Carolyn's Turn_Making Witches of Salem
Praise for Rick Bettencourt
“…a stunning achievement…larger-than-life and not to be missed. It's most highly recommended.”
Readers’ Favorite
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“Definitely a book I would read, and enjoy, on my own!”
Angelle Pilkington, Acquisitions Editor at Amazon
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“This work takes a different direction from author Rick Bettencourt's former works with their very strong focus on the LGBT community, but is wonderful all the same. Readers who enjoy books with strong characterization, fun story lines that still have some heart-wrenching moments, or just a great read of fiction in general, should absolutely grab this book.”
Chris Fischer
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“So vividly drawn that [the characters] practically leap off the page. Readers will be able to connect with, relate to, and care about the characters, and will continue to think about them long after the book is read. If that isn't a hallmark of a great author, I'm not sure what is.”
Tracy Slowiak, reviewer for Readers’ Favorite
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“I found myself reading with bated breath.”
An ARC reader
Carolyn's Turn
Making Witches of Salem
Rick Bettencourt
Copyright © 2017 Rick Bettencourt
All Rights Reserved.
www.rickbettencourt.com
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This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Warning: Contains strong language and violence.
Contents
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I. Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered
2001
Carolyn’s Turn
A Friend in Seattle
Witch Way
Getting Lost
Smelling Sausage
False Retrograde
Wiccan Consultants
Pop Ditties by the Sea
Red Vanilla
God Is In the Details
Discover what Rebecca sees…
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Part I
Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered
2001
With her manager dead, Carolyn knew the man before her couldn’t be real. Blood dripped from his chest where the fish’s bill had pierced his heart and ripped out his back. “Rudy?” Carolyn’s feet sank into the cold, Maine sand, as she crab-walked backward.
The blood Rudy had vomited, in his final gasps for life, still trickled from his mouth. It stained his chin and colored his neck burgundy. As he lowered—to kiss her?—the stench of iron on his breath and tang of his rotting flesh bit the air.
Carolyn Sohier, the singer and actress lauded as America’s greatest diva, bolted. She ran through the island’s dune grasses and breathed laborious staccato gasps. Rudy chased with unnatural speed. Yet she kept ahead of him. How?
“Carolyn, don’t go.” His voice curdled like fuel clogging a carburetor. “I’m not here to harm.”
An explosion thundered overhead. Carolyn stopped, head up to a light in the sky. The ocean lapped her feet. Rudy sailed over the sand of Summerwind Island, Maine, gaining traction on the performer.
Another blast lit the night.
“Carolyn!” The female voices were friendly and familiar.
The witches. Carolyn staggered, bare feet slapping along Wisteria Beach. Her gown wicked water and clung to her legs. “Rebecca? Berniece?” She plunged into the frigid Atlantic, an ablution something deep inside forced her to take.
The biracial women sailed above, no broom to aid their flight like Carolyn had portrayed in the movie.
The cold water stung. Carolyn swam toward them. “Berniece!” The actress reached for them. “Becky!” Carolyn swallowed water.
“Carolyn, darling.” Berniece’s round face beamed, clear through the ocean as Carolyn sank. “We’s here fo’ya.”
Rebecca’s pale hand reached in and yanked the actress from the ocean. “It’s not your turn.” They rose into the night.
“Not my turn…?” Carolyn tugged her nightie, surprised to find it warm and dry, and the three flew through the air.
The wind whipped as the trio banked westward toward Bar Harbor.
Rudy’s rotting corpse looked up from the beach. “Carolyn!” he yelled. “Don’t do it! Don’t go.” His voice sounded clearer than before, no more gurgling in his throat, like she intuited his words.
“Don’t go? Where am I going?” Carolyn muttered. The force of their flight swallowed her words, whipped her long brown hair, and thrashed the gown about her sleek figure. In front of her, the witches joined hands. Berniece held a chubby one out to Carolyn, and the actress joined them.
They cruised over the island and to the Nesbitt home where Michael stayed. The witches pulled him from his slumber. “What am I doing here?” Michael wore the new pajamas his husband had bought him. “Carolyn?” He hovered with them.
Light flashed, and a boom followed. Salem, Massachusetts—the Common, Pickering Wharf, a clipper ship—hunkered below them. The women hovered, dazed by the sudden rush in getting there. The rising sun crested over the harbor, commencing a new day—September 11, 2001.
Carolyn’s Turn
About two years earlier…
Belief influences behavior in strange ways. Carolyn Sohier never believed a role in the new Jonathan Dodger film, two Salem witches, and an island in Maine would influence her life in such a dramatic fashion. Yet in 1999, when the VTV Awards held its gala event at Radio City Music Hall, that turn toward magick happened.
In the backstage bathroom, the tall, gawky, yet elegant thirty-something rose from leaning over the toilet bowl.
“Carolyn, get the hell outta there!” Rudy yelled from the other side of the door. “You’re next.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and flushed. At the sink, she washed up. Her legs shook as she applied lipstick. Her manager—and on-again-off-again romantic partner—pounded on the door.
“This is your chance, Pumpkin,” he said, with insincerity.
Her hand trembled as she whisked blush to her cheeks. “You’ve got to do this,” she whispered, voice warbling. “You’ve got to. Dad would’ve wanted it this way.” She leaned her hips into the counter. “Just do it for him.” She shook her head. “No more backup. You’ve got to be front and…” She swallowed, unable to add center.
“There are a lot of very important people out here tonight,” Rudy continued in a steady tone. “Remember, I even let you go without wearing the leather and makeup.” No doubt, his infectious smile plastered his face.
Second thoughts about her decision to go out as herself instead of hidden behind the mask of the Leather Queen plagued her mind. Dressed in the costume of another character would have been less scary.
Determined to follow through, she put her hands on her hips. She knew what her manager wanted. She’d heard it all before: industry execs begged for more performances from the Leather Queen. Plus, Rudy’s woe-is-me attitude—when his colleagues belittled him
about their bookings pulling in millions of dollars—met her sympathy.
She threw open the door—“Let’s do it”—and flung her bag over her shoulder.
His belly pulled at the buttons of a yellow short-sleeve. He raised an eyebrow and offered her candy. Sweets often calmed her nerves.
She pecked at Pez. “All right, let’s get my fat ass out there before I puke all over the place.”
While fat no longer described her, teenage ridicule still hurt.
Carolyn closed her eyes and took in a few deep breaths—a practice in meditation and suggestive therapy, telling herself the things she wanted to be. “Ah.” She exhaled and settled down some. “You are fine.” She closed her eyes. “You are going to be fine.”
“Yes, you are.”
From her bag, she took out the book You Are What You Think. She kept it in her purse like others would a Bible. She riffled through the pages, looking for a few positive passages that would put her in a better frame of mind.
Rudy smiled. “You’re gonna do it! You’re the shits!”
“Um-hmm.” She flipped through the book as Rudy edged her closer to the wing.
“I am confident. I’m the best,” she muttered. “I’m a fabulous singer. I’m the shits!”
Heads turned.
She put the book back in her bag and threw the satchel at Rudy, who coughed as it hit him in the stomach. “Oh, sorry.”
“That’s okay, honey.” He grinned. “Now, over there is the stage. You see it?”
Carolyn nodded.
He put his arm around her. “Okay, let’s go get ’em!” He hugged her and they smooched.
She pulled from his grasp, flipped her arms out dismissively, and walked toward the small stairwell that led to the stage. As she climbed, she remembered Bette Midler’s finale in The Rose, and she whisked away any remaining nerves with a toss of her long brown hair. I’m a star. She stopped and stood in the dark behind the curtain, waiting for her cue. She turned to Rudy and grinned.
Rudy threw her bag over his shoulder and put two thumbs up. “You’re the shits,” he mouthed.
Where she stood, a white piece of tape glowed green as the lights went out.
If her father, Jim Sohier, were still alive, Carolyn knew he would be proud—picking up where he left off.
With unvaried pitch, the announcer for the VTV Awards spoke: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Carolyn So-hair.” The mispronunciation of her last name, often misspelled as Sawyer, elicited a shake of her head. She refused to go by the stage name Leather Queen.
The familiar chords of her remake of Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic” resonated from the piano and echoed throughout the motionless auditorium. Its soft melodic tone captivated the audience, who sat quietly.
The spotlight’s heat washed over her.
Through the first verse, Carolyn sang with grace and, as the Village Voice claimed, “the energy of a freight train.” The audience sat slack-jawed. She could witness it, like a soul sees its body in an NDE—near-death experience—high above it all.
The pianist launched into his solo.
Feeling the music and listening to him, the brightness of the lights lessened while another, more brilliant one, lit her accompanist.
The piece’s instrumental always moved her. She danced with the song’s spirit and waited for her moment to reenter, as they’d practiced countless times.
When she opened her eyes to prepare for the second verse, the audience’s presence caught her attention. The protection the blinding spotlight had provided now slammed her back to life in her NDE. The gawking camera, plus the thousands of filled seats, rattled her confidence.
Beside a tall shadow—Seth Stevenson’s ghost?—a couple in the second row exchanged a smirk. Were they laughing at her, like they did back in high school on that terrible night? She shuddered. Her knees trembled.
No, no.
Her calming trance had evaporated. As if waking from a dream, she panicked, thinking about being onstage in view of millions.
The camera, only a few feet away, beamed an ominous, red glowing light. She thought back to the book in her purse and tried to recall a motivating passage to reestablish the serenity, but her irrational side fought for possession.
Back in the moment. Get back in the moment!
She looked into the camera and nervously smiled. To her right, in the front row, a group of teenagers frowned and nudged one another.
They are laughing.
Her bowels let out a gurgle, and her stomach churned.
No, you can’t. Not right now.
She winced as a cramp gripped her gut. She clenched her stomach.
The piano solo ended.
She knew she needed to start the second verse. She tried to cover with a smile and a nod. Waiting for the next appropriate beat to come in, she glanced back at the pianist—to avoid the glowering camera.
I can’t just walk off stage.
Perhaps she should have written the lyrics on the palm of her hand, for she had no idea what words came next. She couldn’t even recall the song’s name. A rising storm within surfaced—her mind a blur.
The orchestra played on. The queasiness in her stomach made her think back to the candy from Rudy. “I’m the shits!” she shouted into the microphone.
Oh, God.
She knew she had to have said something. After all, the audience waited.
Like her thumping heart, the orchestra clamored off a couple of beats. The audience giggled.
She prayed for the peace to rake back over her and comfort her from this horror. Deus ex machina. Like in a Greek tragedy, she hoped to be plucked out of the scene.
Her knees weakened, and her legs shook. Her bowels gurgled again. She prayed the microphone didn’t pick up the noise.
The orchestra repeated the bridge—minus her accompaniment.
Enveloped by dizziness, she bit her inner cheek to retain consciousness. The induced pain helped deflect the sharp throb in her gut.
The producers scrambled offstage, albeit for a commercial break. She stood paralyzed.
No, no please! she exclaimed to her body—she felt outside of it. This time, death seemed more palpable. Fearing any movement would stir up something else, she remained still and tried to fight off her nausea, but her gag reflex pushed up a smattering of SweeTARTS, Pez, and something else.
As she collapsed, she vomited out, what looked to be, a bat-like creature. In Carolyn’s slow turn toward the floor, she watched the small figure skitter across the stage and into the wing. It swept over the area, now empty, where Rudy had been.
“A delusion,” she said, when the medics arrived. “It’s all a delusion.” She wedged thoughts of the apparition deep into the recesses of her mind—alongside the other things she didn’t want to confront.
A Friend in Seattle
Overlooking Puget Sound, Michael and Terrence’s house—a cement structure with mirrored-glass windows—clung to the side of Bellevue cliff. Its backyard sloped to the water.
A mishmash of European and early Americana antiques, in contrast to the home’s modern facade, filled its immense interior.
“Oh my God,” Michael said, more to the television than to Terrence, who sat beside him on the American Rococo settee. He repeated his plea to God, but this time in a higher pitch. Normally he used his hands to express himself, a habit from his Italian heritage, but this time, they were plastered to his face. The cheeriness of the commercial’s announcer irritated him. “Shut up!” Michael yelled, clicking the remote and throwing it to the carpet.
Terrence sat open-mouthed, elbows on his knees. He straightened and placed his Scotch on the table. “Did she just puke all over the audience? On national TV?”
“Oh my God!” Michael repeated. He shot up and started pacing. “I got to go. I’ve got to help her. I should have—”
A loud, bellowing scream from the floor above echoed through the house. Josefina, their maid, hadn’t been dusting and vacuuming the upstairs library as sh
e had claimed. Indeed, she’d been watching Miss Carolyn.
“Mr. Michael? Mr. Terrence?” The pitter-patter of her feet running down the staircase filled the hall.
“It’s Miss Carolyn! Mr. Michael? Mr. Terrence?” She held her chest. Her breasts bounced, and she scurried across the marble floor. Her short, dark hair, loaded with hairspray, didn’t move a strand. “Oh, poor Mr. Michael.” In her black-and-white polyester uniform, she came to a stop and attempted to catch her breath. “Oh, no. How you going to handle your good fren’?”
For a moment, the three stood in the foyer, staring at one another.
“It’s my fault,” Michael said, breaking the silence. “I should have been there with her.”
Terrence put an arm around him and pulled him into a sideward hug. “Stop. It’s not your fault.”
“What the fuck happen?” Josefina asked. “Jesterday you tell me she gonna be on the cho. I not gonna watch but I lie.”
Josefina paraded her vulgar mouth about the house like, as Michael said, a Bob Mackie gown at the Oscars—a key reason why Michael and Terrence had to hire out when entertaining. Terrence could never have clients over with a boorish live-in maid spitting “Sit the fuck down!” as she escorted them to their seats.
“She must have the flu,” Terrence said and tightened the satin belt of his paisley robe.
“No, it’s nerves. Trust me. I know.” Michael shook his head. “I knew I should have—”