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Devil’s Day

L. Burnette Clark

    Martha Putnam’s screams escaped through the thin walls of the salt box shanty, bounced off the hollow trees and echoed against the floors of snow in the forest. Her bellows disintegrated into the darkness. The only souls that could hear Mrs. Putnam’s cries were Mr. Putnam and Midwife Francis.
    Edward Putnam paced back and forth in front of the wood stove while he drank his homemade cider; a brew that had fermented sufficiently to calm his nerves. With his mug in one hand and the bible in the other, he nervously glanced at the borning room. He was thankful that he would not have to witness the bloody show. If God was willing, Mr. Putnam hoped to survive the effects of this natural occurrence which he and the Lord, of course, had participated in.
    “I said Mrs. Putnam, ye are needful of pushing harder. Push as hard as ye can Ma’am. Push harder.” Midwife Francis repeated. “Ma’am, it seems they’re two coming out of ye.”
    Mr. Putnam quickened his pace, hoping there were not two more mouths to feed. He could barely keep food on the table for himself and Martha. As he was praying to God to forgive his evil and fleeting wish, his thoughts were interrupted by the hysterics of Midwife Francis. She screamed, “He forgave their sins and did not destroy them. He remembered that they were only human. Lord have mercy upon the Putnams! Our father who art in heaven hallowed...”
    Startled by Midwife Francis’s frantic exit, Putnam hastened into the borning room. “Martha, my God.” Mrs. Putnam, with her eyes shut, appeared ashen and frail. He feared that she had passed away. Instead, she sat upright in bed and began shrieking as she hid the newborns under the quilt. “Martha, let me see them,” Mr. Putnam demanded. “Let me see the babies now.” He tugged at the blanket. She tried to fight him, and continued to expel sharp yowls, but he ripped the covers away from her. To his horror, underneath the quilt, two monkey like creatures were punching and grasping at each other with their four tiny fists, as if they were fighting for their independence. It reminded him of the caterpillars that as a boy, he chopped in half with a stick. The dismembered insects wriggled as separate entities, their fluids leaving dark, gummy, blotches on the stones.
    Repulsed at the sight and to ward the evil away, Mr. Putnam frantically recited the Lord’s Prayer. He dropped the bible and proceeded to grab one small leg from under the quilt, but the other leg slipped out of his hand. The beast crashed to the floor with a heavy thud, rolling on the wood like a ball, the two bloody heads connected to each other. Instantly, he grabbed the demon by the foot and swiftly moved toward the wood stove. The warm, sticky liquid that he had tracked through the house had made him sick to his gut.
    Mrs. Putnam awoke from the dampness of the sheets and the odor of newly shed blood. She hollered for Mr. Putnam’s assistance but he did not respond. She removed her nightgown and with shaky limbs, she stepped out of the bed and hobbled toward the tub. Suddenly struck with realization, she shrieked “My baby. No don’t, please Edward. Let us call on Pastor Brown. He’ll save us from this devil. Please don’t hurt my baby.” “Oh Lord, forgive me for my evil mind, this is my fault,” she pleaded.
    Mrs. Putnam fell back onto the bed and shook in a fit of rage and sorrow. Mr. Putnam ran to her, and with a heavy hand struck her in the face. She groaned and fell unconscious. It had to be done. He could not think clearly with her hysterical screams. He scuffled to the wood burner.
    As he began to shove the creature into the stove, a tiny arm caught fire. The smell of burning flesh and the sound of shrieking made him wretch. He pulled the beast away from the wood stove and threw a pitcher of water over it, to stop the wailing.
    He could no longer stand to see the monstrosity. He dropped it into a burlap bag, threw it into the pantry and slammed the door, as he heard its’ muffled sobs. Mrs. Putnams’ eyes fluttered as she stirred. She began to shiver and fall into a delirium while Mr. Putnam sat on the edge of the bed attempting to feed her soup, water and bread. She slipped in and out of consciousness, while he prayed by candlelight and begged for the Lord’s forgiveness. He dozed restlessly as the vision of two joined and pulpy heads flashed through his mind. He realized this was God’s punishment for his impure thoughts about Mrs. O’Brien and dreamt with guilty pleasure about her full, slightly parted lips as she prayed in church.
    The snow had subsided and gray daylight began to creep through the window. Mr. Putnam hoped that his prayers were answered and the burlap bag would no longer hold the demonic presence. He treaded toward the pantry, avoiding the gooey pools of liquid on the floor, and tried not to recall the acrid odor from the previous night. Slowly he reached into the pantry and pulled the bag out. To his relief, the beast was not breathing but to his distress, the features remained the same.
    He was certain that news of this event would spread quickly through the town by way of Midwife Francis. He knew that he must dispose of the thing as soon as possible. Mrs. Putnam and he would deny the Midwife’s accusations. After all, there were rumors among the townspeople that the midwife was on the list to be interrogated. The townspeople thought it quite odd that she had an unusual tic and an odd mark on her neck.
    The Putnams would defend themselves and tell untruths if they were forced to. They would say that Midwife Francis had experienced a hysterical delirium, after the baby was still born. A simple sounding story would be relayed to the town counsel. Mr. Putnam would tell them, for his wife’s sake, the baby was buried immediately because of her weak character, after the still birth. She had asked of him to dispose of it, without delay.
     Mr. Putnam hastily pulled on his snow boots, tromped into the woods with the burlap sack, his rifle, a lantern, and the bible. Once deep into the woods, he dug a hole in the snow, gathered kindling, and set fire to the icy grave. He hung the burlap bag from a branch, shot at it. He heard the pop of the gun reverberate through the woods. With discomfort he noticed pieces of flesh stuck to the tree. He quickly tossed the bag into the blazing fire. Finally, he opened the bible and prayed as loud and hard as his weary body was able. He wept, begged and pleaded for redemption.
    Daylight began to fade, while he trudged back to the shanty. Exhausted, he wished this event was a nightmare, but it was not. When he approached the shanty he noticed that a note was nailed to his door. He grabbed the parchment:
    Mr. Putnam,
    We the townspeople, have the most urgent of matters to discuss with you. I and members of the town counsel will be paying a visit to you and Mrs. Putnam in the ‘morrow.
    Until then, I wish you well,
    Pastor Brown.

    He began to perspire and was uncertain about what to do, so he imbibed some cider, undressed and slipped into his bed wear. Mrs. Putnam was still in a delirium. He attempted to feed her, but decided it was useless. He then fell into a restless sleep and dreamed that God extended his finger from the sky and wagged it at him. “Mr. Putnam, you shall hear from Satan; he will visit you with his wiles, devices, tribulations and temptations.” Mr. Putnam continued to dream he was in a familiar spot deep in the woods; he heard only the echo of digging as clumps of snow and soil fell against his face. He tried to move but could not, while his gaze fixed upon the tree tops their barren, black, spiny branches contrasted ominously against the grey sky. Then darkness engulfed him, and his breathing became more stifled. When the last ray of light was shut out, his breathing stopped. He awoke to feel searing heat upon his face as he forcibly neared a fire. The flames licked his body, while somewhere in the background he heard the townspeople chanting.

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