29

Salem, Massachusetts

The room they’d entered smelled like canned soup. It held an encompassing blackness that crawled over Salem’s skin with the weight of dead fingers. To their left, up high, a stage lamp flicked on, bathing a hunched gargoyle in a sick yellow light. The grotesque creature was maybe six feet tall, perched on a second level of the main room. Below it, in the dead center floor of the room, a massive red circle lit up.

Salem Village 1692 was written in the center of the circle. Names were scribbled in outgoing concentric circles. Salem recognized Tituba and a few other names—people who’d met ghastly fates during the Witch Trials.

The gargoyle’s lamp switched off, and the room was again bathed in darkness as thick as grave dirt. When Salem’s eyes had a moment to adjust, she saw an exit sign at the far end of the room. Seconds later, a stage light to the right fired up. It outlined a peasant man on the gallows, a noose around his neck.

“In 1692, Salem was a peaceful village.”

Salem blinked. The presentation.

The church sanctuary had been gutted to make way for this gigantic display room. Salem could just make out chairs arranged around the red circle, crammed with tourists. This is what people had been waiting in line for. If she squinted, she could spot the remaining dioramas rimming the upper edges of the hall. They would be lit up one at a time to tell the story of the Salem Witch Trials. It was kitsch at its finest.

Outside the door immediately behind them, they heard a scuffle.

Salem’s skin prickled. “It’s him,” she whispered. She didn’t know who he was. She knew he was following them, and that there would be nothing worse on this earth than him catching them. The terror of being chased by this predator was so primordial, so unbearably awful that Salem understood why an animal would leap off a cliff rather than let itself be caught.

Bel pointed across the hall at the dimly-lit exit sign. Salem nodded. They wove around the chairs, trying not to draw too much attention.

But they weren’t moving fast enough.

The doors behind them opened. Salem stifled a yelp.

The flooding light caused angry whispers to erupt from the viewing crowd.

“Not again!”

“Hey, we paid way too much for this already. Shut off the lights!”

The crewcut worker from the front desk held open the doors. The man who had been pursuing them stood behind, silhouetted. Glancing back at him filled Salem’s gut with ice. She pushed Bel forward. “Hurry!”

They stumbled through the exit door. A smaller museum lay on the other side. It featured various depictions of witches behind glass, from the Wicked Witch of the West in all her green glory to a simple midwife surrounded by herbs, and finally, a couple who reminded Salem of Renaissance Festival regulars, flowers woven in their hair, holding carved walking sticks.

Salem and Bel ran past all of the shtick.

“You know that hotel across the street?” Bel was out of breath.

They found themselves inside the gift shop.

“No.”

A store employee stepped forward, speaking into her headset, palms facing Salem and Bel.

“The Hawthorne Hotel.” Bel glared at the worker. The worker stepped aside, squawking angrily at whoever was on the other end of the headset. “We drove past it to get to the church. We have to slip inside and secure a hiding spot as soon as we can. How much cash do you have?”