Authors: Megan Kelley Hall
Abigail was fuming when Maddie slipped into the house that morning. Maddie misjudged the effects of the first course of chemotherapy and radiation treatment that her mother had undergone earlier this week. At first, it knocked her out, allowing Maddie the freedom of coming and going as she pleased. But now her body seemed to be stronger, and she was much more alert and aware of what was going on.
“Look at you,” Abigail scoffed when Maddie softly padded into the hallway. Abigail turned the light on in the living room where she’d obviously been sitting and waiting for Maddie’s return. “You’re absolutely filthy! Where have you been? Have you been out all night? I’ve been out of my mind with worry. How dare you disappear while I’m going through my treatments! How dare you make me worry about you, especially with this Darcy situation!”
Situation. Only Abigail Crane could call someone getting killed a “situation.”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Maddie said, awkwardly brushing the loose dirt and grime from her clothes. “I was at Rebecca’s old store—I found this journal. I think it might be Cordelia’s.”
“Well, she’s quite the writer, isn’t she? You’d think she was trying to get her diaries published with all of that writing and waxing poetic about all her true loves and losses in this town. She definitely got that writing kick from your father—” She stopped abruptly, not wanting to go into detail about Malcolm Crane. But this was the first time she’d ever brought up the fact that Cordelia and Maddie shared a father, and Maddie didn’t want to let this opportunity slip by.
“Was he a writer? My dad, I mean?” Maddie walked tenderly toward her mother, hoping that her current weakened state would soften her, would allow her to give up some of the secrets she’d spent a lifetime guarding.
Abigail snorted. “He certainly thought he was. Thought he was the next Hemingway, the next Vonnegut, the next Fitzgerald. The only thing that made him similar to those writers was his love of drinking. That’s where the similarities ended. So, when he left to teach—”
“He’s a writing teacher?” Maddie remembered hearing that her father taught a class up in Maine at a community college, but she had never imagined that her father—the bullish man from her nightmares, the one who was prone to smashing anything and everything that got in his way—could have the patience to be a writing teacher. She always pictured him as a shop teacher, a gym coach, anything but a professor of the arts.
“He wasn’t when he lived here. He thought he was a writer. Lived off his family’s fortune, until it dried out. Then when he had to get a real job, make an honest living, that’s when he left us all behind. Moved up to Maine to teach writing. Last I heard he was at some community college as a writing professor. Probably taking up with half the girls and teachers on campus by now.”
Maddie sat quietly, hoping to learn more about her wayward father.
“That’s why I’ve been so hard on you taking up with Reed Campbell and Finnegan O’Malley. Nothing good can come from getting involved with the men of Hawthorne. I should have listened to Tess when she told me that years ago. But I was too stubborn—too sure of myself. You don’t want to end up alone like me, do you?”
This was the first time Maddie had ever remembered Abigail showing any regrets about her life. She’d grown up believing that Abigail would never accept her or love her unless she secured her social status in Hawthorne. And here she was finally opening up to her daughter—something Maddie had waited her whole life for. “Believe me, Mom, the last thing I want to do is get involved with a guy from Hawthorne,” Maddie said, laughing and trying to reassure her that she was here for one reason only—to take care of Abigail “I don’t need any more strings tying me to this place.”
Maddie meant it as a lighthearted comment, but it obviously struck Abigail the wrong way. The wall that had briefly come down between them quickly rose back up.
Abigail set her mouth in a grim line. “I guess, then, that I’m one of those bothersome strings keeping you attached to this godforsaken place. I suppose you’ll be pleased when this string has finally been snapped.” With that, she turned on her heel and stormed up the stairs.
I can’t win
. Maddie sighed.
I just can’t win
.
Nothing is exactly as it seems and emotions may be running high. Mystery, secrets, and a time of confusion. Visions and illusions, madness, genius, and poetry. It warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks, and falsehoods. This is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition, dreams and nightmare. Trust your intuition. Prepare for an emotional and mental roller-coaster ride. Be open to inspiration from the unconscious, from dreams.
October 15
Dear Diary,
The October wind whisks along the narrow tree-lined streets, bringing a chill that foretells of the brutal winter ahead. The historic brick buildings huddle together finding strength in their unity. A strength that has pulled them through many rough winters for hundreds of years.
The trees, now stained many different shades of rust, shiver and sigh. Cars rumble past on brick-paved streets. Women and men stroll throughout the winding roads of Hawthorne. They walk slowly, taking in all of the scenery and history. Admiring the architecture of Samuel McIntyre and the stately mansions of the sea captains. They delight in the rustic atmosphere of the quaint streets that evoke images of early New England and the settlers. But in their faces it is clear that they want something more; something other than the history and the heritage. They crave something darker. An evil thing
that creeps along the cobblestones at midnight when the people are tucked safely in their beds. Something that slithers like a serpentine up the trees with chameleon leaves and wails, screeching along with the howling winds. An eerie presence that dwells in dusty corners and hides among the shadows. A supernatural being that lurks behind craggy tombstones of the old burial hill. Ghosts. Magic. Vampires. Witchcraft.
The history of Salem evokes tales of mass hysteria and witch hangings and often overshadows the normal humdrum of everyday life. Hawthorne is very different. People come here to Hawthorne seeking answers. They search our faces, as if we hold ancient secrets. They wonder what has been experienced here; do things really go bump in the night? The questions are always the same when they enter my shop nestled on a quaint cobblestone street.
“Do you see witches?”
The answer to all of them is always the same. Yes. Witches are not an uncommon thing here. Definitely not something to be frightened by. I explain to them that there are many stores owned by witches in Salem that sell wands and spells, pentacles and crystals.
“One town over,” I’d say. “And they will read your cards or perhaps photograph your aura.
“It’s a religion,” I tell them, as those who wear the pentacle have so often reminded me. “Wicca, to be exact.”
I often smile at their disappointment that they do not attempt to hide.
They want more. They want the unexplained. They don’t want the incense and the plastic souvenirs. Many have traveled far to experience the mysteries that New England has to offer.
I tell them to head back into Salem, to the Witch Museum in the old church or to the Witch Memorial, which lies adjacent to the old burial ground. They often sigh, grasp their hot mulled cider, and head back out in search of the red-lined Heritage Trail.
I sit in our small store housed in a brick building two centuries old and watch the tourists come in every morning eager and anxious. Then by nightfall they leave disheartened, clutching their plastic bags filled with trinkets and souvenirs. Some have their palms read, and others have bought a beautiful herbal pillow adorned with pictures of fairies or a floral creation from our store. But most are disappointed about not witnessing something eerie or unearthly. I smile as I see their faces, their mouths set in a grim line as they scurry by the arched windows, wistfully anticipating a ghoul to jump out from around an old wrought-iron fence.
There is no evil presence here,
they think angrily, wishing they had spent their vacation money more wisely.
They are wrong.
As I sit in this tranquil store surrounded by lavish gifts, flowers, and exquisite treasures from travels all over the world, I know of the evil and darkness and sinister tales that are just below the surface of everyday life in this town. Nobody knew how thin the veil between good and evil was in Hawthorne. That is, until I came to town.
Maddie hid the journal under her pillow right before she went to bed that night. There was something in it that left her with a nagging feeling—something was unsettling about the entry. The entry was dated before the night out on Misery, so what evil events was Cordelia privy to? And the tone of the entry didn’t seem like someone who was fearful or hated the town, but rather someone who had come to love it. Perhaps there was a way to convince Cordelia to return—come back to a place that so intrigued her and made her feel at home. And yet she knew from the dealings with her father that once someone left Hawthorne, it would take a miracle to bring them back.
My father
, she thought. And then Maddie was suddenly struck by inspiration. She sat up in bed and said, “Our father.”
Of course! That’s where Cordelia would go! She would go and confront Malcolm Crane. Confront the person who was responsible for this mess. It was all making sense now.
But how would she track him down? Contact every college in the state of Maine with a writing program? Look him up on the Internet? If he was anything like most people in Hawthorne, he would never have a published number or be easily found. Like Reed had told her out on his boat last year, some people just don’t want to be found.
Lying back in the darkness, Maddie became overwhelmed with the daunting task ahead, but was somewhat relieved that she finally had a lead, a direction to point Luke in. It would be a lot easier to have him track down her wayward father than to find her will-o’-the-wisp half sister!
But Maddie also realized that if she didn’t get Cordelia to return to Hawthorne, all the men in their lives, Finn, Reed, and even Malcolm Crane, were at stake. She had to figure out where to begin. And how to convince Cordelia to return. She knew that both of those were no easy task and could definitely be dangerous.
For everyone.
“Professor Crane, I have a call for you on line four,” the secretary’s voice buzzed over the speaker.
Malcolm Crane looked wearily at the stack of papers that needed to be graded and then sighed, “Put it through, Alice.”
He was tired of dealing with other parents’ children. Teenagers that didn’t respect him, their parents, or each other. It was making him feel that restless urge to move forward—just to pick up and leave it all behind. It was so much easier during his youth. But now, now he had responsibilities, he had ties to a community, he had a young child. But none of that ever mattered to him before. Why should it matter now?
It wasn’t a parent. It was a voice that he hadn’t heard in many years. He listened for a long time as the person on the other end of the line explained what was going on. How his life was in danger, as well as everyone else in his family. Not his current family—the one he’d left a long time ago. It occurred to him that he hadn’t disappeared unscathed. A person’s past is always right around the corner, ready to pounce like a feral cat the moment you let your guard down. He always knew that it wasn’t a question of if, but a question of when.
“What can I do?” he asked calmly.
The answer seemed to disturb him. He reluctantly agreed. After he replaced the handset, he took a deep breath.
He buzzed his secretary. “Alice, cancel my appointments this week.”
He was going someplace he thought he’d never in a million years go back to: Hawthorne, Massachusetts.
It was time to finally put old ghosts to rest.
A woman who is highly imaginative and artistically gifted, affectionate, and romantic in outlook, and creates an otherworldly atmosphere around herself. A woman who lacks common sense, but is highly intuitive and sometimes psychic and dreamy. Atmospheres, other people, and events can easily influence her.
C
ordelia stopped at the Lyceum in Salem on her way back to Hawthorne. Reed had told her once about all the famous writers who had done readings there throughout the years, but what really drew her to the infamous restaurant was the legend of Bridget Bishop—the first woman in Salem wrongly accused and hanged for being a witch. She was rumored to haunt the place since it was on the site of her apple orchards. Some even said that the Lyceum was built on the actual footprint of Bridget’s tavern. And from that site she was dragged through the streets of Salem, shrieking and proclaiming her innocence.
In the summer and fall, acting companies reenacted this scene over and over, but Cordelia preferred to be in the presence of the real Bridget Bishop—not the teenager dressed up in seventeenth-century clothing, sneaking cigarettes in between showtimes.
The first time Cordelia saw the ghost was when Rebecca had taken her there for lunch one afternoon not long after they moved to Hawthorne. She hadn’t yet heard about the hauntings, but on her way to the ladies’ room, she noticed a woman motioning for her to follow up the narrow staircase. Cordelia remembered rolling her eyes and dutifully following the woman dressed in period costume. She had heard stories of the crazies in Salem who liked to live as if it were still olden times. This was probably some new interactive play that they were trying out at the restaurant—similar to those murder mystery dinners offered at places in Boston.
Cordelia followed the woman up two narrow flights of stairs and when they finally got up to the function room, Cordelia was slightly taken aback as the woman continued up to the door and walked right through it, disappearing like a shadow into the mist. When she entered the function room, she noticed a bartender with bottled blond hair setting up. The bartender seemed uneasy and jumped at the first sight of Cordelia. The woman looked like she’d literally seen a ghost.
“Can I help you?” she asked Cordelia.
“I was…there was a woman—in clothes, old clothes. She wanted me to follow…she was dressed—”
“In old-fashioned clothing, right? That was our resident ghost, Bridget Bishop. She likes to play around with people who have the gift.”
“Gift?” Cordelia said awkwardly, looking around the room with the vaulted ceilings and the staircase that seemed to wind its way up into nowhere.
“The gift of seeing what most people can’t,” the woman said wryly. “Ain’t it a great gift to have?” She shook her head and continued drying glasses and hanging them up on the overhead rack.
Cordelia was used to people in Salem playing up their “Haunted Happenings,” but there was no sense of playfulness in this woman’s voice, only a slight trembling of fear.
After receiving the tarot card and the strange dreams she’d been having about Maddie (almost as though they were communicating), Cordelia knew she should return to Hawthorne. But it was only after reading the piece in the
Hawthorne Gazette
that she realized how important it was for her to return. She knew she’d have a lot of explaining to do, and possibly even be punished for wasting the town’s time and money spent looking for her. But she knew that she could never move forward in her life without correcting her wrongs. How could she blame others for not taking responsibility for their actions when she was just as guilty?
She sat down at the bar, paying little attention to the early signs of Christmas decorations surrounding her. Holidays meant little to her these days. Just another way of marking the passage of time.
“Don’t even think of getting served here, young lady,” the surly barmaid chuckled as she washed out some glasses. “I could tell that you were underage the minute you walked in the door.”
“Just some passion fruit tea, please,” Cordelia said quietly.
“Passion fruit tea?” the woman laughed, saying it loudly so that the other patrons could roll their eyes along with her. “Does this look like an herbal teahouse to you?”
Cordelia looked around the beautiful bar and restaurant. She could see the ghosts of the past lingering in corners, hidden from most people’s eyes. They interacting with each other as they had in their past lives, unaware of the real, live people that moved about the historic restaurant.
“I suppose not,” Cordelia said quietly. “Just something warm, please.”
The woman’s eyes softened. She noticed that Cordelia was dressed inappropriately for the nor’easter that had come unexpectedly off the coast.
“How ’bout a hot chocolate…on the house?” the woman offered, winking. Then she cocked her head to the side, looking at Cordelia as if recalling an old friend. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
Cordelia allowed her hair to slip down like a veil shielding her face. She’d long stopped dying her hair and the natural red curls were destined to call attention to her. She had just hoped she’d have a little more time of anonymity before people started to recognize her. “I—um—used to come in here a while back with my mom.”
Just as the bartender started to question Cordelia further, one of the burly men at the bar yelled out, “Holy shit!”
Everyone’s attention was immediately directed toward the television that hung over the bar. A news anchor was standing in front of what appeared to be a mountain of fire. The words
HAWTHORNE, MASSACHUSETTS
ran in the bar underneath the reporter.
“Turn it up,” a booming voice called from the back of the bar.
“…we’re not exactly sure how or when this five-alarm fire broke out at Ravenswood, but fire crews from four neighboring towns are desperately trying to get it under control, especially due to the close proximity to the town of Hawthorne. Residents of Hawthorne are not being asked to vacate the premises yet, but if the fire isn’t contained soon, they may be encouraged to seek shelter until the fire is under control.”
The news camera panned up and a huge blaze coming from four of the new buildings, almost as if they were synchronized, filled the screen. The original building seemed unaffected by the raging fire. It seemed to sit quietly in a gentle repose, simply watching the mass destruction surrounding it.
The news reporter seemed just as shocked when questioned by the anchors. The blond anchor asked, “Have they determined a cause for the fires? Isn’t it strange that the four newer buildings are affected, while the original building of Ravenswood Asylum seems to be largely unaffected?”
The reporter held his finger in his ear and nodded. “Yes, it’s an unusual coincidence—perhaps too unusual—that the four new buildings, which as you know have been at the center of a large controversial fight among residents of Hawthorne and the Hawthorne Historical Society, are the only buildings affected at this point.” He turned back to look at the raging inferno and pointed at the old building. “As you can see, the original Ravenswood building is not affected at all. There doesn’t appear to be any sign of fire within the main building, which is strange on many levels.”
The blond anchor perked up. “Why is that?”
The reporter nodded again, finger still stuck in his ear. “Well, I’m being told that there is no electrical wiring in the new buildings at this point and the only way that this type of fire could have broken out on such a large scale is by some form of arson. And the fact that the main building escaped the fire is a mystery to us all.”
All of a sudden, a woman came up behind the newsman, incoherently babbling. The woman was familiar, but looked as if she’d aged considerably. This couldn’t be…Cordelia almost jumped out of her chair. Was that her mother? If it was, then she was a shadow of her former self. The woman on the television screen had hollow, lifeless eyes, a gaunt face, and a dazed expression. It was like the Rebecca she had grown up with had been replaced by this changeling of a woman.
“Yes, I’m now speaking with one of the former residents of Ravenswood—a former patient—she seems to have a theory on what caused the fire,” the reporter said as he tried to keep his professionalism intact as the seemingly crazy woman continued her rant.
“It’s the curse. This is hallowed land! The spirits, they’re speaking to me and they are saying that they didn’t want this place to be built upon. This is where many women, many souls lost their lives during the witch trials. They are stuck. They—they do not want this to be a hotel. This is their home, their sanctuary, their resting place.”
Just then a woman came over and gently nudged Rebecca away from the camera, apologizing to the reporter. But Rebecca was determined to communicate with the reporter. She clung to his arm, desperate to tell him something. “Michael, your great-grandmother Ruth wants you to know that this is not her fault. She is at rest here, but she didn’t cause this! It’s the Endicott—”
The woman quickly pulled Rebecca away from the reporter. He stared openmouthed at the place where Rebecca had stood and there was silence, except for the sounds of the raging inferno behind him and the rush of authorities trying to contain the situation.
“How could she know that—?” the reporter asked, aghast, when they suddenly cut back to the newsroom.
The anchors laughed stiffly and then offered, “Well, we can see that this tragic event is affecting everyone in many different ways.”
The male anchor turned to his counterpart and said, “You know, there are many superstitions tied to Ravenswood, so maybe this will just add to the growing curiosity over the place.”
The blonde laughed and said, “Well, this is a story better suited for Halloween, don’t you think, Ron? And I suspect that plans for the Endicott Hotel will be put on hold for a while. Just another interesting chapter in the Ravenswood saga.”
Ron regained his news anchor voice and said, “News Center Six will continue to keep you up to date on this developing story. When we come back Bill Baxton will be talking about how the Celtics are doing so far this season.”
“And we’ll have some extra tips for how to keep your cash in your wallet this Christmas season.”
The two anchors continued their banter and the program cut to a commercial. Total silence had come over the bar.
“Christ almighty,” Cordelia heard someone behind her say.
She wasn’t sure what was bothering her most. The sight of Ravenswood being engulfed in flames, or the sight of her mother, looking frail and crazed, sapped of her former beauty and energy. Cordelia shot out of her chair and ran out into the cold winter night. She had to find Rebecca. And she had to make sure—at least for herself—that Rebecca had nothing to do with the fire that was threatening to destroy Ravenswood and everything surrounding it.