Friday, September 13, 2013 was not like any other day for Attorney Robert Hall.
Not his typical, long day, Attorney Robert Hall left the Salem, Massachusetts, district courthouse at 11am in the morning for home. Unable to focus, rather than make a mistake, he left the courthouse. Always suspicious but not usually superstitious being that he's above all of that as an officer of the court, he was usually fearless from harm when protected by the laws of the Commonwealth Salem Massachusetts. Nonetheless uneasy by the curse on the the date of, Friday, September 13, 2013 looming and now here, it was an early day for him.
Although preposterous, whispered down from generation to generation, because of the curse handed down to him and his family from the accused, convicted, and burned at the stake witch, Flora Radisson, he decided not to push his luck by taking unnecessary chances with his life. Unable to concentrate on his work anyway, instead of staying in court the whole day, he left the courthouse as if he was being stalked by an assassin. Not wanting to be out and about while so vulnerably exposed, he gave in to his superstition that there may be something more to the curse than he gave it credit.
Their way of keeping their family safe from the world of the occult, the supernatural, and all things unknown about witches, witchcraft, and wizardry, not since his great ancestor, Judge Robert Hall, for fear that the curse will happen, has anyone dared name their son Robert. Only, Robert's mother not believing in witches and curses, wanted nothing more than to name her son Robert to celebrate and to honor his family. Moreover, she hoped that by naming her son Robert would be enough to break the spell and finally put the curse to rest after no witchcraft befell her son on that fateful day, today, Friday, September 13, 2013. So far so good, he was still alive and well. If this was a test against the witch Flora Radisson, then her curse with the rumored witch was nothing more than hokum.
Nonetheless, being that today was the day of the curse, taking precautions to not laugh in the face of witches, witchcraft, spells, and curses, Robert worked in Salem Massachusetts after all, the mecca of the occult, the supernatural, and all things witchy. After having seen some strange and unexplainable sights on the streets of Salem, especially during Halloween, and especially during a full moon, and even more so during a blue, full moon, he knew better not to believe in witches and in witchcraft. In the way that those believe in Voodoo in Louisiana, he believed that all things were possible, even witches, especially witches. Giving in to the superstition by locking himself inside his house until this day was behind him, he was going home to watch a movie before watching the Red Sox beat the stuffing out of the Yankees and A-Rod.
"Yankees suck," he mumbled while driving home laughing.
Chanting what Red Sox fans yelled out during the game whenever they played the Yankees, as if he was meditating, the chanting helped him to relax. Instead of being preoccupied with witches and curses, by refusing to allow his overactive imagination to be consumed by superstitions, he was going home to watch some TV, have a drink, and relax. Only, in the way that he remembered the Yankees suck chant, he couldn't remove the witches' words and the witches' curse from his mind. Always there in his sub-consciousness, the recollection of her curse was even more prevalent being that today was that fateful day of the curse coming to fruition.
"Three, two, one," he remembered the curse as if it was a sad song that his mother sang to him as a baby. Only, not giving credence to it by verbalizing it, his mother never discussed the curse. "Three, two, one," having never heard the curse from the lips of his mother, he heard about the curse from his relatives and friends who feared for his safety and for his life because his mother dared name him Robert.
"Three, two, one. Three, two, one. I curse you. I curse you. I curse you. In three hundred and twenty-one years, I'll whisper my words in his ear. For me, your kin will fall. His name is Robert Hall." As if he was the one so chosen and so cursed now, and indeed he was with his mother naming him Robert, Robert Hall, he couldn't remove those words from his mind.
Aside from some of the female judges and prosecutors, he's never met a real, live witch. There are those in Salem who profess and proclaim that they are witches but when asked to prove their claim of being a witch, their evidence falls short. Nonetheless, without doubt, he didn't have to believe in witches to know that black magic, spells, potions, and curses when practiced by an astutely skilled professional is as real as a medically licensed doctor practicing his learned profession of medicine. Moreover, with many residents walking around in costume throughout the year, every day is Halloween in Salem. Every day there's someone dressing up in costume and if there was a witch coming after him and walking up behind him to seek her revenge, he'd never know if she was a real witch or just one of the residents of Salem playing endless, year long, Halloween trick or treat games.
"So be it. So be it all. It is what it is," he said to out loud for only himself to hear while getting in his car, buckling his seatbelt, locking his door, and driving home. There was nothing that he could do other than to go home and hide beneath his covers until this dastardly day was over.
Nonsense. It was all just utter nonsense. There are no such things as witches, witchcraft, and curses. Spoken about and whispered about for three hundred and twenty-one years, who knew if there was even such a curse or such a witch. Even if there was such a witch who made such a curse, the chances of the witches' words surviving intact for more than three hundred years was preposterous.
He's disproven that rumor and gossip fallacy when in law school. With one person whispering a message to the next person in class, by the time the message made it around the room, it was totally different and not nearly the same. He could only imagine what the original curse was more than three hundred years ago after traveling from so many mouths to so many ears. Yet, not dismissing the evidence, just in case there was some shred of coincidental truth to the curse, not wanting to give the finger to the witch by sticking out his tongue to fate and to his destiny, he didn't want to be out in public where he was so visually vulnerable. A good plan, he was going home where he'd be safe from harm.
Furthermore, even though he wasn't pro guns but, in his line of work, a necessary evil, owning a gun was a much needed necessity, and he'd feel safer at home where he had a loaded handgun within easy reach. With his imagination going wild, he wondered if there was such a thing as witches and if there were witches, he wondered if he required a special bullet, a silver bullet, to kill a witch in the way that he needed a silver bullet to kill a werewolf. Or was a silver bullet needed to kill a vampire. No, a silver bullet was for werewolves and a stake through the heart was for vampires.
Other than fire and being burned at the stake, he wondered what killed a witch. Maybe instead of fire, in the way that the wicked Witch of the East was killed by water in the Wizard of Oz, perhaps he should keep a bucket of water by his front door. Seemingly ridiculous to think that there were witches, werewolves, and vampires, yet now with his brain filled with witches, werewolves, and vampires, he had the jitters. As soon as he went home, he was going to fill up a bucket full of water, just in case. Suspicious of everything and of everyone, all that it would take to make him feel at ease is a beautiful woman.
* * * * *
On his way home to Rockport, an artist community on the Atlantic Ocean, twenty miles north of Salem and sixty miles northeast of Boston, he passed by a car, a shiny, satin black, Lamborghini Diablo with a fire engine red interior parked in a cutout and out of harm's way by the side of the road.
"Oh wow! Look at thing. I wondered who owns that car and why they'd leave it abandoned and so precariously parked by the side of the road," he said talking out loud to himself.
Being that it was unusual to see such a fine supercar parked anywhere, even in this affluent, small town, he took note of the car. Except for the thousands of tourists who flocked here every summer, everyone knew everyone around here and no one that he knows has a car like that. With him being a car buff and having read every car magazine since the day he could read, how could he not notice and take note of such a fine motor vehicle? A dream car for anyone who appreciated fine automobiles, longer, sleeker, and lower than he thought it'd be, the first Lamborghini Diablo he's ever seen up close, the car was spectacular.
"Damn, I'd give my right nut just to drive that thing around the block," he said to himself while slowly driving by it.
