Cursed be the Wicked (4 page)

The letter.

Despite my best efforts not to, I find myself picking it up and opening it to read, once again.

The funeral is in almost two weeks. I’m sure whoever is in charge of it is waiting in order to allow as much fanfare to accumulate as possible. If I focus enough, I can be out of here by two weeks out, if not sooner. I’m sure of it.

I pull another mini rum out and swig it as memories of my mother’s trial fade into my thoughts.
The Salem Witch Trial,
the papers had called it during their so called unbiased coverage.

Bits and pieces of my life prior to that trial start coming through like an old television with bad reception. I never had much luck remembering much of the few years just before Dad died but tonight, I am.

My mother’s high pitched screams and my father’s tired expression. I can hear the two of them like they’re right here in the room with me and I have to close my eyes just to shut them out.

I open them up and look down to see my hands shaking. That’s when I decide I need another drink.

I have one last bottle and it does its job but just as I’m getting fuzzy enough to stop thinking about my family, I start thinking about Betsy, and how that name just does not do her justice.

I grin, thinking about her lips when they twist up because she can’t quite think of the exact right thing to say. And the way she was flailing her arms around when I left her earlier, frustrated about something.

About me, probably.

Then I think about our phone conversation and know I should apologize. Right now, that’s a bad idea, however. Apologies tend to come out all wrong when I’m buzzed. So instead, I adjust myself into a more comfortable position and tuck a pillow underneath my head.

It’s soft. Comfortable.

As my eyes close, I let out a long, slow breath of air and allow the day to fade to black, feeling ever so grateful that day one of this trip is over.

Chapter 3

Expo

I’m awake. Not only because of the dull ache inside my head, but because the sun is burning a hole in the side of my face.

I groan and roll over. I peek over at the clock radio sitting next to the bed.

I groan some more.

Drinking obviously was not a good idea but I look on the bright side, here. At least I got some uninterrupted sleep.

The bad news of course, is that I’m already behind for the day, so I force myself up and into the shower. I also curse myself for not bringing a bottle of aspirin with me on this trip.

I blame Bill. He rushed me.

Once I’m dressed and packed, I make my way downstairs to the lobby and think of the front desk clerk again.

I still owe her an apology, I suppose, but I don’t see her lingering around anywhere. Although part of me feels a little relieved I won’t have to confront her after our phone war from last night, another part of me is slightly disappointed.

I mean, hell, at least she was interesting.

I catch myself grinning as I think about her and then decide to leave a note, hoping that’s better than nothing.

I find the daytime front desk clerk—who’s not nearly as engaging as her predecessor—and wait for her to finish up a phone call before getting down to business.

“Do you think I could leave a note for someone who works here?”

I check my bag for a pen and paper with one eye shut tight in my attempt to make the pain on that side of my head go away.

I know I put some in here, Dammit.

“And could I get some aspirin or something?”

When I realize she’s not responding, I stop searching and look down at her.

“I’m sorry,” she smiles, then leans in closer. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Of course
she
recognizes me.

I can’t do this again, so instead of letting myself get sucked into another possible battle of wills, I simply tell her, “No.”

“Are you sure? Because I have this crazy feeling that I do.” She’s still smiling like a giddy school girl and I’m still not amused. I definitely don’t have time for this.

“Do you have aspirin or not?” I ask with a sharp edge. Then I check her badge and add, “Alyssa?”

I know she’s taken the hint when her demeanor changes dramatically.

“Absolutely sir,” she says with a polite tone. Too polite, really. I’m kind of wishing more people in the service industry were like Betsy. If they were, maybe we’d all be kept in check a little more often.

New front desk clerk goes to get me some magic meds and I’m still looking for that damn pen and paper.

“Here you are, sir,” she tells me, offering the pain relief. “What was the name of the person you wanted to leave a note for again? I’ll be sure to get it to her.”

I tell her and she gleefully informs me that, “Betsy’s here right now, let me get her for you.”

As she darts off to find her co-worker, I find it odd because if Betsy is still at work that means she’s working a double shift. I’ve been around hotels enough to know she’s going to be tired and cranky and not in any kind of a mood to accept my apology.

I’m still going over it, in my head, how this conversation should start when new front desk clerk returns with someone beside her.

Early twenties, blonde hair, Curls.

Definitely not my Betsy.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her as they approach me. “This isn’t the woman I was talking about. Is there another Betsy perhaps?”

Betsy, who’s now the one sporting an odd look in my direction, with her eyes wide and her lip between her teeth, puts her hands behind her back and starts shifting from foot to foot, nervously.

“No,” the clerk says, reassuring me. “This is our only Betsy, sir.” Then she asks, expectantly, “Was something wrong?”

She seems as though this is the normal reason people might ask to see Betsy, but with a knit brow, I shake my head toward the girl.

“No,” I tell her without thinking it through too much. “Nothing, I just wanted to thank her for being so helpful last night.”

The clerk eyes Betsy carefully. “
This
Betsy?”

“That’s right,” I tell her, forming a theory inside my mind about what must have been going on. Then I cock an eyebrow at the woman. “She was extremely pleasant and attentive.”

The woman gives Betsy one last look of disbelief and then nods to me politely.

“Yes, well, we always value guests who appreciate our staff.”

She smiles and then excuses herself, leaving me all alone with the real Betsy. My eyebrow rises even further as I push my bag over my shoulder and cross my arms, waiting for an explanation. I get nothing from this girl, so I start grilling her.

“So who was she?”

“Who was who, sir?” she replies innocently.

HA
. Like I don’t know her game.

“The girl that covered for you last night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tells me with that unmistakable no-eye-contact thing people do when they are most assuredly lying.

Gotcha Betsy.

“Sure ya do. Cute, dark hair that looks like it’s hasn’t been tamed in about a year, eyes that pierce your soul and hips that . . .” I make a gesture with my hands to try and replicate the curves she had, then catch myself and tuck my hands away.

I clear my throat.
Not important.

“Come on, I know she borrowed your name tag. Does she work here?”

Betsy eyes the front desk clerk, who’s now paying very close attention to our conversation and then she gives me one last decisive glance before saying, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. If someone had my name tag on,” she shrugs, “they must have lost theirs or something and just grabbed whichever one they could find.”

The real Betsy spins and hurries down a hallway before disappearing behind a door before I can tell her she’s completely full of B.S. I let it go, but wonder what all the covert operation act was all about.

Back at the front desk, I check out. When that’s taken care of, I look around one more time,
just in case,
to see if my Betsy shows her face. When she doesn’t, I face the fact that nothing else is keeping me here. So I head to Salem.

I get into the heart of the city and it’s just as I remember it.

I know there are supposedly legitimate paranormal and or metaphysical businesses throughout the city but I’ve been a skeptic for a long time.

As I take a look around, I see all the reasons I’m not a believer.

The sexy palm readers complete with mysterious garb, the witches that are “dedicated” to giving both young girls and old hope for true love with their potions and spells and, of course, the psychics who can communicate with loved ones from “beyond”.

As I lock up the rental car, I think of my mother, who
wholeheartedly
believed in all of it. She practiced it to the point of obsession. Not only that, but it gave her a reputation, caused her to go mad and even gave her an excuse to kill.

In her mind, anyway.

I cross the street, my heart racing. My jaw locks when I think about what she did.

I wonder why I agreed to write this article in the first place.

Because your boss told you to, dumbass.

After I dodge and weave my way through traffic, I land safely on the other side of the road. I take a moment to regain my composure and when I look up at the sky to see if the sun is planning on coming out at all today, I see a billboard.

The flashing neon sign announces the Witches Convention that’s going on. I might be inclined to laugh at the irony of a sign giving me a sign.

If I believed in signs, that is.

I find out where it’s being held which, coincidentally, is the same hotel I’m supposed to stay at while I’m here. I wonder only momentarily if Bill knew that before he had his assistant book my travel. I’m sure he did. Bill doesn’t miss a trick.

I head over to the Hawthorne and see if I can still get in on a presentation or two.

Most speeches are already over, I find out, but there is one presentation left that’s already started.
Witchcraft through the ages.

“I’ll take one,” I tell the coordinator. He gladly takes my money, gives me a blank name badge and directs me where to go.

“You’re down that hallway over there.” He points. “Room B.”

I thank him and make several failed attempts to pin the name badge onto the strap of my bag. When I finally succeed, I wander the hallways until I find the conference room where the lecture is already going on.

I push through the doors and when it slams behind me, several rows turn to watch me find a place to sit. When I do, they go back to their regular scheduled programming and I start rummaging through my laptop bag for the portable recorder I carry with me on these trips. There’s an elderly woman up on stage who’s getting into the logistics of the witch trials of the sixteen-hundreds. I’ve heard these stories a million times back in my school days so I am only listening half-heartedly as I get myself situated. What I
am
paying attention to is her voice. Although it’s soft and confident while she talks to the audience, I can’t help but wonder about the woman behind the words. And whether she’s just another nutcase like my mother.

I speak sarcastically into the digital recorder. “Note, speaker seems intelligent. At least she
sounds
like she knows what she’s talking about, but—”

A throaty gurgle of disgust sounds from somewhere nearby.

I ignore it and focus my attention on the speaker as she starts in about witches’ inherent, selfless need to help others by selling potions.

I snort. “Please. If they really wanted to help people
selflessly
,” I think out loud, to myself and the recorder. “why do they charge money?”

“Oh my god, would you shut up?” a woman sitting next to me asks with venom in her words and I’m taken aback, because no one was sitting next to me when I arrived.

I look over, preparing some sarcastic retaliation, but anything I was getting ready to say leaves me when I realize, it’s her.

“It’s you.”

The woman from the front desk of the B&B. The fake Betsy. She’s right there, plain as day and still disheveled.

A smile crosses my lips involuntarily.

“Yeah,” she announces, with her very own brand of contempt, apparently not recognizing me at all.

I’m not sure whether I’m glad about that or not.

“It’s me,” she continues, “And if you don’t mind, I’m trying to listen to the lecture.”

“No,” I say, still grinning over at her like a complete idiot and still finding the need for her to recognize me. “It’s me.” I shift and put my things down to turn for her to see me full on. “From last night? At the Bed and Breakfast?”

Her facial expression doesn’t change one iota. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

“I was looking for you this morning.”

Her eyebrow lifts, her arms cross, and I’m feeling the urge to grin even wider.

Until she answers me.

“Why, so you could scream at me some more?”

“No,” I tell her. “Actually, I was
hoping
to apologize for last night, but . . .” I hesitate. I’m not exactly saying it like I’d planned to but in my defense, she kinda has this way of getting me all tongue tied.

“Hoping to?” she asks. “You were
hoping
to apologize?” She feigns flattery. “I am just so,
thankful
that you were
hoping
to apologize. Oh my, really, I just . . .”

She shakes her head as she trails off, and,
ouch
.

I hold my hand up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it. I apologize,” I tell her, quietly and leave it at that. I turn my focus back to the task at hand, but find myself mumbling an explanation.

“I don’t even know what got into me, I’m just,” I breathe in and let it out, “having a bad week.”

“Bad week,” she mocks me under her breath. Then she slouches back into her chair. I’m thinking this conversation is over until I hear her ranting in angry undertones, “Did you know the number of public apologies that famous people make have tripled since nineteen-eighty? I don’t even wanna think about the number of private ones that aren’t being counted.”

I peek over at her, reluctant to say anything but curious as to where she’s going with this.

She catches me staring, and then whisper yells at me.

“Do you know how many of those apologies are probably genuine, Mr. Stone?”

It’s a good question. I hadn’t really thought about it. Before I can answer, she does it for me.

“Probably about one percent. And that’s being generous, in my opinion.”

“Look, lady, I just—”

People from the audience let out dramatic shushes and give us dirty looks before returning their attentions back to the speaker. A few minutes later, my row companion finishes her thought.

“Apologies are a dime a dozen. I don’t need an apology. What I need is sincerity.”

She settles down after that and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to apologize again or just shut up.