Chapter 52
I’m thinking of my baby, picturing her floating in darkness, in the safety of her warm cocoon. But then my mind slips and the darkness that the baby is floating in becomes the night sky and the baby becomes me and suddenly I’m running through the woods again, branches whipping my face.
I sigh and open my eyes. Even when I try and focus on my baby, I cannot. I’m a woman possessed.
From the warmth of my bed, I can see how gray the sky is outside and know, intuitively, that it will be very cold today.
I want very much to stay in bed in my flannel pajamas, Hugo by my side, scrolling the far reaches of the internet for information on early Vermont settlements.
But I don’t think the answers lie in the history books. I think the answers lie in this house.
Downstairs, I make a pot of coffee, waiting impatiently as it percolates. I stare, watching the dark liquid slowly fill the pot, mindlessly eating a loaf of pumpkin bread I have no memory of buying. I need to figure this out.
When I finally have a mug of coffee, I slowly walk back and forth through the kitchen, spreading imaginary clues on the floor in front of me.
I now know there was an earlier settlement.
That makes the likelihood of a witch trial even greater.
I know a woman died here, and I now know she was hanged.
Then there are the pieces that I don’t know.
I think of the feeling of anger at the end of the nightmares.
The feeling of anger that explodes like a storm.
If she was accused and executed for witchcraft, of course that would cause rage like no other.
But I can’t help but feel that there is something more.
Witch hysteria happened. People were superstitious and living in frightening times.
They accused their neighbors of terrible things.
Is every executed witch in Salem still haunting those cobblestone streets?
Salem would probably like you to think so, great for tourism.
But I can’t help but feel that something more happened here.
Something that has kept her haunting Wildwood all these years.
And, finally, almost most perplexingly, what was the Brooks’ role in all this?
Think logically, I tell myself. There are still untapped sources of information. You just have to keep digging.
The house groans, and I shiver as a blast of cold wind hits the single-pane window.
The glass rattles and I notice a large crack in the glass in the corner.
I wonder why Ezra didn’t fix it. He was a tidy person, but it seems like at some point, he just stopped maintaining the house.
There has to be something else I can learn from him.
Then I think of the key. I think of the desk in the library.
There’s something I’ve missed. I know it.
I walk to the library, Hugo following me, nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
I crouch at Ezra’s desk and open both drawers.
I rifle through. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Nothing new. I sigh, frustrated. Then I sit on the large chair and pull open the slim drawer, right above my thighs.
It’s full of neatly organized pens, staples, paper clips, and stamps.
I’m about to close it when I notice something.
The drawer seems artificially shallow, like it should pull out more than it does for the width of the desk.
I lean over, so I am eye level with the drawer.
It’s hard to see anything, so I reach my hand back.
And then I feel it. A small metal circle with an indent in the middle. A keyhole.
I sprint upstairs. The key ring is where I last left it, wrapped in a black silk nightie in the top drawer of my dresser.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice somehow for the first time that my hair has developed soft curls.
I remember my mother telling me how pregnancy had changed her hair, how her once pencil-straight hair became full bodied while she carried me.
Under normal circumstances, I would have welcomed this change.
But, as I take a trepidatious step toward the mirror, and see my wild eyes against the backdrop of the painted trees, I can’t help but see the woman in my dreams, even though I’ve never seen her face.
A little thrill of panic tightens in my chest, and so I turn around and head back downstairs, burying the notion.
I crouch down by the desk and feel my heart thudding.
This is it. This has to be it. I shine my phone flashlight into the drawer and can make out the keyhole.
It’s a little tricky getting the key in, but finally, it turns, and I can hear the thud as the lock shifts.
I smile and half laugh out loud. There’s a small ring next to the keyhole and I pull it. A second, hidden drawer slides forward.
There are just two items in the drawer. An envelope.
And another key. It looks even older, and heavier, and more rusted than the first. I feel a flash of irritation.
I’ve solved one mysterious key only to discover a second one.
But then my eyes take in the handwriting on the envelope.
I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s sweet and girlish. It’s Mathilde’s.
I pull it out, hands nearly trembling. Inside the envelope are two pieces of paper. The first is a letter that has lost its stiffness, either from time or from being handled so often. Perhaps both. It’s dated June 28, 2004.
Ezra,
Writing this letter is one of the most painful things I’ve done, but I’ve reached a difficult decision.
Kate and Elinor will never come to Wildwood again.
How can we after what’s happened? The high and mighty of Newfield need to admit what they’ve done.
Even if you don’t believe me about what happened to Elinor, you said so yourself, the Brooks are trying to intimidate us.
They want Wildwood. They’ve always wanted Wildwood.
Then their secret is safe. I don’t know why you haven’t confronted them already.
You are a coward and have put our family in jeopardy.
Until then, I’ll have nothing more to do with this godforsaken place.
Mathilde
I sit a moment, staring at the paper, as if staring at it longer will make more words magically appear.
What happened to Elinor. There’s a strange, uncomfortable stirring in my gut.
Like when you know you did something embarrassing at a party but can’t remember what.
Times a million. Something happened to me? Something connected to all this?
I feel a flash of anger toward my grandmother. This letter, while proving something happened here and that the Brooks are involved, is still so cryptic and vague. Why didn’t she just say what the hell happened here??
I unfold the second piece of paper. The handwriting is different. It’s not Mathilde’s, but Ezra’s. I recognize his scrawl though this text is written more aggressively, in capital letters, and underlined. It’s angry writing.
IT’S NOT SO DAMN EASY, MATHILDE. WITHOUT THE BODIES, THERE IS NO PROOF!!
I’m staring at the letters, like I’m holding twin grenades, one in each hand. I realize there’s a reason Mathilde’s letter feels so worn. It’s full of a thousand wrinkles. The kind made from crumpling a piece of paper in anger and then trying to smooth it flat.
Uncle Ezra was angry when he read it. Did he ever send her a reply? Or had he started a response but never finished it?
I probably won’t ever know that, but I’ve learned something even more important.
WITHOUT THE BODIES, THERE IS NO PROOF. I was right.
Someone died here unjustly. And not just one person.
I picture the four unmarked graves. Why did they do this to you?
Why did the Brooks do this to you? And what does it have to do with me?