A Devil In Mayfair

In the small town of Mayfair, some say, the wicked never sleep. Its dark and defiling presence lingers in every home, in every nook and cranny. And such an evil, some say, will never, ever leave.

“Mary Belle Rose,” the Pastor shouted out to her. “You stand here before Mayfair’s council and the good Lord himself accused on the suspicion of practicing witchcraft.”

Her hands have begun to ache from the iron chains that restrained them, and the human hand holding her in place was even tighter.

“How do you plead?” The Pastor looked scornfully in her eyes.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How do you plead,” the Pastor asked again, slowly. “Guilty or no?”

“No. Of course, no!” Mary Belle looked around the room. The whole town of Mayfair occupied the church. They were whispering to one another. Pointing. Doubting. Judging.

“Well, my dear Miss. Rose, I’m afraid we have evidence suggesting otherwise.” The Pastor looked around the room for a second and fixed his eyes upon a frail, old woman who’s sitting on the end of one of the front pews. A younger man is holding her to his side. She appeared to be sick, weakened by dehydration and malnutrition. The Pastor looked at her and smiled. He then turned to the rest.

“God fearing people of Mayfair, it is now that I call upon Mrs. Sarah Lynn Mathews to take the stand and testify to you all the evils that the accused has brought down upon her.”

The young man helped the weary Mrs. Mathews to her feet. Slowly, he escorted her to a bench positioned against the wall on the elevated platform next to where the Pastor stood.

“Mrs. Mathews. How are you today, my dear,” the Pastor asked.

“I-I’ve seen better days,” Mrs. Mathews said slowly.

The Pastor’s face gleamed.

“Indeed you have. Could you tell these wonderful people of Mayfair just how you got to be in the state you are in today?”

There was a period of silence. Mrs. Mathews was trying to speak. It came out slowly.

“It-It had—.”

“I sincerely have confidence in your abilities to recollect Mrs. Mathews, but the for sake of time, may your gentleman caretaker here be allowed to speak on your behalf,” the Pastor interrupted.

Slowly, Mrs. Mathews strained to lift her head, but in the end, she was too weak and it seemed to fall back into place, suggesting an indecisive answer.

“Why thank you, Mrs. Mathews, for your cooperation. It is genuinely appreciated.”

He looked to her caretaker.

“Mr., Mr. Cobbs, I presume?”

“That’s correct, Pastor. Jacob Cobbs,” he replied.

“Well, then. Mr. Cobbs, could you tell the rest of us on Mrs. Mathew’s behalf the preceding events that led to her worrysome state?”

“Certainly.”

“I have been taking care of Mrs. Mathews for about a year now. Until a month ago, these were just weekly visits. Mrs. Mathews is in her sixties now. Her husband has passed and her sons live across the country. I would come in and make sure there was sufficient amounts of food, clean linen, and that the house was in order.”

“And why did you begin to see her more often,” the Pastor asked.

“Well,” Mr. Cobbs continued. “I noticed that she had been having trouble speaking. And that she had more trouble walking. It appeared as though she looked stiff, as if it even hurt to move in even the slightest way. Sometimes, she would even vomit in the night and I would go in the next morning and find it next to her bed. Sometimes, even on her sheets.”

“And how was she, health-wise, before you noticed these changes?”

“Well, Pastor, she was quite healthy for her age and very manageable on her own, I must say. I feel that perhaps my presence there wasn’t even needed besides me being company for her and all.”

“And concerning our accused over here,” the Pastor said, pointing to Mary Belle. “How does she tie into all of this?”

“Well, Pastor, right at the start of her getting sick, she told me of Miss. Rose there coming to visit her. You see, Mrs. Mathews and her are good friends. They’ve been friends for quite sometime, I believe. Anyway, Miss. Rose had come over for some tea and, as Mrs. Mathews told me, Miss Rose asked to borrow a hairbrush. Apparently, hers had gone missing.”

“Really?” The Pastor looked at Mrs. Mathews, who still struggled to hold her head up and straighten her back. He then looked over at Mary Belle who shook her head in protest of his condemning stare.

“You borrowed something of Mrs. Mathews,’ Miss. Rose?”

“I-I brought it back. I swear I brought it back,” Mary Belle pleaded.

“Did you, really? Did you find any brush returned to Mrs. Mathews that our accused here said she merely borrowed, Mr. Cobbs,” the Pastor asked.

Jacob Cobbs sat there for a moment on the bench, thinking. Mrs. Mathews, her head now up, opened her mouth and struggled to speak. But only raspy gasps of dry, meager squeaks fell out. It wasn’t enough for those around her to hear, but definitely enough to catch the attention of Mary Belle, who smiled and grew excited at her friend’s forthcoming defense. Mr. Cobbs, too, saw her attempts to speak, but silenced her with sympathetic, childish shushing.

The Pastor asked again.

“Mr. Cobbs, did the accused return a brush, or not?”

“No, no brush was returned,” Mr. Cobbs answered confidently.

“No, that’s not true. I returned it the next day. I swear to the Lord above, I did,” Miss Rose pleaded.

“Hush,” the Pastor said sternly. “There will be no lying nor slander upon the good Lord’s name in this most holy place. You have been warned. Do not speak out in such a manner again. Especially against the Lord in his house!”

The Pastor turned to address the townsfolk, who sat whispering in the pews before him.

“A brush,” he announced. “A brush borrowed by the accused and supposedly not returned. A brush, no doubt, with hair from the head of Mrs. Mathews imbedded in its bristles.”

His face widened.

“Now, we all know that those whose souls are sold to the devil for such powers know that the quickest and easiest way to afflict another with witchery is to take into possession a personal belonging of their victim. And we also know that something that was once a part of the person themselves is of ideal necessity for the working of the most powerful of hexes. For if indeed the brush had been returned, say even the next morning, there would still be plenty of time for one to cast their spell. However, lean not on this one contemptible act of blasphemy alone as a basis for passing judgment on the accused before us. For only the Lord is truly worthy to pass such judgment.”

The Pastor turned to where the frail Mrs. Mathews withered on the bench.

“My dear Mrs. Mathews,” he said as he approached her. “There will be justice for you today, yet. The good Lord speaks through me and promises his children deliverance from evil. There will be justice for you today. You may take your seat. I thank you for your testimony.”

Mr. Cobbs escorted Mrs. Mathews from the bench and back to their seats in the pew.