Page 47 of Wildwood

“Why did Ezra hate them though?”

“I don’t suppose the historical society told you about the old lore that says once upon a time there was a company called Bishop Brook Wool?”

It takes me a moment to process what she’s saying.

“You mean they were in business together?”

“That’s how the story goes. The Brooks produced the wool, the Bishops processed it at their mill.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, given Cold Brook Wool and Cashmere”—Alice rolls her eyes—“what do you think happened?”

“The Brooks kicked the Bishops out?”

Alice shrugs. “That’s how the legend goes.”

“But . . . but . . . “ I look around helplessly, trying to keep up with the conversation. “Why would they want Wildwood now? They have so much already.”

Up until now, Alice has looked almost amused by the conversation, giddy to be the one to break the rose-colored glasses I’ve been wearing. But now her face darkens, and she sounds almost pensive.

“They always want more, don’t they? You’d think they’d be happy with what they have. Instead, they always want more.”

The information feels like a lot to take in. I rub at my temples.

“Are you okay? You look white as a ghost.”

“It’s fine. It’s just these migraines. I’m pregnant so I can’t just take ibuprofen.”

Alice grunts, gets up, and walks out of the room. I take a few more drinks of water, my mind reeling.

“Here.” She drops a plastic baggie in front of me. Inside is something that looks like a dried, brown turd.

“It’s a Chaga mushroom. I harvested it myself. It’s great for pain. Boil it in water and drink the tea. You can boil the same mushroom like fifty times.”

I can’t imagine drinking that thing, but I don’t want to be rude. “Thank you, that’s really kind of you. I should be going. Thank you for talking to me, and it is nice to meet you . . . er . . . again.” I wonder if I should apologize for how my cousins and I behaved as children but decide against it. Maybe it’s a cop-out, but I think Alice is the type of person who would rather not acknowledge the past.

We walk slowly to the front door. I should really get home and lie down, but there’s one last question I need to ask.

“Sorry, one more thing, I know this might also sound crazy, but given you seem to know the area lore, have you ever heard any stories about a witch trial here?”

I expect her to laugh. But she doesn’t. Instead, she holds the door open for me, a clear indication that our time together is over. But then, as I’m walking down the front steps, Alice calls out to me. “The only witch around here is that bitch on the hill.” With that she shuts the door and leaves me standing in her driveway.

As I walk home, I replay the conversation in my head, and I realize that Alice never answered my first question. The question on whether Newfield could have been founded earlier than 1771. Interestingly, she hardly seemed surprised by the question at all.

Chapter 38

I’m slowly walking around the first floor of the house, one arm wrapped around my midsection, my other hand cupped over my mouth as I think. I can’t get the visit with Alice out of my head. Learning that the Brook family tried to buy Wildwood has shaken me, even more than the knowledge that the Brooks may have screwed over my family centuries ago. I didn’t realize how attached I’d become to my family’s home until learning someone had tried to snatch it away, and now I feel a possessiveness over Wildwood. I’ve made it to the conservatory and pause a moment, taking in the creeping, dying plants around me. I will make this space beautiful again.

I sit down at the wrought iron table and close my eyes. I think back, as I have been doing constantly, to all my interactions with Madeline. She has been so welcoming, going out of her way to befriend me, to make me feel like family. But now it feels like it was a ruse. It’s not that trying to buy Wildwood in and of itself is questionable. But it’s one more thing she’s hidden from me. And if I am to believe Alice, that my uncle hated the Brooks, well that makes Madeline’s lie by omission even more questionable. The thought that has been slowly crystallizing in my brain forces itself to the forefront. I’ve been dancing around it, really, for days now. I go through a train of logic. I know I’m being haunted by someone who died here long ago. Someone who is angry. I also believe that the Brooks are hiding something from me. I’ve felt this from my conversations with Madeline, and Alice basically confirmed that Madeline has not been forthright with me.

Here’s where it gets challenging. The implications of all those pieces if they are indeed connected. The theories that I inevitably come to. Newfield Village is a tiny place. There must have been just a handful of families here at the beginning. The ghost has been sharing her story with me. She trusts me. She’s here, in Wildwood, in my house. It seems only logical to think she is my ancestor. And, while it seems deranged to even think this, if the Brooks are hiding something, is it that they played a role in her death? If she was accused of witchcraft, was it the Brooks who first accused her?

I don’t want to think these thoughts. They complicate everything, leave me unable to trust my neighbors, essentially the only people I know here. Where does that leave me? Alone, says the voice in my head. Totally alone.

* * *

The house shifts and I feel it in my body, even in the depths of sleep. I jolt awake, with the sensation of falling. Hugo must have been sleeping deeply, as he wakes a few moments after me, the shadow of his ears pricking up. He must sense something too.