The Werewolf of Salem, Part the Second (Patreon)

“Stand! And receive the word of God!” Minister Philas commanded. Sunday had come again to Salem, and all the congregation rose. Robert looked over to the opposite end of the church, where Temperance stood. She nodded subtly to him, and kept her eye on the front row, where Goodie Strigg was seated. They both were unnerved to see that she looked completely unharmed from last night.

The Reverend Parris stared glumly at the imposing figure of Minister Philas. One could get the feeling that he was none too pleased to have his place at the pulpit usurped, but no one could quite figure out why, exactly, he had been so willing to hand the service over to Philas. 

“Salem reeks of sin! For your crimes against the Lord, he has withdrawn his protection, and unleashed the Devil’s hounds from Hell! The Red Beast stalks your lands, and how much longer will you wallow in your sins before your children, your loved ones, your very lives are taken? For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and all will know the sting of the lash and the ever-burning fire if you do not seek out the wicked amongst you! For whoever walks the crooked paths of sin will be found out!”

Robert glared deeply at the thing he knew couldn’t be his father. He seethed with anger at this insult to his father’s memory, and clenched his fists tightly, thinking about what he would do to the witch that had brought him out of his rightful rest.

As the congregation began to file out, Robert and Temperance met quickly. 

“You still need to get into Samuel Parris’ home, yes?” Temperance asked.

Robert nodded, silent.

The young woman looked over her shoulder. “I’m making a delivery to his home tonight, so I will not be working during the Sabbath day. Wait in back after twilight, and I shall leave the back door to his kitchen open.”

He was silent for a moment. “Why are you helping me?”

She smiled. “Because. You’re still a good man.”

Robert was quiet, but grabbed her wrist as she began to walk away. “One last thing. Did you notice anything strange about Minister Philas?”

Temperance frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What does he look like, to you?”

“He… looks like any other Minister, I suppose.”

Robert narrowed his eyes. “Nothing stuck out to you?”

“I…” her frown grew deeper. “I’m not sure, now that I think about it. I can’t remember anything about the man. Why do you ask?”

Robert growled. “It’s nothing.” He left Temperance and began walking towards home, preparing for the night.

When the moon shined on Robert and changed him, the rain came. The werewolf worked through his regular hunger by hunting deer near Samuel Parris’ estate, and waited for Temperance. It was nine past noon when she came to the Reverend’s home. Parris lived well; the trials four years ago had been a prosperous time for him, and the Salem parsonage had been transformed into a handsome manor with whitewashed walls and a slate roof, paid for by the profits Parris had gained from the acquisition of lands from convicted witches, like Robert’s father.

Temperance was ushered into the manor by a familiar face; the Reverend’s slave, Tituba, a caribbean woman that escaped the hangman despite being the first woman accused of witchcraft. The woman who had been at the epicenter of the Witching Ordeal now looked on edge as she quietly showed Temperance the way to the kitchen.

“Master Parris is already preparing for bed,” Tituba explained. “Just drop off your goods, and be on your way.”

“It’s fairly early for bed. Is the Reverend feeling well?” Temperance asked innocently.

Tituba shot her a look. “He’s tired.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Just mind your own business, Miss Gooding,” she snapped.

Temperance set down her basket and looked to the kitchen door, and knew Robert was waiting for her to unlock it. But Tituba was standing in the kitchen, waiting for her. “Would you mind if I made us some tea? It’s terribly cold outside, and I’d like something to ward off against the chill.”

“Miss Gooding, you need to leave. Now,” Tituba insisted. “The Reverend, he needs his rest and—”

Tituba froze as there was a knock on the kitchen door. A loud one. Loud enough to shake the walls. Temperance was still, as well, but slowly began to move for the door.

“Don’t you dare,” Tituba hissed, quickly grabbing a kitchen knife. “You think I’m just going to let you invite more evil in this house?”

Temperance stared at her. “What do you mean by more evil?”

“I can see you. From the window.” Robert’s voice growled from the other side of the door. “Open up. Now.”

The dark-skinned woman swore under her breath. “You led it right here?”

“Tituba!” a woman’s voice called from the next room. “Who was that at the door?”

Temperance shook her head to Tituba, who quickly went to attend the woman. “Oh, it was just Miss Gooding, Miss Williams, dropping off a delivery for Master Parris.”

“Temperance Gooding?” the woman sounded disgusted. “Do not let her in this house again. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Williams.”

By the time Tituba got back to the kitchen, she had to stop herself from screaming. The Red Beast was in her kitchen, a monstrously huge wolf man with glowing eyes. Robert quickly reached her, clapping his hand around her mouth.

“We mean you no harm, Tituba,” Temperance whispered. “Just go to your room without another word. We just want a book from the Reverend’s library. Is that agreeable to you?”

Tituba emphatically nodded her head, and Robert let her go. “You should know, Miss Gooding… you don’t want to cross the woman Master Parris has here.”

“Why?” the werewolf demanded, still looming over her.

Tituba looked up at him, with no sign of fear. “Lots of people in Salem have hidden depths. Ain’t that right, Mister Robert Burroughs?”

Before either of them could react, she held up her hand. “Get your book. Then get out of here. This house ain’t fit to live in anymore.” She left without another word.

Silently, Robert and Temperance rushed to Parris’ study, located in a wing right of the house. Small and tidy, the walls were packed with shelves holding more books than existed in the rest of Salem. “Looking for the Benandanti,” Robert said gruffly, gingerly looking through the books with his large, clawed hands. The room was barely tall enough for him, and his vast, rolling shoulders filled the door and then some.

“Aren’t you worried about Tituba?” Temperance hissed.

“If she wanted us caught, she’d have done it by now.”

After poring over countless volumes, Robert found the book. “The Benandanti, An Account by Don Bartolomeo Sgabarizza,” the title read. The werewolf glanced over the pages, going over village accounts and trials taken by the Catholic Inquisition, and theses offered by Priests and Jesuits, coming to a conclusion that lifted a burden off Robert’s shoulders. For the first time since he had transformed, he felt relief.

“What is it?” Temperance asked, looking over his shoulder. Robert had fallen on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“I’m not damned.” He pointed to a page. “The Benandanti. Good Walkers. The Church said they weren’t Devil worshippers. They don’t follow Witches. They hunt them.” He managed a smile with his fangs. “That’s me.”

Temperance offered a smile, and wrapped her arm around his thick neck, patting his beefy chest. “I knew it, Robert. You’re a good man.” She planted a kiss on his cheek, which made his ears splay flat; his version of blushing.

Robert closed the book, standing up to his full height. “You find anything?”

“I can’t quite make these letters out…” Temperance held up a handful of parchment. “But I recognized your father’s name. George Burroughs.”

Robert took the papers and quickly read them, and his smile fell away. As he continued to read, he snarled, his fur standing on end and the paper crumpled and torn in his hands.

“Robert? What’s wrong?” Temperance asked, furrowing her brow.

The werewolf shoved the book in her hands then stomped over to the window, breaking the locks and forcing it open. “Get out of here. Take the book with you. Now.”

She looked from the window to the hulking beast in front of her. “Robert, what is it? I’ve stayed with you this far. I want to help.”

Robert didn’t respond with words. He grabbed Temperance by the arms and picked her up, forcing her out of the window. “Go. Now.” 

Temperance stared at Robert, his massive form only illuminated by the glowing embers of his eyes. “Godspeed, Robert.”

The werewolf growled low, and nodded once. When he was certain Temperance had left, he snatched up the crumpled letter. It was a notice to Judge John Hathorne, the most zealous magistrate from the trials. Eight of the nineteen accused died by his decision, including Robert’s father. The letter from Parris was the reverend accusing George of witchcraft, citing all the charges brought against George Burroughs that Robert had assumed had been anonymous, until now. The werewolf was standing in the house of his father’s murderer.

When he looked out the door, the house was dark and quiet. Robert stalked through the Reverend’s home, relying on his sharp nose to lead him to Parris’ bedroom. When he found it on the second floor of the home, the door handle crumpled in his iron grip, and he wrenched the door off its hinges. It was enough noise to wake up the Reverend, who sat bolt upright as the menacing beast entered his room.

“W-what are you doing in here?” Parris demanded in a quavering voice. “Who are you?”

“Your reckoning.”

The Reverend had just enough time to grab a pistol from his bed stand, but Robert wrenched the weapon out of Parris’ hands, pinning the Reverend to his bed with one arm, and flexing his mighty muscles, his bicep surging as he crushed the gun in his hand. Parris screamed and scrambled out of the werewolf’s grasp, but Robert was too quick for him. He tackled the tall, lanky man, and the both of them went hurtling out the window, landing on the wet ground below with a heavy thud. Robert’s titanic body kept him from harm, but the Reverend was worse for wear, whimpering in pain and fear and nursing a broken ribcage.

“GEORGE BURROUGHS!” Robert bellowed, beating his rock hard chest. “What did you do to him?!”

“I- I—” Parris quivered in the werewolf’s grasp. “He-he was a witch! His strength, it was un-unnatural!”

“LIAR!”

The Reverend cowered as the rain fell down heavier, and a bolt of lightning illuminated Robert’s hulking frame. “He-he was after my position! He was getting too popular, and- and he was friends with the magistrate! He was going to rub me out of my vocation!”

“So you KILLED him?!”

“I-I didn’t mean to!” Parris sobbed. “If only the fool had just- just recanted! He would have lived! He was too proud. Too arrogant! He did it to himself!”

“YOU SPINELESS WORM!” the werewolf roared, losing all sense. He fell into a mad rage, tearing at the Reverend with his claws, eviscerating Parris until the remains barely resembled a human body. His hands and muzzle caked in blood, Robert turned to the moon, letting out a mournful howl.

And then, he heard a single bit of applause. He swerved around, fangs and claws bared as he faced Goodie Strigg.

“Wonderful performance, my pet,” she cooed. “You saved me the trouble of disposing of this old fool.”

“Do not test me, witch!” Robert snarled. “I know you have no purchase on my soul, now. I am Benandanti! That’s why Giles Corey hunted you.”

The witch rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. The mad ramblings of a Papist monk one hundred years dead are but a piece of the puzzle. You think the Christian God will have you?” she smirked. “No. Go into town, in this… magnificent form of yours, and the people will scorn you. Fear you. Kill you. That is, if you don’t kill every last one of them, first. Which you could easily do, with your fantastic power. Your only place, your only home, now, is in the bosom of the Lord below.”

“I avenged my father!” Robert shouted defensively.

“Is that so? You had no enjoyment out of this?” the witch was now at his side, caressing his powerful arms. “No thrill from crushing such a weak, unworthy fool with your mighty strength?”

Robert growled, smacking the witch away. “No.”

Goodie Strigg smiled deviously. “Then you can explain to the good people of Salem why your bloody murder of the good Reverend was warranted. I, of course, will be devastated. My poor, dear uncle took such good care of me in my youth.”

The werewolf choked on her words. Parris only had one niece; the most vocal of the accusers during the Witching Ordeal. “You’re Abigail Williams.”

“The original Witch Hunter of Salem. And I dare say I should take up my old hobby again.” She turned to look over her shoulder. In the distance, torches could be spotted, borne by the watchmen of the town. “Let’s see how the hunter enjoys being the hunted, Benandanti.” Abigail began sobbing fake tears, letting out a horrified shriek as she ran towards the watchmen. “Help! Please! It’s the Red Beast! The Red Beast killed Reverend Parris!”

Robert had little time to think. He turned on his heel, and loped off into the forest as quickly as he could, even as he heard the night watchmen crying out in horror at his handiwork. He fled into the night, letting his bestial instincts guide the way to any refuge he could find.