Chapter 3
Forbes stood outside the Old Town Hall at seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, waiting for Gwen Bishop’s ghost tour to begin.
He’d told himself he was doing research. Observing local historical practices. Understanding how folklore was preserved in contemporary contexts.
All perfectly reasonable justifications for why he’d spent five days avoiding her—catching glimpses from the library window, telling himself he’d apologize tomorrow—and was now standing on a street corner waiting for a woman who probably wanted nothing to do with him.
Cowardice, really. He could admit that now.
And he wanted to see her again. That part was inconvenient, but at least he could be honest with himself about it.
The tour guide in question appeared at precisely seven, emerging from the gathering crowd in a flowing burgundy coat that caught the light from the street lamps, her honey-blonde hair now tamed into a neat braid.
She looked professional, competent, and—he could admit this without drama—annoyingly attractive.
Forbes positioned himself toward the back of the group of about twenty tourists. Close enough to hear everything, far enough that she wouldn’t spot him immediately and bolt.
“Good evening, everyone!” Her voice carried easily over the murmur of conversation, confident and warm. “Welcome to Salem’s Ghosts and Legends tour. I’m Gwen Bishop, and I’ll be your guide tonight as we explore some of the darker corners of our city’s history.”
Forbes tracked the cadence of her speech, how she commanded attention without demanding it. Natural authority. The kind that couldn’t be taught.
“Before we begin,” Gwen continued, “I want to be clear about what you’re going to experience tonight.
This isn’t a carnival ride or a haunted house attraction.
Salem’s history is real, complex, and sometimes painful.
We’ll be visiting places where real people lived, suffered, and died.
I ask that you treat these stories—and these places—with respect. ”
Something in his chest shifted. She understood the weight of history. The responsibility of it.
“Our first stop,” Gwen said, gesturing toward the brick building behind her, “is the Old Town Hall, built in 1816. But the real story begins with what stood here before...”
The crisp October air carried hints of woodsmoke and fallen leaves.
His breath clouded in front of him as they walked, the rhythmic clack of shoes on cobblestones providing a steady backdrop to Gwen’s stories.
But Forbes’s attention kept drifting from the historical details to the historian herself—the passionate gestures of her hands, how her face lit up when someone asked a good question, the fierce protectiveness in her voice when she spoke of the accused.
“Now, some guides will tell you the exact spot where Bridget Bishop was executed,” she said as they stood at the base of Gallows Hill.
“The truth is, we don’t know precisely where the hangings took place.
What we do know is that twenty people died here because fear and suspicion poisoned a community that should have protected them. ”
A teenager in the group raised her hand. “But were any of them actually witches?”
Forbes leaned forward, curious how she’d handle the question.
“That depends,” she said, “on what you mean by ‘witch.’ Were they practicing malevolent magic and consorting with the devil, as their accusers claimed? Almost certainly not. Were some of them herbalists, midwives, or women who understood things like natural healing? Possibly. In 1692, the line between medicine and magic was often blurrier than we might think.”
Clever, Forbes thought. Walking the line between skepticism and respect, giving her audience what they wanted while maintaining historical integrity.
She was good. Better than he’d given her credit for. Better than most academics he knew at holding an audience’s attention.
“But here’s what I want you to remember,” Gwen continued, her voice growing stronger as the wind caught her hair.
“Whether or not you believe in magic, whether or not any of these people had special gifts—they were still human beings. They had families, hopes, fears. They deserved better than they got.”
The group fell silent. Forbes watched her—the fierce compassion brightening her face, how she made centuries-old tragedy feel immediate and personal. In the flickering lamplight, with autumn wind stirring her hair and conviction ringing in her voice, she looked like someone worth knowing.
“Our final stop tonight is the Old Burying Point, where you’ll find the grave of Rebecca Nurse, one of the executed accused. But before we go, does anyone have questions about what we’ve covered?”
A man near the front raised his hand. “How do we know these stories are true? I mean, a lot of this sounds like folklore that’s been passed down and changed over time.”
The question was reasonable. The man’s tone—dismissive, sneering—was not.
Forbes recognized that tone. He’d used it himself five days ago.
“That’s an excellent question,” Gwen said, her voice professionally calm despite the tension Forbes could see in the set of her jaw.
“Many of these stories have been transmitted orally through families and community groups. You’re right that oral tradition can change over time.
But there’s also documented evidence—court records, contemporary accounts, family papers—that support the core facts. ”
“But how do you separate fact from fiction?” the man pressed, his tone suggesting he’d already decided she couldn’t. “I mean, people want to believe in exciting stories. They embellish.”
Forbes didn’t consciously decide to intervene. His body simply moved forward, his voice cutting through the autumn air with quiet authority.
“Actually, oral tradition can be remarkably accurate, aye? Especially when it’s preserved within family lines.
” The words came out with more of his native Highland cadence than he usually allowed in public.
“In Scotland, clan histories passed down through generations have proven tae align closely with documented records when those records are finally discovered. I’ve spent years researching Highland genealogies—oral tradition is often more reliable than written sources corrupted by political agendas. ”
The tour group turned to look at him. The skeptical man’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Forbes held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary—just long enough to make his point clear—then shifted his attention to Gwen.
Her eyes met his across the circle of tourists. Her composure slipped—just for a moment—and his pulse kicked up before he could stop it.
“Exactly,” she said, her voice warmer now. “Thank you for that perspective.” A pause. “I didn’t realize you were joining us tonight.”
“Research,” Forbes said. “I wanted tae see how local history is being preserved.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly—we’ll discuss this later, that look said—but she turned smoothly back to the group.
“Any other questions before we continue?”
The skeptical man had found something fascinating to examine on his phone.
The tour continued to the Old Burying Point, and Forbes naturally gravitated to a position near Gwen, occasionally adding historical context when she paused. She accepted his contributions gracefully, building on them rather than bristling at the intrusion.
They worked well together. Her intuitive storytelling complemented his documented facts. Her warmth balanced his precision.
When they reached the Old Burying Point and the tour officially ended, Forbes lingered as the other tourists dispersed.
A tourist recognized him—could she get an autograph?
— and Forbes obliged with practiced efficiency.
When he looked up, Gwen was watching from a few headstones away, amusement flickering across her face.
“That was well done,” he said when they were finally alone among the weathered headstones. “Your tour. Educational. Respectful. Thoroughly researched.”
Gwen looked up from gathering her notes, surprise clear on her face. “I’m sorry?”
“I recognized that tone.” He met her gaze directly, the way he did everything—no hedging, no qualifiers. “The one I used with ye five days ago. I was awful. I apologize.”
A slow smile spread across her face—the first genuinely warm expression she’d directed at him since their disastrous introduction. It transformed her features entirely. Landed somewhere deeper than he’d expected.
The lamplight near her head flared briefly—just for a heartbeat—casting her in warm gold before settling back to its usual amber glow. A loose strand of hair lifted from her braid, drifting upward as if caught in a breeze that Forbes couldn’t feel.
He blinked. Looked again. Everything was normal.
Tired, he told himself. Old graveyard, late hour, overactive imagination.
But his writer’s instincts filed the moment away regardless.
Careful, some part of him warned. That’s the kind of smile that could become necessary.
He filed the warning away. Didn’t act on it.
“Apology accepted, Mr. MacLeod.”
“Forbes,” he said.
Her smile widened. “And thank you for backing me up with that skeptical tourist. That was... unexpected.”
“Ye deserved someone in yer corner.”
They stood there for a moment in silence, surrounded by centuries-old graves and the soft rustle of autumn leaves. The lamplight cast shadows across her face, and Forbes noted the exact distance between them. Three steps. Maybe four.
“I’d be interested tae ken more about your research methodology,” Forbes said. “Your knowledge of local genealogies is impressive.”
“Is that academic-speak for ‘you’re smarter than I thought you’d be’?” Gwen asked, but her tone was light, teasing rather than accusatory.
“Something like that,” Forbes admitted with a half-smile. “I’ve spent so much time in archives and university libraries, that I sometimes forget there are other ways tae preserve history.”
“Family stories. Community knowledge. Traditions passed down through generations.” Gwen gestured at the headstones around them. “These people weren’t just names in records. They were living, breathing humans with hopes and fears and secrets that never made it into official documents.”
“Ye sound like my doctoral advisor,” Forbes said. “He was always reminding me that history happens between the lines of what gets written down.”
Gwen tucked her materials away and wrapped her coat more tightly around herself as the night air grew chillier.
“I doubt your advisor would approve of ghost tours as a method of historical education,” she said.
“Probably not,” Forbes conceded. “But I’m beginning tae see the value in yer approach.”
“I do tours on Wednesdays and Fridays as well,” Gwen said, “if you’re interested in seeing how I handle other aspects of Salem’s history.”
“I’d like that.” Forbes paused, then made a decision that was either strategic or foolish—he’d figure out which later. “Perhaps we could discuss yer sources afterward? Over coffee?”
He watched her consider the invitation, saw the wariness that flickered across her face. His own rudeness from their first meeting, no doubt. He’d earned that caution.
But there was something else beneath the wariness. A pull she was fighting. He recognized it because he was fighting the same one.
When she finally answered, her voice carried a note of caution.
“All right,” she said. “Wednesday, then. There’s a café on Essex Street that stays open late.”
“Wednesday,” Forbes agreed, holding her gaze long enough to make sure she understood this wasn’t just professional interest.
She turned toward the gate, pausing to look back at him over her shoulder. “Good night, Forbes.”
“Good night, Gwen.”
He watched her disappear into the lamplight, her burgundy coat swallowed by the autumn mist. The sidewalk beside him felt strangely empty.
As he walked through Salem’s quiet streets, his mind kept returning to the flash of surprise on her face when he’d defended her work—as if she’d expected dismissal and he’d done something remarkable simply by treating her with respect.
He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message:
Thank you for letting me observe your tour tonight. Your research is exemplary. I look forward to Wednesday. - FM
Professional. Courteous. Giving nothing away.
He hit send, then added before he could stop himself:
The burgundy coat suits you.
Less professional. More honest.
Forbes pocketed his phone and continued walking, a half-smile playing at his lips.
A month in Salem. He’d thought that would be plenty of time to finish his research and return to Edinburgh.
Now he was beginning to suspect a month might not be nearly enough.
His phone buzzed against his leg as he reached the MacBeans’ front gate.
He shouldn’t check it immediately. That would be eager. Transparent.
He checked it anyway.
Thank you for the backup tonight. And for the apology.
A pause. Three dots appearing and disappearing.
Then:
The Highland accent suits you.
Forbes stood at the gate for a long moment, grinning at his phone like an idiot, the autumn wind cutting through his coat and the old iron humming faintly beneath his hand.
He didn’t notice the cold at all.