Page 84 of Wildwood

I tell him a partial story. I tell him about the graves, the Brooks and the Bishops, the property maps. I tell him in vague terms about the nightmares. I tell him of my belief that the woman was tried as a witch. But I don’t tell him about the dream from last night. It feels too recent. I would not be able to describe it without sounding hysterical. Like a woman in the process of breaking down.

Hank listens quietly, not interrupting or asking questions. I’d wondered if he was still there except for the occasional “oh wow” or “interesting.” At the end, I ask him, point-blank, if he thinks she could have been tried as a witch.

He says he’s not sure. That without any evidence, it’s impossible to say. I’m about to cut the conversation short. After all, I know what I saw in my dream. I was hoping he could back me up, but I’ll find another way to prove this.

But then he asks, “There’s also the fact that there’re four unmarked graves, correct?”

I feel myself deflate. That’s right. “Yes . . . I suppose you are going to say that makes it less likely, right? Because four witch executions would be too many to cover up?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.” He pauses. “But there’s something else that might be relevant.”

I don’t dare breathe. “What’s that?”

Hank clears his throat. “Mind you, this has not yet been verified. Someone came to me many years back. She sent me a copy of a journal entry she’d found in her grandmother’s possession. It was kept for generations and appears to have been from the early 1800s.”

My heart is beating so fast I’m certain he can hear it through the phone.

“And?”

“It includes a pretty chilling accusation about something that happened in a small village in Vermont. One of the relatives had gone missing decades prior and the family hired essentially what was a private investigator. Bear in mind, the relative had disappeared in the 1750s, and that period came on the heels of the Great Awakening, a time when religious piety swept through the colonies.”

“I’m familiar,” I say, thinking of the Jonathan Edwards sermons, highlighted so heavily in Mathilde’s belongings.

“Well, there was a preacher, apparently, who had some pretty extreme views on how people could become good. More God-fearing. This journal entry suggests he made it to Newfield.”

And so, Hank Chester tells me a story that spreads ice through my veins. At the end, I’m nearly speechless. He tells me there’s been no other documentation on this, so to proceed with caution.

We are about to hang up when I think of one last urgent question, though I think I already know the answer.

“Who was the woman who brought this to you?”

Chapter 74

When I hang up the phone, I stare at it for a long time. I am, in these moments, the woman in my dreams. I feel the noose around my neck. I see death in front of me. I see the clearing as I come upon it. I feel my heart shatter into a million pieces. It shatters over and over and over again. The story makes sense. The story fits. It explains so much, like why Alice was found trespassing on Wildwood. Alice Clark.

I need to tell Joan. I try to text her, but my phone has finally died. I look outside. The snow is steady, but it’s not too bad, not yet, at least. The flakes are fast but small. I pull on my winter boots and Topher’s winter jacket. I don’t have one that fits over my belly. I hadn’t thought I’d need one in November. This is early for snow. A surprise blizzard.

And then I begin my journey. I trudge across the street, leaving staggering tracks in the pristine snow. It’s powdery, at least. I cross over to Cold Brook Drive and begin the ascent up to Joan’s house. This could be a very stupid decision. I’m walking into the lion’s den. The three houses stand ready to pounce. It feels like I could very well just disappear up here.

I walk slowly, knowing that I’m already being far more reckless than I should be. I can’t risk a fall. The guilt over risking my baby like this is so great that it’s almost not there, it’s too all encompassing. It feels like I’ve fallen asleep with winter pajamas in the middle of summer and even though it’s stifling, I just say to myself, I’ll take it off later. I push off and bury every thought that comes to my mind. What are you doing? You are seven months pregnant. You are being so selfish. You are betraying your child. I bury each thought because they are too much to face.

Finally, I get to Joan’s house. I raise my hand to knock, but it opens before I can do it.

“Joan—” I start.

But it’s Julian. He leans in the doorway, arms crossed on his chest. Through his sweater, I can see the solid shape of him. He’s got heavy stubble on his face. Every bit of him looks raw and rugged.

“What are you doing here, Elinor?” He sounds almost tired or bored by the question.

“I wanted to talk to Joan,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“She can’t come out right now, she’s not feeling well. I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds smug.

Snow is catching on my eyelashes, and I wipe them away, annoyed that he might think I’m crying.

“It’s important,” I say. “When will she be available?”

“I don’t know, Elinor. She’s not doing well. What do you want me to do, drag her out of bed?” I clench my hands, dig my fingernails into my palm. Everything about him is so fucking obnoxious.