Page 83 of Wildwood

“These are lies. They are after our land. They LIE.” My head swung wildly from side to side. Our neighbors had all gathered outside, surrounding us. Even though I knew better, I held out hope that they’d come to their senses. I had been nursemaid to Abigail’s daughter, when Abigail couldn’t produce milk. James had helped to raise the Barretts’ barn last season. They wouldn’t turn on us. I implored them all.

“Please! Please! You know us. You know me.”

“I saw her transform into a black bird, and she flew to David Clark’s house in the night. She perched outside his window until he came outside. I saw them, the two of them, lying together in the field. She bewitched him.” Bishop looked me in the eye when he said this. Two hundred and fifty years have passed, and I still cannot believe that.

Then they brought out David Clark, who lived across the street from us. He was a good man. He would never be unfaithful to his wife, Rachel. Bewitched or not. He was in shackles too.

“Please! We did not do this,” I implored again.

But the preacher had already injected them with fear. He was fire and brimstone. He preyed on our vulnerabilities. He quoted Jonathan Edwards.

I can still see him. His pale skin, his sunken eyes, the slight hunch of his back. He’d slithered in front of them all, bible in hand.

“The bow of God’s wrath is bent, and the arrow made ready on the string, and justice bends the arrow at your heart, and strains the bow, and it is nothing but the mere pleasure of God, and that of an angry God, without any promise or obligation at all, that keeps the arrow one moment from being made drunk with your blood.”

And he told them that the only way to save the soul, to keep the wrath of God at bay, was to find the sinners and punish them vengefully.

Then, one by one, our neighbors and our friends, found us guilty. David was unfaithful. An adulterer. And me? I was a witch.

Chapter 73

I awake gasping, back in The Forest of the Dead. I look around me, wildly, searching for Lydia. There was more to her story. I woke too soon. It is still nighttime. The moon casts ephemeral light on the bedroom floor. In my periphery, I see painted trees start to tremble, gnarled limbs stretching and curling, branches sharpening to talons. Before, this would have made me run. But I don’t.

Instead, I squinch my eyes shut, pleading with Lydia to come back. But I fall back into a fitful, dreamless sleep. I awake, throughout the night, my nerves on fire. I hear the creak of wood and open my eyes to see branches reaching out to me, creeping their way across the comforter, ready to wrap themselves around me. I see the raccoon move, bare his teeth at me. I see the birds take flight.

When the morning light begins to inch across the floor, I sit up, gutted. Lydia has abandoned me, at least for now.

The painted trees, for now, have stopped moving. Finally, I get up and walk slowly to the window. The rain has turned to snow, and it has already created a blanket of white. I feel like I am in a snow globe.

I walk downstairs and eat a bowl of oatmeal, not really tasting it. I replay the dream, over and over. Lydia Abington was tried as a witch. The Brooks and the Bishops plotted against her. My family plotted against her. But I can’t shake the feeling that there is more. Some part of the story I don’t yet understand.

My phone pings, and I see a text from Mia.

How’s it looking?

Again, I have lucked out with an excuse.

Worse. It’s turned to a blizzard. Not safe to drive, esp alone. Let’s try tomorrow.

I can see in my messages that texts from Topher have come through as well. He’s in California, looking for an update. I’ll text him once and then I’ll have to ignore him. It will be too much of a distraction.

Bad weather. Had to turn around yesterday. Now snow. Will go tomorrow. I’m fine!

A moment later, my cell rings. I’m surprised the signal is strong enough. It must be Topher, calling to scold me for not making it to Mia’s.

I pick it up to silence it, but see that it’s not Topher, but another number from Vermont. Normally, I wouldn’t answer it. But today isn’t a normal day.

“Hello?”

“Is this Elinor Leighton?” It’s an older man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Great, so glad I reached you. This is Hank Chester. Deb told me you wanted to talk to me. I’ve called a few times before but never got through.”

For a moment, I have no idea who either Hank Chester or Deb are. My mental capacity is barely at twenty percent. But then the names click. Deb, the professor I met in Salem. Hank Chester, the journalist and expert in the Vermont paranormal.

“Hi,” I nearly shout. “Thank you, yes, I’ve been dying to talk to you.”