Page 56 of The Witch

“He’s a con artist.” Henry throws up his hands. “It’s so obvious. And he’s got ghost porn tattoos all over his arms. Don’t give that guy a penny of your money.”

“Look,” I say. “You want me to convince my grandmother and my aunt to sell you that house. But I can’t do that if I truly believe that a spirit has unfinished business there.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then he rethinks it. He rubs his temples with his fingertips. “Okay. If that’s what will make you feel comfortable.”

“Thank you for understanding,” I say, unable to entirely keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Henry sits there for a moment, frowning down at Dixon’s business card. Finally, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a ballpoint pen. He flips off the cap with his thumb and scrawls a number on the back. Then he slides it over to me.

“You said you get bad reception at Pemberton,” he says. “So that’s my number. If you want to call me.”

I pick up the card and look down at the ten digits he wrote in immaculate black ink. I don’t even have to clarify if something is a four or a nine.

“Okay,” I say. “Maybe.”

Henry’s shoulders sag slightly. He wanted to have another dinner with me, and I’m flattered, but I can’t deal with his skepticism right now. There is something going on at Pemberton, and I have a feeling the only person who can help me is Alistair Dixon—Ghost Hunter.

40

1692

CAROLINE

There is little to do in my jail cell.

I spend some time pacing across my cell, but it is so small that it is frustrating to do so. Not only that, but I have to hold my dress together with my hands after Deputy Strickland ripped it apart. I spend most of my day wishing the time would pass so that I could return home to my husband.

When nightfall comes, my stomach is aching painfully. We have had nothing to eat since the cornmeal this morning, although a boy came by at some point to offer us well water. I almost cry with happiness when Deputy Strickland enters the cellar with two plates of food. Even when he comes closer and I see that it is nothing but two slices of rye bread, my mouth waters.

Strickland stops at Jonas’s cell first. He holds the plate close to the bars, but he makes no move to open them to pass the prisoner his food.

“Take the bread,” he says gruffly.

Wordlessly, Jonas reaches through the bars to snatch his dinner and bares his teeth in some sort of thanks. As he does so, Strickland takes a wary step back. It is only at this moment that I realize Deputy Strickland fears Jonas Reeve as much as I do.

I can hardly blame him. The man is no doubt the devil or one of his disciples.

Strickland’s next stop is at my cell. This time, he removes the ring of keys from his belt and unlocks the door. I stand there, huddled in the corner of the tiny space, shivering and doing my best to hold my torn clothes together. Strickland’s lips twitch as he looks me over.

“You are in poor shape, Mistress Eldridge,” he notes.

“’Tis very cold in this cellar.” My teeth chatter. “There is a terrible draft, and my clothes are ripped.”

“Your clothes would not be ripped if you had cooperated.”

“You scarcely gave me a chance, did you?”

Strickland’s sparse eyebrows shoot up. “If you dislike my presence so deeply, perhaps I should take leave with your dinner.”

He starts to turn, the plate of rye still in his hand. My stomach rumbles so painfully that I realize I will do anything to get that bread. I will even be pleasant to this miserable little man if I must.

“I beg your pardon,” I say as plaintively as I can muster. “I…I should have cooperated.”

Strickland freezes, not turning around but not moving to exit. He is taunting me, making me wonder if he will grant me this bread that I crave so deeply. Finally, he turns, a smug little grin playing on his lips.

“Yes,” he agrees, “you should have. But I expect you have learned your lesson.”

“I have,” I assure him. “I will behave henceforth.”