How to Hang a Witch (7 page)

I
slide into the navy blue pleather bus seat, and Jaxon slides in after me. Everyone talks excitedly as they arrange themselves in pairs. A field trip on a Friday—what could be better? It takes more than a few tries for Mr. Wardwell to get a word in.

When the class is somewhat settled, the bus lurches forward. I touch the small bandage on the right side of my forehead.

“Does it hurt?” Jaxon asks.

I pull out my strawberry lip gloss and put it on. “Not really. More humiliating than painful.”

“Everyone's saying Lizzie cast some spell on you and that you literally flew across the hall, smashing into the lockers. So, basically, Salem's crazy, which we already knew.” He offers me a butterscotch candy and I decline.

I agree that it sounds nuts, and a week ago I would've laughed. But I can't deny that every time I get near her, weird things happen. “I sorta had an epic fall.”

“Yeah, I'm not gonna lie, that was some bad luck.”

“Story of my life.”

“Seriously, though, I've seen the Descendants gang up on people before. Don't worry; they lose interest. They just get off on people thinking they know magic. You're the perfect target for that.”

“Maybe. It's just that the stuff with my house freaks me out,” I say before I catch myself. I'm just starting to accept this friend thing, but I'm not ready to tell him about the rock or what happened last night. I haven't even figured it out myself yet. And it all makes me sound nuts.

Jaxon's smile disappears. “What stuff with your house?”

“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Wardwell says from the front of the bus. “We are pulling into Gallows Hill Park. And before we get out, I want to make one thing clear: You must stay in the designated areas. If you don't, you'll spend the entire field trip on this bus.”

He ushers us out of our seats and into the parking lot.

“What stuff with your house?” Jaxon repeats as we walk onto the circular grassy field surrounded by small hills and bushy trees.

I glance at Lizzie and John in the front of the group. “I'll explain later.”

“As all of you know,” says Mr. Wardwell, “when citizens of Salem were convicted of witchcraft in 1692, they were sentenced to hang. Witchcraft was a capital crime, and people believed that if they killed the individuals practicing it, they could keep the devil from taking root in their communities.

“The court set group hanging dates, and Sheriff Corwin was charged with picking the execution site. He was instructed that it must be outside the town limits. This location at the time was outside Salem proper, believe it or not. On their assigned hanging day, the convicted witches were bound with their hands behind their backs, placed in the back of carts, and pulled up this hill to my left. Shall we go up?”

We follow him onto a dirt trail and up a hill covered in tall trees. The path gets steeper, and my breath quickens. Through the branches to my right, the dark-haired guy watches me. I stop so fast, I almost lose my balance. A surprised yelp escapes my lips before I steady myself.

“They're just trying to mess with your head. Don't let it get to you,” Jaxon says, kicking the ground. I shift my gaze to our feet and to the last bit of a stick drawing in the dirt of someone hanging.
Mather
is written above it before Jaxon destroys it all with his shoe. He obviously thinks it was Lizzie and John. Maybe it was.

I look back to the trees, but the dark-haired guy's gone. Did I actually see him, or am I so on edge that my mind's playing tricks on me?

“Keep up, everyone!” Mr. Wardwell bellows.

After another minute of climbing a practically vertical trail, we come out on the top of the hill.
How did a cart get up here, much less one carrying people?

“This is the exact spot where the convicted witches were hanged,” Mr. Wardwell says and scans our group. “Bridget Bishop, Sarah Good, Samuel Wardwell, and many more.”

I lean toward Jaxon and whisper, “Wait, Mr. Wardwell is descended from a witch?”
No wonder he doesn't like me.

Jaxon shakes his head. “I think his name is just a coincidence. There was some scandal about it years ago, but I don't really remember.”

Mr. Wardwell looks pointedly at me and Jaxon, and we pretend we weren't talking. “Don't let the name of this park fool you. They didn't use gallows in the late sixteen hundreds. Instead, they threw a rope over a high tree branch. The convicted would stand on the back of the cart with nooses around their necks and the cart would roll away.”

That's disgusting.

“I'm going to give you all time to look around. Don't wander off this hill. We'll meet back here in ten minutes.”

Jaxon grabs my hand. It's warm and feels solid against my own. Heat shoots up my arm and into my cheeks. We follow a small offshoot of the trail to the left and into a patch of trees.

“It's kinda creepy to think about this stuff,” I say, trying to pull my attention from his thumb gently rubbing against the back of my hand.

Jaxon shrugs. “I don't even notice it anymore. I've been hearing it my whole life.”

Jaxon stops and leans his back against a tree. My hand slips out of his. “So, now tell me what happened in your house.”

Me and my big mouth.
“A rock came through my bedroom window with the word DIE scratched into it.” Between the sighting, the drawing, and Jaxon's hand, I'm too frazzled to argue about not telling him.

Jaxon's face hardens. “Are you serious? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I mean, what were you going to do about it?”

“Help you find the people who did it and beat their asses.” He says this like it's obvious.

Even if one of them might be a figment of my imagination?
“I don't know.”

“Is that it?” he presses. “Was there anything else that happened?”

I bite my lip and look down.

“You're obviously not telling me something.”

“I'm just not good at trusting people, or telling people my problems, or talking in general. Really, the list goes on,” I say. Little does he know that this is the most I've opened up in years.

“Try.”

“I wasn't kidding when I said people get hurt around me.”

“I'm willing to take that chance.”

Are you?
“You might think I'm crazy.”

“I already do.”

I smile. “It's not your problem, though.”

“Don't you get it?”

“Get what?”

His face softens. “That I like you.” He pulls me close to him and my stomach bottoms out. He puts his hands on my hips, and I can feel his fingers guide me.

I place my hands on his chest, trying to concentrate. My body's acting like a lost, manic hummingbird. “It's kinda weird.”

“I still wanna know.”

My thoughts are too cloudy to protest. “Fine. You win. I'll tell you.”

He smiles. “If I was winning, you'd be kissing me right now.” He leans close, and his breath is warm on my face. I consider walking away, but my body won't budge. In fact, it's betraying me by moving closer to him. His lips lightly graze mine.

“You taste like strawberries,” he says.

His lips press into mine again, only not so softly this time, and everything inside me lights up. He pulls me closer, and I open my mouth.

“Best to leave the letters out of it,” a voice says next to me.

I push off Jaxon's chest so hard and so fast that I slam him into the tree he's leaning against. The dark-haired guy stands next to us. I shake my head, hoping he'll disappear.

“I'm sorry, I just thought…,” Jaxon says.

“He cannot see me,” the dark-haired guy says, as calm as ever.

I look wide-eyed at Jaxon. He doesn't even glance toward the guy standing a foot away from us.
Ghost.
This is just bad. I'm so embarrassed, that I'm angry.

“You need to go away,
now,
” I say through clenched teeth.

“Shit. Sorry,” Jaxon says. “But you did kiss me back.”

The dark-haired guy raises an eyebrow and turns back into the trees. I stand there for a few seconds, trying to make sense of what just happened. He just ruined my first kiss. “Not you. I didn't mean you should go away.”

“Well, you said it.”

“Ten minutes is just about up!” Mr. Wardwell yells.

I can't do this. It's all too much. From friends to kissing in one day, and now this dead guy who's stalking me. I'll figure out all this stuff about a family curse by myself. I don't need anyone's help. “Jaxon, seriously. I'm not good for anyone. I'm not so sure I'm not cursed.” My bottom lip trembles. I turn away and walk toward the class.

Jaxon grabs my arm. “I don't believe in curses.”

I brush him off and keep walking. “Just stay away from me before I get you hurt, too.” I wish I could crawl in a hole and disappear.

“I don't want to stay away from you,” he says.

“Well, I want you to.” I fight back tears as I rejoin the group.

“Great, you're all here! Quiet down, everyone. Now, did you all know that it can take more than an hour to die by hanging?” Mr. Wardwell asks cheerfully.

I
make a left onto Blackbird Lane, dreading the idea of going home. It's Friday night, and the only thing waiting for me is a ghost who hates me. And Jaxon…I can't even think about him without getting sick with embarrassment. The only thing I have to look forward to is finally visiting my dad on Sunday, when they transfer him to Boston.

I stare at my door without opening it. “Screw this,” I say to the house.

I drop my shoulder bag by the side door and turn toward town. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm sick of feeling like someone's going to attack me all the time. I need some space.

I plod down the sidewalk, looking at the pretty houses and quaint shops. People have already started to put out Halloween decorations even though it's mid-September.
Coffee sounds perfect,
I think as I stop in front of a little café named The Brew.

I open the door and a bell chimes. Freshly ground beans and holiday spices fill the honey-colored shop. No one is in line.

“Pumpkin latte,” I say to a girl with a high ponytail behind the counter.

“Yup,” says the girl, and grabs a cup. “Last name?” she asks with a marker in hand.

You've got to be kidding me. I go into the one freaking coffee shop that writes your last name on the cup instead of your first? This is just not my day.

“Mather,” I say quickly, and hand her my credit card.

The recognition clicks.
Great.
Usually when I have a bad day like this, I put on my jams, get in bed with some mint chocolate chip ice cream, and watch funny movies until I feel better. But the last place I want to be is in my room.

“Pumpkin for Mather!” announces the girl.

Really? You need to yell that?
I snatch my latte and give her the stink eye. The cup holder has a coffee stain on it that looks remarkably like a noose. I glance around the shop suspiciously. A few of the customers eye me with thinly veiled judgment. Is it gonna be like this every time I leave the house?

“Why, yes,” I say to the judgy starers with a dramatic accent. “I'm one of
those
Mathers.” The few people not watching now turn toward me. “We do eat babies, but only on Fridays. Oh, wait. It
is
Friday.” One woman grabs her boyfriend's hand and walks out.

“Afraid my curse is going to rub off on you? Oooooh!” I wave my hands, latte included, in the air. Then I stick my tongue out at the lot of them and stamp out. I know there was nothing mature about it, but it did make me feel a little better.

I zigzag through the streets until the sun goes down, counting black houses and how many shop names allude to witches or witchcraft. By one of the antique iron lampposts on the edge of town rest a bouquet of roses and an unlit black candle. Someone must have died here. Probably a car accident. For a moment, I think the roses are black, too, but when I get closer, I realize they're dark purple.

A few kids from my school walk past me on the sidewalk, headed for the lit-up shops. They point and whisper. I pull up my hood, hoping to disappear in its shadow, and keep walking. This blows.

I cut through an alley and wind up at the entrance of Old Burying Point. It's surrounded by trees and the backs of old wooden buildings, oddly tucked away in the center of town.

It's cold, now that I'm not speed-walking. Also, it's way darker. Where did the lampposts go? Large gray stones line the ground before the cemetery. I step onto them, leaving the brick of the sidewalk behind, and realize there are words engraved under my feet. I bend down.

“ ‘I am wholly innocent of such wickedness,' ” I read out loud.

“Mary Bradbury said that at her trial,” says a girl's voice. I turn to find Susannah standing behind me, wearing a black ballerina dress. How did she know it was me with my hood up? Was she following me?

“Oh” is all I say, expecting to see the other Descendants pop up at any moment.

“This is the Witch Trials Memorial.” She inspects me for a reaction. “Each of those stone benches has the name of someone who hanged. My ancestor Susannah Martin is over there.” She points into the darkness.

“You were named after her?”
That's super creepy.

“We all were. It's tradition. Our families have done it for generations.”

Her casual conversation sets me on edge.
What does she want?
“I'm glad my parents didn't name me Cotton. I don't think it would suit me.”

She laughs, and the wind blows a few pieces of her hair around her face. “No, probably not.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

She ignores my question. “There's a Mather gravestone in here. Want to see it?”

Now I feel like I'm being set up. I look around, but there's no one in sight. “I guess.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know I don't have to.”

At that, she walks toward a small iron gate. I follow but continue to look over my shoulder. She points to the shadowed stone slab benches in the Witch Trials Memorial as we pass. “Alice Parker and Mary Parker. Not blood related. Just a lot of Parkers in old Salem.”

There is something heavy and dark about her pointing out the hanged relatives who share names with her best friends. I zip up my hoodie the last inch. “Might as well be family, the way you all stick together.”

“We've always been that way.”

Does she mean her and her friends or all their ancestors for the past three hundred years? We make our way through the first few gravestones. They're discolored, the letters worn with age.

I wonder why she only mentions Mary and Alice. “What about Lizzie and John?”

Susannah opens her mouth but closes it again. After a few seconds, she asks, “Why did you fall into those lockers?”

“I just did.”

“It wasn't Lizzie,” she says, as though it's a fact.

“There, we agree.” Although, I never did figure out that thing in the public library.

“I was there. You yelled ‘And you!' to someone, but there was no one there.” She twists a black beaded bracelet on her wrist, the kind elementary school kids make for friendship.

We walk toward the far right corner of the graveyard. I try to avoid the headstones in the dark. Even so, I worry that I'm standing on someone's face. Susannah, on the other hand, glides gracefully along.

“I don't know,” I say.

“I think you do.”

“It's hard to explain.” What is it about this girl? I shouldn't tell her things. Her friends hate me. Until ten minutes ago, I thought she hated me. Maybe she does.

“Here.” She points at a small old gravestone.

I shine my cell phone on it. It reads:
M
^R
NATHANAEL MATHER DEC
^D
OCTOBER Y
^e
17, 1688. AN AGED PERSON THAT HAD SEEN BUT NINETEEN WINTERS IN THE WORLD
.

“Did you see someone in the hallway?” she asks.

I hesitate.

“You did, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

She furrows her brow. “I thought so,” she says, and after a pause, “I have to go.”

She got what she wanted, and now she's leaving. I shouldn't have told her. She heads for the graveyard exit at a much faster pace than we came in.

I struggle to keep up. “Wait, that's it?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you care that I saw something in the hallway, anyway? And what was that you were saying about John's great-grandfather dying the other day?”

She stops abruptly on the brick sidewalk by the entrance to the graveyard.
Oops. I just openly admitted to eavesdropping.
Maybe I need to work on this filter thing a little more.

She turns toward me. “Be careful, Sam.”

Is that a warning or a threat? “What do I need to be careful of?”

She looks over her shoulder and back at me. “Salem isn't like other places.”

“Well, that I know.” I hate this. I can't continue to live with horrible anxiety that some dark-haired lunatic will pop in or goth nutjobs will terrorize me at school.

“No, you don't know,” she says, and turns toward town without another word.