“Wow.”
“I know. Crazy. But I guess people believe what they want to believe, isn’t that right? Anyway, if she did have this knowledge, it certainly didn’t do her any good. I guess maybe you can’t perform the magic on yourself.”
“So her husband murdered her?”
“Well, that’s debatable,” he said.
“Debatable?” Katherine asked, moving closer to the counter.
“There was never a trial. There was never even much of an investigation. All we’ve got are a few solid facts, the stories from the people who were around back then passed down to their descendants. There’s no paper trail—it’s all oral history. What we know is that Martin’s brother—the town physician, Lucius Shea—arrived for a scheduled visit that evening. Sara had not been well and had been under his care. When he arrived, he found the door wide open, but there was no sign of either Martin or Sara. He went around back and found them out in the field. Sara was …” He hesitated, looked down at the painted wooden floorboards.
Katherine gave him a questioning look.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m not squeamish.”
He took in a breath. “Her skin had been removed. Martin was beside her, covered in blood, holding a gun, babbling incoherently. Do you know what the last thing he said was? He told his brother it wasn’t he who had done this—that it was Gertie.”
Katherine felt her jaw drop, then snapped it closed. “The daughter? But she was dead, right?”
“Yes. Absolutely true. Unless”—he paused for dramatic effect—“unless you believe the rest of the story Sara tells in her diary, of bringing Gertie back to life.” He leaned forward, looking like an excited little boy telling a ghost story. He studied her, searching her face to see if she might possibly believe such a thing.
“Unfortunately, Martin shot himself before anyone could ask any further questions.”
Katherine’s head was spinning. “What do you think?”
The man leaned back and laughed. “Me? I’m just a bookseller who has a fascination with local history. It’s probable that Martin killed his wife. But a lot of people who were around back then, and even people these days, they say different.”
“What do they say?”
“They think that there’s something out there, in the woods at the edge of town, something evil, something that can’t be explained. There have been a lot of stories over the years, folks who’ve gone missing, people who say they see strange lights or hear crying sounds, tales of a pale figure roaming the woods. When I was a boy, I thought I saw something myself one time: a face peering out at me from a crack between the rocks. But I moved closer and it was gone.” He made his eyes dramatically wide and gave a little chuckle. “Have I scared you yet?”
Katherine shook her head.
“Well, then, let me add another layer to the story. A lot of odd things happened in town shortly after Sara was murdered.”
“What kind of things?”
“Clarence Bemis, the closest neighbor to the Sheas, he had an entire herd of cattle killed—woke up one morning and found their throats slit. The largest steer, he’d been cut right open and had his heart removed. Then—Martin’s brother, Lucius?—he dumped a gallon of kerosene over himself early one Sunday morning, walked right to the center of Main Street, and lit a match.”
“I don’t understand what—”
“Folks said they saw a woman slip out the back door of his house just before he came out and lit himself on fire. The people who saw her swear it was Sara Harrison Shea.”
Katherine gave an involuntary shiver.
“A lot of deaths that year. Freak accidents and illnesses. Children falling under wagon wheels. A fire burned down the general store and killed the shopkeeper and his family. And people kept swearing they saw Sara. Or someone who looked just like her.” He smiled at her. “That’s West Hall history in a nutshell—a lot of ghost stories and legends, very few solid facts.”
Katherine was quiet a minute. She studied a display of large paperback books by the register. Then and Now: West Hall, Vermont, in Pictures.
“Is this a book on local history?” she asked, picking up a copy.
“It’s put together by the Historical Society, but it’s mostly just a collection of photos. You won’t find anything about Sara in there.”
“I’ll take it anyway,” she said, thinking it was only right to buy something after taking up so much of the man’s time. He rang her up and she paid.
“Thank you,” he told her, handing her a paper bag with the book inside.
“No, thank you. Really. You’ve helped a lot.”
“Anytime,” he said, going back to his computer.