Page 39 of The Witch

There’s an amused look in Henry’s eyes. “Why are you so interested in this?”

“She’s my ancestor. Is it so weird that I want to know more about her?”

“Caroline Eldridge isn’t your ancestor. Archibald and Molly Eldridge are your ancestors. Caroline never had children and was married only briefly to Archibald. She was actually his second wife, although certainly the most interesting.”

“But she lived in my house.” And there’s a chance she might be walking the halls at night. “I’m curious.”

“Well, luckily for you,” he says, “I did my master’s thesis on witchcraft in colonial New England.” He folds his arms across his chest. “If I tell you about Caroline, do you promise me that you’re going to sit down with your grandmother and great-aunt and seriously consider the museum’s offer?”

“I promise.”

“You swear?”

“Absolutely.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t entirely believe it, but he still continues talking. He’s an expert on the subject and clearly enjoys discussing it. “So Caroline was one of only two people executed in Woodhaven for witchcraft. Although the town was certainly not immune to the mass hysteria that gripped Salem, it seems like that specific accusation was a result of a very personal vendetta.”

“Personal vendetta?”

“Okay, here’s some juicy gossip.” Henry grins at me. “Your ancestor Molly Eldridge née Howe was originally a servant in the Eldridge house. She was the one who made the accusation against Caroline, and her testimony was a key part of the conviction. And after Caroline was executed, she married Archie Eldridge.”

I had no idea she was so devious. “Wow,” I breathe. “I wonder if that’s why they put in the witches’ stairs.”

“Witches’ stairs?”

“You know. The irregular stairs leading to the attic.” When he looks confused, I clarify: “They were built because supposedly witches can’t climb those kinds of stairs.”

Henry chuckles. “That’s a myth. Alternating-tread stairs were built because they take up less space in a narrow hallway. It had nothing to do with witches.”

Is that so? I suppose it could be. He looks maddeningly sure of himself, and I suppose he’s the one with the graduate degree on the subject. “Fine. So what else do you know about Caroline?”

“Well,” he says, “I know that Caroline Eldridge was burned at the stake.”

I was already well aware of this chilling piece of history. “Right…”

“And I also know that was not a typical execution method for witches in colonial New England,” he says. “Almost without exception, all of them were hanged. There was a gallows right in the center of town.” He pauses meaningfully as he picks up a fry. “So why did they burn her to death? Burning at the stake was more of a religious-type execution, much more common in Europe. It’s just…strange.”

“God,” I say. “No wonder she’s pissed off.”

I didn’t mean to say that, and Henry pauses in the middle of chewing on his fry. “Excuse me?”

I study my dinner companion’s face. There is an openness there that makes me feel like I can talk to him. Also, he’s more than a little bit eccentric himself—and that’s putting it mildly. Maybe if I tell him what’s going on in the house, he’ll believe it. Maybe he’s in the 41 percent.

“I think,” I say slowly, “that the ghost of Caroline Eldridge might be lingering at Pemberton.”

Henry chuckles like I’ve made a particularly funny joke. Part of me wants to play along and pretend like I was joking. Do I actually believe that Caroline is haunting Pemberton? I don’t know. That’s the problem.

“I’m serious,” I finally say.

“What?”

“I said, I’m serious.” I grit my teeth. “I’ve seen some really creepy things in that house during my life, and even more so in the last few days. My grandmother and Ethel have seen the same.”

“It’s an old house,” he points out. “It’s going to creak and moan and do weird things from time to time. There are no ghosts in that house, believe me.”

“How do you know?”

“Uh, because ghosts don’t exist?”