The Daughters of the Night

Main Street was crawling with hordes of festive tourists, hopping from bar to bar in costumes ranging from sexy nurses to bumblebees to superheroes, even a giant blow-up Kool Aid Man, who lost control and tumbled into the bushes after one too many pumpkin ales. Spooky music rang out around the town, coming from a source unknown. Ghouls and goblins lingered in the shadows, hoping to startle a skittish trick-or-treater. True enthusiasts hosted seances, dusted off ouija boards, and even tested out homemade ghost detectors. Still, stranger things were happening in Salem on All Hallows’ Eve.

On the outskirts of town, a weeping woman clambered up many steps to a creaky old house. She raised her shaking fist, knocking on the door three times. I watched from the window as she brought a baby-blue handkerchief to the corner of her eye, wiping away the moisture.

Mary opened the door, greeting the woman with a blank stare. I came up behind her, adorning a slightly more friendly expression.

“H-hello. Can I come in?” The woman looked about forty. She had long, slicked back auburn hair. Her complexion was youthful, her age only revealed by laugh lines on the corners of her mouth. Mascara smeared her cheeks and the veins in her eyes popped red. The woman attempted to walk inside, but Mary apprehended her with a held-out palm.

“I did not say you could come in. Is there someone– I mean something you need taken care of?” Mary was extremely paranoid and protective when it came to strangers. It often came in the form of hostility to the suffering souls who sought out our services, which I did not appreciate. I also could not exactly blame her, for our coven of witches has had a more than unfortunate history in Salem. The harrowing recountings of the fate of our ancestors were difficult to forget. However, since the Trials, our coven has been able to practice in this town while keeping our identities hidden from those who may persecute us.

The key to it all was the women of Salem. You see, after the Trials, the seven witches left of our coven refused to practice witchcraft for many years. Using material disguises, they secretly purchased this very home, abandoning their families and husbands for fear of future betrayal. Once settled in the home, the witches refused to leave, never again to be seen out in public. 

That was until one day, when a young wife fled from her home, crying out for help. The woman, still in her undergarments, was bloodied and bruised from her husband’s repeated lashings. She came knocking on the door of the witches, begging for shelter and protection from that cruel man. The battered woman, Elsabeth, had never met her neighbors before and had only heard some unfounded claims from local gossips about a group of unwed women inhabiting the ominous-looking home at the end of the street, but she was desperate, so she knocked and knocked and pounded on the door until someone finally opened up.

Moira, the most powerful of the surviving witches, was so outraged by the beating that she not only promised Elsabeth safety from her husband John, one of Salem’s renowned clergymen, she promised that John would never be able to lay hands on a woman again.

It is rumored that early the next morning, the church mysteriously burned to the ground. John was the sole victim.

Elsabeth’s story caught the attention of many women throughout the town, who all came flocking to the home of the witches, sharing dramatic tales of unfaithful husbands, ruthless fathers, or ungrateful sons, pleading with us to take action as we had with Deacon John Smatters. The witches had no choice but to practice magic once more.

Centuries later, we became known as The Daughters of the Night, the fearless coven of witches who imposed suffering on men who most deserved it. Some men were philandering husbands, some were physically and emotionally abusive, and some were just pure evil. But all faced their fates when their innocent victims came to our door to bare their stories and scars. To prevent any suspicions among the townspeople, the coven only performed such services during the month of October, when the comings and goings of the home were barely noticeable against the backdrop of all the other halloween festivities. The Daughters of the Night have remained such a long-held secret among the women of Salem precisely because of how much these women relied on our services, not just for their own protection, but for the protection of their daughters and granddaughters.

Tonight was no different. The middle-aged woman stood at our door, frightened, gazing into Mary’s palm.

“Are you the Daughters? I have an urgent request. It’s not for me, you see, it's for my own daughter.”

“Mary, it’s enough. Let her in. She is coming in with the correct intentions, I can feel it.” In all truth, my sister Beth was the only witch who could truly sense auras, but I trusted my intuition nonetheless.

“Hello, I’m Luna, what’s your name? How can we help?” I asked the shivering woman while eyeing down Mary, who still appeared to be full of distrust.

“I’m Angela…” Her voice trailed off as she began to sob faintly. I handed her a small vial from the pocket of my dress. Yes, we witches do wear the poofy black dresses and pointed hats, but only for special occasions. She shot me a confused look.

“It’s a calming potion. My own recipe.” She popped open the vial, sniffing the contents before taking a small sip.

I guided Angela into a brown leather chair in the study. The fireplace crackled behind her as she wiped her eyes again with the light blue cloth. Beth, Mary, and Hazel, the eldest of the Daughters, gather around us, anxious to hear Angela’s story.

“Well…I am divorced…with one daughter.” She paused, scanning the room for expressions of judgment. She found none.

“I’ve been seeing this man, Jeff, for several years, and he’s been really great to us. You know, me and Sophie, my daughter. But the other day, she told me…” She broke down again, bracing the arms of the chair. Fishing around her purse, she grabbed my vial and poured its remaining contents down her throat. She took a long, huffing breath.

“She told me he forced himself on her.” Silence filled the room. I clutched the amulet that hung around my neck. This is exactly what I meant by pure evil.

“Where is Sophie now?” Hazel asked, her eyes glistening with tears of her own.

“She’s with her father. Sophie is only fifteen! I don’t know how anyone could do this to a child. I thought I knew him. I thought I could trust him.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I let this happen to her.”

“Don’t say that.” I stated firmly. “None of this is your fault.” I looked around at the other witches. “Angela, we are going to take care of Jeff for you, and he will never hurt Sophie again.”

I led the coven into the Garden Conservatory, leaving Angela in the study. Through the skylight glistened a yellowish full moon. Beth handed me a burgundy candle from the bookshelf. I lit the candle, placing it directly under the skylight. I joined hands with the others, leading the powerful chant. As each verse led to the next, the energy became stronger and stronger, filling our palms with heat. The candle lit so brightly, I had to look away. My voice raised passionately with each word of the chant until finally, it was over. The flame cut out, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the Conservatory once more. The quiet only lasted for a second, as the whirling sirens of an ambulance broke through the street.

After collecting the ashes from the candle and burning some sage for protection, Beth led us back to the front of the home, where Angela was taking a phone call in the dining room. 

Sitting in the study, I waited patiently and silently for Angela to return, still haunted by Jeff’s despicable actions. A quick glance at the other witches told me they had the exact same thoughts.

Finally, Angela returned. We all stood up. Before I could let her know the curse had been completed, she spoke.

“That was my neighbor. There was a terrible accident just now. Apparently, Jeff had forgotten to blow out a candle before he fell asleep. The house burned down, and he didn’t make it out.”

As she told us the tragic news, a subtle smirk crept across her face.