Twig, Kate, Naomi, Harper and I are sitting on the carpet in Twig’s basement, gathered in a circle around the Sony Mega Bass, pretending to have a game night. We even got out Twister in case Mrs. Calloway comes downstairs with more snacks. She’s very relieved that both her children and her son’s closest friends are safely tucked away in the den, where a serial kidnapper cannot get us.
But we have no interest in games.
Instead, I’m sharing the recordings I’ve curated, my finger hovering over the pause button in case we’re interrupted.
“So,” Harper continues, “the mountain witch would be…?”
“Mistress Bramble’s mom, Enola. Otherwise known as Mother Bramble.” I look around in case anyone else has a question. When nobody speaks, I hit play.
Lily resumes her story.
“We didn’t just catch a glimpse,” she says. “We straight-up ran into her. She was in the woods with a huge basket hanging over her arm, gathering wild leeks and dandelion greens and some other stuff I didn’t recognize. I think she called it Chickweed? Anyway, she was wearing a black cloak, which is exactly the kind of thing a witch would wear. But honestly, she didn’t look that scary. She was actually really friendly and happy to introduce herself, like we were invited guests instead of trespassers. At the time, I remember thinking, wow, people have seriously blown these rumors way out of proportion.
“But then she shook my hand and she didn’t let go. She clamped on so tight I could feel her nails digging into my skin, and I swear, her eyes got all dark and creepy. I tried to pull away, but she was weirdly strong for an old woman.
“Then in this super raspy voice, she goes, ‘You are a receiver, my child.’ I told her I don’t play football, which made Simon and Clara laugh. Butthis Bramble witch wouldn’t stop. She called me a temporal conduit, whatever that means, and then she pulled my hand up under her chin, closed her eyes, and said, ‘The sight will plague you.’”
Lily takes a breath.
The beat of quiet lets Mother Bramble’s curious proclamation breathe.
“I don’t know,” she continues, in a quieter, more subdued tone. “In hindsight, she was probably messing with me. I mean, we’re definitely not the first teenagers to wander onto her land hoping to see the ‘mountain witch.’ She probably has a whole routine. Still, it was creepy.”
I push stop and look around, gauging everyone’s reactions. Twig is intensely focused. Kate looks disturbed. Naomi, wary. And Harper, completely enthralled.
“Whatisa temporal conduit?” she asks.
“Temporal relates to time,” Naomi answers. “And a conduit is like a channel or a bridge.”
“It’s a wormhole,” Twig says, picking up the sketchbook. “A temporal conduit connects two different points in the space-time continuum.”
Harper’s brow furrows. “Lily Vandenberg was a wormhole?”
“She could see the future,” I say, hitting the fast-forward button. The next recording I wantthem to listen to takes place almost two weeks later.
I go a bit too far.
Hit rewind.
Stop.
Play.
And there it is.
Thursday, April sixth.
One week before the curse would strike.
“The weirdest thing happened today during my French lesson. I was super sleepy, and the lesson was mind numbingly dull. I may have nodded off for a second, and while I was dozing, it felt like my brain got electrocuted. I don’t even know how else to describe it.
“There was this blinding flash of light. I saw a lightning bolt, but everything was backwards. Instead of striking down, it was forking up, from this black swirling cloud into white nothingness. I could actually feel it hit me—like a sharp zap shooting through my whole body. I jerked awake and scared the crap out of my tutor. Simon thinks I had a seizure and now I’m all paranoid about epilepsy.”
I hit stop.
Fast-forward through two more days.
Then push play again.
