Chapter 6
Campus security arrives at my dorm room within minutes of my call—a man and a woman.
They’re calm.
Too calm.
No one reacts with the horror I expect. No one asks why my roommate, Eleanor Graves, was murdered and then hidden inside a dormitory wall. They exchange quiet words, move with practiced efficiency, and treat the body like an inconvenience instead of a crime scene.
They allow me ten minutes inside under supervision, long enough to pack my clothes, my laptop, and any essentials.
I leave behind the cheap coffeemaker, my old boxing gloves, and anything else I don’t care enough to bring.
A call to Residential Life tells me they’ll arrange temporary housing for me later if I need it.
I’m not sure I will.
This is more than just some spoiled rich guys harassing me with masks and knives—even cutting me. This is murder.
Right now, all I know is I need to get the hell out of Salem’s Fall. Probably for good.
The drive home takes just under two hours.
By the time I reach Millbrook, the sky has turned the flat gray of an approaching storm.
The house looks the same as when I left days ago.
Paint peeling, one gutter hanging crooked above the porch.
Josh’s rusted wind chimes dangling beside the door, tapping softly in the breeze.
I’ve always hated this house, but for the first time in my life, I’m relieved to be back.
Compared to Salem’s Fall, at least it looks safe.
I leave my bags beside the front door and let the familiar sounds of the house settle around me. The refrigerator rattles with the steady hum of an appliance that’s seen better decades. One of my mother’s favorite daytime soaps drones softly from the television in the living room.
“Mom?”
“In here,” she calls back.
I find her where I expected: curled beneath a faded blue blanket on the threadbare sofa, a chipped mug cradled between both hands. The television casts shifting light across her face, but I don’t think she’s watching anything. Most days it’s on simply to fill the silence.
“Oh, Jacqueline.” She smiles softly when she sees me. “You’re home.”
I smile back despite the knot tightening in my chest. She probably doesn’t even remember I transferred to a school ninety miles away.
She’s always had a hard time remembering too many details for long.
There’s never been a real medical diagnosis for what she has.
Just an unbearable sadness no one has ever been able to fix.
“How were your classes today?”
She pats the lumpy cushion beside her, and I sit down.
“Good,” I lie.
“That’s nice.” She reaches over and runs her fingers lightly through the ends of my hair the way she used to when I was little. Her hand is warm but feather-light, almost uncertain. “When would you like to have dinner?”
We pick a time and a meal—fish sticks, broccoli, and microwavable fries—and that’s the end of the conversation.
When I was young, I used to think she simply didn’t like talking much, but as I got older, I realized the truth was more complicated.
Sometime after my father died, something inside my mother simply…
stopped working. She still smiled. Still hugged us.
Still loved us in whatever way she could.
But she moved through life like someone always on autopilot, every thought slowed by a grief she never escaped.
I sit with her in silence a little longer, watching her as she naps. She was beautiful once. I’ve seen the photographs. Long fiery red hair like mine that caught the sunlight. Bright green eyes full of mischief. An easy smile.
Now fine wrinkles frame her mouth, and gray has claimed most of her hair. Her eyes are still striking, but they’re rarely focused. They always seem to be searching somewhere else, somewhere only she can see.
At least she doesn’t look any worse than she did last week.
I’d worried about leaving her alone. For most of my life, there’d always been someone here with her.
First, it was the three of us. Even when I started college, I lived at home, while Josh stayed here too.
It wasn’t until Josh left for Salem’s Fall that it became just the two of us.
I’d done the grocery shopping, managed the bills, made sure she remembered her appointments, and quietly filled in all the spaces where life overwhelmed her.
Somehow, she’d survived my absence just fine.
The realization eases a guilt I’d been carrying since I left.
Not that I had much of a choice. It was either stay here and take care of a woman who didn’t know I was around half the time or find Josh.
Josh would never hesitate if I’d been the one to go missing.
“I keep thinking your brother might stop by soon,” my mother says quietly, and I realize she’s awake again.
I swallow hard. “He’ll be back as soon as he can.”
She nods to herself, satisfied with my answer, and turns her attention back to the television.
I don’t correct her anymore.
I tried at first, I really did. Every time she brought Josh up, I did my best to explain he’d gone missing, but eventually, I couldn’t take it any longer.
Watching the confusion bloom across her face over and over again was more painful than simply letting her believe her own happier version of the world.
She’d already lost her husband. I don’t think her brain allowed her to think too long or too hard about where her son really was.
I kiss her cool cheek and head into the kitchen.
The routine comes back as naturally as breathing.
I empty the dishwasher, wipe down counters, reset the temperamental ice maker that freezes over every few weeks, and glance through the refrigerator to make sure she hasn’t forgotten to eat.
I place another food delivery order for her like I do every Monday.
Better she have too much food than too little.
The mail sits neatly stacked beside the microwave.
Our neighbor agreed to check the mailbox every few days and put any mail inside the house for me, just in case Mom forgot.
More of a housekeeping issue than a necessity since everything important is paid online.
Josh set up our autopay accounts long ago.
All I had to do was make sure things kept running.
That was the story of our little family.
Josh set things up. I made sure they stayed working. And Mom just existed alongside us. It wasn’t a bad childhood. It was just… heavy.
Underneath any good memory sat the same quiet truth.
We were only one emergency away from losing everything.
When the electricity stayed on, it was because Josh picked up another weekend shift.
When I needed books for school, Josh found another construction job.
We never knew what the next day would hold and lived paycheck to paycheck.
I’d promised myself I’d never live that life once I was old enough to change things. That one day I’d have my own career, my own money, my own future.
I wanted to become an accountant. I knew it sounded boring to most people, but stability and predictability were what I craved.
I’d always been good with numbers, probably because they made sense in a way the rest of the world rarely did.
There was always a right answer if you knew how to find it.
Patterns could be trusted. You could build a life on things that didn’t change.
Hours later, I find myself standing outside Josh’s bedroom.
His bed is still unmade from the last time he came home, the weekend before Halloween.
Dog-eared books on medieval history, unsolved disappearances, and ancient civilizations are stacked haphazardly beside his desk, competing for space with programming manuals, notebooks filled with puzzle ideas, and the hulking custom PC he built himself in high school.
The last time he was home replays in my mind.
I’d woken sometime after midnight and noticed light spilling beneath his bedroom door.
When I’d peeked inside, he’d been at the desk, typing away furiously at his computer and looking nervous every time his phone buzzed with a new text.
He’d seemed anxious—more than usual—but excited.
At the time, I’d teased him for acting so weird, but he’d laughed it off.
Now I wonder what—or who—had him so strung out.
The morning he left, Josh hugged Mom goodbye before pulling me into one of his bone-crushing embraces.
He told me he loved me, started to say something else, then stopped himself with a smile and told me to forget it.
I never asked what he’d been about to say.
It’s a decision I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
A sudden thought strikes me, and I sit at his desk and power on his computer. When the login screen appears, on a hunch, I type the nickname he’d given me when we were kids. We used to go around pretending to solve neighborhood mysteries. Josh was “Sherlock,” and I was “Watson.”
The computer unlocks immediately.
I laugh softly. Figures. He never changed the password.
Most of the folders on his desktop seem ordinary, except one labeled Salem’s Fall.
Inside are pages of research on the town’s witch trials, scanned newspaper clippings about a string of unsolved occult murders from over two decades ago, and cryptic notes that make little sense to me.
Frustrated, I close the folder and open his email program instead.
Nothing in his inbox stands out at first glance—just the usual emails about classes, professors, and campus life. Then I check the Drafts folder and find a single unsent message addressed to me. It was last edited the day before Halloween.
My breath catches as I open it.
If you’re reading this, something went wrong for me in Salem’s Fall. No matter what they tell you, don’t believe them. Don’t stop looking for me. I thought I was one of them, but now I’m not sure.
Find them, and you’ll find me. Find the Veil, Watson. If anyone can do it, it’s you.
I stare at the words until they blur. This is my first concrete clue that Josh may still be alive somewhere. He knew something was going to happen to him, and he asked me to find him if it did.
My breathing turns ragged as I gaze out the bedroom window toward the backyard where Josh and I spent entire summers building forts that always collapsed. Every time the walls fell, Josh insisted we’d get it right on the next try.
That was Josh. No matter how hard things got, he was always there, holding everything together. Holding me together. He never gave up on me or this family. Now he’s the one asking for help.
I can’t give up on him.
One way or another, I’m bringing my brother home.