there is a home for you to come back to.”

We took my father’s horse, our most sure-footed and silent. We would tie him up away from the fight in case one of us needed to flee or fetch help. Though I think we all knew there was no more help to get.

As we approached Constance’s residence, the lights of a hundred witches’ lanterns showed through the trees. Most of the figures were obscured behind a small knoll, so we could not see where our mother was. Father gave us the signal to wait. We sorted out our weapons on the damp ground. After a few minutes, the congregation of witches began to chant, their horrible voices building in strength and power as they continued.

Then a sound echoed through the woods which will be forever burned into my soul: my mother’s screams.

We grabbed our guns and crawled up the hill on our stomachs. Down below was a most horrific sight. A hundred witches chanted in unison, most no more than resurrected bodies of rotting flesh and bone. These putrid, wretched beings were now animated living things once again. Their voices were pitched low and threatening, and the noise continued to build, until our heads felt full of the horrible sound.

The witches moved around a great fire built in the shape of a ring. Inside the ring a hole was filled with perfectly round rocks. In front of the fire a large platform had been erected. This is where my poor mother kneeled. I knew she was scared. As proficient a hunter as she may be, no one could face down a hundred witches and not fear for her life.

Terror washed over my father’s face. There were many more witches than we had previously thought, the resurrections more numerous than we could ever have imagined. There must have been many more murders than we had discovered. All those people, including poor Abigail Faulkner, had been used as sacrifices for these resurrections.

I thought about the innocent people that the magistrates had sent to the gallows. They were not among the witches. The accused were all good, God-fearing, innocent members of the church, yet they had been put to death.

At that moment, two more witches appeared out of the woods dragging the body of a man. He seemed to be alive. Closer inspection revealed it to be Reverend Parris. The witches brought him to face a witch who was dressed in ceremonial garb. As she turned her head, I saw with a shiver that it was Prudence. She shot out her arm and lifted his petrified face to hers. The chanting halted and her sneering voice carried to our ears through the still night air.