The curtain fell and the thirty girls in white dresses were hidden from view. The entire auditorium applauded, a few rising from their seats in a standing ovation. The recital had been beautiful. My daughter, my radiant Cynthia, was the first chair flautist, and tonight my praises were only for her.
It was 1916, and my daughter was twelve years old. Her exemplary skills on the flute had earned her a scholarship at Biloxi Girl’s Conservatory, a renowned school where young ladies could receive a classical musical education along with religious training, away from the eyes of men and boys. Her acceptance there had been the talk of the neighborhood for many weeks.
Cynthia found my husband and me ten minutes later, her face glowing with excitement, her flute clutched tight in her hand. “Mama! Did you see? Did you hear?”
I hugged my daughter, noticing how lovely her dark hair looked against the white dress. When she was older she’d make a beautiful bride. “I saw you, sweetest, and I certainly heard. I didn’t think it possible, but you have improved greatly.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t I? My instructors are strict, but they know how to help me. I’m learning lots!”
My husband stroked her hair, smiling down at his little angel. “And how is your religious instruction coming?” Cynthia’s demeanor changed immediately; she straightened up and took on a solemn air.
“I’m studying my Bible everyday, Papa. And I know all the answers in class.” I noted that Cynthia’s eyes were lowered and she held her hands together in front of her. A perfect little lady. I felt a rush of renewed pride that my daughter had been accepted to such a good school.
Cynthia lifted her eyes to peer around for a moment. Apparently she didn’t see what she was looking for, so she quickly pecked us both on the cheek and wished us good night. Parting wasn’t hard; we’d meet again.
My husband offered his arm and I took it. Outside our horse and buggy were waiting. My husband helped me up and took the reins.
“We’re blessed people, Ida,” my husband said gruffly. I nodded.
“Every night I thank God for Cynthia. I used to think we were being punished,” I said. “But God sent Cynthia to show that we had been forgiven.” We rode in silence for a few minutes. “Do you think we were being punished, Samuel?”
My husband stroked his beard thoughtfully before answering. “It’s crossed my mind. But I’ve decided not. We didn’t know what to think at first, remember, Ida? I think God sent Cynthia to show us the difference. One child is Godly and pure. The other is Satanic, or at least possessed. God is showing us so we can recognize evil.”
I shivered. Cynthia was our pride and joy, the shining light of hope in our small household. Only people who knew us well were aware of our other daughter, Mary. I closed my eyes and like so many times before, wondered what heinous thing I had done to deserve such a child.
“Good stew, Ida.”
I smiled slightly. Yes, I certainly did pride myself in my cooking ability. It was something that always came effortlessly to me. “Thank you, Samuel. It’s warm enough?”
We sat at our small table and talked quietly over dinner. It was late, around 10:30 at night, but neither of us could sleep. We missed Cynthia. Without her, there was nothing to keep away the demons that lived in this house.
“Perhaps you should bake biscuits, tomorrow,” my husband said. I nodded.
“Of course, dear. Would you like raisins in them, or rasber…”
My words died in my throat.
Mary stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her long black hair concealing half of her face, her head cocked in such a way that she looked wilder than usual.
“Mama,” she whispered. It was a harsh sound, like the rasping of an old woman. It made my blood freeze.
Samuel stood up. “What do you want, Mary?” He said loudly. Mary didn’t look up at him. She was focusing on a point on the floor, then suddenly went rigid. Her small frame shook violently, like she was having some sort of seizure. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she clutched her hair as if to pull it out.
“What are you doing?” she screeched. She swayed back and forth before steadying herself. She gazed at us with wide, horrified eyes that made the skin on the back of my neck prickle. I couldn’t help but think that she wasn’t looking at anything we could see.
Before anyone could say anything else, Mary turned and fled. We heard her footsteps and the loud slam of her bedroom door. Seconds later, muffled screams made their way down into the kitchen. She was screaming into her pillow again.
I sunk down onto the floor and began to sob. Why, why had God sent us such a horrifying child? What did he want from us? Why were the priests so useless against my eldest daughter? Samuel pulled me up and put his arms around me.
“Hush, Ida, hush. Tears won’t help.”
The next few days were enough to put Mary from my mind, at least temporarily. Mr. Connor, the man next door, had beaten his wife to death the night of Mary’s outburst. We watched the hospital men in white coats carry off Mrs. Conner’s body and shook our heads—what a terrible thing to happen to a family.
That Sunday’s sermon was about how husbands must care and love their wives, but women must in turn obey their husbands. The parson was, of course, implying that Mrs. Conner had been a disobedient wife. I didn’t know if that was true or not; all through the service I just wondered why no one ever talked about demonic possession.
My husband and I made it through the week without any interference from Mary, though we could hear her scream and moan in her room. She occasionally came down for meals, which I was more than happy to give her, because she’d take them and disappear again. The end of the week was the relief we longed for—Cynthia was coming home!
Samuel and I rode our little horse and buggy to the Conservatory and collected our daughter for the weekend. Her smiling instructors told us how intelligent our daughter was, and how well-mannered, and kind, and gentle with animals. She had gotten a perfect score on her history test, and her knowledge of the Puritans was impressive. I thought my heart would burst when her religious instructor informed us of Cynthia’s exceptional amount of knowledge of the Bible. Of course, my husband and I had been sure to train her in the Scriptures since she could speak. But it was nice to have someone notice.
Cynthia sat between us as we rode home. She chirped away, pleased to be visiting her parents for the weekend. After she had told us everything she could possibly have wanted to, she looked up at Samuel quizzically. “Where’s Mary, Papa?”
“She’s at home, Cynthia,” my husband said stiffly. Cynthia thought about that for a minute before she asked, “Is she doing any better?”
“No,” Samuel said.
“Have the priests prayed any more?”
“Yes, all the time.”
Cynthia looked at her shoes. “My flute instructor asked me yesterday if I had any sisters,” Cynthia said in a low voice. Samuel glanced at her sharply, so she replied hastily, “but I said no, just like you told me to. They wondered whether I had a sister that made music as well as I can. I said no.”
I instantly understood why Cynthia looked ashamed. We had always told her not to lie, and Cynthia was confessing to two, for her sister Mary could sing like a nightingale. A priest had told us once that Mary was like a siren, that her voice was a mask for the monster within. We forbade her to sing after that, though sometimes at night I thought I heard a girl’s voice coming from somewhere in the house. The sound that used to comfort me now made me hyperventilate.
I hugged my daughter fiercely. “It’s all right, Cynthia,” I whispered. “God will forgive you.”
We had a pleasant Saturday with Cynthia. She played a lively tune on her flute, then a few hymns, and finally “Dixie”, though a sudden screaming fit from Mary interrupted us and made Cynthia hit the wrong notes. Otherwise, we had a grand time; I made cookies and lemonade, which we enjoyed while watching for shooting stars. Cynthia fell asleep in her father’s arms, so he carried her inside to bed. I felt, for the first time in weeks, utterly content.
I should have known it wouldn’t last.
Sunday dawned bright and early. I served breakfast to my bleary-eyed family and shooed them upstairs to dress. I picked out my favorite blue calico dress. Other people at church may frown at wearing such finery, but I was praising the Lord for Cynthia. Let them think what they wanted to. I opened my small jewelry box to get my wedding ring.
It was gone.
I looked through to other contents of the box, but it wasn’t there. Could I have dropped it on the floor? A quick search on my hands and knees yielded me nothing. I stood up, scratching my head. Where could I have put it?
I was in the kitchen looking around the sink when I heard it. The sound that I never wanted to hear. Cynthia, somewhere in the house, was screaming.
I ran upstairs and heard a commotion in Mary’s room. I through open the door and saw a scene that I scarcely could have imagined.
Cynthia was on the ground, kicking her legs and flailing her arms wildly, a rasping sound coming out of her mouth. Mary stood in the corner, pointing at Cynthia and howling and screaming so loudly that I didn’t understand her at first.
“She stole it, she stole it, she is an evil thing—“ Mary cried.
“Mary made me take it, her spirit came to me last night!” Cynthia screamed. Her small body contorted into a grotesque shape and she screamed louder. “She’s hurting me!”
My husband appeared beside me and stared at the horrific scene, just as shocked as I was. Mary froze for a moment, then continued her ravings. “They don’t know, they don’t know the evil in their own house, they don’t know that it’ll destroy them!”
Cynthia sat up and pointed at Mary. “She’s a witch! She’s a horrible witch! Satan’s filled her with demons and now she’s coming to get me to sign into his black book!” Then she fell on the ground again, twitching. The mention of a black book jerked me into action. I scooped Cynthia up into my arms and ran from the room. My husband slammed the door to Mary’s room.
Cynthia screamed even as I laid her on her bed. She screamed about witches, and yellow birds, and men in black who wanted her blood signature. Mostly, she screamed about Mary. Her hand unclenched, and my wedding ring fell to the floor. What did this mean?
Samuel had gone out. He had taken the buggy to fetch a priest—or a doctor even—to look at Cynthia, or so I presumed. I knelt by her bed and clasped my hands together. I prayed for what seemed an eternity, but Cynthia didn’t stop screaming and moaning. Finally, when I had nothing left to say, I thought about what Cynthia was saying. Black book… why did that sound familiar? In fact, this whole situation rang with a vague familiarity. I felt the distant echo of a memory, a little girl in a one-room schoolhouse, reciting history from a primer. Me. I was saying my history lesson to the class. Talking about witches.
Was Mary a witch? She was visited by spirits, tormented by demons, but was she a witch? Had she really sold her soul to the devil? I stifled a sob.
A few minutes later, I heard the clatter of many wagon wheels outside our house. Samuel was back, and it sounded as though whoever was with him had brought their own wagon. I glanced out the window and gasped. Behind our buggy was a large white wagon with bars on the windows, like a police wagon. But instead of Biloxi Police on the side, the words McGregor Asylum for the Mentally Insane were painted in large black letters.
Samuel came up the stairs, grimmer than I had ever seen him. “I went to the asylum, Ida. She has to go, it’s the best for all of us.” He jerked his head in the direction of Mary’s room. I knew he was right. At the bottom of the stairs stood three men in white coats. One of them was holding a straight jacket.
“Yes, dear,” I said quietly. What else was there to say?
The men crept quietly up the stairs. When one put his hand on the door knob to Mary’s room, we heard Mary scream again. “The men in white will take me away, to the dark place I’m going, but they don’t know the evil in their own house!”
The men rushed in and tried to grab her. Mary, not one to go down quietly, resisted fiercely. Samuel had to help the men stuff her into the straight jacket, as she kept biting and scratching, howling all the time. Like a hellcat, I thought. Just like a hellcat.
While Samuel and two of the men were dragging her downstairs and outside, one of the men needed me to answer questions for his file. We sat down in the parlor.
“Okay, then…what’s the girl’s full name?”
“Mary Alice Brandon,” I said. What a waste of a beautiful name. I had wanted my eldest daughter to be named after the mother of God. If only I had known…
“Date of birth?”
“May 18, 1901.” Fifteen long years.
“How would you describe her condition?” The man studied me, gauging my reaction. Perhaps he thought I’d go into hysterics.
“She raves day and night about random things. She sees visions. They make no sense,” I said, sniffing a little.
He asked me a few more questions and finally tipped his hat and left. Cynthia came down the stairs and hugged me.
“I feel better now, Mama.” She looked up at me sweetly.
Samuel came in. “They’re leaving now. Would you like to come out and say goodbye?”
I held Cynthia to my side and motioned for Samuel to join us. We embraced each other in silence. Outside, Mary was being locked into the wagon. I heard her scream again, somehow louder than ever before. As the wagon pulled away, her screams came in through the open windows. They grew distant as the wagon drove off, but they rang around my head. I knew that I would never forget those screams.
Finally, my husband spoke. “She’s gone. She’s never coming back.”
Cynthia seemed to think the moment over. “I’ll never see her again.” She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes bright. Her little body shook as she struggled to breath through her hand. Hiding her tears—the poor dear!
I shook my head. “No, and if anyone asks, Cynthia, Mary Alice Brandon is dead.”