You know who you are. You have always been other.

—ROSE’S Book of Trees

The women sat in a circle, their eyes closed. The note echoed as it orbited the room, the sound softening everything it touched, removing rough edges, rounding corners, relaxing those who were seated.

Callie stood at the front of the room, drawing the wand around the singing bowl. From a distance, she appeared to be stirring some great stew or tending a witch’s cauldron, but the wand was actually being drawn along the outside rim of the bowl, not the inside. The tone it created was clear and true, circling and building in volume until it was so loud that Callie could feel the vibration in her bones. Placing the wand on the table, she listened to the sound waves the bowl continued to generate.

She had tried treating them separately, but the group energy was so strong when they meditated together that it had become obvious that this was their best healing modality. Today it was working for all but one of them, poor Margie, who was suffering from late-stage Parkinson’s. Callie walked over, placing a hand on Margie’s shoulder.

“Are you having trouble?”

“I can’t concentrate with all that racket,” Margie said.

“The bowl? You’ve never objected before,” Callie replied, confused. Then, as the sound of the singing bowl faded, Callie heard the news at noon blaring from the next room. Many of the elderly women at All Saints’ Home, where Callie worked as a music therapist, had some degree of hearing loss, so the television in the rec room was always cranked high.

“The TV,” Margie said. “It’s bothering me.”

“Hang on.” Callie held up a finger and headed next door. “I’ll be right back.”

She closed the door behind her and walked into the hall. The smell of boiled cauliflower hung in the air. She poked her head into the rec room. The set was tuned to WCVB. “We were there for the entire week,” a newscaster intoned. “We saw witches, pirates, and even an ugliest dog contest, as we do every year when we cover Halloween in Salem. And though it has been hokey and even otherworldly at times, it has always been safe and family friendly.”

“Not always,” the second newscaster commented.

“Too loud?” asked Edith as Callie walked in. Edith was one of the ladies who refused to come to Callie’s music therapy sessions, even though Callie knew her arthritis was truly painful. She’d have to talk with Sister Ernestine—she’d be the one to convince Edith to join.

“Just a tad, Edith. May I have the remote?”

Callie turned to the screen as the broadcaster said, “A killer banshee.”

The image shifted to a photo of an old woman pushing a cart. Her hair was long and white and wild, and it seemed to trail in her wake. She had a hateful look on her face. Underneath, the caption read: THE BANSHEE OF SALEM.

Callie stared at the screen. The woman looked so familiar, yet she couldn’t quite place her.

“If looks could kill,” the first newscaster said.

“Seems like they just might have,” the other rejoined. “The alleged, and I stress that word, the alleged homeless killer banshee’s name is Rose Whelan.”

The remote clattered to the ground.

“If that name rings a bell for some of our longtime viewers, it should,” the second newscaster said. “Rose Whelan was once the prime suspect in Salem’s still unsolved Goddess Murders.”

Callie couldn’t speak. She did not reach for the remote but stood staring at the television and rubbing her left hand.

“Are you okay, dear?” asked Edith.

“The young victim’s name has not yet been released, pending notification of his family.”

Callie leaned down to retrieve the dropped remote, and Edith saw something on the young woman’s left hand she had never noticed before. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked. Was it a tattoo of some kind? No, not a tattoo. A burn maybe? Or a scar. Whatever it was cast a shadow across the young woman’s palm. The older woman took a closer look. It was a scar. Why had she never noticed it before? Symmetrical and centered on Callie’s palm was the image of Edith’s favorite flower, a rose.