Thanks to her aunt, she not only had a wonderful place to live but she’d found her true vocation. She’d done her duty as a junior reporter, but when Aunt Mina had suggested she try children’s stories, she had sat down and written one. She’d set her sights on reaching ten-year-olds—the age she’d been when Aunt Mina had first enchanted her.
Auntie Mina had been a practicing Wiccan. Her garden—while now in need of a woeful amount of care—was filled with a wide selection of herbs. Long before it had been popular to be Wiccan in Salem, Auntie Mina had been a healer and devotee of the old religion. While some in town mocked her, others came to her for advice, and with their aches and pains.
Devin’s parents were good Anglicans, but they were also a pair of hippies and were all for everyone believing as they felt they should, so they’d respected Aunt Mina’s religion. According to Devin’s father, “There are real Wiccans, and they’re just as decent as everyone else—or not. And then there are commercial Wiccans. You know—those people who come to Salem and open shops and claim to be Wiccans for a living. Hey, who’s to judge? Your aunt helps everyone, whatever their beliefs. In my opinion, like she says, it doesn’t much matter what we call the path or the light at the end of that path as long as we’re good people while we walk it, doing our best to help our fellow travelers.”
Devin loved her parents. When she’d left for school, they’d rented out their old home off Front Street and moved west to enjoy the mountains and sunshine of Boulder, Colorado.
Her own cottage was small but charming. It dated back to the early 1700s. There were just six rooms, all on the ground floor, with the parlor having a grand stone fireplace and old, unfinished woodwork all around. The room was decorated with Aunt Mina’s various treasures: crystal balls, elf-shaped incense holders, gargoyles, raven bookends, a pair of medieval mirrors—the bust of Madame Tussaud, of course—and all sorts of other items suited to a slightly crazy but very sweet Wiccan.
Devin’s first book, Auntie Pim and the Gregarious Ghost, sat nicely in the shelf alongside her second book, Auntie Pim and Marvelous Martian, contained between the raven bookends.
Looking at the books, she was glad that Aunt Mina had lived to see the first one published. She’d been so proud. Thinking of her aunt made Devin smile. She couldn’t be too sad—Aunt Mina had died at the grand old age of one hundred and one. She’d enjoyed great health until the night she’d said she was tired, sat in the old maple rocker before the fire and simply died. Devin had still been working for the paper at the time, but her mom had come for a visit because Aunt Mina had called her. Aunt Mina hadn’t been alone. Devin was glad about that, too.
Sometimes Devin thought she saw her aunt peeking out at her from around a corner with a mischievous smile.
But then, thanks to Aunt Mina, she’d thought she’d seen the dead before. That was because she really did owe everything to Auntie Mina, who’d been the best storyteller ever. When she had taken Devin to the Howard Street Cemetery where old Giles Corey had been pressed to death and told his story, Devin could have sworn that she saw the old man standing among the tombs, leaning on a cane, his expression thoughtful as the breeze rushed through his thin gray hair.
Auntie Mina had often told her with a wink that it was possible to speak with the dead—but only when the dead wished to speak. And of course, she’d added, with another wink, only special people received the talent to see through time and space, and hear the dead when they spoke.
“The books are doing so well, Auntie Mina,” she said aloud. “They’re really your books, you know.”
It helped, of course, that she worked with a wonderful artist, Drew Wicker, who lived in nearby Marblehead.
She sat back down at her computer, but just as she got comfortable, the sound came again. It was a woman crying. Definitely.
“Poe, is that you?” she demanded aloud, even though she knew the crying was coming from somewhere farther away.
The bird, as if indignant, looked up, cocked his head and squawked in protest.
“Okay, that’s it—no way I can concentrate now,” she murmured to herself.
She started out of the house again and then remembered that while she considered her neighborhood safe, bad things did happen. They’d found a murdered woman just two weeks ago in Swampscott.
Most of the details had been kept out of the paper, but she knew the woman had been young. Maybe in her early twenties.
Something itched at her memory. And then she recalled the incident that had been nagging at her.
It had taken place a little more than a decade ago. And it hadn’t been in Salem; it had been in Peabody or Marblehead or somewhere. A high school girl had been found murdered in the woods.
The details had been kept out of the paper then just as they had been now—the newest victim’s name hadn’t been revealed yet—but she knew one factor both women had in common.
Both women’s throats had been slit.
Surely, it was impossible that the two incidents could be related, not with so many years in between.