How to Hang a Witch (16 page)

“G
et in here.” Vivian's words are barbed.

I read the grandfather clock in the foyer before I enter the living room. It's 9:27. I know I missed her dinner, but I can barely look at her right now without wanting to cry and scream all at once.

“Apologize and I'll consider not grounding you.”

I should just do it and walk away. “No.”
You apologize. You don't care about my father…about our family.

She puts her glass of wine down and stands. “You're not sorry at all, are you?”

“Samantha, leave her,” Elijah says, standing next to a cluster of empty wine bottles.

“Maybe you should be worrying about visiting my dad instead of running around town shopping all the time and getting drunk.”

Her eyes harden. I know that look. We've hit the point of no return. “You seem awfully social yourself for someone who says she only wants to be by her father's side.”

“You have no idea what I've been doing.”

“Did I upset you,
mon chou
?” Vivian taunts, using the pet name my dad called me when I was a little girl. It means “my little cream puff.”

My fingers curl into my palms. “Screw you.”

Vivian's hand whips across my cheek so hard and so fast that everything goes black for a second. I raise my chin and stare at her. I don't massage my face, even though it hurts like hell. I want to tell her I found the insurance summary and call her every name I can think of, but before I can open my mouth her wineglass shatters on the floor.

Vivian jolts. “You're grounded.” She shifts her attention to the broken glass.

Elijah, who I'm pretty sure was the cause of it, gently touches my arm. “Do not give her the satisfaction of seeing you upset.”

I nod and run to my room with Elijah by my side. My whole body trembles. I slam my door and slide the lock into place. I stand there fuming. Elijah lifts my chin. He brushes a tear away with his cold thumb.

“I'm angry, not sad,” I say with a voice that's sad and not angry.

“I need no explanation.”

I'm grateful for that. I don't want to talk about how I feel. What I want is my dad back.

“I will bring you ice.” He blinks out of the room.

“Don't cry,” I say to myself, and dab my eyes with the sleeves of my black hoodie. I take a few deep breaths, and Elijah blinks in with a small ice pack. I take it from him. “Thanks.”

He nods. “May I bring you some tea?”

The formality of his question catches me by surprise. “Actually, yeah. I'd really like some tea. Will you have some with me?”

“Certainly.”

He blinks out, and I take my boots off. I pace with my ice pack, trying to clear Vivian from my thoughts and decide what to do next.
What does it mean that Cotton's face blurred with mine?
I don't like the idea that I'm connected to him. And if I am, does it mean he's trapped here like Elijah…or worse, he's trapped inside of me?

Elijah blinks in with a large silver tray full of tea. A wicker basket hangs from his arm, and a fluffy rug is over his shoulder. For the first time ever, he looks uncertain. “Will you hold this tray a moment, Samantha?” I swear he'd be blushing if he had blood.

I pull the ice pack off my cheek and take the tray. “What is all this?”

He unfolds the fluffy rug and spreads it out on my floor. “A room picnic.”

I almost fumble the tray.
Why is he doing this?
He takes it and places it in the middle of the rug. He offers his hand, and when our fingers touch I light up. My body temperature steadily rises and I break eye contact. We sit. He opens the basket and pulls out delicious-looking foods.

“Where'd you get all this?” I ask, still flustered.

“The tea and scones are from London. The finger sandwiches and pastries are from Paris. And the Devonshire cream is from Devonshire.”

He went all over Europe picking out food for me? How's this happening right now? “This is the best cheering-up present I've ever gotten.”

He smiles, and all his uncertainty drains away. It's a real smile. The first one I've ever seen on him.
He has dimples!
Everything in me wants to touch them. I need to change the subject before I embarrass myself. “Do you think Cotton's trapped inside me?”

He offers me a finger sandwich. “The thought did occur to me.”

I crinkle my face. “That makes me want to vom.”

“Please refrain from murdering the English language while we eat.”

I laugh. His humor always comes as a surprise. I wonder what he was like before Abigail died. “After tonight, I feel like I don't know nearly enough about Cotton.”

“Well, I know he was born in 1663 into a prominent family of ministers and followed that path himself. He was prolific and wrote nearly four hundred books and pamphlets.”

I glance at the stack of books I brought down from my grandmother's secret study. One of them was written by Cotton. I'll read that one first. “My grandmother's notebooks said he had a difficult relationship with his father. And that his need to impress him may have driven some of the things he did?”

“Increase Mather was an influential figure in the Puritan community. Cotton was determined to match his success. But Increase did not agree with the Trials using spectral evidence—the testimonies where people claimed the specter or spirit of the witch was trying to harm them.”

I watch his lips as he speaks.
Are they cold like his hands?
“In history class we learned they would strip people naked and search them for witches' teats. Gross word, by the way. Something that a ‘demon familiar,' I think my teacher called it, could suck from. And they poked the witches with pins, right? To see if they could feel them? I mean, that's some nutty stuff.”

“Indeed. Often, they would show bite marks as proof. Or they would fall into fits in the presence of the witch.”

The rash suddenly doesn't seem out of left field. “How did anyone believe these accusations?”

He looks thoughtful as he chews. “They were very convincing. My fiancée was one of the primary accusers.”

“How'd you feel about that?”

“Initially, I imagined her claim to illness legitimate. I worried terribly for her. She would stiffen and stop speaking, or suddenly become frightened by a sight that was not there. I spent many a wakeful hour walking her floors determined to find a medical solution.”

“And she was just jealous of your relationship with Abigail?” He must have felt so betrayed.

“Yes. That is where it started, certainly. Then it became about old insults and family grudges. She was consumed with the power of it. And her accusations took the lives of good people. By the time I left, she was a shadow of the girl I had loved. Dark and distorted.”

It sounds like a scarier version of high school. “How could people push each other to death like that? It seems so cruel.”

“She did it because she felt important. People got away with it because no one stood up for the accused. The first people accused of witchcraft in Salem were an invalid, a homeless woman, and a servant. Who would speak for them?”

Those poor people.

“It is not dissimilar to your own situation. Do you believe the Descendants could torment you without the consent of the other students and teachers?”

“It's not like they exactly agreed. They're just kinda silent about the whole thing,” I say.

“Group silence can be a death sentence. It was in Salem,” he says.

“Those accusations went to court, though.”

Elijah nods. “Court was different then. The accused witches had no way to defend themselves.”

That sounds awful.
“So, once you went to trial, you were found guilty.”

“You went in through the door and out hanging from the nearest tree,” Elijah says.

“What role did Cotton play, exactly?”

“It's complex. He wrote a book about a witchcraft case in Boston. Reading material was scarce at the time, and Cotton's book read like a gossip magazine. As you might imagine, it was extremely popular. When the witchcraft scare broke out in Salem Village, the afflicted exhibited the exact symptoms as the people in his book. A copy of that book was present on their bookshelves.”

“Oh man. So he unknowingly wrote a guidebook for accusing witches?” Maybe Lizzie's answer in class wasn't so far off.

“Also, understand that Puritan society was oppressively austere. Everyone worked and prayed and that was it.”

I shake my head. “So when these accusations began, it was like crazy reality TV and everyone got consumed by them?”

“Completely consumed. It happened faster than one would imagine,” he says, and pauses. “You never know in life when something unpredictable will happen.” He looks away quickly and lifts the china pot. “How do you take your tea?”

“Cream and sugar, please.” These words feel oddly proper. “Elijah, why did you come back to Salem?”

“I missed Abigail. I wanted to see something that reminded me of her.”

“But you didn't leave again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Troublesome houseguests.” He almost smiles.

“Do you still want me to leave?” I ask, terrified of his answer.

He thinks for a moment, and his boyish nervousness returns. “Samantha, you are the bravest person I have met in three hundred years.”

My eyes well up. I carry so much weight every day, and no one cares. Having someone acknowledge it is almost overwhelming.

“I am honored to know you,” he continues. “I only wish that Abigail could have had the same pleasure.”

I wipe away a tear.

He smiles. “I must remember to compliment you more so that you get used to it.”

He's right. No one ever compliments me except my dad. I stare at him, and the fluttering around my heart starts again. Why do I feel this way? And more important, why can't I breathe?

He slides his hand into mine and lifts it up. He gently kisses my fingers with almost warm lips. Goose bumps rise all over my body in the best way. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I jump, pulling my hand out of his grip. Unsure how to recover, I take my phone out. Jaxon's calling.

There's a muffled scream of frustration down the hall. “What was that?” I ask.

“Hard to say. Possibly, she discovered the wine on the back of her dress. I dare wonder how she will react when she gets to her new pair of shoes.”

“Sam?” says a muffled voice, and we both look down at my phone. I bite my lip. I must have pressed Answer. Guilt ripples through my body—guilt that I interrupted our room picnic and guilt that I considered not taking Jaxon's call.

“Hey, Jaxon,” I say into my phone, and stare at Elijah.

He nods knowingly and disappears.

M
y hands are folded in my lap. The sleeves of my black dress cover my wrists and make my arms itch. I hate wool.

“It should next be proved that witchcraft is!” booms a voice at the pulpit in the front of an old-fashioned church. It's the man from the woods. He looks too young to have that voice.

“The being of such a thing is denied by many….Their chief argument is, that they never saw any witches, therefore there are none. Just as if you or I should say, we never met with any robbers on the road, therefore there never was any padding there.”

I glance side to side, to see if anyone else thinks this sounds crazy. I discover the pew is full of people wearing essentially the same crap clothes I am, and bonnets, too.

“What the hell?” I say.

All eyes turn toward me.

“Do not call for things you do not desire,” says the man, his eyes boring into mine.

He takes a few steps toward me. I push past the people in the pew and back down the aisle. A rope grazes my shoulder. I jerk away from it and look up. A noose hangs from the ceiling. When my gaze falls back on the man, he's only inches from my face.

My eyes fly open and I grip the sides of my desk.

“Nice of you to join us,” says Mrs. Hoxley, her lips pushed together like a cranky fish's.

To my left, Susannah looks concerned.
School. Right, it's Thursday morning.
I rub my eyes.

“Sorry,” I say, and look down at Cotton Mather's book on my desk. I don't remember taking it out of my bag. I'm really not getting enough sleep.

“As I was saying, those of you who are participating in the historical reenactment will report to the auditorium for first period. Mr. Wardwell and Ms. Edelson asked me to remind you. It will be the same every Thursday for the next two weeks.”

This is so not good news.
A breeze blows in through the cracked window, bringing with it crisp fall-scented air. The bell rings.

I rub my eyes again and put on my jacket. The Descendants are out of the room without a word. So much for civility.

I enter the hallway, walking at a slow pace toward the auditorium. As soon as people see me, they recoil, like they don't want to chance touching me.
Damn that rash.

“Sam,” says Mrs. Lippy, waving at me right outside the auditorium door. Her hair falls limply around her face and she has lipstick on her teeth.

Not this.
“Is everything okay?”

“Peachy. But I will need you to come to my office after classes today.”

“I thought our meeting wasn't until Monday.” I don't really have time for this.

“Just the same. I've had a few calls. Not all of them pleasant.” She straightens her duck brooch. “Parents worry. As we all do. Some of us more than others.”

Great.
This is only going to make things worse. What happens next time Vivian is called to the principal's office? If Vivian was telling the truth, they could expel me. And with the way our relationship has been going lately, I wouldn't be surprised if she lets them.

The bell rings. “Okay, well, I gotta go to class.”

I open the heavy door and walk the long center aisle to Mr. Wardwell.

“You're late,” he says, and hands me what looks like a play.

Everyone is on stage already. And with Ms. Edelson's class, there are twice as many people to watch me stutter through my lines. My mouth goes dry.

I'm getting some pretty nasty looks. Except from Jaxon, of course. I walk up the stairs and stand near him on the stage. He smiles.

“The packets I gave you contain the entire performance with stage directions. I'd like us to read it all out loud. That way if there are any questions we can address them immediately,” says Mr. Wardwell in an overly enthusiastic voice that suggests he's likely the playwright.

Ms. Edelson joins him. Not far from me and Jaxon, Alice, Mary, and Susannah stand with Lizzie and John. I didn't know they were in Ms. Edelson's class, but I'm willing to bet they knew I was in Wardwell's. Is that why they left homeroom without a word, because they didn't want to walk with me? I chew on my lip. Alice and Lizzie appear to be arguing about something, but their voices are too quiet for me to make out their words.

“Everyone not directly involved in a given scene will stand against the curtains and wait their turn,” Ms. Edelson says in a voice that's gratingly high-pitched. “The restrooms are in the back. If anyone needs to use them, feel free, just don't hold up a scene you're in.”

My hands shake as I flip through the first few pages, looking for Cotton's name. It's not there. “Who are you again?” I whisper to Jaxon.

“Reverend Parris. I'm up first,” he says with fake enthusiasm.

I sympathize even though he's perfectly calm. We arrange ourselves against the curtain, with Jaxon and a few others center stage. There's ten feet between me and the next person. This is so unfair. They're treating me like I have leprosy, and I was the only one
without
the rash.

In my peripheral vision I see Lizzie staring at me. I can't help it; I look at her. She holds the little Mather doll against her side and is wrapping something that looks like hair around its neck. I can only assume it's
my
hair. The other girls don't seem to notice, or maybe they don't care. Maybe everything Susannah told me last night was to get information out of me. My stomach tenses, and I turn toward the restroom.

I slip through an opening in the curtain and into the backstage area. It's dimly lit and smells like an attic. There are pulleys that control the curtains and large metal shelves. I head for the hallway in the back right corner.

A warm hand slips over my mouth, jerking my head back against a male chest. I struggle, but the grip is too strong.

“It's easy to hurt you,” John's voice says in my ear, my neck straining. “You should never have come to Salem, Mather. We know all about you. I owe you one for that rash. And for Lizzie's—”

I slam my elbow into his ribs. He grunts and loosens his hand on my mouth enough for me to bite down, hard. There's a moment before he reacts, and I worry he might not care. His arm tightens around my rib cage, making me gasp for breath. I keep my teeth clamped onto his hand.

All at once he releases me. I fling myself forward and away from him. In the dim lighting, I stumble into the pulleys. I get caught in the ropes and struggle to untangle my legs. I grab on to one to steady myself.

Just before I turn to face John, terrified he might be ready to pounce on me again, everything goes black. I look around frantically, but I can't see the room at all. All I can see is the rope in my hand—every detail of it and nothing else.

Panic creeps along my skin. At the top of the rope there's a girl's body hanging. She rotates slowly in my direction, but her hair covers her face.

After a few seconds of forever, I release my grip on the rope. The moment I let go, the blackness dissipates and the backstage area comes back into view.

What's in front of me is just as gruesome as the image of the girl hanging, though. One of the huge metal shelves is on the floor with its contents scattered around it. Under the shelf is John, facedown, blood oozing from his head.

I freeze. It's the vision I had in the woods with the Descendants.

Students rush back to where we are. Screams erupt. Mr. Wardwell pushes through the crowd. “Ms. Edelson, call nine-one-one!” he yells. Then, to a couple of the frightened students, “Help me pick up this shelf!”

It takes five of them to lift it. Jaxon's one of them. Meanwhile, the blood around John's head forms a pool. Lizzie screams, and rushes to him. Susannah, Mary, and Alice comfort her. I can't make out their words.

“Everyone, move!” yells Ms. Edelson. Some of the students back away, and the Descendants pull Lizzie from John.

“Sam. Samantha!” Jaxon walks up to me.

Ms. Edelson tries to remove the traumatized students from backstage. My vision blurs in and out. Time passes, but I couldn't say how much. Someone is sobbing. More teachers show up, and Brennan is with them.

Then come the EMTs. “No pulse,” one says. Jaxon steps between me and John's body, breaking my view of the blood for the first time. I blink.

Jaxon grabs my hand and pulls me gently. My feet move. He asks me if I'm okay, but my mouth refuses to answer. I just keep thinking about my vision in the woods. I didn't even try to figure out who was in that vision. Now it's too late.

How many seconds did I miss while having that vision of the hanging girl? I didn't hear the shelf fall. I don't understand how a shelf falls by itself. The only things I'm sure of are that I have to figure out who was hanging and I need to tell the Descendants about what I saw.

I snap my head up and scan the room for them, seeing the chaos for the first time. I'm sitting in a chair in the front of the auditorium. When did I sit down?

“I think she's in shock,” Jaxon explains to a policeman with a bushy gray mustache who takes the seat next to me.

“Can ya hear me, Sam?” says the policeman with a husky voice.

I meet his eyes. “Yes.” Jaxon seems relieved.

“Do you feel up to answering a few questions about what happened back there?”

“I guess so,” I respond.

“I'm Captain Bradbury. I'll go nice and slow. You let me know if you need a break,” he says, and Jaxon sits down on the other side of me.

“Okay.” The room's full of policemen, and other students are being questioned, too.

“As I understand it, you were the only person backstage with John when the shelf fell. You wanna tell me what you remember?” He licks his thumb and flips the page of his notepad.

“I went backstage to go to the bathroom.” My voice shakes. “I felt a hand over my mouth and another one holding my stomach.” Jaxon tenses. “He whispered in my ear, ‘It's easy to hurt you.' I managed to get my elbow into his ribs and I bit his hand. He let go and I went flying forward into the ropes. I got tangled in them.”

Bradbury furrows his brow. “You're saying this young man attacked you?”

“In a way.”

“Have you had any altercations with him before?” Bradbury asks.

I hesitate. “Well, not exactly. He doesn't like me.”

“Had he ever physically assaulted you before today?”

“No.” I can't tell him about the locker or the rock because I can't prove those.

“And how did the shelf fall?” Bradbury asks.

“I'm not sure. I blacked out when I hit the ropes.”
Hanging girl.
“And then he was just lying there.”

“It's not likely you're strong enough to knock over one of them shelves….It would take two of my bigger officers to push one of those over. I'd imagine something else musta happened. Did you hear anything or see anyone?”

He already checked out the shelves? I must've been sitting here for a while. “No. I blacked out.”

“Shock, most likely. It's common.” He really is trying to be nice. “If you remember anything more, even in a few days, I want you to give me a call.” He hands me a business card. “We might have you down to the station to give a more formal statement.”

“Okay,” I say, examining the card with a witch logo on it and tucking it into my wallet.

Bradbury stands and pats me on the shoulder.

“Sam, he attacked you?” Jaxon seems conflicted.

“He's dead, isn't he?” I already know the answer, and the weight of it is more than I can bear.

Jaxon nods. “I'll call my mother to pick us up.”

I scan the room again. “Where are the Descendants? I have to tell them something.”

“They left. Lizzie was pretty hysterical.”

I can't let this vision, or whatever it was, go. The last time I did that, someone died. Next it'll be a girl, possibly someone I know. I need to find Elijah. I stand, and Jaxon stands with me. My legs feel weak and my head spins. I reach out for Jaxon. I feel his hand on my arm before the room blurs.