CHAPTER 1 #4
The distance between the main house and the outbuilding was about twenty feet; it sat a little to the left of it, from their perspective.
The yard itself was charming. Trees surrounded the back, and flowering bushes had been planted close to the house.
A little trail of stones led to the quarters where Mike Bolton had died.
“The man was eighty,” Zach murmured as they walked.
“A healthy eighty, from all accounts; a man who taught high school until mandatory retirement age; was loyal to his wife, who died after a stroke about six years ago; and a good father. From all accounts and records, he was a model citizen, a man who never even accrued so much as a parking ticket.”
“No suggestion that his lifestyle might have caused him to, um, imbibe a bit?” Skye asked.
Zach looked at her and shook his head.
“From everything we’ve learned, he didn’t imbibe so much as a sip of champagne at family weddings. And in an age when the world smoked cigarettes or pipes or cigars—nope. Never smoked, never drank, never did drugs,” Zach told her.
“Zach was up here yesterday,” Jackson informed Skye. “I know we just dragged you in this morning—”
Skye laughed. “You didn’t drag me in. If I can help find a child and help solve a cruel murder, I’m happy to be here.”
Jackson nodded.
Zach studied her while opening the door to the outbuilding.
It, too, had been sealed with crime scene tape, but the tape had been broken—by Zach Erickson, Skye thought.
He’d been here. He’d been studying the case. And as of now, he had nothing.
She entered the small building. She knew it had once been a carriage house, and she hoped desperately her vision wouldn’t take her further back than she needed to go. She had to concentrate on very recent history.
It appeared to be a typical grandparent or in-law dwelling.
There was a small room that was furnished with a sofa and an armchair and a large-screen TV.
The area stretched into a small kitchen area, which held a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a sink.
There was a doorway that led to the bedroom.
Skye knew she needed to head into the bedroom.
She brushed past Zach to reach the doorway that led to it. It was like brushing by concrete.
He didn’t seem to notice.
Like Jackson and Angela, he followed her into the small bedroom.
It offered a bed, a dresser, a closet, and a single chair. She looked at the bed, knowing that it was where the deceased man had been found.
She sat in the chair by the bed and closed her eyes.
And waited.
And then, the movie in her mind began.
And …
The door opened; Skye saw the person … the being … slip in.
Mike Bolton had been sleeping. He didn’t open his eyes with alarm; he was expecting his grandson, perhaps, or his little great-grandchild.
But then he saw the being …
It appeared extremely tall, but that was because of the witch’s hat, broad at the brim and pointed at the top. The person was clad in an encompassing cloak over a ruffled black shirt with a high neckline.
The face was …
Green.
Like that of a witch in a movie.
Mike Bolton stared in disbelief for a moment. Then he opened his mouth to scream.
As he did so, the thing rushed toward him, snatching his pillow from beneath his head, shoving it over his face. And when the green being lifted the pillow from the man’s face, Mike Bolton opened his mouth, desperate for air.
As he did so, the being shoved something down his throat. The man gagged, twisted, turned … fought …
And the being put the pillow over his face again. Not enough to kill him …
Just enough to cause him to pass out.
Satisfied, the green being headed for the door, looking back to make sure the man wasn’t going to regain consciousness.
Then the being was gone.
Skye heard the bedroom door slide shut in its wake.
Then the door to the outbuilding.
And then …
She heard the scream. Startled. Quickly cut off …
And …
Nothing.
Skye opened her eyes and blinked away the past. They were all staring at her. Jackson, Angela, and Zach Erickson.
She swallowed hard.
“Well? You saw something!” Jackson said.
She nodded.
“What?” Angela prodded softly.
Skye winced, looking at them all.
“Mike Bolton was killed by …”
“By?” Zach pressed.
“By a witch,” she said. “A green witch, like one might see in the movies. With the black pointy hat as well. Or I am assuming, someone dressed up as a witch with a pointed black hat, green flesh, and all.”
She expected the looks she received from them.
But Jackson shook his head. “Great. So we’re in Salem, Massachusetts, and someone is dressing up in a movie-version witch costume—and attacking people.” He paused, grimacing as he looked from Zach to Skye and said quietly, “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Zach stared at Skye, arching a brow. “A witch … a modern concept of a witch, someone painted green and running around in black clothing and a wide-brimmed and pointed hat?”
Is he skeptical, or just assuring himself that he’d heard correctly?
She grimaced. “That’s right, I’m afraid. We’re looking for the Wicked Witch of the West.”