As I write this, the constable has not yet arrived on the scene…as a practitioner of the physical medicines i pride myself on a logical and objective sense of observation, thus before he and his bungling deputies tromp through the grounds of my friend’s family estate I will write all I know, in hopes that it may shed light on the happenings of 9th June, in this the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eleven. You will I trust excuse my brevity in description; soul of wit notwithstanding, time is, I fear, not in my corner as they say. As I scrawl these words I am looking directly into Philip’s lifeless eyes, and so it is with him that I begin.
Philip Sewall Stoughton is…was…a bright and eccentric man of two score and three, whose family had built this estate near Salem, Massachusetts many years ago. In an area where families describe their residency in decades, not years, the Stoughtons are still considered very old and well-respected. The roots of their legacy ran somewhat….narrower…than most family trees, and like numerous other surnames of closely guarded breeding, shall we say, the Stoughtons had tendencies toward certain disorders and peculiarities both physical and mental. This family shadow fell upon Philip in the form of a manic depressive behaviour where for days on end he would lounge abed, barely mustering the strength to summon a plate of stew or drag his feet into chapel to receive communion on a Sunday. Then, as suddenly as it had come upon him his mood would break and he would have seemingly inexhaustible energy, which he applied toward whatever happened to strike his fancy at the time; being the sole heir to a large family estate precluded the need for gainful employment, leaving his daily hours open to all manner of diversion.
It was during one of these fits of fancy that I received word about a discovery he had made on the grounds of his own estate, back in a less-traveled parcel of the property which had been allowed to overgrow as nature willed; we had tramped back there occasionally but all was choke and brush and thick twisted black trees which muttered dark vespers on cold evenings. It was not a part of the grounds to which Philip ventured alone often but apparently in his fit of energy he had gone far afield, returning to the house with a grisly burden…my own house was not far off, so when he rang me up on the telephone and hissed a vehement summons I quickly procured a carriage for the short journey and within the space of an hour was in his drawing-room with a fire crackling close by, watching Philip turn a sodden, dirt-crusted human skull between his hands with great interest. The skull had a slender aspect with a sharp edge beneath the orbital cavities, implying that the skull belonged to a female and, judging from the weathered and deteriorated appearance, had been interred for many, many years. As Philip wiped a clod of earth away from the jaws, though, the most striking aspect of the thing was laid bare: three long, thick, rust-pitted iron spikes had been roughly driven through, entering through the maxilla and exiting through the lower mandible. Living in Salem of course you must become familiar with the notion of witchcraft, being part and parcel of the history of the town itself, and dredging up from some macabre studies I had undertaken in my venturesome youth I recalled that piercing a witch’s head with iron nails before execution, a rite known as allegation, was a frequent occurrence in the 17th century as a form of protection. The notion was that the nails prevented the witch from vocally cursing the righteous bystanders, onlookers, and authorities as God’s punishment was carried out; without the mystical protection afforded by allegation people had been known to lash out uncontrollably under the command of a witch’s ghastly whispers, harming themselves and others and sometimes being prosecuted as witches themselves due to the severity of their fits. I knew all this from my studies and so, naturally, did Philip, having a direct familial connection with the infamous Salem witch trials as he did. His forefather, William Stoughton, was newly appointed Lieutenant Governor of Salem Town and was Chief Magistrate at the Court of Oyer and Termine in 1692…the numerous executions which followed the trials were carried out in that back parcel of land where Philip had found this very skull. A grisly reminder of a dark and dangerous past, I suggested he return it to the ground from whence it came or, at the very least, bring it to the Church for some form of proper burial, as I departed for home and tea and lack of skull.
The following day I decided to pay Philip a visit, arriving at the house in early evening to find windows unlit, with no response to my rapping or pulls at the door-bell. Being quite familiar with the house I had little trouble in finding ingress through a servant-door, calling all the while but receiving no reply…finding a candlestick I moved gingerly through the house towards the drawing-room, and it was there that I found my friend. Philip was still sitting in his arm-chair, blood slowly soaking into the cushions and onto the floor below from large, gaping wounds on his torso and arms…my friend had removed his own skin to the extent of his abilities until loss of blood halted his hands, each of which were still holding the iron nails used for his grim mutilation, which he had removed from the skull lying before him. There was no pain or concern on my friend’s face, but the manner in which his head was cocked gently to one side with his mouth pursed and now-glassy eyes narrowed gave the distinct impression of someone intently listening…