The child stared at him. “I want Rose,” she said, starting to panic.
“Maybe I can help,” he said. “Can you tell me Rose’s last name?”
She nodded. “Rose Whelan.”
“And do you know where I could find this Rose Whelan?” he asked, smiling at her. “If I wanted to get her for you. Do you know where she lives?”
Once again she nodded.
“Will you tell me the name of the street where she lives?” He hated to play her this way, but he had to double-check.
“I live there, too,” she said, defensive.
“Can you tell me your address then?” Almost every child knew her address these days. It was one of the first things he’d made them teach his granddaughter.
As if reciting a rehearsed speech, she answered. “Sixty-two Daniels Street, Salem, Massachusetts, 01970.”
The doctor came in, ending any further chance at dialogue. Annoyed, Dayle stood and moved his chair out of the way.
“Let’s see this cut,” the doctor said.
The little girl looked unsure.
“It’s okay, you can let go now.” He touched her hands gently.
One by one, she released her fingers from their prayer clutch, and then they all saw what she’d been desperately holding on to.
Upside down, embedded in her palm, was a wooden symbol Dayle didn’t recognize: rounded and carved, with sharp ridges that dug deep into her hand. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t a crucifix.
Gently, using a scalpel to free the crusted edges, the doctor pried the wooden rosary free. It fell to the floor. Dayle reached down and picked it up.
It took a moment for the blood to find its way back into the girl’s palm. Slowly, it pooled, turning the wound from white to red as it filled each layered level, creating a scarlet image of the medallion Dayle now held in his hand: a perfect five-petaled rose.
There were no witches in Salem in 1692, but they thrive here in great numbers now.
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
Rafferty had never seen so many trick-or-treaters on Chestnut Street. Nor had he ever been charged with escorting such a large Witches’ March up to Gallows Hill. There were at least 150 of them this year—Wiccans, Druids, Celts, nature mama hippies with psychic tendencies, pantheists and polytheists all—walking slowly behind his 1980 Crown Vic cruiser, the one he’d rescued from the junk pile. For safety reasons, several streets had been blocked off. Traffic was already backed up onto Highland Avenue as visitors streamed into town for the festivities.
He’d been living in Salem for almost twenty years now. Back in the nineties only summer and early fall were filled with tourists; by midsummer you couldn’t find a parking space anywhere downtown, which was a pain in the ass. But come November 1, you could park anywhere you wanted. Not so anymore. This was no longer a forgotten seaport. No longer an aging industrial city. Salem had been discovered, and not just as a tourist destination but as the new hot place to live. These days, you were lucky to get a parking space in town at any time of year, which is why Rafferty always drove the cruiser, even on his day off. As chief of police, he could double-park anywhere. More often than not, a tourist would ask him to pose next to the cruiser so they could capture its Witch City logo: a police badge emblazoned with a flying witch on a broomstick wearing a pointed hat.
But all that was nothing compared to what happened here in October. The city had been dubbed the Halloween Capital of the World. That was no big surprise. But no one had expected it could turn into a monthlong celebration. Lately, it was even more than a month, which was great for the merchants: The population grew by at least 300,000 each October. Every year Salem imported extra police from Boston and Lynn and as far away as Connecticut, and each year they were still shorthanded.
The crowds tonight were something. Even here, in this residential neighborhood, the trick-or-treaters were waiting in long lines for their candy at the Federal mansions that were decorated for the occasion.
Rafferty drove the wrong way up Chestnut Street to the corner of Flint.
“Hey, Rafferty,” yelled a man dressed as a pirate and known locally as Worms, “write yourself a ticket. This is a one-way street!”
Each year the pirate reenactors gathered at the Phillips House museum, the only historic home open to the public on Chestnut Street, to sing to the children, and maybe scare them a little, too.
“Scallywag!” his companion, Mickey Doherty, growled.
“Argh!” Rafferty shouted back at them.
“Them’s fighting words, John,” Mickey said, taking it as an invitation to approach the cruiser.
“Argh is only one word, Mickey,” Rafferty said. Mickey Doherty was more entrepreneurial than almost anyone in town. He owned two haunted houses on Derby Street and the pirate shop on the wharf, where he sold a bit of weed on the side. Since possession was a misdemeanor these days, and Mickey didn’t sell to kids, Rafferty looked the other way. “And if you don’t know that, you should lay off the Dark ’n Stormies. Isn’t this a kids’ party?”
Mickey laughed and pounded the cruiser with his fist. “This kind of fortification’s the only way I can stand the little demons!”
Rafferty shook his head.
“Hey, what’re the streets like?” Mickey wanted to know. “I spoke to Ann earlier, and she warned me. There’s a weird energy tonight.”
Ann Chase. Salem’s most famous present-day witch. “Well, if anyone should know…” Rafferty said, and Mickey laughed. “Actually, it seems pretty tame to me,” Rafferty said. It was true.
Fall had come late this year, but now the air was chilling, and the darkness felt pervasive. He nodded to Mickey, turned on his siren, and pulled out, blocking incoming cars on Essex Street, so the parade could cross the road. As the candlelight vigil moved on, a driver blasted his horn, and others joined in chorus to protest the delay. The witches walked in formation, as slowly as brides.