Chapter 73
I awake gasping, back in The Forest of the Dead.
I look around me, wildly, searching for Lydia.
There was more to her story. I woke too soon.
It is still nighttime. The moon casts ephemeral light on the bedroom floor.
In my periphery, I see painted trees start to tremble, gnarled limbs stretching and curling, branches sharpening to talons.
Before, this would have made me run. But I don’t.
Instead, I squinch my eyes shut, pleading with Lydia to come back.
But I fall back into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
I awake, throughout the night, my nerves on fire.
I hear the creak of wood and open my eyes to see branches reaching out to me, creeping their way across the comforter, ready to wrap themselves around me.
I see the raccoon move, bare his teeth at me. I see the birds take flight.
When the morning light begins to inch across the floor, I sit up, gutted. Lydia has abandoned me, at least for now.
The painted trees, for now, have stopped moving. Finally, I get up and walk slowly to the window. The rain has turned to snow, and it has already created a blanket of white. I feel like I am in a snow globe.
I walk downstairs and eat a bowl of oatmeal, not really tasting it.
I replay the dream, over and over. Lydia Abington was tried as a witch.
The Brooks and the Bishops plotted against her.
My family plotted against her. But I can’t shake the feeling that there is more.
Some part of the story I don’t yet understand.
My phone pings, and I see a text from Mia.
How’s it looking?
Again, I have lucked out with an excuse.
Worse. It’s turned to a blizzard. Not safe to drive, esp alone. Let’s try tomorrow.
I can see in my messages that texts from Topher have come through as well. He’s in California, looking for an update. I’ll text him once and then I’ll have to ignore him. It will be too much of a distraction.
Bad weather. Had to turn around yesterday. Now snow. Will go tomorrow. I’m fine!
A moment later, my cell rings. I’m surprised the signal is strong enough. It must be Topher, calling to scold me for not making it to Mia’s.
I pick it up to silence it, but see that it’s not Topher, but another number from Vermont. Normally, I wouldn’t answer it. But today isn’t a normal day.
“Hello?”
“Is this Elinor Leighton?” It’s an older man’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Great, so glad I reached you. This is Hank Chester. Deb told me you wanted to talk to me. I’ve called a few times before but never got through.”
For a moment, I have no idea who either Hank Chester or Deb are. My mental capacity is barely at twenty percent. But then the names click. Deb, the professor I met in Salem. Hank Chester, the journalist and expert in the Vermont paranormal.
“Hi,” I nearly shout. “Thank you, yes, I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
I tell him a partial story. I tell him about the graves, the Brooks and the Bishops, the property maps.
I tell him in vague terms about the nightmares.
I tell him of my belief that the woman was tried as a witch.
But I don’t tell him about the dream from last night.
It feels too recent. I would not be able to describe it without sounding hysterical.
Like a woman in the process of breaking down.
Hank listens quietly, not interrupting or asking questions. I’d wondered if he was still there except for the occasional “oh wow” or “interesting.” At the end, I ask him, point-blank, if he thinks she could have been tried as a witch.
He says he’s not sure. That without any evidence, it’s impossible to say. I’m about to cut the conversation short. After all, I know what I saw in my dream. I was hoping he could back me up, but I’ll find another way to prove this.
But then he asks, “There’s also the fact that there’re four unmarked graves, correct?”
I feel myself deflate. That’s right. “Yes . . . I suppose you are going to say that makes it less likely, right? Because four witch executions would be too many to cover up?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.” He pauses. “But there’s something else that might be relevant.”
I don’t dare breathe. “What’s that?”
Hank clears his throat. “Mind you, this has not yet been verified. Someone came to me many years back. She sent me a copy of a journal entry she’d found in her grandmother’s possession. It was kept for generations and appears to have been from the early 1800s.”
My heart is beating so fast I’m certain he can hear it through the phone.
“And?”
“It includes a pretty chilling accusation about something that happened in a small village in Vermont. One of the relatives had gone missing decades prior and the family hired essentially what was a private investigator. Bear in mind, the relative had disappeared in the 1750s, and that period came on the heels of the Great Awakening, a time when religious piety swept through the colonies.”
“I’m familiar,” I say, thinking of the Jonathan Edwards sermons, highlighted so heavily in Mathilde’s belongings.
“Well, there was a preacher, apparently, who had some pretty extreme views on how people could become good. More God-fearing. This journal entry suggests he made it to Newfield.”
And so, Hank Chester tells me a story that spreads ice through my veins. At the end, I’m nearly speechless. He tells me there’s been no other documentation on this, so to proceed with caution.
We are about to hang up when I think of one last urgent question, though I think I already know the answer.
“Who was the woman who brought this to you?”