Page 64 of Within These County Lines

“What?” I glance down at his grip. My phone is an inch from his face. His breathing suddenly goes uneven.

He scratches his neck before flipping the screen toward me. “I think I know why Louise disappeared.”

I scan a list of internet search results he pulled up for Abigail Mattson.

Abigail Mattson, a Puritan minister’s daughter, was one of two Pennsylvania women tried for witchcraft in 1683, nine years before the Salem Witch Trials. The other, Louise Gregor, was the daughter of a well-known Quaker leader. Accusations included bewitching, cursing, and killing livestock and plants, and appearing to townspeople in spectral form. Both were exiled from local communities.

My body stiffens. A bolt of lightning escapes from the clouds and illuminates Xander’s horrified face. Rain hits the window in heavy, tapping bursts like fingers drumming to be let inside.

A five-pointed star enclosed within a circle is all over the internet image results. “What’s this picture?” I ask, pointing to the screen with a shaky finger.

“It’s a pentacle,” Xander answers. “It says it’s a popular symbol among witches used in magical evocation.”

“So we were right. We’re not dead but . . . cursed.”

He drops my phone, then swallows. “Do you think we could get those stuffed animals from the closet?” His lips tremble. “I need to squeeze something.”

I nod, unable to blink.

He tosses me Pikachu. I hand him Simba. Without asking, he slides under my comforter. I set the laptop aside, ending our investigation for the night, and slip under the covers beside him. The screen locks, plunging the room into blackness.

In any other moment like this, I’d be reaching for my earbuds to leave my house and escape into someone else’s story. But I’ve lost track of them like a loose balloon at the park. And right now, I don’t care to find them. Not when Xander is inches away. His soft breaths are like comforting baby coos.

More lightning flashes, just enough for me to see his wide eyes staring back at me.

Neither of us says anything.

Neither of us looks away.

29

Whitley and I sit at the dinette booth in what used to be her grandma’s kitchen.

Now, technically, it’s just Whitley’s kitchen. But she won’t call it that, too disrespectful toward the woman who raised her when no one else would. Since her grandma passed in the spring, Whitley’s been riding out her remaining time in Penango here, refusing to move or even discuss it.

With witches and curses tied to Xander’s disappearance, I need another force of good on my team. And recruiting Whitley is like adding ten people instead of one. She can literally wield an axe.

If there’s anyone who knows how to push through a bad situation, it’s her.

The navy fabric covering the booth cushions is torn in multiple places, where fluffy, white stuffing spills out through the ripped seems like marshmallows oozing from an overstuffed s’more. A deer’s head is mounted on the wall behind her, killed by her grandfather decades ago, its antlers thick with dust and cobwebs.

“How is Bennie?” I ask, picking at the skin around my thumbs.

Whitley pushes her hair back and calls out, “Bennie!” She makes a series of kissing noises.

A moment later, Bennie limps in from the hallway, his head swallowed by a giant, white plastic cone that makes him look like a space dog.

“Good . . . Well, actually . . . not so good,” she admits. “He kept trying to eat the bandages on his legs. I had to get this cone from the store.” She knocks on it with her fist. “And I’ve been pulling him around in a wagon for our walks to keep the weight off his back legs. I think he likes it though. He’s always been a little lazy.”

“Aw, Bennie,” I say, frowning. “He’s bruised but not broken.”

“Nothing can break Bennie. Isn’t that right, Bennie?” She pats his head. “Say hello to Uncle Stetson.”

“Hi, Bennie.”

He whimpers.

“There it is.” Whitley grins. “Good boy, Bennie.”