In a series of events that bears a striking similarity to those of 1989, Rose Whelan remains in psychiatric custody at Salem Hospital but has yet to be arraigned on any charge.
—The Salem Journal
Callie didn’t wake up until the smell of cinnamon rolls climbed the staircase and slid under her door. She was starving.
Her nightmares had kept her from the deepest sleep. It had been this way since childhood, and no amount of therapy had changed it. Sometimes she dreamed in fragments from the night of her mother’s murder, mixed with pieces of her own life. Sometimes, like last night, she saw other things that couldn’t possibly be her own memories. She looked at her phone. Almost 10:00 A.M. That made her one of the regular people today, though she felt anything but. Her head was pounding, and she couldn’t quite rid herself of the traces of her dream energy, so she showered and dressed, putting yesterday’s clothes back on, smoothing some wrinkles before descending the stairs to the tearoom.
The walls were frescoed, vaguely Italianate. Small tables crowded the room, and lace was everywhere, from the tablecloths to the curtains. Each table held a different teapot, with varying patterned cups and saucers set on individual lace doilies. A long glass counter in the far corner held canisters of tea, all hand labeled. There seemed to be hundreds of them. All of it made her yearn for coffee.
There were only a few customers: two distinguished-looking older women deep in conversation at the table by the window and another, younger woman sitting by the door. Callie took a seat at the smallest table, one near the fireplace and out of earshot.
“You can’t get coffee here,” the waitress said after Callie ordered a cup. She handed her a menu. “Only the tea.”
Great. There were hundreds of varieties, from herbal and flower to hand-blended concoctions with names like Serendipitea and Chakra Chai. It made her head throb. Callie ordered a simple black tea with orange and mint.
“Let it steep until the sand runs out,” the waitress said when she delivered it, turning over a small hourglass. She hurried back to the kitchen before Callie had a chance to order food. A minute later she was back with a plateful of pastries: scones, croissants, brioches.
“I didn’t order these,” Callie said.
“Towner always sends out the plate of pastries. You only pay for what you take.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Callie said, helping herself to an almond croissant. She ordered a soft-boiled egg and fruit. The egg came in a little silver eggcup, set on a china plate that matched her teacup. Next came a single pear—cut and perfectly fanned out on the plate, a tiny stripe of honey across the slices.
Callie ate slowly, paid for her breakfast, left a generous tip, then made her way to the kitchen.
“How did you sleep?” Towner asked, introducing her to Sally and Gail, two of the women who were cleaning up.
“Pretty well,” Callie lied. “The bed is comfortable.” Gail was the woman she had seen coming out of the bathroom the previous night. Callie saw her exchange a glance with Sally.
“Glad to hear that.”
“I want to help out,” Callie said, watching them clean. “What can I do?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Towner said. “You’re a paying customer.”
Callie ignored her, gathering some dirty silverware and putting it in the dishwasher as Gail and Sally were doing.
“Okay, then, thanks,” Towner said. “I’ve got to start making a salad for lunch.” She went into the pantry.
Callie could feel the women’s eyes on her. No one spoke. She saw them glance at each other again. She turned to face them. “May I help you with something?”
Sally said nothing.
Gail was braver. “You know Rose?”
“I do, yes.” Somehow she couldn’t imagine that it was Towner who’d spread the word, but it certainly had traveled fast. “Why?”
Gail said nothing. Sally blurted, “That woman’s weird.”
“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” Callie held her eye.
Intimidated, Sally took a step behind her friend.
“She is a little scary,” Gail said.
Callie started to defend Rose as Towner returned with a very large bowl. She looked back and forth among the women. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Gail said, too quickly.
She and Sally hurried back to the tearoom to collect another round of dirty dishes.
“Making friends already, I see,” Towner said.
“They wanted to know about Rose.” Callie frowned. “They think she’s weird.”
“She is weird,” Towner said. “But in a good way…I’m afraid you’ll find that people have a lot to say about Rose in this town, not much of it good.” Towner put the bowl on the counter and started to place salad greens inside.
“Wait!” Callie said.
Towner turned and looked at her.
“You’re using that as a salad bowl?” Callie was horrified.
“I usually do. Why?”
“That’s a singing bowl!”
Towner looked at her blankly.
“It’s made out of quartz crystal.” Callie’s eyes searched the room, looking for a way to demonstrate. She grabbed a rubber spatula. She lifted the greens out of the bowl, gently placing them on the cutting board, and began to draw the spatula around the outside rim of the bowl just as Gail and Sally came back with another load of dishes. Callie smiled to herself, knowing full well that the two women were about to find her as “weird” as they found Rose. Good, she thought. Maybe it would end their gossip.
All the women stopped when they heard the sound. It started with a soft ringing, then built in volume until it circled the room, filling the air with its clear tone.
As the sound faded, Callie turned to look at Towner, who was staring at the bowl. “Wow.” Towner shook her head. “I always thought it was a salad bowl,” she said after the tone had faded to silence. “I found it in the pantry after Eva left me the house.”
Callie laughed for the first time since arriving in Salem. “It is definitely not a salad bowl. I’m a music therapist, I should know.”
“Gail, could you go to the pantry and find another bowl for the greens?” Towner asked. “Hopefully one that doesn’t sing.” Gail nodded, looking grateful to escape. Sally scurried after her.
“You’re a music therapist?” Towner looked interested.
“Yes,” Callie said. “I work at a nursing home in Northampton, and I have a private practice out there as well.”
“I’ve heard good things about music therapy,” Towner said. “I think they’re using it at the Brigham. To help with surgical patients and palliative care.”
“That’s traditional music therapy. Which is what I was trained to do. The bowls are a little different. A little more ‘alternative.’ ”
“I’d say Gail and Sally think they’re quite alternative.”
Callie laughed.
“Hey, I promised John I’d give you a ride over to the station to pick up your car. If you can wait until I finish the salad…”
“That’s all right,” Callie said. “You’re busy. It’s not too far. I can walk.”
“You sure? I don’t mind doing it.”
“I’d like the fresh air, actually.” Her head still ached; the ocean air would help.
“Good enough then,” Towner said, turning back to the salad.
Callie was good at sizing people up, which was why she didn’t choose to have a lot of friends, especially female friends. She was definitely more comfortable with men. She blamed it on the nuns, who dealt in subtleties she’d never quite understood—doling out advice that walked the line between truth and fiction, saying it was for her own good, their de facto answer for everything.
But Towner was direct, matter-of-fact. The same way Rose used to be. And there was something else. She didn’t ask a lot of questions. She just seemed to understand some things without being told. Callie appreciated it.
“I’m going to visit Rose,” Callie added. “I hope that’s allowed.”
“I think it’s expected,” Towner said. “Ask for…”
“Do you think she’ll be there today?”
“Rose?” Towner looked at her strangely. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were going to tell me to ask for Rose’s doctor.” Callie shifted nervously.
“I was,” Towner said, curious. “Did you meet Dr. Finch yesterday?”
“No,” Callie said quickly, deciding to be honest. “I guessed what you were going to say. I sometimes do that. Sorry.”
Towner looked at Callie for a long moment, then continued. “You’ll find Zee Finch’s offices in the medical building across the street from the hospital. She’s been Rose’s doctor for a long time.”
As she strode down the pedestrian walkway on Essex Street, Callie remembered some of the buildings, though most had changed a great deal. Salem was both familiar and strange to her. At Riley Plaza she passed the newsstand and glanced at a headline from The Salem Journal: HAS THE BANSHEE STRUCK AGAIN? Below it was a photo of Rose, the same one she had seen on the news broadcast: Rose on Derby Street with her cart, an angry expression on her face, her wild white hair trailing behind her like a shroud.
Callie found her car at the police station just as she’d left it, and drove to the hospital, taking a back entrance to avoid the reporters still camped by the front door. She made her way to Rose’s room, nodding to the guard and steeling herself for what she would see. The first thing she noticed was that the restraints had been removed, and a woman was rubbing Rose’s wrists to help restore their circulation.
“Are you Dr. Finch?”
The woman turned. Zee Finch was in her midthirties and had natural auburn hair, though it was already losing its vibrance. She dresses like a doctor, Callie thought. Not in the blue scrubs she’d seen in the corridors, though, but in a tasteful silk dress and jacket.
“I am,” Zee said.
“I’m Callie.” She stopped short of reciting her last name. “Rose’s niece. Sort of.”
Callie caught Zee taking a quick glance at her palm. Towner or Rafferty must have briefed her. “Any improvement?” Callie asked.
“At least she’s no worse,” Zee countered. “I suspect she’s experiencing a dissociative reaction to complex trauma. She suffered that once before.”
Callie didn’t have to ask when.
“Talk to her while you visit,” Zee said as she prepared to leave the room. “All appearances to the contrary, there’s a very good chance that she’s aware of what’s going on around her.”
“What should I talk about?” How I thought she was dead?
“Well, nothing too disturbing,” Zee said with a wry smile.
Callie nodded. “Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen her since that night.”
“Why don’t you tell her about your life since then?” Zee suggested without missing a beat. “The good things. Catch her up.” She made some notes on Rose’s chart. “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, Rose.” She reached into her jacket and handed Callie her card. “I’m at Yellow Dog Shelter three mornings a week and the tearoom most afternoons. If you have any questions or concerns about Rose’s care, you can call me anytime.”
“Thank you,” Callie said and followed Zee to the door. She watched the doctor stop to consult with the nurses and then walk toward the stairway. Callie took a deep breath and then pulled the guest chair closer to Rose’s bed. Talk to her. As a general rule, Callie was a listener. Except when she was working, she wasn’t comfortable with the sound of her own voice. She’d learned to hold back, to assess people’s attitudes about her before talking with them. But this was Rose, and Dr. Finch said it might help. Wasn’t that why she’d come?
She sat and faced Rose. “The nuns told me you were dead. That all of you were killed that night.” Oh God, was that really the first thing that came out of my mouth? “I’m sorry. I mean…I just said that in case you’re wondering why I never tried to contact you.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly before she spoke again. “The nuns sent me away from Salem. Until now, I’ve never been back.”
Rose didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Her bloodshot blue eyes stared straight ahead.
“The morning after…what happened…” Callie didn’t want to say “the murders.” Not if Rose could hear her. “I was so scared. The nuns from St. James’s found me—and they sent me to a group home in western Mass. I told them over and over that you saved me. Did you know that? I told the police, too.” Nothing too disturbing. How could she tell her life story and not include anything disturbing? She paused, then started again. “The nuns have been good to me. They got me the job I have now at a nursing home. They convinced me to go to college. You always told me I had to go to college. Remember? I went to U Mass. I started as a music major. Remember you telling me I was musical? You always used to tell me that when I was little. Then I switched to music therapy and then went on to grad school for an MA.”
As she told her story, Callie realized how randomly she had fallen into her own life. There were causes and effects, certainly, and there were decisions. But sitting in this hospital room, she was reminded that the only thing you could be certain of in this world was change. Yesterday Rose was dead. Then Rose was alive. Now Rose was alive, but in a vegetative state.
Callie watched her stare blankly at the ceiling.
For the longest time, she had believed it was All Hallows’ Eve that killed her mother and the others. The nuns said it was the one night each year when evil prevailed without God’s intervention. They also said that bestowing a blessing without a priest—as Rose had done—was a terrible transgression. And even worse was the fact that the women had called themselves Goddesses. That was simply intolerable to God, the nuns said. It was why he looked the other way, allowing them all to receive just punishment for their arrogance.
Callie slammed on the mental brakes. Can’t I think of anything that isn’t morbid? She was tempted to start lying, to weave a story threaded with friends and joy, but she refrained; banshees and talking trees aside, the Rose that Callie remembered always wanted the facts and had taught Callie never to settle for less than what was true. Even so, after all that had happened, she’d never thought to challenge what the nuns had told her about the night of the murders.
Callie left the room and made a call on her cell, leaving a message at the nursing home, saying she wouldn’t be back until further notice, then leaving another message for her private patients on her voice mail, referring them to another therapist she knew from school. She had money saved and could afford to take time off. She’d start visiting Rose daily if it could make a difference. Callie was glad she hadn’t reached anyone directly—she didn’t want to speak to any of the nuns now. God knows what she might have said. Callie had a reputation for saying things she shouldn’t. She’d learned in therapy this was a defensive measure against the fear she’d experienced growing up. She had been working to change it. So far, she hadn’t had much success.
Though it probably wasn’t necessary, Callie left another message at the apartment in Amherst that she’d been sharing with a changing cast of grad students for the last few years, letting them know she’d be away for a bit. She didn’t know any of them well. Though she rented a bedroom there, Callie often didn’t come home at night. She’d had a number of boyfriends, but all of those relationships were short-lived, disposable. No one would call out the National Guard if she went missing for a day or two.
She went back into Rose’s room, sat down, and continued her story, trying with everything she had to keep it positive.
“Remember when we used to sing that song, Rose?” Callie began a Gaelic tune that Rose had taught her. A lullaby from Rose’s Irish grandmother that she’d sung to Callie each night when she went to sleep.
The nurses’ shift changed, and an aide came in to adjust Rose’s position in the bed. “I’m glad to see someone’s visiting her,” the aide said. “I’m sure it’s helping.”
“I hope so,” Callie said.
The aide stopped what she was doing. She was staring at Callie. “I know you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could have sworn…”
Callie stared back, as silent as Rose, hoping the woman’s conviction would fade before she could place Callie.
She’d been to the Salem library many times with Rose. It was one of their favorite spots to spend an afternoon. The front steps had been too steep for Callie then. She remembered Rose slowing her normally rapid pace, smiling as Callie cautiously giant-stepped her way to the top, Rose holding the heavy wooden door for her to enter. Today, Callie adopted Rose’s usual pace, taking the stairs easily and opening the door herself. Though the faces were different, the old brick building had changed little since she was a child. The librarian looked up when she saw Callie enter, then went back to her computer. Callie picked up the day’s copy of The Salem Journal as she passed the desk.
The library smelled of books and radiators, the same musty smell she’d once loved. She looked ahead toward the children’s wing and was seized with an urge to enter, to sit in one of the old overstuffed chairs she had once shared with Rose and look through the illustrated pages of Treasure Island or the first book of poetry Rose had read to her: A Child’s Garden of Verses. She remembered one of her favorites:
All night long and every night,
When my mama puts out the light,
I see the people marching by,
As plain as day, before my eye.
She couldn’t remember the rest of the poem or its title. She wanted to go into the children’s room and look it up. Instead, she approached the research desk. A middle-aged man in a bow tie and starched shirt looked up. “May I help you with something?”
“Where would I find archived copies of this paper?” She held up The Salem Journal.
“What year are you looking for?”
“Nineteen eighty-nine,” she said, hoping he would not make the connection.
If he did, he showed no sign. He directed her to the microfiche room. It was off to the side, hidden by a few stacks of books. It didn’t have any windows, just a set of jaundiced fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling. There were four wooden tables with a fiche reader on each. An aide sat off to one side in front of a wall of filing cabinets.
“She’s looking for the Journal. Nineteen eighty-nine,” the bow-tie man said.
“What month?” the aide asked Callie.
“Late October, early November.”
The aide directed Callie to one of the tables. “Do you need a demonstration?”
“No,” Callie said. “I’m all set.”
Before she started looking at the fiche, she read today’s Salem Journal, the one she had grabbed on her way in. The article about Rose was disturbing, as she’d known it would be. The town was angry and upset and reacting to the fact that the police had not arraigned Rose for the crime on Halloween, or even determined if a crime had been committed. It was very clear that this incident reminded too many people of the crime they believed Rose guilty of in the past.
It took Callie a while to locate what she was looking for on the microfiche, and when she finally found it, she immediately wished she hadn’t. A local paper usually concerned with street closings and firemen’s musters, The Salem Journal seemed to have reveled in being the go-to source for morbid rumors and innuendo, reporting that was far beneath, it seemed to Callie, the standards of a more reputable paper. Day after day, article after article was filled with the grisly details of what had happened that night. One even contained graphic photos of the lifeless bodies, throats slashed, being pulled from the crevasse: the victims bloodied and almost unrecognizable. Callie had never seen these photos. One more thing the nuns had kept from her, though this time she was grateful. As she looked at the images, she could feel her body going into shock, her hand throbbing and then numbing.
The articles were less sensational than the photos, but there was an undercurrent, a subtext to the reporting Callie couldn’t quite define. It was straight news—matter-of-fact, the way news should be but often wasn’t these days, but the things they chose to focus on were more morbid than she might have expected. Callie read them several times, but nothing stood out as wrong. They reported the events, the time, the place, the facts, a direct contrast to the photos. If the photographer had been shocked by the image he recorded, the writer was not. Journalistically, the story was absolutely correct, but the focus seemed odd.
After she finished the articles from the week following the murders, she went on to read the follow-ups from the next few months. As time passed, more and more editorial opinions emerged. Some speculated that the young women were part of a Satanic cult. Some said they were in a recreational sex club or ran an escort service. One article detailed theories on the manner in which their throats had been cut, suggesting a box cutter or straight razor as opposed to a knife. Callie had to go outside to get some air after she read that one. It had taken her a while to drum up the courage to go back and read more.
Everyone seemed to have a theory. One article featured a photo of the wound on Callie’s palm with the caption A MODERN-DAY MIRACLE? There were several photos of the victims, the girls they called the Goddesses: Olivia Cahill, Cheryl Cassella, and Susan Symms, her white albino skin even paler in death than it had been in life. It was reported that trophies of skin and hair had been taken from Susan’s body during the murders.
But there were also pictures taken before the murders, and these were the ones that really touched Callie. It had been so long ago, and Callie had been so young that all she had of them were traces of memory; she’d forgotten what they actually looked like. The first shots were of Susan and Cheryl. They’re younger than I am now, Callie realized. And so beautiful. When she got to the photo of her mother, she began to cry. Strangely, when she let herself think of the Goddesses, she always had the most trouble picturing her mother. Olivia had been distant, somehow, had kept herself apart. The image Callie conjured when she thought of Olivia was ethereal, a dark-eyed beauty with vague edges that never quite sharpened into focus. But the photo in front of her wasn’t distant or ethereal: the backlit image on the microfiche stared back all too humanly, and Callie knew her mother immediately. The wild dark hair. The gypsy eyes. Part dark angel, part something else. But it was her expression that Callie recognized. Defiant. Challenging. A survivor. “Mess with me,” it said. “I dare you.”
It was the face that Callie saw every morning in her mirror.
As she finished the final article and shut down the fiche reader, the memory of that night came back to her complete and with the precision of a pinpoint.
“This is really the place?” Cheryl asked as they pushed through the thick brambles of Proctor’s Ledge. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was thicker, her speech slower. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Rose declared, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses and looking back at the younger women she was escorting.
“But the witches are going up to Gallows Hill,” Susan slurred, rubbing her hands as if she was cold.
“The witches are wrong.” Rose stopped and looked from Susan to Cheryl, then back to Olivia. “Despite its name, Gallows Hill is not where our ancestors lost their lives.” She did not take her eyes off them as she spoke; instead she stared as if seeing through them. “What’s wrong with all of you tonight? You know the history!”
They shifted uncomfortably.
“I thought you were going to stand me up again like you did in July,” Rose grumbled.
“We’re here just like we said we would be,” Olivia replied.
“Late, drunk, and wearing revealing Halloween costumes.” Rose shot a look at Susan’s low-cut costume, more Playboy bunny than Alice in Wonderland inspired, with rabbit ears that perfectly matched the color of her snow white hair. “This is how you honor our ancestors? I hope you took time out from your party schedule to pack your belongings.”
No one answered.
“I’m serious. I want you out of my house tomorrow.”
Rose herself was wearing black for the solemn occasion, her long brown braid tucked under a cap that looked vaguely Puritan. “This is a new low, even for you,” she said to Olivia, who was dressed as the Mad Hatter with dark skintight trousers, a top hat, and a black coat with tails. “And as usual, we’re waiting for Leah.”
The young women exchanged guilty looks but said nothing.
Rose gave a dismissive wave of her hand and turned uphill. “Let’s pick up the pace and hope that Leah can catch up.” She pushed through the brambles, moving higher on the hill into a thick patch of dying brush, its branches dense and dry, snapping back like rubber bands as each of them passed.
“You need a damned machete to get through this stuff,” Cheryl muttered under her breath.
Susan stumbled, then stifled a cry.
“Shhh,” Cheryl warned.
“Hurry up,” Olivia whispered, taking her daughter’s hand, pulling her along.
A branch cracked behind them. A squirrel ran across their path, scrambling up a nearby sumac, then onto the branches of a taller tree, leaping from limb to limb in an effort to escape. Callie’s eyes followed until the squirrel disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the sound of the wind moving through the tangled trees.
When they finally reached the clearing, Callie stopped short. Her mother tugged at her hand, but the girl refused to budge.
“What now?” Rose turned back with a huff.
The light from the full moon behind the branches cast veined patterns across their faces. Just ahead of them, the crevasse dropped into dark nothingness. Callie recognized the place from the stories Rose had told her over and over. This was where it happened, the pit where the bodies were dumped after the execution.
“I’m scared,” Callie said.
“It’s okay,” Olivia answered. “There’s nothing here to be afraid of.” She tried to hurry the child to catch up with Rose, who was standing now at the rocky edge of the crevasse, waiting for them. Callie wouldn’t move.
“No,” she said, her voice shaky, almost inaudible. She gazed past her mother to Rose. “I want to go home, Auntie Rose.”
“Oh, honey.” Rose came over and leaned down, bringing herself to Callie’s eye level. In the moonlight, she could see the little girl’s tear-streaked face. “Your mother’s right, there’s nothing here to be afraid of. Not anymore.”
Callie looked doubtful.
“Is that why you were crying?”
Callie shook her head no and seemed about to offer another explanation when Olivia spoke up. “She wanted to go trick-or-treating, but I told her we had to come here instead, that you were going to kick us out of the house if we didn’t show up.”
The remark was supposed to make Rose feel guilty.
“Was that before or after the adults-only party you took her to?” Rose retorted.
Olivia removed her Mad Hatter cap but said nothing.
“It was a costume party,” Callie said, trying to help her mother. “I got to be Alice in Wonderland.”
“I can see that,” Rose said softly. “You make a very pretty Alice.”
“I want to go home now,” Callie again insisted, fresh tears forming. “Please don’t kick us out.”
Rose shot a look at Olivia. She leaned down, bringing her face close to Callie’s. “Sweetie, don’t you worry about that tonight. Tonight is the special night you and I talked about. Tonight we are going to do something important that is long overdue: We are going to say a prayer and consecrate the ground where our ancestors were hanged and buried.” She smiled tenderly. “Can you tell me the name of your ancestor?”
“Rebecca Nurse?”
“That’s right,” Rose said, patting the girl’s cheek.
“Let’s do this already,” Cheryl said.
“We can’t start until Leah gets here,” Rose said.
“Leah isn’t coming,” Olivia blurted.
“What do you mean, Leah isn’t coming? This is our last chance to do this. We’ve been planning it for months!”
Another look passed among the three younger women.
“What are you not telling me?”
“She isn’t coming, Rose,” Cheryl confirmed, swaying and worrying the tail of her dormouse costume.
“Explain yourselves,” Rose said.
“We don’t need to explain ourselves,” Olivia snapped. “You’re not our mother.”
The minute she said it, Olivia regretted the words. Rose was clearly seething.
Behind them, more branches cracked.
“What the hell?” Cheryl turned as two more squirrels scrambled out of the brush, one running directly across Susan’s foot, causing the March Hare to shriek as the creature went scrambling up a nearby elm.
It was colder here in the clearing, and Callie started to shake. Rose removed her dark jacket and draped it around the girl’s shoulders, creating a long cape over the blue dress and white pinafore.
“Can we just get on with it?” Olivia asked. “I’ve got to get her home.”
Rose considered. “For the child, yes.”
The women gathered, forming a circle at the edge of the crevasse, just as they had practiced. Rose raised her arms to the heavens and cleared her throat. “Mother Mary, we know our prayer circle is not complete, but we pray that our intention and our strength will overcome any absence. Hallow this ground, dear Mother, in the name of our five ancestors who died here on July nineteenth, 1692. Bless it for all nineteen poor souls who were hanged that terrible year and for the one pressed to death. All innocent victims of government-sanctioned murder. Mary, in your name and in the name of your son, our Lord, Jesus Christ, bless the souls of our faithful departed.” She fingered the first petal of her old wooden rosary, the one with a carved rose instead of a cross. “Elizabeth Howe,” she said, turning to Susan and moving her fingers to the second petal.
“Susannah Martin,” Susan said. In the moonlight, her skin looked even paler than usual.
Everyone turned to Cheryl.
“Sarah Wildes,” Cheryl said as Rose touched the third petal of her rosary and then moved onto the fourth as Olivia and her daughter, still holding hands, spoke in unison, with Rose joining the chorus. “Rebecca Nurse.”
Rose moved her fingers to the fifth and final petal. Hearing a whisper of words on the wind, Callie spun around, but there was no one there. Rose looked around as if she had heard something as well. Then, the wind stilled and the world went silent as Rose spoke the name of the final ancestor: “And Sarah Good.”
“Amen,” the women chorused. Rose began to chant, an old Irish prayer with a Celtic melody. It hung in the air and moved among the knotted trees that surrounded the clearing, seeming to untangle their branches as it passed. For a moment, everything was suspended in time and ether. Callie looked up and saw a vision of the hanging tree that had not been there just moments before, the one Rose had told her stories about. She saw the victims left dangling from the limbs where they were executed, displayed for all to see, a gruesome warning, the wages of sin. She stared as, one by one, their bodies were finally cut down and dropped into the pit below, each falling slowly, as if through water. She closed her eyes tight to block out the vivid image her imagination had conjured.
“Let us say the Lord’s Prayer now,” intoned Rose.
“Our Father…” they began in unison.
What happened next happened quickly. The prayer stopped, and the world fell silent. Callie opened her eyes, but the moon had passed behind a cloud, leaving only the stars as dim illumination. Rose was standing in the same place, directly across from her, still clutching the rosary beads, but she was no longer reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Her mouth was open, yet no speech came out. The only sound was a loud and desperate sucking. In shock, Rose stared at Susan, who was on the ground, facedown, a pool of crimson spreading on the dead grass that surrounded her.
Cheryl rushed forward, turning her friend over, revealing a deep, ugly gash on her neck.
Olivia screamed as she was seized from behind, torn away, and dragged toward the crevasse, letting go of her daughter’s hand forever.
Before Callie had a chance to protest, someone grabbed her by the arm.
“Run!” Rose screamed. Callie felt herself pulled backward, her legs responding only in an effort to stay on her feet.
It was Auntie Rose who had spun her around and was now pushing her forward on the path. “That way!” Rose said, and the two of them ran together as fast as they could until they found a clump of dense undergrowth. Rose shoved Callie into the thicket, scratching her skin on the thorny branches until she was in the middle of a nest of twining vines.
“Stay here. I’ll come back for you!”
“But Mommy—”
“Don’t make a sound!” Rose hissed.
Callie’s eyes were wide with terror. “Don’t leave me!” she begged in a whisper.
Rose pressed the wooden rosary into the child’s hand. “Here. Hold this! Close your eyes and keep them closed until I come back for you! And pray!”
In an instant, Rose was gone.
Callie closed her eyes and clutched the rosary as tightly as she could until her palm was stinging, and she could feel the blood running down her fingers from where the carved edges of the rose petals pressed into her flesh. She tried to remember the rosary prayers Rose had been teaching her, but they had vanished into the darkness along with her mother and the other women she called family. She heard a wailing sound, low at first, then growing louder and more shrill, pitching higher and higher until it sounded like the screams of a wild animal. It was unearthly, a sound of both agony and power.
She waited for what seemed like forever, until the sound faded to silence and the darkness finally gave way to morning light. Feeling the warmth of the sun filtering through the branches, Callie opened her eyes.
No one ever came back.