Chapter 10
Jasper
Pennington Falls Public Library looks like someone imported a university reading hall and dropped it in the middle of a small town, then dusted it with Halloween.
The entrance is flanked by actual, functional gas lamps, not LEDs, and some intern must have risked life and limb to hang those pumpkin-shaped lanterns from every single arch along the brick facade.
On the front steps, a carved gargoyle stares down at us, tongue out in perpetual challenge.
I resist the urge to punch it.
Delia takes the stairs two at a time, her copper curls bouncing in the sunlight like she’s been mainlining caffeine since dawn.
Which technically, she has. Whiskers rides in her arm bag, only his head and a forepaw visible, the rest submerged in a nest of black velvet and lint.
I follow, keeping a half-step behind, appreciating the silence… and maybe the view too.
Delia is wearing a brown mini skirt that hugs her curves, with lace stockings, and a burnt-orange sweater cinched at the waist with a vintage belt.
I don’t hate it.
The lobby is a riot of silence. Even the kids in the reading corner are somehow hushed, transfixed by a woman who’s reading them a ghost story in a voice that sounds like shattered glass and honey.
From behind the circulation desk to our left, Cassie Blackwood lifts her blonde head. Blue eyes assess us over the rim of her reading glasses. "Good morning," she says with practiced warmth. "How can I help you today?"
"Hi, Cassie!" Delia leans forward, her palms pressed to the counter, all sunshine and enthusiasm. "We were hoping to access the archives for some research. We’re looking into early town records, specifically anything involving the Salem trials and, uh, Isabella Raveen?"
Cassie's smile falters for a microsecond, like a light bulb threatening to go out.
"Everyone wants to know about Salem when the leaves start changing," she says, her fingers pausing on the keyboard she was typing on when we waltzed in.
"Isabella Raveen, though…" She tilts her head, glasses catching the fluorescent light.
"That's a dusty corner of our archives. What brings you to her doorstep? "
Delia tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, a gesture that means she's improvising. "Honestly? Bizarre personal interest. I'm writing a blog for the farm’s reopening and thought, why not spice it with local witch legends? I figured the tourist would eat it up, though I couldn’t find much about her on the internet.” She grins, like this is the most embarrassing secret she could possibly reveal.
I would have come up with something better, but she’s committed now.
Cassie's eyes cut to me before focusing back on Delia, “I see. Well, you’re welcome to review our microfilm collection or search the digital archives. If you’d like, I can escort you to Special Collections, where some of the more delicate materials are stored.
Some items can only be handled by staff, but I’m happy to assist."
Delia beams. "That would be amazing. Thank you so much."
"Of course," Cassie says. "Just let me grab the access card."
We wait a moment in the sunbeam streaming through the vestibule windows.
Delia distracts herself with a display of antique calligraphy, tracing the loops and flourishes with one fingertip.
I watch her instead. The way her nose crinkles when she reads something surprising, the tilt of her chin when she decides she’s smarter than whatever idiot wrote the placard for the display.
I can't decide if I find it revolting or kind of cute.
Cassie returns, moving briskly but not hurried, and gestures for us to follow her past the main stacks and into a part of the building I’d only seen on the virtual tour.
"This wing was remodeled in the 90s," she says, her voice echoing off the polished floor. "The original building was smaller, but the architects kept as many of the original fixtures as possible. It’s haunted, if you believe the student docents. The old head librarian’s ghost supposedly rearranges the Dewey Decimal labels at night. "
Delia grins at the joke, but I keep my eyes on Cassie’s hands, noting how she fiddles with her lanyard, spinning the plastic card in precise, nervous circles. Her stride is measured—almost military. I’d bet she alphabetizes her kitchen pantry and cleans her light switches with bleach wipes.
Whisker’s head pops out from the black velvet lined bag like an all-seeing periscope, the fur on his body standing on end as he sniffs the air before he makes a gaging face and retreats back into his sanctuary of lint and shadows.
The rat doesn't seem to like the smell of libraries.
At the end of the corridor, we pass through a door marked STAFF ONLY, and Cassie swipes us in with a beep.
The Special Collections room is kept at a low temperature, probably to preserve whatever fragile tomes they’ve hoarded.
The lights flicker on in sequence, illuminating rows of glass-fronted shelves and a single table in the center with magnifying glasses, and a weirdly industrial-looking box of tissues.
Cassie gestures for us to sit as she unlocks a drawer, removing a heavy, leather-bound volume.
She flips it open with practiced hands, laying it out between us.
"This is the best resource we have on local witch history," she explains.
"Isabella Raveen is mentioned several times.
According to the records, she was burned at the stake in Salem reportedly after sacrificing her newborn baby in an attempt to gain more power.
The veracity is…questionable, but the story persists.
What's undisputed is that her own husband provided the testimony that lit the pyre. "
"Charming," I say.
Cassie gives me a sidelong look, unsure if I’m being serious or not, but she’s professional enough to continue.
“The last few pages detail her trial and execution. There’s even a transcript—well, as close as you can get in seventeenth-century Massachusetts—of the proceedings.
” She pushes the book toward Delia, who immediately leans in, her hair falling in a bright sweep across the creamy vellum.
She reads aloud, eyes darting, “The deposition of Jonathan Raveen, aged thirty-one. ‘Upon arriving home, the eve of October twelfth, I espied my wife in the nursery standing over the baby’s crib. There was blood on her hands, and she was speaking in a tongue I did not recognize.’”
I confess, I enjoy watching Delia trip over archaic phrases, her lips moving silently as she deciphers them.
She reads on, “‘She turned to me, the babe laying lifeless beneath her, her eyes black as pitch, and bade me leave lest I suffer her wrath as well. I made the sign of the cross and fled the premises. I returned with the constables before she was able to complete whatever dark ritual , who fastened Isabella was then fastened in iron and taken to the dungeons at Gallows Hill—’” Delia’s voice drops off as she flips a page, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as she navigates the crabbed handwriting, "—‘and that night she howled and scratched the walls, never ceasing even as she was dragged to the stake at dawn. However, as the flames licked at her skirts and the smoke billowed around her face, a strange serenity overtook her. Her lips curved upward, her gaze locked with mine, and she mouthed words I could not hear but knew carried some unholy promise.’”
Cassie slides open a second drawer and extracts a slim, handwritten ledger, "According to this entry," she says, "Jonathan remarried within the year and fathered three more children.
Twenty years after Isabella's execution, servants found him convulsing on his study floor.
The coroner determined he'd consumed enough rat poison to kill a horse.
" She glances up. "Local gossip claimed his guilt finally caught up with him. "
Delia’s eyes shine with the promise of a new rabbit hole to fall into. “Was there ever any mention of Isabella Raveen having descendants? Family records, hidden children, anything like that?” She glances at me sidelong, and I sense our wavelength re-aligning into investigation mode.
Cassie shakes her head. "Officially, she had no surviving offspring. The bloodline was considered extinct after the witch hunts. There are rumors, as always, but nothing substantiated."
Cassie’s phone vibrates against the wood. She apologizes, glances at the screen, and her face blanks for a microsecond before professionalism settles back over her like a starched sheet.
She tucks the phone away, clearing her throat.
"My apologies. Family emergency. I’m going to have to lock back up, but the microfilm is in those cabinets along the back wall right outside this room.
If you want to look up early Pennington Falls, including deaths and disappearances, I can get you started before I go.
" Her smile is too polite, and too quick.
“Um, no, that’s okay. I think we got everything we need. “Delia snaps a few photos of the book pages for reference, then closes the book gently. “Thank you for the help.” she tells Cassie, “You seriously rock.”
Cassie nods, pressing her lips together in a way that ages her pretty face by a decade, then slides the heavy book back into its felt-lined drawer with reverence.
“I’m so sorry I had to cut this short. I feel terrible, but I have a sick aunt in Boston and have to hop on the highway before traffic gets evil. ”
In the six years that we’ve known Cassie, she’s never mentioned having an aunt.
“No worries.” Delia says, smiling.
Cassie turns to the door like a wind-up toy running out of spring. “If you need anything else, Greta should be finished with the read along now and she can further assist you today.”
We nod in unison and follow her back to the front to the lobby. Cassie peels away with a polite apology, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her as she heads down a side corridor and out of sight.
I open the door for Delia and her stowaway familiar, then step into the frigid late afternoon air. Delia is uncharacteristically silent as we walk the downtown strip toward the car. Her head is down, hands raking through her hair like maybe there’s an answer somewhere tangled in the roots.
“You okay?” I ask, though I don’t really care.
“Yea,” she answers, “It’s just…what does Isabella or her history have to do with the murders going on in Pennington Falls? None of it makes sense.”
I shrug; hands already stuffed in my coat pockets, “My guess is that it’s a warning. Or a tribute. Or simply it has nothing to do with the murders at all, and someone just had a gift card and used it to buy a ticket in Isabella’s name for shits and giggles.”
Delia nods but says nothing, the curls around her face shivering in the wind like static, but she’s wearing her thinking face. I unlock the car while she slides into the passenger seat, digging out her phone to review the photos she took in the archives.
Whiskers who’s had to be quiet this entire time being around so many normies, scratches his way out of Delia’s tote bag and into the conversation. “Another bust.”
“I don’t think so, Whiskers. Call it a hunch, witch’s intuition, whatever you want, but I think we’re on the right track.”
I’m not so certain.
Delia's thumb freezes mid-swipe. Her eyes widen as she zooms in on something in the photo.
"Jasper." She thrusts the phone at me, nearly smacking my nose. “It says here that Isabella had a younger sister who fled Salem during the trials. Abigail Havenlock. She's mentioned here in a footnote."
I take the phone, angling the screen away from the late afternoon glare bleeding through the windshield.
“It also states that prior to the witch trials, things had already been sketchy between the humans and the supernatural beings. The supernatural beings in Salem were already being exterminated by what they called Hunters. This small group of humans initiated as protectors of the night; tasked with keeping humans safe from the vampires who went rouge because they couldn’t control their bloodlust. Over time they began hunting all supernatural creatures, they were developing the same bloodlust they were supposed to protect people from.
The witch trials just made it worse, and it basically became open season for supernatural genocide.
Thus, Pennington Falls was born. Folks were still frightened to go outdoors at the time out of fear of the hunters who seemed to have developed powers of their own—heightened senses, speed, sight—and created catacombs beneath the city to move around safely.
Eventually, the numbers of Hunters dwindled, and they became seen less and less.
With the comfort of safety, Abigail left Pennington Falls and moved to Oregon…
where she became one with the woods and sired no children. ” I finish. “So, a dead end.”
Delia groans, sinking further into her seat, the tip of her nose-tinged pink with frustration.
“Wait a minute!” she pops up, her eyes wide, “The killer has left no traces and seems to move in and out of places without being seen. What if they’re using the catacombs to move around. What if that is the connection.”
I feel something stir inside of me and I’m not sure if it’s hope or gas. “Maybe.” I say, turning the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life.
I look into the rearview mirror and begin backing out of the library parking lot when suddenly, the same feeling I got the night I woke up and the killer was standing outside our home, hits me again. The prickle on the back of my neck, the invisible needle threading between my ribs.
I tap the brakes just enough to keep my hands from shaking. I cut my eyes to the passenger mirror but see nothing but a swirl of late-autumn leaves on the library steps and a crow tilting its head at the curb.
The feeling isn’t fear, not exactly.
It’s something entirely different.
It’s a pulse of awareness, a second heartbeat thundering under my skin for just a breath. Then it’s gone, as fast as it arrived, leaving only a residue of warning and the faint taste of copper in my mouth. I swallow, keep one eye on the mirrors, and gun the engine a little harder than necessary.
I know whoever murdered me and took my heart is out there. I can feel them watching, waiting. Their identity remains a shadow just beyond my grasp.
But the funny thing about shadows is, they always fade in the light.