by A. W. Jantha
When the sisters began to advance on Emily, Winifred carrying the huge spoon of the dark bubbling potion, Thackery jumped up. “No!” he shouted, leaping down from the loft before they could feed any of their wicked brew to his sister.
“A boy,” growled Winifred. “Get him, you fools!”
Thackery dodged the two younger witches, dancing around the bubbling pot so they couldn’t catch him. He grabbed the lip of the pot and shoved, not caring about the searing pain that shot through his hands.
Once the poison was spilled across the ground, he rushed toward his sister, but it was too late: Winifred had given her the draught of potion left in that huge wooden spoon. The decrepit witch delicately—even lovingly—wiped his sister’s mouth with her own cloak before turning to face him.
“Always keep your eyes on the prize, my boy!” She cackled as she raised her free hand. The air filled with a violent green light.
All at once, Thackery’s world filled up and spilled over with hurt.
His muscles betrayed him, his field of vision blurred and went dark, and his body collapsed like a bundle of sticks on the floor.
SALEM, 1993
Max decided to take the long way home to get some time to think.
He pedaled hard through Salem, avoiding anyone who might want to talk with him—an admittedly limited group since he was so new in town—and only slowed when he reached the edge of the graveyard marked by a wrought-iron gate topped with the words old burial hill.
He realized it was very broody to spend time in a cemetery, but it was also a peaceful place with rolling hills and craggy rocks that, on the northern rise, overlooked Salem and the harbor. Seeing the ocean had given him a comforting feeling his very first day in Salem. It reminded him of home and of the unending expanse of the Pacific. The idea that this place was even a little like LA made his heart ache, but it also made him feel like maybe he really could make the most of it here. Maybe his life didn’t have to be so different after all.
The crest of the cemetery’s hill was the kind of place he’d want to take Allison one day, after they’d gotten to know each other enough that she didn’t think he was secretly an axe murderer. They could watch the ships come in and go out, cutting through deep blue water with rolling whitecaps, and wait for the lighthouse to come on as the sun started to go down. He could tell her about California and listen while she explained why she liked Salem, and maybe he’d find a way to like it, too.
Max rounded a section of tombstones, heading for the top of the hill.
Just then, a boy shouted, “Halt!”
Max stopped, confused, and turned to see Jay Taylor, the blond portion of the duo that terrorized Salem with poorly constructed bottle rockets and the occasional roll of toilet paper. Max groaned inwardly. Just then, Ernie popped up from behind a particularly large gravestone.
Max looked from Jay, with his straight shoulder-length hair and fingerless gloves, to Ernie, whose brown windbreaker was still too large for his thick torso, and he wondered how they’d befriended each other on the playground.
Jay tossed his blond hair. “Who are you?”
Max debated pedaling away, but the front of his bike was pointed uphill and it would take too long to swing it around. Besides, this day had to come sooner or later.
“Max,” he said shortly. “I just moved here.”
“From where?” Jay asked.
“Los Angeles.”
Jay gave him a perplexed look and Max realized that this might be the first person he’d encountered who was too stupid to provide a “surf’s up” joke. He counted his blessings.
“LA,” he clarified.
“Oh!” said Jay happily. “Duuude!”
“Tubular,” said Ernie.
That train was never late. Max took a steadying breath through his nose.
“I’m Jay,” said Jay. “This is Ernie.”
Ernie grabbed the elbow of Jay’s black pleather jacket and pulled him into a crouch. “How many times I gotta tell you?” he grumbled. “My name ain’t Ernie no more. It’s Ice.”
“This is Ice,” Jay clarified, pointing.
Ernie spun around to show off the back of his head, where his nickname was shaved in block letters.
Max chuckled. He suddenly wasn’t sure why he’d been worried about these two at all.
“So,” said Jay, jumping down from the gravestone he’d been perched on. “Let’s have a butt.”
“No, thanks,” said Max. “I don’t smoke.”
“They’re very health-conscious in Los Angeles,” mocked Ernie.
Jay broke into raucous laughter, and Ernie followed suit. They gave each other a double high five and a chest bump, and Max wondered how long he’d be stuck in this new-kid hazing ritual.
“You got any cash, Hollywood?” asked Jay, coming around to block Max’s way. He leaned forward on Max’s handlebars.
Max felt his pulse hiccup. “No,” he said, trying to regain control of the bike.
“Gee,” said Ernie, grabbing Max’s biceps.
Max turned to him, and his heart was full-on pattering. He’d waited around too long, and even if these two were dumb, they were still bigger than him and seemed to have twitchy moral compasses.
“We don’t get any smokes from you. We don’t get any cash. What am I supposed to do with my afternoon?” said Jay.
Max inhaled slowly. “Maybe learn to breathe through your nose,” he said.
Jay guffawed and quickly pretended to find the ground very interesting. “Whoa,” he said, noticing Max’s shoes. “Check out the new cross-trainers.”
Max tried to pull away, but Ernie was even stronger than he looked.
“Cool,” Ernie said to Jay, his grip on Max’s arm tightening even further. “Let me try ’em on.”
Max looked from one boy to the other, hoping they were joking. The Nikes had been the only good thing about his move to Salem.
Ernie gave him a look that said I’m waiting, and before Max knew it, he was biking away from them shoeless, the treads of his pedals sharp and uncomfortable even through his socks.
At least they hadn’t thought to take his bike, he told himself. He was angry at himself for not getting away before Jay and Ernie cornered him. He was mad at his dad for accepting the transfer to a new management position in Salem. And he was mad at Dani for making the move look so easy when it was clearly so painfully lame.
At the top of Old Burial Hill, the cemetery chapel chimed four o’clock. Max sighed and continued biking down the hill, back toward town. Both of his parents would be home by now, as would Dani.
He’d lost his Nikes, his shot with Allison, and his chance at privacy—and it wasn’t even dinnertime.
SALEM, 1693
Thackery’s mind went blank from the pain in his body.
When he could finally blink again, he wasn’t sure whether he’d lost a few seconds or a few minutes or much, much longer. He tipped his head to the side and saw that Emily was still there, as were the three hideous Sanderson sisters.
Emily sat serenely in the wooden chair, attentive but church-quiet. Her pale skin and white sleep dress looked almost iridescent in the house’s low light. Thackery watched, helpless, as that iridescence turned into a warm golden glow the likes of which one might expect to see spill from the skin of an angel.
“ ’Tis her life force!” said Winifred. “The potion works.” She stretched her arms toward her sisters. “Take my hands—we will share her.”
Fingers entwined, the three witches advanced upon Emily. They leaned forward and inhaled deeply. Curls of amber light drifted away from Emily and down their wretched throats.
Thackery dragged himself to a nearby ladder and managed to prop himself up, but the world sloshed around him and he couldn’t think of how words were supposed to be strung together. He watched his sister, though, and felt that his heart would break.
The sisters took a final inhale and the light around Emily disappeared behind their lips. Emily’s narrow chin
tipped forward and her body went limp. Her face was suddenly drawn and sallow, her skin threaded with thin gray veins as if her blood, too, had been stolen from her.
Thackery lurched toward her but only managed to vomit onto the floor. He tried to look away from his sister, but he couldn’t help staring at her in horror. Emily. Dead. Dead and shrunken like a frail old woman. Thackery vomited again. He hadn’t eaten since supper, and the thin bile from his stomach soured his tongue.
Sarah Sanderson spun about, running fingers through her newly golden curly hair. “I am beautiful!” she squealed. “Boys will love me!”
Mary’s plump face looked nearly pleasant, thanks to the color creeping back into her cheeks. She pouted her red lips, which still twisted to one side. “We’re young!” she laughed, clapping.
Winifred hurried to pick up a mirror. Her face fell, and for a moment Thackery suspected she wished she hadn’t been so generous in sharing with her sisters. “Well,” she said, “younger.” Then a surge of energy seemed to ripple through her, and she raised both arms in triumph. “But it’s a start!” She cackled.
The sisters promenaded together while Thackery continued to drag himself onto unsteady feet.
“Oh, Winifred,” cooed Mary, “thou art a mere sprig of a girl.”
“Liar!” Winifred crowed. “But I shall be a sprig of a girl forever,” she said, twirling each of her sisters, “once I suck the life out of all the children in Salem!” She turned to face Thackery and beamed, then advanced on him. “Let’s brew another batch,” she suggested.
“You hag,” he growled. “There are not enough children in the world to make thee young and beautiful.”
That made Winifred stop short. “Hag,” she repeated distastefully. “Sisters, did you hear what he called you?”
Thackery wanted to point out that he’d been speaking specifically to her, but she spoke again before he could muster the energy: “Whatever shall we do with him?”
“Barbecue and fillet him,” suggested Mary.
“Hang him on a hook,” said Sarah, reaching for his chest, “and let me play with him.”
“No,” snapped Winifred, and then, more softly, she called for her book. The heavy tome floated through the air to reach her. The book was bound in scraps of thick, tanned human skin and roughly stitched together with thread that made the seams look like scars on a dead man’s face. A metal clasp on the book’s cover encircled a bit of puckered leather in the shape of an eye. “Dazzle me, my darling,” she crooned. The book opened of its own accord, and she paged through it until she found the perfect spell. “His punishment shall not be to die, but to live forever with his guilt.”
“As what, Winnie?” her sisters asked, delighted.
She stepped toward Thackery, and though he tried to evade her walnut-brown eyes and the sight of her large teeth and narrow pursed lips, his ears filled with her chanting: “‘Twist the bones and bend the back,’” she said, and her sisters murmured a soft spell beneath her words. Thackery winced, but Winifred went on: “‘Trim him of his baby fat. Give him fur as black as black. Just...like...this.’”
Thackery felt his body twisting and turning in on itself, felt his bones snapping and reshaping into smaller, thinner versions of themselves. The last spell had felt like lightning beneath his skin, but this felt like a terrible bubbling in his marrow, and even as he screamed, he heard his voice come back in a shrill yowl.
The house rattled with the pounding of fists on its doors and windows, and through his pain, Thackery heard his father’s voice. But it was too late.
He dragged himself to safety under a chest of drawers and let the pain sweep over his body and through his mind, spiriting his consciousness away.
SALEM, 1993
Once home, Max went straight up to his room and flopped onto the bed.
He hated the sailboat wallpaper of his room almost as much as he did the pale purple paint that trimmed the steps leading to the small loft overhead.
He’d tried to make it look more like his last room, carefully placing his drum set to take up as much space as possible. He’d even tacked up the tie-dyed blanket Jack sent him after Max told him about the California hippie jokes.
None of his attempts, though, had worked. This old nursery didn’t look anything like his room, and staring at it just made him feel more alone. So he glared at the white popcorn ceiling and listened to the quiet bubbling of the fish tank beside his bed.
The bike ride home hadn’t calmed his anger—if anything, the pedals cutting into his feet had stoked it. Why couldn’t his parents have waited two more years before moving? Then he’d have graduated and gone to college and they could have moved Dani anywhere they liked. Besides, who transferred their kids to a new school in the middle of October?
Max squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. October made him think about Halloween, which made him think about Allison and her note. He’d really blown it, and he still didn’t get how.
Did Allison like Halloween because she liked to dress up, or because of this weird, witchy town, or because she actually believed in spells that could transform people into immortal cats? Max wasn’t sure which option he preferred. He rolled over. As if it mattered. As if he’d have a chance with her either way.
“Allison,” he sighed, remembering her hand in his when he’d introduced himself—his smoothest move of the day. “You’re so soft,” he continued. “I just want to—”
His closet burst open. Max sat up with a racing pulse.
“Boo!” Dani cackled, applauding herself for such a good prank. She was still in her costume, and her patterned skirt swished as she danced. “I scared you! I scared you!”
Max blushed.
Dani clambered over him and tossed herself onto his bed. She thrashed about, crooning, “I’m Allison! Kiss me, I’m Allison!”—which only made Max blush harder.
He stood up. “Mom and Dad told you to stay out of my room!”
“Don’t be such a crab,” Dani said, rolling her eyes. She stood up on his mattress to make herself taller, then began to jump, the yellow-and-orange fringe of her jacket swinging wildly. The mattress springs protested each time she landed. “Guess what?” she asked. Then, before he could answer: “You’re going to take me trick-or-treating.”
She couldn’t be serious. “Not this year, Dani.”
Dani twirled and leaped off the bed. “Mom said you have to.”
“Well,” said Max, “she can take you.”
“She and Dad are going to the Pumpkin Ball downtown,” she protested, tugging on his sleeve.
“You’re eight,” he said, jerking away from her. “Go by yourself.” He crossed the room, sat down at his drum set, and tapped out a beat on the snare.
“No way,” said Dani. “This is my first time! I’ll get lost. Besides, it’s a full moon outside. The weirdos are out.”
Max ignored her, throwing in the hi-hat. If Jack had been there, he would’ve plugged in his guitar and they’d have been halfway through “London Calling” by now.
Dani threw her arms around his neck. “Come on, Max,” she said.
He sighed and let his sticks settle across one knee.
“Can’t you forget about being a cool teenager for one night?” she begged. “Please come out. We used to have so much fun together trick-or-treating. Remember? It’ll be like old times.”
He jerked away. “The old days are dead,” he said, restarting the beat. He knew he’d end up taking her, but he wished to god she’d just give him five minutes alone. He needed to think. He needed to listen to Green Day. He needed to not walk around with his kid sister dressed as Winona the Whimsical Witch.
“It doesn’t matter what you say,” Dani declared. “You’re taking me.”
Max tossed down his sticks. “Wanna bet?” He crossed the room again, this time climbing into the small loft that was the best part of his new room. The best part of Massachusetts, as far as he was concerned, especially now that Allison thought he was an idiot and his snea
kers were getting stretched out by Ernie’s clubfeet. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
Dani’s eyes narrowed and she did the thing that always turned arguments in her favor.
She screamed for their mother.
The verdict was settled before the trial began, but the Sanderson witches’ case was not helped by their refusal to show remorse.
That very same night—a dark, drizzling end to All Hallows’ Eve—the three sisters stood on barrels stinking of fish, three lengths of rough rope looped around three guilty necks, and they cackled and teased the crowd as their sentences were read under the light of flickering lanterns and hungry-looking torches.
“They’re mad,” said the tray maker to the milliner. “When did they turn so mad?”
“When they sold their souls to the Devil in a despicable tryst with yellow hellfire and wickedness,” said the milliner, as if he’d been there.
“Hmmm,” mused the tray maker. “It seemed to help Sarah’s complexion, though.”
It began to rain then—fat drops that soaked woolen tunics and ran into well-worn boots. The judge—who was also the priest of Salem and two bordering townships and, in his humble opinion, severely overworked and underappreciated—tried to speed things along.
“What say thee, witches?” he demanded.
Sarah Sanderson tittered on her barrel. “We say thou weren’t so judgy when coming to us last May for a potency potion....She cast her eyes below the man’s round stomach and batted her lashes as the crowd broke into whispers and shifted from one soggy foot to the other.
“Lying jezebel!” cried the judge.
But before Sarah could retort, the father of dead Emily spoke up. “Winifred Sanderson,” he said. “I will ask thee one final time: what hast thou done with my son, Thackery?”
“Thackery?” asked the eldest witch. In the dim torchlight, her face looked like chalk against the scarlet of her curls.
“Answer me!” he shouted. His arm was around the shoulders of his wife, who wept openly into his damp jacket.