Callie tried to make sense of the vision she’d had at Norman’s Woe. Walls didn’t bleed, for God’s sake. And logically, she knew that the man she’d seen could not have been Paul, and that she owed him an apology for her rude behavior. But his eyes had been terrifying.
The sun was blindingly bright off the water as she walked from the tearoom to Derby Street, taking a left at the harbor. At Daniels Street, she turned right, looking for the grey-shingled building.
The hippie house where they had all lived together was boarded up now, a huge contrast to the row of 1700s restorations that were its neighbors. A bright orange Condemned sign was posted on the door. The front steps had collapsed, and graffiti covered the shingles: Words that looked like Latin and the number 666 were scrawled across the base of the front door and repeated every so often along the clapboards.
Callie walked around to the side of the house that faced the harbor, ignoring the No Trespassing signs. There was trash in the overgrown yard. The porch she’d once played on hung crazily off the side of the building. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then grabbed hold of the only support post that looked substantial and climbed up. She moved tentatively along the porch, fearful of causing its collapse, and carefully made her way to the windowed door that led to the front room where she had always slept. She peered through: It was messy, either with remnants of the last tenant or from squatters. She looked for the mural, which was what she’d come to see. An older man, Henry, had painted a portrait of the Goddesses; he was a friend of Rose’s, and she had given him permission to paint the mural. Callie remembered how upset Rose was at what Henry had painted on the wall, even though Callie remembered it as a beautiful picture.
Callie was hoping to see Leah’s image, hoping the image would help her remember more about the woman who she thought had probably become Rafferty’s main suspect, the fifth petal of the rose. But the entire portrait was gone. Someone had painted the wall white, though it was an old job and starting to yellow. Had it been Rose? She’d certainly been upset enough at the girls to repaint that wall herself. The tension between Rose and the Goddesses had been building all that summer and into the fall. Rose hadn’t approved of their behavior; Callie remembered that. She’d thought they were setting a bad example for Callie. Once, Rose had lost her temper so badly, yelling and calling the young women out for all sorts of offenses, that a neighbor had called the police.
Callie now remembered that the police had also been called to the house before the party at Hammond Castle. Rose had screamed as they left in Halloween costumes, telling them they were being “cheap and disgusting,” and reminding them they had committed to other plans for the evening. Rose had followed them out to Cheryl’s car, yelling as they loaded up. “Pack your things. I want you out of my house tomorrow!” When they’d pulled away, Olivia had shouted, “We’ll meet you at the hill, Auntie.” The police cruiser had arrived just as they were turning the corner.
Callie climbed back down from the decrepit porch, in time to see a neighbor coming out of one of the nearby houses to get her mail.
“I’d keep away from that house if I were you,” the woman said.
Callie didn’t recognize her; the woman hadn’t lived on Daniels Street back then. “I’m just looking around,” Callie said.
“That house is cursed. A Satanic cult once lived there.”
Callie stared at her in disbelief.
“It’s true,” the woman said. “The cult’s leader was just arrested. They call her the Salem Banshee. My neighbors tell me she murdered everyone in that house. Even a little girl.” The woman grabbed her mail. “The whole place is evil,” she said and walked back into her own house, a historically perfect saltbox restoration that fronted the harbor.
Shaken, Callie cut through the side lot to the street behind. As she passed the back of the house, she saw more graffiti on the rear facade: the image of a black rose, its petals withered and drooping, leaves curled and dried. The thorns had life and color, though: Their tips were red and dripping with blood. Callie recognized it as the image that Towner had been trying to erase from Rose’s tree in the courtyard. The rose contained a written message. Along its stem someone had scrawled the words Death to the Banshee!
Callie dialed Rafferty’s cell twice. He didn’t pick up.
She marched down Daniels Street to Derby, turning left, walking fast, rage and disbelief alternating with each step. She almost knocked over an old woman with a cane. The woman turned, gave her a quick look of recognition, then stepped out of the way. Callie wasn’t quite certain where she was going until she found herself on Orange Street.
She pounded on Ann’s heavy front door. There was no answer, so she walked back down Derby Street to the Shop of Shadows on Pickering Wharf. Ann Chase was on a ladder arranging a flying display of Christmas stockings filled with candy, the image of a witch on a broomstick embroidered on each one. A sign proclaimed: BEFANA DELIVERING GIFTS TO THE CHILDREN OF ITALY, THEIR TRADITIONAL EPIPHANY CELEBRATION.
Ann turned as soon as the door opened. “Callie.”
“You told Paul Whiting to take me to Norman’s Woe.” Callie couldn’t calm herself, and now a group of young witches, who’d been decorating the front of the store, looked at her with concern. “Why the hell would you do something like that?”
“It’s all right,” Ann said to her staff. “Get back to work.” She motioned for Callie to follow her, passing several reading rooms adorned with heavy curtains, and heading to the office.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“People think Rose killed every one of the Goddesses…including the little girl who lived with them.”
Ann looked surprised. “Who thinks that?”
“Probably everyone!” Callie said, entering Ann’s office.
Ann looked doubtful. “That’s not true.”
Callie’s phone rang then; she checked the number and picked up when she saw Rafferty’s name.
“Hi, Callie. What’s up?”
“You have to do something.”
“What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” Callie said, trying to hold back tears. “I don’t know what’s going on. They think it was some kind of Satanic cult.”
Hearing Rafferty’s voice, Ann took the phone from Callie’s hand. “Can you please come over here?”
“Ann?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Can you just get over to my shop, please?”
All the imagery Callie had seen at Norman’s Woe swirled in her brain, and the Wicked Queen’s words echoed in her ears. “Why did you make him take me there?” she asked Ann, sounding childlike.