Hocus Pocus and the All-New Sequel

by A. W. Jantha

  “Hey, Billy,” called Max.

  Billy Butcherson paused and gave Max an expectant look.

  “Thanks,” Max said.

  Allison waved good-bye with a small smile on her face.

  Billy waved in return, then stretched his whole body with a big yawn and dropped back into the remains of his bed.

  Dani looked around. “Binx,” she said. “Where’s Binx?”

  She broke away from Max to track down the cat, but what she found brought her to her knees.

  “No...” she said, gasping. Binx’s body lay still and lifeless at the foot of a leafless tree.

  “He’s gone, Dani,” Allison said softly.

  “But he can’t die, remember?” Dani touched his narrow shoulder. “Binx,” she said. “Binx, wake up. Like last time.”

  When he didn’t move, she broke into a fresh wave of sobbing.

  “Come on,” said Binx’s voice, though it wasn’t coming from the cat. “Please don’t be sad for me.”

  Allison, Max, and Dani all looked around.

  A few feet away stood a young man—likely Max’s age—wearing a billowing white tunic that was open at the collar. The warm light of daybreak filtered through his skin and clothes as if he wasn’t entirely there.

  “Binx, is that you?” Dani asked.

  “Yeah,” said the ghost. His dark blond hair was pulled back and tied in a short tail, and he was smiling. “The witches are dead. My soul’s finally free.”

  Dani took a step toward him.

  “You freed me, Dani,” Binx said. “Thank you.” He looked from her to her brother. “Hey, Max,” he added. “Thanks for lighting the candle.”

  Max snorted. “Any time.”

  “Thackery?” The asker was a semitranslucent little girl in a white dress and white cap. She peered around the trunk of a tall tree. “Thackery Binx?” she called.

  “It’s Emily,” said Binx, looking back at his new friends and smiling. He leaned down and gave Dani a kiss on the cheek. “I shall always be with you,” he whispered.

  Dani nodded, and with that Binx took off and joined his little sister, hugging her and then taking her hand.

  “Thackery Binx, what took you so long?” she asked, gazing up at him.

  “I’m sorry, Emily,” he said. The pair walked off toward the sunrise in the direction of the large iron gates to the cemetery. “I had to wait three hundred years for a virgin to light a candle.”

  As Max, Allison, and Dani watched them go, Max placed a hand on Dani’s shoulder and pulled her a little closer to him. He’d never forget Binx’s caution to look after her.

  The figures of Thackery and Emily dissolved into light and shadow and a trick of the sun through autumn leaves, and Max crouched to give Dani a hug.

  She giggled before pushing him away.

  “So,” said Allison, bumping Max with her hip. “Did I make a believer out of you?”

  They both laughed. “Yeah,” said Max. “I guess so.”

  It was hard to tell who started the kiss or how long it lasted, but as soon as they came up for air they dove back in, Max cupping Allison’s face in both of his hands and Allison pulling him closer by the hem of his sweater.

  Dani gave them a few seconds of privacy before clearing her throat loudly. “Can we go home?” she asked. “I’m tired, and I haven’t gotten a single piece of candy tonight.”

  Max laughed and pushed her ahead of him as they all headed back to the family car.

  “Sure thing, kid,” he said.

  “I’m glad you saved me, Max,” said Dani, as if she’d actually been debating the pros and cons. “Now I get to bug you for years and years.”

  Allison laughed hard at that, which made Dani laugh, too.

  Max knitted his fingers through Allison’s as they followed Dani to the graveyard gate. “Can’t wait,” he said.

  And he meant it.

  Jay and Ernie swung in their cages, waiting for someone to come save them.

  They sang in rounds to pass the time and moved listlessly. Waiting was a painful process, but they held out hope that someone would come for them.

  Meanwhile, on its podium Winifred’s spell book slowly opened its eye and looked around, feeling the loss of its master. But then it rose into the air. Jay and Ernie screamed and shook the bars of their cages at the strange sight. The book soared out of the window and into the early morning light. It floated above the cemetery and through the town square, passing the crowd of adults who filed, stumbling, out of Town Hall after a night of endless dancing.

  It continued flying, higher and higher, seeking its master....

  It wouldn’t stop until it found her.

  I accept my fate, though you know not why.

  You, all of you, despise me for things you believe me to have done—

  and yet I know that the greatest mark upon my soul was doing nothing at all.

  —Elizabeth Sanderson

  November 5, 1693

  Last words, as recorded

  in the journal of Samuel Parris

  I’ve never been so excited for a lecture about the Articles of Confederation.

  “Swap?” Travis asks as we walk into AP US History.

  We always switch seats in history during the class period closest to Halloween.

  But not today.

  Today I have nothing to fear.

  I beam at him. “Nope!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. “I’m good.”

  When he quirks an eyebrow, it disappears behind the thick green frame of his glasses. His brown eyes sparkle mischievously. He’s wearing dark skinny jeans and a red T-shirt with a demon-filled periodic table on it and the words PERIODIC TABLE OF HELL-EMENTS. It’s a very Travis T-shirt, and I’m very glad he’s not in costume, though he’s been wanting for weeks to dress up in his finest suit and come in claiming to be the second black president.

  I continue grinning like an idiot, so finally he shrugs, scratches at his dark hair, cut into a low fade, and heads to the third row. All around us, our classmates gossip, complain about the homework from last period, and check their Instagram and Twitter feeds. I slide my backpack off my shoulders and settle into my seat at the front of the class, taking out my textbook and class notes.

  I like sitting up front because it helps me focus. Travis prefers the back because it helps him sketch comics on his tablet undetected. But Travis is a generous soul, and every year since seventh grade he’s sacrificed his art for exactly one class period: the history class that falls on or nearest to Halloween, when Salem tradition dictates that all history teachers drag out the tale of the Sanderson sisters, dust it off, and set it on fire in front of me like a convicted witch.

  But not this year.

  It feels like my academic career has been building up to this day, late in the first quarter of my junior year—a day when the teacher will finally walk in and say absolutely nothing about the Sandersons, because that teacher is my dad, and my dad does not talk about the Sandersons in public. Ever. It’s supremely weird to be related to any high school teacher, but this single period of talking about the Constitutional Congress instead of witches will make it all worth it. October 31, 2018, will be the day I won’t have to sit at the back of class watching thirty of my classmates make fun of a story my parents and aunt truly believe. I won’t have to spend forty-five minutes dreading the tradition and then another ten avoiding eye contact with my teacher because I can’t bring myself to look enthused about their version of the story. I think any version is ridiculous.

  I look around the room, relishing all that I see. The laminated poster of the United States is just where it always is, as are the time lines that chronicle everything from the Revolutionary War to the civil rights movement. And just like last week and the week before, there is not a single Halloween decoration to be seen. The victory may seem small, but it is sweet.

  Dad walks in from the hallway and nods at me, but he doesn’t say anything as he crosses to his desk. That’s our rule. It’s imp
ortant to have ground rules when one of your parents grades your essays and goes bowling with your guidance counselor. He’s wearing a tie-dyed bow tie, which is about as festive as he gets for Halloween. It’s some kind of inside joke with my mom, I think, because she always gives him a dopey grin when he wears it.

  He sits at his desk to fiddle with something on his computer, and music comes on. It’s Dad’s ritual to play one rock song during passing period, to give students some privacy in their conversations. It’s the kind of thing that earns him cool points from my peers, which makes me extra grateful that he’s also not the kind of teacher known for unnecessary detentions, busywork, or puns. Today he’s chosen “Sympathy for the Devil,” which is a bit on the nose, but I’ll give him a pass for the holiday. He taps out the beat with a pencil while he waits for the bell, and some strands of dark straight hair fall in his eyes.

  A few stragglers scuttle in, including Dracula and a bumblebee in dress code–violating shorts. Then in comes Isabella (not scuttling, because Isabella Richards does not scuttle) in a flowing white top with draped sleeves and a pair of white skinny jeans. Her belt looks like it’s made of gold coins or medallions, and her black corkscrew curls spiral out from beneath a golden laurel circlet. The bell whines, and Isabella slides into the seat to my right, her messenger bag thudding as she tucks it under her desk. She shoves a round shield under her desk, too. On its front, angry snakes frame Medusa’s screaming face. It looks like Isabella’s made the thing from foam and tinfoil, which is a very Isabella thing to do.

  “Athena, goddess of wisdom and war,” she says when I give her a quizzical look.

  Of course she is. “I thought you weren’t going to dress up,” I whisper. I lean toward her, and my plastic chair creaks. I doubt that Jacob Bailey High has seen a renovation since my parents were students here in the nineties, and the furniture is constantly reminding us that it won’t last forever.

  “Drama extra credit,” Isabella tells me, adjusting the shield so it doesn’t roll away.

  I glance back at Isabella and she gives me an I know it’s dumb grin, but I find the whole thing kind of attractive. Isabella is both the last person who would ever need extra credit and the first person who will volunteer for it. She’s also the kind of girl who helps freshmen find their classes on the first day of school, volunteers weekly at the nursing home in Marblehead, and still gets invited to more bonfire parties in a single summer than I have in my entire life. It’s not the fact that she does everything that makes her so impressive but the fact that she genuinely seems to love everything she does. When she shows up, she’s all in, whether she’s crafting a Greek shield for extra credit or asking me about my day.

  I glance at Travis. I don’t dress up for Halloween on principle—today, I’m wearing black jeans and a plain black sweatshirt. Travis isn’t dressed up, either. For solidarity. But I know he’s been planning his own costume for weeks and can’t wait to break it out for my mom’s Halloween party tonight—my family’s first-ever Halloween party, which is going to be a real treat. Not.

  Travis is too busy sketching to have noticed me talking to Isabella.

  The song ends, and my dad shuts his laptop and stands up. “Happy Halloween, everyone,” he says. “Do you know what happened in October seventeen seventy-seven?”

  Isabella raises her hand. When she gets a nod from my dad, she says, “What about in October sixteen ninety-three?”

  There’s a long pause as the class waits to see what my dad is going to say to this unexpected development.

  I’m staring at Isabella like she just murdered a puppy.

  It’s an unspoken rule that there is no Sanderson-sister talk in Mr. Dennison’s classroom. Students think it’s because he finds the whole thing ridiculous. What they don’t know is that it’s because the Sandersons, at least as my dad tells me, came back from the dead and tried to kill my aunt Dani twenty-five years ago. Unsurprisingly, that took the sheen off the Sandersons’ story for him, though he’s never talked about it outside of my family.

  I look from Isabella to my dad, waiting to see how he will react.

  “I didn’t think you’d want to waste your time with that, Miss Richards,” he says slowly.

  It’s enough of a window that more hands shoot up. My classmates are clearly not as excited as I am to hear about some dude-bro landowners who determined the fate of a fledgling nation.

  “Mr. Dennison, doesn’t this relate to the evolution of criminal justice and the autocratic state?” asks Cruella De Vil, stroking a stuffed Dalmatian in her lap.

  “Mr. Dennison, what do the Sanderson sisters say about misogyny and unmarried women in colonial America?” asks a pirate.

  “Mr. Dennison—”

  “Mr. Dennison—”

  I fold my arms over my desk and rest my forehead against them, wishing I could sink through the speckled linoleum floor.

  So much for my one-year respite from Sanderson talk.

  “What about Elizabeth Sanderson?” Isabella asks, her voice cutting clear and confident through the chatter.

  I turn my face toward her, forehead wrinkling. Who’s Elizabeth Sanderson?

  “Elizabeth Sanderson...” My dad’s voice trails off, but not in a question. He’s no longer weighing whether to answer but how. “You’ve done your research, Miss Richards. As usual.”

  Isabella watches him hopefully.

  I look past her to Travis, who is the only person I’ve shared my family’s Sanderson story with since I got made fun of as a little kid. Everyone else has forgotten about Poppy Dennison’s short-lived belief in witches, but not him. He has an eyebrow quirked to ask if I’m okay. I shrug and look back at my dad, who’s carefully rolling up his sleeves.

  “Elizabeth Sanderson is an...interesting case,” Dad says. “She wasn’t—” He catches himself. “People say that she wasn’t a bad witch or that, if she was, she never brought any harm to Salem. Still, the trials came for her and her family the way they came for so many innocent lives. It was because of Elizabeth’s selflessness that her husband and daughter escaped with their lives, but she wasn’t so lucky. It was a classic case of mob mentality, and she was far from the only victim.”

  “Do you think Elizabeth actually was a witch like her sisters?” Isabella asks. There’s an arch tone in her voice. It’s not like her to talk to teachers this way.

  “Seriously? Do you?” The question comes from Katie Taylor, a slim, pale girl with long blond hair who sits in the very back of every class and watches for any sign of weakness—in students or in teachers—so she can pounce. “Witch, please.”

  The class titters at Katie’s joke, but nervously, since she’s taking a swipe at Isabella, whom everyone likes.

  As upset as I am at Isabella, some part of me still has the urge to turn around and snap at Katie.

  “That’s enough, Miss Taylor,” says my dad calmly, still looking at Isabella. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” he tells her. “People were hunted down and killed for superstition—that much we do know. That’s a terrible thing and a terrible waste of life. But were all of them actually evil witches?” He shrugs. “Sometimes the world isn’t as simple as we’d like it to be.”

  “But you know what is simple?” I blurt, trying to save both him and Isabella. “The Articles of Confederation.”

  Dad gives me a surprised look, as if he forgot I was here. We have rules, and one of those rules is that I’m not supposed to be snarky in class. But I’m sending him a lifeline, and we both know it.

  “Right,” Dad says, straightening. He strides to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. “The last meeting of the Continental Congress happened in October seventeen seventy-seven.”

  A groan ripples through the room, but I’m willing to take the hit to my reputation.

  Katie Taylor is the daughter of Jay Taylor, the school principal and the same guy who bullied my dad decades ago. Katie didn’t get the nickname Tattletale Taylor for nothing. I’m sure my dad would be mortified if the
whole school found out that he believes in ghosts and witches. Plus, my mom, who will be up for partner at her law firm soon, wouldn’t be able to live it down, either.

  And then there’s me. I still have to get through two more years at Jacob Bailey High, and I’d really rather not do it while being called Ghost Girl or Witch Killer. I’ve got less than two years to work on my portfolio and my SAT scores, and the Sanderson sisters and local lore are not going to hold me back. Before I know it, I’ll be at SCAD or RISD or NYU or another arts school where I can focus on my photography and not spend my brain cells worrying about keeping the family secret safe.

  I sit up straighter, lifting my chin a little as I do.

  I can feel Isabella studying me, but I ignore it.

  Dad’s familiar handwriting staggers across the board, and I take calming breaths, counting to five each time and willing my heartbeat to slow. I can’t tell whether it’s still pounding thanks to my dad’s close call or because I suspect that Isabella is mad at me for derailing her question—a question that replays in my head now.

  Isabella dressed as the goddess of wisdom and war, and she brought both into my dad’s classroom on the worst possible day.

  Travis almost trips Captain America in his rush to catch me.

  At the lunch bell, I’d leaped up, thrown all my stuff into my backpack, and booked it out of my dad’s classroom like Usain Bolt. In the crowded hall, I cram my backpack into my locker, shut it, and twist the lock just as Travis rests a hand on my arm. I can’t look him in the eyes. I’m embarrassed by my dad and myself, and sometimes I wonder why Travis hangs out with me at all.

  “Pops! You okay?” he asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “Yeah,” I say sullenly, meeting his eyes. “Lunch?”

  Travis shakes his head. “Maybe Isabella’s letting her goddess getup go to her head a bit,” he says.

  “It’s not her fault,” I tell him. Travis has known how I feel about the Sanderson sisters for so long, he sometimes forgets that he’s the only person outside my family who even knows the story.