On this 28th day of February in the year of 1692
I, John Thornhart, Magistrate, being of the Jury last week at Salem Court, upon the trial of Elizabeth Parsons, am desired by some of her relations, due to the disappearance of the body after hanging, to supply reason why the Jury found her Guilty of witchcraft after her plea of Not Guilty. I do hereby give reason as follows:
Standing to consider the case, I must determine her words as evidence against her, for her attempt to put her Sense upon the Courtroom. Anne Bishop affirmed to the Court that her sister, Sarah Bishop, had been afflicted by Elizabeth, myself being of witness to this affliction as the words of Sarah Bishop on that day were found to me as principal evidence against Elizabeth Parsons.
Within these pages are the words of the Court, as spake by the condemned and those present at the time of conviction.
My heart knocked against my chest. I searched the trunk for the remaining pages. Nothing. I could almost imagine what it must have been like for my ancestor to be an outcast in her own town. The trial, the conviction, the hanging. Then what? She certainly didn’t rest in peace, not if her body went missing.
I’d read legends of entire families cursed over such things, and now I wondered…was that what the whispering voices were? A hereditary curse? A new energy coursed through my body. There had to be more information somewhere. If this curse ran in my family, then finding out what really happened to Elizabeth’s body might be my only hope of silencing the unintelligible whispers.
Chapter 3
I TUGGED on a pair of Eskimo boots, piled my long hair into a messy bun, and tucked the book Paloma had given me into an organic wool tote. I wasn’t sure of the book’s credibility, but it couldn’t hurt to give it a read. I wasn’t sure how much I could trust Internet sources, either. Besides, I couldn’t afford a computer on my salary, and I couldn’t exactly borrow Ivory’s computer or use the computer at work for this kind of research—not unless I wanted to explain what I was looking up and why.
On my way out the door, a kid on a skateboard rushed the sidewalk, scaring the Inca doves from my lawn. The rapid flutter of wings whipped against the air, startling me, but I shook away my nerves and hopped in my Jeep.
Sunlight beat the sides of buildings to cast a shallow shade, but despite the bright sun, the weather was much cooler than I’d expected. Since Paloma’s book was only intended as backup to more legitimate resources, I stopped by the library and checked out the only two books they had on the witch trials.
Miriam Jennings, the librarian, was all-too-eager to help. It was a fellow outcast thing. In high school, she’d been the one Mrs. Franklin’s church shunned. Apparently, they wanted to save lesbians from burning in hell, too. After all, Wiccans weren’t the only ones who needed such godly help.
I didn’t profess to be a theology guru, but I was certain of one thing: if hell existed, no one as sweet as Miriam Jennings would be sent there. While she scanned my books for checkout, I offered her a small smile and asked her how her partner was doing. The entire exchange renewed my sense of hope. I didn’t need to let people like Mrs. Franklin get under my skin.
Outside the library, an elderly woman gave me a sideways glance, her gaze shifting over the top of her aviator-style glasses to my skirt and boots. I shrugged. Today it was my clothes. Tomorrow, they would think my hair was the wrong shade of blonde, or that I was too short and read too much.
Once back on the road, I turned onto Midland Avenue, heading toward the edge of town—toward my favorite forest trail, where I could connect with nature while I read. The road narrowed near City Hall and curved to the left. The area used to be a graveyard, but when they decided to build a street there, they dug up all the coffins and moved them to the new cemetery, which, even if not uncommon, was still weird.
As I passed by City Market, the darkness of memories I’d rather not remember rolled in. The streetlight turned red, and the whispering curse throttled through my mind. For once, I wished the whispers were loud enough to distract me from my thoughts.
To tourists, the market was merely a place to stop in and purchase a few items for their hotel fridge. Belle Meadow, mountain resort town! They didn’t care about the town’s history in coal mining, and they certainly hadn’t heard about the murder, or how Mrs. Petrenko, now a widow, sold the building to City Market. The windows had been replaced with new treatments, the parking lot repaved, and the inside freshly painted and retiled. But the shell of the building remained, a constant reminder.