3. Witch Trial
Courtney
Iwatch the brown acorns crunch between the soles of my shoes and the cobblestone street I find myself traveling down. I could walk on the paved sidewalk like a normal person, but the lack of traffic makes the historic roads too tempting not to utilize.
I follow the instructions the barista gave me as I make my way to the Havenwood Historic Center. She said to take a left at the split oak tree and then a right at the house with three chimneys. It isn’t the type of directions I’m used to, but they make as much sense as they need to, and after turning right upon spotting a house with three chimneys, I actually end up in the right place.
A freshly assembled metal sign hangs from a post outside the historic center announcing it as such. I turn my attention from the sign to the building itself, the structure resembles a newly renovated version of a 17th-century church, virtually preserved in every way aside from a new coat of paint and gold placards spotted along its front. I eye the tower decorating the top of the building, wondering if an old-fashioned bell resides inside of it. Why had the mayor suggested I visit this place?
He mentioned that the historic center was newly remodeled, and maybe he simply wanted to show it off, but that explanation feels hollow. There must be another reason why Finn Abernathy wants me to see this place. My desire to decode his motivations is the sole reason I ascend the narrow walkway leading to the historic center’s front door.
As I approach, I take in the rows of arched windows lining the center’s facade, rapping a timid beat against the door when I reach it. I half expect a colonial-era priest to answer based on the design of the establishment but I’m pleasantly surprised when a very modern, yet very confused-looking man answers instead.
“Hi,” I greet, feeling the need to look as harmless as I am under his scrutinizing gaze. The unwelcoming way he fills the doorway tells me he’s attempting to determine the reason for my visit.
Despite his unfriendly demeanor, it’s easy to see he is good-looking. He is approximately 6 feet 2 inches tall and lanky, with short black hair that tapers the closer it comes to his ears. His sepia-brown skin is complimented by his periwinkle blazer, the matching suspenders he wears underneath speak to his impeccable style and manicured look.
“I’m Courtney. I just moved here, and Mayor Abernathy told me I should check this place out, so… that’s why I’m here.” I finish with a less-than-confident smile, rocking anxiously on the heels of my sneakers. I look down at the scuffed-up workout shoes, suddenly feeling like a fashion flop in his well-tailored presence.
I watch a metaphorical cog turn into place somewhere inside his head right before his confusion melts away, quickly replaced with surprised excitement.
“Holy shit,” he exclaims, his expletive very much contrasting his setting. He smacks a palm to his forehead in disbelief of himself.
“Come in, immediately.” He hooks an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into the naturally lit main room of the historical center. Once I’m whisked inside with the door closed behind us, he strolls past me further into the wide room, and I immediately begin to reprimand myself for letting a stranger lure me into a building by myself. I look around the large room, noting the rows of pews before us, an homage to the building’s former identity as a church.
“I apologize for my coldness. We have another historical guild breathing down our neck right now. Seeing as I didn’t recognize you, I knew you weren’t a local, and I figured you were one of them coming to harass me.” He throws his hands expressively as he speaks, extending one out to me before I can respond.
“I’m Milo Booker, anthropologist, historian, and head of the Havenwood Historical Center.” I admire his coral nail polish as I take his hand and give him a polite shake.
“Booker? Is everyone in this town related to Ms. Agnes?” I raise a brow. Surely Finn didn’t send me here just to meet his relative, but it is an interesting coincidence—another piece of a confusing puzzle.
Milo gives me a full-lipped smile. He removes his thin-framed glasses from their resting place high up on his nose and confidently swipes any smudges from the lenses.
“Agnes is my mother. That mayor you referenced? He’s my adopted brother and best friend.” The well-decorated historian does a visual scan of me from head to foot and then back up again, searching for an answer to a silent question.
“What brings you to Havenwood, Courtney?” Milo ticks his head to one side, leaning against one of the replica pews as I formulate a short versioned answer. For some reason that I can’t explain, it feels like he’s anticipating my answer before I even begin.
“I’m actually a screenwriter from California but we’re on strike right now, so I figured now was the perfect time to take an extended vacation.” I omit any mentions of a breakup with a D-list actor that had contributed to my decision to move here. My “no boys” rule also extends to discussing my breakup, the last thing I want for this trip is to dwell in my heartbreak. I want to take all the pain and anger and simply compartmentalize it away until I hop back into my car and drive back to LA.
“I saw an advertisement for your mom’s rental and it just felt like a sign,” I raise my eyes to the high ceilings of the former church.
“Or, er, divine intervention?” Milo’s light eyes flash with a flare of knowing before it’s quickly extinguished.
“I hope Havenwood will be the resolution you’re looking for.” He says distantly, picking himself off the wooden pew and strolling down the center of the room.
“Follow me, I have lots of fascinating history to show you!” He calls, obviously expecting me to fall in line and keep pace. I laugh a little as I obey, so far thoroughly enjoying all the personalities Havenwood has to offer but not so much its secrets.
Milo embarks us on a brief tour of the historic center, the antique pews take up a majority of the first floor but the remaining space hosts a small display dedicated to Havenwood’s roots. The second floor consists of a storage room filled with records, artifacts, ecofacts, and anything else deemed too precious to be kept in the display on the main floor. The rest of the second story hosts Milo’s office, which doubles as a library; the entire wall behind his desk is dedicated to bookshelves filled with historical texts.
I do a lap in the small office, discretely eyeing the papers that clutter the lamp-lit desk.
“Milo, you mentioned another historical guild is breathing down your neck? What do they want?”
The tall historian shifts his weight as he considers his answer.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed Havenwood isn’t exactly New England’s number one tourist spot?” I nod, recalling the town’s languid feel and Agnes’ story about the town’s decline after the freeway was built.
“Tourists used to flock here, they would stop on their way to Salem to see the sights and hear about the witch trials- trials that Havenwood was heavily involved in.”
I swallow hard, only now considering the fact that this side of the United States has a lot of dark history that California was too young to have ever known. A shiver flies down my spine as I acknowledge my temporary home having ties to the infamous 17th-century witch trials.
“Nobody stops here anymore, they bypass us and go straight to the tourist traps in Salem. Havenwood is dying because of it as I’m sure you’ve learned by now.” I offer another nod, confirming I’ve heard the town’s plight.
“With the new freeway built, there’s no draw to loop back and see Havenwood.” I acknowledge.
“We had no draw BUT we uncovered something big recently and Salem wants it. But they’re gonna have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.” He flexes his long fingers to emphasize his point, his excited demeanor returning at the mention of this secret weapon meant to boost Havenwood back to its former glory.
“What did you find?” I ask curiously, finding myself more invested than I originally thought.
“That’s for another time,” Milo gives me a smirk before shooing me out of his office.
“Let’s go, Hollywood. I’ve got some work to do now.”
I feel disappointment sink in as I follow Milo’s lanky frame down the spiral stairs and towards the front door. How can he reveal that he has a secret weapon up his sleeve that might save the town but refuse to share it? I justify that he might not want to tell me because I’m an outsider, unsure if I’m someone he can trust. Regardless, I’m already mentally making plans to return and get some more local history from him and hopefully, more answers to my questions. As we pass the display on the first floor something about it catches my eye.
“Who is that?”
Milo turns his head, his eyes slightly rounding at the corners before a collected expression washes over him. He takes a few steps towards the portrait that caught my attention, staring up into the warm brown eyes of the woman portrayed in the painting.
“That is Martha A. B. Brant. A Havenwoodian woman who was accused of witchcraft in the 1692 trials and was burned for it at the stake. A lot of modern historians ignore her story but she’s a major part of our history here and our urban legends.” Milo lifts his eyebrows at me, invoking a grin.
“Local lore says she was innocent, wrongly accused, and wanders the streets of Havenwood crying and seeking justice.”
I rub my arm, fending away goosebumps, this must be the witch Agnes warned me about. I’ve never been one for ghost stories but something about this one fascinates me. I thank Milo for his time and prepare to retrace my steps home when he calls out to me from the front porch of the historical center.
“Hey, California. You should take a peak at the apothecary.”
“What did you just say to me?” A smile pushes his sharp cheekbones skyward, enjoying my immature sense of humor.
“Apothecary, you know, a store where people sold medicine before insurance companies ruined the world? My friend Micah runs the place for his mom. Check it out, thank me later.”
The anthropologist provides me with more unofficial directions involving taking a hard left at the turkey pen. I give him a final nod and set out to find the apothecary.
Finn
I stand on the short side of the metal restaurant-grade table watching Agnes tuck and fold a piece of dough into itself over and over again. The repetitive motion reminding me of the acrobatics my stomach has been engaging in since the moment I met our new transplant, Miss Courtney Berrycloth.
“She is very pretty,” Agnes points out the obvious, attempting to add a glimmer of positivity to my negative mood. She had clued into the root of my uneasy energy the moment Milo and I entered the bakery. I watch her soft hands knead the dough until it hits the perfect consistency.
I take a deep inhale, a failed attempt at collecting my stray thoughts. The warm, buttery, sweet smell of the bakery fills my lungs with a false comfort. It has a way of providing a level of calm even when one isn’t present, the same magic is soaked into Agnes through her hair, clothes, and probably even her soul. It is a lovely fragrance that follows her, one she can’t shake, not that she would ever want to.
“She wasn’t supposed to be… her. I thought she’d be an old woman, I thought she’d be-”
“Someone you’d be okay with manipulating?” Agnes raises a dark eyebrow, not bothering to look at me as she separates the dough mound into smaller clumps. I deflate at her words, simply because they are true.
I had sent those enticing emails promising a cheap rental envisioning the ideal candidate on the receiving end. Someone old, without much family or commitments, who needed a cheap place. Someone who would be willing to sign on the dotted line when Havenwood eventually worked its way into their heart, as it did with anyone who stayed here long enough. It was supposed to be someone I wouldn’t have any deeper connection with. Courtney is someone I definitely want to pursue a deeper connection with but how can I, now that our meeting is based on lies?
“Milo told me she’d be someone with no friends or family who would love the opportunity to move to a community-oriented town like Havenwood. He said she’d be an old lady, and instead, she’s the reincarnate of Elizabeth Taylor!” Only Courtney is far more beautiful than Elizabeth Taylor, more beautiful than any Hollywood woman who had come before her. But they do bear some resemblance in their vixen brown hair and entrancing eyes.
“I think you’re overthinking it,” Milo inputs from his seat beside me, his cupped palm full of dark chocolate chips. He pops a few into his mouth.
“This girl is our ticket to saving Havenwood and yeah, she’s cute. I’ll give you that but you’re losing a battle to your dick on this one.”
“Milo, language.” Agnes pins him with a motherly glare. Milo raises his hands defensively.
“I’m sorry, Ma. Just saying it how it is.” Milo’s deep hazel eyes turn back to me, his face settling back into one of disagreement.
“We need her,” he reminds me, stressing his point.
“If we don’t get those remains signed over to us by Halloween, we’re going to lose them to Salem. I am going to be out of the best anthropological discovery of my life. You are going to be out of a tourist cash cow, and Havenwood is going to be off the map entirely.”
I rub at the dark facial hair on my chin, a bad stress habit I’d developed. I force my hand away as Milo continues his scolding.
“We were lucky I was able to track Martha’s bloodline down to Courtney. We were even luckier that you were able to lure her here with discount real estate. Everything lined up perfectly to bring her here. There’s a reason for that, and we can’t fumble now.”
As much as I hate to admit it I know he’s right. Every star has aligned perfectly to get Courtney to Havenwood and we can’t lose this chance, a chance for Havenwood. Now that we led the horse to water we’d have to force it to drink and subsequently drown any chance of me having an honest relationship with Courtney.
“Maybe you should call up Starr for a quick fuck so that post-nut clarity will remind you of what’s at stake here.” Milo huffs, crossing his long arms across his chest.
“Milo David Booker.” Agnes slams her flour-covered hands on the table, causing us both to shrink into ourselves.
“I do not want to hear any of that about my sons.” She swats his words out of the air with a disgusted look.
“Yes, Ma,” Milo responds, much less confident now, aware of the fact that he’ll get smacked with the rolling pin if he crosses the line again.
“I hate this.” I sigh and drag a hand down my face, resting it on my chin where I once again begin to rub.
Agnes’ eyes shift from scolding Milo to comforting me, a waft of sympathy overcoming her brown orbs. My adoptive mother hates lying and dishonesty more than just about anything, this plan of ours has ground against her morals since the moment Milo and I concocted it. It took two weeks and multiple sessions of convincing to get her to allow us to use the rental on Queens Avenue as our bait. But now, she says nothing in the way of disapproval. Proving to me just how dire Havenwood’s situation is for a strong woman like Agnes to accept resorting to deception.
“Very well,” I say, lowering my hand and slapping it against my thigh as it drops.
“The plan continues as originally intended.”