by Lisa Unger
“Yes,” said Eloise. “And of course, then as now, no one likes female power.”
“They were burned at the stake,” said Finley. Her eyes had filled with tears. “All of them.”
“That’s right,” said Eloise.
A familiar notch in her throat—sadness, anger, a kind of helpless sense of injustice. The Three Sisters were just children, twelve, fourteen, and sixteen, when they were tried and convicted as witches.
“You think the woman in the black dress has something to do with them?”
“I do,” said Eloise. “But I don’t know what yet. I haven’t found any information on her.”
Finley wiped her eyes and stood. “I’ll Google today,” she said, all business. She walked out of the kitchen. And for the first time Eloise wondered if Finley was as easy with all of it as she seemed. Maybe it was taking its toll in other ways.
• • •
Michelle Asher was lying on the porch again when Eloise saw Finley to her motorcycle. Eloise could tell that Finley didn’t see Michelle, as she marched by to her motorcycle. Finley threw one slender leg over the bike and slid on easily as Eloise watched. The tall oak tree whispered. The sky was a threatening gunmetal. Eloise considered what words of caution Finley might actually hear over the din of her own youthful, arrogant thoughts.
“Don’t tell me to be careful, Mimi,” said Finley gently. She put her helmet on. It was shiny black, with hot pink flames. “I will be.”
Eloise looked right into Finley’s eyes. She lifted a hand to the girl’s cheek but instead wound up touching the hard, cold surface of the helmet.
“I’ve heard that you’re driving too fast,” said Eloise. “Slow it down.”
Finley looked away from Eloise for a moment, then back, offering a wide, winning smile. But there was something behind it, something wild. Something that didn’t want to be tamed.
Eloise had only recently discovered that the girl’s arms were becoming sleeves of tattoos—richly colored dragons and fairies, butterflies, graveyards, mysterious-looking women in long gowns, dark shadowy figures of men and ghouls, a witch burning at the stake, a vicious dog on a chain. Eloise had surprised Finley one afternoon as the girl had been coming out of the bathroom in a towel. Eloise wasn’t supposed to be at home; her regular meeting at The Hollows Historical Society had been canceled. Eloise wasn’t sure what she’d found more shocking, the tattoos or the fact that Finley had been hiding them under long sleeves.
“Oh, Finley,” Eloise had said before she could stop herself. She actually got a little choked up. “Your beautiful skin.”
Finley flushed. “I’m sorry, Mimi,” she said. “This is me. This is who I am.”
Eloise wasn’t sure what that meant.
Some of the art, which was snaking slowly up Finley’s shoulders, was just a black outline.
“It’s a work in progress,” said Finley. Eloise had put her hand on her granddaughter.
“Meaning you’re getting more?” asked Eloise. “When are you going to stop?”
Finley had lifted a defiant chin. “When the outside looks like how I feel on the inside.”
Eloise considered this. Yes, her inner life must be very different from her outer life. Eloise could certainly relate to that. The world of the spirit was separate altogether from the world of the body.
“Okay, dear,” she forced herself to say. “I understand.”
Finley had rushed off after that. And they hadn’t discussed it again. Eloise certainly wasn’t going to harp on it the way Amanda surely would. Then Eloise would be just another person driving Finley away, and the girl needed a safe haven. That’s why she was here. She needed Eloise and Agatha to usher her to the seat of her power.
“Okay, Mimi,” Finley said now. With the twist of a key and a hard step with Finley’s right foot, the engine rumbled to life. “I’ll slow down.”
It did seem as if the girl was trying to pull more slowly down the street. But once Finley was out of sight, Eloise heard her gun the engine. Then the wild roar of the motorcycle picking up speed. She sighed. I do not seek to control things that cannot be controlled. A lovely and completely useless mantra that Eloise tried repeating to herself when she was feeling helpless. It did not work. At all.
• • •
Eloise returned to the porch to sit with the dead girl. Michelle Asher. Once she learned a name, she tried to force herself to use it. Though names didn’t mean much in a universal sense. They were creations of the flesh, not of the spirit, which existed without a name.
It didn’t take long before Eloise was standing in a nicely appointed darkened room. Big windows revealed a stunning view of New York City, and the room smelled of peppermint and cedar. Michelle was alone, lying naked on a low platform bed. She held a smartphone in her hand. She dialed and put it to her ear.
“Hey,” she said. “It’s me. Why haven’t you called me? I’ve been waiting for you. Call me back.”
Michelle ended the call with a sigh, tossing the phone down onto the bed. She rose and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, stood naked, looking out. The silhouette of her body was a perfect, compact hourglass against the glittering night.
She seemed to have a sudden thought, moved back over to the bed. She grabbed the phone and quickly dialed.
“You know,” she said. She sounded a little edgier. “I’m getting a little sick of this. I’m not going to wait forever.”
She sighed again, her face cast in the glow of the phone, a siren wailing down a distant street outside. Eloise saw a helicopter drift past up high.
“I thought you loved me. You said you did.”
Michelle ended the call again and started to cry. It started small but then grew. The sound that emitted from the girl cut through Eloise, who stood in the shadows. A wail of pure despair, it came from someplace deep inside. It was a hole that had opened long before this moment. Everything in her life was disappearing into it.
“It’s okay,” Eloise whispered. “Don’t cry. You’ll be all right.”
Of course, Michelle didn’t hear. They could never hear Eloise. She was a watcher, an observer. A Listener. Nothing more.
After a bit, the girl seemed to pull herself together. She dressed quickly, grabbed her phone and her bag, and left the apartment.
Then they were on the sidewalk, Eloise hustling to keep up with her. She wasn’t so familiar with New York City, but she figured they were somewhere downtown. It was quiet, almost deserted with wide buildings and cobblestone streets. She looked around at signs. Hudson Street. Finally, the girl hailed the lone cab that bounced over the uneven, potholed surface of the road. A quick cab ride brought them to the Bowery and Fifth Street. A sleek new structure reached above the sagging postwar buildings around it.
Michelle rang the buzzer, once, twice, three times.
“Hello,” a groggy male voice.
“It’s me,” she said. “Michelle.”
Silence. Then, “What are you doing here?”
“Who’s up there with you?” she said, her voice shrill.
“Shell,” he said, exasperated. “No one.”
“Then let me up,” she said. A dare.
There was another long pause. The girl shifted from foot to foot, hands dug deep in the pockets of her jacket. The avenue was quiet, just a few cars racing past. There was a ruckus from the bar across the street. “Walk” turned to “Don’t Walk.”
“Just go home, honey,” said Eloise. “He’s not worth it.”
The buzzer sounded then, and she pushed the door open. They were in a plain foyer, rows of metal mailboxes, a gray leather bench, some artsy installation that looked like someone had tacked half eggshells on the wall.
In the elevator, Michelle’s breathing was shallow. She was a wreck, hair wild, mascara in thick smears under her eyes. She was still pretty, though, fragile and
lovely as a doll. Eloise could feel her desperation, her twitching anxiety. She wanted to put her arms around the girl and hold her tight.
“Call a friend,” Eloise said. “Someone who loves you and can talk you out of this.”
Michelle walked out into the hallway, gray tile floors, white walls, slick brushed metal sconces casting an amber light. A door clicked open at the far end of the hall.
“It’s midnight, Michelle,” he said. He held the door open for her, and then they were in his small studio apartment. A bachelor’s mess, pizza box on the counter, magazines piled on the floor. The dishes in the sink were piled high; a laptop sat open on a stand-up desk.
“You stood me up,” she said.
“No,” he said, lifting a palm. “I said maybe we would get together tonight. I had to work late.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “Stop playing games.”
“I’m not,” he said.
But Eloise could see that he was playing games, that it was all he ever did. He ran a hand through his careless blond waves, looked at her through striking green eyes. He was bare-chested, every muscle sculpted and defined. He was used to playing games, enjoyed it a little. He liked to lead them on, and then look on helpless and confused as they fell off the edge. He had a nose for the vulnerable ones, those that needed to be loved. Eloise knew his type. Predators often came in the most beautiful packages, and they wanted all sorts of things from their prey.
“Come here,” he said. His voice was gentle, coaxing. “Have you been crying? I’m sorry.”
“No,” said Eloise firmly. “Walk out of here and don’t come back.”
But then Michelle was in his arms. Eloise watched as Michelle shed her purse and jacket. They fell to the floor in a heap. He pushed her hair back, pressed his mouth against hers. He pushed off her shirt, unstrapped her bra, ran strong hands down her back. She melted into him, moaned as he took her breast into his mouth. And then they were on the bed, she astride him, head back. His hands gripped her hips, drawing her in and back in the rhythm of pleasure.
“Oh, Michelle,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful. I love you.”
Michelle released a deep, breathy moan. Exactly what she needed to hear, the only thing she wanted. Eloise could feel the charge of Michelle’s relief, the filling of that emptiness inside. It didn’t even matter if it wasn’t true. The girl just needed someone to say it. She needed it so desperately.
Then Eloise left, and found herself still on the porch. Michelle was gone. Eloise sat awhile, wondering about that emptiness inside Michelle, that place that needed to be filled.
• • •
Finley and Eloise took the Prius to have dinner with Agatha. Finley offered to drive Eloise on the motorcycle, maybe sensing her grandmother’s curiosity with the machine. But Eloise had declined. Imagine if Amanda had discovered that Eloise was riding around on the back of Finley’s motorcycle. Amanda would “stroke out,” as Finley liked to say. Imagine if anyone saw her. Eloise was already such a circus freak.
Eloise tried to set an example of safe driving—keeping to the speed limit, making full stops at signs. But Finley just tapped away on her iPhone, oblivious.
“So, how did you know so much about The Three Sisters?” Eloise asked. She’d been wondering about it. Eloise wasn’t sure if Finley had already done the research, or if they were known to her. She didn’t remember mentioning them.
Finley stopped tapping, didn’t say anything right away. She kept staring at the screen. What was it that people saw in those devices? They absolutely confounded Eloise. She had a flip phone at Amanda’s insistence, but she’d used it only once, when her car broke down. It did come in handy then. But really, how could people just walk around all day with those things in their hands? In front of their faces? Always taking pictures of everything they saw and of themselves. Did anybody see what was in front of them anymore, or was the whole world being metabolized through a little screen? Eloise waited, wondering if Finley had heard her at all.
“I’ve been seeing them since I was a kid,” she said finally. “I didn’t realize who they were until today.”
“You never mentioned them,” said Eloise. Eloise had never seen them herself. Even after she knew their story, they did not visit her.
Finley didn’t say anything, just looked at the road ahead. Then, “They’re not like the others.”
Eloise felt a little chill crawl up her spine.
“What are they like?”
Finley was unusually reticent. She and Eloise normally discussed everything at great length. When Finley first arrived, the floodgates opened wide. Everything poor Finley had been holding inside, hiding, afraid of, couldn’t share with her parents came pouring out to Eloise and to Agatha. And Eloise had shared everything she knew, had learned, much of what she’d experienced. She had even learned quite a bit from Finley, who was a native speaker. Eloise never sensed that Finley had held anything back.
“When I was little,” she said, “they used to get me in trouble.”
Eloise felt a notch of fear in her throat.
“Not just when I was little,” Finley said, looking over at Eloise. Her pixie features were grim and pale. “Up until just before I left Seattle.”
This was news.
“Is that why you left?” asked Eloise gently. She turned onto Agatha’s drive, pulled up the long, winding road that led to her house. She picked up speed a little, the gravel crunching beneath her tires.
“That’s part of it,” Finley said. “I thought I could move away from them. Today I realized that they’re here. That they always intended for me to come to The Hollows.”
Amanda’s instincts to get out of The Hollows, to keep Finley away, had always been so powerful. It was just that she didn’t realize certain things and places couldn’t be fought. The pull of The Hollows was as inexorable as the tides, the phases of the moon. What had Amanda called The Hollows? A hell mouth. Is that what it was? Even Eloise, even Agatha, wasn’t quiet sure what. A vortex, at least, Agatha had posited. An energy center.
“I see,” said Eloise. She pulled in front of Agatha’s grand white house and shut off the car. “You said that they weren’t like the others.”
“Right,” said Finley. “It’s not like the ones who come and you know you have to do something for them. They don’t want help. They want other things.”
“Like The Burning Girl,” said Eloise.
“Right,” said Finley with a light of recognition. “Sort of like her.”
Agatha came out onto the porch and waved. Finley shifted off her jacket and yanked her loose right sleeve up. There on the inside of Finley’s arm were The Three Sisters, the image shockingly similar to the one Eloise had brought home from the HHS library.
“I had this done a while ago,” said Finley. “Just before I came.”
“Oh,” said Eloise. She shouldn’t be surprised by anything like this. But she was, and not happily.
“Agatha taught me how to ask them to leave,” she said. “And I did that.”
“But they’re still with you?”
“Sometimes,” she said. She offered a little shrug. “I used to love them. They’re so strong, Mimi. So powerful. I never had to be afraid when they were around.”
Agatha was moving carefully off the porch, holding on to the railing. Eloise suspected that the old woman was into her nineties now. She was slower lately, sometimes even walking with a cane. But Eloise knew better than to jump out and help her. The day I can’t walk on my own is the day I’ll stay home for good.
“What has been frightening you?” asked Eloise, taking the girl’s hand. She always thought of Finley as a firecracker, fearless and wild. Was it an act? What really had been going on in Seattle?
“Nothing,” said Finley. She blew out a breath. “Everything. I don’t know, Mimi.”
Agatha knocked on the wi
ndow, and they both startled even though they’d seen her coming. Finley rolled it down with a sigh. Agatha’s warm energy and fragrant scent washed into the car.
“Is this a private session?” asked Agatha. “Or do you girls need some help?”
• • •
“Unlike a lot of the poor souls that got burned in Salem,” said Agatha, “the Good sisters actually did have powers. Strong ones. Patience was the sweet one. But Abigail and Sarah, they were hell-raisers. They loved to cause trouble.”
They sat in Agatha’s cavernous, richly appointed dining room. The table could have seated twenty people, maybe more. But it was set for only three, and they gathered at the corner near the stained-glass doors that opened into the chef’s kitchen. A large mirror spanned the wall above and the enormous oak and marble-topped sideboard. Eloise generally avoided her reflection, but today she used the mirror to watch Finley, who was seated beside her.
“Abigail is the worst of the three,” said Finley. “Sarah just kind of goes along with her. And Patience tries to keep them, and me, out of trouble. But she’s weaker, gets lost when they’re around.”
“What kind of trouble?” said Eloise.
“When they first showed up, they were sweet,” said Finley. “They helped me to understand what I was and what I was seeing. Prior to that, I thought everyone was seeing what I was seeing. Then I had this moment with my mother when I realized I was different. I asked her who the woman sitting on our couch was and why did she look so sad. As you can imagine, she freaked. So, from that point forward, I kept my mouth shut. I think I was six. They came that first night. Unlike the others, the sisters talked to me.”
Finley paused and took a sip of water. A lean young man with white blond hair drifted in from the kitchen and served salad.
“Arugula with pears, candied walnuts, and goat cheese crumbles,” he said. Then he disappeared.
“I was just glad to have someone to talk to about the things that were happening to me. They helped me to understand what people wanted, even though as a little kid I really couldn’t do anything for them.”
