The Betulha Dohrman Legacy

By Matthew Sawyer

Debbie Menon failed to sell the house everyone local called the Witch's house. The grief-stricken real estate agent set the historic brick Victorian on fire before the house became animated. The burning Witch's house moved itself out of Wister Town, taking a chunk of crust with it from the small Wisconsin city. Since, the house has been abandoned where it had gone past the suburbs. It's become an attraction for daredevils and a shelter for desperate animals. Debbie has since long left her real-estate agency and the house is no longer for sale.

A Janet Drays is then one day idle and she searches the Internet. Wister Town was filled with monsters, so that was nothing new. Janet was curious about the old Witch’s house in her hometown. She finds information a real estate agent would probably never know. The young woman comes to learn the legacy of this womb of aberrations. The Betulha Dohrman Legacy is the sequel to the author's story Debbie's Hellmouth, based upon his short story The Abandoned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Sawyer
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370832910

Matthew Sawyer

I hate talking about myself. Like everyone, I suppose, I am a bit narcissistic, but not egotistical. My own failure for success is that I just do not think much about myself. That is not to say I spend too much time thinking about others. In truth, I should think more of everyone; and there is a dull guilt attached to that confession. There is something of who I am, I am old enough for regrets.At my age, I am prone to think about immortality And being an atheist, there seems no alternative but science. Even so, I know that science is beyond my lifetime. I have no faith nor hope, nor do I believe in ghosts, elves, unicorns...In that hopeless disbelief, I write so there remains a record of accomplishments in my life. Unrecognized and even scorned, I continue to tell stories so I will be remembered after I am dead. My struggle with grammar and punctuation are evidence of my effort to make my writing decipherable. Because, what success means to me are hieroglyphics upon a Pharaoh's tomb.

Book preview

THE

BETULHA

DOHRMAN

LEGACY

Matthew Sawyer

Published by Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords 2018

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

The Betulha Dorhman Legacy is a fictional story. All characters, names and locations are the creations of Matthew Sawyer. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. Readers are advised of mature material of profane and blasphemous nature with descriptions of insurgency, crime, unlawful sex and violence.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing form from the copyright owner.

Please contact the author for permission to make copies of any part of this work.

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THE

BETULHA

DOHRMAN

LEGACY

Chapters

History

1 Transmittal

2 Devotion

3 The Untold Past

4 Harbinger

5 Sentry

6 Cleansing

7 Rally

8 Horseman

9 Mecca

10 Mana

11 Veil

12 Further Introductions

13 Shed Blood

14 Dislodged Soul

15 Gathering

16 Ritual

17 Barrage

18 The Hellmouth

19 Buttress

20 Swollen Earth

21 The Waited

22 Eclipse

Epilogue

"The earth quakes for six minutes. The whole time, the house pulls its earthen body out of the ground. Yet the ground composes its titanic frame. Most of the earth goes where the house and head lead. A football field worth of top soil travels away with the monster. The house also takes bedrock, leaving a hole the circumference of a city block."

- Debbie's Hellmouth by Matthew Sawyer

History

"Mom, she was a witch, way back in 1692," Janet Drays told her graying mother while speaking together on the telephone. This Saturday evening, Mom is at home in Wister Town, Wisconsin. Janet lives seventy miles away and eastward, in Elkhorn. The young woman had graduated years ago from the nearby UW – Whitewater with a BBA in Accounting. She then got a job doing what her degree guaranteed – customer service for her city’s public utilities.

Janet still does that same job in Elkhorn today, and gets a little bored. She researches a little of her genealogy, but the young lady got distracted at a roadblock. She was then lured into hunting the origins of her hometown folklore. The Witch’s House in Wister Town was her first target – the house and it’s mysterious, invisible owner.

Her mother entertains her grown daughter’s fantasies if only because they were harmless, mildly entertaining and the fact Janet was still her kid.

And the house wasn’t built until 1861, Mom said. That makes Betulha Dohrman over two hundred years old. Janet, your theory has holes.

That is the idea, she is a witch, Janet argued.

Her mother asks, Have they caught her?

Janet blows a hard, exasperated breath. I don’t know, I’m only tracing the history of her name. Betulha Dohrman has owned property in America since records have been kept – as far as I know.

Which may not be much, her mother told Janet.

The woman always spoke like so, and it made her daughter feel stupid. Yet Janet lives away from home; she has not lived with her mother for over ten years and since she has learned to ignore most of the woman’s derision. In any regard, Mom was older now, defensive and always looking for a scrap – set in her ways, the elderly, overweight woman would say.

Janet slowly explains the new and unoriginal theory to her mother. Look, Janet said oblivious to the physical impossibility because they speak over a phone line. The pacing young lady neither holds anything she might show.

I’ve searched public records on the Internet; I found a Betulha Dohrman listed as owning at least one house in the United States for the last two hundred and fifty years – mostly on the East Coast, like Rhode Island and Maine.

Janet’s mother also exhales, with the same sound as her daughter but more stale. I only wish you would continue researching our family history.

Janet renews a legitimate argument. We ALL have gotten only as far as Grandma remembers. She’s a dead end.

A tense moment stews until Janet recovers her fumble. Yeah, Grandma is dead, but that’s not what I meant. I meant to say, I can’t get any further than you, you’re winning.

It’s not a competition, Janet, her mother promised her.

‘It wasn’t,’ Janet realized. The young woman knew that she, herself, only projected the rivalry. The mirage made her mother happy. Both women knew each others minds.

Okay, Mom, Janet says, That’s all I have to tell you. I want to see if I can actually do anything on a Saturday night before summer ends.

"It is after Labor Day.

Yeah, but summer lasts a couple more weeks. Right now is the best time of the year.

Ooh, her mother exclaimed. You can talk to your cousin in California.

That guy? Janet dismissed. He MIGHT be a cousin, and you spoke with him already. I won’t get new information, not tonight or ever.

Her mother relents. Okay,

I love you, Janet told the woman.

I love you, too, Mom said then hangs up her telephone. Both women genuinely embrace the expression.

If she had endured her mother any longer, Janet might have made the point she called to make. That point was the only information about Betulha Dohrman throughout collected history, to this date, which was contained in property records. When the mysterious name was found attached to something new and decidedly different, Janet wanted to tell her mother the story. She was first disappointed she had not said anything specific and, now, guilty.

Whether the guilt had come before or after Janet rushed her old mother off the phone seemed suspicious. At once, she wonders if the sour compulsion had been bred into her or if this was something she had learned growing-up. The only option Janet had for dealing with the negativity was to forget the whole incident. She consoles herself aloud. At least, I remembered to tell my mother I love her.

Now, about Betulha Dohrman, or the one in Salem, Massachusetts around 1692 – her story was interesting. Janet was certain her mother would love hearing about an accused witch who got away. If Janet told the story right, there was an undeniable similarity between the two Betulha-s.

I know, Janet told herself aloud. Knowing her mother very much enjoyed receiving letters in the mail, and Janet had switched wholly to digital text messages – like the rest the world – she knew Mom would love a letter from her daughter written on actual paper. Janet sits down in her single bedroom apartment and writes her mother about Mrs. Dohrman. Saturday night had only begun, so she still had an hour or so to hunt lonely friends yet sitting at home.

Janet uses black ink on blank copy paper. Mom, the letter began.

Huh, Janet gasped after conceiving herself, in the future, as being one of the people who would remember the same stock was once called typing paper. ‘Then was a time before the personal computer and mobile devices, when people still wrote letters, and typed them when the author wanted to make a formal presentation.’

‘Typewriters were dumb, mechanical and manual machines with which inspiring people fell in love and wrote novels, when people still read them. Printers then became accessories for household computers and geeks took over the world.’ Janet bet many of those smart nerds no longer wrote their mothers, either.

She writes Mom now, and forgets about the hassle of going to the Post Office for a single, overpriced stamp. The fifty-four cents might be well spent and worth her hassle if Janet could just email her plagiarized, copied-and-pasted story to the Post Office. Someone there could then transcribe her electronic message into a handwritten letter before its printed copy was delivered to her mother’s door.

Fantastic ideas aside, Janet only wanted to finish her work before she wastes this night. She writes …

I wanted to tell you about Mrs. Dohrman, but you know how that goes …

Her writing hand cramps, already, and her back feels strained by the uncommon, straight posture Janet assumed sitting at her desk. Nevertheless, she ‘wages-on’, and now dreams about getting a drink once she finished writing her mother.

"What I found-out about a Mrs. Betulha Dohrman, not necessarily the one who owns the Witch’s house there in Wister Town, is that she was accused of the capital felony of witchcraft, but she got away. The woman had been convicted of the crime in her absence and without a confession.

"Mom, nobody knew who she was. No one had even met her. Doesn’t that sound familiar with our Mrs. Dohrman. Nobody in Wister Town can even name anybody who has legitimately seen the woman or someone whose actually heard her voice.

"The name, Betulha Dohrman, is listed owning property throughout time, up until the house on fourteenth street. It’s still in her name, right? Is the house still for sale? Probably not after it moved itself.

"The only other instance of that name showing up in public records is her trial in Salem Town, Massachusetts. Somebody back then, a reporter or something, wrote a whole description of the affair.

"It’s on the Web, and I bookmarked the website, but I’m not writing it down here, or else I’d have to write down a list of steps before you find how to look up the address. I emailed the link to you, so we can look it up together later. Just click on the blue link if you're curious.

"Anyway, the parchment the story had been written on was scanned into a computer and posted on the Web. The reporter had handwritten the account, but you wouldn’t like it. It looks like he wrote in something like Old English; Chaucer himself might as well have written it. I read the author’s translation and took his word for it – sorta like the Bible, huh?

"Since we’re not arguing already, I’ll tell you what I read. I suppose you can read it yourself, if you ever click the links I send you in your email – hint – they’re safe if I send you the message, especially if you use webmail.

But let’s talk about Mrs. Dohrman; that’s German, isn’t it? I don’t know. She could have come from Egypt, for all I care. What is known is she lived in Essex county before the winter of 1692. She was put on trial in Salem Town and convicted in her absence without a confession.

Janet pauses her writing, stretches her busy hand then picks up the pen and hammers some more. She begins with heavy breaths then withholds her air.

The Gloucester community accused the woman of being a witch because monstrous animals showed-up on her untilled farm. She didn’t have livestock, either, and monster sightings continued throughout the countryside. People called them devils and familiars.

Janet exhales and inhales again.

"The monster sightings began in November, but nobody even saw the woman, ever. I guess the town waited until after a snowfall, because the writer wrote a gang of church founders accused Betulha in December, after somebody followed cloven tracks straight to her door. The footsteps vanished on the doorstep, like she let the monster inside her mud-brick hovel.

Everybody assumed she did allow something evil inside and they tried baking the mud, I guess. They lit the thatch roof on fire then there was an earthquake. During that, her little house supposedly walked away – sound familiar? Nobody saw the mud hut again; I bet it went further than a horse can ride in a day.

Janet ends the letter with an, I Love You, and a headache. After cracking her knuckles, she looks up and sees through her living room window. The sun has set, but Janet had not noticed because she was then concentrating and wrote within the light of a fluorescent desk lamp.

Shh … I – T, she extensively gasped

Her friend, Tracy, and the young lady’s older sister, Tammy, were supposedly dining at the Black Bear Charcoal House outside Delavan. Tracy had told Janet as much when they saw each other downtown in Elkhorn earlier that week. Their meeting was not so coincidental, because anyone on foot in Elkhorn was bound to soon meet another familiar pedestrian. Everyone eventually had a reason to come downtown, and that was where Janet labored.

Tracy and Tammy were like close friends, and they fit Janet somewhere between their near and already fluctuating ages. The sisters always invited Janet and others to come along with them on their rampages. Janet and others usually found reasons they must sacrifice the invitation. The girls never got themselves into genuine trouble, but they sometimes shouted things that were better kept within their homes.

Janet did not feel like eating, but she could be hungry. In any case, she was putting something into her stomach before having a drink. Before leaving Elkhorn, she stops for a fast food burrito and eats that before joining her friends at the casual bar and restaurant outside Delavan. At this drive-through, she forgets the letter she'd written her mother.

She drives into the country on this warm, bug-buzzing night with the windows of her red subcompact car down. Of course, traveling most places outside the few big cities in Wisconsin entails a country ride. Janet is very fortunate to have a job within the city she lives, and thanks her college degree for that small blessing – especially when snow falls in winter.

Safe and feeling a little sweaty, Janet arrives at the Black Bear Charcoal House without a problem, although she's never been at this rural establishment. The fact doesn't bother the young lady, she's accustomed with the entire Wisconsin countryside. The parking lot is packed, forcing Janet to join her vehicle behind a row of others along Highway 11. She pulls her car off the tree-lined, curb-forsaken public road and parks completely atop somebody’s private thin and shallow ditch. Her vehicle bridges the furrow.

Houses near the restaurant are still far from each other and no one appears disturbed. Janet imagines living here and if she saw a happening-night, she probably might not resist the temptation. One thing was sure – her social life would not be so confined and she might actually meet new people, like a man, a real one.

Janet wears tennis shoes rather for comfort and practicality than impressions, and they work fine on loose gravel. She walks the unpaved shoulder between the road and lush lawn. Winter insulation soundproofs the huge corrugated shed and she still hears a rhythmic hum outside. Country music plays inside the busy establishment – likely a CD. The band covers a popular, nameless country song, adding a little psychedelic bluegrass, inspiration courtesy of the Grateful Dead; but these guys weren’t so good. Loud, happy chatter drowns a wavy, twanging rhythm.

Because their analogous, orange fluorescent T-shirts, Tracy and Tammy are easy to spot inside the crowded restaurant. Both girls are taller and heavier than Janet, but they still look nice and they share inherent, hourglass figures. They also wear the same blond, shoulder-length hair.

Janet’s own was naturally dirty and distinguished her immediately from the sisters. Besides the hair, Janet could possibly pretend she was their smaller, shorter sibling. The pair see Janet, too, and they would not let their friend escape. They shout her name through people on their feet and eating greasy appetizers.

Janet, here, here, they call thrice. The ladies camp in a booth besides a windowless, stucco wall.

All the tables and booths do not appear full and people stand only because they want that presence. Janet hears the ladies and she shouts back something she cannot hear herself say above the stuffed ruckus. They hear Janet once she comes near.

I was telling my mom about the witch, Mrs. Dohrman, Janet shouted to her friends. She slides into the booth, making herself a puny barricade against Tammy.

Tracy answers for both sisters. Oh yeah, she’s the lady that yelled Swiss at you when you and your friends were kids.

Neither Tracy nor Tammy are from Wister Town, and both have floated between Elkhorn and Delavan their whole, young lives. The only things they knew about Mrs. Dohrman and the Witch’s house was anything Janet tells them. Although, both women have heard about mutant monsters and cults in Wister Town. That eccentric place was their friend's hometown.

Not me, Janet disclaimed. Everybody remembers she yelled at kids, but nobody knows who actually got shouted at.

How did you find out who got shouted at? Tammy asked with an exaggerated frown.

Janet tells her, You don’t, that’s how the story works; when kids tell the story, they always say a friend-of-a-friend hears the witch or sees her red eyes in a window.

Did you? jumped Tracy.

Never, but I stayed away. Creepy kids lived in that neighborhood. They didn’t have a gang, per se, but they hung out and did sadistic stuff to each other and animals. It's a miracle they never got into serious trouble with the Law.

Tammy then decides to sound baleful. Who knows, that might have changed if you were there.

Shut up, Janet said.

They can’t be any worse than the guys still left in Elkhorn, Tracy complained. What happened to getting married and being taken away? The good guys that were here just went away and never came back. Look who’s left.

They're those kids all grown up, added Janet.

Nonsense, Tammy acclaimed. They’re just shy up here. They’re sensitive teddy bears.

Janet assumes an amiable middle ground. Nope, you’re both right. We won’t meet the shy ones because they’re hiding at home.

Look whose talking, Tracy chided her.

A line must be drawn and Janet says, Hey, I said I had important family business.

Tracy raises her hands and surrenders. She says, Sure.

Tammy then renews the frontal assault. I thought she was referring to every other Saturday night.

I catch-up surfing the Internet, Janet admitted.

What are you looking at, porn? Tracy asked with a cock-eyed grin.

Maybe a little, Janet answered honestly. I told you what I’m doing now, I’m hunting Betulha Dohrman. I’m learning her magic spells.

Oh yeah? Tammy challenged. All three women now wear sideways grins.

Yeah, Janet counters. I’m learning love charms. I just don’t want to use any tonight.

The patrons at the Black Bear Charcoal House were normal, typical people – who were a little heavier because of the cold weather, for the most part. The extra pounds of steak and cheese matched the weight of flannel shirts a lot of sweaty guys wear because they had no summer wardrobes. These are the boys upon which Janet will not use a love potion. Really, none of the guys here at the restaurant tonight.

Hey, she says to the sisters, You two are drinking strawberry margaritas, how about we get a pitcher?

We just had one, the Waiter cleared our table, Tracy said. The word ‘waiter’ had been accented.

Let’s have another one, I’m buying, Janet promised.

That was our plan, Tammy tells her, Oh don’t worry, we’ll make it up to you.

How? Janet asked unprepared.

Tammy was merciful and the woman shrugs her shoulders. I don’t know, we’ll think of something. There comes a time …

Yep, Janet said and she agrees with the broad measure.

The waiter arrives at the booth in which the ladies comfortably sit. The okay, average older gentleman smiles and asks, What can I get for you lovely lasses?

Another pitcher, James, Tracy called to the earnest fellow. Janet had no idea if James was their waiter’s name. It may not be, because Tracy played games and had her fun that way.

The maybe-James did not seem to mind. Yes, ma’am, he said and the old guy even bows a small nod. The motion makes all the women giggle at once. Their waiter smiles and hustles away, placing their order with the unseen bartender.

He’s a cutey, Tracy told her sister and Janet.

But he’s old and he’s waiting tables on Saturday night, Tammy said.

While yet sober, Janet ponders It’s really a problem with the economy.

Blech, Tracy opines, Can’t you see we’re drinking?

I think that’s how legislature gets done in this State, answered Janet.

Tammy proposes a campaign. Then let’s put our candidate in office and get a drink in her so Janet can do the job of the people.

They giggle together, and laugh even while Tracy asks after a short preparation It’s cool you’re looking this stuff up, Janet, where did you find all your information, did you go to the library?

She’s drunk, her sister accused. Tracy slugs her big sibling’s arm and everyone continues laughing.

No, Janet said in jest. You know I was researching my family tree online, well, I started looking for Betulha Dohrman instead.

Tracy had an important note to convey – one that brings her upright and forces her to sit rigid with her back straight. Ooo, you should try … dot orc, dot, dot, dot. I don’t know, type that into a search engine; you’ll find it.

Pilgrims? asked her sister as she raised her brow.

Janet defends the younger girl. No, that might be good. Dohrman is probably German, which helps her fit into Wisconsin history, but you never know. A Betulha Dohrman was accused of witchcraft in Massachusetts in the late seventeenth century.

Dorks, Tammy said as the pitcher of slushy pink margaritas arrives at their table.

Both Tracy and Janet lunge for the glass quart, though Janet still required a wide, festive glass. They pause so short of time, only a gunslinger might spot the delay. Within that moment, Janet mistakes her friend’s movement for a stuporous slouch. A clumsy grope steals the pitcher. Tracy wins.

I need a glass, please, Janet then reminded their waiter.

Yes, James, she needs a glass, Tracy said while she tops the drinks she and her sister already hold. The younger girl sounded mean.

Shh, Janet instructed her friend and she feels embarrassed.

I’m sorry for my sister, James, Tammy tells their waiter, I promise I’ll make it up to you if you’re really good.

Their waiter blushes. That’s quite all right, ladies. Let me know what I can get you.

A glass, Janet said before he turns away.

You can get in my bed, Tracy said low once he was beyond their shelter against the hard ambient noise of the restaurant.

Tammy, Tracy shouted and she fills their private bubble with sound. You said he's old.

Her sister defends herself with a handicap. If you haven’t noticed, I’m getting old – and you’re following right on my heels.

I’d be lucky if I had a chubby-hubby who loves me. Tracy grins.

Don’t rub it in, Tammy threatened her sister.

"Anyway, whose the hypocrite now?

I’m just joking, Tammy finally admitted. I was setting him up for Janet.

No thanks, Janet said once her glass finally arrived. Their waiter also delivers a shot of tequila specifically for the un-lubricated girl. He then pours her margarita.

Hey, I can use another one of those, Tracy harassed the waiter as he leaves.

No, not really, her sister called after him.

Tammy then leans into Janet. He gives everybody an extra shot with their first drink.

Tracy adds a little more. He says it is to help newbies catch up with everybody else.

Who, the people here? Janet asked after her first sip of booze-saturated margarita.

The world, Tracy answered raising her arms.

Two more familiar ladies appears. These two are deeply tanned, they have light-colored hair and both are dressed skanky – summertime chic in Southern Wisconsin. Janet and Tammy see them first. Tammy calls while Janet waves the hand not holding a glass to her lips. Tracy turns around then see them, too.

Hi, Missy and Ginger, Tammy yelled and broke their bubble. With the arrival of these new women, noise from the restaurant floods into the corner booth.

Tracy yells back against the raucous. What are we doing here?

Missy screeches as a high-pitched alarm. We’re gonna catch Ginger’s cheating husband.

Everyone huddles around the table in the booth. Both new ladies remain standing, though bent-over. The private bubble reforms with even greater intimacy.

Janet knows magic, Tracy declared.

Yeah, I know a little magic, Janet fibbed for the sake of Tracy’s jest.

Ginger says, You’re high.

Tracy answers, You wish.

Wishes can come true, Ginger said.

Everybody giggles until the hopeful joke fades. Janet then feels more serious. She asks Ginger a personal question – one with an answer she trusts everyone at the table will keep secret.

Is Scott cheating on you? Honestly, I haven’t met a Scott a woman can trust.

We’re gonna find that out tonight, Missy answered for her friend. He might be here with a whore.

Ginger smiles and looks happy to see Janet. She says, Forget about me, what is Tracy talking about?

Tracy protests. You can just ask me, you boob. I’m sitting right here.

But you never give me a straight answer, especially when you’re drunk, Ginger answered. Getting the truth from you is like watching you walk a straight line.

Ha, Tracy laughed, I’m just playing …

Ginger grins. I know.

And I’m not drunk yet.

Not yet, Ginger said.

Tammy steps into the calm and the woman tries to start a fray. She already said that.

Ginger ignores the temptation and she asks Janet, You do magic?

Yeah, love charms.

I don’t think it’s working, Missy opines, You probably cursed all of us.

I guess it’s not so bad if we’re living in Tracy’s world, Janet told her feisty friend.

I suppose, Missy replied.

Tracy objects. Hey, my world ain’t so bad.

Just don’t sleep on her couches, answered her sister. What animals pee on those cushions?

Janet finally looks