Page 12 of Salem’s Rise

So why doesn’t anyone here seem to care?

September 3 (58 Days Until Halloween)

The rest of the week passes the way the first day did.

Dead ends.

Each morning, I settle into the same routine. I wake before sunrise, run a few miles or spend an hour in the gym, shower, drag myself to lectures, and use every spare minute in between trying to learn something—anything—about Josh.

But every conversation I have on campus seems to end the same way. Students either don’t remember my brother, insist they barely knew him, or grow strangely uncomfortable the moment I mention his name. Other than Silas and his friends, no one else is openly hostile, but no one is particularly helpful either. It doesn’t take long to realize no one at SFU is going to give me answers. If I want to find my brother, I’m going to have to look elsewhere.

I have a notebook filled with names, crossed-out theories, and exactly zero answers. The most promising lead I keep circling back to is the same one I’ve had since the beginning: the Ashcroft Library.

Josh called me from there on Halloween morning. I’d been standing in the parking lot outside the gym where I worked, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I listened to him sound more anxious and paranoid than I’d ever heard. He kept stopping mid-sentence and lowering his voice, as though afraid someone nearby might overhear. He told me he thought he’d found something huge, that something was seriously wrong there. I’d laughed and teased him that it was Salem’s Fall—everything was a little off there.

He hadn’t laughed back.

That night, he’d sent me that text and then disappeared. Now, nearly a year later, I can’t stop wondering what he’d found that day in the library.

On Friday, my last class ends around 7 p.m. Instead of following the steady stream of students heading to Winthrop Commons for dinner or whatever plans Friday nights at an elite university involve, I cut across the older side of campus toward the Ashcroft Library.

After about a ten-minute walk, the last traces of daylight have slipped behind the hills. One by one, iron lampposts flicker to life, casting pale pools of light across the empty paths while the spaces between them seem to grow even darker. Gravel crunches beneath my boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.

Finally, the Ashcroft Library comes into view. It sits apart from the newer academic buildings, perched on a gentle rise overlooking the oldest section of the university. Built from dark gray stone with soaring stained-glass windows and ivy climbing its walls, it looks less like a library than an old cathedral someone forgot to fill with pews. The university’s website claims it was built on the foundations of one of the original colonial buildings that survived the witch trials, though it’s been restored and expanded over the centuries.

As I approach the entrance, movement at the edge of the path catches my eye. A large black cat emerges from the shadows and pads into the glow of the lamp lights. He stops in the middle of the walkway and sits, calmly blocking my path, dark coat gleaming as he watches me with unnervingly steady, bright yellow eyes.

Every kid in New England grows up hearing stories about black cats. Witches’ familiars. Harbingers of misfortune. Guides for the dead. I never put much stock in any of it. I’ve always loved animals, cats especially. When I was little, I’d wanted a pet more than anything, but pets cost money, and most months, we struggled just to keep food on the table.

The cat looks healthy, well-fed and meticulously groomed. I wonder where he came from. The dorm life pamphlet said animals were allowed in some residential halls and faculty housing, but those are on the other side of campus.

“Well, hello there,” I say with a smile. “Aren’t you a handsome fellow? Are you lost, boy?”

I crouch and hold out my hand and the cat saunters over without the slightest hesitation. The moment my fingers brush behind his ears, a loud purr rumbles from somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Ahh, so that’s your game. You’re just on the hunt for pets, is that it?”

He presses his head against my hand again, demanding more attention. I run my fingers along his collar, searching for a tag but finding nothing. I glance around, but the walkway is empty, no potential owner in sight. It doesn’t feel right leaving him out here alone. Maybe the librarians—or campus security—will recognize him?

“Well,” I say, scratching beneath his chin, “why don’t you come inside with me? Maybe we can figure out who you belong to.”

I slide my hands beneath him and try to lift him into my arms. He tolerates it for all of two seconds before twisting free with surprising agility. Landing lightly on all fours, he trots several feet away, then stops and glances back at me as if expecting me to follow.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?” I laugh softly.

He lets out a sharp, impatient meow and darts several yards farther down the path, away from the library and toward the brighter, newer side of campus. His tail swishes lazily while his golden eyes never leave mine, an unsettling intelligence behind them as he waits. For one ridiculous moment, it feels less like I’m watching a cat… and more like I’m being herded somewhere.

“Sorry, fella. I appreciate the invitation,” I tell him, “but I’ve already got plans.”

Another impatient meow.

“I know. I’m very rude,” I say and turn back toward the library. If he won’t let me hold him and bring him inside, there’s not much I can do. Besides, he seems fine. I bet he has a great home here, probably with one of the professors, in accommodations far nicer than mine.

The cat cries out once more. It almost sounds like he’s frustrated with me for not listening to him, like he’s trying to warn me away from the library.

But no—that’s weird.

Cats don’t do that, right?