The Curse of Jenny Greene

by Kimberly Loth

  He grabbed his can of root beer. “Come on,” he said.

  When I followed him upstairs, at first, I thought we were going into his room, and my whole body turned to jelly. If spending time alone with him was anxiety-inducing, being with him in his room was going to cause a full-blown nervous breakdown.

  My eyes widened, and a puff of sound popped out of my mouth when he showed me into a room lined with bookcases. It was a total Belle from Beauty and the Beast moment. Under normal circumstances, I might have twirled and sung a song. This was anything but normal though I was still quite impressed.

  “My dad’s a collector,” he smiled. “Most people prefer the movie room.”

  “Oh.” I liked movies too. But not as much as I liked books. I liked libraries, a lot. Heck, I hid in the school library for lunch most days, but this was nothing like the school library. Or any other libraries I’d been in. It didn’t smell of sweat and paper. No, this room was dark, despite the large bay window, and a blend of aged leather, brandy, and cigars permeated the room.

  A large oak desk occupied the space in front of the window, with stacks of yellowed newspapers piled on top. Foster pulled up an extra chair and handed me an article from 1934 and took another for himself.

  “We haven’t gotten all the way through them yet,” he said as he flipped open a section. The front-page article of my paper was about a bread line being formed at the Hastings Methodist Church, about twenty-five miles from Blaylock Bay. Man, starving people had had to go that far just to get bread. I shook my head and skimmed the next page. Most of the articles appeared to document the bleak state of the economy and the stock market.

  A truly morbid list of suicides from Bangor filled one column. Most were bankers or heads of companies. I shivered and kept searching. Nothing about Greenteeth or missing kids in that edition, but the situation had been depressing in its own right.

  “Are they all that bad?” I asked.

  “The nineteen-thirties were a bad time.” Foster sorted through the stack and handed me a different one from 1947.

  “Why do you have all these?” I stared at the picture of a glamourous dancing couple.

  “Grandpa never threw away anything.” Foster set aside his own paper and leaned over the arm of my chair. His breath was warm on my cheek.

  “The ones from the forties are my favorites. Preparations for World War II and life here at home.”

  Foster had scooted close to me. I squirmed in my chair. He’d kissed me last night. Would he want to do that again? Or worse yet, what if he didn’t?

  “It was a crazy time,” I finally said. I glanced up from an article about rationing and focused right into his startling blue eyes.

  “What’s going through that head of yours?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Nothing.” Lamest answer ever.

  Surely, kissing me last night had been an experiment. To see what it was like to kiss the crazy girl. Then, he’d go find Lucy Pennington or somebody normal who spent hundreds of dollars on makeup. That would be the end of it. He wasn’t thinking about kissing me now. This was my hang-up, not his.

  “I’ve read this one.” He rustled the paper in my hand. “Turn to page four.”

  I did. The top featured a photo of a couple of men in handcuffs being led away. Not romantic. Nope, not at all.

  “Look at the names,” he said.

  Dennis Jennings and Carl Hurst were being arrested for something. The officer was Michael Briggs.

  Michael Briggs was Gram’s father. I had never seen a photo of my great-grandfather, and now here he was in black and white in Foster’s library. Hurst was Della’s, and of course, old man Jennings’s. How wild? This would have been Della and Jennings’ fathers as well. I glanced up at Foster, but he wasn’t looking at the newspaper. He was staring at me.

  My skin tingled with electricity. I liked it. And when Foster tilted his head, I closed my eyes and leaned in to meet him.

  His lips were soft and warm. He took the paper out of my hands and turned my chair toward him.

  I was nervous but not nearly as much as I had been last night. This time, I wanted to touch him and feel his muscles move.

  When Foster tilted his head and caught my bottom lip between his teeth, I sighed, and he kissed me deeper, delving his hands into my hair. I ran mine up his arms and linked my fingers behind his neck. His hair was soft.

  He growled low in his throat and lifted me out of my chair and into his lap. If I hadn’t been so caught up in his hands on my waist, his lips on mine, I would have died of embarrassment before sitting in his lap. But much to my surprise, I liked being crushed against his chest.

  I gripped his shoulders and shivered. In a good way, for once. Trembling, I leaned closer to him, eager to share the warmth I always seemed to be lacking. My fingers burned with cold when I brushed them through his hair as if there were frost in his soft waves.

  No, wait. Something wasn’t right.

  The room really was colder.

  Goosebumps broke out across my arms from the temperature drop.

  “Foster,” I mumbled against his lips.

  “Hmmm.” He kissed me again, not paying attention.

  I tore my lips away from his.

  “Something’s going on.” I could see my breath. It came in short, sharp gasps.

  The window had crusted in ice, and the air emanating from it was frigid. My heartbeat hummed in my ears, and it wasn’t all from the excitement of the kiss. Cold encompassing a room this fast meant one thing. Greenteeth.

  Chapter 26

  “Foster,” I said again and shook him.

  He opened his eyes, and I pointed at the window. He reached across me and scratched the frost off the glass.

  “See?” I climbed out of his lap.

  The window faced west. Toward the pond. I could barely see the edges of the water through the trees. But what caught my attention was the thick fog creeping among the trees and wafting toward the house. I gasped.

  “Foster.” Terrified, my voice was barely more than a whisper. “I think she’s coming.”

  His chair creaked as he shoved it back to stand. His arm snaked around me, and he looked outside.

  Silhouettes moved in the fog. The children. The long-missing ones who had lost their eyes. Was Greenteeth out there too? Was Sam?

  Downstairs, someone banged on the front door.

  I jumped.

  “Don’t worry. I doubt Greenteeth can actually come inside,” he said.

  Foster crossed the room and stepped out into the hall. No way was I staying behind, not while we were being stalked by the evil fog. I followed near him, almost smacking into Foster when he stopped.

  More pounding on the front door. The sound was getting louder. Then a crash in the library made us both jump. The banging on the door stopped. I checked over my shoulder. The library window had been smashed, apparently by nothing more than the wall of fog.

  “Foster,” I yelped and latched onto his arm. Cold swept into the room, and with it, bile rose in my throat. The witch was coming for me. I’d been stupid to come out here, this close to her.

  Foster grabbed my hand and tugged. I didn’t budge. I couldn’t move, it was as if she’d already frozen me where I stood. I closed my eyes and fought against the wave of fear that was pushing away the thought of escape. Foster wrapped his arm around my waist and yanked me toward the stairs. The fog followed us out into the hall.

  “Fight her, Sophie,” he said through clenched teeth, and his voice snapped me back to action in time to flee down the steps with him.

  Foster steered me into the living room. When I glanced back and saw Greenteeth standing at the top of the stairs, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Her filthy dress was streaming brackish pond water all over the floor.

  The mere sight of her stopped me in my tracks, but my heart was racing ninety miles an hour. I couldn’t breathe. So much for his idea of her not being able to enter the house. There she was, in all her dripping horror.

&n
bsp; “Sophie, damn it,” Foster commanded, pulling on my arm again, but I stayed firm, my feet frozen in place, unable to move. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Greenteeth parted her grimy hair with her hands. Her mossy smile was the only facial feature visible. Her hands and hair obscured the rest of her face.

  “Shit,” Foster cursed. This was his first good look at her.

  Greenteeth kept raking back her hair. The tip of her pointy nose appeared, and then, slowly, her eyes . . . white orbs with pools of black water flowing down her cheeks, staining her skin.

  I’d finally seen enough. I sprinted as Foster guided me through the kitchen. The fog hadn’t reached the rear of the house yet. Foster pulled me to the left and out a side door. I stumbled on the back porch steps, ripping my hand free of Foster’s, but he stopped and reached for me.

  “This way.” He panted, growing short of breath. So was I. We kept running faster than I thought my feet would move. Instinct caused me to peek back at the house and I spotted Greenteeth as she appeared in the doorway.

  Fog enveloped her, and she shot it out toward us. Muffled giggles of lost children echoed in the murky depths. Foster pulled me in a different direction.

  There was a cliff up ahead. The ocean was only a few hundred feet away. If we could reach it before the eerie mist caught up with us, Titan and the salt air might be able to dispel Greenteeth’s madness.

  Titan, I screamed in my head then aloud. “Titan, please help us.”

  Foster ran up to the edge of the cliff, stopped, and turned to check our pursuer. The fog hadn’t followed us that far. Greenteeth stood in front of the wall of thick vapor, her face stained and her mouth open, revealing those disgusting teeth. The fog snapped and pushed at the boundary line that Greenteeth had marked.

  Foster stepped in front of me.

  Greenteeth smiled, and from the depths of her fog, I heard laughter.

  “What do you want?” I pushed past Foster and faced her. “Is it me? You already have my brother. You wanna trade? Him for me?”

  “Sophie.” Foster wrapped his arms around my waist and jerked me back behind him again.

  Greenteeth opened her mouth, but instead of words, a keening cry poured from her lips. A call filled with loneliness and hate.

  I covered my ears. Foster tucked his head against the back of my neck.

  “Give me back my brother,” I screamed over her demented song.

  Eyes filled with hatred glared at me.

  “She says he belongs to her.” Little Sophie had materialized out of the fog, now standing beside Greenteeth. If she remembered standing in Della’s backyard, crying, she sure didn’t show it now. “She doesn’t give back what has come to her.”

  “Come to her?” I scoffed. “She stole him. And the others. Chase, Cassie.”

  “No.” The girl shook her head, and her braids swished back and forth over her shoulders. “It’s her song. She needs us. It says so in the lyrics.”

  That reminded me of something Alex had said. About how sad Greenteeth had been.

  “Don’t you see? We all come of our own free will,” said Little Sophie.

  “Sam wouldn’t leave us.” Tears splashed onto my cheeks. Foster loosened his grip. He was not restraining me anymore so much as simply holding me.

  “Sam answered her call,” said Little Sophie. “Please, leave us be.”

  The fog began to dissipate. Greenteeth and the girl’s images grew faint.

  “No. Give them back,” I shouted. My voice hurt. In one quick motion, Foster spun me around and wrapped me in a tight hug.

  I collapsed on the rocky ground. Foster dropped down with me. For the second time that day, I buried my face in his chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

  Chapter 27

  Eventually, we went back to the house.

  Thankfully, no physical sign of Greenteeth appeared on the first floor, other than the stench of rotted fish . . . or flesh.

  “Hannah’s gonna be pissed,” Foster said with a faint smile. I knew he was trying to lighten the mood, but I wasn’t ready to smile yet.

  I headed up to the library, taking two steps at a time. Something told me the newspaper we’d been reading hadn’t survived.

  My hunch was right. The room resembled the aftermath of a hurricane. Newspapers were in shreds. Tiny pieces of paper floated around the room like paper airplanes caught in the breeze from the broken window.

  Foster whistled.

  “Hannah’s really gonna be pissed.” He wasn’t joking this time. Most of the books had been sucked from their shelves and were scattered and piled in heaps. Water dripped from the edge of the oak desk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Not your fault.” Foster picked up a worn leather volume that had been ripped in half.

  “Maybe it is.”

  Little Sophie said I just needed to leave Greenteeth alone. Gram had said the same. What if they’d been right? I knew books couldn’t compare in value to the lives of the lost children, but what if Greenteeth had planned to stop with Sam? Could my relentless pursuit have driven her to take more children?

  I knew it wasn’t true. All the articles I’d read said she took multiple children before she was satisfied. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was at least part of the driving force behind this mess.

  Those sentiments must have been written all over my face. Foster rushed to my side in a flash, kissing my forehead.

  “This isn’t your fault. You can’t be held responsible for what this crazed ghost is doing.”

  I pulled away from him, and a flash of color caught my eye. A small, brown, leather-bound journal in perfect condition sat perched atop a pile of debris. A yellow ribbon had been tied into a perfect bow and placed on top.

  The decoration was the same shade of yellow as Little Sophie’s dress.

  I stooped to pick it up.

  “I think I may have found something,” I said, stuffing the ribbon in my pocket.

  “What?”

  I checked for something inscribed on the outside of the book. A date had been scratched inside the cover.

  June 6th, 1689

  My hands shook. The binding of this book was not that old, but it might have been redone. Although the pages were yellow with age, I would have expected a volume from the 1600’s to turn to dust at my touch.

  I held my breath and flipped to the next page.

  Memorable Providences

  “What does this have to do with us? Why would Sophie leave it?” I asked.

  Foster shrugged. “Let’s take it downstairs.” He guided me through the destruction that had been the library. My heart ached for these books. If one item was here from 1689, how old must the others be?

  “I am truly sorry about this,” I said with a nod toward the devastation.

  “Me too, but it’s not your fault.” He carefully shut the door behind us as if another sudden movement would dismantle the books even further.

  Without a word, we made our way back down to the kitchen. I placed the book on the counter and opened it back to the inscription page for us both to see.

  My name is Cotton Mather, and as pastor for the righteous and pure North Church, I am cataloging the details of confirmed witch trials in the Massachusetts Bay Company for the edification of all Holy Souls.

  I shivered. I didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  Foster pulled his phone out. His brow was scrunched up as he searched for something.

  “It says here that Cotton Mather was important in the Salem Witch Trials,” he said.

  I breathed out. The Witch Trials. Did this thing go that deep?

  “Keep going.” Foster nodded at the book.

  I flipped the page.

  The Trial of Goody Glover.

  1689

  Goody Glover was some poor Irish woman who had been sold into indentured servitude several times. In 1689, she was tried for witchcraft after the children of the house she worked in fell ill. She was hung in the street
s. Supposedly, before she died, she said that the children would never recover. At the time of the writing, Mather said that the children still suffered from their affliction.

  Several more pages went on about the signs of witchcraft and the fight to save the souls of those who had come into contact with a witch. The man sounded like a raving lunatic.

  “I’m not sure I can read much more of this. It’s dark stuff.” I folded my arms and tried to squeeze some warmth back into me.

  Foster scooted his stool closer and wrapped his arm around me too. I leaned into him and sighed. He was always so much warmer than I was.

  “Yeah, it’s dark. But so was that thing that chased us out of the house.” He reached out and turned another page.

  The Curse of Jennifer Greene

  1689

  I sucked in a deep breath, and I felt a tremor roll through Foster.

  “I guess now it’s time to find out about our witch,” he said.

  Jennifer Greene was from the Greene family of Boston, Massachusetts. They were among several families sent to the Penobscot Bay area by the Massachusetts Bay Company in 1662. Those families were among the first colonists to successfully inhabit the area and create a thriving settlement. However, there was a division between the leaders of the Church, the Righteous Horace Greene, and the leader of the Bay Company, Paul Alfred. The Greenes and a few other divinely selected families left Penobscot to build their own settlement, later named Greenetown, on the northern shores of the Atlantic.

  During that time, the territory was still ripe with Indians, mainly those of the Algonquin Tribe. A certain off-shoot called the Abenaki tribe were particularly hostile to newcomers who only sought a private place to live and worship.

  Jennifer Greene was the youngest daughter of Horace. She was nine when she was abducted by the Abenaki. The men of Greenetown sought to find the child. But after the gruesome death of one such rescuer, the search was called off and the child left to her fate.

  Four years later, Jennifer was found sitting alone in a clearing. The family rejoiced and brought her back into their bosom. However, her time with the savages changed the child into something sinister that should have never been found.