The Family
Meet the Denvers
The Denvers’ house stood at the center of a vast expanse of tall, dark grass. Nothingness surrounded the house’s four compounds. The house was drenched in black and so was the arch that formed the entrance. The arch was also the only discontinuity in the otherwise perfect square that the compounds formed. The weather that day was gloomy, almost as if it was about to rain. But oddly enough, Salem had not experienced even a drizzle, let alone downpours in the last seven and a half years. Devon Denver, 66 and his young wife were the only beings that lived within a twenty-mile radius, excluding an obstinacy of black bison that had inhabited the farm. Twenty acres of meadowland followed the large area of grass that immediately surrounded the house. The bison, therefore, could never make their way anywhere near the house or its residents. Silence was what usually prevailed in the area except for an occasional bison bellow or a crow’s caw. But that day was discordant.
“I have made more sacrifices than what your former wives have ever done combined, Devon. DO NOT MAKE ME SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME”, Mrs. Denver vociferated frantically. “The fact that this marriage hasn’t yet failed is only, ONLY because I have nowhere else to go. I left my family for you, Devon. Donald, Dorothy, little Dean — they loved me so much. And I left them all, for you, for us!”, she broke down as she paced about the living room in circles. Devon sat on the recliner that rested a few feet away from her. He watched blankly as tears trickled down her cheeks and wet her neck.
Moments passed and the antique grandfather clock in the room gave out gongs in succession as it struck 6 PM. The clock was bizarrely shaped. Sure, it had the characteristics that defined its kind — tall, sturdy and made of finely polished mahogany. But on top of it stood a sculpture shaped like a human head. It seemed to be made out of wax. Unbeknownst to the couple, the eyeballs of the sculpture rolled about their sockets and stopped, as their glance fell upon the constantly moving Mrs. Denver.
“Say something for my sake, Devon! I’m the woman that bears your offspring. You’re not going to lose anything by uttering a few words, even if they aren’t the most consoling ones in your vocabulary. Let me at the very least know that you still care. Or do you even?”, Mrs. Denver hesitated to go on with the sentence.
Devon’s stare continued to prevail as their eyes met, coldly. Fear gradually greeted Mrs. Denver as she gaped, still facing her spouse. As she stood frozen expecting from Mr. Denver a reply, he turned around, still seated, and placed a record on the gramophone. The sound of a piano emanated gently as it began playing the initial verses of Für Elise. Two small pale dolls bedecked the opposite sides of the gramophone box. As the music escalated, they began rotating their heads until both of them faced Mrs. Denver and frowned at her. She was still there, standing upon the same tile, immobile.
Mr. Denver had bought the house after his previous wife had departed. Mrs. Denver was supposedly his third and longest. They had tied the knot in 1870 and had moved into the new house as soon as Mr. Denver bought it, two years later. The house was a constructional marvel. It was incredibly large for just two occupants. Tall ceilings, large rooms, and a grandiose door — it had them all. Marble sculptures of animals, birds, and women, one too many of them, adorned the walls of every room and the house’s exterior. Mr. Denver was an extremely skilled sculptor and these were his most treasured possessions. The house had no windows and there was not one speck of space for air to enter and ventilate the residence. There was just the one door that Mr. Denver used to enter and exit the bungalow. Mrs. Denver was never allowed to go outside and she complied.
Devon brought the amplified symphony to an abrupt stop. He finally spoke, after three whole minutes of taciturnity. “You don’t have to shout so much. You weren’t my third, dear. In fact, I hardly ever kept count”, he said, his face still devoid of expression. He didn’t seem happy. He adjusted his recliner, his mouth silent and his face thoughtful. A second later, he smiled slightly as he glanced at the grandfather clock. Turning to his wife, he spoke again, “But you know what? I believe you should go to Donald. He’s been there alone for a long time and he would love his wife’s company. Dean and Dorothy would have their mother back as well.”
“Say what, Donald?”, he asked the head that was placed upon the clock. It winked in response. Dean and Dorothy’s frowns faded away and they now smiled, still seated next to the gramophone. Devon Denver’s ex-wives welcomed Mrs. Denver as he placed her on an empty plinth on the wall next to the clock. There were cheers coming from the sculptures in the other rooms as well. Once Mrs. Denver was comfortably seated, Devon took a look around the living room, inspecting the sculptures in particular.
A minute later, the herd of bison outside bellowed as they heard him laugh hysterically. Following a loud thunderclap, the first droplets of rain met the ground as he exclaimed, “It’s perfect. Praise the lord!”
Daniel Spofford was the only listed accused in the Ipswich witchcraft trials of 1878. Multiple cases claiming the disappearance of women went unnoticed in the years that preceded the trial. These women, who proclaimed themselves to be witches and Satan worshippers, disappeared in succession over a span of eight years and were never seen again. The name Devon Denver didn’t exist in any of the government records that were present for Salem, MA. The above paragraphs are an excerpt from a diary that belonged to a certain Donald Dannenberg.
