by A. W. Jantha
Sarah sits at a table in the other room. She leans over the memory box and sings diligently into it, but Winifred knows it’s only a matter of time before her sister tires of spreading her song from one person to the next—or, more likely, becomes distracted.
A shiver of energy crackles through the air and over Winifred’s tongue. She glances surreptitiously at Mary, who doesn’t seem to notice anything is amiss. Instead, Mary is chewing something that looks like a brightly colored earthworm. Mary might be better at smelling children, but Winifred has always been better at sensing magic. That’s why, she tells herself, she’s the best suited to give directions.
“Sisters,” Winifred cries, trying her best to contain her excitement. “Sisters, there is magic in the air!”
Mary sniffs delicately. “The magic smells like macaroons,” she says. “Or is it macarons?”
“No, that smell is from thy sister’s singing, dimwit.”
Winifred hurries up the stairs and about the upper floor until she finds a door on the ceiling that, when drawn down, leads up into the attic. She crosses the low, dusty room to one of the small windows and crouches there, hands clasped in her lap and a grin like an overeager child’s spreading on her face. She waits patiently. And then she just waits.
Then Winifred feels something else, right there in the attic, so close to her. Her eyes comb over cardboard boxes and stacks of plastic bins, and she wonders what it could be, but then, as quickly as it came, the wavelength of magic dissipates, and she slouches and sighs, redirecting her sight back out of the window to try and pick up the energy she first detected.
Winifred’s confidence is beginning to lag when a second roll of distant thunder pulls her attention to the far coast in the distance. A bolt of yellow lightning springs out of the clear sky, a storm cloud forming and then dispersing as soon as its energy is spent.
“The girl,” she says, pushing away from the window and hurrying back downstairs. “The feral, flea-bitten mutt has found it for us!”
Sarah looks up from the memory box on the table, blue eyes hopeful. “May I stop?” she asks sweetly.
“Yes, poppet.”
A voice rises from the speaking box. “Hello? Hello, Isabella? Are you—?”
Sarah presses a bony finger against the device and silences the voice.
Winifred opens the front door of the house. Its yard is plain, unlike the houses nearby. In fact, the only mark of decoration is a small hand-painted sign beneath the porch light, which reads the dennisons. “Book!” Winifred calls, as one would call for a dog or a particularly doltish spouse. “Boooo-ook!” Nothing happens. “Book! Come to Mummy, now.”
Mary comes out behind her, clinging to the doorframe. “They’ve still got it, Winnie, remember?” she says timidly.
“Of course I remember!” Winifred shouts. Then she softens, looking out into the dark, cruel world that has stolen her poor book. “Those blasted children are keeping it from me. What gives them any right?”
“Well,” Mary says, with little more confidence than before, “the girl is our great-great-great-great-great-great-great—”
“Silence!” The look Winifred gives her could melt gold. “That meddling creature is no relative of mine,” Winifred says. “No more than, well, Elizabeth.” She wretches at saying her name.
“That is not really for thou to decide, though, is it?” asks Mary.
Winifred huffs and hustles back inside. “She makes me ashamed to be a Sanderson.”
“The girl did—the girl did find the stone before thee,” says Mary, cowering as she says it.
This time, Winifred turns very, very slowly on one heel to face her sister. “I do not need reminding,” she hisses. “Sarah!” She turns quickly then, becoming more herself. “Sarah, dear, please do your little song again and have the children tell us where that dog and my book and my”—she pauses and corrects herself with a strained gulp and forced smile—“our stone has gone.”
“But thou said I was finished,” Sarah whines, rubbing her neck.
“And now I say thou aren’t,” Winifred says. “Mary, find us something on which to fly.” She eyes the shining chandeliers and polished mantel, top lip curling in distaste. “There must be a broom somewhere in this hideous place.”
“Yes, Winnie.” Mary bows and ambles into the next room.
Sarah coughs and swallows, wishing she had a pint of scorpion juice for her dry mouth. “Cadaver, cadaver, cadaver,” she singsongs, correcting her pitch and relaxing her lips and tongue. “Bloody bones, bloody bones, bloody bones.” Satisfied, she presses the button, clicks the next name on the list, and waits patiently as the speaking box casts its spell. It makes a soft chiming sound, then pauses and repeats the noise.
“Hello?” says a voice, sounding somewhat dazed.
“Hello,” says Sarah brightly, and then she begins to sing: “Come, little children, on down to the bay...”
Winifred smiles with satisfaction and turns away from her sister. She goes over to the buffet table, picks up one of the lady’s fingers Mary discarded, and takes a tentative bite.
“Cake indeed,” Winifred says, spitting the wretched thing onto the floor.
Iset the pale, round blood moonstone on the grass, and we all stare at it, transfixed.
I’m sitting sit next to Travis on his muddied lab coat, which he’s spread out on the ground. Katie sits cross-legged on the bench across from us. She’s pulled out her cell phone and is typing away, probably trying to pretend that none of this is happening. Under the circumstances, I don’t blame her. I can’t help feeling sympathetic toward her, with our shared family history and all. Isabella paces beside us. I still can’t get over the fact that she’s now a canine—or any of this night, really.
“So, let’s take this shovel to it already,” Travis says.
“How do we know that would do the trick?” I ask.
“I don’t know! What if we...threw it in the ocean?” Travis muses, miming tossing an invisible rock over Katie’s shoulder.
“But that won’t destroy it,” says Isabella doubtfully, still trotting back and forth.
“We should get the police, is what we should do,” mutters Katie.
Travis, Isabella, and I exchange a look. Like that’ll do any good.
“I’m not sure that’d go over so well. It never seems to work in the movies,” I say.
“You’re right. Besides, I already called them,” Katie goes on, talking mostly to herself, “and my tax dollars apparently don’t fund enough phone lines for DEFCON Witch–level emergencies.”
“Okay, back to what Isabella said,” says Travis.
“Would it crack if we threw it in a fire?” I ask. “Don’t some rocks crack if they get thrown in fires? Is that a thing?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Isabella snuffles along the side of the stone. “It’s too bad the kiln is broken,” she says with a grin. “I bet it would’ve actually worked in this case.”
“What if we climb up the lighthouse and drop it onto the rocks below?” I ask.
Travis scratches his chin as he looks at the top of the lighthouse in the distance. “I don’t think it would make a dent.”
“I mean, we could try it,” I say.
Travis lifts his shovel and brings it down hard on the stone.
The head of the shovel shatters with a thunderous bang.
I shield my face as metal shards fly every which way. “Holy crap!” I shout.
Travis’s jaw drops and he holds up the shattered shovel handle. “Well, we can rule out cracking it with a shovel,” he says in a daze, tossing the broken handle off to the side.
“I hate to break it to you guys,” Katie says, holding out her phone so we can clearly read the bright screen, “but we’re about to be surrounded by witch zombies.”
“What?!” says Travis, leaning in toward her phone.
On the screen, under the list of trending items, are SALEM, MA (“ZOMBIE” HORDES CONVERGE ON THE SLEEPY EASTERN SEABOARD TOWN AND MOVE TO
WARD WINTER ISLAND), #SPELLONYOU (CELL PHONE CALLS REPORTEDLY HYPNOTIZE THOUSANDS ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT), and RIHANNA (TEASES NEW ALBUM IN LATEST INSTAGRAM POST). Katie takes her phone back and taps around on the screen, then reads aloud:
“‘Emergency lines are being overwhelmed as worried friends and family report their loved ones’ strange behavior. Although the damage is concentrated in Massachusetts and surrounding states, with the hordes reportedly now heading in the direction of Winter Island, calls have been reported as far away as Seoul, South Korea. Authorities have urged the public to turn off their phones and avoid calls—even when they seem to come from recognized numbers—since those who are afflicted have used conference lines to entangle up to five recipients at a time.’” She looks up at us, her face lit eerily by the light of her phone. “Talk about six degrees of separation,” she says.
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” says Isabella.
“Well, hopefully we can figure out how to destroy this stone before the zombies get here,” says Travis. “What if we tried—”
“Umm, guys,” Katie says, startled. Her eyes are wide. She lifts her phone in the direction of the tree line and points. “They found us,” she breathes. “I knew I hated crowdsourcing.”
We all turn and see specks of white light coming through the trees—I realize the lights are phones, their lock screens blinking on and off as the people carrying them stumble over rocks and tree roots. Dozens of kids and teenagers wander, zombielike, through the dark woods that connect Winter Island to the rest of Salem, drawing nearer and nearer to us. This is so not good.
“Where do we go?” I stand up. “We can’t just stay here!”
“I’m going to tweet at the governor,” Katie says, typing madly. “Bella, isn’t there anything your dad can do? He’s the mayor, for crying out loud.”
“Um, Katie, I think we should move,” says Isabella. “Now.”
Travis stands and snatches up the blood moonstone and spell book.
Over the sound of wind, I can hear the advancing crowd humming the eerie spell song. They’re so close now. There’s the rustling of leaves. The snapping of twigs. Katie yelps and runs over to join us and Isabella follows, hiding behind Travis. We put the park bench between us and the zombie horde.
As if a few pieces of wood and metal can help protect us.
Behind us, the cliff drops off to the ocean.
We’re trapped.
But I’ll be damned if I won’t fight to protect my friends.
The bewitched kids close in quickly. Teens still in their Halloween costumes stagger toward us, their faces expressionless, their hands outstretched. They’re all chanting under their breath: “Find stone and book with the Sanderson claim,” they utter in monotone unison. “Wrap them up and summon my name. Find stone and book...”
“The stone!” a teen girl in a soccer uniform gasps, pointing at Travis’s closed fist.
“Jenny?!” cries Katie, stepping out from behind the bench and moving toward her.
I put an arm out and stop Katie in her tracks. “Katie, she’s not herself!”
“The book!” another bewitched teen yells, charging toward us.
“So, this is an interesting turn of events,” says Travis, skirting around the bench. “Since we’re surrounded by water and all.” He leaps out of a zombie kid’s path and tosses the book to me. “Catch!”
I take it, tuck it under my arm like a running back, and race toward the cliff’s edge and away from the zombies with Travis, Katie, and Isabella close behind.
“We could jump, but we’d never clear the rocks,” Katie says, scanning the ocean far below.
“Well, that’s helpful,” Travis says sarcastically. “Pops, I think it’s time we open the book and look for a flying spell!”
We all spin around. My heel digs into the dirt. One more step back, and I’ll fall. The zombies have formed a solid line and advance slowly, with only five feet separating us.
Now four feet.
Isabella takes a firm stance, staring them down. She’s brave, even as a dog.
But as much as I deeply admire her pep, I have no clue what we should do.
“Isabella, can you make that lightning hit them?” I ask her.
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say, at a loss for any other ideas.
In the assemblage, I recognize a few kids from school. A zombie teen I’ve never seen before, dressed as a stormtrooper but missing her helmet, lunges at me, and I take a step back, lose my grip, and feel the earth fall away beneath me.
Katie catches my hand, and my body slams into the side of the cliff, dangling.
“Help!” I scream, trying not to let go of the spell book.
Far below me, the ocean rumbles, and waves spray white against the sharp, craggy rocks.
“I got you!” Katie yells over the wind.
Travis joins her, and together they pull me back up. My feet try to find footing in the crumbling soil, and finally, I’m bent over back on the cliff’s edge, trying to catch my breath.
The zombies grab my friends’ shoulders.
Isabella valiantly rips at the fabric of their costumes in an attempt to fend them off.
I stand up and push them away, but they keep coming, keep pressing in on us.
Over the tree line fly three figures outlined by the moon, unmistakable even in the dark night. A blanket of stars wraps heavy around their shoulders. Winifred cackles as they descend, their clothes catching the light of the moon. Mary is riding a Swiffer, rocking dangerously on its swiveled base. Sarah is perched on a Roomba, swinging her legs as she descends, and Winifred is riding what looks an awful lot like a cordless stick vacuum.
Winifred’s the first one to touch down, and she swings the vacuum over her shoulder as she approaches. “Three nasty children, all in a row,” she croons. “All dressed up, with no place to go!”
“Three nasty children and a dog,” adds Travis.
The zombies freeze, watching us with vacant eyes. I see Juan, whose cloak looks much rattier than it did a few hours ago. I see Cory, too, and Adena, and Patsy, and several other people from school. None of them seems to recognize us or know what’s going on.
“Thank you, my pets,” Winifred says, scratching the top of Jenny’s head. “Now, where’s my book?”
They uniformly point at me.
I hide the spell book behind my back.
Winifred turns to me and grins. Then she strides toward me, arms outstretched.
“We need to find a way back to your car,” I say under my breath, glancing at Katie.
She’s too busy staring, disbelieving, at the witches, but she gives one quick nod.
“Ooh, he’s just so handsome,” says Sarah, batting her eyes at Travis.
Winifred stops short of me and puts a hand to her mouth. “Smells like wet dog!” she spits, squinting her eyes at Isabella.
My blood boils at the dig.
“Looking for this?” Travis shouts at her, waving the moonstone.
It’s just the distraction we needed.
“Go!” shouts Katie, shoving Winifred aside, and we all make a break for it, maneuvering around the bench and the zombies and heading back toward the road leading to where Katie parked.
Isabella and I hang right while Travis and Katie take a left, and by splitting up we seem to confuse the sisters, who spin around, shocked and torn, as we pass them.
“Get them!” shouts Winifred.
“Which one?” asks Mary.
“The one with the stone, you miserable stockfish!”
“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Which one is that?”
“Get them!” Winifred shrieks again, and a few zombie kids turn toward us as if slowly puzzling out her command. Jenny reaches for me, and I twist away from her and plow into three basketball players. Two are in pajamas, but the other is dressed as a baby with a rattle.
I quickly straighten and race ahead to catch up with my friends. We dodge into the th
icket and emerge onto the road. The witches are still behind us and haven’t moved from their spots. Ahead of us is the park ranger’s booth, and beyond, the gate.
Lucky for us, the zombie horde found a way to smash through the gates, so we won’t have to climb over again.
Unlucky for us, there are more zombies standing in our way between the open gate and where Katie’s car sits somewhere on the other side. The place is packed. I can’t figure out how to shove through them and make it out, and from the looks of it, neither can Katie or Travis.
“Go!” shouts Isabella, ducking under some of their legs and skirting wide to avoid the gate altogether. “I’ll be fine!” she calls back.
As much as I want to follow after her, I have no choice but to take her word for it. I hope she’ll be okay.
The rest of us duck our heads down and shoulder people out of the way. Hands snatch at my hair and sweatshirt and limbs, seeking the book tucked under my arm. I elbow and twist and wriggle until I’m close enough to the gate that I can see Katie’s car just where we left it. It’s a relief that the zombies haven’t already slashed its tires. And a relief that I’ve still got possession of the coveted book.
Beside me, I hear Katie shout. It’s a breathless, frightened sound, and I turn in time to see her body flying through the air, a lasso of green lightning wrapped around her waist. The door of the park ranger’s booth opens and she flies in, slamming hard into the back wall. She slumps to the floor, vanishing out of sight, just as the door slams shut after her, crackling with veins of electricity.
“No!” I shout.
Travis is already there at the booth, yanking on the door handle, but it won’t give. A visible spark of electricity leaps from the handle into his body, and he falls backward into the mass of zombies, cursing as he clutches his right hand. In the same movement, the blood moonstone flies out of his hand and lands somewhere in the crowd.
Zombies mumble indistinctly, and the crowd bristles around the spot where the stone landed.
Well, that backfired.
Travis’s hand appears in the throng, giving a thumbs-up. “I’m okay!” he shouts.
