They’re burning witches tonight.
The local news channel runs a special segment on it. Greg Gallagher, the local anchorman with hair a little too stiff and a smile far too forced, narrates a touching piece on the strength of the community while he walks around the makeshift pyre in the middle of town. His eyes never leave the camera. He says he would’ve never believed such a heinous crime could happen in a town this nice. His voice breaks on the word, ‘tragedy,’ but his teeth gleam as he lets everyone know that the diner is offering half-price snacks to anyone who wants to watch the triumph of justice at seven on the square. It’s the fifth execution this month. The popcorn industry must be booming.
Andrew turns the volume on the television up when they start to recount the details of the trial. His suit is wrinkled and rumpled and not completely perfect in the way that he only lets it be when the doors are closed.
“A damn good thing it is, that they caught them,” he says, pulling at his tie. He says it feels like a noose, and I wonder when he felt such a thing.
I nod along with everything that he’s saying but I don’t agree. The kids lie on the floor in front of the TV. Frankie is coloring and oblivious. He only has one crayon, and it is red. His page is bleeding crimson straight through to the floor. My daughter, though, she is watching.
A woman’s eyes, a stranger’s sobs, and a girl’s silhouette accompany the recording from the court room audio as the sentence is read. They show footage of the police escorting three figures being down the stairs of the courthouse. Coats hide their faces, and handcuffs glitter around their wrists. They make no sound but the audio echoes static regardless as a mob screams profanity and hatred at them. References to their upcoming trip to hell seem to be frequent and unoriginal. The girls do not respond.
There’s a knock at the door. Andrew doesn’t look up from the screen as I stand and answer the call. It’s the neighbor and his wife. He is a big man with a big voice. I’m not sure his wife has a voice at all.
“Is it five o’clock already?” I ask as they walk past me towards the dining room. The dinner that I made for us is simmering in the kitchen, but I can smell the roast from here.
The neighbor doesn’t bother answering, but he grins at Andrew.
“Can you believe that they tried to get a plea deal?”
His wife stands beside me.
“It didn’t matter, did it though?” Andrew asks, stock images of fire flash in sequence behind Greg Gallagher’s head as he does what he does best.
I go into the kitchen. The neighbor’s wife follows me. Dinner is almost ready, but there is still more to do. There is always more to do.
I decide that tomatoes should be sliced. “Are you going to the burning tonight?”
She nods, getting a stack of plates from the cabinet and fishing silverware from a drawer. I’ve always liked the neighbor’s wife. She helps even if she doesn’t always speak.
“Did you go to the one last week? What about the one the week before that?” I ask, cutting the vegetables haphazardly, liking that the glint of metal is sharper and faster than the sun shining on a pair of handcuffs. “How are you getting the smell out of your clothes?”
I start to think she might say something but then the kids and the husbands bluster their way through the kitchen to the dining room. They want to eat. They are hungry. My stomach is still full of dread for souls that I don’t know and the ones that I do but I know that I must put dinner out for these people anyway.
The neighbor’s wife helps me again. We carry platters and plates and premonitions, and we lay them on the table as sacrificial lambs to the slaughter. Frankie bangs his tiny fists on the table, clamoring for food and attention. Neither of the men notice. They argue about the best way to light fires like they argue about the best defense the Chiefs ran during the last game.
I chew my food until it tastes like nothing then I try to do the same to my thoughts. It doesn’t work.
The first witch they burned was a girl, just a girl, but she was pretty enough and the story was sensational enough to be the only thing the world talked about until her ashes were in the wind. The next woman they burned didn’t scream once, and TIME magazine slapped a picture of the flames licking her skin on the cover.
The hundreds that came after her were rarely as pretty or as strong. They were just women in the wrong place at the wrong time with circumstance and the public damning them for crimes accused. Witches are everywhere, they tell us. We must remain vigilant against letting the devil into our homes.
It’s worse in the small towns like this one, I think. The cities are already bored with charred bodies but not here. Here we are bloodthirsty, and we mask it as patriotism. We crave the smoke and the screams.
We leave in a group at six-thirty. Andrew and the neighbor want to get good spots for the burning. They’re in a good mood, and they liked my roast. Andrew bounces Frankie on his shoulder.
“It’s good for him to see how the world works,” my husband says to me, pride dripping from his tone.
I wrap my arms around my daughter. Yes. Yes, it is good for the children to see.
The neighbor elbows my husband.
“Twenty bucks, the first one screams before the wood even starts to smoke.”
I don’t like those odds, and I don’t like the bet. Before I can say anything to either of the men, the crowd parts. It stills. It quiets. Then it erupts.
Someone in charge decided to get the show on the road. People shove at the slip of a girl that is dragged between the waves. The officer leading her through the crowd doesn’t stop anyone from ripping hair from her scalp or clothes from her body. They want souvenirs. They want magic.
I grip my daughter’s hand only a little too hard. The child being tied to a post on a pile of plywood didn’t flinch either. She’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt stained with chocolate and spit. I stopped looking for pointed hats and crooked noses after the first execution. It’s no use looking for monsters on a platform when they stand right beside you.
She doesn’t scream when they light the wood. She doesn’t scream as the crowd pushes itself into a frenzy. She screams when her skin starts to burn. The smoke turns black, and the sky gets darker. The roast comes alive again in my stomach when the smell slithers into my nose. Burnt popcorn and burnt flesh. It’s the worst thing I’ve smelled since I smelled it before. It isn’t something a person would ever forget.
“You see that, Frankie? That’s what we do to them,” Andrew says, bouncing and bouncing our son.
They take away what’s left of her when the crowd starts to calm. The next girl is crying, and she doesn’t stop. I make it through half of her burning until vomit tries to crawl up and out of my throat. People cheer so loud they drown out the screams. There’s not even a girl still tied to the post anymore. The smell gets worse, and it does not relent.
It’s on my skin. It’s on my clothes. It’s inside me and on me and around me. And I cannot breathe.
I push my daughter towards my husband. He isn’t paying attention to me, and I don’t blame him. Not with the scene that’s unfolding in front of him. I hate him for his unbridled glee though. The neighbor’s wife grabs my daughter’s hand instead. She nods at me while I stumble away from the crowd and away from the screams. The smell follows me. So does the neighbor, but I don’t notice it, not really. My world is a blur of detached limbs and disembodied voices.
The sea of spectators does not part for me. I am not noticed. Frantic energy is building inside of me. It doesn’t ease when I slip through the outer edges of the square. Nothing changes when I edge down a back alley. I lean against the bricks of a building. The rough edges scrape against my back as I slide down it and place my head between my knees. I can’t outrun it. I wish I wasn’t the type who had to run anyway.
The neighbor places his hand on the small part of my back.
“An alley’s no place for a girl like you. You okay, sweetie?”
I nod and push his hand away as politely as possible. He moves his hand, but only to place it on my thigh. I never noticed it before but this big man with his big voice does not have a very big smile. No. His smile is thin. He still manages to show too many teeth.
I shove his hand away.
“I think we should be getting back to our families now.”
He smiles at me. “I think we should enjoy ourselves a little first. We really need to mark such an important event.”
I don’t remember getting to my feet, and I certainly don’t remember trying to slap him. He grabs my wrist before I could. He looks more pleased than if I tried to kiss him.
“Well then,” he whispers, “There are other ways to celebrate.”
He starts to drag me back toward the crowd. I tell myself that’s where I was going to go. Back to my husband, my family. But the public turned into a bloodthirsty mob while the third girl burned.
My confusion is shifting to fear the closer we get to the square. My blood turns to ice in my veins when this man, my neighbor, starts to shout.
“I caught another one,” His booming voice carries over any lingering screams “She was in the alley doing God knows what, trying to save her little friend.”
The crowd notices me now, but I’m not sure that they see me. They listen to him with such rampant attention.
“Burn the bitch,” he urges.
These people feed on his righteous indignation. I tear myself away from him and fall into the waiting, outstretched hands of demons.
When they push me onto the pyre, I can finally see the faces of those who have condemned me. They are so similar and familiar and so, so angry. I don’t see Andrew, but I see the neighbor’s wife. She is quiet but her eyes are kind. She holds my daughter tight and hides her young eyes. She covers my daughter’s ears. The neighbor’s wife has always been so helpful.
The sky is dark, and I can’t see the stars. Smoke smothers everything. The church bells start to toll. Eight chimes, but each one sounds final. I wonder if my screams will sound like singing, and I wonder who’s taking bets on me. I wonder if anybody knows my name. I know what the town is believing even if I don’t know what they are thinking.
There are ashes at my feet and agony is heavy on my tongue.
They’re burning witches tonight.