The Tourist Attraction
Despite its significant maritime history, Salem, Massachusetts, lures a tourist trade that is more eager to view the sights associated with the infamous witchcraft trials and executions of 1692 than the less morbid attractions such as the Customs House, the Peabody Essex Museum, the replica of the three-masted Friendship, the architecture of the McIntire District, the Old Town Hall, the illustrious House of the Seven Gables and the Nathaniel Hawthorne birthplace.
Beginning with the opening of the Salem Witch Museum in the early 1970s, the city began to exploit its darker history rather than continue to regard it as an embarrassment. Later, attractions such as the Salem Witch Village, the Witch History Museum, the Cry Innocent live performance and the Witch Dungeon Museum opened their doors to paying customers eager to hear the details of the city's more lurid past. Furthermore, with its annual Haunted Happenings, Salem takes on the aspects of a macabre Mardi Gras every October. It is little wonder then that Salem became a Mecca for Wiccans, spiritualists, neopagans, New Age advocates and Halloween lovers.
One popular but short-lived tourist attraction was Hepzibah's Midnight Museum. Housed in an eerie gothic structure, the museum consisted of two separate exhibits: the Chamber of Pain and the Black Sabbath. There was also a gift shop that sold books on the black arts and souvenirs of Witch City. This establishment was owned and operated by Miss Hepzibah Oddbody, a young woman who bore a strong resemblance to Morticia Addams.
One June morning when Hepzibah opened the outer door to the museum promptly at 10:00 a.m., there was a group of tourists lined up outside, waiting to enter.
"Do come in, weary travelers," Hepzibah called theatrically, as though she were auditioning for the role of one of the weird sisters in Macbeth.
As the customers entered, they had to wait momentarily for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the lobby. The faux candles in the overhead chandeliers and in the wall sconces cast a shadowy, flickering light that was suitable for a "house of evil" yet did little to illuminate the surroundings. Hepzibah had decorated the place herself, hoping to make it resemble the set of an old Roger Corman film. Creating the classic horror movie atmosphere did not, however, prevent the proprietor from installing modern air conditioning and electronic anti-theft and safety devices throughout the building. She was, despite her bizarre, witch-like appearance, a shrewd businesswoman.
"Step right this way," she announced after welcoming the tourists to the museum. "Located on the floor below us is our Chamber of Pain, an exhibit of medieval torture devices that were used to extract confessions from heretics during the Inquisition. And through the rear lobby door is our Black Sabbath exhibit of devil worship, demonology and the black arts."
At this point in Hepzibah's speech, several potential customers nervously cast their eyes toward the exit. The attraction's owner fought the urge to laugh. Most religious people, although curious enough to enter the Black Sabbath exhibit, did experience some level of trepidation, as though their immortal souls might be in peril. If they only knew that the icons and artifacts they were paying to see were mass-produced in China and could be purchased at any Halloween store, their fear and, most likely, their curiosity would quickly vanish.
"Tickets for the Chamber of Pain are $8.50 for adults and $6.00 for students and senior citizens, and those for the Black Sabbath are $9.00 for adults and $7.50 for students and seniors. If you prefer, you can buy a combination ticket to both exhibits at $16.00 and $12.50, respectively."
The tourists formed a line in the gift shop to purchase their tickets. Once Hepzibah gave each customer an inverted pentagram sticker as proof of admission and put the money in the cash register, she led the group to a set of double doors just to the right of the emergency exit.
"The chamber is dimly lit, so please watch your step. And I must caution you not to touch any of the torture devices, as I'm sure none of you is anxious to experience excruciating pain, dismemberment or possibly death."
As the customers filed down the stone steps, Hepzibah pressed a button on the wall outside the door. The prerecorded presentation commenced, and she returned to her post in front of the gift shop's cash register.
Except during October's Haunted Happenings celebration, when Salem was overrun with free-spending tourists, Hepzibah closed the Chamber of Pain and Black Sabbath promptly at 6:00 p.m. That evening was no different. After emptying the register drawer and putting the money and credit card slips into the safe, she shut the front door, locked it and headed toward home.
Hepzibah walked east on Derby Street and then up Fort Avenue toward the tiny community of Salem Willows where she owned a townhouse. Once inside her home, she removed her long, black wig and headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, Hepzibah Oddbody was transformed into Doreen Burns, a pretty, twenty-seven-year-old liberal arts graduate who, when not tending to her profitable business, was writing a book on women in literature. Doreen wrapped a towel turban-style around her long red hair and pulled on a pair of jeans and a "Bewitched in Salem" T-shirt. Then she threw a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner into the microwave and reached for her magazine of word puzzles.
Words were Doreen's addiction. In between working and writing, she spent her spare time—what little there was of it—tackling crosswords and anagrams. As she waited for the microwave bell to sound, she looked at the scrambled letters POTHASIL for several moments and then wrote down the correct answer: HOSPITAL.
* * *
Hepzibah waited for the last of the customers to enter the exhibit before shutting the door of the Chamber of Pain and pressing the button to start the audio program. The gift shop was temporarily empty, so she went into the back room that served as her office and grabbed a cold can of Coke from the small refrigerator she kept there. When she returned to the shop, she saw a young man examining a pair of silver candleholders decorated with occult symbols.
"I'm sorry," Hepzibah apologized, "I didn't hear the bell above the door ring. You just missed the start of the presentation. The next one will begin in ten minutes."
"That's all right. I can wait."
The man, who seemed to epitomize the old cliché "tall, dark and handsome," didn't look at all like a tourist. For one thing, he was alone, and tourists invariably traveled in pairs or groups. For another, he was well dressed in an obviously expensive, hand-tailored suit, not a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
"Are you vacationing in Salem?" Hepzibah asked politely.
"No," the man replied, exhibiting a dazzling smile that could have melted a polar ice cap faster than global warming seemed to be doing. "I'm here on business. Several of my clients belong to a religious organization that has taken notice of this establishment."
A lawyer! she thought with disappointment. It figures.
Hepzibah turned away. Ever since she opened the museum and gift shop, she'd had to deal with not only various Christian groups crying "blasphemy!" but also several members of the Wiccan community protesting that the Black Sabbath exhibit cast a bad light on white witchcraft.
"We're trying to educate society," one self-proclaimed witch had explained. "We want people to realize we're not into Satanic worship and animal sacrifice, that, in fact, we don't even believe in the existence of a devil."
Hepzibah was able to placate her Wiccan neighbors by tacking a sign on the wall of the lobby disclaiming any connection between black magic or devil worship and the Wiccan religion. The Christians, however, were not as easy to appease. They regularly appealed to city officials to close the museum and gift shop, but as of yet they could find no legal grounds for doing so.
The light above the entrance to the Chamber of Pain went out, signifying that the audio presentation had come to an end. Hepzibah opened the double doors and twenty-three tourists came up the stone steps and into the gift shop. Most of them had purchased the combination ticket, so they headed toward the doors of the Black Sabbath. After Hepzibah let them into the second exhibit, she returned to her post in the gift shop.
Three people were browsing through the selection of T-shirts, books, postcards, inexpensive souvenirs and snacks, but the handsome young man was not among them. It was a bit of a disappointment, even if he was a lawyer. Doreen had little experience when it came to members of the opposite sex. So far, she had spent her time in pursuit of an education, not a social life. Her only date had been to her high school senior prom, and that abruptly ended when she refused to share a joint with her young Romeo in the boy's bathroom.
Later that night, however, when she was walking along Derby Street, heading home to Salem Willows, she spied the handsome stranger coming up Turner Street from the direction of the House of the Seven Gables.
"Well, if it isn't the Devil Lady," he said, flashing his captivating smile.
"Taking the grand tour of Salem, I see. Have you been to the Witch House yet? If not, I heartily recommend it. It's the only existing building in town that has direct ties to the witchcraft trials. It's also a wonderful example of a seventeenth-century New England saltbox."
"Thank you for the recommendation, but I've been there several times already."
"Oh, do you live in the area?" she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
"No, but I do get to Massachusetts as often as possible. I love it here," he admitted.
"It is nice," she agreed. "If you can afford it, that is. Between the rising cost of homes and the high taxes, you practically have to be a Kennedy to live here."
"Ah, the Kennedys! I know them well."
"You do, huh?" she teased him and then realized that he was serious.
"I'm an old friend of the family," he nonchalantly admitted, with no hint of boastfulness.
Just as Doreen was thinking that Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome would not be interested in a middle-class working girl, the young man looked at his watch and said, "You know it's almost 6:30, and I haven't eaten anything all day. Would you care to join me for dinner?"
"Sure," she said quickly.
She had planned on working on her book, but that could definitely wait.
"Would you mind if I went home and got out of this costume first?"
"Not at all. I was planning on going over to Victoria Station, but if you'd prefer to go somewhere else ...?"
"No. That's fine."
"While you go home and get dressed, why don't I walk over there and get a table for us?"
"Great. I'll meet you there in, say, half an hour."
Twenty minutes later, Doreen entered the restaurant on Wharf Street. The young man—whose name she had yet to discover—was still waiting for a table.
"I never would have recognized you!" he laughed, unable to stop staring at his dinner guest.
Hepzibah Oddbody's transformation into Doreen Burns was as drastic as Elvira's into Cassandra Peterson.
"My name is Doreen, by the way—Doreen Burns."
"I'm Stan. Stan Galena."
Throughout dinner, Stan asked Doreen many questions. He was especially curious about her museum and her interest in the black arts.
"So, how did you wind up owning the Midnight Museum? I would have thought that a pretty young woman like you would be more likely to own a dress shop, a beauty parlor or an arts and crafts store."
"Do I detect a note of sexism?" she laughed.
"Not me! I've always given women the credit they're due. It's just that you seem too innocent to get involved in such a dangerous occupation."
"Dangerous?"
"Black magic. Devil worship. Aren't you afraid that you're toying with damnation?"
"I'm sorry if my business offends your Christian beliefs."
"That's not it. I just wonder what made you choose Satanism as a business."
"I guess it's because I'm an atheist. I don't believe in the existence of either God or the devil. To me, the museum is nothing more than a harmless tourist attraction. It's no different than owning a miniature golf course, an ice cream stand or a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise."
They finished their dinner and then ordered coffee and dessert.
"You know," Stan said looking at Doreen with a hopeful expression, "I never did get the chance to see your exhibits."
"Why don't you stop by tomorrow? I'll give you the V.I.P. tour."
"I can't. I have to go to Washington on business. I leave first thing in the morning."
Doreen tried to hide her disappointment. There was no denying she was attracted to Stan Galena.
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a private, off-hours tour."
"Now?"
Stan looked at his watch.
"It's only quarter after eight."
Doreen briefly considered his request.
"Sure. Why not?"
Stan took care of the check, despite Doreen's protests.
"I'll pay tonight," he declared, exuding raw masculine charm. "You can get it next time."
Doreen smiled, pleased with the idea that he planned on seeing her again.
* * *
Doreen took the key from her purse, unlocked the thick, medieval-looking front door, reached her hand inside and flipped the switch that turned on the simulated candlelight of the chandelier and the wall sconces.
"Watch your step," she warned Stan. "I keep the lighting dim for effect."
As they walked into the deserted gift shop, their footsteps eerily echoed in the silence.
"The Chamber of Pain is right this way."
"I'm really not interested in torture chambers. I prefer to leave them to Torquemada and his band of merry monks."
"You're not into sadomasochism then?" she teased.
"Don't be too sure. Maybe I just don't feel like taking a busman's holiday."
"Well, come on then, Marquis de Sade, the Black Sabbath is in the back of the building."
"Any chance we'll see Ozzie Osborne back here?"
"I doubt it. I believe he's down at Red's Coffee Shop munching on a live dove, or was it a bat? I never can remember."
When Doreen opened the door to the Black Sabbath, she dropped her playful banter and asked, "Would you like to hear the prerecorded spiel?"
"No," Stan replied softly, looking around the room in awe.
A giant altar was prominently placed against the far wall. On it were two black candles—electric as per fire department regulations and for insurance purposes—and a large inverted crucifix. Above the altar, was a mounted bust of a demon, with eyes glowing red and ram's horns protruding from either side of its menacing head.
"Interesting," the lawyer said.
"Do you like it? It's only a mask; I bought it at Spencer's in the Northshore Mall in Peabody and had it mounted on a Styrofoam wig stand."
"How clever."
There was a hallway to the right of the altar that led to rooms where various other artifacts associated with the black arts and the history of devil worship around the world were on display, but Stan was not interested in seeing them. His eyes sought Doreen's through the dim light, and his hand reached up to touch her red hair.
"I haven't met a girl like you in a long time," he said, his voice husky with growing passion.
Doreen shivered as his lips found hers.
"Would you like to go back to my place?" she asked hesitantly when he broke the kiss.
"What's wrong with right here?"
"Here?" she asked with surprise.
"Why not? We're alone, the room is softly lit and we even have a place to lie down on," he said, pointing to the altar.
Doreen let herself be led like a lamb to the slaughter. She did not have the power to resist him, even if she had wanted to.
The glass bulbs of the black candles suddenly shattered, and real flames shot up, sending eerie shadows dancing on the walls. As Doreen lay back on the altar, the Halloween mask she had purchased at Spencer's came to life. Its red eyes looked down at her, and its lips parted in a smile. The hideous visage drew closer to her. Then, suddenly, she realized it was not the mask at all, but her handsome dinner companion, Stan Galena.
As the mysterious stranger consummated the infernal union of evil and innocence, Doreen's terrified mind took refuge in the mundane, familiar world of words. She saw his name appearing in a string of capital letters, similar to those in her word puzzle magazines: STAN GALENA. The letters seemed to rearrange themselves, leapfrogging one over another. The last sane thought she had before descending into madness was the answer to the two-word anagram: ANGEL SATAN.
From that moment on, the innocent Doreen Burns ceased to exist. The twenty-seven-year-old virgin, aspiring writer and purveyor of unholy rites and dark arts, who had unknowingly conjured up the Prince of Darkness, ceased to exist. It was Hepzibah Oddbody who embraced her satanic lover and who nine months later would give birth to the progeny of Hell.
I wish my cat would understand that putting his picture on a T-shirt doesn't make him a tourist attraction!
