How to Hang a Witch

by Adriana Mather

  Alice takes a breath. “And what if you’re wrong?”

  “Then I’ll take responsibility for that.”

  “Lizzie won’t forgive you,” Alice says.

  Susannah nods. “I know.”

  Elijah paces next to me.

  “Fine,” Alice says, and gestures toward Susannah.

  “Alice reads bones the same way some people read tarot cards,” Susannah says, as though that is even a quasi-normal thing. “And about four months ago, she got a reading that something really bad was about to happen.”

  “My dad went into a coma four months ago,” I say before I have a chance to think about it.

  Alice and Susannah exchange a look. “The readings Alice did after that showed sadness and loss and the same warning that something bad was coming.”

  Mary hugs her knees a little tighter. “Alice’s readings are always right.”

  Alice nods. “Then you showed up. And every reading since then has just been you.”

  “Wait, what do you mean, just been me?” My practical self is struggling with this. Bones and spells and ghosts. I want my simple reality back.

  “Just your name,” Alice says. “Over and over.”

  Their strong reactions to me the first day of school don’t seem so weird anymore.

  “Lizzie and I think it means you are the bad thing that was coming, but Susannah isn’t convinced.”

  “Is that why Lizzie’s been stalking me?”

  “Lizzie’s been affected strongly by this awful chain of events,” Susannah says. “And she blames you. If she knew we were talking to you openly, she might do something.”

  I would ask how Lizzie was affected, but I know Alice would shut the conversation down. “Do what?”

  “A spell,” Mary says.

  Elijah stiffens beside me.

  “You have to understand that strange things have been happening all over town,” Susannah says before Mary can continue. “It’s not just the descendant deaths. Alice’s uncle owns a coffee shop. And when he opened up yesterday, each table had a noose on it. There were no signs of a break-in, just nooses.”

  “Was it The Brew?” I ask.

  “You shouldn’t know about this,” Alice says. “Only a few people were told.”

  They all stare at me, even Elijah. “I went there the other day and my latte had a coffee stain on it that looked exactly like a noose. I thought maybe the girl that worked there was messing with me.” I’m starting to regret my little outburst.

  “See, even when we have information, you have it right after us. The blurred faces, Cotton, the pattern of deaths,” Susannah says.

  They all wait.

  I look at Elijah. “Just leave my personal details out of it,” he says. He doesn’t seem bothered, just resolute.

  “I…I see spirits. Well, one, at least.” No one reacts, and I wonder if they heard me.

  “I knew it,” Susannah says.

  “You’re a witch,” says Mary.

  “I’m not a witch.”

  “And this ghost is here now?” Alice seems skeptical.

  “Yes.”

  “Prove it.”

  “No.” I don’t have to look at Elijah to know he’s not going to perform some trick.

  Alice raises an eyebrow.

  Mary scans the trees nervously for Elijah. “Can we please go? I need to get home.”

  Alice stands in answer and Mary shoots up like she can’t get out fast enough. There are still so many questions I need to ask them. And some part of me worries that I am the cause of these awful things. Maybe the curse is part of me?

  We blow out the candles and pack everything into Mary’s and Susannah’s bags. The woods become even darker.

  Alice turns to me. “If you’re lying to us about that ghost and I find out you were somehow involved in these deaths, you won’t like the consequences.”

  “I have just as much to lose as you do if we don’t figure this out.” I can tell she accepts this, because she turns around and walks into the trees without another word.

  “Alice,” I say, and she stops, her blond head the most visible thing in the blackness. “The vision we just had. What did Alice Parker say when that girl accused her of witchcraft?” Mary said they knew these stories, but I don’t. And whether they’re messing with me or not, those women were trying to tell us something.

  Alice turns. “In response to the accusations, she said, ‘I wish God would open the earth and swallow me up presently, if one word of this is true.’ ”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  * * *

  Angry, Not Sad

  “Get in here.” Vivian’s words are barbed.

  I read the grandfather clock in the foyer before I enter the living room. It’s 9:27. I know I missed her dinner, but I can barely look at her right now without wanting to cry and scream all at once.

  “Apologize and I’ll consider not grounding you.”

  I should just do it and walk away. “No.” You apologize. You don’t care about my father…about our family.

  She puts her glass of wine down and stands. “You’re not sorry at all, are you?”

  “Samantha, leave her,” Elijah says, standing next to a cluster of empty wine bottles.

  “Maybe you should be worrying about visiting my dad instead of running around town shopping all the time and getting drunk.”

  Her eyes harden. I know that look. We’ve hit the point of no return. “You seem awfully social yourself for someone who says she only wants to be by her father’s side.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been doing.”

  “Did I upset you, mon chou?” Vivian taunts, using the pet name my dad called me when I was a little girl. It means “my little cream puff.”

  My fingers curl into my palms. “Screw you.”

  Vivian’s hand whips across my cheek so hard and so fast that everything goes black for a second. I raise my chin and stare at her. I don’t massage my face, even though it hurts like hell. I want to tell her I found the insurance summary and call her every name I can think of, but before I can open my mouth her wineglass shatters on the floor.

  Vivian jolts. “You’re grounded.” She shifts her attention to the broken glass.

  Elijah, who I’m pretty sure was the cause of it, gently touches my arm. “Do not give her the satisfaction of seeing you upset.”

  I nod and run to my room with Elijah by my side. My whole body trembles. I slam my door and slide the lock into place. I stand there fuming. Elijah lifts my chin. He brushes a tear away with his cold thumb.

  “I’m angry, not sad,” I say with a voice that’s sad and not angry.

  “I need no explanation.”

  I’m grateful for that. I don’t want to talk about how I feel. What I want is my dad back.

  “I will bring you ice.” He blinks out of the room.

  “Don’t cry,” I say to myself, and dab my eyes with the sleeves of my black hoodie. I take a few deep breaths, and Elijah blinks in with a small ice pack. I take it from him. “Thanks.”

  He nods. “May I bring you some tea?”

  The formality of his question catches me by surprise. “Actually, yeah. I’d really like some tea. Will you have some with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  He blinks out, and I take my boots off. I pace with my ice pack, trying to clear Vivian from my thoughts and decide what to do next. What does it mean that Cotton’s face blurred with mine? I don’t like the idea that I’m connected to him. And if I am, does it mean he’s trapped here like Elijah…or worse, he’s trapped inside of me?

  Elijah blinks in with a large silver tray full of tea. A wicker basket hangs from his arm, and a fluffy rug is over his shoulder. For the first time ever, he looks uncertain. “Will you hold this tray a moment, Samantha?” I swear he’d be blushing if he had blood.

  I pull the ice pack off my cheek and take the tray. “What is all this?”

  He unfolds the fluffy rug and spreads it out on my floor. “A room
picnic.”

  I almost fumble the tray. Why is he doing this? He takes it and places it in the middle of the rug. He offers his hand, and when our fingers touch I light up. My body temperature steadily rises and I break eye contact. We sit. He opens the basket and pulls out delicious-looking foods.

  “Where’d you get all this?” I ask, still flustered.

  “The tea and scones are from London. The finger sandwiches and pastries are from Paris. And the Devonshire cream is from Devonshire.”

  He went all over Europe picking out food for me? How’s this happening right now? “This is the best cheering-up present I’ve ever gotten.”

  He smiles, and all his uncertainty drains away. It’s a real smile. The first one I’ve ever seen on him. He has dimples! Everything in me wants to touch them. I need to change the subject before I embarrass myself. “Do you think Cotton’s trapped inside me?”

  He offers me a finger sandwich. “The thought did occur to me.”

  I crinkle my face. “That makes me want to vom.”

  “Please refrain from murdering the English language while we eat.”

  I laugh. His humor always comes as a surprise. I wonder what he was like before Abigail died. “After tonight, I feel like I don’t know nearly enough about Cotton.”

  “Well, I know he was born in 1663 into a prominent family of ministers and followed that path himself. He was prolific and wrote nearly four hundred books and pamphlets.”

  I glance at the stack of books I brought down from my grandmother’s secret study. One of them was written by Cotton. I’ll read that one first. “My grandmother’s notebooks said he had a difficult relationship with his father. And that his need to impress him may have driven some of the things he did?”

  “Increase Mather was an influential figure in the Puritan community. Cotton was determined to match his success. But Increase did not agree with the Trials using spectral evidence—the testimonies where people claimed the specter or spirit of the witch was trying to harm them.”

  I watch his lips as he speaks. Are they cold like his hands? “In history class we learned they would strip people naked and search them for witches’ teats. Gross word, by the way. Something that a ‘demon familiar,’ I think my teacher called it, could suck from. And they poked the witches with pins, right? To see if they could feel them? I mean, that’s some nutty stuff.”

  “Indeed. Often, they would show bite marks as proof. Or they would fall into fits in the presence of the witch.”

  The rash suddenly doesn’t seem out of left field. “How did anyone believe these accusations?”

  He looks thoughtful as he chews. “They were very convincing. My fiancée was one of the primary accusers.”

  “How’d you feel about that?”

  “Initially, I imagined her claim to illness legitimate. I worried terribly for her. She would stiffen and stop speaking, or suddenly become frightened by a sight that was not there. I spent many a wakeful hour walking her floors determined to find a medical solution.”

  “And she was just jealous of your relationship with Abigail?” He must have felt so betrayed.

  “Yes. That is where it started, certainly. Then it became about old insults and family grudges. She was consumed with the power of it. And her accusations took the lives of good people. By the time I left, she was a shadow of the girl I had loved. Dark and distorted.”

  It sounds like a scarier version of high school. “How could people push each other to death like that? It seems so cruel.”

  “She did it because she felt important. People got away with it because no one stood up for the accused. The first people accused of witchcraft in Salem were an invalid, a homeless woman, and a servant. Who would speak for them?”

  Those poor people.

  “It is not dissimilar to your own situation. Do you believe the Descendants could torment you without the consent of the other students and teachers?”

  “It’s not like they exactly agreed. They’re just kinda silent about the whole thing,” I say.

  “Group silence can be a death sentence. It was in Salem,” he says.

  “Those accusations went to court, though.”

  Elijah nods. “Court was different then. The accused witches had no way to defend themselves.”

  That sounds awful. “So, once you went to trial, you were found guilty.”

  “You went in through the door and out hanging from the nearest tree,” Elijah says.

  “What role did Cotton play, exactly?”

  “It’s complex. He wrote a book about a witchcraft case in Boston. Reading material was scarce at the time, and Cotton’s book read like a gossip magazine. As you might imagine, it was extremely popular. When the witchcraft scare broke out in Salem Village, the afflicted exhibited the exact symptoms as the people in his book. A copy of that book was present on their bookshelves.”

  “Oh man. So he unknowingly wrote a guidebook for accusing witches?” Maybe Lizzie’s answer in class wasn’t so far off.

  “Also, understand that Puritan society was oppressively austere. Everyone worked and prayed and that was it.”

  I shake my head. “So when these accusations began, it was like crazy reality TV and everyone got consumed by them?”

  “Completely consumed. It happened faster than one would imagine,” he says, and pauses. “You never know in life when something unpredictable will happen.” He looks away quickly and lifts the china pot. “How do you take your tea?”

  “Cream and sugar, please.” These words feel oddly proper. “Elijah, why did you come back to Salem?”

  “I missed Abigail. I wanted to see something that reminded me of her.”

  “But you didn’t leave again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Troublesome houseguests.” He almost smiles.

  “Do you still want me to leave?” I ask, terrified of his answer.

  He thinks for a moment, and his boyish nervousness returns. “Samantha, you are the bravest person I have met in three hundred years.”

  My eyes well up. I carry so much weight every day, and no one cares. Having someone acknowledge it is almost overwhelming.

  “I am honored to know you,” he continues. “I only wish that Abigail could have had the same pleasure.”

  I wipe away a tear.

  He smiles. “I must remember to compliment you more so that you get used to it.”

  He’s right. No one ever compliments me except my dad. I stare at him, and the fluttering around my heart starts again. Why do I feel this way? And more important, why can’t I breathe?

  He slides his hand into mine and lifts it up. He gently kisses my fingers with almost warm lips. Goose bumps rise all over my body in the best way. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I jump, pulling my hand out of his grip. Unsure how to recover, I take my phone out. Jaxon’s calling.

  There’s a muffled scream of frustration down the hall. “What was that?” I ask.

  “Hard to say. Possibly, she discovered the wine on the back of her dress. I dare wonder how she will react when she gets to her new pair of shoes.”

  “Sam?” says a muffled voice, and we both look down at my phone. I bite my lip. I must have pressed Answer. Guilt ripples through my body—guilt that I interrupted our room picnic and guilt that I considered not taking Jaxon’s call.

  “Hey, Jaxon,” I say into my phone, and stare at Elijah.

  He nods knowingly and disappears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  * * *

  Now It’s Too Late

  My hands are folded in my lap. The sleeves of my black dress cover my wrists and make my arms itch. I hate wool.

  “It should next be proved that witchcraft is!” booms a voice at the pulpit in the front of an old-fashioned church. It’s the man from the woods. He looks too young to have that voice.

  “The being of such a thing is denied by many….Their chief argument is, that they never saw any witches, therefore there are none. Just
as if you or I should say, we never met with any robbers on the road, therefore there never was any padding there.”

  I glance side to side, to see if anyone else thinks this sounds crazy. I discover the pew is full of people wearing essentially the same crap clothes I am, and bonnets, too.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  All eyes turn toward me.

  “Do not call for things you do not desire,” says the man, his eyes boring into mine.

  He takes a few steps toward me. I push past the people in the pew and back down the aisle. A rope grazes my shoulder. I jerk away from it and look up. A noose hangs from the ceiling. When my gaze falls back on the man, he’s only inches from my face.

  My eyes fly open and I grip the sides of my desk.

  “Nice of you to join us,” says Mrs. Hoxley, her lips pushed together like a cranky fish’s.

  To my left, Susannah looks concerned. School. Right, it’s Thursday morning. I rub my eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say, and look down at Cotton Mather’s book on my desk. I don’t remember taking it out of my bag. I’m really not getting enough sleep.

  “As I was saying, those of you who are participating in the historical reenactment will report to the auditorium for first period. Mr. Wardwell and Ms. Edelson asked me to remind you. It will be the same every Thursday for the next two weeks.”

  This is so not good news. A breeze blows in through the cracked window, bringing with it crisp fall-scented air. The bell rings.

  I rub my eyes again and put on my jacket. The Descendants are out of the room without a word. So much for civility.

  I enter the hallway, walking at a slow pace toward the auditorium. As soon as people see me, they recoil, like they don’t want to chance touching me. Damn that rash.

  “Sam,” says Mrs. Lippy, waving at me right outside the auditorium door. Her hair falls limply around her face and she has lipstick on her teeth.

  Not this. “Is everything okay?”

  “Peachy. But I will need you to come to my office after classes today.”