Chapter 4
The rest of the week passes the way the first day did.
Dead ends.
Each morning, I settle into the same routine. I wake before sunrise, run a few miles or spend an hour in the gym, shower, drag myself to lectures, and use every spare minute in between trying to learn something—anything—about Josh.
But every conversation I have on campus seems to end the same way.
Students either don’t remember my brother, insist they barely knew him, or grow strangely uncomfortable the moment I mention his name.
Other than Silas and his friends, no one else is openly hostile, but no one is particularly helpful either.
It doesn’t take long to realize no one at SFU is going to give me answers.
If I want to find my brother, I’m going to have to look elsewhere.
I have a notebook filled with names, crossed-out theories, and exactly zero answers. The most promising lead I keep circling back to is the same one I’ve had since the beginning: the Ashcroft Library.
Josh called me from there on Halloween morning.
I’d been standing in the parking lot outside the gym where I worked, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I listened to him sound more anxious and paranoid than I’d ever heard.
He kept stopping mid-sentence and lowering his voice, as though afraid someone nearby might overhear.
He told me he thought he’d found something huge, that something was seriously wrong there.
I’d laughed and teased him that it was Salem’s Fall—everything was a little off there.
He hadn’t laughed back.
That night, he’d sent me that text and then disappeared. Now, nearly a year later, I can’t stop wondering what he’d found that day in the library.
On Friday, my last class ends around 7 p.m. Instead of following the steady stream of students heading to Winthrop Commons for dinner or whatever plans Friday nights at an elite university involve, I cut across the older side of campus toward the Ashcroft Library.
After about a ten-minute walk, the last traces of daylight have slipped behind the hills.
One by one, iron lampposts flicker to life, casting pale pools of light across the empty paths while the spaces between them seem to grow even darker.
Gravel crunches beneath my boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
Finally, the Ashcroft Library comes into view.
It sits apart from the newer academic buildings, perched on a gentle rise overlooking the oldest section of the university.
Built from dark gray stone with soaring stained-glass windows and ivy climbing its walls, it looks less like a library than an old cathedral someone forgot to fill with pews.
The university’s website claims it was built on the foundations of one of the original colonial buildings that survived the witch trials, though it’s been restored and expanded over the centuries.
As I approach the entrance, movement at the edge of the path catches my eye.
A large black cat emerges from the shadows and pads into the glow of the lamp lights.
He stops in the middle of the walkway and sits, calmly blocking my path, dark coat gleaming as he watches me with unnervingly steady, bright yellow eyes.
Every kid in New England grows up hearing stories about black cats.
Witches’ familiars. Harbingers of misfortune.
Guides for the dead. I never put much stock in any of it.
I’ve always loved animals, cats especially.
When I was little, I’d wanted a pet more than anything, but pets cost money, and most months, we struggled just to keep food on the table.
The cat looks healthy, well-fed and meticulously groomed. I wonder where he came from. The dorm life pamphlet said animals were allowed in some residential halls and faculty housing, but those are on the other side of campus.
“Well, hello there,” I say with a smile. “Aren’t you a handsome fellow? Are you lost, boy?”
I crouch and hold out my hand and the cat saunters over without the slightest hesitation. The moment my fingers brush behind his ears, a loud purr rumbles from somewhere deep inside his chest.
“Ahh, so that’s your game. You’re just on the hunt for pets, is that it?”
He presses his head against my hand again, demanding more attention.
I run my fingers along his collar, searching for a tag but finding nothing.
I glance around, but the walkway is empty, no potential owner in sight.
It doesn’t feel right leaving him out here alone.
Maybe the librarians—or campus security—will recognize him?
“Well,” I say, scratching beneath his chin, “why don’t you come inside with me? Maybe we can figure out who you belong to.”
I slide my hands beneath him and try to lift him into my arms. He tolerates it for all of two seconds before twisting free with surprising agility. Landing lightly on all fours, he trots several feet away, then stops and glances back at me as if expecting me to follow.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?” I laugh softly.
He lets out a sharp, impatient meow and darts several yards farther down the path, away from the library and toward the brighter, newer side of campus.
His tail swishes lazily while his golden eyes never leave mine, an unsettling intelligence behind them as he waits.
For one ridiculous moment, it feels less like I’m watching a cat…
and more like I’m being herded somewhere.
“Sorry, fella. I appreciate the invitation,” I tell him, “but I’ve already got plans.”
Another impatient meow.
“I know. I’m very rude,” I say and turn back toward the library. If he won’t let me hold him and bring him inside, there’s not much I can do. Besides, he seems fine. I bet he has a great home here, probably with one of the professors, in accommodations far nicer than mine.
The cat cries out once more. It almost sounds like he’s frustrated with me for not listening to him, like he’s trying to warn me away from the library.
But no—that’s weird.
Cats don’t do that, right?
I give him one last glance and a wave goodbye. By the time I reach the cobbled steps of the library, I’ve already dismissed the whole encounter as my overactive imagination.
The doors are only a few yards away when someone grabs me from behind. One arm locks around my waist while a hand clamps over my mouth so hard, my teeth cut into the inside of my lip. It happens so fast, my body doesn’t even understand what’s going on at first, but then instinct takes over.
I drive my elbow backward as hard as I can, putting all my muscle into the movement.
The person grunts and the arm around my waist loosens.
Normally, it would be enough to give me room to escape a single attacker, but then another set of hands catches my wrists and wrenches both my arms behind my back.
Someone else grabs my legs, slamming me to the ground.
Pain shoots through my shoulders as I twist and kick, my boots scraping uselessly across the stone path.
I scream, but the sound comes out muffled as another heavy palm seals my mouth.
A strip of black fabric drops over my eyes and is yanked tight behind my head, shutting out the library lights, the path, the entire world.
Panic surges through me as strong arms lift me off the ground.
I thrash harder, throwing my weight from side to side, catching someone’s shin with the heel of my boot.
“Hold her still,” a voice snaps, the sound distorted. Whoever is speaking is using some kind of voice modulator.
Something cold presses against the side of my neck.
A needle.
Fear floods my body as the sharp sting pierces my skin. Then heat spreads through me, followed by an unnatural heaviness that moves within my limbs too quickly to fight. The sounds around me stretch and blur. The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me is a low voice whispering near my ear.
“You should have listened when I told you to leave…”
When I wake, my head feels like it’s been split open.
Pain throbs behind my eyes as I try to lift my chin, sending nausea rolling through me.
I shift, and rope bites into my wrists and ankles.
The blindfold is gone, thankfully, though it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to my new surroundings.
I’m lying on my side, wrists bound behind me, ankles tied tightly together.
The ground beneath me is soft and uneven, packed dirt blanketed with old, dead leaves and pine needles.
Cold air slips beneath my body, carrying the damp scent of earth and moss.
Moonlight above casts an eerie glow over the clearing, trees stretching as far as I can see.
I’m outside.
Somewhere in the woods, obviously.
“Help!” I scream, pulling against the ropes but getting nowhere. My heart hammers so violently it hurts.
Three tall figures step out from between the trees.
Their faces are hidden behind masks unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
These aren’t cheap Halloween masks from a costume shop.
They’re heavy, ornate, polished to a mirror-like shine.
Strange symbols curl along the edges of the metal, hollow eye sockets staring back at me like empty wounds.
Just the masks alone are terrifying, but that’s not even the worst of it. Each of them holds something shiny and sharp in their hands. Silver that catches the moonlight.
A knife.
The blades are long and slightly curved. Intricate designs twist around the hilts, too elaborate to be practical. They look ancient. Almost ceremonial.
My mouth goes dry.
“You’ve been asking too many questions.”
A tall figure in a black quilted jacket speaks first. His modulated voice is low and inhuman, warped enough that I can’t place the speaker. Still, something about the cadence scratches at my memory. I’ve heard it before.
Not like this, but somewhere.