The Witching Elm (A Memento Mori Witch Novel, Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  “Oh, Fiona, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going to get kicked out. We’re just waiting for the money your father owes us. Anyway, it’s not for you to worry about. Did you change your mind about swim classes?”

  “Why do I need to learn to swim?”

  “Because it’s fun, and because we live near the ocean. I’ve been telling you this for years.”

  “And I’ve been telling you that I don’t want to step on a jellyfish.” Fiona shuddered.

  “Well, they don’t have jellyfish in swimming pools.” Her mother twisted the last of her spaghetti around her fork.

  “New topic, please.”

  “How’s your homework coming? You’ve only got one day left to finish everything. I know you think you don’t need to do homework because you remember everything, but it’s not working so well for you anymore. You got an F on your Algebra midterm.”

  “Ugh!” Fiona threw her head back as if pleading with the gods for mercy. “Why can’t we talk about anything interesting?”

  Josephine shifted back in her chair. “Like what?”

  Séances, bone wardens, spell books, Harvesters—she couldn’t mention any of these things. “Never mind. I should probably get to work on my linear equations or whatever.”

  “I’ll get the dishes.” Her mother stood, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Fiona, I might have to make a trip to New York soon. Your aunt Rose is getting worse.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “It’s not looking good.”

  “Do you have to go?” Fiona hardly knew her great-aunt. She’d had dementia for as long as Fiona could remember.

  “She’s got no one else.” Dinner plates clinked as Josephine piled them up.

  She left her mom to the dishes and retreated to her small, messy room. She flopped backward onto her bed next to her teddy bear, Mr. Huggins. Years of love had malformed his face. She glanced around at the familiar walls, decorated with the same floral wallpaper since she was a little girl. Since her childhood, the only additions were the posters of Lord Byron that hung on the walls.

  She’d always imagined herself with someone like Lord Byron—someone “mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” a wild genius who made heroes out of his nation’s enemies and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. When they’d read Frankenstein in class, Fiona couldn’t help but seethe with jealousy toward Mary Shelley, a woman whom Byron had counted among his close friends. Fiona had viewed her as a personal rival and had tried to enlist her classmates to her side. “She uses the word ‘countenance’ in every other sentence. Couldn’t she just say ‘face’? I mean come on,” she’d railed. No one else had cared.

  And yet now she caught herself thinking about Tobias, who was nothing like Lord Byron. She wished she were still at school, studying spells with him in the magic room. He really had a beautiful mouth. She shook her head, grabbing a hold of Mr. Huggins. Why was she thinking about Tobias’s mouth?

  For a moment she considered sending him a text, but of course he had no cell phone. Instead, she texted Celia and Mariana to find out what they were doing. After a few minutes, she received a reply from Celia:

  Tobias told me everything. We did another seance. No Ann Hibbins, but a demon came. He said something about “they’re coming for more bodies.” It was soooo scary!!!

  “Oh my god!” Fiona said out loud. She sat up straight in her bed, typing back:

  Are you guys OK?!?!

  She waited, staring at her phone until the next little blue bubble popped up.

  Yeah. But some people have been seeing the elm again in the common. Like a ghost of the elm. And we think something bad might be coming…

  Fiona reclined on her pillows, crossing her arms. It was lucky she’d missed meeting the demon, but annoying they’d been practicing magic without her. Before she’d left, Fiona had snapped photos of the spells. Tobias had warned her not to practice them, and then he and Celia gone and held a séance.

  She scowled. Surely she should be able to practice a bit, too. Anyway, Mariana had told her that she could protect herself from demons by pouring salt around the room.

  She ran back into the kitchen and plucked a canister of salt off the shelf while her mother scrubbed dishes. Returning to her room, she poured it in a circle over the floorboards and grabbed her phone.

  While sitting cross-legged in the center of the circle, she scanned through the spells, reading the English titles above the Latin ones. Vicomtesse Dangerosa’s Torn Bodice had a certain ring to it. It most definitely sounded like a love spell. She enlarged the text. She was delighted to find that Latin translations were interesting when they had a purpose.

  I call my love up from the earth, like an orchid that rises from the soil.

  Uproot yourself from your resting place in the shade,

  And seek me through the scorching streets.

  Our roots will intertwine, and we will burn in ecstasy.

  “This could get interesting.”

  First, she tried speaking the words in an Ecclesiastical Latin accent. Staring at the posters as she spoke, she imagined that Lord Byron might become animated by her words and leap into three dimensions before her.

  After reciting the spell, she glanced around at the floral wallpaper, the white comforter, and the posters on the wall. It didn’t feel as though she’d achieved anything, but at least she hadn’t created an aura that would attract a demon. She looked at Mr. Huggins’s one mournful eye, half expecting a demon to burst from it.

  After a few minutes, she tried the spell again, this time changing the pronunciation to her best approximation of a Hebrew accent. After all, the language of the angels probably came from somewhere in the Middle East. With this recitation, she felt a tingling on her skin, like a warm breeze. The wind picked up outside, rattling her windowpanes. She looked at her posters, but Lord Byron remained two-dimensional.

  She rose, pulling her curtains aside to look out the window. A dense cloud had descended on her street. Despite the fog, no velvet-coated man materialized out of the mist to stride among Hatch Street’s narrow triple-decker homes.

  22

  Thomas

  Thomas sat on the worn leather sofa in his living room, pouring himself a beer and opening his laptop to check the news. He clicked on a story about a teenage boy who was nearly choked to death by cops for taking a picture of them on his cell phone. The law seemed to him less a codified set of rules than an experiment in what the authorities could get away with.

  Wind shook his windows, and he stood to look outside. A keening sound pierced the air, and a stocky black cat sauntered through the low-lying fog. He rubbed his arms as cold air seeped through the windowpanes. Even for a Londoner, something seemed particularly bleak about the grayness of the day. Returning to his sofa, he opened another video news story, this one lighter in tone.

  A blonde newscaster smirked at the camera as she read the prompt. “Sightings of a bygone landmark in Boston Common are being reported over social media. The old elm tree that marked the meeting spot for the Sons of Liberty died in the 19th century. The story has Bostonians wondering: is this some kind of promotional stunt, mass hysteria, or are we being visited by a ghost from the past? Take a look.” Blurry phone footage showed Boston Common at night, though all Thomas could see were a few yellow orbs near the top of the screen—the streetlights lining the paths.

  “It’s coming back!”

  Something blocked out the yellow lights, though it was hard to make out what it was.

  “What the—”

  A bleeping cut out the rest of his sentence, and the blonde newscaster returned. “Apparently the gentlemen creating the video were alarmed by what they saw. But I have to say, that footage isn’t convincing me to call the Ghostbusters just yet.”

  Thomas closed the video and searched online for the phrase Boston Elm, then Witching Elm. Thousands of results came up.

  In all likelihood, this was just another incidence of mass hysteria. There were plenty of
cases of collective psychosis. In the 16th century, residents of Strasbourg had danced uncontrollably for days, in some cases to their deaths. And there were of course the witch trials, and all the imagined torments of spectral visitors and witches’ familiars.

  He clicked on a link called Elm Tree Video!!! #CREEPY. As before, it was shot at night. But this time, a human form shifted into view beneath the dim streetlights. It was a man wearing a tapered, wide-brimmed hat. Light glinted off something. It almost looked like strands of vine leaves around his clothes. His face in shadow, he walked toward the camera and spoke in a low growl. “Druloch will have his feast,” was all he said before the footage cut out.

  23

  Fiona

  On Sunday afternoon, the last day before school resumed, Fiona strolled through the Common. After all the reports of the elm tree’s mysterious appearances, she half expected to see ghostly branches flickering in the center of the park.

  Instead, as she approached the elm site, she saw a crowd gathered where the tree had once stood. Some kneeled on the ground; others stumbled over the grass, closing their eyes, their lips moving in prayer. A hollow-cheeked old man gripped a sign that said “the King of Truth returns.” He pumped it up and down, a glazed look in his eyes.

  As Fiona walked past them, a bespectacled woman with snarled brown hair broke free from the crowd and jumped in her path. “Have you been given the words of truth?”

  “What words?”

  “The King of Terror will return.” With a yellow-toothed grin she added, “We’re all going to die.”

  Fiona jerked back, rushing past her toward the Athenæum. She had a few hours to kill before meeting up with her friends in the Adepti room. Tobias had decided that they must form a coven, and tonight would be their first meeting.

  She waited to cross Park Street, frowning. Tobias and Celia had called forth a spirit, but she’d failed to perform a spell of her own.

  Still, perhaps she’d see some spectral activity at the Athenæum. On a ghost tour, she’d learned that every morning, Nathaniel Hawthorne had sat across from an old clergyman. Since the two were Bostonian gentleman, they’d never spoken directly. As it turned out, this morning ritual of aloofness had continued even after the minister passed away, the author and the ghost eyeing each other but never speaking. It wouldn’t do to disturb another man’s personal time, even if he was dead.

  Once inside the library’s red door, she flashed her ID at the desk and began by wandering around the art sections on the lower level, peering out the window at the mossy stones of the Granary Burying Ground. A small part of her still hoped that Lord Byron might emerge bodily from behind a stack of shelves, or that she’d catch a glimpse of him limping through the cemetery on his club foot.

  She ambled through one level after another of dusty bookshelves, spotting neither a ghost nor her 19th century paramour. By the fifth floor, impatient with the lack of paranormal activity, she resolved to find something interesting to read. Somewhere in the building lay a book bound by human skin, though she couldn’t determine how to ask the librarians about it without sounding like a psychopath.

  But the library should have something about Maremount. Setting off to find a reference computer, she glimpsed someone hunched over a desk in an alcove. His hair was brushed forward, and he wore a gray coat, out of which peaked a large open collar.

  “Lord Byron?”

  He looked up at her with large blue eyes, and she recognized the full lips and perfect cheekbones.

  Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Jack. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Did you say Lord Byron?”

  “No… nope. Did it sound like I said that?” She emitted a short laugh.

  “It’s the collar, isn’t it? Well, sorry to have disappointed you.” He smiled and returned to his book.

  “Oh no, you’re even better.” She felt her cheeks flush. Why can’t I say something normal?

  “Thanks, I guess. Are you here to look for a book, or were you hoping to meet dead poets?”

  “Oh, you know, either one. There’s the book bound with the skin of…” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to compound the Hitler thing. “Actually, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a ghost. They’re saying the Witching Elm keeps showing up, and there’s a view of the graveyard here. Also Nathaniel Hawthorne used to see a ghost here reading newspapers.” She swallowed. “Well, you probably know that story. I mean, you’re his great-grandson or whatever.” She smiled, shaking her head. “Not that I know everything about you. It’s just someone said you were related…” She trailed off, looking out the window.

  “I’m related to him, though I didn’t inherit his ghost unfortunately. But I do know the King’s Chapel cemetery might be better for spotting spirits. It’s older.”

  “Good point.” She nodded, and then she could think of nothing else to say. “Well, I might have a look there. Just out of curiosity.”

  “I’m going there next weekend to make drawings of the grave carvings, if you want to join me. We might see some ghosts.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I’d like to do that.”

  “I’ll be there Saturday at noon.”

  “Awesome. Okay, well, I’ll meet you there.”

  She grinned all the way home to Mather, even as she passed the yellow-toothed woman.

  The sun began to dip below the horizon as she approached the school. In the courtyard, near the gates, Munroe’s copper hair burned in the late afternoon sun. She’d wrapped her manicured hands around the bars, and she pulled the gate open as Fiona approached. As Fiona passed Munroe, she noticed something new: a small tattoo of a chalice on her wrist.

  Fiona had always distrusted her—even more after she’d enlisted her friends to beat up Tobias. Yet there was something sad about her, especially since she’d lost Sully. “Everything okay, Munroe?”

  She closed the gate, staring toward the Common again. “The Apocalypse is coming. The impure walk among us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She glanced at Fiona, shadows beneath her deep gray eyes. “I know what Tobias is.”

  Fiona’s euphoria disappeared as her muscles tensed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She hurried into the school building, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that no one followed her as she ascended the library stairs. By the time she arrived in the Adepti room, all her friends sat facing Tobias—Celia, Alan, and even Mariana.

  Tobias stood before the fireplace, chewing his thumbnail. “There you are.”

  “Munroe knows about you.” Fiona sat on the rug. In front of Tobias was a small pile of goggles, some fireproof blankets from the chemistry room, and a fire extinguisher.

  “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than Munroe.” Tobias clutched the philosopher’s guide as he paced. “We were all there for the first séance. Celia and I tried to have a second one. We called something up, but it wasn’t Ann Hibbins. It was a Redcap, a type of demon. He told us that the Harvesters are coming to Boston.”

  Mariana gasped. “Coming here? Why?”

  “When Rawhed raised the Harvesters from the dead, he may have called on one of the gods to imbue them with power. Celia showed me the moving pictures on the computer. It looked like a Harvester was already here, assessing things. He said something about Druloch. Druloch is the tree god. One who demands sacrifices.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Alan.

  “The Redcap said that the crop had run thin in Maremount,” Tobias continued. “I think it’s harder to find people to hang there, now that everyone’s scattered. They’re going to come here for easy pickings.”

  Celia arched an eyebrow. “So, what are we supposed to do?”

  “We need to find the poem.” Tobias joined them on the rug. “If we stop Rawhed, we’ll stop his army. And we should form a coven—the new Mather Adepti. We were powerful together when we first raised Ann Hibbins.”

  “And then what? What if we do
n’t find the poem before they get here?” asked Mariana. “We fight a whole army? Just the five of us?”

  Tobias rested his chin on his hand. “Well, no. I think we should hide in the school and hope they don’t come in here. But if they do, it wouldn’t hurt to know the inferno spell to light them on fire.”

  Alan smacked his hands together. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. I like this coven thing.”

  Fiona nodded. “That explains all the fire safety equipment.”

  “So what do you all think?” Tobias looked around.

  “Well, we’re not going to say ‘no’ to learning magic, are we?” Mariana hugged her knees.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn magic,” said Celia. “But might I remind everyone that the last two times we tried anything magical, we called up terrifying monsters? I wasn’t scared of the bone warden. But the Redcap had bits of flesh on his hat—possibly human.” She shivered.

  “She makes a good point,” said Mariana.

  Fiona could see the concern on Tobias’s face as he looked toward the ceiling. He often did that, when he was thinking—looked up and ran his fingers along his jawline. “I’m almost positive that this room has aura protections, like the old philosophers’ schools. I don’t know how they did it, but I think we’re safe.”

  Celia frowned. “But we don’t really know.”

  “Oh, come on.” Fiona jostled her shoulder. “We’ve always wanted to be witches.”

  Tobias cleared his throat. “Philosophers.”

  “Fine.” Celia tutted. “I just wanted to make sure that everyone knows we might end up mauled to death by a man with really bad teeth.”

  Tobias opened the dusty philosopher’s guide. “So are we all in agreement?”

  They nodded.

  “Let’s do this,” said Alan.

  “Good.” He smiled. “I guess we’re a coven. Soon we’ll have an initiation ceremony. But first, we need to do the hard work and memorize some spells.” He looked down at the book in his lap, turning the fragile pages. “Queen Boudicca’s Inferno. We should maybe clear out some of the flammable things first.”