Page 53 of Wildwood

“You and me both. How are the kids?”

“Slowly pecking me to death like chickens.” But she laughs and shows me a few photos on her phone. Olivia and Sebastian are getting so big. My heart aches a bit for not seeing them more.

“So, who is this witch doctor we are seeing?”

“Dr. Deborah Walker. She’s one of the experts on the Salem witch trials and the history of witch accusations in general.”

We are meeting Deb at the hotel tavern. We enter the lobby first, an elegant room with a 1920s vibe. The chairs are shades of blue and gold, a baby grand piano stands in the corner, and classical music floats through the air.

The tavern, on the other hand, feels like an old gentleman’s club. The walls are woodpaneled and the chairs are black leather with brass buttons along the edge. Attentive waiters greet us at the door, and we are about to ask for a table when a woman with curly gray hair and glasses waves us over. She’s wearing a long skirt and a long, beaded necklace, exactly as I imagined a former history professor to look.

As I sit, I look around. There’s only one other table occupied, aside from ours. At it sits an older man with a bowler hat and a monocle, and a younger guy in a T-shirt and jeans. I wonder, momentarily, what their relationship is. Father and son? A couple? Unlikely friends?

“So, tell me, what makes you think there was a witchcraft trial in Newfield?” Deb asks, once we’ve made small talk and ordered drinks and appetizers. Wine for Deb and Mia. A Shirley Temple for me.

I clear my throat. “I almost don’t know where to begin. So, as I mentioned in my email, I live in Newfield Village, which was apparently settled in 1771. There’s a cemetery by the church, with graves going back to then, and it’s filled with headstones for my family, the Bishops, and the Brooks, who live across the street.”

Deb nods, squinting at me. “The Brooks of the wool empire, right?”

“That’s them.” I smile. “Anyway, I found another cemetery on my property, deep in the woods. There are graves there that look older than the ones in the cemetery, though the dates all seem to be worn off. Then there’s also this set of four unmarked graves, in the same area but set farther back. What’s weird is that I mentioned this to a few people including the women at the historical society, but no one seems to know about the graves. Or care.” I pause to sip my drink.

“In addition to that, there’s actually local lore about a witch in the woods behind my house. She even has her own rhyme.”

Deb looks intrigued. “Really? Please share.”

I take a deep breath, feeling vaguely foolish, and do my best to recite it.

“She’ll lead you to the wild wood;

She wears a black cloak and a black hood;

You are safe with me, the witch she said;

But don’t go with her, or you’ll be dead.”

When I finish, I pause, a strange feeling in my belly. Something akin to déjà vu. But it passes before I can process what it could mean.

“Ooohh,” says Mia, eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “I have chills!”

“Me too,” says Deb, smiling. “Good stuff.”

“In addition to that, I’ve been having these recurring nightmares. In one, I’m running through the woods at night, and I come to some place where there’s been a fire. The other one, though, is even more clear. I’m in the woods, staring at this dark figure. I call him the serpent. And then I feel a noose tightening around my neck and the ground disappearing under my feet. I know it sounds crazy, but I think a woman was hung for witchcraft at Wildwood and she’s trying to communicate with me.”

I’m considering whether or not to say more, and Deb and Mia are looking at me expectantly. Their expressions tell me that based on the information I’ve given, it doesn’t sound compelling. Of course, it doesn’t. I’ve offered them no solid evidence or facts. I could tell them about the person in the cloak who I saw in the meadow, but I don’t want to overly worry Mia. I could tell them about the Ouija board. Lydia. The whisper of the witch. But somehow that feels like a bridge too far, one that might also make me sound more paranoid and less credible. Everyone has dreams. And it’s not a huge leap that someone might think their dreams are telling them something. But a grown woman believing that she communed with a witch via a Ouija board?

“Well?” I say helplessly. “Isn’t it strange? The lore of the witch, the unmarked graves, the lack of interest in understanding why those graves are there?”

Mia takes a careful sip and leans forward. “But why do you think people aren’t interested?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I think the Brooks are somehow involved as well.” I keep trying to bury this thought. I don’t want it to be true. It would be so much easier if it wasn’t.

Deb clears her throat and smiles. “Well, I have to say, it’s certainly an interesting story you’ve just told. But honestly, I think the odds of this being evidence of an unknown witch trial are slim. Vermont only had one known witch trial. Sure, you could argue there were possibly more, given evidence and records of witch trials are conveniently hard to come by, but if there are four unmarked graves you are trying to account for, well, that would be one hell of a cover-up.”

I try to hide my disappointment and take a bite of the calamari that is growing cold on the table. “So, what do you think the unmarked graves are for?”

“I’m not sure, perhaps unbaptized babies? Life for early settlers was not easy.”

“And the woman in my dreams?”