by Tara West
“AJ.” I was hyper-aware of my almost bald head in front of this cute guy. I wished I’d grabbed a scarf or hat.
“Is that short for something?”
“Just AJ.” I smiled.
“We’ll wander around,” Krysta told him, grabbing me by the arm.
“Yeah. Let me know if you need anything.” He waved us off and went back behind the counter.
As we passed the table near the door, the girl leaned back in her seat. “Yo.”
“Yo back,” I said.
She had ebony hair pulled into a high ponytail, a silver hoop in her eyebrow and a stud in her nose. The dark tip of a tattoo peeked above her black tank top. “You new?”
“Sort of.” Krysta introduced us both.
The girl tapped both hands on her bare thighs. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a high schooler in a plaid miniskirt outside of Britney Spears’ videos.
“I’m Deb. That’s DeWan”—she pointed to a muscular kid with close cropped dark hair and inky eyes—“and that’s Olive.”
Olive nodded, her auburn bob swishing over her pale cheeks. “Hey.”
Deb pushed her chair back on to two legs. “So...visiting? Traveling?”
“Visiting,” I cut in before Krysta could launch into an explanation of our current situation.
“Cool. Are you witches?”
I glanced at Krysta. Did these kids have powers like us? “Um...kinda.”
“Are you in a coven?” Deb pressed.
“No. We’re new to magic,” Krysta said.
“Wow, really?” Deb shook her head. “So cool. And you’re in Salem! Dude, you should totally come to our ritual tonight. Hey, Tony, shouldn’t they come to ritual tonight?”
Tony looked up from the computer screen and shrugged. “Sure.”
Deb slapped a hand to her thigh with a grin. “Be here at eight o’clock.”
I opened my mouth to argue, and Krysta dug her nails into my arm. “That sounds like fun,” she said. “We’ll be here.”
***
Krysta
Of course, AJ totally freaked about the ritual and stormed out.
I wish she hadn’t. Bell, Book, and Candle looked like my kind of store: wind chimes, stained glass art in the windows, shelves of books and candles...
She barely spoke to me on the way home, and when we got back to the house, she stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to her room.
Aunt Bertrice stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing out the coffee pot. Without looking at me, she murmured, “What happened?”
“Some kids invited us to a ritual tonight.”
Aunt B chuckled. “That’s wonderful news, Krysta. Are you excited?”
“Well... I am.” I motioned to the stairs. “I think she’s mad.”
Aunt Bertrice dried the carafe and slid it back into the coffee maker before turning to prop a hip on the counter. Her long gray hair was in a single braid this afternoon, lazily hanging against her blue and black plaid shirt. She was casual in gray sweat pants and long bare feet. Like an old hippie.
“AJ is harboring a lot of anger over the accident,” Aunt B said. “We need to help her come to terms with what happened. Not only with her powers failing her, but with losing her plans for school.”
“I think she needs another smudging,” I joked.
Aunt B let out a tinkly laugh. “This time, you should do it. Between the two of us, we’ll set her right.”
I took a pack of cookies upstairs with me, already shoving one in my mouth as I pushed open the door to my room.
He sat on the edge of my bed. I could see the soft blue material of my comforter through his thighs. There was a nasty purplish mark around his neck, but other than that, he was unmarred.
I’d known it would only be a matter of time in a house this old.
The ghost started when my gaze caught his. “You are able to see me?”
I sighed. “Yeah. I’m Krysta.” Closing the door behind me, I crossed the room and sank to the bed beside him, reaching into the package for another cookie. “Who are you?”
“Benjamin.” He didn’t move.
I eyed the ugly purple mark around his neck. “How’d you die?”
Tortured green eyes flicked toward me, and then away. His hair was ash blond and in a long ponytail tied with a white ribbon. I couldn’t tell what era his clothes were from, but the buttoned vest, blousy shirt, and pants weren’t from the twentieth century, that was for sure.
“I was hanged,” he said in a low, sad voice.
“Sounds painful.”
“I do not remember it.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Sympathy didn’t sound quite right in reference to not remembering your own hanging. “Why are you here?”
His back was straight and stiff. Geez, you would think a dead guy could lighten up a little. “If you would be so kind as to tell me why I am here, I would be grateful.”
Pain was clearly written across his face: in the way his fingers clutched at his thighs and the way his lips pursed.
I shrugged. Just because I could see him didn’t mean I had all the answers. If I had the answers, I would have found my mom’s spirit a long time ago. I settled for saying, “You were so young.”
“Nineteen.”
“Why would they hang a nineteen-year-old?” I gasped, wishing I could give him a hug or some kind of comfort.
Benjamin finally met my stare full on. He cleared his throat.
“I had been accused of witchcraft.”
Oh, boy.
Chapter Nine
Sophie
My heart pounded out a wild staccato in my eardrums all the way to the drama room. I felt as if I was walking through a dream as I walked beside Ethan. Most of my focus was on forcing myself not to pop inside his head, which was really hard as he kept smiling at me.
What was up with him?
Wasn’t it just last week he was telling me to get out of his head? At least I thought he was speaking to me, but now I wasn’t so sure. Who else could he have been talking to?
I watched the girls’ choir practicing warm-ups as we walked through the brightly lit cafeteria. Ethan lead me to a dimly lit corridor behind the stage and then through an even darker doorway. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but I followed Ethan’s lead toward the sound of laughter.
When Ethan broke to the right, I saw the group of students sitting on top of a makeshift wooden platform. A few spotlights shone on the stage, but otherwise, the room was almost as dark as the hallway.
A familiar looking girl, with short black pigtails jumped up from the stage, pointing a finger at Ethan. “You’re late,” she growled.
Ethan shrugged as he walked toward the group. “I had detention.”
The girl jutted both hands on her hips. “I didn’t ask for excuses.” She waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Who the hell is she?”
My mouth fell open, and I stopped, too stunned to speak. How freaking rude!
“This is Sophie,” Ethan said, chuckling, “the yearbook photographer.”
The girl’s eyes bugged out when Ethan emphasized ‘yearbook.’ Then she plastered on a disgustingly sweet, fake smile. “The yearbook photographer? Why didn’t you say so?”
She walked down the platform steps and sauntered over to me. She was wearing black tights, a sequined top, and the highest heels I’d ever seen, making her at least an inch taller than me. I was reminded of a very poor rendition of one of the runway models in Krysta’s fashion magazines.
“Vanessa Schumeyer.” She waved her hand in the air with a dramatic sweep before settling it over her heart. “State finalist in dramatic interpretation, two consecutive years. I play Abigail, the starring role. Ms. Jahns picked this play just for me. All this is so I can bring home the State title this year.”
I arched a brow. “Really?” I couldn’t help the note of annoyance that slipped into my voice.
“Yes, really.” She narrowed her eyes for just a moment before flashing a
nother fake smile. “I’ll be doing an Abigail solo for competition.” She scowled at my hands which were fisted by my sides. “Why aren’t you writing this down?”
I shrugged my backpack and camera bag off my shoulder. “I just came to take pictures.” I knelt down and unzipped my camera case.
“Well,” she said with an air of superiority, “you’ll have to wait until I get into costume.”
I shook my head while fitting a lens onto the camera. “I can take pictures of everyone else while you’re changing.”
At the sound of her muffled gasp, I looked up. The girl’s wide-eyed expression made her look like she’d been struck by lightning. “But I’m the lead. I’ve got the most important dialog, and I’m slated to win State.”
I bit my tongue, fighting back a retort. Did she really think she was that special? “I’ll get pictures of you, too,” I grumbled.
“As long as you understand the memory card should be mostly of me,” she said with her superior tone.
“That’s gonna be kind of hard,” I chuckled as I set my camera down and slowly rose to my feet, “since I’ve got choir and JV football practice on this memory card, too.”
The shadows around her eyes darkened. “Do you have any idea what it takes to qualify for State in dramatic interpretation? I don’t just play these characters.” She folded her arms across her chest and sneered. “I become these characters. I am Abigail Williams, defender of the righteous and accuser of witches.”
My mouth suddenly went dry, as if I had swallowed a wad of cotton. “A-accuser of witches?” I stammered.
“Yes.” She stepped closer and jabbed a finger in my chest. “And if you’re not careful, I just may call you out for being a witch.”
My limbs iced over with fear. I wanted to smack her hand away, but my arms felt like deadweights at my sides. Instinct told me to run, but my legs had suddenly gone wobbly and weak.
I swallowed hard, while gazing into Vanessa’s thunderous expression, all the while wondering if she could hear the wild beating of my heart as it pounded loudly in my ears, drowning out all other sounds.
Is this a joke or is she for real?
“Okay, we get it, Vanessa.”
I was hardly aware of Ethan coming between us as he pushed Vanessa’s hand away.
I looked down at my chest. Was I imagining things? It ached where she’d been touching it.
“Vanessa?” Her jaw dropped as she splayed a hand across her chest. “I am Abigail Williams.”
“Abigail,” Ethan sighed, “why don’t you go change into your costume?”
Abigail or Vanessa or whoever the heck she was, spun on her spiky heel and exited the room with a flourish.
As I released a pent-up breath of air, I willed my limbs to stop shaking. That chick was crazy. Sooooo freaking crazy.
And speaking of crazy, did I have the words ‘mind reading witch’ stamped across my forehead, or was I going nuts, too?
First Ethan and now her. As if I couldn’t get any more paranoid.
“Sorry about her.” Ethan was looking at me, a sheepish grin spread across his face. “She gets a little into character.”
I blinked at him, hardly registering that his smile was kind of cute. Yeah, right. Falling for the weird drama kid who maybe knew I could read minds was the last thing I needed right now.
“A little?” My voice broke and I shook my head, unable to trust myself to say more. I had to get out of here, maybe ask Mr. Cardwell to assign someone else to the drama club.
“Okay,” he laughed, “she’s a freaking loon.”
“You can take our pictures,” one of the boys called from the stage, his voice clearly laced with amusement. “We won’t tell Abigail.”
“Okay?” I said hesitantly. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, my gaze searched for the nearest exit.
“John Proctor is about to be tried for witchcraft,” another boy said as he made his way down the stage.
My gaze shot to this kid. He was tall with beefy arms and eyes spaced far apart. His red hair seemed a little too bright to be natural.
“W-witchcraft?” I asked.
“Haven’t you heard of The Salem Witch Trials?” he asked with a broad smile. “Nineteen witches were hanged.”
My hand flew to my throat.
“They weren’t witches, Finn,” Ethan grumbled.
“Whatever.” The kid named Finn shrugged.
My vision tunneled as a wave of nausea overcame me.
“Are you okay, Sophie?” It was Ethan I heard talking, but I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him.
“She looks sick,” I heard Finn say.
I shook my head and instantly regretted it. Then I felt Ethan’s hand on my arm, leading me to a sofa in the corner of the room.
“Maybe she’s getting the flu. You can always come back next week. That’s when I get crushed to death. ”
“Shut up, Finn,” Ethan growled.
As I sat there for a long moment, my spinning head between my knees, I was vaguely aware of Ethan sitting beside me. It took all of my strength to repress the urge to vomit. Slowly, my mind began to piece together what was happening. Ethan may or may not have known I could read minds. Vanessa had just called me a witch, but she might have been pretending. The drama club was definitely putting on a play about murdering witches.
Despite the burning bile in the back of my throat, I slowly raised my head and looked at Ethan. His brow was furrowed, and circles shadowed his pale eyes. Could he have been concerned about me?
“Why would you do this?” I asked with a strained voice.
Ethan arched a brow. “Do what?”
“A play where you murder people.”
Ethan looked at me for a long moment. What was in that look? Why did I have the feeling he knew about my power? It took all of my will to force myself not to pop inside his head.
Finally, he shook his head. “The Crucible is about the injustices of the witch trials.”
“Really?” I asked, hope surging in my chest. “Finn seemed to get a kick out of the torture part.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “He’s an idiot.” Then he looked at me with what seemed to be concern in his deep gaze. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes,” I answered.
The thick fog in my brain started to clear, along with the roiling wave of nausea in my gut. I inhaled deeply and then let out a slow steady breath while willing my limbs to stop shaking.
It had only been last week when AJ’s family told me I was a witch. One week to come to terms with the fact that I was more than just a girl who could read minds. I still hadn’t adjusted to the shock of learning my heritage. And now, I found myself surrounded by students pretending to execute witches. It was all a bit unnerving.
But I wasn’t looking forward to the look Mr. Cardwell would give me if I showed up at school tomorrow without pictures.
“My teacher is going to give me an ‘F’ if I don’t take these pictures.”
He stood and held a hand down to me. “How about you take a few pictures, and then I’ll drive you home.”
“No!” I practically yelled, and felt the blush creep up in my cheeks. “I’ll text my mom.”
A look of anger, or maybe pain, flashed in Ethan’s eyes before he plastered on a smile.
With no other alternative, I grasped his hand and let him help me up. His skin was surprisingly warm, and not clammy or sticky. I guess I expected the guy with messy hair to have messy hands. As soon as I was on my feet, I let go, not wanting to have any more contact with Ethan than necessary.
***
AJ
“There’s a ghost in Aunt B’s house.”
We were retracing our steps to Bell, Book, and Candle in the evening light. I had my hands shoved in the front pocket of my Greenwood hoodie against the chilly air and was lost in my thoughts. I looked at her. “You expected it.”
“Sure, but it doesn’t make it any less weird.” Krysta made a face. “AJ, he was hanged f
or witchcraft.”
A stab of discomfort roiled in my stomach. “Wow. Real witchcraft like us with our powers, or fake witchcraft like the kids we’re about to go see?”
“Don’t call them fake witches,” Krysta admonished me. “They’re just as real as we are, even if they don’t have magical powers. Witchcraft isn’t just about being psychic or talking to ghosts. It’s a religion.”
“I guess I don’t really know anything about that. What are we getting ourselves into?”
Krysta stopped walking. We were in front of a coffee shop. The delicious scent of sweet lattes drifted through the open door, and warm, orange light splashed over the sidewalk. I wished we could go inside and grab some hot drinks and sit in front of the fireplace.
“We’re making friends,” Krysta told me, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. “I know you hate what happened. I do too. But Salem is our home for the time being, and Aunt B is really taking care of us. So let’s try to make the most of it.”
I bit my lip. “I had another dream last night.”
She let go of me. “Was she running?”
“No. Well, maybe. She was going to hide a book.”
“What kind of book?”
“I don’t know.”
Krysta thought for a moment, her arms wrapped tightly over her blue jean jacket. She looked like a true fashionista tonight in an abstract-print maxi-dress and platform wedges. Her wild hair was tamed into a sideways French braid. “Do you think the dreams are premonitions, or are they just dreams?”
“I don’t think they’re imaginary,” I said carefully. “But there’s no way it can be premonitions. The dress, the way they speak…it’s old. Like hundreds of years ago old.”
Krysta’s jaw dropped. “You’re more worried about the dreams than you are about leaving Greenwood.”
I cradled my cast-covered arm with my other hand and wished I’d brought my sling. “No.”
“Don’t be grumpy.” Krysta gripped my good arm and we continued walking. “AJ, it’s okay to be worried and scared. We’re all going through some serious stuff. I’m just glad you’re focusing on something else.”
“Serious is an understatement.” I held up my cast.