The world will never be the same.
During our walk from the train station, I haven’t seen more than a handful of people. What I have seen is evidence of the city’s claim to fame: witches. I’ve never personally understood the appeal. I mean, despite the best efforts of modern-day Wiccans to present themselves as something closer to tree-hugging, flower-child pagans, most people still associate witches with the mysterious dark arts, rampant evil, and even Satan—who, like Jesus, doesn’t play a role in the religion. Probably didn’t help that the city’s official witch claimed to have created the 1991 Perfect Storm—the one that killed George Clooney in that movie—with a curse. That’s what I heard at the time, anyway. But the city of Salem went all in on the occult, and it reaps a multi-million-dollar tourist payday every year, as curiosity seekers and true believers congregate to the city’s museums, shops, tours, and historical sites.
Most of those people don’t know that neighboring Danvers was the true geographic epicenter of the witch trials—and Salem is happy to keep it that way. Every town needs their thing, I guess. Hell, Beverly is just across the bay, and they’re famous for being the fictional home of the FC-P. If only Jon Hudson was real. We could use his help now. Instead, we’re visiting a warlock.
A freaking warlock…
Ugh.
Like Boston, Salem has an old-world feel. Cobbled sidewalks. Buildings older than my great grandfather. Classic New England stylings dutifully maintained, rather than replaced. It looks the same today as it did thirty years ago, with the exception of new supermarket chains and updated museums in the nooks and crannies.
When we stop beside the bronze-green statue of Roger Conant, regaled in a cloak and wide-brimmed hat, looking ready to hunt witches, I fear our destination is the iconic building just beyond the grim-faced founder of Salem. While much of the old city is built from old wood and red brick, the old Gothic Revival-style church, once known as East Church, is an impressive stone building that is equal parts church and castle. But it’s neither, now. The building is home to the Salem Witch Museum, and it houses a massive pentagram on the floor, arcane symbols, and a freakish wax-museum history of the Salem witch trials. While the narrated tour instills a sense of weirdness in the viewer, I’m not sure it would make a good home for a serious warlock…mostly because the witches of old Salem have nothing in common with modern witchcraft. Because all those young women murdered by the church were actually God-fearing Christians.
“We’re not…” is all I manage to say, while looking at the museum.
“Of course not,” Reggie says, turning me around and pointing to a small black sign hanging from what once would have been a home, but has been transformed into a small shop… Or rather a ‘Shoppe,’ as the sign says. The Grand Pagan Shoppe. A hand-painted sign. White text on black. The words are framed by a pentagram, a witch’s hat, and a black cat.
My head hangs low, but I keep my groan contained.
Rain, on the other hand, seems taken in by it all. She reads the sign taped beneath the ‘Closed’ sign in the front window. It’s handwritten. Sharpie on cardboard. “What is CBD-infused tea?”
“Nothing to do with why we’re here,” I say, patience thinned by the worst night of my life. I turn to Reggie. “They’re closed, which isn’t surprising, because I doubt anyone will be open for business today—and oh yeah, it’s six o’clock in the morning.”
Reggie gives me an ‘I’m no fool,’ look and then approaches the door. “Bjorn is an early riser.” She gives the door a gentle knock. When she’s done, I hear footsteps approaching.
She seems to know this Bjorn fellow fairly well…including what time he wakes up. “Wait,” I say. “You and Bjorn aren’t—”
Reggie grins. “We met online.”
“Not eHarmony or something like that?” I say, about to downgrade my opinion of her.
She chuckles. The grin fades, replaced by a single raised eyebrow. “Tinder.” The smile returns. “Smart people have primal needs, too.”
The door swings open to reveal a tall, skinny man with Mediterranean looks, a dark beard, and pony-tailed black hair. He’s wearing a hooded and a black cloak, and he’s carrying a gnarled staff. Beneath the cloak is a pair of Homer Simpson boxer shorts and nothing else.
The man, whom I presume is Bjorn—perhaps named for Bjorn Ironside, the Viking made famous by modern TV more than the actual man’s Norse exploits—lights up when he sees Reggie. “Regalia,” he says, arms open for an embrace. “You’ve come back!”
She returns his hug, squeezing his wiry frame, her head coming up to his bare, hairless chest. A Viking, this man is not. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single Danish gene in his body.
When his hands on her back start traveling south, she leans back and says, “We’re not alone.”
Bjorn’s dark brown eyes snap up, seeing me and Rain for the first time. He glances over me, but seems taken aback by Rain for a moment, and she’s not even glowing. “You’re here for something, then?”
“Do you always carry a staff?” I ask, unable to hold back my growing sarcasm.
He lifts the staff up, revealing broom bristles on the bottom, and without a single chink exposed in his positive attitude, he says, “I was cleaning. Perhaps you’re on a quest?”
I’m revolted by his light-hearted tone. For a warlock, he’s not very good at reading people. While Reggie might be happy to see him, both Rain and I wear darkness and exhaustion like a mask.
Reggie steps back so he can see her face. “We were in Cambridge last night.”
His smiles falters and then fades when he looks down at Reggie’s face, only now seeing the grime on her dark skin and the tiredness in her eyes. “Oh…” he says. “Oh.”
Bjorn steps back and sweeps his hand into the shop. With the broom in hand, and the cloak rolling off his arms, it’s like watching a young Gandalf welcome us to his own personal Shire. “Come in. Come in.”
The shop is essentially a knick-knack emporium for the occult—herbs, incense, crystals, arcane books, and little skulls from various animals. But there are modern touches as well, including a whole rack of overpriced CBD products, Salem witch T-shirts, and games from Ouija to Dungeons and Dragons.
At the same time, I get the feeling that none of this is real. Bjorn is just another sycophant suckling on the popularity of modern witchcraft and Harry Potter. Then again, that’s not all that different from Salem as a whole. I’m about to voice my negative assumptions and leave, when Bjorn gently places his hand beneath Reggie’s chin and looks over both sides of her face.
“You’re not hurt?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” she says, “but…” she looks at me. “We could use a place to…rest.”
“Of course,” he says, maneuvering his way past me to deadbolt the shop door. “Whatever you need.”
The angry bubble about to pop from my mouth sinks back down to my gut. I’m judging him too harshly. He’s obviously a decent guy. But there’s one thing I can’t let go. “Bjorn’s not your real name, right?”
“And you are?” he asks, extending his hand.
I accept his handshake and say, “Saul Signalman.”
“Ahh, Dickens. I love it.”
“What?” I say, baffled by his response to my name.
He turns to Rain and offers his hand again. She doesn’t accept, but says, “Rain.”
“Can I call you Freyr?” he asks, and when Rain says nothing, he adds. “The Norse god of rain. Very power—”
“No,” Rain says.
“Okay…” He takes a step back to look at both Rain and me. He waves his hands toward us. “Your auras are—”
“Bjorn,” Reggie says.
“Sorry. Habit. And to answer your question,” he says to me. “The name my parents gave me was Emmanuel. It’s the Romanization of the Hebrew Immanuel, which means ‘God with us,’ which refers to Jesus as God, living among us. It’s not a bad name, really, but…” He motions to the occult shop. “My patrons wouldn
’t appreciate it, and my critics—the local church—would be incensed by a warlock named Emmanuel. So it is easier to go through life as Bjorn.”
“That…makes sense,” I say, and I force a smile. “It’s been a long night.”
“I’m sure,” Bjorn says, and then his eyes flare a bit wider. “Signalman…” He turns to Reggie. “This is your friend. The one you spoke of?” For a moment, I’m flattered that Reggie has told someone about me, but then he adds, “The man with the brilliant wife. I’d love to meet her, too. Is she with you?”
The question is directed toward me, and it decimates my attempt at looking like life isn’t a dark and horrible thing.
“Oh…” he says. “God, I’m sorry. She was…last night? The explosion?” He turns to Reggie, desperate to be bailed out of his awkward faux pas.
She takes his hand and leads him toward a staircase at the back of the store. “There’s a lot to tell. Just…try not to talk much until we’ve explained.” She gives me an apologetic smile and leads Bjorn up the stairs.
I turn to Rain. “What do you think, Freyr?”
She bends over, looking at a glass case of small skulls, potions, and bongs. “I think we’re in the wrong place.”
I pick up a book that reminds me of the Necronomicon. Since it doesn’t bite me, I open it and find myself looking at crude sketches of various monsters and calligraphic text that looks hand-written. “Maybe.” I turn the page to more monsters. “Maybe not.”
I wouldn’t say I feel open-minded right now, but after last night I can’t discount anything, no matter how ridiculous it seems on the surface.
Except for Bjorn’s boxers. They’re horrible.
“Let’s go,” Rain says, losing interest in the collection of curiosities. “Maybe he has some food that isn’t cursed, or newts, or whatever.” She gives me a subtle smile as she heads up the stairs.
As I follow her, the hairs on my arms spring up. Some instinctual part of my brain shouts, ‘Behind you!’ I whirl around, ready to fend off an attacker. But no one is there. The shop is empty.
I think.
Maybe.
If those things from last night really are supernatural, then maybe ghosts are real, haunting and tormenting the living. And if that’s true, Salem is the last place on Earth I want to be.
19
Bjorn’s apartment is the antithesis to the ‘Shoppe’ below, and a welcome relief. There are no dusty tombs, ancient symbols, or items that look like they were fashioned four hundred years ago, but were probably made in China—like everything else. The furnishings and décor are modern. The paintings on the walls are geometric and colorful. Morning sunlight flows through large windows and skylights.
We follow the smell of coffee to the sparkling kitchen with granite countertops and chrome appliances.
Reggie is there, getting out mugs with the honey and creamer already on the counter. “Bjorn is dressing.”
“What…” Rain says, looking around, as befuddled by the apartment as I am. “This is…”
“I had the same reaction the first time I came here,” Reggie says. “The dichotomy is fascinating, isn’t it?”
“That’s a word for it,” I say.
“This,” Reggie says, motioning to the apartment, “is a representation of his true self.” She motions to the geometric painting, square lines inside of square lines, each a slightly different color, rotating and shrinking to create a sense of depth. “Of his true mind.”
“And the ‘shoppe’ with an extra P and E? The cloak?”
“Before Bjorn opened the shop, he dabbled in acting on the side, most prominently in Cry Innocent.”
“I think I’ve seen that,” I admit.
“It’s a local play that allows the audience to judge Bridget Bishop.”
A memory is sparked. I saw the play with Morgan. Five years ago. The drama starts in the streets and then moves into a courthouse, where the audience acts as a jury, freeing Bridget Bishop, or repeating history to condemn her. Morgan voted to free her. I, like the majority of people, voted to repeat history. I have a dark side.
“But acting isn’t his true career,” she says.
“And it still isn’t,” Bjorn says, stepping out of the bedroom, fully clothed and looking more human in dark blue jeans and a T-shirt. For a moment, I wonder if he’s secretly a normal guy, then he opens his mouth again. “I was a nude model, too, but my forays into the arts have little to do with my true passion.”
Rain and I stare at him, waiting for the grand reveal this former thespian has planned for us. He smiles at his audience, and then with a flare of his eyes, says, “Science.”
Neither Rain nor I react. After a moment, I blink out of my stunned state. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Bjorn is a brilliant theoretical physicist,” Reggie says.
“A little too far on the fringe,” he says.
“A warlock,” I say.
Bjorn chuckles. “In a sense. I wrote a paper on Spectral Duality, the idea that when people see ghosts, they’re actually getting a glimpse of a parallel world, particularly during times of solar upheaval. My hypothesis is that the increase in charged particles and solar radiation warps the frequencies of reality, allowing us to see, for a moment, what is normally hidden. It was just an idea, one of many, regarding what we still consider the supernatural. But publishing it? Well, it ruined my career. Universities wouldn’t hire me, and no one would publish my papers. So I research in private and support myself with the shop. I might be a charlatan, but I’m probably the only person in this damn city with any hope of truly understanding the supernatural.”
“Our own personal Dr. Venkman,” I say, and I quickly worry that Bjorn’s sense of humor will eventually tire of my jabs.
His response, “More of an Egon,” puts me at ease.
I smile, sensing a fellow Ghostbusters fan in our midst. “Did you tell him about the Twinkie?” I ask Reggie.
“What about the Twinkie?” Bjorn asks, managing to get a slight laugh out of me.
“Uhh,” Reggie says. “I don’t know anything about a Twinkie.”
“I think I like Twinkies,” Rain says, hand on her belly.
“Do you have anything to eat?” I ask Bjorn. “Something without newts?”
“I think I have some dried bats around here somewhere,” he says, opening a cabinet. When he joins us at the kitchen’s island, he’s holding a box of Dunkin’ Donuts munchkins. “I’m afraid they’re a day old.”
“You’re a saint.” I waste no time pulling the box open and plucking an assortment from the mass of dough, lard, and sugar.
“Well, let’s keep that to ourselves,” Bjorn says, taking a seat, while Reggie pours the coffee.
I slide the box to Rain. She looks down like she’s never seen a Munchkin before. “I know what they are,” she says, “but I can’t remember them.” She plucks out a chocolate honey-dipped sphere.
“You can’t remember if you’ve eaten a donut?” Bjorn asks, and then he squints at Rain. “You’re not one of them Krispy Kreme weirdos, are you?”
“Bjorn,” Reggie says, sliding coffee cups to everyone, “there’s a lot you don’t know. Maybe we should have a seat?”
Coffee and donuts in hand, we find seats in the living room, which is almost posh. Rain curls up in a chaise lounge, while Reggie and Bjorn claim a love seat. I find myself in a rocking chair, which seems determined to defeat the caffeine’s effects. We debated sleep on the train ride to Salem, but ultimately decided to push through the day. There’s too much to figure out, too much to process, to spend the day asleep. I’m no stranger to all-nighters, so this is nothing new for me. Reggie is coping with caffeine, and I have no idea how Rain will handle it. So far, she seems just as alert and on edge as she has been since I freed her.
Reggie breaks down the previous night’s events—starting with my own—for Bjorn. It’s an exhaustive account. I hear my own words about Morgan’s fate, Rain’s discovery, and our flight from capture, all reg
urgitated, sparing me from having to conjure those memories on my own. Of course, I do anyway, replaying events as she speaks, trying to eke out understanding. But at least I don’t need to choke through getting the words out.
To his credit, Bjorn sits in silence, his coffee untouched, his face slowly morphing from interest to shock to horror and finally to skepticism.
“That’s what happened in Cambridge?” he asks.
“There must be news reports by now,” Reggie says. “You can confirm anything you want.”
“I saw the news before you arrived,” he says. “There was a blue light in the sky. Something about a transformer explosion. I assumed that’s what happened to Mrs. Signalman.” To me, “Sorry,” and then, “People from neighboring cities got photos.”
“Nothing with a glowing crater?” I ask.
He looks mystified by the question.
“They must be spinning the story,” I say to Reggie. “Covering it up.”
She’s not buying it. “How could they possibly cover-up Boston?”
“I don’t know.” My impatience flares. “I don’t even know who they are.”
“Wait,” Bjorn says, but we ignore him.
“Too many people saw it,” she says. “There was too much damage. How could they hide that?”
“Reg,” Bjorn says.
“They’ll probably call it a terror attack,” I say, “a chemical attack. Something psychedelic. A mass hallucination.” I hold up my hand to keep her from explaining again that they’re impossible. “It doesn’t have to be possible for the government to claim it’s real. Facts are optional, remember?”
“But the destruction,” she says. “Won’t—”
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