Page 96 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“Why? Because it’s rude? That’s why I’m the one doing it.”
Before I can catch up, he’s at the cottage door, swinging it open and stepping inside.
“Sam and I need to do a few things,” he says. “It’s best if you aren’t part of that. But it’s also best if no one is alone here. So you need to leave for a while. Come back with lunch. Also smokes. I really need a cigarette.”
Her brows shoot up. “Uh…”
“Your dad is the sheriff. Your boss is the sheriff. It makes things complicated. If it’s something Sam and I can share, we will.”
“So lunch and cigarettes?”
“Yeah.”
She puts out her hand. He sighs, but slaps a twenty in it.
“Big spender,” she says. “For that you get cigarettes and you can reheat your breakfast.”
I take a couple twenties from the leftover cash in the envelope, but she shakes her head.
“This one’s on me,” she says with a smile and then leaves.
Josie is gone. Ben and I are in the kitchen, with the book on the table, me on one chair while he straddles another backward. I’ve plugged in a lamp so I can see the pages better, and I have my phone to look up words I don’t recognize.
I start at the beginning. The first entry is actually a preface, explaining that this is a translation from the original Dutch. As asurname, Payne is often associated with the British Isles, but my Payne ancestors originated in France and ended up in the Netherlands, and that’s where they were when they immigrated with a wave of Dutch settlers coming to New York State.
At the time the journal was translated, the Paynes had been in America for several generations and they spoke English. The writer translated it because it was—as she said—a work of vital importance that could not be lost.
For the first dozen or so pages, the book seems like a standard journal, mostly interesting for the family history. I already knew a bit of that. The Paynes came to America in the mid-eighteenth century. That’s long after theMayflower,but it’s right at the start of when Europeans began colonizing upstate New York.
When I was little, my grandfather always made it sound like the typical pilgrim narrative. My ancestors came over and found vacant land and worked hard to turn it into what is now Paynes Hollow. At that age, while I certainly knew there’d been people in America before the Europeans, the reality never fully penetrated, because the indigenous people played no role in my grandfather’s stories. It was as if this particular region were just empty land.
Now, reading those early pages, my skin crawls with the reality. My many-times-great-grandmother gushes about the lake and the land and the bounty, and marvels at their luck “finding” this piece and “claiming” it for their own, and when she does mention the native people, it’s as if they’re in the same category as the wolves and the bears. Invaders on the land my family “owns” by right of their land claims.
That’s a horror story in itself, but it’s not the purpose of the journal, and what seems like a typical pioneer story quickly turns into something else.
Whenever people immigrate, they bring their own traditions and culture. In this area, many of the colonists were Dutch. They brought with them games like ninepins and ice hockey, foods like waffles and doughnuts. My ancestors also brought something else.
As I read, the old language smooths out, my eyes skimming over unfamiliar words and turns of phrase and modernizing them.
Before we left the old country, my husband’s mother taught us how to create nekkers, to ensure our prosperity in this new land. The process cannot be rushed, particularly as it might take years to complete the first step. The good fortune we brought with us eventually ran out, and all we could do was wait. Wait for tragedy to strike our family.
It finally happened last month, when we received word that my husband’s youngest brother, Bram, perished in the war for independence. He died in the most horrible way, his head nearly cleaved from his body by a British soldier. Given the state of his remains, the army wished to bury him, but we claimed membership in a religious community that required an appropriate burial, and they allowed my husband and his brothers to retrieve Bram’s remains.
By the time the body arrived, the poor boy’s head was no longer attached to his neck, and we fretted over how that would affect the ritual. Yet there was no way to swiftly consult with the elders, and we dared not miss this opportunity. We followed the ritual and killed Bram’s horse and then arranged them both in the lake bottom, the horse pinning Bram’s body and head beneath it.
Next we had to perform the binding. I have left instructions for it in these pages. The person bound must be a Payne, sharing blood with Bram. It is best if the person is young, so that the binding might last as long as possible, yet it is unwise to bind a baby who may not survive infancy. As my husband is the first son, it was decided that our eldest—Elsie—would be bound. We performed the ritual and then we waited.
It took thirty days, long enough that we began to worry that the condition of Bram’s body meant he could not serve as the seed. Our distress grew so great that once, when my husband had drunk too much, he questioned whether Elsie was his child! But then it happened, exactly as it should. A light appeared under the water at night and Bram rode out on his horse, his head held in his hand. He did not know us, of course, but he rode right up to our homes, searchingfor Elsie. When we brought her out, he was satisfied and returned to the lake.
Each night until the lake freezes, Bram emerges to ride through the woods, seeking any source of danger to our family, but mostly to Elsie.
We are all tremendously careful not to discipline the child. That is the one danger of the ritual. Bram will protect us all, but he will also protect Elsie from us. Even a backhanded slap could result in retaliation. My husband says his grandmother always told the story of her uncle, who had been bound to their nekkers. A cousin, in his cups, struck her uncle a blow, and the next day, the cousin was gone. A few days later, he appeared from the lake as a nekker, having been trampled to death by the horseman and dragged into the lake by the nekkers.
When the bound person passes, another may take their place. If there is no suitable replacement, the nekkers will remain dormant until a new bonding. However, if the nekkers lie dormant, the Paynes receive no benefit from them.
The nekkers offer more than protection. Much more. Some of the old stories say that the nekkers offer bargains, wishes granted in return for sacrifices. That is adjacent to the truth, which is that they offer a boon in return for sacrifice—the very specific boon of good fortune.
For as long as the nekkers are pleased, the Paynes will enjoy fortune. Their crops will grow. Their children will be healthy. Their fish nets will be full. It will never be so much that others notice and grow suspicious. It will simply seem as if fortune smiles on them more often than others.
