Chapter 9 #2
Eventually, the tourist attractions give way to displays that feel increasingly authentic.
Original court documents rest beneath glass.
A woman’s confession, written in ink gone brown with age, fills two fragile pages.
A child’s shoe recovered from the foundation of a witch house torn down centuries ago.
If Josh was here researching records for Vanished, I know that somewhere underneath all the nonsense, real history awaits.
I lean over a display containing a hand-drawn map of old Salem’s Fall. Several buildings are marked with family names I recognize: Blackhollow. Ashcroft. Hawthorne. However, a fourth section of the map has been damaged, the parchment darkened as though someone held it too close to a flame.
“Well,” a woman’s voice says as bracelets chime behind us, “either I’m hallucinating, or Rowan Ashcroft has willingly entered the historical wing.”
I turn to find a woman walking toward us, hands resting on the curved handle of a wooden cane that seems more decorative than useful.
She’s dressed in a layered black skirt and a wine-colored velvet jacket embroidered with silver stars.
Half a dozen long necklaces hang around her neck, each strung with a different colored crystal.
Long gray hair falls in a loose braid nearly to her lower back.
She’s giving total Stevie Nicks bohemian witch vibes.
“Bea—my favorite professor.” Rowan gives her an easy smile. “Always so lovely to see you.”
“Don’t sass me, young man.” Her gaze narrows, and she smacks him lightly with her cane. “The last time you visited, you convinced three small children that the Marsh Witch in the photo upstairs would steal their souls if she heard them speak. One of them cried uncontrollably for hours.”
“In my defense, they were being annoyingly loud,” he says. “I thought it would shut them up.”
Professor Endicott’s mouth twitches before her attention shifts to me.
“Hi, Professor Endicott,” I say. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. I’m—”
“Jackie Mercer, of course,” she says, taking both my hands in hers. “Josh showed me so many pictures of you. And look at all that beautiful red hair, just like your brother. Please, call me Bea.”
Rowan gives me a smirk. “Told you.”
“Oh, my dear. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Professor Endicott says. “I adored your brother.” She guides us toward a small staff alcove beyond the gallery, and we all take seats at a round table. “I wish you’d come earlier. I’m afraid I have a meeting shortly.”
“I tried your office,” I say.
“Oh yes, I’m dreadful about office hours.” She grimaces. “The museum has been preparing for the Fall Equinox exhibit, and I lose track of which building I’m supposed to inhabit.”
“She does that often, you know,” Rowan says to me. “Loses track of things.”
Professor Endicott points one long black nail at him. “Mr. Ashcroft, you may stay only if you refrain from your usual snarky editorial commentary.”
“I make no promises,” he says.
“Professor, what sort of things was my brother researching when he came here?”
She turns back to me. “Oh, Josh was here often during his fellowship,” she says.
“At first, he just wanted background for his game. Witch trial transcripts. Colonial case dockets. Local history. But he quickly became interested in the town’s dark folklore.
Secret cults. Ancient rituals. He was fascinated by all of it.
That’s why his game was so clever, you know.
” She gives me a little wink. “It mixed the real with the fantastical so completely, you almost couldn’t tell the difference. ”
She fidgets slightly as she settles into the chair opposite mine, playing with the different crystals hanging around her neck.
“But then he stopped asking how Salem’s Fall folklore could serve the game,” she continues, “and started asking whether the folklore might actually be real.”
A chill slips over me.
“Why would he think that?” I ask.
Professor Endicott leans back, considering. “Patterns, mostly,” she says. “Your brother had a marvelous mind for them. Dates that repeated. Symbols appearing in unrelated records. Certain family names attached to… unsavory… incidents no one could properly explain.”
“The founding families?” I guess.
Her brows lift.
“You’ve been doing your homework, I see.”
“We’ve been learning about them in class. Blackhollow, Ashcroft, Hawthorne.” I think of the damaged map from minutes ago. “And another family no one seems to know much about.”
Rowan yawns in his chair, looking bored. “If this ends with another story about one of my ancestors summoning demons again, I’m leaving.”
“Quiet, Mr. Ashcroft. Stop distracting us with your terrible jokes.” Professor Endicott pauses, gathering her thoughts.
“Now, where were we?” she asks and then nods a second later as if they’ve returned.
“Ah, yes. The Fourth House. Historians generally believe the Fourth House either died out or was erased from later records for political reasons. Land disputes. Strategic marriages. Money.” She glances around the room before looking right at me.
“But there is another explanation. From your research, have you learned about the Order of the Veil yet?”
My pulse quickens at the mention of the Veil. While Professor Pemberton had seemed panicked to talk about it, Professor Endicott appears excited.
“Not much,” I say. “What is it, exactly?”