by E. M. Moore
“Oh he is. Cute, too.” She stopped to wink and then continued on, “After this week we can work on us. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I promise. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll look for some photo albums before I head into town and leave them out for you if I find any.”
She cupped my head and gave an encouraging smile. I couldn’t help but smile back.
The dining room door squeaked open and Drake appeared.
Aunt Rose clapped her hands together. “Great. I think Sarah’s ready.”
It seemed as if my new aunt was some sort of a matchmaker. I glanced at Drake who waited with his hands in his pockets, his cheeks flush.
She could’ve done worse. A lot worse.
“Don’t forget to give Sarah a town history lesson. Settler’s Days starts tonight and she’ll want to know about the witches.”
***
I walked through the grassy park in the middle of the unfamiliar town wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
The drive around Adams earlier had not even come close to preparing me for this. Everywhere my eyes traveled, regular, seemingly normal people, dressed in costume. What if someone needed medical attention right now? Could a patient really let their doctor, dressed as a scantily clad witch with a red bra, matching G-string and thigh high boots, attend to their broken leg? Or even worse——deliver a baby? Eww.
Drake warned me earlier on the tour through town that this would be weird, but this was bad. This was like Mardi Gras night at one of the clubs back home, but worse. Much worse. These people were into it. And it was everybody. The whole freaking town was crazy.
At least not everyone wore a sexy costume. Plenty wore the obvious, overdone witch look—faces painted green, long, thin, wart-covered noses, and pointy hats.
Oh, the hat. Now this was where the townies got clever. Black ones, purple ones, red with black lace ones and the best one yet, lime green and black striped that matched the tights the women wore. Yes, a group of them. A senior citizen group, that, from the look of their arthritic knuckles clutching straw broomsticks, probably made their way over on a bus from the local nursing home.
But hey, at least they weren’t the ones in the corsets and G-strings.
Because I was a baby when my dad passed away, I didn’t remember him at all. But the fact that he grew up here, blew me away. The fact that a town like this actually existed, blew me away.
Compared to everyone else, I kept it low-key for the start of Settler’s Days. As in off the crazy radar low-key. The plain t-shirt and jeans I threw on earlier actually stuck out among the crowd.
Rose and Drake seemed normal. Cool even. Everyone else? Not so much. Of course, maybe it would’ve been different if the first time I met them they weren’t dressed in hick-town witch costumes. Maybe if they pretended to be regular people, I wouldn't have been forced to give them a nickname.
The Crazies. That’s right. The Crazies.
I picked up the pace, dodging Crazies strewn out on blankets, and tried to see over stupid hats. Earlier, Drake and I arranged to meet by the concession stands, which I saw on the way into town. Getting to them was another issue. They were sandwiched in between booths, with massive amounts of people milling about. I bounced around like a pinball trying to avoid any kind of contact with a Crazy.
Finally, I broke through and spotted Drake near a hotdog stand. Well, tonight, he was Drake-the-Wizard.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, a playful smile pulling at his lips.
Seriously? I should be asking him that. “What?” I shrugged, pulling at my solid blue t-shirt.
“I told you to wear something witchy.”
I pointed at his hooded black cloak. “And I told you I wouldn’t be seen with you if you dressed like that.”
“Rose asked me to bring you here and I refuse to let you make me look like a dork.” Drake took me by the shoulders and spun me around. His breath warmed my ear in the cool evening air. “Take a look. You’re the one that looks out of place.”
I scanned the crowd even though I already knew I was out of place. “It’s not like it’s Halloween or anything and I don't think you need help looking like a dork.”
He ignored the jibe. “It’s better than Halloween.” Drake pushed me toward a souvenir table. “Were you not listening earlier? I told you this is about our town history, Sarah. Not some holiday where you get candy.”
He pointed out a black shirt with an evil witch face that read Settler’s Day Fest. I reached out to finger the material. I really didn’t get why they wanted to celebrate their town being so hysteric over nothing. Hello. Hadn’t they ever heard of Salem, Massachusetts? Innocent people died there.
“Don’t you think this is kind of corny?”
“No.” Drake took out his wallet and handed the woman behind the table a twenty.
I protested, shaking my head and stepping backward, away from the cheesy witch stuff. Too late. The woman glared and threw the shirt to Drake.
He held up the shirt. “It’s so you can really get into it. It’ll be more fun.”
I rolled my eyes. “Listen…”
Drake tossed the shirt at my face. “Get over yourself, put the shirt on and let’s go have some fun.”
I scowled and tugged the witch shirt over my head.
He smiled a big, beautiful smile and put his arm around me. “Look. It’s even glow-in-the-dark. Now that’s hot.”
I shoved him playfully and ran my hands through my hair. “I thought boys from Virginia were supposed to be southern gentleman.”
“I am.” Drake smothered me with another smile. “I bought you the shirt, didn’t I?”
He grabbed for my hand, but I slyly made it busy by rearranging the new shirt around myself and then slipped it into my pocket. He didn’t seem to notice. I hoped he didn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt his feelings but he wasn't the reason why I was here and I didn’t want to get distracted.
He motioned toward the thickening crowd. “We better find a spot before the show starts.”
I trailed along behind as he maneuvered through the crowd. I took short, quick steps to keep up with him and dodge other people. “Where are we going?”
“Right…here,” he said, finding the perfect spot under an old oak tree. “Sit down. I’m going back to get us something to eat.”
Drake swiveled around and left. The leaves of the oak blew in the wind as a pink-colored sky rolled in. Even though Adams was so last century, its beauty was tempting. Miami had the ocean, beautiful sand beaches, and people. Lots and lots of people. Adams was this small dot on a map that nobody knew about except for the people living in or around it.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Dad liked it here. Maybe he’d even loved Adams more than Miami. Unless Aunt Rose knew, I’d probably never find out.
Adams had history, however weird and creepy it may be. At least it had something. It had Dad. The only page in Dad’s journal I brought myself to read that night, while I was back at Mom’s, said he was packing for a trip home to Adams. Home. A wonderful word. A word that made me think of bear hugs, of smiling faces, of kitchens that smelled like people actually cooked in them. At least, that’s what I imagined it to be.
On stage, a young woman talked to two men as they set up a microphone and speakers. One of them showed her how to adjust the mic stand and the buzz of the speakers sounded as he demonstrated the on/off switch. I twisted around and searched for Drake in the crowd, finding him easily. Most of the townies sat like me now, waiting for the show, but he stood out.
So did the girl he talked to.
It was the girl who waited tables at Abigail’s Diner. The one who annoyingly smacked gum all the time and who, as Drake pointed out earlier at the busy diner, was an ex-girlfriend. I probably would’ve figured it out all by myself considering the death glares she sent me from across the restaurant.
I didn’t know how he could stand to be in her presence for even two seconds. She probably al
ready popped her gum a gazillion times. The slut suit she wore may have helped. Her laced-too-tight red and black bodice heaved her boobage into his face.
Drake acted like a perfect gentleman though. He paid for our drinks and tried, several times, to back away. She finally gave up when another customer stood right at the counter, tapping his dollar bill onto the metal shelf.
The lights around the park dimmed. I twisted toward the makeshift stage again. Forty feet away, a figure stood tall, elevated by the 2x4’s that lay out on the grass only a few hours ago. A hooded black robe disguised the guy, not that I would know who he was anyway. The dark night, the material folding over his head, made him look like a faceless grim reaper. It was dusk and getting darker, the pink deepening to a rose red.
The robed figure lifted his hand, smooth, indifferent, a marionette being played with. His hand made a wide, sweeping horizontal arc, pointing into the faces of everyone.
My stomach twisted and turned into knots. Drake bumped into my shoulder and held out a drink as he sat down. Then, the figure yanked his hands in the air and a big blaze of fire erupted from the space between the stage and the audience. I jumped, deftly managing to spill half my soda.
Flames shot up, reaching toward the night. The smell of gasoline used for ignition hung in the air. A few people laughed behind me. Drake even joined in. “Gotcha,” he said, leaning over, whispering in my ear. With him so close, the cologne clinging to his long, black robe smothered the wood smoke that had filled my nostrils.
I peered at him. He turned away and pulled his hood up. He was the exact match of the person on stage.
I sat with a wizard. I talked with a wizard.
Still, I inched closer to him. The fire, the reddish sky, the grim reaper, the witches, everything. It got to me. An eerie feeling tangled itself within every thought, like something hidden watched from just beyond sight.
On the stage, the figure in the dark cloak threw back the hood. The fire glow cast the face in shadows, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of orange, red, and black. The speakers thumped, thumped, thumped as the black hooded figure tapped the front of the microphone. The hollow sound echoed throughout the open park and bounced off the surrounding buildings. No one talked. They barely even moved. Only the slight ripple of the crowd as everyone inclined their heads and inched forward, awe-struck.
The wind picked up, fueling the flames. The blazed erupted, flaring up, lighting the figure’s face. I gasped.
The grim reaper wasn’t a guy. It was Rose.
Drake peeked over at me, his eyebrows knit together. “You okay?”
“That’s my aunt,” I whispered loudly, still trying to comprehend it myself. “What is she doing up there?”
“She’s the leader.”
“Huh?” Uneasiness squeezed my chest, like the time I went to see that stupid Ouija board movie with friends. They all laughed through the scary parts while I spent most of the movie with my heart trembling and one second away from closing my eyes. “Leader of what?”
“This.” Drake opened his arms wide and twisted his body, scanning the corners of the five-sided park. “She puts all this together.”
I took it all in. Giant banners announced “Adams Colonization”, eerie witch posters and mannequins with stringy green hair and large, red eyeballs stared back. The guards along the stage dressed in old brown suits and hats I guessed were supposed to be replicas of what the first settlers wore. The costumes reminded me of pilgrims. They stood at attention, faces impassible as they monitored the crowd. The picture sank into my brain, this parallel reality where past met present in a jumbled mesh.
Drake leaned into me again. “Sorry. I should’ve told you.”
No wonder why she said she was too busy to hang out with me. I snuck forward a little, caught up in the surprise appearance of Rose. The arm that had been touching Drake instantly chilled. He was so nice. And cute. But the reason why I came here was up on that stage.
Rose’s voice rang out, low and seductive. “On this day in 1610, our ancestors inhabited a foreign land. Today, we call that piece of land Adams, Virginia.” Scattered applause swelled through the park. “Our ancestors brought with them superstition…and fear from England. Men and women, children—all terrified of one thing.” Rose’s hypnotic voice was mesmerizing and I leaned forward even more. “Witches.” The stare of an old, wise woman lingered over everybody and when her eyes met mine, a pool of black reflected the licking orange flames.
“They fled here, terrified of the supernatural. They had hoped to start a new life. One without the constant paranoia. They failed. Our ancestors lived in complete, maddening, unrelenting fear their entire lives. Are we like them?”
Audible no’s rose from the crowd.
“No. We’re not.” Her voice pitched higher, and louder. “Today, we embrace our history. Today, we stare the supernatural in the face and laugh at it.” Loud cheers erupted from every corner of the park and Rose shouted over them, “Today, we celebrate!”
Rose motioned to the side of the reaching flames. Two men in the ugly brown trousers and jackets nodded toward each other.
“During this opening ceremony, we will conquer fear as they did back in the old days.”
The men pulled at ropes, hoisting a cross into the air. Mounted to the cross beam was the body of a woman, her mouth agape in horror.
I drew in a sharp breath. Drake moved closer to me so I turned my gaze on him. A sly smile graced his face.
He put his arm around me, pulling me closer. “Are you scared?” he whispered.
I couldn’t speak. These people were freaking crazy. My eyes darted through the crowd, looking for a policeman—somebody—who might stop this.
“Don’t worry. We always do this on opening night,” Drake said, pulling me even closer, rubbing my shoulder with his hand.
I wanted to scream at him to do something, to help the poor woman. He only sat smiling, eyes bright with anticipation. I knocked his hand off me and pulled away, but before I could wiggle completely free and run to the fire pit, the cotton clothes the woman wore caught fire from the reaching flames underneath.
The flames spread fast. The waistline already edged with black char before the fire incinerated it. Dark gray smoke furled over the helpless woman and puffed up toward the blood red sky.
My breath clogged my throat. I didn’t know whether to scream first, or cry.
CHAPTER FOUR
Isabella
1639
Isabella stared at the timbered ceiling, a chill freezing her to her core. When sleep had come to her earlier, it threw her in fits of nightmares, soaking her bedclothes through with sweat. The damp linen cloaked her in cold terror.
For hours, as surely the sun would be forging daybreak soon, sick images threatened beyond mindfulness, beyond waking truths. A line of women on wooden crosses drifted past her eyes. Dark red and orange flames enveloped the screaming, crying women, as one after the other, a bed of hay and blackthorn at their feet caught fire from Magistrate Ludington’s torch.
She saw Mrs. Worth, her two children reaching out for her. Louisa Pyle gone mad, pleading with her parents to save her. Martha Compton was trying to break free, the cross swaying to and fro until the first lick of flames got her.
Then there were two on the end, who she recognized not, for their faces turned in toward one another. They did not weep or struggle, but stood proud, unfeigned, until a gentleman from the swarming crowd of villagers came forth from the shadows.
Father?
It was him. She could do nothing but watch as he paled white with the anger filling him. There was a set to his shoulders, a stiffness settling in that she recognized from the evenings when he had done all he could in the fields with little to show for it. The two women turned toward him, revealing their faces.
They had the same golden yellow hair, made brighter by the fire now burning at their feet. The same hair Isabella could feel now, matted to her neck in the sanctity of her bed. The same color hair
Thomas called ‘the hair of angels’.
Orange flames reflected off single tears that sparkled like stars, two tears that dripped from the faces of her and her mother. Tears shed for their husband, for their father, who must now live without them.
Isabella found it impossible to keep the images from her mind though her eyes were dry and tired from staring relentlessly upwards to see every corner of the dark room and the jumping shadows that hid there.
Mrs. Worth? Impossible. She manages a family, a husband, which she honors and respects.
Isabella drew in a fearful breath. Her head ached from lack of sleep. Though Thomas would call her naïve, a country girl, she believed Mrs. Worth to be a righteous woman. As righteous as her or her mother.
Isabella tore the covers from her and moved to the desk her father purchased for her birthday. Just enough moonlight leaked in through the window to write and she wanted a letter for Thomas as he asked. She dared not use up another candle for her mother, Mrs. Lynne, would scold her again.
Isabella trailed her fingers along the wood and then around the outside. They brushed along a row of ridges. She twisted to see what her fingers found. There, in the very corner of the small desk was an S dug into the wood. Isabella’s breath caught in her throat.
S? Shipton? She held her hands to her chest.
The bedroom door swung open, crashing against the other wall. Isabella jumped. Her mother stood there, face blanched white and eyes wide.
“Moth—?”
Mrs. Lynne brought a finger to her lips. Her hair fell loose and wild around her. “Make a sound not.”
Isabella heeded her warning. She made no other move and barely even a breath came to her. Three faint knocks sounded from within.
“Come.” Her mother seized her hand, pulling her upright and straight through to the front entry.
Her father crouched down in shadows, peeking through the window. “Go,” he demanded, his voice an urgent whisper.
Mrs. Lynne’s hold clamped tighter around her daughter’s hand and soon, a blast of cool air whipped at their faces as they ran from the house. Isabella’s heart stuttered and skipped furiously as her bare feet slipped over the wet grass. Her soles stung as they scraped along stones and broken branches.
