How to Hang a Witch (6 page)

T
he floorboards creak under my feet in the long hallway that leads to the library. A painting of a particularly surly-looking old man with a large dog catches my eye and I stop short. My dad told me about this painting.

“Tell me again how you met Mom,” I said as I slid under my covers.

My dad sat on the side of my bed and tucked in the blankets around my feet. “I was fifteen at the time, six years older than you are now. And I was the most handsome thing you'd ever seen.”

I giggled. I'd seen pictures of my dad at fifteen, and he was skinny, with hair that stuck off his head in patches like a half-bald porcupine.

“Your mom was delivering some books to your gram. Your mom's family owned the local bookshop. And I was walking down the hallway toward her. She stepped to her right to let me pass, but I stepped the same way at the same time. We went back and forth like this five or six times. I admit that in the end I was doing it on purpose just to look at her a little longer.” He winked at me.

“Your mom demanded that I stop moving altogether, and when I did, she pushed me with both hands into the wall. I knew in that moment that I loved her, with her wild curly hair. Above me, my great-grandfather's painting scowled down disapprovingly. I couldn't help but grin at the cranky old man and his basset hound.”

I sigh and walk into the library, toward the fireplace. There is so much about my family I don't know. I don't even really know the story of how my mom died. My dad always said that she died happier than he'd ever seen her because I was in her arms. That for a few short minutes after I was born, we were the perfect family. Then he would shut himself in his office for the rest of the night.

I pull the hook, flick on the lantern, and push the secret door closed behind me. The bricks and old wooden beams light up. I go to the spiral staircase and take the steps slowly, enjoying the thrill of this hidden place. I wonder if my dad ever knew about this passageway or if it was something my grandmother kept to herself.

I smile at the little room filled with books and make my way to my grandmother's desk, strewn with papers that she must have expected to return to. I set down the lantern and situate myself. I open the journal and read.

I received a letter from Charles today containing pictures of my darling Samantha. I simply cannot bear this wall he constructed between us. He won't even let me visit New York. I understand why Charles fears this family. He fears the curse, even though his stubbornness prevents him from saying so.

I am more determined than ever these days to solve this mystery. Mable is a great help and a dear comfort. Although, I'm not sure I haven't gained a few pounds from her cooking.

My breath catches on the word “curse,” and my hand shakes as I turn the page.

I spoke with some of the descendants of the accused witches and asked them about their death records. It's obvious they think I'm mental. But to be frank, I'm too busy to care. After a few hours of nonsense conversations, I went directly to town hall and compiled a list of deaths of Witch Trials descendants.

I will spend my day tomorrow mapping them out, but I can already tell there is a pattern. Every hundred years or so, for unknown reasons, members of those families and my own seem to die within a very short time period. I don't know the cause yet, but I must break this curse before it gets to my Charles or my Samantha. Period.

If she wanted to know me, why did Dad keep us separated? It's not like him. There are two possibilities. One, my grandmother was nuts. Or two, my grandmother was right, and my family is literally cursed. In which case, my dad's illness is probably connected. Maybe he really is sick because of me. A dull ache pounds in my chest. I put pressure over my heart with my hand to keep the ache from spreading.
Please, no.

There's a faint shuffling noise downstairs. Vivian must be home. I snap the journal closed and pick up the lantern. Quietly, I make my way down the twisty staircase and listen at the door. I open it, leaving just enough room for my left eye to peer through. Nothing. I yank the door open, slip through, and close it behind me in one fluid motion. My heart drums in my ears.

I tiptoe through the library and my foot catches on a book. I stumble forward and put my hand out before my face connects with the wall.
Where the hell did that come from?
Before I toss it on the shelf, I catch the title—
The Right Time to Leave.
I stiffen, remembering what the dark-haired guy said about leaving Salem. I grip the book and open the door.

“Vivian!” I yell, but there's no response.

I look both ways down the hall. “I know I locked the doors,” I tell myself. It's a habit every New Yorker's neurotic about. I walk to the front foyer and scan the room.

“Vivian!” I yell.

Still holding the book, I bolt upstairs. I reach my room in seconds and lock the door behind me. How would anyone know I was in the library? Was someone watching me?

Glass shatters, and I jump backward, hitting the locked door with a thud. A pane of my bedroom window lies in shards on my floor. For a few seconds, I don't move. I focus on a pinkie-sized black rock nearly camouflaged against the dark floorboards.

My right hand curls into a fist.
I will
not
be harassed in my own house!
I lunge forward and grab the rock. It's cold and smooth. I turn it over in my palm. Scratched into one side is the word DIE.

The front door slams, and I freeze.

“Sam!” Vivian's voice echoes in the foyer. I release my breath.

“Vivian!” I yell back and swing open my door. “Come up here! Someone just threw a rock through my window!”

Her heels are muffled by the rug on the stairs but click in a hurried pace once she reaches the wooden floorboards of the hallway.

She studies the broken window and then the glass. “Outrageous,” she says angrily.

“Here.” I hand her the rock.

The muscles around her eyes tighten. “What's this about, Sam?”

I pause, not sure how to begin. “Today in school, this guy said ‘You'll leave Salem.' Almost like a threat. And then, I find this book in the doorway of the library.” I hold out the book. “I was creeped out, so I came up here. I wasn't in the room for more than a minute before this rock came crashing through.”

“You're sure this book wasn't already there? That whole room's bursting with books.”

“Positive.”

“I'm going to check all the windows and doors,” she says, and exits.

“I'm fine. Thanks for asking,” I say to myself, and peer through the shattered glass to the dark yard below.

“N
ineteen people and two dogs were hanged, one person was pressed to death, and, at the very least, four people died in prison.” Mr. Wardwell sits on the edge of his desk scanning our faces. “These are the deaths directly associated with the Salem Witch Trials. But, as many of you know, the repercussions had a far greater reach. Many families suffered for generations, lost their property, went into debt from their stay in jail, and were emotionally shattered.

“I ask this question every year to my students, and I will ask you. What was the cause of the Salem Witch Trials? Were the factors complex and entangled? Or was there one major factor that drove them forward? Was it politics, religion, culture, or just plain hysteria? As we navigate these essays you're writing, and as we prepare for the reenactment, we'll continue to examine these questions. Any preliminary answers are welcome.”

Lizzie raises her manicured hand, sporting a diamond-studded skull ring.

Mr. Wardwell nods. “Lizzie.”

“Cotton Mather,” she replies. “The main cause was Cotton Mather.”

Jaxon rolls his eyes. I appreciate that he knows how ridiculous she is.

“He was an expert in witchcraft,” she says, “which he studied for many years prior to the Salem Witch Trials, waiting for his opportunity to discover some. Then he consulted on a witchcraft case in Boston and arrogantly wrote a book about it. This book became a bestseller and provided the map for what happened three years later in Salem.” She pauses, then adds, “Some people don't know when to quit. And their actions get people killed.”

Talk about arrogance.
I know she had something to do with that rock.

“Well-thought-out answer, Lizzie,” says Mr. Wardwell.

Lizzie turns toward me, wearing a dangerous look. I stare back at her, not willing to concede that I'm bothered. The hair on my arms stands up, and she raises an eyebrow before she turns away.

“Great.” Mr. Wardwell looks around the room. “Any other theories?” The class is silent. No one dares answer after Lizzie. “If not, we'll take five minutes to discuss with your partners.”

There's a two-second pause, and then everyone erupts into chatter.

“Sam—” Jaxon starts in a consoling tone.

“It's fine, Jaxon, really. Let's not talk about it.”

“I forgot….You're a tough city girl.”

I smile. “Would you expect anything else?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, by the way, I found the house, or at least the general location,” I say.

“What house?”

“The one my grandmother said you can see the hanging site from. I read up on it at the public library.”

Jaxon's face flickers in recognition when I say “library.” So, the whole world does know. At least he has the decency not to bring it up.

“Wanna go check out my map after school today?” I continue.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

I laugh.

“I'll take that as a yes,” he says. The bell rings.

We grab our bags and head for the door.

“Meet you after classes,” I say.

“Yeah, pick me up at my locker. I like red roses and European chocolates. None of the cheap stuff.”

I shake my head as we part ways.

People recoil from me as I navigate the hallway. Not the freshmen so much—they don't know jack about social dynamics. But all the upperclassmen avoid me. I can distinctly hear the word “cursed” being whispered. The Descendants either know how I was made fun of with that word at my old school, which means they're really putting effort into making my life difficult, or it's a coincidence, which is creepy in its own way. I honestly don't know which scenario is worse.

I round the corner toward chemistry and collide with Lizzie's back while she's talking to Susannah. Lizzie turns and stares.

People around us notice. Susannah fidgets with her hands and avoids looking at me.

“This is where you say you're sorry, hope like hell I forgive you, and walk away,” Lizzie says slowly and deliberately, like I'm an idiot.

My nails press into my palms. “Or this is where
you
apologize for throwing a goddamn rock through my window. Then you can walk away and go play with your little dolls.”

Lizzie's different-colored eyes narrow and she takes a step toward me. She smells like bonfire and mint gum. Susannah grabs Lizzie's hand, but she shakes Susannah off.

“You'll regret every word of that,” Lizzie says just as the dark-haired guy walks past us.

“And you!” I yell at him. Lizzie looks confused as I redirect the conversation. The guy pauses for a second to give me a disapproving glare, and keeps going like I've offended his sensibilities.

This only frustrates me more, and I make a fast attempt to grab his arm. My fingers make contact with his black shirt, but he pulls away and I lose my hold. I take a step forward, trying to recover my footing, but it only gets worse. I fall toward the metal lockers.

I put my hand out, but it's too late; my clumsiness is in full swing. My forehead collides with a lock, creating a reverberating bang. The hallway blurs momentarily and I slide to the floor. Everyone turns to watch. I try to get up, but there's a sharp pain radiating from my forehead and I'm super dizzy.

Lizzie stands over me, amused. Around me, people whisper that Lizzie used a spell on me, that she cursed me. I want to scream at them, but my head pounds.

“Okay, back up.” Principal Brennan pushes through the crowd. “What happened here?”

“She threw herself into the lockers,” Lizzie says, and the whispers continue.

“I tripped.” I wince.

“Everyone, disperse. Now!” says Principal Brennan. “Let's get you to the nurse. Can you stand?”

“I think so,” I say, but when blood drips onto my hand, I faint.

I
pull one of my legs out from under the down comforter and readjust the pillow under my head. The sun sets through my taped-up window. I grab the water on my bedside table and take another Advil just in case my head decides to pound again. On the whole, though, my head is not my problem. My overwhelming sense of embarrassment is.

Vivian pops her head inside my bedroom door. “Jaxon and his mother dropped by. I told them you were resting.” I never asked her if she yelled at Mrs. Meriwether about those pastries, but I'm not sure I want to know.

“Oh, okay.” I attempt a smile. “You know, Mrs. Meriwether is actually a nice person. You might like her.”

Vivian wrinkles her nose. “I'm going out to pick up some food. What would you like?”

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

She nods. “I'll be back soon.”

I close my eyes as she leaves. Between this and that weird locked door in Salem Library, it's like I went out of my way to make Lizzie look powerful. I'm sure the rumors are flying by now.

A smooth, cold hand covers my mouth and pushes down on my lips. My eyes snap open. The guy with the dark hair sits on my bed, his black waves falling onto his cheeks as he leans over me. His fingers increase their pressure as I struggle. I scream, but only a muffled moan escapes his fingers.

“Stop,” he says flatly, as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

I pull at his hand, but he's too strong. He looks at me with such intensity that goose bumps sprint along my skin.

“I am not going to hurt you.”

That's what every psycho says right before he eats you!
I swipe at him with my right hand, but he catches it midair. I reach toward his face with my left hand. He blocks with his elbow.
I'm trapped!

“I said I am not going to hurt you.” He has a slight British accent, and the formality of it seems out of place. “I will release your mouth if you do not scream. But if you continue to fight, I will continue to hold you down.”

I lock eyes with him and stop pushing. Anything is better than being held down. I nod.
Please let Vivian still be here.
She would definitely kick the crap out of this guy for me. She once tripped a businessman crossing the street just for looking at me inappropriately. The dark-haired guy assesses me for a few seconds and then pulls his hand off my mouth.

I push myself up and back so fast that I slam into my headboard. Even so, there is only one foot of space between us. I absolutely do regret saying those things to Lizzie. I had no idea she would go so far as to send this guy to my house. I consider screaming, but from this close distance, he could do some real damage before anyone would hear. I look at my door.

“It is locked,” he says.

I turn to the window. The sun hangs low in the sky, and there isn't much light left.

He follows my gaze. “She is gone.”

My heart sinks. I didn't hear her engine start.

He examines the bandage on my forehead. “You are injured.”

“Yes.” The word sticks in my mouth.

He frowns.

“What do you want?” My voice has become a whisper, which only makes me angry. I should be punching him and fighting instead of whispering questions at him.

“I want you to know that I regret what happened today.”

Wait, what?
I search his face for some hidden meaning and find none.

“But you had no right to open those letters.” There's a calmness about him that's unnerving.

I can't be hearing this correctly. “The letters in my armoire?”

“It is rude to read someone else's private correspondence.”

“Rude?” My brain fights through the fog of fear. “Rude!” I say a little louder. “You broke into my room. You have no right to talk about rude.” I shut my mouth tightly, aware of his proximity and my hair-trigger temper. His dark gray eyes don't react.

“I can see your manners do not improve upon closer inspection.”

“Are you insulting me?”

“And you are not very clever.”

It takes everything in my power not to push him off my bed. “Listen, creep, I do
not
have to defend myself to you.
You
have to defend yourself to
me
! Now you better explain why you broke in.”

“I have already explained.”

“If you wanted those letters, why didn't you knock on the door and ask for them?”

“Because you were reading them.”

“Tough! They were in my room.” I fail to match his calm. “And what? You followed me, watched me through windows?”

“I have been watching you since you arrived in Salem.”

This is worse than I thought.
He's crazy.
I look at the door again and bite my lip.

“I told you it was locked.”

“Just tell me what you want and go away.”

He sighs. “I used to live in this house. And I do not trust you.”

His explanation doesn't make me feel better. “So you stalked me? You're a lunatic!” Is this where Lizzie's getting her information?

His gray eyes narrow. “Then you should leave Salem before I do something crazy.”

For a second I wonder if I've pushed him too far. “Get out of my room.”

“No.”

“Then I hope you like jail,” I say with force. He almost laughs. I almost punch him. “That book in my library—that was you, wasn't it?”

He nods.

“Why? Because I'm a Mather?”

“That is one piece of it, yes.”

“What's the rest?”

“You seem to enjoy repetition in conversation. Once again, I did not want you reading those letters.”

He's the most infuriating person I've ever talked to. “So they're yours?”

“More than yours.”

“Those letters are really old. They can't be yours.” I'm positive they belong to the Abigail in the painting downstairs.

He pauses. “They belonged to my sister.” There is a slight waver in his voice.

“Then, your sister shouldn't have left them here!”

“She is dead.” He sounds so sad that for a moment, I not only feel bad about yelling at him, I want to reach out and comfort him.

I shake it off. “Well, they were in my armoire.”

“They do not belong to you. And neither does the armoire, for that matter,” he says with finality.

“This is my grandmother's house. Everything in it belongs to my family.”

“Not necessarily.”

Is there some situation where my grandmother could have his sister's furniture? “Why would anyone leave their furniture in someone else's house?”

“Because they could not help it.”

“Why wouldn't someone be able to help it?”

“Death is like that.”

I examine his face, with its proud expression. “Did your sister know my grandmother?”

“I should not think so.”

“When was she here?”

“For the last time, on the day she died in 1692.” There is no hint of sarcasm in his delivery.

I take a hard look at him. He wears all black like before, black dress pants, black dress shoes, and a thin black cashmere sweater. The clothes match his formal accent. His hair hangs in waves around his face, and he smells of freshly washed linen. I shake my head, annoyed at myself for even considering believing that he's telling the truth.

“Seriously, what is this? Either you're crazy or you're messing with me. And besides, you touched me. You held my mouth down. You can't be a ghost. This must be Lizzie's idea of a sick joke.”

“I can see it was a mistake to come here.” He stands and walks toward my door.

I swing my legs out of bed and land on the soft white rug. “Don't think…” Black spots form in my vision. I shouldn't have gotten up so fast. I stumble.

“Samantha?”

I reach out for my bedpost, but he grabs my arm and steadies me. “Lie back down. You are ill.”

“Don't tell me what to do.” I scowl at him and his accent as he helps lower me into the bed. “I'm calling the police.”

“I would not suggest it.” He walks to my door but does not reach for the lock or the doorknob. He just keeps going and disappears right through the wood.