Page 60 of Wildwood

Suddenly, the temperature around me drops, like a cloud of cold, heavy air has settled in the basement. It seems to move around me, lacing itself around my neck, around my wrists and wherever bare skin is exposed. I feel my breath beginning to quicken, becoming shallow. The light flickers above me. I feel light-headed, and squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself that the ghost means me no harm. I want to run upstairs but can’t bring myself to move.

After what feels like an eternity, the flickering stops, and the chill seems to release. It’s like the room has thawed and I’m no longer frozen in place. I shove the can back on the shelf, my hands trembling. Then I run back up the stairs to the familiar space of the parlor. Without thinking I march to the mudroom and grab the hammer off the shelf. I pound down the nail, which I know has risen without needing to see it. And then I pound all the nails I see. It gives me something to do. And it gives me a stupid sense of protection, even though I don’t think the woman means me harm and even though I know a hammer can’t hurt a ghost. The thoughts together are so absurd I start to laugh. And soon I am laughing and crying and hammering.

Chapter 51

I’ve put down the hammer, but I’m still a wreck. My eyes are puffy from crying, and I feel mildly crazed. When I walk through the house, I keep expecting some part of it to come alive. The creaks sound louder. Doors seem to open, though when I walk over to close them, there’s no obvious draft. No loose latch. Several times, I think I hear phantom footsteps in the rooms next to me.

I go up to take a second shower, to try and warm away this chilling feeling. In The Forest of the Dead, the trees seem to tremble in my periphery, as though readying to break off from the painted walls, though when I look at them straight on, they retract back to their inanimate state. I consider waking Topher but what’s the point. He wouldn’t see what I see.

I stand in the shower for a long while, letting scalding hot water run down my body and rubbing my skin raw with a washcloth. Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. I lean my head against the shower wall.

Then, I hear my name, whispered in the steam. Elinor.

“Topher?” I pull back the curtain, hoping to see my husband.

The bathroom is empty, and the door is closed. Elinor. The whisper feels as though it’s on my neck.

I gasp and tumble out of the shower. The bathroom is full of thick, heavy steam, as blinding as fog. Elinor. I whip around. The bathroom floor dissolves right in front of me, it falls away like sand in an hourglass. I hear a loud thud, one that seems to shake the roof, and I suddenly realize it’s the sound of something heavy falling. I jerk my eyes up. A woman with dark curling hair hangs from the shower curtain rod, which has been replaced by a tree branch. Her body rotates slightly. The noose creaks.

I spin to run, slamming into the bathroom door. I pull and pull on the knob, but it doesn’t open. Please open, please open, please open. It’s a prayer and a beg and a cry all at once. I look over my shoulder. I expect to see her hanging, my own witch, my damned ghost, my Lydia. But she’s gone. The shower drips. A shampoo bottle rolls on the floor. The steam begins to dissipate. The doorknob finally gives, and I run out. Topher sleeps in the bedroom, an unmoving pile of blankets.

I’m soaking wet, but I pull on leggings and a large sweatshirt, shivering. I can’t be bothered with a bra and underwear. I throw on socks and hurry down the stairs, the balls of my feet pounding into the wood stairs. In the mudroom, I grab a pair of boots, and shove my feet into them.

It’s only once I’m outside that I breathe. I don’t know when I last took a breath. Before I heard my name whispered in the shower? I march around to the back of the house and into the toolshed. I grab an old metal shovel, the kind with a pointed spade. Then I take off toward the woods, and stumble and trip my way through, using the shovel for support when necessary. I know where I have to go. She was telling me that I can’t give up. I’m not allowed to. No matter how unhinged I might feel, she’s not going to let me stop, until I’ve done my part.

I come upon the gravestones, which rise in the fog like the hanged woman emerged in the steam. A dark figure cut against the suffocating gray, white. Lavinia Brown, Hester Proctor, Amias Smith. The one too worn to read. My old friends. I stand next to the fallen stone, the one being consumed by the earth. It’s time to see you, I think.

I shove the edge of the shovel underneath the side of the gravestone. It takes a few tries to actually get it in there. I press down for leverage. At first, nothing gives. I rest, and then push again. I can smell moss and rotting leaves around me. I see and hear a few weeds and roots begin to tear. I keep pushing. I feel sweat start to bead at my hairline and the small of my back. Help me, I think. Come on and fucking help me.

Suddenly, the grass and bramble that has grown around the stone, come alive, releasing the stone and then retracting into the earth. I gasp and stagger back. There’s a sudden fluttering by my head and I can feel the beating of wings near my ear. When I whip my head to face the black bird, it vanishes, though its caws echo through the trees.

“Lydia,” I breathe.

I grip the shovel once more and press down to lift the stone. It moves easily this time. Once it’s lifted, I drop the shovel and grip the underside with my fingers. The stone feels cold and dirty. I lift it up and over, letting it fall to the forest floor, buried side up.

Then I kneel down and wipe away the earth as best I can, scratching at the engraving with my nails. Finally, I sit back on my heels and read what’s been revealed.

ISAAC GARFIELD

APRIL 7, 1690–NOVEMBER 12, 1753

1753.

1753.

I knew it. There was a settlement here before 1771.

Chapter 52

I’m thinking of my baby, picturing her floating in darkness, in the safety of her warm cocoon. But then my mind slips and the darkness that the baby is floating in becomes the night sky and the baby becomes me and suddenly I’m running through the woods again, branches whipping my face.

I sigh and open my eyes. Even when I try and focus on my baby, I cannot. I’m a woman possessed.

From the warmth of my bed, I can see how gray the sky is outside and know, intuitively, that it will be very cold today. I want very much to stay in bed in my flannel pajamas, Hugo by my side, scrolling the far reaches of the internet for information on early Vermont settlements. But I don’t think the answers lie in the history books. I think the answers lie in this house.

Downstairs, I make a pot of coffee, waiting impatiently as it percolates. I stare, watching the dark liquid slowly fill the pot, mindlessly eating a loaf of pumpkin bread I have no memory of buying. I need to figure this out.

When I finally have a mug of coffee, I slowly walk back and forth through the kitchen, spreading imaginary clues on the floor in front of me. I now know there was an earlier settlement. That makes the likelihood of a witch trial even greater. I know a woman died here, and I now know she was hanged. Then there are the pieces that I don’t know. I think of the feeling of anger at the end of the nightmares. The feeling of anger that explodes like a storm. If she was accused and executed for witchcraft, of course that would cause rage like no other. But I can’t help but feel that there is something more. Witch hysteria happened. People were superstitious and living in frightening times. They accused their neighbors of terrible things. Is every executed witch in Salem still haunting those cobblestone streets? Salem would probably like you to think so, great for tourism. But I can’t help but feel that something more happened here. Something that has kept her haunting Wildwood all these years. And, finally, almost most perplexingly, what was the Brooks’ role in all this?