Chapter 8 #2
Are you kidding me? I choke back a yelp. August 7 is my birthday. Which means I have to share my house and my day of birth with this stupid legend.
My mother seems to have the same (though probably much less bitter) thought because she elbows me in the side and grins.
Ignoring her, I take out my phone and text Taylor.
Amity: What if you and Nadya come visit for my birthday?
I’m willing to bet that Harlow’s Rest has some sort of wackadoo Founder’s Day celebration where they reenact the deaths of the Harlow family or something equally bananas.
Taylor will love that, and getting to mock this absurd town lore with my best friend will be a perfect birthday gift.
Plus, I’m going to need the backup when Theo inevitably tries to submerge my house in holy water or test out his new proton packs in my living room on the anniversary of the Harlows’ deaths.
I don’t even have time to slide my phone back in my purse before she responds.
Taylor: YES. OMG. PERFECT. CONSIDER IT DONE.
Onstage, Theo is still doing his opening remarks. “The problem is”—he clears his throat and glances out at the audience—“none of these TB theories, these ‘truths’ we’ve been telling ourselves for centuries now, actually account for everything that happened in the Harlow family’s last days.”
A new slide appears, this one a photo of a forest. The trees grow close together, roots knotting like tangled legs, the skeletal fingers of their bare branches entwining. Almost like they’re holding hands or playing a big game of Red Rover.
“If you’ve lived here for any amount of time, you know this is the west end of the Harlow Homestead.
It’s from these trees that Mercy Harlow stumbled on August second.
But what had she been doing for the entire day she was missing?
Where would she have contracted TB? Records indicate that no one in Dighton, Taunton, or any of the other surrounding areas remembers seeing her. ”
His eyes search me out, as if whatever he has to say next is meant for me alone. “But maybe most troubling of all…Why did the Harlow family die in days, when most TB fatalities take months? And what happened to Mercy Harlow’s body?”
Heat gathers in my cheeks. If he keeps addressing me like this, people are going to notice.
People like my mother. And then she will have questions.
Ones that I have no answers to because, while I know why I have trouble keeping my eyes off this boy, I have no idea why his gaze is stuck on me this way.
Also, someone should probably tell him that I’m the farthest thing from his target audience.
Which, I guess, in the end, I’m going to do, because my hand is suddenly in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom glance over at me in surprise.
“Hey, Amity.” Theo cocks his head, his messy hair flopping to the side. “Sure. We can make this interactive. What’s your question?”
“Isn’t it possible that locking themselves away without fresh air, fresh food, clean water, et cetera accelerated the progression of the infection?
” Now I’m standing up. Good god, what am I doing?
Who is this person that has possessed my body and how do I get Amity back?
“Or maybe it wasn’t TB at all, but some other illness with similar symptoms that kills more quickly? ”
Theo crosses his arms. His downturned mouth is losing its battle with a smile. “These are all legit theories. And I don’t claim to be a scientist or a doctor.”
I tip my chin victoriously. Let the debunking commence.
“But,” he adds, “none of that answers where Mercy was and what happened to her body.” He moves closer to the edge of the stage and grins down at me. His eyes flash roguishly. “Unless you’ve got ideas about that too?”
With a stony expression, I sink back into my seat.
My mother is still looking at me like an alien just burst from my chest, but I refuse to meet her gaze. I’m too focused on Theo. And his theories. That I will disprove.
He returns to the middle of the stage. “With Loretta’s help, I’ve been able to access sections of Mercy Harlow’s diary, and it’s clear that she enjoyed wandering the forest and craved the peace and quiet of that part of the homestead.
She also notes that her best friend, Harmony Milton, used to meet her in the woods because Harmony’s family had forbidden their friendship.
” Above him, the projection changes again, this time to a photo of yellowed paper and loopy, almost illegible handwriting.
Leaning into me, my mother unfolds her program on my lap. She points to a paragraph on the last page. “These documents are at the college library.”
It looks like I’ll be heading over there sooner rather than later. Historical documents are basically catnip to me.
“I know it’s hard to read, but here Mercy recounts how, on June twenty-fifth, 1698…
” Theo pauses to point to the top of the image, where the date is scribbled on the left corner of the page.
Then he nods to Matt, who hits a key on the laptop, and that photo fades out, replaced by one of a crumbling well in a clearing surrounded by trees.
“…they found this well. The two girls loved stories of spirits and witches and monsters, and they convinced each other that the well held one of these supernatural entities they loved so much. Mercy talks of the darkness within it pulsing with power, and of hearing low whispers calling her name. The last diary entry we have from her is from July twelfth. It’s short, and mostly speaks of how Mercy thought Harmony was jealous of her, that her friend knew the well’s power called to Mercy, not her. ”
The next slide has an embedded video. The recording is shaky, clearly filmed with a cell phone, and there’s no sound.
The camera zooms in on the same well from the previous image, then tracks around the eroding wellhead before finally panning slowly over the hole.
“This is one of the last places that anyone can definitively say they saw Mercy alive,” Theo explains.
“Councilman Winthrope’s ledger attests that on August first, Harmony left Mercy at the well.
Harmony’s letters to her aunt reveal that the girls had an argument.
Then there’s nothing but hearsay until the Harlow family perishes. ”
On-screen, the camera pulls back and shifts to focus on a device gripped in what I assume is Theo’s other hand.
It’s the width of his palm, with a large speaker on the bottom and a meter above it with levels indicated by green, yellow, and red.
A row of lights, slightly smaller than Christmas tree bulbs, line the top, and beside them stretches an antenna. The video pauses there.
“This is an EMF reader,” Theo says. “That stands for electromagnetic frequency. EMF is one of the major ways that we track the presence of ghosts.”
I cough to camouflage the laugh that bubbles up my throat. Is he kidding? He’s using props from bad TV and movies now.
The meter’s lights flash frantically as the video resumes, and its needle sways all the way to the edge of the dial’s red sector.
The closer it is angled to the darkness within the well, the more wildly the device reacts.
When Theo dips the meter about an inch into the wellhead, two of the bulbs pop, and the needle begins waving with such fervor that it snaps its mechanism.
I hear audience members gasp, followed by some surprised murmurs. Someone a few rows behind us whispers, “God, maybe that place really is haunted.”
And up goes my hand again. This is exactly what my life doesn’t need right now. The whole town thinking Mom and I are shacking up with ghosts.
This time Theo chuckles. “Hi again, Amity.”
“If there was that much EMF in that area, it would disrupt the electricity and the internet. And your cell phone. But there’s no static in that video.
” Nor have we experienced any flickering lights or trouble connecting at the house.
I can’t add that evidence, though, because then everyone here would know where we live, and I’d love to avoid that reality for as long as possible. “Hypothetically, of course,” I add.
“EMF doesn’t always manifest that way.”
“Can’t those readers also pick up frequencies from nearby power lines?”
“That’s true,” he says patiently. “But our lines are on the other side of town.” His face is bright with amusement, and it’s only making me more miffed. He’s supposed to be aggravated by my questions, not think they’re cute or something.
Folding my arms, I sit down again. Simply to keep him from further enjoyment, I stay quiet—but internally fuming—for the rest of the presentation.