Chapter 7
Salem
The chilly October evening held the promise of an early frost, and I sensed something stirring in the clear sky. The Hell on Heelz girls laughed and joked as we parked our bikes outside the Rusty Bucket, but my attention kept drifting to the west—to the farmhouse sitting on the edge of town.
The roar of laughter echoed in the bar as I nursed my beer, sitting back and letting the chaos wash over me. It had been a long day, a long run, but the night was just getting started.
Being a prospect wasn’t easy. Hell, it wasn’t meant to be. You had to earn your patch, and the Heelz didn’t hand anything out just because you had a pretty face or rode a bike. It was blood, sweat, and fucking tears.
The others were excited, riding the high of adrenaline after our latest endeavor. The Heelz had a reputation for taking men for a ride, so our mission had involved some trickery as we robbed a couple of cocky assholes blind. The girls were enjoying their spoils, and even though I was just doing what I was told, I worried about karma. I had a bad feeling deep in my gut, one that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I tried to shake it off.
Not to mention, on the run, we passed the farmhouse. It had always been there—abandoned, decaying—but lately, since the bonfire, it had been creeping into our lives, the way cursed places often do in small towns. Most of the girls thought it was just a creepy place to play a few pranks, but I knew better. There were whispers around Seville, stories of that place that reached back generations.
“Yo, Salem!” Pixie's voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back to the here and now. She tossed me a cigarette, which I caught without looking. “You’re too quiet. What's going on in that spooky head of yours?”
Smoking wasn’t my thing, but after a run was kind of like after sex, if someone offered, I wouldn’t turn it down. I lit the cigarette and took a drag, the smoke filling my lungs as I looked at her, then nodded toward the farmhouse in the distance. “Y'all ever wonder why no one touches that place?”
Pixie snorted, rolling her eyes. “It's a run-down shithole. That's why.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, exhaling slowly. “But you don’t grow up in Seville without hearing the stories.”
Pixie’s expression faltered, just for a second. She tried to play it off, but I knew the truth. Everyone in this town had heard about the curse.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of some old ghost story,” she teased, but there was an edge to her voice. She flicked her hair back and strutted off to join the others inside, leaving me standing there, staring at the distant silhouette of the farmhouse.
It wasn’t about fear. Not for me. It was about respect. There’s a difference between being afraid and knowing when not to fuck with something. And that place? That place was bad news.
Legend had it the farmhouse belonged to a woman accused of witchcraft a couple hundred years ago. Small town, small minds—she was probably just different, like me. She'd been cast out, run out of town, but before she disappeared, she left a curse on the land. No one knows exactly what she said, but they say her spirit never left, that it still lingers, waiting for those foolish enough to disturb it. Over the years, people who went there came back… different. A couple of them didn’t come back at all.
Maybe it’s all bullshit. A scary story to keep kids from wandering into an old deathtrap of a house. But in a town like Seville, those stories stuck, and over time, it became more than just a tale. It became a warning. And since we Heelz took our ride there to party, that warning kept flashing in my mind.
I put out my cigarette, watching the glow disappear under my boot. The cold gnawed at me, but I wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the unease in my bones.
Just then, Razor strolled up beside me, a wicked grin plastered on her face. “So, you ready for your big night?”
“Hey, Salem,” Tank called out. “You want to really prove yourself?”
I glanced up from my beer, narrowing my eyes. Tank was surprisingly tall and completely gorgeous. “What now?”
The other girls, Razor and Raven, had crowded around me with Pixie, all looking like they were planning something, which only meant trouble. “We got a dare for you,” Pixie said, leaning in closer. Her breath reeked of whiskey. “You stay the night in that old farmhouse.”
I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb. Pixie’s been runnin’ her mouth. We're daring you to spend the night at the farmhouse. Part of your initiation,” Razor hissed.
I raised an eyebrow. The abandoned farmhouse? Really? My stomach twisted. A dare? Of course they’d choose that place. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to prove myself to the club, but why did it have to be that fucking house?
Still, I wasn’t going to back down. I played it cool. “That’s it? A fucking slumber party in an old house?”
Tank smirked. “Oh, it’s more than that, witch. You’ll be alone. Word is, that place is seriously haunted.” She was drunk and stating the obvious, like we all weren’t just there. An old timer, maybe she forgot I was there.
“You’re serious?” I asked, trying to keep a shake out of my voice.
“As a heart attack,” Razor replied, her grin widening. “What's the matter, Salem? You scared?”
I rolled my eyes, giving her a hard look. “I'm not scared of the house. But you know that place has a history.”
“Exactly,” she said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “That’s why it’s perfect. You’re the spooky one, right? You should be all over this.”
I wasn’t scared of the dark or some ghost from centuries past. Hell, I thrived in the darkness. My life has been a long line of twisted turns, and I walked the path of witchcraft because I believed in the energy of the universe, the connection between life and death, the balance that most people ignore. So, when it comes to things like that cursed farmhouse, I knew better than to fuck with that kind of energy without being prepared.
As a prospect for the Hell on Heelz MC, I was trying to prove I wasn’t just some witchy girl with a penchant for tarot and herbs. I had to show I could hold my own with the rest of them. But there are different kinds of power, and I wasn’t about to ignore what I felt creeping around that farmhouse just to prove I was tough.
Raven leaned in, her voice low and taunting. “Think you got the balls to face it, Salem? This might win some of the girls over.”
Of course, they knew I wouldn’t back down. I wasn’t just a regular prospect. I was Salem, the one with the rep for being a little crazy, a little dangerous. Ghost stories didn’t scare me. Nothing scared me. Except failure. That’s what they all thought anyhow. I couldn’t afford to fuck this up, not when I was so close to earning my patch.
I shrugged off her arm and stood a little taller. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Razor looked impressed but not surprised. “Alright. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
“You’re on,” I said, standing up from my chair. “I’ll spend the whole damn night.”
The girls hooted and hollered, already taking bets on whether I’d bail or stick it out. I wasn’t planning on letting them get the satisfaction of seeing me run.
I didn’t go straight to the farmhouse. I had to drop my Harley off at the Roost and pack a few things. Pixie and the others would drop me off and pick me up, in order to ensure that I stayed the whole night. I grabbed my pack and slung it over my shoulder, heading toward the door. As I stepped outside, the cool night air hit me like a slap, but I welcomed it. The ride out to Mulberry Hill might clear my head.
I rode bitch on Raven’s bike. She was the quiet one, the one of the three Heelz escorting me, I knew the least, so it felt strange holding onto her slight waist. The farmhouse sat on top of a rolling hill, that was out of place in Florida, its windows dark and broken, the front porch sagging like the place was too tired to hold itself up anymore. I could almost hear the girls’ laughter in my head. They thought this would freak me out, but they didn’t know shit.
After I said goodnight to my soon to be sisters, I stood at the edge of the property, the wind howling through the trees, I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that something bigger than me was stirring inside that house. In my backpack, I had all my tools—sage, candles, crystals—but I knew they might not be enough if that place was truly cursed.
Just as I was about to step forward, I heard the sound of a bike pulling up behind me. Thinking my sisters changed their minds, I turned to see a biker straddling his Harley and revving the engine.
Heresy.
He was leaning on his handlebars, watching me with a look I couldn’t quite read. When I saw him, I felt my stomach do this annoying little flip it always did when he was around. Of course, he was watching me.
He was always watching.