Chapter 7
A COMMON MISCONCEPTION
I’m the first to arrive to eighth period.
Normally, I find a desk at the end of a row, closest to the door.
Quicker to escape that way. Today, I consider moving one seat in, a maneuver that would increase my odds of sitting next to a certain someone.
But that would make me just as ridiculous as every other girl tittering in the bathroom.
I sit in my normal seat.
Harper arrives next. When she slides into the empty desk next to mine, I scold myself for the twinge of disappointment. “Oh my goodness, Selah. Tell me everything.”
It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since lunch.
She scoots her desk closer. “What did you talk about? What did he sound like? What did he smell like?”
“Smell like?”
“Expensive cologne. I bet you anything.”
I roll my eyes. “I tried to talk to him about books. He wasn’t very chatty, to be honest. He sounded like a human, and he smelled like one, too.”
Better, actually.
On both counts.
But I’m not spinning Harper into any more of a tizzy than she already is.
Nor am I telling her that at any moment, Jude will be making an appearance.
Instead, I turn our conversation toward the reenactment on Friday.
Harper is playing the role of Annabelle Doorn, the mayor’s daughter.
Over the next minute and a half, as the desks slowly fill and Harper and I chat about rehearsals this evening, I don’t look at the door once.
Nor do I need to.
The whispers rippling through the room makes his arrival obvious. By now, only two desks remain—one in the front row on the opposite side of the room, another behind Harper. All eyes track the new guy as he takes the closer seat. Harper sits ramrod straight, her eyes going buggy all over again.
The bell rings.
Mr. Langley steps inside and shuts the door.
Usually, the energy in class is low. By and large, Langley isn’t known for bringing history to life.
He rambles his way through lectures while his students play on their phones or stare into the middle distance with vacant expressions.
Today, however, the arousal that has permeated the building condenses here, in Room 216.
Langley writes the words Salem Witch Trials on the board.
One would think such a fascinating topic would make his basset hound eyes sparkle just a little, but alas, they remain dull and droopy as he meanders through the lesson.
Meanwhile, my notes are a chaotic mess. In all caps at the bottom of the page, I jot the words Podcast idea. Salem! Witches!
“Hysteria consumed the town," Langley continues. “People turned on their neighbors, paranoia spread, and by the time it ended, twenty individuals had been executed. What can this time period teach us about human nature?”
His question blends so monotonously into the rest of his lecture, I don’t think anybody but me realizes he’s invited engagement. Carter Muldoni stifles a yawn. A handful of girls aren’t even facing front, but have positioned themselves in a perpendicular manner so they have a better view of Jude.
Nobody volunteers.
Nobody pays any attention at all.
Until Langley calls on the new student and the whole class snaps to such attention, you could hear a pin drop.
Jude lounges back with his long legs stretched in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other, idly twirling a pen around the tip of his thumb, a picture of quiet disinterest. He hasn’t opened his notebook.
It’s closed beneath his worn copy of Macbeth.
“It teaches us the dangers of archaic, uninformed thinking,” he says, hardly missing a beat.
“And how quick we are to blame evil for things we can’t yet explain. ”
Langley looks pleased. “Care to elaborate?”
“You said the hysteria began when two girls started having fits. It was likely Lyme’s disease, an affliction they didn’t yet know about. So they blamed evil, pointed fingers, and innocent women were burned at the stake.”
“The women in Salem weren’t burned,” I blurt.
All the attention swivels from Jude to me as the clock on the wall ticks into the silence.
“And the men,” I continue. “There were some men. Nineteen were hanged. One was pressed.” The thought makes me shudder. “None of them were burned.” I know this thanks to Maggie Henshaw, who takes major offense with historical fallacy.
Napoleon wasn’t short!
The witches weren’t burned at the stake!
“That’s a common misconception,” I say.
Jude’s eyes narrow beneath his brooding eyebrows, and I wonder which part of the statement bothers him more—common, or misconception?
“I mean, I get why it’s a misconception. That’s how they executed witches in England, and burning is more dramatic. If I were writing the story, I’d probably go with that, too."
“You’re disappointed they were hanged?” Jude asks.
“Of course not.”
“But burning would’ve made for a better story?”
“I’m simply saying that’s probably why the myth stuck. Stories last longer when they leave an impact. Burning leaves a big one.”
“So … factual accuracy is less important than turning history into entertainment?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied.”
I let out a short laugh. “You’re the one who got it wrong in the first place.”
“A victim of dramatics, I guess.”
Warmth rises in my cheeks.
“I don’t know the intricacies of the Salem Witch Trials,” Jude says. “I’ve never made a point to study them, but I stand by my original point. Human nature loves to blame evil, when in actuality, it was undiagnosed sickness and mass hysteria.”
“You don’t think evil was involved even a little?”
“Is it ever?”
I blink several times, dumbfounded by his take. “You don’t believe in evil?”
“I take it you do,” he says with a bit of an eye roll, like I’m archaic and uninformed.
I set my elbow on the back of my chair. “I’m not saying those women were actual witches, but I absolutely believe in evil.” People were tortured. Innocent lives were taken. Power was absolutely abused. If that’s not evil, what is?
Jude gives his pen a disinterested twirl.
“If you don’t believe in evil, then how do you explain a guy like Ted Bundy? Or Adolf Hitler?”
“Chemical imbalances in the brain?”
I open my mouth, a ready retort on the tip of my tongue, but Langley gives his throat a loud clear, pulling the focus back to himself. I hadn’t noticed, but the class’s attention was pin-balling between me and Jude like spectators at a tennis match.
“Yes, well,” Langley says, smoothing his notes. “You’ve both touched on some fascinating points …”
The droning resumes.
But I’m no longer taking notes. I’m too distracted by the prickle on the back of my neck. When I peek over my shoulder, Jude is staring. And for the first time today, a ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.
I stand before the manor’s imposing entrance, staring at the brass knocker—shaped into the likeness of a hollow-eyed beast. With a tangle of awe and nerves, I lift the ring hanging from its fanged mouth and let it fall with a sharp knock.
I take a step back, tugging at my sleeves. The oak doors are a masterpiece, intricately carved with angelic imagery. Lichen speckles the archway above them. On either side, stone gargoyles stand sentry, their features long since eroded.
Hinges groan as the doors open.
Mr. Tulane appears on the other side dressed like Alfred Pennysworth, his hair neat, his eyebrows wild, and while I should look at him, I can’t help but crane my neck to look past him, inside the home where the Vandenbergs disappeared.
Even with an obstructed view, I can make out the double staircase in the grand foyer, spiraling outward before coming together on the second floor.
“Good afternoon, Miss Clara.”
My attention jerks from the massive chandelier so quickly, I give myself whiplash. “What did you just call me?”
He blinks his protuberant eyes as footsteps sound behind him. Jude strides toward us. Instead of inviting me in, he joins me outside with a terse nod at Tulane.
I point dumbly at the doors. “He called me Clara.”
“What?”
“Mr. Tulane just called me Clara.”
And Clara is my mother’s name.
“Are you sure he didn’t say Sara?” Jude asks.
“Why would he call me Sara?”
“The same reason he calls Isabel Sara. I think it’s the name of his niece.” Jude crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”
The curt question is nearly as jarring as Tulane’s strange greeting. Apparently, his ghost-of-a-smile in class was a one-off. Or maybe my imagination. Like hearing Clara instead of Sara. I shake off the cold welcome. “I wanted to invite you to the reenactment on Friday.”
“The reenactment?”
“The Burning of Foggy Hollow, a Living History. It’s this whole thing we do in town square every year, and it just so happens to feature your great, great, something-or-other grandfather.
” I rock onto the outer edges of my combat boots, ankles tilting outward.
“This year, he’s being played by Harrison Locke, who is Twig’s sister’s boyfriend. ”
Jude furrows his brow.
“You should come. It’s an ode to our town’s history. And in this particular instance, something really did burn. Not witches. At least, none that we know of.”
He gives me nothing.
Certainly no ghost of a smile.
I press onward. “There’s a ceremony afterward, where we light lanterns in honor of the people who died, and set them sail down the river. Most of the town gathers at The Silver Lantern to send them off, but I like to watch from the covered bridge on—”
“I’m not interested,” he interrupts, the clipped tone of his voice landing like a slap. “In the reenactment, or being used for fodder.”
“Fodder?”
“For your podcast.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks.
“I Googled you.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and shows me the screen. Accounts of the Uncanny is the top search result, along with our two most popular episodes. Both feature the cold case.
“You’re obsessed with my family,” he says.
“No, I’m obsessed with all things strange and mysterious. What happened to your family fits the bill.”
“We’re not a circus.”
“I never said you were.”
“Entertainment though, yeah?”
I open my mouth.
But he gives me no opportunity to reply. “Look,” he says. “You found a way to live on this estate. Which, kudos to you, that’s impressive. It doesn’t mean we’re going to carpool. Or be friends. Or discuss literature at lunch.”
He steps inside his home, but before he can shut the doors in my face, I press my palm against one of them. “I have no idea what life was like for you wherever you lived before, but you should know that being rich and good-looking doesn’t excuse poor behavior.”
He glares at my hand.
I glare back. “And co-hosting a podcast about the uncanny in a town that provides plenty of content isn’t a crime.
Of course the Vandenberg cold case would be featured.
A family of four vanishing into thin air is pretty uncanny, if you ask me.
I wasn’t inviting you to the reenactment to get fodder.
I was inviting you because I was being nice.
And friendly. If you don’t know what those words mean, I suggest you Google them, too. ”
Without waiting for his retort, I turn on my heel and march away. Apparently, I was wrong. He’s a lot more like his cousin than I thought.
Jude the Jerk.
And Rafe the Rake.
Both may be beautiful, but they really need to work on their manners.