Witch Myth Super Boxset

by Alexandria Clarke

  So are there real witches in Yew Hollow or not? History says yes. Modern day says no. I guess you’ll have to visit yourself to find out. The Summers coven is waiting for you.

  I clicked out of the article, back to the main page, and switched to an image search. The first photo that appeared was a sepia-toned picture of what I assumed was the yew tree Samantha Scott had mentioned in her article. It was massive. The topmost branches escaped the parameters of the photo. I was so distracted by the shape of it that I almost didn’t notice the small group of people standing at its trunk. I thought these might be the original members of the Summers coven before I remembered that photography wasn’t invented until the 1800s. At the time of the photo, the Summerses had already lived in Yew Hollow for almost two hundred years. I squinted at the group. There were about twenty in total, all women who shared similar bone structures and expressions. They looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen those noses and brows before. My gaze flickered back to the enormous tree. Involuntarily, my fingers found the gold pendant resting at the base of my throat.

  I searched the Internet for Morgan Summers. The results were less numerous but widely varied. The first hit confused me. It was a long-forgotten website, advertising the services of one Morgan Summers: Psychic Medium in New York, New York. A blurry picture featured a woman about my age, with brown hair and sharp eyes, staring haughtily into the lens of the camera as though she objected to being photographed but had no other choice. I clicked back to the search results and hit the second link. This one took me to a short article from Yew Hollow’s own website. Again, it was dated roughly ten years previous. It featured another photo of the same woman, but in this one, she discouraged the photographer with a rude blurry gesture. I stifled a snort. Morgan Summers and I would get along just fine. I skimmed the article, the title of which alarmed me more than I’d expected it to.

  Estranged Daughter Accused of Murder

  Following the bizarre and tragic murder of Leigh Lockwood beneath the yew tree in the town square, the police have identified Morgan Summers as their number one suspect. Summers, the second youngest daughter of Cassandra Summers, had returned home from New York City earlier that day, only to be found at the scene of the crime shortly after the grisly event occurred. The twenty-eight-year-old is notorious for being the only member of the Summers coven to leave Yew Hollow, a decision that appeared to create a rift between her and the rest of her family. Locals attest that Summers is short-tempered and apathetic, often reacting to questions with aggression or annoyance. As of this publication, Summers has not been charged with anything as there is no proof of her involvement in Lockwood’s murder. This investigation is ongoing.

  I sat back in my chair. A decade prior, Morgan Summers had been suspected of murder. In February of this year, she chatted amiably with subpar journalists but glossed over the details of any questions involving witchcraft. What happened in the time between? Was Morgan Summers hiding a sick secret? Was she really a witch? She looked benign enough. A recent photo from Yew Hollow’s web page showed Morgan at some kind of annual town event. Her hair had faded slightly and there were a few more lines around her mouth now, but the biggest difference was that she looked positively happy in comparison to any of the pictures from before. The web of mystery behind Nora’s disappearance grew thicker and more tangled. Had this Morgan Summers kidnapped my little sister? If she had, to what end?

  I rubbed my eyes. I’d been staring at the laptop screen so intently that I’d forgotten to blink. My spaghetti and meatballs were cold. I ate some of it anyway, chewing thoughtfully as I processed the new information.

  Witches. Could it be true? Was there actually a solid reason for mine and Nora’s strange energy? If that was the case, why had Morgan Summers come specifically for Nora? If they were tracking down those of their own kind, they should’ve taken me too. After all, I was the one whose energy was harder to conceal.

  My mind went in circles. Nora’s voice echoed in my head. Come find me. She wouldn’t have asked if she wasn’t in danger. I searched for Yew Hollow on an interactive map, tracking directions from our house to the little town. It was a two-hour drive by car, which meant it would take forever to get there on my bike. If Nora was there, my cramped quadriceps would be worth it. I printed out the directions from Nora’s laptop, stuffed them into the back pocket of my jeans, and stood up from the desk with every intention of riding through the night in order to reach Yew Hollow by morning. The red numbers of Nora’s furry pink alarm clock blinked at me. It was past midnight, I smelled like the fountain’s chlorinated water, and I was already exhausted from using so much of my energy earlier that day. I would be no good to Nora if I fell asleep atop my bike and swerved into oncoming traffic.

  I tiptoed to my own room, showered, and returned to Nora’s. I felt closer to her there, so I pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed, burying my cold feet beneath the thick layers of satin sheets. November was just around the corner, and the weather was seeping indoors. I hugged Nora’s pillow, trying not to think about how cold it would be tomorrow morning. It was miserable to ride a bike in the cold. It was all runny nostrils and dry eyes and chapped lips. As my eyelids drooped, a warmer thought occurred to me. I could take Nora’s car to Yew Hollow. After all, it was obsolete, sitting between Dad and Adrienne’s cars in the massive garage, without Nora around to drive it. The thought of heated seats, built-in navigation, and leather interiors lured me to sleep. I faded from consciousness, and sepia-toned photographs swam in and out of my dreams.

  “Nora, where are we going?”

  I trailed after my baby sister. She was younger. Twelve or thirteen maybe. Frolicking through a field of pinkish white flowers. Nora trailed her fingers through the oddly shaped petals as she pranced away from me. I followed after her in a trance. The edges of the world were blurred. There was no sun. Where did the light come from? I passed a mirror. It hung in midair, showing my own face. Except I was younger too. Seventeen or so. I touched my flushed cheek. My reflection laughed. This didn’t make any sense.

  “Kennedy!” Nora’s giggling voice echoed back to me. She was too far ahead. I sprinted through the flowers, but night had fallen. There were no stars. No moon. We existed in a void. Another world. What was this place?

  Trees loomed. Branches reached out like gnarled fingers. They interlaced, weaving together overhead in order to keep me closer to the ground. I hunched over. Tripped in the dirt. Fell on my back. The scent of the white flowers filled my nose. My throat closed up.

  “They’re mountain laurels,” Nora said. She stood above me. Looked down. Her face was pale. “Poisonous if ingested.” She caressed the petals closest to my face. “Honey made by bees that have taken pollen from these plants can cause cardiac arrhythmias and mild paralysis. Can you feel it, Kennedy?”

  My heart raced. Pounding. I couldn’t breathe. My arms and legs felt heavy. The black sky pressed down on me from above. I was going to die here.

  Nora laughed.

  The flowers vanished. I stood in the middle of a two-lane road, the asphalt gray and crumbling. I looked to my right. There. On the shoulder. A sign beckoned. Welcome to Yew Hollow. I touched the peeling paint. It turned to dust beneath my fingers.

  “Nora?” I called. The grass beneath my toes was dead. Crisp. I walked on. “Nora?”

  “Come find me.”

  I followed the voice. There was Yew Hollow’s town square. There was the yew tree, royal and vast. My feet carrying me unwillingly. The fire in my stomach began. It rose in my throat like a poison. My palms were sweating, set alight with my energy. It grew beyond my control.

  “No,” I pleaded. I tucked my hands away, but the fire roamed up my forearms. It overtook me, casting an orange glow across the town square. A leaf on the yew tree ignited. Then another. And another.

  Nora’s panicked voice echoed from the yew tree itself as it went up in flames.

  “Kennedy!”

  I ran toward the tree, searchi
ng for her. She was nowhere in sight, and with every step I advanced, another section of the yew tree caught fire. I halted, heaving for breath. This was my fault. I was responsible.

  Nora shrieked. I covered my eyes. The fire raged on.

  And then everything disappeared.

  The world was white. The earth was pale. Snowy. Flat. Nothing remained. I knelt to the ground, sifting through the curious powder that coated the remains of what used to be a town.

  It was ash.

  A face rose from the depths, bloodless and unmoving.

  “Come find me,” Nora whispered.

  I jerked violently back to consciousness. A strangled yell startled me before I realized that it had come out of my own mouth. I clapped a hand over my lips, trapping the sound. My whole body shook as I rolled over to turn on the lamp resting on the bedside table. The soft yellow glow illuminated Nora’s room, but it did little to ease the panic left over from the nightmare. It had been so vivid, surreal as it was. I buried my face in a pillow and let go of a sob. The feathers muffled the sound, but Nora’s pale face haunted the space behind my eyelids. I hurled the pillow across the room and sat bolt upright against the headboard, panting like a wild dog. Nora’s voice echoed in my ears.

  Come find me. Come find me.

  12

  It was dark. Nora’s pink alarm clock blinked five minutes after four. The house was quiet. Dad and Adrienne were asleep in the adjacent room. Helen was sure to have gone home. The keys to Nora’s car winked at me from a hook shaped like a fleur de lis near the door. I pocketed them, slipped out of Nora’s room, and snuck down the hallway toward my own room. Once inside, I got dressed, packed a spare change of clothes in my new hiking rucksack—yet another gift from Nora—and surveyed the room for anything I might need for the trip. I was going to Yew Hollow. Now. If that nightmare was any indication, there was no time to waste. How long did I have before that awful vision came true? Nora needed me, and I wouldn’t keep her waiting any longer. With any luck, I would be back in Windsor Falls with Nora in tow by that afternoon.

  I climbed out through the window and shimmied down the ivy on the side of the house. It was easier to avoid Dad and Adrienne. If I told them I was going after Nora, there would be no end to their questions. How did I know where she was? What and where was Yew Hollow? What do you mean, it’s some place full of women who think they’re witches? I had no idea what I was walking into. Hell, I didn’t even know if I was even on the right track. I had no guarantee if Nora’s visions were reliable or not. Maybe I’d turn up in Yew Hollow and fall into the tourist trap that it advertised itself as. Maybe Nora wasn’t even there, but I couldn’t not try to look for her.

  It was a good thing Nora’s car was so catlike and quiet. It purred gracefully as I pulled it out of the garage and coasted down the gravel driveway, keeping a close eye on the front door of the house through the rearview mirror. As the iron gate opened for me to drive through it, I could’ve sworn I saw the curtains in an upstairs window billow shut, as though someone had been peeking through them a moment before. The car’s tires slid over the rocks as I steered off the driveway and onto the road. Then it was just me, the thoughts in my head, and the distance to Yew Hollow.

  I hadn’t driven a car in so long, I forgot what it was like to not ride a bike somewhere. I kept calculating the time it would take me to get to Yew Hollow as if I had embarked on the journey with my trusty two-wheeler rather than Nora’s luxury sedan. Thankfully, there was no one on the road as I got used to it. Yes, it drove itself, but I had no idea how to set up the autopilot or the navigation. It took me a good ten minutes to find the dials to adjust the driver’s seat. Nora was a few inches shorter than me, and my knees were flush with the steering wheel until I finally scooched the seat back to accommodate my lengthy limbs. In the process, I accidentally switched on the seat heater. As I whirred past houses and yards larger than Dad and Adrienne’s, the leather gradually warmed, escaping my notice until I realized that the heat under my butt had not, in fact, been generated by my own inner fire. I hastily switched off the feature. Extra heat was the last thing I needed, even if the misty morning left a chilly dew on the windshield.

  Though the car was practically brand new, it was full of Nora’s energy. Just like in her bedroom, I could feel Nora there, albeit in a spiritual form rather than a physical one. The car absorbed her peaceful energy and radiated it outward. It was a wonder that no one else felt it. Did Nora’s friends hop into the passenger seat of her car and question the sudden uptick in their mood? Or did they simply credit the feeling to Nora’s unwavering positive attitude? Whatever it was, I was glad to share the sobering effect. It settled my racing pulse and soothed my worried mind, although my mind did its absolute best to keep me busy with racing thoughts.

  There was too much to fret about. Nora’s current location was the biggest problem, but other things kept creeping into my train of thought, piling up at the station and crashing into one another. I gripped the steering wheel at ten and two as I pulled out onto the highway, neurotically checking all three mirrors for signs of other vehicles. At such an early hour, the roads were empty, but with my luck, I’d crash Nora’s new car into the one eighteen-wheeler on the interstate. I avoided operating heavy machinery for a reason. I blamed my last vehicular failure on a mechanical issue, and while it was entirely possible that some faulty wiring or a gas leak could’ve caused the resulting inferno on the side of the road, I didn’t think it was likely. It had happened right after some jerk cut me off, forcing me to swerve into the next lane over to avoid a collision. In the next second, the familiar rage boiled over and ignited something under the hood. I remembered the adrenaline rush as flames licked the windshield. I’d lurched off the road, thrown the driver’s door open, and dove from the car, rolling into a run-off ditch just as the entire vehicle exploded. It was as close to death as I’d ever come, and I didn’t care to repeat the experience, especially in a car that didn’t belong to me.

  I took a deep breath, trying to dispel the tightness in my throat. It was easier to think of happier times, to cast aside the distressing thoughts in favor of better ones. There weren’t many to draw on, but in the last month, I’d built up more than enough memories with Nora to keep my mind quiet. I turned on the radio to Nora’s favorite station. It was too early for talk shows or a DJ, but a prerecorded setlist pumped a few popular singles through the speakers of Nora’s car. I rotated the volume knob, drowning out my thoughts with the inane electric beat. Then I leaned back, relaxed my shoulders, and let my mind wander to one of the last times Nora and I had been in this car together. We had been on our way out to the feed store to pick up a few things for Ainsley and the other horses. During the ride, Nora had pulled over to buy roasted almonds from a stand on the side of the road.

  “What are they coated with?” I’d asked, peering into the little paper cone as Nora fired up the car again.

  “Cinnamon sugar.”

  I plunked the cone into a cup holder. “No, thanks. Sugar makes me crazy.”

  “I don’t think it’s the sugar,” she’d deadpanned. “Just try one, Ken. You need to loosen up a little bit.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cinnamon sugar flew, landing on the sleek middle console, as she steered with one hand and ate almonds with the other. “It means you have a stick up your butt,” she declared. “When was the last time you ate a donut?”

  I ignored the question. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten something for pleasure rather than practicality. “Sugar is the silent killer.”

  “See, that’s your problem,” Nora said. “Kennedy, I know you’re careful, but a touch of enjoyment every once in a while won’t kill you.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I muttered.

  She thrust the cone of almonds toward me. “Take one.”

  “Nora, really—”

  “Just one! If you hate them, I’ll let you throw them out the window.”

  With a sigh of
defeat, I pinched one almond between my index finger and thumb and popped it into my mouth. As soon as the sugar hit my tongue, my entire mouth reacted. My eyebrows shot upward in surprise. I reached for another one.

  “See?” Nora said triumphantly. “Aren’t they delicious?”

  I relented. “Maybe.”

  “You can’t always keep yourself so locked up, Ken,” Nora said, her tone taking a more serious route. “This is a prime example. They’re just almonds. Snack food. You won’t let yourself try something new because you’ve already decided to be miserable. Why do you do that?”

  “I haven’t decided to be miserable,” I told her. “I’ve just gotten used to the idea of inconvenience following me around wherever I go. I’m cautious, not outright pessimistic.”

  Nora checked her blind spot and moved around a minivan. “You’ve boxed yourself in. Let it out, Ken. It’s about time. If it bothers you, let it go.”

  I’d never thought about it that way before. I’d never considered the possibility that bottling up all of my problems was the root of the issue. I wondered what would have happened if Nora had been born first, if she was fifteen years wiser than me. Sometimes, it felt like she already was. She thought about everything rationally, from a fresh point of view. I envied the ease of her personal philosophy. If it bothers you, let it go.

  The navigation engaged, offering directions to exit the interstate at the next ramp in a dulcet, inhuman tone. I followed the instructions, noticing that the green highway signs on the side of the road did not include the mileage to Yew Hollow. I had to be getting close. I’d been driving for a solid hour and forty minutes. The very edge of the horizon, right at the tree line, lightened to a bright pink as I cruised down the access road and stopped at a single red traffic light. The intersection was empty—there were no cars visible in either direction—but the light remained red. I leaned over the steering wheel to frown at it. When a few minutes passed and it still hadn’t switched to green, I looked both ways and guided the car onto the road.