Page 39 of Wildwood

I sigh in frustration. Just one case. I continue scanning the page, and then my stomach does a tiny flip.

As with many witch trials, documentation on the Woodsville witch trial is sparse and an exact year of the incident is not given. However, according to town records, the Turners first settled in Woodsville in the early 1760s but appeared to have moved in 1770, putting the trial sometime within that ten-year time span.

My mind starts spinning, trying to piece together my theories. If the Widow Turner, Vermont’s only known “witch,” was tried in the 1760s, then perhaps the woman in my dream could have been, as well. And if I can prove the village was settled earlier than previously thought, that makes the witch theory even more plausible. But this opens up new questions. I’ve been assuming that Lydia lies in one of the unmarked graves. If she’s buried there for witchcraft, what then are my theories for the other three? Surely not all could have been executed for witchcraft. One could get lost to history or covered up. Not four. What other crimes would warrant being laid in unmarked graves?

As I think this over, I hear a series of grating cries from above. Glancing up, I see a large flock of crows, flying in a black mass against the blue sky. They head out over the field and toward the forest, caws echoing chaotically. I smile to myself as that little trivia bubbles in my mind. What’s a flock of crows called? A murder.

Chapter 32

I check my email, and bite my nail, frustrated. It’s been a week since I’ve shot off an email to the author of the article on Widow Turner. His name is Hank Chester and he’s a journalist and apparently a well-regarded enthusiast in Vermont lore. I’ve asked to connect. No response yet.

I’ve also exhausted the online searches for “witch trials in Vermont,” “Widow Turner,” “possible unknown cases of witchcraft in Vermont.” I haven’t learned anything particularly helpful. What to do now? Hugo licks my hand, almost as if on cue.

“Let’s do a walk, buddy?” He bounds toward the door, and I go to grab the leash.

Our usual route is to the left, past the Brook houses, past Alice’s driveway, and down another mile or so on the winding dirt road. But today I feel like something different. After I verify that once again, Alice’s truck isn’t in the driveway, we turn back in the direction we’d come. Then, when we near Wildwood, we cross into the Methodist cemetery across the street. I haven’t been in here since before we moved in. I wander through the rows, taking in the various Brook and Bishop names. Finally, I find the ones I’m looking for. Josiah Bishop, my ancestor who died in the storm. A few rows over, I find Nathaniel Brook’s stone, similarly aged. Same date of death. November 9, 1778.

On my way out, I notice a stone that’s relatively new. Edward Brook. Dated 2020. By the dates, it looks like he was just fifty years old. I wonder who he was, which of the homes he lived in. Could he have been Madeline’s brother?

Back out on the dirt road, we head away from Alice’s, away from town, heading deeper into the woods. It is, by all accounts, a beautiful early fall day. There’s a slight crispness to the air, which also seems to carry the scent of fresh apples, and the leaves seem to glow on the trees. This is why people move to Vermont. This is what I want to be savoring.

We walk slowly and Hugo stops to sniff and pee at various intervals that make sense only to him. Suddenly, I notice that Hugo’s gait has slowed. And then he stops altogether, his tail between his legs. He lets out a low, pitiful whimper. I look around, trying to figure out if a person or an animal is on the road or in the woods, but I cannot see anything out of the ordinary. I kneel down to Hugo’s level.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” I whisper, rubbing his face.

He whimpers and avoids my eyes. It is then that I notice the woods look slightly different here. The trees on either side of the road look vaguely sparser, and it almost looks as though a road was here, bisecting the current one, a very long time ago. I stand and try to peer farther into the woods.

Hugo is backing up now, paws skidding on the loose dirt road. It’s unnerving, seeing this large German shepherd scared. But, for better or for worse, my curiosity is greater than my fear.

The left side of the property belongs to the Brooks. So, I make to head to the right, into my woods. I pull the leash but am met with dead weight.

“Come on, buddy, it’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.” I pull and pull but Hugo doesn’t budge.

I try for excitement. “Come on, Hugo! Let’s explore!” I clap my hands, trying to make my voice light.

No dice. “Come ON!” I throw down his leash and start to walk into the woods. Please don’t call my bluff.

A few steps in, I hear the crunch of leaves and feel the sturdy softness of the German shepherd against my thigh. Thank god for the loyalty of dogs. He looks at me with eyes that say, I’m doing this for you.

We make our way through the forest slowly. Through honeysuckle, over rocks and fallen trees. Hugo walks cautiously, sniffing the ground, and letting out occasional whimpers. As we move farther in, his whimpers intensify, and eventually, I am pulling him along again, fighting his mass as he tries to pull us toward the right, presumably back toward the house.

I’m walking backward as I urge Hugo on, when my foot hits air instead of forest floor. My stomach lurches and my arms wheel over my head as I feel myself propelling back. My hand is still wrapped around the leash and Hugo, the saint that he is, jumps backward, and pulls me forward. I land hard on my knees. It stings but surely he’s saved me from worse. I’m five months pregnant; I can’t be falling on my back. I’m about to sing praises into Hugo’s face, when I realize he’s looking past me and trembling, the whimpers so intense they are hardly audible. I feel the hairs on my neck stand up, as though someone is holding one of those static electricity balls, a Van de Graaff generator, against my back.

I turn around and see that we are at the old foundation.

I’m distracted and my hand loosens its hold on the leash. Hugo takes off in the direction of the main property. Shit. I’m about to follow him, when I feel the forest breathe. I feel the branches of all the trees around me, reaching toward me, and suddenly, I cannot move. My feet are rooted to the earth. A slight wind moves through the woods and slowly plucks autumn leaves one by one from the branches that stretch and contract. But they don’t fall to the floor. They float toward me, landing at my feet. For a moment, it’s beautiful. But then they fall faster, swirl toward me on a storm wind. The leaves turn brown and brittle on their journey. I lift my hands to block my face, but the leaves pummel my hands, slicing my skin, their edges like a thousand tiny razors. Blood pours down my hands and over my arms, and I can feel rage, clear as day. If I could, I’d hurl myself into the foundation, just to make it stop. But I can’t move.

Hugo barks in the distance and the spell is broken. The wind stops. The leaves sit suspended in the air before fluttering to the forest floor. A quaking sob erupts from my chest and I stand, staring at my arms, watching as the blood retracts into my skin and the gashes disappear. What. The. Fuck??

Hugo barks again, and I take off, crashing through the trees toward Wildwood. When I come to the edge of the meadow, I see the German shepherd running through the orchard. My heart, which feels so heavy, like a knot of iron, lifts a little at the sight of him. Oh my god, Hugo. I bite my lip and race toward him.

But as I approach the orchard, I stop short, my nose suddenly assaulted with a sickeningly sweet smell. The trees’ branches are heavy with apples, pears, and plums, and there’s a carpet of rotting fruit on the ground. Flies and bees swarm around the warm flesh.

I feel a wave of queasiness and the start of a throb in my skull. The hum of the flies and bees, the cloying fug of rotting apples. My senses feel like they are on overload. As much as I cannot imagine eating, I know I need food. Something to dampen the cortisol roaring through my body. I sit down, my back against a tree, and find the freshest-looking plum in the grass beside me. I force myself to eat, feeling as though I’m gagging it down. As I chew, I try and telepath with Hugo. You felt it, too, right, boy? Tell me what you saw. But he’s forgotten, in the goldfish way that dogs forget. He’s galloping around the orchard, not a care in the world, while I sit stewing in a sea of decaying fruit.

Chapter 33

Tonight is Madeline’s big harvest festival. I’ve seen delivery vehicles going up and down Cold Brook Drive the past two days. Caterers, farms, breweries, distilleries. A paper invitation had arrived a few weeks ago. It looks professionally designed and includes a pen-and-ink rendering of John and Madeline’s home, accented with cornucopias, pumpkins, and autumn leaves. Their place is the main venue, though outdoor festivities will span all three properties.