Page 27 of The Witch

He gives me a grave look, the hand on my shoulder gripping me tightly. “Hitty Atkins was arrested last night for witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft!” Elias told me Hitty had gone away, but I did notice a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “How could this be?”

“They found her at the cemetery, chanting hexes. Deputy Strickland arrested her.”

I blink at him in disbelief. “Hitty goes to the cemetery every week to visit the graves of her husband and son. She was saying prayers, not hexes!”

“Nay, I heard they sounded like the words of the devil.” His voice is heavy. “Sheriff Bixby says she has consorted with the Night Reaper.”

“This is absurd! You cannot possibly believe any of this nonsense!”

He is quiet for long enough to make me realize that he truly does believe the sheriff. Or at least, there is a part of him that believes it. I do not understand how he could. Hitty aided him in his time of poor health. Would a witch cure a sick man?

And what will become of her if she is found guilty? With a sinking feeling in my chest, I think of the gallows in the center of town, with the noose that perpetually sways in the wind. It has been many years since there has been a hanging in Woodhaven.

“Let us take leave of the woods,” Archie finally says.

He escorts me back to the house, and even though I am not pleased by his accusations against Hitty, I am very glad for his company. Even if the devil is not roaming Woodhaven, there is most certainly a man with an evil heart who lives amongst us.

I believe I may have seen him the other day at the market. The more I think of it, the more convinced I am that I felt the presence of the devil when I was close to that man—Lucky felt it too.

When we get inside, I tell Archie that I promised Hiram I would bring him back some broth with sage in it. He frowns, considering this request. Finally, he says, “I will bring it to Hiram.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I prepare the broth for Judith using the boiling water from a kettle on the hearth. I am so upset and shaken by the events of the evening that my hands tremble and a splash of the boiling water scalds my forearm. The pain is instant and intense, but I shut it out. A burn is a small thing. The important thing is that Judith survives.

Archie accepts the bowl of broth. Clad in his cloak and boots, he readies himself to venture forth again, despite the toil of a long day. My husband is a noble soul. I wish I did not fail him in my wifely duties.

“I will be back soon,” Archie says. “Promise me that you will not venture back out until daylight tomorrow.”

I remember how I felt moving through the woods between our houses—the eerie feeling of an otherworldly presence. I have no desire to go back outside until the morn. “I promise.”

Archie nods, his shoulders sagging with relief. He worries so much about me. I wonder if he is right to worry.

19

PRESENT DAY

JULIA

You have no idea what she’s capable of.

Ethel’s words are ringing in my ears as I lie awake in bed again at three in the morning. Every time I shut my eyes and try to fall asleep, I hear Ethel speaking in my ear, and I jerk awake again.

Is it possible? The 59 percent of the population that does not believe in ghosts would say I’m delusional. But they haven’t experienced what I have.

After dinner, the first thing I did was try to put all the combs back how I found them. As I arranged them in place, I imagined Caroline Eldridge dragging one of those pretty combs through her silky auburn hair (somehow I imagine she had auburn hair) and admiring her reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t remember exactly how they were when I first got here, and I felt a little silly organizing combs; I lined them up on the vanity table in size order. I hope that’s good enough for Caroline.

If she even exists.

As I lie here in bed, trying to force my brain to turn off, the temperature drops in the room. Not just a few degrees, but it suddenly drops from comfortably warm to freezing.

The extra blanket is at the foot of my bed this time, so I don’t have to leave the warmth of my covers to reach it. I wrap it around myself, shivering now at the cold. It is fall in New England, and at times, that means it can get pretty nippy—not to mention that an old house like this is prone to drafts. But this sudden drop in temperature is atypical.

And then the crying starts.

I sit up straight in bed, any sleepiness I’d been feeling now out the window. The moaning last night was disturbing, but this is far worse. It’s a distant, pitiful sound of a woman crying. I am pretty sure it’s not Ethel or Gram either. The sound is soft enough that part of me almost thinks I’m imagining it, but no.