Page 19 of Salem’s Rise

I kiss her cool cheek and head into the kitchen. The routine comes back as naturally as breathing. I empty the dishwasher, wipe down counters, reset the temperamental ice maker that freezes over every few weeks, and glance through the refrigerator to make sure she hasn’t forgotten to eat. I place another food delivery order for her like I do every Monday. Better she have too much food than too little.

The mail sits neatly stacked beside the microwave. Our neighbor agreed to check the mailbox every few days and put any mail inside the house for me, just in case Mom forgot. More of a housekeeping issue than a necessity since everything important is paid online. Josh set up our autopay accounts long ago. All I had to do was make sure things kept running.

That was the story of our little family.

Josh set things up. I made sure they stayed working. And Mom just existed alongside us. It wasn’t a bad childhood. It was just… heavy.

Underneath any good memory sat the same quiet truth. We were only one emergency away from losing everything. When the electricity stayed on, it was because Josh picked up another weekend shift. When I needed books for school, Josh found another construction job. We never knew what the next day would hold and lived paycheck to paycheck.

I’d promised myself I’d never live that life once I was old enough to change things. That one day I’d have my own career, my own money, my own future.

I wanted to become an accountant. I knew it sounded boring to most people, but stability and predictability were what I craved. I’d always been good with numbers, probably because they made sense in a way the rest of the world rarely did. There was always a right answer if you knew how to find it. Patterns could be trusted. You could build a life on things that didn’t change.

Hours later, I find myself standing outside Josh’s bedroom. His bed is still unmade from the last time he came home, the weekend before Halloween. Dog-eared books on medieval history, unsolved disappearances, and ancient civilizations are stacked haphazardly beside his desk, competing for space with programming manuals, notebooks filled with puzzle ideas, and the hulking custom PC he built himself in high school.

The last time he was home replays in my mind.

I’d woken sometime after midnight and noticed light spilling beneath his bedroom door. When I’d peeked inside, he’d been at the desk, typing away furiously at his computer and looking nervous every time his phone buzzed with a new text. He’d seemed anxious—more than usual—but excited. At the time, I’d teased him for acting so weird, but he’d laughed it off.

Now I wonder what—or who—had him so strung out.

The morning he left, Josh hugged Mom goodbye before pulling me into one of his bone-crushing embraces. He told me he loved me, started to say something else, then stopped himself with a smile and told me to forget it. I never asked what he’d been about to say. It’s a decision I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

A sudden thought strikes me, and I sit at his desk and power on his computer. When the login screen appears, on a hunch, I type the nickname he’d given me when we were kids. We used to go around pretending to solve neighborhood mysteries. Josh was “Sherlock,” and I was “Watson.”

The computer unlocks immediately.

I laugh softly. Figures. He never changed the password.

Most of the folders on his desktop seem ordinary, except one labeled Salem’s Fall. Inside are pages of research on the town’s witch trials, scanned newspaper clippings about a string of unsolved occult murders from over two decades ago, and cryptic notes that make little sense to me. Frustrated, I close the folder and open his email program instead.

Nothing in his inbox stands out at first glance—just the usual emails about classes, professors, and campus life. Then I check the Drafts folder and find a single unsent message addressed to me. It was last edited the day before Halloween.

My breath catches as I open it.

If you’re reading this, something went wrong for me in Salem’s Fall. No matter what they tell you, don’t believe them. Don’t stop looking for me. I thought I was one of them, but now I’m not sure.

Find them, and you’ll find me. Find the Veil, Watson. If anyone can do it, it’s you.

I stare at the words until they blur. This is my first concrete clue that Josh may still be alive somewhere. He knew something was going to happen to him, and he asked me to find him if it did.

My breathing turns ragged as I gaze out the bedroom window toward the backyard where Josh and I spent entire summers building forts that always collapsed. Every time the walls fell, Josh insisted we’d get it right on the next try.

That was Josh. No matter how hard things got, he was always there, holding everything together. Holding me together. He never gave up on me or this family. Now he’s the one asking for help.

I can’t give up on him.

One way or another, I’m bringing my brother home.

By the time I return to Salem’s Fall late Monday night, Residential Life has already moved my belongings into Wintermere Hall.

Apparently, finding out you’ve been living with a corpse hidden behind your dorm room walls qualifies you for an upgrade.

Wintermere Hall is the most expensive residential hall on campus, all dark wood, soaring windows, and private bathrooms. Some of the wealthiest, most important students even get their own butler. It’s also in the best location, just steps from the main campus buildings.

Naturally, the Heirs live here.

I discovered that unfortunate coincidence when I was unpacking my truck—for the third time—and moving my bags inside. I nearly collided with Silas in the elevator. He smelled like an expensive cologne ad for hot men with shitty personalities. Van and Rowan had been with him, all of them dressed in their black and gold lacrosse practice gear. All three looked at me, saying nothing, Silas’s gaze locked on the bandage around my arm for one brief, unreadable second, before they all stepped off the elevator and walked away. They didn’t even bother to hold the door open for me.