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WHEN THE DEAD CARRY US AWAY By: Barry Napier

Saturday, July 4th, 2009

Dale Wilson passed away in 1951 at the age of seventy-seven. He had survived heart attacks and blood pressure problems for twenty years or so but it was cancer that finally took him down.

But I was there when he passed away and I don’t think cancer had much to do with it.

See, in Dale’s younger days, in the late 1800s, there was this movement in Salem and the surrounding towns. There was this shadow organization that met in secret. They were self-proclaimed men of God that did everything they could to revive the fabled witch hunts that had once flourished in Salem. Poor old Dale was born into this culture, watching his father and grandpa capture women that were supposedly practicing witchcraft.

Later in life, Dale became more active in the group. He captured several of the accused and, at the age of thirty-five, burned a “witch” at the stake with his father.

Dale told this story to a few visitors that had come by his house to say their farewells. I’m not sure if he was boasting or trying to finally unburden his heart, but he told the tale to anyone that would listen.

It just so happened that I was one of those people. And before you judge me, rest assured that I never participated in those bogus witch hunts with the Wilson men. But I had known Dale since childhood. So when I got the call from Emily, his daughter, saying that the doctor didn’t expect Dale to make it through the night, I went to him.

I sat by his side and we talked about his family’s vineyards, our youth and Dale’s deceased wife. Seventy-seven years old, and that’s the first time I ever saw him cry. He told me that he felt certain that God would turn him away and deny him a reunion with his wife.

I asked him why he felt this way.
“I burned that poor woman,” he said. “I knew that she was innocent, but we burned her. And when the flames licked at her feet and her skin started burning, she prayed to God. When I heard her speak His name, I knew that I was damned for what I was doing. But I just kept helping Daddy and threw more wood on the fire.”

I had nothing to say. What do you say to something like that?

What he said next was worse.

“I heard her screaming last night in my sleep.” He wanted to say more but his voice was weak and I could see in his eyes that he was fading fast.

He looked away from me as a tear coursed down his cheek. Ashamed, he cast his eyes to the window.
And gasped.

He whimpered and reached out for my hand. “She’s here,” he said in a trembling breath. “She’s come for me.”

“Who?”

I looked to the window, wondering if Dale’s cancer was making him see things that weren’t there. But what I saw at the window nearly made me scream.

There was a woman standing there. She wore a white dress that seemed to have been charred. Her face was in a similar condition, her features blistered and burned. But through the cracked pain of her face, there was the faintest sign of a smile.

“I’m sorry,” Dale moaned.

The smile dropped from the girl’s face as she reached up to the glass with a mangled, burned hand.

Dale whimpered once more and then expelled his final breath. And as this breath dissipated, so did the woman at the window.

I stood up from the chair, trying to gather my wits. I called for Emily, wanting to tell her about what I had seen. But I was already trying to convince myself that I hadn’t really seen it.

So in the end, all I said was “He’s gone.”

We covered him with a sheet and Emily prayed over him as we waited for the coroner to arrive. As we left the room, I looked back to the window.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I can still see what remained on the glass after leaving that room: a delicate handprint, smudged with ash.