The Weight of Stones

If there was one thing the men and women of the Essex County Sheriff’s Department agreed on—aside from the fact that Dunkin’ coffee tasted better after three hours of paperwork—it was that Sheriff Stanley Bennett-Meyer never, ever got sick.

It wasn’t that he bragged about perfect health, because bragging wasn’t in his nature. It was just something everyone knew, the way everyone knew where the spare keys were or who hid the emergency chocolate in the supply closet (Deputy Lorraine Judge, though she denied it with suspiciously passionate indignation). Stanley was built sturdy in the New England way—solid shoulders, sturdy frame, eyes that missed nothing but never accused. He ate oatmeal every morning, walked his golden retriever Windsor every night, and possessed a kind of steady, lighthouse-beam reliability that made younger deputies feel safe.

So on a blustery Thursday in late October, when he shuffled into the office looking pale as frost and sat down without his usual greeting, the entire department felt the ground shift a little.

Deputy Mark Carver noticed it first. The cruiser keys nearly slipped from Stanley’s hand as he set them on his desk, and Mark’s brows knit together. “Sheriff? Everything okay, sir?”

Stanley waved him off. “Just feelin’ a little under the weather, Carver.” The words were gentle, but they scraped.

Carver blinked. Under the weather. The phrase from Stanley sounded wrong. Like Shakespeare spoken by a GPS voice.

“Sir,” Carver said softly, “you never get sick.”

“I do on occasion,” Stanley muttered. “Once a decade.”

He attempted a smile. It looked crooked, tired. Something heavy was tugging at him—the deputies all felt it like a pressure in the air.

By the time the morning briefing rolled around, the whispers had begun.

Not about flu season.

Not about RSV, or pneumonia, or allergies that had run amok.

No.

The whispers carried an older name.

Giles Corey.

The legend was practically county lore. Giles Corey, the stubborn, wrongfully accused man pressed to death under heavy stones during the Salem Witch Trials, had cursed the sheriffs of Essex County with his dying breaths. “More weight,” he had said, refusing to plead. And after the sheriff overseeing his execution died suddenly—followed by another, and another—generations of sheriffs were believed to fall ill, maddened or crushed by invisible burdens.

The curse had lasted until the department moved out of Salem proper, decades ago, to a bright administrative campus in Middleton. And when nothing strange happened for years after, everyone declared it over.

Still—every new recruit heard the story. Some laughed. Some pretended to.

No one laughed this morning.

“Did you see him?” whispered Deputy Lorraine Judge as she poured coffee for Carver. “He’s grey. Grey. People aren’t supposed to be that shade unless they’re ghosts or wallpaper.”

Carver nodded grimly. “He said he’s under the weather.”

Lorraine nearly dropped the coffee pot. “Oh God. He said it? Out loud? Stanley Bennett-Meyer actually admitted he felt bad?”

“Yeah.”

She crossed herself despite not being Catholic. “Shoot. That’s it. We’re dead. The curse is back. Time to call the Historical Society and the pastor.”

“We don’t need a pastor,” Carver sighed. “We need him to rest.”

“Rest won’t fix a curse.”

A voice behind them cleared its throat. “What’s this about a curse?”

Sergeant Theo Braden—stoic, tall, shaved head gleaming beneath fluorescent lights—approached with both brows raised. Lorraine and Carver exchanged guilty looks.

Lorraine caved instantly. “Sheriff’s sick. Pale, shaky, the whole thing. And you know what happened to the last sheriff who was sick—”

Theo held up a hand. “Enough. The curse ended with the relocation.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Lorraine gestured wildly toward Stanley’s closed office door, which did indeed look unnervingly cavern-like today. “He’s never sick! Never! It’s unnatural!”

Theo sighed. “Lorraine. You’re spiraling.”

Carver nodded sympathetically at her. “She’s got a point though.”

“No,” Theo said, “she has a superstition. We have a sheriff who needs medical attention. We are going to act like professionals.”

Right then the office door creaked open. The sheriff emerged, moving with the stiff, off-balance gait of someone walking on deck during a storm.

Every deputy froze.

Stanley blinked at them. “What’re you all staring at?”

No one answered.

He gave a halfhearted harrumph and headed toward the conference room for briefing—but the motion made him sway.

Theo lunged forward just in time to steady him.

“Sheriff!” Lorraine yelped. “You’re teetering. People don’t teeter unless they’re ninety or cursed!”

“Lorraine,” Theo warned.

But she was right: Stanley never teetered. He walked like a man whose boots were carved from granite.

Today he looked light, fragile.

He muttered, “I’m fine,” which fooled no one, then cleared his throat. “Let’s get the briefing started.”

“Sheriff,” Theo said sternly, “you should go home.”

“Not a chance.”

“You’re about to fall over.”

“I am not.”

“You were literally leaning on the coffee maker five minutes ago,” Carver blurted before he could stop himself. “Like you’d forget gravity.”

Lorraine gasped. “Gravity—that’s it! The stones! The weight! Giles Corey’s—”

“Lorraine,” Theo snapped, “five seconds of silence, please.”

But the fear had already settled into everyone’s bones.

Briefing was a disaster.

The sheriff tried to run through updates on stolen vehicles and a noise complaint involving Halloween decorations that screamed GET OUT at 2 a.m., but his words came slow, breathless. He gripped the table edge like he needed to anchor himself.

Carver couldn't stop watching the sheriff’s knuckles whiten.

Lorraine kept mouthing prayers.

Theo kept shooting everyone shut-up glares, but even he looked tense.

Finally the sheriff’s voice faltered mid-sentence. He touched his forehead, winced.

“Sir,” Theo said quietly, “sit down.”

“I’m standing,” Stanley insisted.

“Yes,” said Theo, “and I’m telling you to sit down.”

Carver had never heard Theo use that tone with the sheriff—somewhere between a friend and a stubborn mother.

Stanley tried to argue…but he swayed again.

Carver leapt forward with Theo; together they guided him into a chair. He sank heavily, eyes half-closed.

Lorraine whispered, “Oh no. Oh no no no. This is exactly how Sheriff Daniels looked before—”

“Lorraine,” Theo barked.

But even Stanley managed a weak chuckle. “I’m not dying, Judge.”

“Are you sure?” she squeaked.

“Yes.”

Carver frowned. Something wasn’t right—not just physically. There was…a heaviness around him. A pressure in the air, like humidity rolling in before a storm.

Lorraine felt it too; her hands kept twitching toward her rosary necklace.

Stanley breathed out slowly. “It’s just fatigue. Didn’t sleep well.”

“You look sick as a dog,” Carver said before he could swallow the phrase.

Lorraine slapped his arm. “Don’t say dog and sheriff curse in the same twenty-four hour period!”

Theo rubbed his temples. “Okay, enough. Sheriff, I’m driving you home. You’re not staying.”

“I have paperwork.”

“We’ll handle it.”

“I have a meeting.”

“It’ll be rescheduled.”

Stanley stared stubbornly. “I will not abandon my—”

Then, like drowning man giving in to tides, his shoulders sagged.

He whispered, “Fine.”

The deputies exchanged glances—relief mixed with dread.

Stanley lived in a small, antique colonial house on a quiet road in Middleton. Windsor, his loyal golden retriever, met them at the door, wagging furiously until he realized his human was unwell. Then he switched from jubilant welcoming committee to hovering nurse.

Carver and Theo helped Stanley to the couch. Lorraine, who had insisted on coming because “no one should face a haunting alone,” stood awkwardly near the entryway clutching a mug of ginger tea.

Stanley tried to wave them away. “You don’t all need to hover.”

“We’re not hovering,” Lorraine said.

He arched an eyebrow.

“…Okay we’re hovering,” she admitted. “But only because if you collapse and die, we won’t have time to call an exorcist.”

“The curse is not real,” Theo said through clenched teeth.

But privately…Carver wasn’t sure.

He took a seat near the coffee table, studying the sheriff.

Stanley’s chest rose and fell unevenly. His eyes fluttered closed. He pressed a hand to his sternum, grimaced.

“Sheriff,” Carver said worriedly, “does it hurt to breathe?”

“No,” he said. Then after a moment: “Maybe. A little.”

“Should we call a doctor?” Lorraine squeaked.

“No doctor,” Stanley muttered. “It’s just stress. I haven’t been sleeping right.”

“Why not?” Theo asked.

Stanley hesitated. “Nightmares.”

Lorraine gasped theatrically.

Carver leaned forward. “What kind of nightmares?”

Stanley shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Sheriff,” Carver said softly, “it might.”

Stanley’s jaw clenched. He looked away. “Stones.”

The room stilled.

He continued, voice barely audible. “I dream of stones. On my chest. On my shoulders. I’m pinned…can’t move. Can’t breathe. Hear someone shouting ‘more weight.’”

Lorraine shrieked. “Nope. No no no no—THAT IS THE CURSE. THAT IS EXACTLY THE CURSE. IT’S BACK. HE’S DREAMING THE CURSE. WE ARE ALL DOOMED.”

“Lorraine!” Theo barked.

But Carver’s blood had gone cold.

Because Stanley’s dreams sounded exactly like historical accounts of Giles Corey’s execution.

And Stanley didn’t read that stuff. He’d always said the Salem Witch Trials were “a tragic chapter of history best left respectfully undisturbed.”

Carver swallowed. “Sheriff…when did the dreams start?”

“Monday night,” Stanley said.

“And when did you start feeling sick?”

“Monday morning.”

“So it all started at the same time?”

Stanley looked unsettled. “Maybe.”

Lorraine clutched her rosary again. “I told you all we should’ve burned sage during the move. But nooooo, everyone said Lorraine, that’s dramatic, Lorraine, that’s superstitious, Lorraine, you can’t light herbs on fire inside a county building—”

“Enough,” Theo snapped.

But even he looked shaken now.

Because Stanley’s breathing had grown shallow again. And that pressure—the heaviness—it thickened, pressing in on their lungs.

Windsor whined softly and pressed his head against the sheriff’s knee.

Stanley petted him with trembling fingers.

They stayed with him for hours.

Stanley drifted in and out of sleep, each time waking with a small gasp. Every time he did, Lorraine yelped, and Theo cursed, and Carver tried not to look terrified.

Around five p.m., the house dimmed as the sun dipped behind trees. Shadows stretched long across the floor.

And then it happened.

A sudden creaking.

A groan—deep, structural, like the bones of the house were shifting under strain.

Theo jumped to his feet. “What was that?”

Lorraine screamed, “THE STONES. THEY’RE BACK.”

Carver stood, scanning the room. “Could be the wind.”

But the windows were still.

Another creak—not from the house.

From above.

From the air, like something invisible settling downward.

Stanley’s chest seized. He gasped sharply, clutching at his sternum. Windsor barked frantically.

Carver rushed forward. “Sheriff!”

Stanley couldn’t answer. His face contorted with pain—someone bearing weight far beyond his body’s limit.

Lorraine panicked. “We need to lift it! Something’s on him! We need to—what do we do? WHAT DO WE DO?”

Theo grabbed Stanley’s shoulders, steadying him, voice fierce. “Breathe, Sheriff. You’re okay. Nothing is on you.”

But something felt very much on him. Carver could almost feel it pressing into the room—oppressive, ancient, sorrow-stained weight.

Carver whispered, “Theo…the air’s heavy.”

Theo hesitated. For the first time he looked unsure.

Stanley’s breaths were shallow, rapid.

Carver grabbed the sheriff’s hand. “Stay with us. You’re not going anywhere. You hear me? We’re here.”

Lorraine knelt and began praying aloud—not delicate whispers now, but full-volume, frantic invocations.

Windsor barked again, tail between his legs.

The air creaked around them.

Then—

A cracking sound.

A heavy picture frame on the wall split down the middle and fell with a crash.

Lorraine shrieked. “THE CURSE! THE CURSE IS BACK!”

Carver held tighter to Stanley. “Sir, focus on my voice. In and out. You’re not alone.”

The sheriff groaned. “It’s too much…too heavy…”

Theo cursed under his breath, fear finally breaking through. “Okay. Okay! Everyone out of the way—we’re calling an ambulance.”

“No!” Stanley rasped. “You can’t—curse will follow—”

“We’re not discussing this,” Theo snapped, reaching for his phone.

But before he could dial—

The heaviness lifted.

Abrupt, like a pressure valve releasing.

Stanley inhaled sharply—full, deep.

Lorraine froze mid-prayer.

Theo stared around the room.

Carver felt the air lighten as though someone had opened all the windows at once.

And then—

A warm breeze drifted through the house, though the windows were closed.

Stanley blinked. Color returned faintly to his cheeks. “What…what happened?”

No one had an answer.

Not yet.

For the first time all day, Stanley seemed lucid. Tired, yes. Drained, absolutely. But the crushing invisible weight was gone.

Carver offered him water, which he drank shakily. Windsor curled at his feet, relieved.

Theo paced the room like a man trying to find rational explanation in a pile of jigsaw pieces.

Lorraine just stared at the fallen picture frame, making the sign of the cross every few seconds.

Finally she said, “I think we should open the windows. Let the bad energy out.”

Theo muttered, “I need a vacation.”

But he opened the windows anyway.

Cool autumn air rolled in. The house felt normal again.

Or as normal as it could after…that.

Carver sat beside Stanley. “Sheriff. Do you feel okay now?”

Stanley exhaled softly. “Better. Lighter. Like someone finally lifted…” He hesitated. “…lifted the stones.”

Lorraine whimpered.

Theo ran a hand over his face. “Sheriff, we need to talk about this. All of this. The nightmares. The symptoms. Whatever…just happened.”

Stanley nodded tiredly. “I know.”

Carver asked gently, “Do you think the curse came back?”

The sheriff didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window at maple leaves shaking in the breeze.

Then he said quietly, “I don’t know what I believe. But I believe something happened today.”

He rubbed his sternum. “And I believe it had something to do with Giles Corey.”

Lorraine gasped so dramatically she nearly toppled a lamp.

Theo glared at her before turning back to the sheriff. “Then how did it stop?”

No one answered.

The autumn wind rustled again—soft, almost thoughtful.

Carver frowned. “Sheriff…what were you thinking right before it stopped?”

Stanley blinked, replaying it. “I…I don’t know. I was hardly conscious.”

“You said it was too heavy,” Lorraine whispered. “Then what?”

He closed his eyes, recalling. “I remember thinking…‘please, no more.’”

Lorraine shook her head violently. “That’s what he said during the Witch Trials—”

“No,” Carver interrupted gently. “Giles Corey said the opposite.”

“Exactly,” Lorraine hissed. “He defied them. He said ‘more weight.’”

Stanley’s eyes snapped open. He looked at Carver sharply.

And Carver understood.

Stanley whispered, “When I said ‘no more’…the weight stopped.”

The implication hung suspended in the room.

Theo swayed slightly. “So…rejecting the words of the curse…”

“…breaks its power,” Carver finished softly.

Lorraine stared at them. “So we’re okay? He’s okay? The curse is…done?”

Stanley leaned back against the couch, utterly exhausted but breathing well. “Maybe,” he said.

Carver placed a steady hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Then we’ll make it stay broken.”

The wind outside eased, as though nodding.

Theo insisted that the sheriff take medical leave for the rest of the week. Lorraine insisted on dropping off homemade soup that evening. Carver insisted on driving back later with Windsor’s favorite treats “for emotional support.”

Stanley allowed all of it, too tired to protest.

When the deputies finally left—after checking the locks, the windows, and for supernatural stone piles in every corner—the house grew quiet.

Stanley sat alone on the couch, Windsor curled beside him.

He touched the cracked picture frame on the floor.

Then he whispered into the empty room, “Whoever you are…whatever you were…thank you for stopping.”

He didn’t know if Giles Corey’s spirit had been punishing him or warning him. He didn’t know whether the heaviness had been curse, stress, supernatural echo, or all three braided together.

But he knew this:

Salem’s history was full of weight.

Too many burdens never lifted.

Maybe today, finally, one had been.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in days…he slept peacefully.

The next morning, the department entered the building with trepidation—and found the sheriff sitting in the lounge, sipping tea, looking almost normal.

Lorraine gasped. “You’re alive!”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Of course he’s alive.”

Carver grinned. “Feeling better, sir?”

Stanley nodded. “Much. And…and thank you. For staying. For believing me. For everything.”

Lorraine sniffled. “Don’t thank us. Just don’t ever—ever—scare us like that again.”

“No promises,” he said lightly.

Carver studied him. The sheriff still looked a little worn, a touch too pale. But the weight was gone—the air around him as clear as morning frost.

Lorraine leaned close and whispered, “Sheriff…if anything like that ever happens again…we are moving this office to Alaska. I don’t care what the budget committee says.”

Stanley chuckled. “Duly noted.”

Theo clapped his hands. “All right. Enough dramatics. Back to work. But Sheriff—you’re on desk duty today, or I swear I will hide your cruiser keys.”

Stanley raised his hands. “Fine. Fine.”

Carver nodded approvingly. “Good. We need you healthy.”

Lorraine added, “Because if you drop dead, not only do we have to deal with a curse—we have to break in a new sheriff. And no offense, sir, but we’d rather arm-wrestle a demon.”

Stanley smiled—one of those rare, warm smiles that reached his eyes. “Well, for your sake, I’ll do my best to stick around.”

Carver felt weight lift from his chest now—the heavy fear of nearly losing the man who held their department together.

Lorraine clapped once. “Group pact: no more curses. Ever.”

Theo sighed. “Agreed.”

Stanley chuckled again. “Sounds reasonable.”

They dispersed. Paperwork resumed. Phones rang. Coffee brewed.

Life returned to normal.

But every so often, Carver caught the sheriff tracing a hand over his chest thoughtfully—remembering.

Not afraid.

Just aware.

And grateful.

Because the past no longer pressed on him.

Because for the first time, Giles Corey’s final words had met an answer.

And the answer set the sheriff free.