“Yeah. Nate was pretty pissed,” Helen said.
Riley nodded. “But it’s not just that he’s mad, Helen. He’s worried you’re losing your grasp on reality.”
“And do you agree with him? Do you think I’ve gone round the bend?”
“I think…” Riley paused. “…that it’s a dangerous game you’re playing. Blurring the lines between the past and present, the dead and the living.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but all I can say is that I’ve never felt so strongly compelled to do something. And I can’t do it without you. Will you help me?”
There was a long pause.
“Of course,” Riley said at last. “What is it you need?”
“There’s only so much I can find myself online, especially with Nate looking over my shoulder all the time. Maybe if we both go back to the historical society and search through all the databases you guys have access to there, use the microfiche reader to go through old newspapers, search through all the birth, death, and marriage records, you can help me put together a solid family tree for Hattie. Try to track down who Gloria and Jason went to live with and what happened to them.”
“Okay,” Riley said. “I know Mary Ann’s been reorganizing things in there since she got back from North Carolina. I think she’s pretty much got the place put back together—and there’s even a new computer. I’m working tomorrow, but I’m free the day after. Monday. We’ll get in there and see what we can find.”
CHAPTER 36
Olive
SEPTEMBER 12, 2015
Olive studied the books Helen had let her borrow—the library books she’d been reading up at the new house and a couple more Helen had down in the trailer.
“Just don’t take anything in the books too seriously,” Helen had warned.
“I totally get it,” Olive assured her. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to start trying to do spells or conjure demons or anything. I just find all of it interesting, you know? Reading what other people believe.”
In one of the library books, Olive found a whole chapter on communicating with the dead by using a pendulum. It said a spirit could help you find lost objects using a pendulum. Also answer divination questions. The book suggested making a chart with possible answers to questions you have and then asking the spirit to point the pendulum to the correct answer.
Olive was flipping through one of the books on witchcraft when she came across a section on magic symbols.
She actually gasped, like some stupid girl in a horror movie.
There, on the page, was a design that was nearly identical to Mama’s necklace: a circle with a triangle inside it, and inside that, a square with another circle in it. Olive read the words below it:
Squaring the circle is an important symbol used in ancient alchemy. To square a circle was thought to be an impossible task, uniting shapes that are not meant to come together. The circle represents the spirit world; the square, the physical world with its four elements. Some believe the triangle represents a door in which the dead, or possibly even demons, can walk through.
“Holy shit,” Olive said.
A door the dead (or demons) can walk through.
She thought of the symbol chalked on the floor of Dicky’s hotel. Was that what they’d been doing there? Trying to open an actual door to the spirit world?
And what if they’d succeeded?
Who, or what, might have come through?
“Ollie?” Daddy came into the living room in his work clothes.
Olive jumped.
“I’ve gotta go to work. Break in the water main over by the high school. Getting time and a half, though,” he said with a wink.
“Okay,” she said.
“What’re you reading?” he asked, looking down at the books. “Something for school?”
“Not exactly,” she said.
He scowled when he saw the titles.
“Where did these come from?” he asked, weirdly angry all of a sudden. His jaw was clenched and he was breathing through his nose like an angry bull. “Did Riley give them to you?”
“Aunt Riley? No,” she said. Olive thought. She didn’t want to get Helen in trouble. “I borrowed them. From the library. See?” She turned the book on its side so he could see the sticker on the spine with the call number on it.
“I don’t want them in this house. I don’t want to see another witchcraft book in this house again. I won’t have it.”
“Again?” she asked. Then, “Did…Mama have books like these?”
His face hardened even more, like he was turning to stone. Becoming a statue man. “I want them gone, Olive.” He forced the words out through his clenched jaw. “In fact, here, I’ll take them and drop them off at the library myself on my way to the school.” He grabbed them, held them tightly in his dirty hands.
“But, Daddy, you—”
Library books clutched to his chest, he turned and went out of the living room, his body rigid, his boots stomping too loudly on the unfinished plywood floor.
FINISH WORK
CHAPTER 37
Helen
SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
LAST CHANCE
The words were written on the front door of the new house. Fortunately, they’d been written in charcoal, so they were easy to clean off. There was a piece of burned wood on the front step that had been used to write the message.
Helen worked to scrub the words away before Nate could see. She scrubbed hard and fast, heart pounding, sweat beading on her forehead.
She was running out of time. She could feel it, could feel Hattie whispering to her.
Hurry. You are in danger.
Was the burned wood a warning, too? A reminder of what had happened to Hattie’s mother, to Hattie’s crooked house, to the schoolhouse, to Jane at the mill?
Whoever was leaving the messages wanted her gone.
How far would they go to drive her away?
Would there be another gas leak? A fire next time?
If Helen and Nate stayed, would they wake in the trailer one night to the smell of smoke, to flames licking at the walls?
“What are you doing?” Nate asked when he walked up to the house.
“There’s a smudge on the door,” she said, polishing it with a rag.
“It’s Sunday,” Nate said. “I thought we agreed to take the day off.”
“Definitely,” Helen said. “Just tidying a little.”
“Did you turn off my cameras?” he asked.
“What? No.”
“It’s odd,” Nate said. “They were all switched off. I didn’t get any pictures from about midnight on last night.”
“Strange,” Helen said. Whoever had come and left the message on the door hadn’t wanted to be seen.
“I’m going for a hike,” he said.
Helen nodded. “Great. I think I’ll see if I can get into the historical society to do a little research,” Helen told him.
He frowned but said only, “You’re not going to bring back any more haunted objects, right?”
“Just research, I promise,” she told him. “Enjoy your hike.”
* * *
. . .
Helen knew she couldn’t wait. She called Mary Ann Marsden and asked if she could possibly let her into the historical society. She explained that she was a friend of Riley’s.
“I know it’s a Sunday and I hate to ask, but I’m just so eager to get started on my research.”
Mary Ann chuckled and said she’d be glad to open the historical society. “I get out of church at noon and I can meet you there right after. I don’t have anything planned for the afternoon, so I’m more than happy to help.”
* * *
. . .
Mary Ann was an elderly woman in a polyester pantsuit the color of lima beans. She wore a h
uge enameled flower brooch pinned to her lapel, so heavy Helen was amazed its weight didn’t pull the poor woman over. She had on dark red lipstick that had run into the creases of her upper lip, making them look like veins.
“So you’re Riley’s good friend, eh?” she asked, as she unlocked the door and let Helen in.
“Yes, I’m Helen. I so appreciate you letting me in like this.”
Helen followed Mary Ann inside, watched her flip on the lights and shuffle over to the desk. All the plastic totes and cardboard boxes that had covered every surface on her last visit were gone. The place looked neat and tidy. The bulky, antiquated computer Riley had used was on a table in a back corner. A sleek new computer rested on the main desk.
“So, you’re interested in the Breckenridge family?”
“Yes, that’s right. Last time I was here, Riley showed me a painting of Hattie. I was hoping I could get another look at it.”
She didn’t expect the painting to yield any new clues, but she longed to see it, to be held in Hattie’s gaze once more. She thought it would be a good way to start her research—would bring her luck if Hattie was actually watching over her.
“Of course,” Mary Ann said, turning to go back to the cabinets. She opened drawers, pulled paintings in and out.
“Well, that’s odd,” she muttered.
“What is it?”
“It doesn’t seem to be here,” Mary Ann said. “At least, it’s not where it should be. When something’s loaned out, there’s a pink sticker that goes where the painting should be. But there’s no painting and no sticker.” She turned back to the desk, picked up a big three-ring binder and flipped through it. “When we loan paintings out, we have a form that we use. And we have a logbook when anything gets borrowed. But there’s nothing here.”
“So do you think the painting could have been stolen?”
Mary Ann laughed. “Stolen? Oh dear, no. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to steal a painting of Hattie Breckenridge! Not when we have other, much more valuable things here—silver, old coins, jewelry even.”
“So what do you think happened to it?”
“Well, maybe it just got put away someplace unusual. Or someone might have borrowed it and not done the proper paperwork. Or we misplaced the paperwork. I can’t imagine, really. We have several volunteers. I think the first step will be checking in with each of them.”
She looked at the wooden cabinet, at the blank spot in the pulled-out drawer where Hattie’s painting had been.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you with the painting—what else are you looking for?” Mary Ann asked.
“When I was here with Riley, we found a couple of photographs of Hattie—an old school picture and a couple taken at a town picnic when she was a young woman. Do you know if there might be any others?”
Mary Ann nodded. “We have the final picture taken of Hattie,” she said.
“Final picture?”
“Of the hanging,” Mary Ann said. “Surely Riley showed it to you.”
Jesus. A photograph of the hanging? It didn’t seem possible.
“Um, no. We missed that one somehow.”
“Ah,” Mary Ann said, standing, going over to a tall black file cabinet. “It’s in our special collection. Maybe Riley hasn’t seen it herself.” She opened a drawer, started looking through files. “Let’s just hope that hasn’t gone missing, too.” Mary Ann chortled a bit.
Helen secretly wished it had.
“Oh, here we are,” Mary Ann said, sounding almost giddy as she slipped a file folder out of the cabinet. She opened it up. Inside, it was lined with two sheets of paper. Between the sheets of paper, an old black-and-white photograph.
Helen cringed, had to force herself not to look away.
“Who would take a picture like this?” she asked.
“We’re not sure who the photographer was,” Mary Ann said.
Helen moved closer, studying the photograph. It was centered on a large old tree full of thick, heavy branches.
She looked at the picture, thought of how there was a piece of that very tree in her house.
Beneath the tree in the old photo, probably three dozen people were gathered, all turned toward the camera, posing. Some were smiling. Some looked down at the ground. It looked like it could have been a picture taken at a town dance or country fair—Hartsboro’s finest gathered in celebration. Some wore dusty work clothes and looked as though they’d come straight from plowing the fields or shoveling coal into a steam engine. Others were in suit and tie, the women in dresses with their hair neatly fastened.
And above them, their kill.
Hattie Breckenridge hung by a thick rope from a high branch. Helen could make out the noose around her neck. She wore a white dress that was dirty, stained. Her shoes were caked with mud. Her eyes were closed, her face placid. There was a woman right below her—a woman with light hair. She was smiling and holding something in her hands, something that seemed to glint in the light.
“What’s that woman got?” Helen asked, leaning in.
“I’m not sure,” Mary Ann said, squinting down. Helen saw a magnifying glass on the desk and reached for it. She studied the photograph through it and could see what it was: a necklace. Helen peered closer, and though it was hard to make out, she was sure it was the same necklace with a strange design Hattie had been wearing in the portrait: a circle, triangle, and square all tucked inside each other.
“Who’s this woman?” Helen asked, pointing to the woman holding Hattie’s necklace like a trophy, a sickening smile on her face that seemed to say, The witch is dead.
“I believe that’s Candace Bishkoff. Her daughter, Lucy, had been killed in the fire. The story goes that she’s the one who led the townspeople to Hattie’s that afternoon.”
“Bishkoff? Are any of her relatives still around?”
“Why sure. There are plenty of them. They own the pig farm and smokehouse—Uncle Fred’s Smokehouse—you know it?”
She nodded. “I’ve driven by.”
Mary Ann carefully replaced the photo in its folder and rubbed her hands together excitedly. “Well! Enough of that! Let’s get started with that research! What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to trace Hattie’s family tree, to find any living descendants she may have.”
I’m trying to save one of them.
Helen continued. “I know she had a daughter, Jane…”
“No one knows what happened to Jane,” Mary Ann said sadly, shaking her head. “She disappeared soon after the hanging and was never heard from again.”
“Actually, I’m fairly certain she went up to Lewisburg and eventually married a man named Silas Whitcomb. They had two children, Ann and Mark. Jane was killed in a fire at the Donovan and Sons Mill when the children were young. Her daughter, Ann, later married a Samuel Gray—they lived over in Elsbury. Samuel and Ann had a son, Jason, and a daughter, Gloria. Samuel and Ann were killed…a murder-suicide, and the children went off to live with relatives.”
“My goodness,” Mary Ann said. “You certainly have learned a lot! You should come volunteer here. We could always use someone with good research skills!”
“I’d love to. Maybe once the house is finished and I have more free time—right now, I’m looking for any other family. And I’d like to know what happened to Jason and Gloria—who they went to live with, where they are now.”
Mary Ann was amazingly adept at using both the computer and microfiche reader. In fact, she was a much faster typist than Helen—her fingers flew across the keyboard.
Together, they looked through genealogy websites, public records, census data, and old newspapers. Helen’s eyes got bleary and she felt a little queasy from flipping through page after page of birth and death records in state newspapers on the microfiche reader. She read articles about the mill fi
re that killed Jane, about Ann’s murder.
The first thing they discovered was that after Jane’s death, Silas Whitcomb remarried and had four more children, giving Ann and Mark half siblings, each of whom then married and had children.
Through Mary Ann’s skillful navigation of public records, they learned that Mark Whitcomb moved to Keene, New Hampshire, and married a woman named Sara Sharpe in 1965. They had three daughters: Rebecca, Stacy, and Marie. Mary Ann pulled up copies of birth certificates for all three.
“Riley can help me with this tomorrow,” Helen said after they’d been working for nearly two hours. “I don’t want you to have to be here all day.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Mary Ann said. “I’m actually enjoying the detective work. I had no idea that Hattie Breckenridge had left such a legacy. It’s fascinating that there are living relatives out there somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Helen said.
“You know,” Mary Ann confessed, “I always thought it was unfair—the way people treated Hattie, the way the whole town talks about her still. I don’t think it’s right, to vilify a person like that.”
Helen smiled at her. “That’s part of what’s pulling me to do this research. I want to know her side of the story.”
Helen took a break and ran across to the general store to get them sandwiches, cups of coffee, and a box of raspberry Danish.
“I brought us provisions,” she announced when she got back.
“I’ve got some information on Samuel Gray here,” Mary Ann said, eyes on the computer screen. “He was one of eight siblings, and his mother, Eliza Gray, lived until 2002. She was in Duxbury, so the kids could have gone to her.”
Helen reached into her bag for her notebook to start writing down the list of names they came up with, but her notebook wasn’t there.
The Invited Page 32
