The cemetery was small and intimate, the size of someone’s backyard. A cobblestone path twisted and turned its way throughout the place, and as she strolled, she marveled at how old the tombstones were, at their strange fonts, worn away with age. It was English, but it was so old, and so quaint, it almost read like a different language.
She carefully read the names, particularly scrutinizing the last names.
But she couldn’t find a single “Paine,” or any variation on the name. They had reached the end of the trail. There was nothing.
As Caitlin reached the end, Caleb beside her, she stopped and read a plaque. It described some of the horrific tortures that the witches had suffered. One of them, she read, was “pressed” to death. She was horrified.
“I can’t believe what they did to them,” Caitlin said. “It seems like all the witches met horrible deaths.”
“They weren’t witches,” Caleb said gravely.
Caitlin looked over at him, hearing sadness in his voice.
“They were our kind,” he said.
Caitlin’s eyes opened wide. “Vampires?” she asked.
Caleb nodded, looking down at the stones.
Silence settled over them, as Caitlin pondered that.
“I don’t understand,” she finally said. “How were they here?”
Caleb sighed. “The Puritans. They weren’t persecuted in England because of their form of Christianity. They were persecuted because they were our kind. That is why they left Europe, and why they came here. To practice freely. They were trying to escape the oppression of the old world, the European vampires. They knew that if they were to survive, they would need to found a new nation. So they came. They were the benevolent vampire race, and they didn’t want to war with other vampires, or with humans. They just wanted to be left alone.
“But over time, the darker vampire races followed them here, and in increasing numbers. The early wars in the colonies weren’t between humans: they were really wars between good and evil vampire races.
“And the persecution of witches in Salem was just a front for a persecution of vampires.
Wherever there is good, bad follows. A perpetual battle between light and dark. The witches who were persecuted and hung in Salem were all of the good vampire race.
“This is why it would make perfect sense for your father to be buried here. Why Salem, in general, makes perfect sense. Why your necklace makes perfect sense. It all points to the same thing: that you are the one heir. The key to finding the sword they hid, that will protect us all.”
Caitlin looked around the cemetery again, her mind spinning from all the history. She didn’t know what to make of it. But she did know one thing: there was no “Paine” here. It was another dead-end.
“There’s nothing here,” Caitlin finally said.
Caleb surveyed the graveyard one more time, and seemed clearly disappointed.
“I know,” he said.
Caitlin was afraid their search was really over this time. She couldn’t let it end here.
“The rose and the thorn, the rose and the thorn,” she said, again and again, whispering it to herself, willing herself to find the answer.
But nothing came.
Caleb began to wander the path again, and Caitlin began to wander, too, thinking as she went.
She soon came to another large plaque, nailed to a tree. At first she read just to distract herself, but as she continued reading, she suddenly became excited.
“Caleb!” she yelled. “Hurry!”
He hurried over.
“Listen to this: ‘Not all of the witches who were persecuted are buried in this graveyard. In fact, only a small portion of them are. There were over 130 other witches on the ‘accused’ list. Some escaped, and some are buried elsewhere. For the complete list, see the museum’s records.’”
They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing, and turned and stared at the museum beside them.
*
The sun was setting, and just as they reached the museum door, it was literally being closed in their face. Caleb stepped up and put out a hand, stopping the door.
An old lady’s face appeared in the crack, stern and annoyed.
“I’m sorry, folks, but we are closed for the day,” she said. “Come back tomorrow if you like.”
“Forgive us,” Caleb said gracefully, “but we need just a few minutes. I’m afraid we cannot return tomorrow.”
“It’s five after five,” she snapped. “We close at five. Every day. No exceptions. Those are the rules. I can’t keep this place open for everyone who comes in late. Like I said, if you want to come back, come back tomorrow. Good night.”
She began to close the door again, but Caleb held it open with his hand. She stuck her head back out, twice as annoyed.
“Listen, do you want me to call the cops –”
Suddenly, she froze mid-sentence, as her eyes locked with Caleb’s. She just stared at him, for several seconds, and Caitlin saw her expression change. It softened. Then, amazingly, she broke into a smile.
“Well, hello folks,” she said, completely cheery. “So happy to see you here. Please come in,” she said, opening the door widely and stepping back with a smile.
Caitlin looked at Caleb, shocked. What had he just done?
Whatever it was, she wanted to learn it herself.
Don’t worry, you will.
Caitlin looked at Caleb and was twice as shocked to realize that he had just sent her a thought, and that she had heard it.
*
They had the museum to themselves as they walked down its narrow, dimly-lit hallways. Pictures, plaques and paraphernalia lined the walls, all of witches, judges, and hangings. It was a solemn place.
As they continued, they came to a large display. Caitlin began to read, and was so taken by it, she decided to read it aloud to Caleb.
“Listen to this,” she said. “‘In Salem, in 1692, a large group of teenage girls suddenly fell ill. Most of them lapsed into a fit of hysteria, and screamed out that they had been attacked by witches. Many of these girls went so far as to name the witches who were afflicting them.
“Because their illnesses were so mysterious, and because many of these girls died suddenly and there was no other explanation for it, the townspeople fell into a frenzy. They hunted down the people accused of witchcraft.
“It is worth noting that, to this day, no one has ever been able to determine the nature of the illness that struck these girls, or why they were all struck by such hysteria.”
“It’s because they were coming of age,” Caleb said softly.
Caitlin looked at him.
“Just like you,” he said. “They were our kind, and the feeding pangs were beginning to overtake them. They were not sick. They were hysterical. They were overwhelmed by what they were becoming, and unsure how to handle it.”
Caitlin thought hard. Teenage girls. 1692. Salem. Coming-of-age. Going through the same exact thing that she was going through now.
It was overwhelming. She felt such a connection to history; she no longer felt alone with what she was going through. Yet she was terrified at the same time. It validated her. But she didn’t want validation. She wanted someone to tell her that this was all not true, all just a fantastical nightmare, and that everything would be back to normal soon. But the more she learned, the more she was overcome by a feeling of dread. The more she realized that things would never go back to normal for her.
“Here it is,” Caleb said, from the other side of the room.
Caitlin hurried over.
“The list. The 133 accused.”
They both slowly looked over the long list of people, handwritten in an antique scrawl. It was hard to decipher the handwriting, and it was slow-going.
But at some point, close to the end of the list, Caitlin suddenly froze. She reached out with her finger and pointed at the glass.
There was her last name. Paine. Spelled exactly like hers. On the list of the “
Accused.”
“Elizabeth Paine. Accused of witchcraft. 1692.”
Elizabeth? A woman?
“I knew it,” Caleb said. “I knew there was a connection.”
“But…” Caitlin began, so confused, “…Elizabeth. That’s a woman. I thought we were looking for my Dad?”
“It is not so simple. Remember, we are dealing with generations. It could be that we are looking for Elizabeth. Or it could be that we are looking for her father. Or husband. We don’t know where your ancestry begins or ends. But we do know there is a connection.”
“Look at this!” Caitlin said excitedly, hurrying a few feet away, to a different exhibit.
They both stood and stared. It was incredible. An entire exhibit devoted to Elizabeth Paine.
Caitlin read aloud: “Elizabeth Paine was unique among those on the Accused list. She would go on to great notoriety, immortalized in The Scarlet Letter. It is widely accepted that its famous heroine, Hester Prynne, was actually based on the life of Elizabeth Paine. She was the centerpiece of the greatest work of a longtime Salem resident, Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
Caitlin suddenly looked at Caleb, her eyes open wide in excitement.
“That’s it,” she said, breathlessly. She was hardly able to contain her excitement.
“What?” he asked. He still didn’t see it.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “The riddle. It’s a play on words. Hawthorne. The rose and the thorn. The thorn is Hawthorne. And the rose is scarlet. As in, The Scarlet Letter. In other words, it’s about Hawthorne. And Paine.”
At that moment, the old woman entered the room again, seemingly coming back to her senses. She looked at them both, and said, “I’m sorry, but I really do need to close up now –”
Caitlin hurried over to her, grabbing her arm. “Where did Hawthorne live?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nathaniel Hawthorne,” she said excitedly. “It says he once lived in Salem.”
“Young lady, we know exactly where he lived. Thanks to our historic trust, his house was preserved. In fact, it still stands here, to this day. Perfectly intact.”
Caitlin and Caleb looked at each other.
They both knew where they had to go to next.
TEN
The sun was setting as Caitlin and Caleb approached Hawthorne’s house. The simple, red house was set back about 50 feet from the sidewalk, with its walkway and bushes, looked like any other small, suburban house. With its dark red paint and shutters, it had an antique simplicity about it. It was modest.
Still, one could tell it was different. It exuded history.
They both stood there, looking at it, and a silence fell over them.
“I thought it would be bigger,” Caitlin said.
Caleb stood there, furrowing his brows.
“What’s wrong?”
“I remember this house,” Caleb said. “I’m not sure from when. But I seem to remember it being somewhere else.”
Caitlin looked at him, at his perfectly sculpted features, and marveled at how much he remembered. She wondered what it was like to remember so much. Hundreds of years—thousands. He was carrying around things, experiences, that she could never even dream of. She wondered if it was a blessing or a curse, and she wondered if she would even want that for herself.
She took a few steps forward, to the iron fence enclosing the property, and as she tried the latch, she was surprised to find it locked. She looked at the sign: 9AM to 5PM Weekdays.
She checked her watch: 5:30. Closed.
“Now what?” she asked.
Caleb looked furtively around, and she did, too. There was no one in sight on the suburban street. She got what he was thinking. He looked at her, and she nodded.
He reached over the metal latch and in one smooth motion, ripped it off its hinges. He looked around again, saw no one coming, and opened the fence and motioned for her to hurry through. He closed the gate behind them as best he could, gently laid the metal latch down in the grass, then hurried after her down the walkway.
Caitlin reached the front door, and turned the knob. Locked.
Caleb stepped up, reached for the knob, and prepared to break it.
“Wait,” Caitlin said.
Caleb stopped.
“Can I try this one?” she asked, and broke into a mischievous smile.
She wanted to see if she had that kind of strength. She felt it, coursing through her veins, but didn’t know its limitations, or when or where it would come.
He smiled at her and stepped aside. “Be my guest.”
She tried the knob, and it didn’t give. She tried harder, and still nothing. She felt frustrated, and embarrassed.
She was about to let it go, when Caleb said, “Concentrate. You’re turning it like a human. Go deeper. Turn it from a different place in yourself. Let your body turn it for you.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She placed her hand gently on the knob and tried to focus, following his instructions.
She turned it again, and this time was surprised to hear a snapping noise. She looked up and saw that she had broken the knob. The door was ajar.
She looked over at Caleb, and he smiled back.
“Very good,” he said and gestured for her to enter. “Ladies first.”
The house was cozy, with low ceilings and six over six windowpanes. The outside light was fading fast, and they hadn’t much time to search, unless they wanted to start turning on lights. They walked quickly through, floorboards creaking, trying to take it all in as fast as they could.
“What are we looking for exactly?” she asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “But I agree that we’re in the right place.”
At the end of the hall, there was a large exhibit devoted to Hawthorne’s life. She stopped and read aloud: “Nathaniel Hawthorne was more than just another author who wrote about Salem. He lived in Salem. Most of his stories are set in Salem. Most of the buildings he described in Salem are integral to his stories, and many of them still stand here today.
“More importantly, Hawthorne had a direct personal connection to some of the events and characters in his work. His most famous work, for example, The Scarlet Letter, tells the story of a woman, Hester Prynne, who is imprisoned and scorned by her peers for her adulterous behavior. Hawthorne had a more direct connection to these events than one would think. His real grandfather, John Hawthorne, was one of the principal judges in the Salem witch trials. John Hawthorne was responsible for accusing, judging, and putting the witches to death. It was a heavy Salem ancestry that Hawthorne had to bear.”
Caitlin and Caleb started at each other, each becoming more intrigued. Clearly, there was a strong connection here, and they both felt that they were onto something. But they still didn’t quite know what. There was still a missing link.
They continued through the house, examining various objects, searching for something, anything. But as they finished searching the first floor, they came up empty.
They both stopped before a narrow, wooden staircase. It was blocked by a velvet rope, on which hung a sign: “Private: upstairs for staff only.”
Caleb gave Caitlin a look.
“We’ve come this far,” he said.
He reached over and unclasped the rope.
Excited, she went first, her footsteps echoing on the hard, wooden staircase. The house creaked and groaned as they went, as if protesting its new visitors.
The second floor of the house had even lower ceilings, barely high enough for Caleb to stand in. It was now almost dark, and there was just enough light to see by. They stood in a beautiful and cozy room, with wide plank wooden floorboards, six over six windowpanes, and tastefully decorated with period furniture. At its center was a brick fireplace with black stain around its edges, clearly worn from years of use.
Greeting them at the top of the staircase was yet another exhibit, this one devoted to Elizabeth Paine.
Caitlin read aloud: “Hester
Prynn, Hawthorne’s most famous character, the woman at the center of The Scarlet Letter, the woman who was persecuted for refusing to reveal the true identity of her child’s father, was, many scholars say, based on a real life Salem resident: Elizabeth Paine. No scholar has ever been able to identify the lineage of Elizabeth’s child, as she refused to reveal to any of the townsfolk who the father really was. Legend has it that he was a mysterious man, come over on a ship from Europe, and that their romance was a forbidden one.
“Elizabeth was banished from Salem and forced to live in a small cottage, by herself and with her child, in the woods, on the outskirts of town. The exact location of her cottage has never been found.”
Caitlin looked to Caleb. She was speechless.
“A forbidden romance?” she asked. “As in….”
Caleb nodded. “Yes. It was between a vampire and human. His story is not really about adultery. It is all masked, hidden. It’s an allegory. It’s really about us. Our kind. More specifically: it’s about you. Their child. The half breed.”
Caitlin felt the world spinning beneath her. The ramifications were overwhelming.
She also couldn’t help feeling that the story was repeating itself, that, generations later, she was playing out the same pattern. A forbidden romance. Two races. Her and Caleb. Repeating history once again, following in the footsteps of her ancestors. It made her wonder if lifetime after lifetime just repeated itself, endlessly.
They slowly surveyed the room. It was hard to see in the fading light, and she still didn’t know exactly what she was looking for. But now, she definitely, without a doubt, knew that they were looking in the right place.
So, apparently, did Caleb. He walked around the room curiously, inspecting everything. They both felt sure that whatever it was they needed would be in this room. Maybe even the sword itself?
But the room was sparsely furnished, and after she inspected, she didn’t see where anything could be hiding.
“Here,” Caleb finally said.
Caitlin hurried over to him. He stood beside an antique hutch.
He felt the side of it with his hand. “Look at this,” he said.
Loved (Book #2 in the Vampire Journals) Page 6
