by Shayla Black
Stephanie gasped. “You don’t think he committed suicide, do you?”
“We don’t really know anything at all,” Sam said. “We’re just here with the family.”
“Did you two get married?” Stephanie asked.
“Not yet,” Sam said. “But it’s coming. What do you two know about the mortuary and the haunted house? Anything odd going on there?”
“You mean besides a man found hanged to death?” Audra asked.
“Yeah. Besides that.”
Stephanie shrugged and said, “The paranormal people aren’t happy about renting to the haunted house people. They’re above all that, you know. And the haunted house people just think that the paranormal people are crazy. Micah is kind of a self-important jerk and Jeannette Mackey thinks that she’s a serious psychic and that all the Wiccan palm and tarot readers in town are idiots. But when it comes to keeping the mortuary going, they force themselves to get along. Oh, my God. You don’t think Micah murdered him, do you?”
“We don’t know what to think,” Sam said.
“But you’ve come home to solve this murder, haven’t you?” Stephanie asked. “This is your home, Sam, right?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
Jenna looked at Audra. “Are you in a coven?”
“I practice Wicca, but no, I’m not in a coven. I like practicing the tenets on my own. A lot of people don’t really practice, they just join covens and then charge for tarot and palm readings and whatever else. Then they charge to be mentors. I don’t like the charging part of it, so I practice on my own.”
“Oh, come on, there are good covens in the area,” Stephanie said.
“Some,” Audra agreed. “But only a few.”
“So do Wiccans argue with each other?” Sam asked.
“The only argument I know about is between Gloria Day and Tandy Whitehall,” Audra said. “Old school versus new school, and all about money. Gloria runs the Silver Moon Festival throughout October. Tandy is much younger and has started doing some really wickedly wild parties. They’re always vying for the most publicity. Everyone else is divided. Some support the new, others the old. But mainly they just bitch about each other privately.”
“Then there’s that idiot who went to court to support the drunk who killed a guy in the crosswalk. Said he was a warlock and that he was going to hex everyone,” Stephanie said.
“Male witches aren’t warlocks. They’re witches, right?” Sam said, frowning.
“They are,” Audra agreed, flicking a hand in the air. “At least, in my circles they are. But there are zillions of diverse ways to be a Wiccan or practice the Old Religion. There’s Shamanic, Celtic, Gardnerian, and more, not to mention paganism, Pantheists, and Druids. What we all have in common is a love and respect for nature. Most of the holidays are about the same, speaking of which, Halloween is Samhain to us.
“Anything else going on?” Sam asked.
“I need another beer if we’re going to play twenty questions,” Stephanie said. “And you two haven’t had anything to drink yet. What’s happened to the service around here?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Sam said. “I guess they’re swamped. What are you all drinking?”
“Local brew. Black Witches Ale. Give it a try,” Stephanie said.
“Okay, four mugs of Black Witches Ale coming up.”
Sam walked over to the bar and waited his turn, observing those who were there, some in street clothes, others in partial costume. Those were the ones who worked at the historical or Halloween venues, glad to be out of Puritan or creature garb for the night.
“Every place in Salem,” an older man next to him said, and sighed. He shook his head, then glanced at Sam apologetically, as if realizing he’d spoken aloud. “Sorry––commercialism! Good for Salem, hard on those who live here!”
“It is almost Halloween,” Sam said.
“Can’t wait until it’s over.”
Sam offered his hand and introduced himself. “I’m from here; home for a visit with some family of a friend.”
They shook hands.
“The place has changed. I remember when Laurie Cabot started up with the first witch shop. You would have been young.”
“I remember,” Sam said.
“Nowadays, we got everything. This morning, damn if there wasn’t a chicken head out on the embankment by my place.”
Sam asked him where he lived, which was just a few blocks down from where they were, not far from the Elizabeth Montgomery Bewitched statue.
“We have Creole neighbors. Don’t know what they’re practicing, but come on, chicken heads?” The man sighed again. “My wife does say that Mrs. DuPont makes a heck of a chicken pot pie, though. Chicken heads and suicides. I’m telling you, the real stuff going on here now is worse than Halloween. Good for the economy, but crazy for regular folks.”
“You’re referring to John Bradbury’s death?” Sam asked.
“I am. Sad thing. Nice guy. He’d come in here now and then. I’m a realtor and have some late nights. Anyway, Bradbury was always excited about bringing his artistic craft home to Salem. That’s what he called it. He loved the old mortuary up there. He told me he wished he could buy it and, if ever he could, he’d turn it into a permanent attraction. Put more history in it, that kind of a thing. He loved the history of Halloween and how the Christian church managed to combine with the pagan ways.”
The harried bartender came to them and Sam let the older man place his order first, then asked for the beers. The man thanked him and told Sam he’d be seeing him and moved on. As Sam collected the four steins of Black Witches Ale, he heard a couple at the bar arguing.
“Don’t do it,” the man warned.
“She’s a bitch, and I’m going to take her down,” the woman said defiantly.
“You’re being ridiculous. There are enough people here to make everyone successful and happy. And, besides, that has nothing to do with practicing what we believe.”
“It has to do with pride and with that nasty little bitch Gloria Day trying to take over from everyone else.”
“Stop talking,” the man said. “Someone will hear you.”
“Maybe someone out there is practicing black magic. Not a Wiccan religion, but pure Satanism. Bradbury talked against her, and look where he is.”
“It was a suicide,” the man said.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Sam pretended to get thrown against the man’s arm. When the fellow turned to look at him, he quickly apologized. “Sorry. It’s so busy in here.”
“It’s okay,” the man said.
“I don’t remember it being this crazy. I’m from here, but…wow. Sam Hall, by the way. Nice to meet you, since I nearly sloshed beer on you.”
The man frowned. “Sam Hall. You’re that big-time attorney. Sorry, I’m David Cromwell and this is my wife, Lydia.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Sam said and decided not to tell them that he wasn’t really practicing law anymore. “By the way, what should I do on Halloween? I hear there are all kinds of things going on and since I haven’t been home in ages, I wouldn’t mind some advice.”
“Tandy Whitehall’s Moonlight Madness,” Lydia said. “Tandy has been here forever and she’s the real deal. She gets fabulous bands and, if you get a reading at the party, it’ll be a good one. It’s just lovely.”
David Cromwell had lowered his head and was gritting his teeth. Bingo. Sam knew that he had hit the core of their argument. Lydia was a huge Tandy Whitehall fan. In the morning, he’d find out how vicious and divisive that fight might be. John Bradbury was dead, and he’d apparently been vocal against the usurper as well.
“Thanks so much,” Sam said.
He headed back to the table with the beers. Stephanie and Audra were bringing Jenna up to date on what was going on with their families. They all paused to thank him as he returned.
“Slow waiter,” Jenna teased, looking at him.
He sensed she was ready to go, as he
’d caught her glance at him while he talked to the Cromwells at the bar. A few minutes later, Jenna yawned and said that they needed to get some sleep.
“And who knows? Uncle Jamie might still have a curfew going for me.”
Audra said, “If you think we can help you in any way, please, don’t hesitate to let us know.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
“Don’t look now,” Audra said, “but that’s Jeannette Mackey. See the athletic looking woman who just went up to the bar? She’s Micah Aldridge’s VP or whatever for the paranormal part of the mortuary.”
“Really?” Sam muttered.
“I know her,” Audra said. “She’s older than we are by several years, but I know I’ve met her a few times. She was on the news a lot, even in Boston. Interviewed on her views on the past and the present and parapsychology.”
“I remember when she first started talking about creating a ‘true home for the power of the mind,’” Sam said.
He saw the bartender greet her and hand her a large glass of whiskey. “We should pay our respects on the way out.”
“Definitely,” Jenna said.
They bid her friends goodnight. Sam slipped an arm around Jenna and together they headed for the attractive woman swilling down the drink that had been poured for her.
“Miss Mackey,” Sam said.
The woman spun around and stared at Sam, a little wild-eyed, then said, “Samuel Hall, attorney, right?”
“Correct. And this is Jenna Duffy. I believe you two have met somewhere along the line, too.”
“Jenna, yes, how are you? You and Elyssa are cousins, right?”
“You have a good memory. We came up to support the family. I understand you and John Bradbury worked together. We just stopped by to say how sorry we are.”
“Thank you. I had tremendous respect for John. It was an incredibly important job he had. His company was growing bigger and bigger and his ideas and management were brilliant. I can’t tell you how much money the haunted house aspect makes, and what wonderful funds we received because of it. Survival, really. Oh, not that I like a haunted house. But, hey, it was so important I’d play a part in all the schlock when necessary.” She looked at the empty glass in her hand. “We’re all in shock. Of course, Micah is taking it in stride. I guess he is the stronger one, between us.”
“If there’s anything we can do, please let us know,” Jenna said.
“Of course. And if you need me for anything.” Her voice trailed. “A suicide. John. I still can’t believe it.”
“Actually, we’re not sure we do believe it,” Sam said.
“What?” Jeannette asked, sounding stunned.
“We’ll be looking into it,” Jenna assured her.
“Of course, you will, of course. As sad as it is, oh, my God. You think that someone would have harmed him?” Jeannette asked.
“Do you know of any enemies he might have had?” Jenna asked.
“John? None. He was polite and courteous to everyone. He had a bit of a problem with Gloria Day, but that’s a long story. Even so, he was still decent to her. She just didn’t like playing off Tandy Whitehall’s thunder.” She lowered her voice. “And the Wiccans, you never know what they’re up to.” She let out a soft sigh. “Excuse me, will you? I’m going to go home and try to get some sleep.”
“Us, too,” Sam said. “I just want you to know that we’re sorry.”
She thanked them, turned, and hurried out.
“What do you think?” Sam asked Jenna.
“I think we have a lot to look into.”
The streets were still crazed with activity. It was nearing midnight and there were parties galore around town. Children and adults alike seemed to enjoy dressing up for the season. They turned the corner to cut down by Burying Point and the memorial to those who’d been condemned to hang along with Giles Corey, “pressed” to death. They passed a few late night ghost tours, the guides dressed in Puritan garb.
Many people believed Salem to be one of the most haunted cities in the world. Easy to understand why. There were those who’d been condemned to death, along with those who died imprisoned, or others who went mad from fear or from what was done to them. A rich history permeated, one that needed to be remembered. Fear could cause normally decent people to do terrible things. Or, even worse, to practice the sin of silence, too afraid to speak out against injustice.
Jenna stopped by the memorial with its stone benches, each dedicated to one of the victims.
“John Proctor spoke out, and he died for it,” she said. “I always think about that. He threatened Mercy Warren, his servant girl, with a beating if she didn’t stop with the fits, and it worked once.”
“You believe all of this has something to do with the witchcraft trials and the modern Wiccans?” Sam asked.
She shrugged. “The case that Devin and Rocky worked up here had to do with someone who’d been murdered before she could be tried. And, according to Elyssa, John Bradbury’s ghost mentioned something about witches.”
“I actually heard a woman back in the bar mention to her husband that John Bradbury had supported Tandy Whitehall against Gloria Day.”
“May mean nothing.”
“But could be everything. Another guy told me about finding chicken heads by his house. His neighbors, the DuPont family, practice Santeria or a religion that considers chickens to make good sacrificial offerings.”
“Maybe they just like fresh meat at dinner?”
“At least we’ve got the feel for Halloween in Salem,” he told her, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they continued to walk. “I want in on the autopsy. It’ll take place tomorrow. Adam Harrison is going to work with the governor, who will call the mayor. I also want to get to the Mayberry Mortuary. It was closed once the body was found. The police and forensic people probably haven’t finished with it just yet.”
“If they suspect just a suicide,” Jenna murmured.
“I don’t know what they suspect. The lead detective on the case is a guy named Gary Martin. I don’t know the man. I hope it’s someone Devin or Rocky might know.”
Jenna shook her head. “I don’t know the name either.”
“I should be able to meet with Martin in the morning and get into the autopsy.”
“I’ll head to the Mayberry Mortuary,” Jenna said.
They came to the cemetery and Sam stopped. He could see the old tombstones with their death’s heads, cherubs, angels, and other decorations, opaque and haunting in the moonlight. The main gates were locked at this time of night and it was, of course, illegal for anyone to enter. He thought for a moment he saw movement by one of the gnarled old trees.
“What is it?” Jenna asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s get back and get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
She agreed.
The crowds had thinned, a few groups here and there, less as they left the cemetery and some of the major attractions behind and headed down the street that led to Uncle Jamie’s house.
As they turned a corner, Jenna said, “There’s another one, or the same guy on a costume bender. Another boo-hag.”
She was right. Across the street, a group in costume was walking toward the wharf, heading back to one of the new hotels near the water. And there was someone in the same costume that had jumped onto their car.
A boo-hag.
Sam had been born and raised in Salem and he’d never even heard of a boo-hag before. Now he’d seen two in as many days.
The group was walking with their backs toward Sam and Jenna. Suddenly, the man in the boo-hag costume turned, stared their way for a moment, then headed off.
“That was eerie,” Jenna said. “Movie monsters and most creatures seem almost ho-hum around here, but that costume gets to you.”
“A boo-hag,” Sam said. “Definitely creepy.”
He didn’t mention that there was something more. The way the eyes seemed to focus on them, the way they seemed to burn, even at
a distance, as if they were formed of fiery red-gold, burning like the flames of hell.
Chapter 4
Sam knew that they often dealt with terrible things. That was the occupation he and Jenna had both chosen. Partly because of their “gifts,” and partly because they wanted to make a difference. But this situation seemed more personal. He’d intended to give Jenna all the space she needed. But alone, in the darkness of their room at Uncle Jamie’s, she turned to him with a sweet and urgent passion. The warmth of her naked body next to his, flesh against flesh, and the fever that seemed to burn in her became electric. No words, just her moving against him, touching, a feather-light caress at first, then a passionate love, both tender and urgent. He held her afterward, naked and slaked against him, and he thought that they both would sleep well.
Home was wonderful.
But home was also a place where nightmares could be rekindled.
He didn’t want her facing any demons in her mind. But that night Sam was the one to dream. He saw something coming toward them out of a strange and misty darkness. Red, with shimmering golden eyes that seemed to burn with evil.
Then he realized that the thing wasn’t coming at him.
He wasn’t next to Jenna anymore. She was some distance away, sleeping, laid out on the bed, eyes closed, a half smile on her face.
And the thing was going for her.
He tried to run, to block the horrible menace from reaching the woman he loved. No matter how hard he tried, he was slowed down by the thick red mist.
The thing was now on Jenna, leaning over her, stiffening, inhaling, as if prepared to suck the life from her. The red mist became thicker and thicker. He realized he was fighting, straining, trying so hard to reach her. But it was no longer red mist that held him back. Instead, the barrier had become a sea of blood.
He woke with a start.
Morning.
His phone ringing.
An aura of fear stayed with him and he fought it; reaching for the phone and checking on Jenna, who was just beginning to rouse.
Jackson was calling. The right people had talked to the right people, and the FBI had been officially asked into the investigation. While suicide in the death of John Bradbury was a valid theory, the media had gone wild over the whole situation. Whispers of foul play ran rampant. He thanked Jackson for the assist and hung up.
