I opened my eyes and stared at the yellowing floral wallpaper peeling from my bedroom walls. It’d been the best night of sleep I’d had since the accident. If there had been an accident. Maybe it’d all been a terrible dream. A nightmare. Wouldn’t that be nice? I’d get up, get dressed, and get ready for Hunter to take me to work. Then, after work, Hunter would pick me up and we’d grab dinner and do homework together or dream about our future. As tedious as the Food Mart was sometimes, I missed that life. I missed the rhythm and certainty of it.
I rolled over and saw Dylan sound asleep on the tattered Care Bear sleeping bag I’d had since second grade, his legs stretched way past the bag’s ratty end. I nearly laughed, but didn’t. It would’ve been better if it had been a dream. Then Hunter would be in bed curled up beside me and Dylan wouldn’t be here sprawled out on my bedroom floor in his place.
Dylan hadn’t gone home. He’d told his parents he was staying with some friend visiting from college. I’m not sure if they believed him, but he didn’t seem too worried. I’d taken the bed. He’d taken the floor. Mama didn’t come home last night, so we didn’t have to worry about her calling me names and accusing Dylan of betraying his best friend. And whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was glad he’d stayed.
With a sigh, I flopped on my back and wondered how I could’ve slept at all when we knew some witch or demon was responsible for keeping Hunter and Keisha and probably many other poor souls trapped at that tree. Maybe it was because Dylan had been here. Or maybe it was the crucifix I had wrapped around my wrist.
Dylan stretched with a cute little groan. No, darn it. I was not gonna think of his groans or anything else about him as cute. Especially not after seeing Hunter so sad last night. Or after Dylan telling Keisha he’d only kissed me to lure her here. What a jerk. Still, neither of us should have enjoyed it.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Dylan peered over the edge of my bed, his hair poking up at odd angles. “Morning.” He smiled, that ultra-cute strong-jawed smile I’d seen the other day.
There was that word again. Cute. Nothing was supposed to be cute to me except for Hunter and kittens and little kids with chocolate smeared all over their faces. It was too soon to be into another guy. Especially when that guy was my dead boyfriend’s best friend. “Morning,” I scowled and pulled my sheet to my chin.
“What’s the matter?” He plopped himself on the edge of my bed and my pulse sped up like a jackrabbit on steroids.
“Aside from ghosts and maybe a witch-ghost or demon keeping our exes here and you kissing me as bait?” I snapped. “Not much.”
“Come on, Kaitlyn. Do you think if I’d told Keisha I wanted to kiss you she’d have even listened to us for half a second?”
Wait. He’d wanted to kiss me? A little throb of desire tickled me down low, but I did my best to ignore it. Maybe he was lying to me, just like he’d lied to Keisha. But even if he was telling the truth, I shouldn’t want him to kiss me. I should still be thinking about Hunter and Keisha. Not Dylan.
He ran his hands through his dirty blond hair and slid on his glasses. “Besides, we have more important things to worry about today than kissing. If we want to end their entrapment and put an end to all of the people getting run off the road by whatever is in that tree, then we need more information. We need to find out about Henry Willis.”
Dylan was right. The last thing I needed to fret over was a stupid kiss. We had to figure out who Henry Willis was and how he could help us free our friends.
We made a quick Starbucks run—the first I’d made without Hunter, which was hard. Real hard. Even without him here, Hunter was everywhere. He lingered in my mind and my memories. Even my white chocolate mocha wasn’t the same without him. Still, when I was stressed, I couldn’t say no to a white chocolate mocha. Besides, it was Dylan’s treat. And after all the crap he’d put me through with that Ouija board, I wasn’t gonna turn down a Starbucks. I didn’t think Hunter would mind anyway. It was only coffee.
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, we were back at the library and Dylan was in an intense discussion with the librarian. I lurked in the corner trying to sip my coffee without anyone noticing since I’d chosen to ignore the no food or drinks sign on the front door.
Licking my lips, I tossed my empty cup in the trash, and Dylan waved me over to him. “What’s up?”
He led me to a quiet table toward the back of the library. “We found some information on Henry Willis on Google, but it’s from years ago. He’s probably dead, but we couldn’t find an obituary.”
Great. What good would a dead man do us? It’s not like it was his ghost we were seeing. But Dylan seemed undeterred.
“The librarian said that I’ve been using the right databases, but a lot of the local papers still haven’t been scanned in yet. Local archivists are still collecting newspapers from folks who find them in their attics and in boxes when their relatives pass.”
“Okay. So, why are we still here?”
He pulled out a chair for me, then sat in the one beside it. “Because there are a few things that have been scanned. The librarian’s gone to get a mobile microfilm viewer for us and a box of microfilm spools that will have articles and obituaries from the local papers. Not the really old ones. We’ve probably already found what we can find there until the archivists scan more in. But everything from the Harland Observer has been catalogued on microfilm since 1978.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if Henry Willis died in this area after 1978, we should be able to find out more about him.”
A petite librarian wheeled a cart toward us with a microfilm viewer and a large box. “Here you go,” she said. “All of the Harland Observer records from 1978 until last year. They’ll have this year done by February of next year. So you’ll have to come back for those records if you need them. Or you can try online. They do publish some of their articles electronically.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Dylan took the box from the librarian with a smile befitting a southern gentleman.
“Do you need help operating the viewer?” She gestured to the plastic black box with a big screen.
“No, thank you. I’ve used one before.” Of course he had. Dylan took the box from her with a confident grin that was sure to win her over. No wonder he got all As; he knew how to charm the pants off a librarian and probably teachers, too. Not that he’d ever do it on purpose. I didn’t think he would, anyway.
“Okay, well let me know if you kids need anything.” With the flick of a smile, the librarian disappeared into the labyrinth of bookshelves.
Dylan set the box on the table and removed the lid. Each microfilm reel was labeled by year. Dylan poked through the box. “Now when could Mr. Willis have died?”
“Too bad Hunter didn’t tell us that,” I snapped, instantly feeling guilty for being annoyed with dead Hunter and his lack of information.
“Right. Well, let’s go back twenty years and work our way up. If we don’t find anything, we can go back further.”
“What if he didn’t even die in Harland?” I asked, worried about new research leading to nothing more than weird questions.
“The librarian found articles that showed he was involved in town about twenty years ago. And people who settle here don’t leave often.”
Of course they don’t. They got stuck here just like me. A dead-end life in a dead-end town. Maybe that’s why I didn’t hate Daddy for leaving. He’d gotten away. He just forgot to take me with him. And that made me sad. I really thought he’d loved me.
“I doubt he moved.” Dylan shrugged. “Besides, we’ve got to start somewhere.”
Ugh. This was going to take a while. I scooted my still-bruised bottom back in my wooden library chair, wishing I had ordered a venti instead of a tall at Starbucks. And wishing I had taken ibuprofen before I’d left home. The cuts from the accident were healing, but the aches and pains and bruises were taking their sweet time, which was evident by the purple and blue-green skin on my face, backside, and arms. I clutched Hunter’s bag close and tried to forget the pain.
Dylan loaded each microfilm reel on the viewer, turning the handle to spool through the films. The large screen magnifying the images, he flew through old newspapers, scanning the obituary sections. I read over his shoulder at first, then got bored after about the fiftieth obituary and zoned out.
After what seemed like an hour, Dylan stopped. “Here.” His voice hitched with excitement. “I think I found it.”
I twisted a crick out of my neck and leaned forward to look.
A black-and-white photo of a thin-haired, wrinkly white man stared back at me.
Northeast Harrison County—Henry A. Willis, 98 of Harland, Texas was born January 15, 1902, in Crossly, Texas, and passed away November 10, 2000, at home in Harland. He was a member of the Snake Creek Masonic Lodge and the Bayside Shrine Club.
He began his career in law enforcement in 1930 with the Texas Liquor Control Board and retired in 1972 after serving over 40 years as Harrison County Constable.
Henry Willis was preceded in death by his parents, Eugene and Hellen Willis; and wife, Margaret A. Willis. He is survived by his children Mary Willis Olson of Harland, Texas, Frank Willis of Harland, Texas, and Constance Willis Johnson of Essex, Connecticut, and his grandchildren Henry Willis Jr., Frank Willis Jr., Patricia Olson, Betty Johnson, Sandra Johnson and Raymond Johnson. And eleven great-grandchildren.
A heavy sense of disappointment settled in my chest. Great. Our one lead was likely a ghost, too. “Okay. What good will Henry Willis do us when he’s been dead for years?”
Dylan looked back at the obituary. “Well, we know more about him now. Maybe one of his kids will know something.”
“If they’re still alive. This obituary is years old.” I snapped a picture of the obituary with my phone.
Dylan kept reading and he took a quick inhale. “Hey, look at this. The funeral was held at St. Phillip’s.”
“Really?” I shoved past his shoulder to have a closer look. It was the same church where Keisha and Hunter’d had their funerals. “Do you think Father Alvarez might know something?”
“I don’t know how long he’s been there, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Then let’s go.” The sooner we could find out whatever it was Hunter wanted us to know, the sooner all of this would be behind us.
Father Alvarez was in his office, his laptop illuminating his face. Dylan knocked on his open office door, and the father looked up. “Dylan. Kaitlyn.” He smiled, took off his reading glasses, and set them beside the computer. “It’s good to see you both.” He rose and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, come in.”
We took our seats, and my stomach somersaulted like I’d just been dropped about fifty feet on some carnival roller-coaster ride. I hadn’t wanted to come back here to talk about ghosts and demons with a man who thought all I had were post-traumatic emotional problems. Yet here I was, feeling like I was about to give a confession.
The father looked at me, concern clear in his creased brow. “How are you, Kaitlyn? Any better?”
I tossed my head to the side in a half shrug. “The cuts and bruises are healing.” Just not the ones you can’t see.
He smiled a deep, knowing smile. One that said he knew there was way more going on with me than a few cuts and bruises. He closed the lid of his laptop and stared at us. “So, how can I help you today?”
“We’ve been doing some research.” Dylan pulled the folded notes he’d taken on the Henry Willis obituary from the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts. “Were you here back in 2000 when Henry Willis died? It says the service was held at this church.”
Father Alvarez looked from Dylan to me and back again. “I wasn’t. I came here five years ago. But I know of him. Some of Mr. Willis’s family have attended the church for years. Why do you ask about him?”
“It’s just a name we—found,” Dylan started, then faltered.
So I charged on, my fingers toying nervously with the strap to my bag. Dylan had no idea the good father had already told me about the Catholic exorcism hotline. With everything that’d been happening to us, I hadn’t even thought to tell him. And, if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want Dylan getting too close. Whether I liked kissing him or not, I sure wasn’t going to let anyone get as close to me as Hunter’d been. “We think he’s related to the tree and what happens out there, but we’re not sure how.”
Father Alvarez visibly relaxed. “So you still think there’s something supernatural happening?” His voice wasn’t condescending, but I knew he didn’t believe us. I felt like I was back in elementary school and a teacher was asking me about a story I’d made up to cover a lie. “I’ve been here nearly five years and have heard rumors of hauntings, but nothing has ever been proven. It’s calm here. Quiet,” he said in a whisper that said he’d like to keep it that way.
“Please.” My voice was way more desperate than I wanted it to sound. “It doesn’t matter if you believe us. Just tell us what you know about him. It will help us . . . work through this,” I tried to swallow my words, hating that I was half-lying to a priest. Who was I kidding? I was never going to work through any of this. Not my daddy leaving. Not my mama’s drinking. Not Hunter and Keisha dying. Not now. Not ever.
Palms up, Father Alvarez shrugged. “I don’t know much about him.”
Dylan’s shoulders slumped, but I kept pressing. “Then what about his children? Surely one of them came to church here? You said yourself that some of his family came here for years.”
“Certainly. His daughter Mary Olson was a member of our congregation for years. She came every Sunday. She passed away last year, but her daughter Patricia still attends service every week.”
Dylan’s lips twitched into a thin smile, and I felt the first hint of hope I’d had in a week. “Can we get her address?”
Father Alvarez’s eyes twitched nervously from me to Dylan, then down to the pencil he twiddled in his fingers. “I’m not comfortable sharing the information of my congregation.”
“Please,” I nearly begged. He had to help us.
He tapped the pencil against his desk, before stabbing it back into a pencil-filled cup. “Now I don’t want you kids getting into mischief and bothering people.”
I glared and pressed my lips tight, holding back the sass I wanted to dish out at him. Him of all people, who worked for a church that actually believed in demons and possession. But I wasn’t gonna go there. Not now. Not after how he’d been last time. I didn’t need another crucifix.
He held up his finger, seeming to sense I had something to say to him. “But if you were to visit that little antique store down on Farm Road 1960, you might run into her there.” He smiled like he’d given us the winning lotto numbers.
I exhaled, glad I’d kept my trap shut. “The one with the cute front porch?” I’d always wanted to go in there, but never had any money to spend—so hadn’t bothered.
“That’s the one.”
The Old Antique Post was less than a ten-minute drive from the church. We parked in the small gravel lot that was empty except for a rusty, old pickup truck. We hopped out and walked onto the front porch, past a wooden Uncle Sam yard decoration and a camouflage-colored wagon, probably a toy some bubba had gotten his son for Christmas in hopes he’d grow up to be a redneck, just like his daddy. We passed a set of peeling wicker chairs and pushed open the front door to the sound of a clanging cow bell and the smell of age and dust.
A woman with sun-freckled skin worked the counter, her graying dark hair pulled back in a knot behind her head. “Welcome to the Post,” she greeted us, smiling.
Dylan smiled in return. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Help you with something?” Her accent was very heavy and very local.
“Actually . . .” He sauntered up to the counter. Man, he could turn on the charm just like Hunter. Not that I’d ever really noticed before today. I’d always thought he was kind of dumb with girls. But like my daddy’d always said, there’s two sides to every coin. “We’d like to talk to Patricia Olson,” he said. “We’re doing some research for a summer history project.”
“Well, you done found her.” The gap between her front teeth was wide, her smile wider. “I’m Patricia.”
I stared. Could Patricia somehow be related to Agatha Archer? Is that why Hunter’d given us Mr. Willis’s name?
“What kind of history project you working on?” She wiped down the counter with a dirt-gray rag.
“It’s local history. About that old oak tree out on Gravel Hill Road.”
Patricia froze. Her gaze slowly rose to Dylan’s face, then shifted over to mine. She studied our faces for a moment before speaking. “You two are the kids from that car accident out there, aren’t ya?”
A shiver crawled its way up my arms like a roach. It wasn’t just how she said it, but how she looked at me. Her mocha-brown eyes bore into mine.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dylan said with no hint of fear in his voice.
She sighed, came around from behind the counter, and flipped the store sign to Closed. “I figured one day someone else would come asking. No one’s been here pokin’ around since Old Joe. Took a lot longer than I imagined. My granddaddy always thought someone’d come during his lifetime.” She shook her head and twirled the rag around her finger. “I’m sorry about your friends losing their lives in that accident. Real sorry. I’ve been prayin’ for them and for you.”
Yeah. Prayers. A lot of good that seemed to do them or us. “What do you know about it?” I asked. Could she have known there was something happening at the old tree this whole time and done nothing? I pressed down the anger threatening to spill out in words I knew I’d regret.
She walked past the counter toward the back of the store. “My granddaddy kept records. And so have I. I’ve got something that might help answer some of your questions.” She disappeared into a back room, leaving me and Dylan staring at each other.
“I never see her in town,” I said quietly. “I don’t remember seeing her at the funeral. So, how’d she know we’re the kids from the accident?”
“She probably saw the newspaper article. We made the front page. Nearly everyone in Harland knows about it.”
“True enough. Or maybe she knows something else. Maybe she has all along. Maybe she could’ve stopped what happened?” My voice cracked, but I tried to keep it down. If she knew and could’ve stopped that accident, then I swear I’d never forgive her.
A few minutes later Patricia came back with a tattered, dusty box. She nodded for us to join her at an antique oak table where she placed it. She removed the lid and took out a leather-bound, brown-skinned journal.
“This here was my granddaddy’s. He kept it since he was a young man. He said it was important. He said Mama and I needed to know about her.” She flipped the book open to the beginning. “Mind you, not all of the kids knew about my grandma. My real grandma. Only her kids. Only Mama an’ me.”
Her kids? “Who was your grandma?” I almost didn’t want to ask even though I was pretty dang sure I knew the answer.
She looked at us then, her eyes sad, almost pitying. “I think you know, darlin’, if you’re here asking about my granddaddy.” She sighed and slipped a worn black-and-white photograph from the back of the journal and handed it to me and Dylan. “Agatha Archer, of course.”
Staring back at me was a woman. The same woman I’d seen staring out of Dylan’s eyes when he was possessed. But she wasn’t angry in the picture. She was young and graceful with a sweet face, full lips, and a friendly smile. She wore a long, dark skirt and floral print blouse, and leaned lightly against an old-fashioned black pickup truck.
Shivers shot down my legs and over my arms like a horde of spiders on the loose. “Agatha Archer.” I barely recognized my own voice. “And a black pickup truck.”
My gaze slid over to Dylan and he took the picture from me.
“Yep.” Patricia peered at the woman in the old photo. “The way my mama told it, my granddaddy loved that truck near as much as my grandma.”
Patricia took the photo from Dylan. “Beautiful, wasn’t she? My grandma. Never met her, mind you. She died when my mama was near a year old. Poor woman never even got a chance to hold her baby.”
“What do you mean?” Dylan asked, his voice quavering slightly.
She slid the journal toward us. She pointed to a page she’d marked “1 of 2.” “Read these,” she said. “Come find me when you’re finished, and I’ll tell you what else I know.”
Dylan and I sat shoulder-to-shoulder, the old journal between us. A little, flappy butterfly feeling tickled me in my belly. Anxiety? Excitement? Fear? I couldn’t tell . . . but I hoped we were finally about to get some answers.
September 20, 1926
It’s been less than six months since my beautiful daughter, Mary, was born. Our daughter. Agatha’s and mine. Agatha screamed and cried when they took the infant away. My daddy said Agatha wasn’t good enough for me. Not good enough for us. A poor, single woman with no mama or daddy to look after her. It wasn’t true, of course. Agatha was poor, but she was more than good enough for me. She was the best person I’ve ever met. I think he said what he did on account of his being the mayor and her having no money or family.
Then Daddy called her a witch. It was no good after that. Then Preacher Mellberg got involved. He said the mayor’s son should never be involved with a poor, filthy witch. He said it wasn’t natural. He said that no man should ever have a child with a witch-woman—unmarried at that. I knew they’d never let me marry Agatha, but I never expected they’d do what they did.
The preacher said he couldn’t rightly kill the child, but that my name would be better preserved by removing her from town. At first I didn’t know where they sent her, but I meant to find out. For Agatha’s sake and the child’s. But Agatha changed when they took Mary away. She said I was just as no good as the rest of the folks in town. She said I let them take her baby. She cursed and spat and wouldn’t have me no more after that. I told her I loved her. I told her I’d always love her, even if the town called her a witch. I told her I’d find our baby. But she didn’t believe me. She said she needed help. Powerful help. Not mine.
Well, I reckon she got lost trying to find it. I saw her today near the Piggly Wiggly. She’s gone half-mad, for certain. Her hair was flailing wild and stuck full of twigs and leaves. Her eyes crazed. She said witchcraft was the only way she could make amends. She looked frightful. My hands are still shaking. She said she could make a deal now. A deal with the devil himself. She said if I weren’t the baby’s daddy she’d curse me, too. But the baby needed her daddy. Me and my kin. She said she’d protect her kin. But she promised she’d curse the other folks in town.
We read the second entry Patricia had marked.
September 23, 1926
I don’t know that I believe in witchcraft or curses. But I know the townsfolk do. Well, if they didn’t before, they do now. They found out Agatha’s been having rituals out by the old oak. The one near Agatha’s house in Baker’s Field. She’s been dancing naked and carrying on beneath the moon. Howling and crying out to the devil himself. Calling for revenge. She never did that when I knew her. Never. I think Preacher Mellberg and my daddy drove her to it. Seems they turned her into the very thing they accused her of being.
Preacher Mellberg said there’s no having it. He just came and told me now. He said he couldn’t tell me before on account of my unnatural relations with Agatha. He said I might’ve tried to stop them.
God forgive me, but I would have. Witch or no witch. Devil or no devil, God could’ve decided about Agatha. But the preacher did it for Him. Preacher Mellberg looked me right in the eye and told me he was working for God. He said that’s why they took Agatha and strung her up from that old oak last night. He told her she’d never see her child again. Then they killed her. They killed my Agatha.
I went to the oak this morning. I can’t even begin to write what I saw. I took her body down and buried her safe and sound. That was the least I could do for her. I’m half surprised I’m not hanging from a tree myself at their hands. But it’s done now. And I pray she’s at peace.
Now I’m going to find Mary. I’m going to find our daughter. I’m going to make sure she knows who her mama was. I’m going to do right by Agatha if it’s the last thing I do.
Dylan closed the leather journal, leaned back in the rickety antique chair, and rubbed his eyes. “Wow.”
Wow was right. That poor woman had had her baby taken from her as soon as it was born, then been lynched for witchcraft. I couldn’t blame her for being mad. I’d have been mad, too. I had no idea the roots of hate pierced so deep in our town. No idea at all. Maybe that’s why Keisha was so angry. If Agatha had told her what happened to her—how she’d been betrayed by a man. Killed by men. Well, maybe Keisha was seeing a bit of herself in Agatha and a bit of Dylan in Mr. Willis. Maybe Keisha was seeing the folks in town in me.
Sorrow welled in my chest. Not just for my losing Hunter and Keisha, but for them losing their lives. For Agatha losing her baby and her life, too. It was all so unfair and cruel and wrong.
I pulled the journal over to me and reopened it, skimming the pages after Mr. Willis’s September 23, 1926, entry, but there was no more mention of Agatha. He went on about his search for Mary, and about finding her when she was three. Henry got married eventually, and they adopted Mary from the orphan home she was in. His wife never knew the girl was his. She just took pity on a little orphan child and gave her a home. That must’ve given Henry some sense of peace for the part he’d played in Agatha’s life. And death. But it sure didn’t seem to have helped poor Agatha Archer find peace.
“So.” Dylan pulled me out of my thoughts. “If Agatha really did turn to witchcraft to curse the town for taking her baby away, then maybe she did make some sort of deal with a demon. Maybe people getting killed and trapped out at that tree are all part of some curse.”
“Ya’ll finished reading?” Patricia came in, the gray rag wrung tight in her hands.
I nodded. “So you knew she was a witch this whole time?”
Patricia frowned. “My granddaddy never believed in witchcraft. He said my grandma was a good woman. He said she went crazy after my mama was taken from her. So, no. I don’t know that I do believe in witchcraft or that my grandma was a witch. Maybe her spirit’s still out at that tree. Maybe she’s so angry people are getting killed out there on account o’ her, but I don’t know about witchcraft.”
“Didn’t you ever think it was strange that there’ve been so many accidents by that tree? Didn’t your grandfather?”
Patricia tossed the rag into a bucket with a sigh and heaved herself into a nearby chair. “My granddaddy never got over my grandma’s death. Not really. It’s why he became a man of the law. He said the minister who hanged her, that Preacher Mellberg, was really just a part of the KKK. He said there were lots of white folks in town who’d believed in lynching black folks no matter what’d they’d done. Apparently, they lynched some white folks, too. I guess my grandma was one of ’em. He wanted to stop them KKK from hanging folks. Still, he had his own fears and prejudices. He didn’t tell me and Mama about Agatha until my gram—his wife, Ellen—died. He hadn’t wanted her to know he’d had a child with another woman. A woman accused of witchcraft at that.”
So even after trying to make amends for the preacher kidnapping his child out of her mother’s arms and for Agatha’s death, Henry Willis was never willing to admit to his wife he’d had a child with a witch-woman. Even in his grief, he kept his past a secret. Maybe Henry Willis had loved Agatha. Maybe more than anyone ever knew.
I had a whole new level of respect for Dylan and Keisha. Keisha wouldn’t have been lynched for dating Dylan, but it sure must’ve been hard. Hard for them both. Especially with Dylan’s pig of a father. I’d been so ignorant. No one had judged me for having a black best friend—but, obviously, there was still a whole lot of judging going on between white folks and black ones, rich ones and poor ones.
Patricia shook her head and nibbled her bottom lip. “Ain’t none of it right or fair, but I don’t rightly know about witchcraft. Still, I do know what some of the old folks in town have whispered for years.”
“What’s that?” A rock formed in my throat, threatening to choke out my air.
“None of the young ’uns today believe ’em. Not at all. But those old codgers still gossip. Not right to my face, mind you, mostly whispers amongst each other. They said my grandma made a deal with a demon.” Patricia shrugged, then crossed herself. “I’m Catholic. I go to church. I believe in God. Demons are real, but I don’t know what my grandma had to do with them. Likely or not she did it, I can’t say. But there’s no reason you kids or anyone else should go on getting hurt or dying from some old superstition. All those old fools who did the hanging are long dead anyhow, and the gossipy geezers left talking about it will soon be gone to join ’em.”
“Well, did the old geezers say anything else?” Dylan asked. “Anything more—specific—about the demon?”
“Sure. Right before he went an’ tried to cut down that tree, Old Joe came in here ranting and raving at me like a madman. He said my grandma’d been a witch, and that she’d made a deal with some demon. He said she’d cursed us all.”
“Did he happen to say the demon’s name?” Dylan’s face had gone deathly pale at the confirmation we were hearing.
Patricia looked up at us then, her voice shaky. “He sure did. Old Joe said the demon’s name was Alastor.”