Chapter 16

Brian took a quick visual sweep of the condo from the couch—stained hot-chocolate mugs on the coffee table, a clump of cat fur on April’s new area rug, an empty space on the mantel where the pendulum clock belonged. A Club Intrigue admission ticket still poked from the pocket of his shirt.

All genuine.

Real.

Rebecca even left a fragrance behind—a scent of pine lingering like leftover smoke, but in a good way. The aroma brought her cabin right into the room.

So he didn’t fall asleep and dream the whole insane adventure. Or if he did, the universe upgraded to 2.2 anyway—the version including witches—bringing a whole different screen layout for him to navigate. He had to get used to it.

He opened a fist. Found the ribbon from Rebecca’s book. No point even questioning how it got there.

His fingers tingled. A burst of amazing ideas flashed through his mind. Books he’d write, calculus problems he now knew how to solve, and dreams he might step out of. Like from one dimension to the next. Weird and ridiculous but possible.

Then his palm burned. Hot.

He flung the ribbon to the floor. Flexed his hand. Fine now.

The ideas shattered into a million fragments before he could hang on to the slightest bit of wisdom. Back to his old clueless self.

This had happened twice before. Once at the cabin when he first pulled the book from Rebecca’s kitchen cabinet and touched the ribbon. Later, here in the condo, on the night a poem wrote itself on his computer.

He poked at the ribbon with his shoe.

Nothing happened.

He bent and touched it.

Nope.

He held his breath and grabbed it.

Brian has research to do. Rebecca’s parting words.

But no mad rush of ideas.

He let the ribbon go. Counted to ten. Grabbed it again. Squeezed tight. Nothing.

Reality check. Did he believe in witches? Maybe. After all that had happened, he was definitely coming around. Magic ribbons? Not so much.

But should he believe in watching and listening for clues about what exactly was going on? Not a bad concept.

So here goes: Brian has research to do. Since Rebecca’s comment was completely out of context to the situation, it could only be a clue, right?

Sooooo, research what? Witches? Teleportation? Abandonment?

Her vanishing act stung. If he’d struck a nerve by mentioning Abigail, why didn’t Rebecca hang around and compare notes with him? Why skip out of his life again?

The whole evening didn’t make sense, all the way back to the point she stepped onto a stage and…

recited a poem about witches with a specific reference to the year 1692.

He rushed to his computer and searched that year on the Internet. Numerous links to articles and stories covering the Salem witch trials popped up. He dove into the Wikipedia version of the darkest episode in colonial history.

In the spring of 1692, eleven-year-old Abigail Williams and her nine-year-old cousin, Betty Parris, turned into exorcist fodder. They contorted their bodies in weird positions, bleated like farm animals, burst into fits of rage, shrieked in pain. Nobody ever figured out what caused their possession or why it spread like a virus to other girls in Salem.

Although the Puritans were supposed to be better-educated and more tolerant than the typical colonists, they embarked on the witch hunt to end all witch hunts. When the dust cleared, nearly two dozen of their own had been killed, mostly by hanging. A black-and-white sketch showed a bunch of them strung up in a row on Gallows Hill, where anyone could have stood to watch. And what, order maize popcorn?

Brian closed the page.

Sixteen ninety-two Salem. Hangings. Like Rebecca did to herself on stage.

Good theory: Rebecca wanted to be like a modern-day Poe, writing dark verses to send chills down spines.

Bad theory: She and Abigail weren’t witches at all. They were the ghosts of two girls hanged in colonial Salem.

No way. He couldn’t even begin to process that idea without melting his heart into water. He and Rebecca clicked. Boyfriend and girlfriend. A walk through the hills, a night in a cabin, dream visits, a reunion, kisses. She had to be real.

He stared at the search menu forever before swallowing and reopening the Wikipedia page. He looked for a Rebecca reference. Couldn’t find one. Read about the girl named Abigail again. She was a player—kind of a weird coincidence with that name and all—but she wasn’t a hanging victim.

He scanned some other articles. No Rebecca on the victim lists. Couldn’t have been. Spirits don’t have substance. They don’t touch. Or kiss. Or leave things behind when they leave.

He turned to the window and stared into darkness almost as black as the fog he’d seen behind the club.

If they weren’t ghosts, and Rebecca was a good witch and Abigail a bad one, or something else altogether, what did the poem mean?

Brian’s phone went off with a deafening guitar riff. He dropped the mouse. Nearly fell off his chair. The ringtone needed to be lowered by about a thousand decibels.

He glanced at caller ID—Sharon—and he answered.

“Brian.” Something was off with her tone. “Please ask your witch never to step foot in these dorms again.”

Sharon always had a smile in her voice. Not this time. How to even respond? Was she talking about Rebecca? Had to be. Rebecca had gone after Abigail, Sharon’s roommate. But what went down? “Um—”

No point in saying anything more. Sharon had already ended the call.

“I’m back, Brian.” Rebecca’s voice came at him from the kitchen doorway.

He leapt off the chair. Spun around.

“That didn’t go well at all.” She stood with arms lowered, water dripping from her hair.