Page 28 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 10

Jasper

Pennington Falls Public Library looks like someone imported a university reading hall and dropped it in the middle of a small town, then dusted it with Halloween. The entrance is flanked by actual, functional gas lamps, not LEDs, and some intern must have risked life and limb to hang those pumpkin-shaped lanterns from every single arch along the brick facade. On the front steps, a carved gargoyle stares down at us, tongue out in perpetual challenge.

I resist the urge to punch it.

Delia takes the stairs two at a time, her copper curls bouncing in the sunlight like she’s been mainlining caffeine since dawn. Which technically, she has. Whiskers rides in her arm bag, only his head and a forepaw visible, the rest submerged in a nest of black velvet and lint. I follow, keeping a half-step behind, appreciating the silence…and maybe the view too.

Delia is wearing a brown mini skirt that hugs her curves, with lace stockings, and a burnt-orange sweater cinched at the waist with a vintage belt.

I don’t hate it.

The lobby is a riot of silence. Even the kids in the reading corner are somehow hushed, transfixed by a woman who’s reading them a ghost story in a voice that sounds like shattered glass and honey.

From behind the circulation desk to our left, Cassie Blackwood lifts her blonde head. Blue eyes assess us over the rim of her reading glasses. "Good morning," she says with practiced warmth. "How can I help you today?"

"Hi, Cassie!" Delia leans forward, her palms pressed to the counter, all sunshine and enthusiasm. "We were hoping to access the archives for some research. We’re looking into early town records, specifically anything involving the Salem trials and, uh, Isabella Raveen?"

Cassie's smile falters for a microsecond, like a light bulb threatening to go out. "Everyone wants to know about Salem when the leaves start changing," she says, her fingers pausing on the keyboard she was typing on when we waltzed in. "Isabella Raveen, though…" She tilts her head, glasses catching the fluorescent light. "That's a dusty corner of our archives. What brings you to her doorstep?"

Delia tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, a gesture that means she's improvising. "Honestly? Bizarre personal interest. I'm writing a blog for the farm’s reopening and thought, why not spice it with local witch legends? I figured the tourist would eat it up, though I couldn’t find much about her on the internet.” She grins, like this is the most embarrassing secret she could possibly reveal.

I would have come up with something better, but she’s committed now.

Cassie's eyes cut to me before focusing back on Delia, “I see. Well, you’re welcome to review our microfilm collection or search the digital archives. If you’d like, I can escort you to Special Collections, where some of the more delicate materials are stored. Some items can only be handled by staff, but I’m happy to assist."

Delia beams. "That would be amazing. Thank you so much."

"Of course," Cassie says. "Just let me grab the access card."

We wait a moment in the sunbeam streaming through the vestibule windows. Delia distracts herself with a display of antique calligraphy, tracing the loops and flourishes with one fingertip. I watch her instead. The way her nose crinkles when she reads something surprising, the tilt of her chin when she decides she’s smarter than whatever idiot wrote the placard for the display.

I can't decide if I find it revolting or kind of cute.

Cassie returns, moving briskly but not hurried, and gestures for us to follow her past the main stacks and into a part of the building I’d only seen on the virtual tour. "This wing was remodeled in the 90s," she says, her voice echoing off the polished floor. "The original building was smaller, but the architects kept as many of the original fixtures as possible. It’s haunted, if you believe the student docents. The old head librarian’s ghost supposedly rearranges the Dewey Decimal labels at night."

Delia grins at the joke, but I keep my eyes on Cassie’s hands, noting how she fiddles with her lanyard, spinning the plastic card in precise, nervous circles. Her stride is measured—almost military. I’d bet she alphabetizes her kitchen pantry and cleans her light switches with bleach wipes.

Whisker’s head pops out from the black velvet lined bag like an all-seeing periscope, the fur on his body standing on end as he sniffs the air before he makes a gaging face and retreats back into his sanctuary of lint and shadows.

The rat doesn't seem to like the smell of libraries.

At the end of the corridor, we pass through a door marked STAFF ONLY, and Cassie swipes us in with a beep. The Special Collections room is kept at a low temperature, probably to preserve whatever fragile tomes they’ve hoarded. The lights flicker on in sequence, illuminating rows of glass-fronted shelves and a single table in the center with magnifying glasses, and a weirdly industrial-looking box of tissues.

Cassie gestures for us to sit as she unlocks a drawer, removing a heavy, leather-bound volume. She flips it open with practiced hands, laying it out between us. "This is the best resource we have on local witch history," she explains. "Isabella Raveen is mentioned several times. According to the records, she was burned at the stake in Salem reportedly after sacrificing her newborn baby in an attempt to gain more power. The veracity is…questionable, but the story persists. What's undisputed is that her own husband provided the testimony that lit the pyre."

"Charming," I say.

Cassie gives me a sidelong look, unsure if I’m being serious or not, but she’s professional enough to continue. “The last few pages detail her trial and execution. There’s even a transcript—well, as close as you can get in seventeenth-century Massachusetts—of the proceedings.” She pushes the book toward Delia, who immediately leans in, her hair falling in a bright sweep across the creamy vellum.

She reads aloud, eyes darting, “The deposition of Jonathan Raveen, aged thirty-one. ‘Upon arriving home, the eve of October twelfth, I espied my wife in the nursery standing over the baby’s crib. There was blood on her hands, and she was speaking in a tongue I did not recognize.’”

I confess, I enjoy watching Delia trip over archaic phrases, her lips moving silently as she deciphers them.

She reads on, “‘She turned to me, the babe laying lifeless beneath her, her eyes black as pitch, and bade me leave lest I suffer her wrath as well. I made the sign of the cross and fled the premises. I returned with the constables before she was able to complete whatever dark ritual , who fastened Isabella was then fastened in iron and taken to the dungeons at Gallows Hill—’” Delia’s voice drops off as she flips a page, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as she navigates the crabbed handwriting, "—‘and that night she howled and scratched the walls, never ceasing even as she was dragged to the stake at dawn. However, as the flames licked at her skirts and the smoke billowed around her face, a strange serenity overtook her. Her lips curved upward, her gaze locked with mine, and she mouthed words I could not hear but knew carried some unholy promise.’”

Cassie slides open a second drawer and extracts a slim, handwritten ledger, "According to this entry," she says, "Jonathan remarried within the year and fathered three more children. Twenty years after Isabella's execution, servants found him convulsing on his study floor. The coroner determined he'd consumed enough rat poison to kill a horse." She glances up. "Local gossip claimed his guilt finally caught up with him."