How to Hang a Witch (8 page)

M
r. Wardwell gets in his car, parked on the sidewalk near my gate. He doesn't see me in the dark and pulls away from the curb by the time I get to the driveway.

I run for my house, anger propelling me forward. “Vivian!” I yell as I open the door, but there is no need. She is standing fifteen feet away from me at the small table covered in mail. “What was Mr. Wardwell doing here?”

“He was helping to fix the window.”

“In my bedroom?” I ask, getting louder.

“Yes.”

“How did that happen? That is
not
okay.” My world is spinning out of control.

She stiffens. “I met him at the hardware store, and he brought over his repair guy. Really, Sam, I don't appreciate being grilled on this subject.”

I narrow my eyes. “My dad is in the hospital.”

She puts down the mail. “I know exactly where your father is. Don't you dare ever make an insinuation like that again.”

I march straight to my room and slam the door. I glare at the new glass in my window and pace around in circles.

“Ghost?” I say out loud. “Hellllo? Where are you?”

Silence.

“Go ahead. Ignore me. I'll just go straight downstairs and destroy that painting of Abigail.”

I head for my door, but before I get there, he blocks my path. I almost walk smack into him. His hands wrap around my arms. He squeezes so hard it hurts.

“The arrogance.” His gray eyes fix on mine. “Summoning me like a dog.” His accent's more pronounced when he's annoyed.

“I don't care if you don't like me,” I say. “I don't like you, either.”

“Keep my sister's name off your lips.”

I lift my chin and use the voice my dad uses when doing business with difficult people. “I want to make a deal with you.” He relaxes his grip a little, and I can tell I've surprised him. “Help me figure out if I'm cursed and how to break it, and I'll leave this house.”

He lets go of me. “I have no reason to trust you.”

“Then we're even.”

“I could make you leave without the bargain.”

“Yeah, but I could do a lot of damage before I go. There's all kinds of stuff around here covered in black-eyed Susans.”

There is a long pause. “Yes.”

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. “Good. Where do we start?”

“That is not something I know.”

“But you've been around for three hundred years, watching people. You have to know something.”

“I have not been in Salem since the late sixteen hundreds.”

“At all?”

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“Other places.”

Could he be more vague? “Why?”

“That is my business.”

“Okay, fine. What do you know about my family?”

“Very little. I know that Increase Mather was well respected in the seventeenth century and quite influential in Boston, that his son Cotton Mather followed in his footsteps, and that his tenth or eleventh great-granddaughter, Samantha Mather, is common.”

“Did you just call me common?”

“I believe I did.”

I clench my teeth. “You're a jackass.”

“Common and uncouth.”

“I wasn't born in the sixteen hundreds! Girls curse. Get used to it.”

“I would rather not.”

I grab my head in frustration. “Fine. Don't. Let's go to my grandmother's secret study and I'll show you what I found.”

“The study is mine. I designed it.”

“I don't care whose study it is. Just meet me there.”

He disappears. I kick my boots off to avoid making noise in the hallways and close my door gently behind me. I hope he's not a figment of my imagination. Who in their right mind would create an imaginary person who insults them?

There's no sign of Vivian as I creep through the hallways and enter the library, but I don't turn on the lights, just to be safe. Instead, I navigate the tables and books with the light from my phone. I run my fingers along the arch of the brick fireplace and pull the hook.

The door pops open, and a soft glow illuminates the end of the hallway.
Great. The ghost took the lantern?
It must be convenient to disappear from one place and appear in another.

When I reach the top of the stairs, he's standing in the middle of the room on a faded rug. For a second, I realize how out of place I am compared to him. These antiques match him, make him more attractive and proud than he already is.

“What's your name? I can't keep calling you dark-haired dude in my head.”

He frowns. “I would rather you did not call me that, as well. My name is Elijah Roe.”

Odd name, but it suits him. I walk to my grandmother's desk and sit down, thumbing through her journal.

“Here.” I show him the entry referencing the curse, and he moves close to me.

While he reads, I sift through papers for the deaths of the descendants my grandmother mapped out. I don't have to look far; the folder rests on the top of a nearby pile.

There are fifty or so pages of death statistics in the folder. I flip through and find that she circled three years in red. And in those years, all the descendants she was tracking died in a very short time frame. My stomach drops. This doesn't bode well for my dad. I shake my head and try to concentrate on the numbers. I don't understand the pattern, but I can see there is one.

Elijah hands me the journal. “An old woman's diary does not constitute evidence of a curse.”

If I didn't want to figure this out so badly, I would tell him what he could do with his comment. “Look, this is where she mapped out the deaths of the descendants. It includes all the main families involved with the Witch Trials.” I hand him the folder. “My life is falling apart, and if my grandmother's right and it's because of some stupid curse, then I want to know.”

He takes the death records.

“I know this whole thing sounds ridiculous,” I say. “No one knows that more than me. I don't even believe in ghosts. Salem has warped my mind.”

“Spirits,” he replies.

“What?”

“We are called spirits. ‘Ghost' is a vulgar term.”

“Well,
pardonnez-moi.
” I can't help myself.

He raises an eyebrow. “This will take careful consideration. The records are incomplete in recent years. I will amend them.”

“Great.” Before the word leaves my mouth, he's gone.

I sit back in my grandmother's chair and push my hair away from my face. I hope I didn't just make a very stupid deal.

I
stare at the picture of me and my dad in Paris.

My dad held a glossy pastry in his hands, with cream billowing from the top. “Sam, you're about to eat the most delicious thing you've ever tasted. And I'm the lucky one that gets to be here to witness it. If you pass out from delight, don't say I didn't warn you first.”

I grinned foolishly at my dad as he hoisted me up onto his lap. He placed the large cream puff into my small hands.

“Now, hold on. Before you bite it, we should document this moment.” My dad waved at a pretty woman about to enter the café we were sitting outside of. “Mademoiselle, pardon. Pouvez-vous prendre une photo de nous?”

She smiled at my dad as he handed her his camera. She had a loose braid, long legs, and high heels. “Of course I will.”

“Now, wait a second, something can be improved here,” my dad said as he pulled me closer. “And I know just what it is.” He swiped a piece of cream from the pastry and put it on my nose. “That's it. Perfection.”

I laughed, and my dad wrapped his arms around me. He was right. In that moment, everything was perfect.

I put down the picture.
One more day until I see you.
My cell phone is next to the frame and I notice a missed call from Jaxon from late last night. I cringe, remembering our botched kiss.

I push back the covers and slide my feet into black flip-flops. The black-eyed Susan in the slender vase on my bedside table catches my eye and I touch its silky petals. There's no way this is the same flower as when I got here. Elijah must replace it. He must have really loved his sister. I wonder what happened to her.

I listen for heels clicking as I walk down the hallway, but everything's silent.

“Elijah?” I whisper in the front foyer. No response.

I should've asked him about the hanging location. He just left too fast.
Whatever.
I'll find the house my grandmother talked about myself. I'm curious about it anyway, and I'll need it for that history paper. I can't write “The ghost in my house told me” in my footnote and expect it to go over as hard evidence.

I push the kitchen door open. A faint smell of coffee lingers. Vivian left some in the pot for me. I grab a white mug from the cupboard and see the
#1 DAD
mug behind it. I gave it to my dad on his birthday when I was in fourth grade. He used it every morning since. He said he's proud of the title and wants everyone to know. It's one of the few things I brought from the NYC apartment.

I mix a generous amount of cream and sugar into my coffee and make my way to the back door. I step onto the patio and sit at the white cast-iron table. It smells like the beginning of fall.

“Samantha!” booms Mrs. Meriwether from her enormous garden. She waves with a handful of herbs.

I look around. No Jaxon in sight. “Good morning, Mrs. Meriwether!”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No.” Then I quickly add, “But I'm alright.”

“Nonsense. Come over and have some with me. Jaxon usually sleeps for a few more hours, and I'm just about to sit down.”

“Don't worry. I'm okay.”

“I don't see Vivian's car in the driveway, and I would hate to think you're hungry over there when I have so much food.”

“I'm in my pajamas.” I glance at my black plaid jams.

“Best clothes in a person's wardrobe,” she replies, and I give up. There's no resisting this cheerful woman.

I walk off the patio into the damp grass. I might seriously regret this decision if Jaxon wakes up and finds me at his kitchen table. But she did say he sleeps late. Maybe I can find out something about my grandmother.

Mrs. Meriwether opens the back door. “Come on in.”

She leads me toward the dining room table, which is made from weathered wood and has the same rustic edges as everything else in the house. Eggs, strawberry waffles, and hash browns are laid out in an impressive display.

I sit. “This looks amazing.”

“You'll have to come over more often. I never have enough people to cook for. Should've had a dozen children.”

I smile at her and pile food on my plate. “Mrs. Meriwether, you were close with my grandmother, right?”

“Charlotte was a second mother to me. Took care of her right up until the end.”

“What was she like? I mean, was she…” I want to say “sane,” but that sounds so rude. “Clear-minded when she got older?”

“Charlotte had a mind of her own. People didn't always understand her.” She pauses. “Her eccentricities were more pronounced with age, especially her belief in the unseen. But yes, she had a perfectly sound mind until the day she passed.”

“Do you believe in things you can't see?” I ask, not really sure how to address the curse or the grumpy ghost.

“Almost everything worth believing in cannot be seen. Love, for instance.”

“I never really thought about that.”

“Sam?” Jaxon says behind me.
Shitballs.

Mrs. Meriwether notices my reaction. “Jaxon, you're awake before noon. Isn't this a lovely surprise.”

“I heard voices,” he says.
Join the club.

“Take a seat. I'll get you a plate.”

He sits at the end of the table, between me and Mrs. Meriwether. She heads toward the kitchen, and I stare at my food.

“I'll go,” I say as soon as she's out of earshot.

“Why?”

“You know why, because of…well, yesterday.”

“So you're mad at me?” He frowns.

“What? No. I'm just…I don't know what I am.”

Mrs. Meriwether returns with a plate and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She looks at us. “Need to go check on my macarons. Delicate things, you know.”

When she's out of the room, I get up.

“Sam, stop. I won't kiss you anymore. I just don't wanna fight.”

“Believe me. It's not that.”

He looks relieved. “So you do want me to kiss you?”

My face turns bright red. “Sometimes I seriously want to knock you out.”

“I'm not afraid of some stupid curse, or whatever you think is wrong with you.”

I sit back down and lower my voice. I'm not thrilled about Mrs. Meriwether overhearing this. “I know you don't believe me. But I'm not lying. One of my best friends fell down the stairs in my apartment building. Another got hit by a car when we were crossing the street. I attract disaster.”

He ignores my warning. “You wouldn't have come here if you were trying to avoid me. You're at my house in your pajamas.”

“I came because your mom invited me.”

He looks at me like I can't possibly be serious.

“Okay, fine.” I pick my fork back up. “So what?”

“So, you like me.” He smiles, shoveling eggs onto his plate.

I can't help it. I laugh.
I do like you, more than you know.
What if something does happen to Jaxon and it's my fault? I couldn't live with that.

“You still taking me on a date to that house today?” Jaxon asks.

I smile. “Not if you put it like that.”