The Witch's Bottle: The Kelly Chronicles

By William Elias

Heights Police Officer William Kelly struggles against past demons suffered in Afghanistan and Iraq as a Marine. But when an occultist attempts to resurrect a four-hundred-year-old witch, darkness collapses on him. Forced into a realm of terror, Kelly must hunt an ancient evil, a witch's bottle, and the truth behind an extinct Religious Assembly.

 

Winner of The Grand Library Awards, The Savant Awards, The Count Awards, and The Punk Awards, "This book offers a duality rarely seen in print with a gut-wrenching tale of an ancient evil and its disturbing appearance in the modern world. Masterfully executed and not for the faint of heart." MarCafe

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Elias
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798802544402

Book preview

Contents

THE WITCH’S BOTTLE

PROLOGUE

The Reverend Parson

2

3

4

5

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, November 20

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

The Shooting

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

BAIRN’S

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

TUESDAY, JANUARY 28

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

EPILOGUE

​Historical Foundation

The County Commission

Puritan and Reformists

Violence Escalates

Economy Suffers

The Good Friday Massacre

Black Easter Monday

The Master of Thugs

The Witch Trials

Inquisitors Commissioned

The Witch Trials and Executions

The Goodwife Murron Muldoon

Aftermath

Charter Revoked

Post Civil War

Current Day

About The Author

THE WITCH’S BOTTLE

THE KELLY CHRONICLES

By,

William Elias

Copyright © 2022 by William Elias

ISBN: 9798802544402

Cover Design: Angeligue Bosman CTR.ALT.PUBLISH

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the author’s written permission.

For my Messiah Jesus and my children, Kaitlyn, Lindsey, Caroline, Abigail, and Joshua. Natalie, Mattalyn, Gianna, Emily, and Jake.

To all of the men and women that I served with in The Heights, thank you for the good times! May the LORD Bless and Keep all of you with Shalom, Peace.

Special Thanks to my niece, Rome Elias, for her incredible lyrics to City of Fear.

To my wife Josephina, my Maxine

TO THE READER,

My life experience inspired this novel as a policeman in two separate towns, Seaside Heights and Spring Lake Heights Police Departments, NJ. Likewise, growing up in a town steeped in witchcraft, I gained a great deal of knowledge of the occult, which served me well in Police Work. I combined these experiences to create this story partly based on actual events.

GLOSSARY

RMP – Radio Mobile Patrol (Patrol Car).

Power Calling – It’s the continuous woo-woo-woo sound.

PTT – Push to Talk Button (small button on the side or top of a handset walkie-talkie).

DOA – Dead on Arrival (someone who’s died before officers get to the scene).

CSI – Crime Scene Investigators.

IAB – Internal Affairs Bureau. They investigate the Police regarding misconduct or the possibility of violating the code of conduct.

Peaked Cap – The standard headgear worn by Police and Military members.

Piss Cutter – A folded tent cap worn by the United States Marine Corps.

UCs – Under-cover detectives.

Cop’s cop – Fellow officers who understand the stresses and anxiety of the job and have their partner’s back. Does what needs to doing and is slow to judge the actions of other officers.

Major Case Detectives – The top division of investigator’s in the department. They handle high-profile crimes and occurrences.

Bullpen – Slang for meeting room where briefings are given.

Double Tap – Two shots are fired rapidly at the same target.

Close Quarters – Tactical position in which you must resort to physical violence or restraint.

BOHICA – United States Marine jargon for Bend over, here it comes again.

He’s got paper – Jargon for a Warrant.

MRAP – Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected. United States Military Vehicle.

RTO – Radio Transmitting Operator. Specialist responsible for tactical field communications.

RSR - Red Spiny Rat is a rodent from Thailand and China that grows to over eight inches long. Slang for IAB rat squad.

.40 or .357– Calibre of Pistol.

DWI – Driving While Intoxicated (Drunk Driving).

LREC– La Reza Nation East Coast, Hispanic street gang.

BORE PUNCHED – USMC Jargon for inserting a swab into a penis to check for Sexually-Transmitted-Diseases. Slang for command, looking for trouble.

NINJA PUNCHED –USMC Jargon for Non-Judicial Punishment. It’s an administrative intervention for minor offenses instead of court-martial proceedings.

USMC – United States Marine Corps.

NCOs – Non-Commissioned-Officers. Usually, begin at the rank of Sergeant and ends at either Ensign (in the Navy) or Second Lieutenant.

RICKY-TIC – Military slang for immediately.

BLICKED – Urban slang for killed.

GOAT ROPE – Military slang A disorganized hearing or investigation.

ESU – Emergency Services Unit. Know better as SWAT, or Tactical Units.

TAC – Tactical Channels that are not local and are secured.

Sit-Rep – Military Jargon for Situational Report

PROLOGUE

And now Nineteen persons having been hang’d, and one prest to death, and Eight more condemned, in all Twenty and Eight, of which above a third part were Members of some of the Churches of N. England, and more than half of them of a good Conversation in general, and not one clear’d; about Fifty having confest themselves to be Witches, of which not one Executed; above an Hundred and Fifty in Prison, and Two Hundred more accused; the Special Commission of Oyer and Terminer comes to a period.

—Robert Calef 1692

The Reverend Parson

November 31, 1655

1

Reverend! barked a young boy who knocked on the door. Reverend Parson, you never picked up your milk today. Me mum has sent me with haste with your delivery.

Nine-year-old Gabriel Beckett was nervous and kept looking over his shoulder. His leather boots were old and wrapped in a thick blue cloth. His wool mittens had holes from overuse, and his scarf and jacket were heavy and worn. He pushed the wool hat from his eyebrow to see the door better.

The sky had turned gray, and a muddy, six-inch, three-day-old snowfall was on the ground.

He knocked again and waited before calling out. Reverend, I’ve got to get home before the weather starts. Me Da said we’re getting another storm. And with all the happenings going about, I don’t feel safe.

The weather wasn’t the only reason the boy felt dread. It was no longer safe for the Christian Reformist congregants of Reverend Parson’s Assembly.

Mum is worried about the Calvinists and the turf war, he said. Gabriel craned his neck, looking over his shoulders and checking behind him. She’s afraid they’ll come after me.

Two years earlier, the Calvinist church began a violent and defamatory campaign against the Reverend Thomas Parson’s new congregation of Reformists. Dangerous accusations and innuendos led to scuffles, shoving matches, and eventually fistfights in the square.

Reverend Parson, I’ve got to git home. If’n those blackhearts catch me, they’ll kill me straight away. Especially because me Da isn’t with me, and they’re still blaming him for Black Easter Monday.

That past Easter, the violence reached its peak. The Calvinists attacked Reformists preparing for Good Friday, wounded two, and torched an elder’s home.

The retaliation was swift and deadly. On ‘Black Easter Monday,’ men from Parson’s church killed the Calvinist ringleader and hanged him from a tree overlooking Mill Pond. Supposition placed Gabriel’s father, Taran Beckett, as the Master of Thugs and the one who tied the noose.

The boy’s fingers twitched as he wrung his hands from anxiety. He didn’t enjoy coming to the pond anymore, not since the murders, Witch Trials, and executions.

Reverend, mum, and Da believe nothing they’re saying about you, and I don’t know what any of it means. Please open the door so that I can get home.

Calvinist Inquisitors accused Parson’s congregation of witchery and black magic. They tried five women from his church for being in league with the devil and possessing witch’s bottles. They sentenced four to hang from the tree overlooking Millpond.

Reverend, I heard my Da say that you were making people nervous. I’m supposed to make sure I talk to you before I go. Mum says that Da’s barely seen you since Miss Muldoon’s death at the picket.

2

The Goodwife Muron Muldoon was the fifth woman convicted. She was the only one, however, said to possess the pamphlet The Witch’s Hammer and was privately burned at the stake.

Gabriel stepped from the wooden porch and peered around the corner. He looked for footprints or any sign that the Reverend was home. Distracted by the undisturbed snow, he knelt and took a handful. Though it chilled his fingers, he molded it into a tight ball. Taking a step back, he lunged forward and threw the ball at the house.

Reverend, he shouted. I don’t know what adultery is, but me mum doesn’t believe that you and Mrs. Muldoon were fornicating.

Most reformist congregants knew that Parson, though married, had an eye for Muron Muldoon. It wasn’t a surprise when the Calvinists accused them of an affair. Their accusation involved deviant sexual practices and spell casting by Muldoon. They determined it corrupted Parson and the church.

So on November 24, they burned Muron Muldoon at the stake for being a witch. But only Reverend Parson, the Calvinist leaders, and the inquisitors could watch.

Gabriel tried once more. Reverend, he yelled. It’s me, Gabriel. Please open the door. I’m cold, and I want to go for supper. And if’n that bastard Isaiah Wrightman catches me, he’ll kill me. You know he thinks he can best my Da. He’s already threatened to kill him.

3

Curious as most boys are, Gabriel saw several blackbirds coming and going from the oak tree down the road on the millpond’s edge. He lost focus on the assignment given by his mother and began counting. Pointing with his finger, Gabriel rattled off their number. Eight, nine, ten, and eleven.

Though freezing and the cold biting his feet, he wanted to see what they were doing.

Reverend, I’m going to the tree. I’m leaving the milk on the porch.

He jumped from the steps and made his way from the front yard onto the main road. The tree was still some distance off, but he was close enough to hear the bird’s wings and gurgling croak. He soon realized that the blackbirds were ravens, targeting something hanging from the tree. They bobbed and weaved, seeing the flesh through their taloned feet.

Gabriel stopped, went to the pond bed, and pushed the snow from the ground. Then, finding the perfect-sized throwing stone, he ran and hurled it at the trees.

Get on with it now, you daft crazy birds.

Although his toss fell short of the mark, it was now a game.

Jesus Christ, ya black-hearted beasts. Get off with ya!

He rustled the snow, scanning the ground for another projectile. Seeing nothing, he again moved to the pond bed, kneeling to push aside the snow, dirt, and sand.

Oh, you’re a good’n, boyo, he said, finding the heaviest rock that he could throw. But when he looked up, his stomach dropped. What once hid behind the massive tree trunk revealed itself.

Gabriel didn’t move, still kneeling in the snow. He felt the wind hit his cheek, and every time it did, this object swayed. His heart pounded, and his mouth made dry. The stone in his hand was no longer a toy. It was a weapon.

4

Curious as most boys are, he needed to see more. He stood, cocked his hand behind his head, and crept up on the tree. The ravens were no longer his focus. The sound of creaking replaced their fluttering and croaking.

He grasped the stone tight and was ready to throw it when a strong wind hit him in the cheek. His wool hat that covered his ears flew from his head. Forgetting the moment and his fear, he chased it to the foot of the ice. He refused to put down the rock and struggled with replacing the hat over his ears and forehead. When he finally mastered the task, he turned toward the tree.

I’m not afraid of you, not at all, he said. But then, the wind shifted, and a dreadful smell smacked him in the face. It was wet and acrid and smelled like rot. He dropped the rock and pulled his scarf over his nose. As he dry-heaved, he liked to vomit. He fell to his knees on the pond’s edge. His hands were frozen, and he heaved on the ice. Terror overtook him.

The ravens were silent, flying away from the tree. Then he heard that creaking sound again. It was harsh, grating, and constant now.

Gabriel shivered.

Me mum says there’s no such thing as the banshee. I don’t believe in you! He felt the lump in his throat and the tears well in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and counted in his head. His thoughts turned to words as he breathed harder.

One, two, three!

He let out a war cry. But when he saw it dangling from the tree, his heart throbbed, and he lost his breath. He wailed and ran onto the road and past the Reverend’s house.

5

It wasn’t an hour before Gabriel returned with his father and others. The snow had been falling, and the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. Gabriel stood in the road halfway between the Reverend Parson’s house and the tree. Surrounded by grown men he knew his whole life, he’d never felt so alone. His finger trembled as he pointed towards the tree.

There, Da, there. Please don’t make me go. It’s there. I don’t want to see it ever again.

Gabriel’s father knelt, so he and his son were eye to eye. He put his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders and, with his thumbs, wiped the tears from the boy’s eyes.

I’m proud of you, me wee bairn, he said. He adjusted Gabriel’s wool hat and gave a slight tug on his ear. You’re very courageous, me boyo. You handled y’rself very well. But it’s late, and we must see to taking himself down. Gabriel’s father stood back up and waved the other men ahead.

I want you to go inside the Reverend’s home. Your mum and sister are making soup. I need you to take care of them until we get back. Can you do that for me, Gabriel?

I can, the boy said. His father looked him in the eye, proud of what his son had done. But Gabriel wasn’t finished. He was still confused. Why did they call it a body? He didn’t understand and just wanted to know what was hanging from the tree. He took a deep breath, gulped, and tried to wet his lips. And he asked.

Da, what is that?

His father’s smile turned, and his eyes and face wrinkled. The boy's Da shook his head, looked at the sky, and breathed out with a heavy sigh. Gabriel sensed his hesitation.

It’s not what, lad, he said. It’s who. That’s the Reverend Parson hanging from the tree, me bairn. Those cold-blooded bastards murdered him.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

East Coast Green

18:40 Hours

Central to all units. Report of shots fired at East Coast Green, 108 Fifth Avenue. Multiple reports, gang-related, handle code three.

I knew the town and knew exactly where we were. Ocean and the Boulevard, I said.

My partner, Johnny Keegan, reached down and switched on the toggles as the lights and sirens blared. The Hemi V8 Dodge Charger Pursuit engine revved and jerked as I pressed the accelerator to the ground.

Six-Three-David handling primary, three blocks away, said Keegs.

The back end of my radio mobile patrol car fishtailed. The lights reflected the wet street, and the siren resounded off the brick and steel buildings.

We hit the straightaway, power calling, onto Fifth Avenue. Keegs emptied the chewing tobacco from his mouth into his spit cup. When I regained control of the RMP, he handed it to me, and I did the same.

Kill the lights, I said. Everything went silent. Then, taking the mic from the cradle, I depressed the push-to-talk button.

Six-Three-David on scene. All covers come in stealth. The sirens went silent into the night. It was quiet, eerie almost, our black cars hidden all but for the streetlights.

I stopped the RMP three houses down from the store. Keegs and I got out of the vehicle and drew our Smith and Wesson .40 pistols.

As we approached the shop facade, I tactically staggered us, taking the lead position closest to the storefront. Keegs, on my right side, maintained a three-yard disbursement.

I held my fist in the air, my elbow flexed. Then I outstretched my arm, my palm facing down, and motioned for Keegs to stay low. Finally, I circled toward the street to better my line of sight inside the store.

There was no movement. I waved Keegan forward and waited until he was on my inside hip. He tapped me, and we were swift in entering the shop.

There were three bodies on the ground. The first two were men. One was dead, with gray matter all over the counter and a display case. The second was bleeding out from a neck wound. It didn’t look like a gunshot.

The third, a woman, shot in the back, her body convulsing with every breath. She would have to wait until we knew it was safe.

We continued forward towards the back of the shop. We positioned ourselves on our side of the archway. I nodded, and we crisscrossed, moving towards the rear.

Clear, I yelled as I looked into the bathroom and small office, both doors open.

Small room, clear, yelled Keegs from the break room. We put our pistols away, and I reached for my collar mic.

Six-Three-David, Central. Scene secured. Need a bus forthwith this location, and homicide. Have at least one DOA.

Central, Six-three Senior Corporal, copy... Bus dispatched, homicide notified.

It wasn’t long before the place swarmed with bystanders, busses, medics, and Homicide Investigators. I reported to the detective in charge and received the customary, thanks, Corporal. We’ve got it from here.

This was a strange hit. A health food store, no money taken out of the cash registers, no merchandise missing, and no sign of territorialism. Nothing but three victims and none of them had any I.D. on them.

No. Don’t go there. Not your job. Situational Awareness.

I had to stop because this wasn’t my problem, and I was too tired to figure it out.

Hey, Keegs. Keep those freaking people back, will you please. Detectives are inside, and God forbid, we step on their evidence.

I watched Keegan push the crowd back. Then, CSI stretched the yellow border tape across the street from light pole to light pole.

That was when I first saw him.

A white male, he stood five foot five, weighed about one hundred twenty pounds, and was scrawny. He was pale as a ghost, and the black eyeshadow, lipstick, and mascara didn’t help his complexion. He dowsed himself with black fingernails, eyelashes, and makeup, as Goth as they come. His hair came to a point in his forehead, stiff with gel. His boots, navy pea coat, and high-collared shirt were all black. His eyes were dark blue, cold, and pitted. Yet I’ll never forget that warped smile on his face as long as I live.

What the hell is your problem? I asked him as I walked over to the police line. Something amusing you?

Aye, please, officer. Mine name is Caleb Crowningshield. May I tend to mine own  shop?

Something was wrong. Darkness rushed my mind, foreboding, suffering, and dread. There was something wicked about him. When he looked at me, I winced. I swear I heard a woman crying out in my thoughts and writhing in pain. Her wail pierced my ears and trapped me in stasis. My skin tingled as if being held to a flame. As it intensified, the prophet in me saw blood and doom.

This man is Death—the mouthpiece of an Ancient Evil.

Art thee well, officer? His words cut through me but brought me out of my trance—his tone, accent, something devious.

I shook my head and watched as he leaned forward to read my nameplate.

Senior Corporal Kelly, he said. Art thee —? 

I am, Mr. Crowningshield, I snapped. "There are three wounded people in your shop: two shot, one killed. Perhaps you can help us identify them. None have identification."

He wore a proud smile, polite almost. He was courteous, courtly, and very Old World. That’s what scared me.

You won’t identify them, and I can’t help you, he said. Ours is a place of anonymity, and I wilt keepeth yond way.

He looked past me and shook his head slightly.

These have no family. Nobody shall behold f’r those folk, I assure you.

His smile was slow to vanish as he put his hands and fingers together as if to pray. I would like to see those folk. To say goodbye.

By now, Keegs was at my back. I turned and looked at him wide-eyed at the presentation of Mr. Crowningshield. Keegs had a wad of chewing tobacco back in his mouth and spat on the street.

I don’t know where the hell you came from, Casper, he said. And I don’t give a rat’s ass who you think you are. One of your friendly ghosts has a canoe-sized hole in his head. One has his throat cut, and another won’t live the night. So do yourself a favor, stop acting like an asshole and help us figure this out.

Keegs paused and loosed a stream of tobacco juice towards Crowningshield. I took him by the shoulders and patted him on his right cheek. Okay, we’re done here.

I moved Keegan to arm’s length and sent him back to the car.

As I turned back to Crowningshield, he laughed.  It was singularly impassive and void of emotion. As I waved him through the tape, he stopped and bowed. He walked away but looked over his shoulder and made direct eye contact.

Twas nice to meet thee, Senior Corporal Kelly, he said to mock me. They call you the Prophet, don’t they? The street thugs? I shall see you again, yes?

Tuesday, November 20

CHAPTER 2

Maxine

1506 HOURS

A new day, a new shift. I was tired and certainly wished my days off were longer. Maxine McMenamin walked from the sallyport. She glared at me but waited to speak until in range.

William Kelly, she said. Keegan’s in the bin again. IAB count number one-hundred and seventy-six. She adjusted her shoulder mic, pulling some hair from the chord. They’re going to hang him out to dry, and you know it.

Max opened the passenger side door, sat down, and snapped the shotgun into the brace.

I closed the trunk, got into the driver’s seat, and tested the lights and siren.

Hold that thought, lover, I said and picked up the mic to call us mobile.

Six-Three-David to Central, two-man unit in service. Two hundred on the O2, good on trauma and first aid kit. Good afternoon.

I sighed and took the Redman tobacco pouch from my front pocket. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and waited.

He’s a repulsive jerk. And there it was. She shook her body in disgust, her tongue hanging from her mouth as if gagging. That’s just disgusting, she said while shaking her hands and pointing at my tobacco.

Okay, sweetness, I’ll bite. What did he do now?

She rolled her eyes at me and scoffed. "You know I hate when you condescend to me, sweetness. And he’s your partner. You should know, Prophet. You and he are thick as thieves, so you’re lucky you’re not in there with him."

Maxine was my fiance. She was breathtaking and spectacularly gorgeous, and I loved her like a fool. She had wavy, long, brown hair that dropped well below the shoulder and pulled into a ponytail. She had the most incredible eyes to match and darker skin for her Irish heritage. Her body was athletic, tight, and incredibly sexy.

Come on, sweetheart. I’m not that stupid, I said.

Yes, you are. He’d lie through his teeth, and you’d swear by him.

She threw her peaked cap onto the dashboard as always. Mine was tucked safely underneath my winter jacket, spare uniform, and about fifteen used spit cups from my tobacco.

Do you ever even wear that thing? I asked.

I hate it, but we’re supposed to have it with us all the time, Kelly.

Yeah, try wearing a piss cutter for eight years... then it wouldn’t be so bad.

She sighed and smiled at me. You’re an ass. And can you please speak English and stop with the Marine Corps stuff? I know eight years of old habits die hard, but you’re not there anymore, buddy. 

Ignoring her poke at my years of service in the Corps, I switched the conversation back to Keegan.

Sweetheart, you don’t know him as I do. He’s one of the best street cops around. Nobody better to have at your back when it goes sideways, and it does, and you know it. 

She rolled her eyes with a mocking, "whatever, Prophet."

Being the Prophet, it was my street name. The gangbangers tagged me with it for my ability to catch them in lies and predict the outcome of their situations. With certainty, I could project when shit would go down, somehow knowing who was involved. I teased everyone and would say my Shadow-Sense was pinging, but it was nothing more than a cop’s intuition. Sometimes, though, it felt very much like second sight. How could I explain that to people without sounding like a psycho?

Oh God, I need a cup of coffee. You want one? I asked. I had a feeling this was going to be a long shift.

I think you need to stop with the coffee and the tobacco, she said. You look like you are losing weight again. She gave me the once over with a stare.

I’m sitting at one-eighty-five. At five-foot-ten, I’m on the mark.

Well, you don’t sleep well and haven’t been to the gym in weeks. When did you last go to Veteran Affairs to check your medication?

I tapped my hip repetitively, part anger and part stress. I hated when she ever so gently spoke about my Post Traumatic Stress. But it wasn’t my fault that it was there. And I sure as hell don’t want to be a statistic on some mental health brochure or billboard.

So, across the street? I asked. Coffee, tobacco, and?

I need gum, so let’s go, sighed Max with a smile. Don’t think I didn’t notice your clever little digs and redirection tactics. Someday we’re going to talk about what happened, just saying.

We pulled into a Seven-Eleven gas and convenience store, and I dragged myself from the RMP. I beat Maxine to the front swinging doors and held them open. She pushed past me into the store without a word.

After you, lover, I said. I can’t wait until July 7th. Then, we’ll be cocked, locked, and ready to rock. A brand new married couple.

My attempt to deflect the conversation from Johnny Keegan didn’t work. Though she bit her lip and winked at me, she wouldn’t give up that easily.

My problem with Keegan, she said. Is that he treats women like crap, and you know it.

She leaned against the counter as I poured myself some joe and listened.

"He’s arrogant. He acts like he’s above the law. He breaks the rules and gets away with them. And one day,