Her fingernails dug into the arms of the rocking chair. “Go on.”
“They think it was suicide. I think he was murdered.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Hazel Cove Police Department. Emma. Victor. Everyone, but Peter and me,” I said.
“Why do you think it was murder?”
That was the million dollar question. Deep in my heart I knew the answer, I knew it was murder. I just had zero proof.
I took a sip of tea. The warm liquid slid down my throat. “Bradley would never kill himself. Things aren’t right and they haven’t been for a while. I can sense it… it’s hard to explain, but something’s going on. I’m sure of it.”
“What do you sense?”
“I don’t know.” That was the truth.
“Hmmm.” Grandma Claudia leaned back in her chair. The lines around her mouth were carved deep into her skin. “You still haven’t explained to me how you found out about Ethan.”
“I told you that I saw his tombstone in the cemetery.”
“So what? There are lots of tombstones in the Hazel Cove Cemetery. How did you know where Ethan’s tombstone was in the first place? Or that the name, Ethan Longfellow, meant anything?”
I twisted my emerald ring around my finger. I made a mental note to bring Peter with me from now on. Grandma Claudia was tough.
I decided to give her the edited version. “I’ve had this horrible, recurring nightmare where I’m in the Hazel Cove Cemetery. It always ends with me at Ethan’s tombstone. After Bradley’s funeral, we were walking through the cemetery and I guess I wanted to prove to myself that it was only a dream. So Peter and I went to explore.”
“Go on,” she said.
“I led us straight to Ethan’s tombstone, even though I’d never physically been in that part of the cemetery. It looked exactly as it did in my dream.”
Grandma Claudia opened her mouth and then shut it. She opened it again. “There’s more that I need to tell you.”
“More?” I asked. “How could there possibly be more?”
“There is, trust me. Please hear me out, because I think this might explain your nightmares.” She looked at me with a peculiar expression. “We—meaning the Ross Family—can trace our lineage all the way back to Europe. Over the years, we’ve discovered that some people in our family have special talents.”
“Talents?”
“Have you ever heard of those stories where people claim they had a feeling that something was going to happen to them? For example, they took a different route to work and the highway they usually take becomes the scene of a horrific twenty-car pileup. A type of intuition, if you will. Some people have flashes of this intuition, maybe once or twice in their lives, and others never have it. However, there are some people who always have it. They have the ability to use their brain in ways that most people could never imagine.”
“Like a sixth sense?”
“Something like that. Some people believe this ability is caused by a specific inherited gene. The gene can skip a generation, but then show up in the next. Like a recessive trait. Are you following me?”
I nodded. I had no idea where she was going with this, but she’d piqued my interest.
“Do you know anything about our ancestors?”
“Obviously not,” I said bitterly. I didn’t know anything about my family’s past at all, heck, I’d just found out Victor wasn’t my real father.
Grandma Claudia ignored my comment. She rose from her rocking chair. “Come with me, I’d like to show you something.”
I followed her out of the living room, through the hallway, to the kitchen. She unlocked and opened the heavy door to the basement. Holding the railing, she descended the cement steps.
“You want to show me something down there?” I asked.
I hated her basement. When we were kids, Peter and I pretended a fire-breathing dragon lived down there. We would press our ears against the door and listen for any sign that it was awake. A groan from the furnace would send us running for our lives.
Grandma Claudia flicked on the light switch. “Come, Alexandria. There are no monsters.”
I knew this was a bad idea, but I obediently followed.
The basement was windowless and cold. A washer, dryer and folding table were arranged at the bottom of the landing. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stocked full of cans, jars and other nonperishables. Boxes of Grandma Claudia’s old textbooks were piled on a broken desk. Years ago, she was a professor of Medieval Studies at Boston College.
That was it. Nothing I hadn’t seen before.
Grandma Claudia smiled at the uncertainty on my face. “Follow me.”
Cardboard boxes were stacked five feet high against the wall underneath the staircase. She grabbed the top one and placed it behind her.
“Which one do you want?” I asked.
“None,” Grandma Claudia said. “Please help me move them out of the way.”
I lifted a box. It was empty. They all were. A wall of empty boxes. Grandma Claudia didn’t say anything. Once the boxes were cleared, she ran her hand over the wall. Wrinkled fingers moved up and down, groping the smooth surface, searching. Her hand stopped over some indiscernible spot. She pushed against the wall and a door opened.
She waved me in. “The Ross family left East Lothian, Scotland in 1625. They wandered down to England, boarded a ship and headed to the New World. They settled in Hazel Cove in 1628.”
I followed my grandmother into her secret room. It smelled of old books and stale air. The room was small, but packed to the brink. Shelves filled with old books lined two of the walls. A large wooden table in the center of the room took up most of the space. Across from the doorway where I was standing, was a shrine. Cluttered together on top of an altar were candles of all sizes, picture frames, dried flowers and herbs.
“Grandma, what is all this?”
She hesitated. “Do you know the history of Salem, Massachusetts?”
“Salem? No.” Wow. She was all over the map tonight.
Grandma Claudia frowned.
I cleared my throat. “What history are you referring to? I know about the Salem Witch Trials. I read The Crucible.” I watched her reaction. It hit me. “Witch trials? Our ancestors were involved in the Salem Witch Trials?”
Grandma Claudia waved her hand in the air, dismissing my comment. “No, no, no.”
“I’m lost,” I admitted.
“Our ancestors were already settled in Hazel Cove during the Salem Trials of 1692. What you probably don’t know is essentially the same thing was happening in Hazel Cove.”
“There were witch trials in Hazel Cove?”
“Not so much the trial part.”
My head was swimming. Grandma Claudia was talking in circles. The small altar was freaking me out. The pictures were of Emma, Aunt Vanessa and me. It was all way too strange. I wanted out of here.
“Witch hunts were a common occurrence all over Europe during that time,” Grandma Claudia said. “For centuries, thousands were wrongly convicted of witchcraft. Here in Massachusetts those convicted were hanged without any chance of a fair trial. Their fates were sealed by horrible men—witch hunters—who murdered in God’s name. What you don’t know and what no one really knows is… there was a bit of truth to that terrible piece of history.”
I waited for her to connect the dots for me.
“Witches,” she said.
“What?”
“Witches.”
“Are you honestly trying to convince me that there were real witches in Salem?” I bit my lip. She was crazy. Maybe Grandma Claudia spent too much time alone. Maybe she’d lived in Salem too long.
“I don’t know if there were real witches in Salem,” Grandma Claudia said. “I can only assume there were. However, I do know there were real witches in Hazel Cove.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“One becomes wise with age, Alexandria, so let me give you some advice. Rumors often contain a shred of
the truth.” Grandma Claudia’s emerald eyes were wild now. “Innocent people died in Salem, but the idea behind the witch hunts wasn’t completely unfounded. The real witches were too clever and too cunning to ever be suspected, let alone caught.”
“You’re telling me that in the midst of the witch hunt hysteria, there were real witches? Lying in the shadows while innocent people were persecuted? In Hazel Cove?” I could hear the doubt in my own voice.
“Yes.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t sure if there was anything you could say to that.
“And they were your ancestors,” Grandma Claudia said.
She was crazy. Absolutely nuts. She probably would’ve been committed if anyone heard her ridiculous story. I couldn’t believe I stayed here, listening to her wild stories, waiting for her to tell me something useful, and she tells me our family descends from a line of witches.
Unbelievable.
Grandma Claudia’s face was calm. She went to the bookshelf, bending to read the titles on the bottom. “That’s why you’ve been feeling strange recently. All the nightmares, the thoughts, maybe even other things already. Can you move stuff with your mind yet? Shatter objects with your thoughts?”
I lowered my eyes to my boots.
“Anyhow, you are starting to experience these abilities because you’re seventeen. You have one more year until you are fully developed.”
Shattering objects? Hadn’t I broken a mirror and a lightbulb recently? And what about the Megan Lackey nightmare? It was more of a reenactment of her death than an actual dream. I saw what she saw. My mind rummaged through all the odd occurrences that had happened over the last few weeks.
Whoa. What was I doing? I couldn’t let her crazy talk manipulate me like this.
Grandma Claudia pulled out a worn leather bound book and placed it on the table. “It was the same for me and Aunt Vanessa, but it skipped your mother for some reason.”
“Emma knows about all this?”
“She thinks I’m delusional.”
Emma wasn’t too far off the mark. I immediately felt guilty for thinking such mean things about my grandmother. It was obvious she needed professional help. I wonder if Dr. Cooper knew anyone in the mental health field.
“I showed this to Emma,” Grandma Claudia waved her hand around the room. “But it did nothing to change her opinion.”
“Is that what these are? Spell books?”
“Some.” Grandma Claudia handed me the worn book. “Research books. Genealogy. Journals. Reference books.”
The leather was smooth and soft to the touch. I flipped through the pages. They were blank. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you to write in it.”
“Like a journal?”
“Exactly,” Grandma Claudia said. “I want you to write whenever something happens to you—these nightmares and anything else that physically or mentally happens. Record the experience. Write what you feel. What you’re thinking. Everything. You don’t have to write in the journal every day, only when you feel it’s necessary.”
The bottom two rows of shelves were full of leather bound journals. “Are those…?”
Grandma Claudia nodded. “Mine. Vanessa’s. Most of your ancestors, dating back at least six hundred years. Valuable information. You are welcome to read any of them, including mine, whenever you want. It’s comforting to know that what’s happening to you has happened to others. Perhaps you won’t feel so alone.”
The journal felt light in my hands. “Um, thank you.”
“There was a great chance you would be a witch,” Grandma Claudia said.
I flinched at her confidence. “Why?” I couldn’t believe I was participating in this conversation.
“Because of Ethan Longfellow.”
“Ethan?” I let out a long sigh. I needed to leave. This was too much. My head ached. I pinched the top of my nose to relieve the pressure.
“The Longfellows are like us. They came from London around the same time as our family.” Grandma Claudia glanced at the bookshelf. “There were four witch families during the early days of Hazel Cove. Our family, the Longfellows and two other families.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’ll tell you that story another time, but please realize that both of your parents descended from those family lines of Hazel Cove witches.”
“And that guarantees….” I couldn’t finish my own sentence.
“Pretty much. Your abilities, they…. Well, I am anxious to see what they’ll be like next year.”
I was speechless.
“The necklace I gave you,” she reached into her shirt and pulled out an identical silver chain with the ‘R’ charm. I’d never noticed it before. “Vanessa has one as well.” She patted it and put it back inside her shirt. “Don’t worry. It’s not a talisman or anything special. Only the family’s crest.”
This was all too weird. I had to get out of here. “I think I’m going to go.”
“Are you upset?”
“I don’t know what to think. It’s a lot to digest. I just found out Victor isn’t my real father and then all this other stuff….” I waved my hand at her and the books and the strange altar. “I need to go home.”
I didn’t want to talk to her for a long time. She was crazy or I was crazy. Either way, these weren’t the answers I was searching for.
“Very well. I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Grandma Claudia said with confidence. “When that time comes, we’ll have much to discuss.”
Chapter Eighteen
I soon came to the conclusion that home was exactly what I did not need.
Emma was out. Mya had the day off. Victor was in Vermont. After ten minutes of being alone in that big empty house with all Grandma Claudia’s stories fluttering around in my head, I decided to leave. I definitely wasn’t taking the bus again. I stole the keys to Victor’s Rolls Royce.
The anticipation of telling Peter what Grandma Claudia had told me was too much. Peter was working at the docks until ten o’clock, but I couldn’t wait. I had to see him. I needed Peter to convince me that everything was going to be okay. I wanted to cuddle with him on the couch and forget about cemeteries, nightmares, tombstones, dead bodies and murdered fathers.
So, I headed east. Once I was on the highway, it started snowing again. If I was such a high and powerful witch, you’d think I’d be able to chant a spell and make myself a better driver. I gripped the wheel with both hands and eased up on the gas pedal. The roads were already slick from the snowstorm that hit a few days ago. I couldn’t get into another accident. Victor would kill me if I crashed the Rolls.
I called Peter to tell him I was on my way, but my call went straight to voicemail.
I tried to focus on the road, but I couldn’t help thinking about my conversation with Grandma Claudia. Was she crazy? The funny thing was I completely believed everything she told me about Ethan. As soon as she’d said Ethan was my father, I knew it was true. It was all the other stuff that I couldn’t swallow. Did she really think I was a witch?
Then there was the whole dad issue. How could everyone have kept such a big secret from me? Victor wasn’t my real father. Even saying it sounded funny. The more I processed the fact, the more it explained things. Victor and I looked nothing alike. We acted like complete strangers. He was always distant and cold toward me. Maybe he resented me? Emma loved Ethan more than she ever loved Victor. I was living proof of that. From that perspective, I kind of felt bad for Victor.
I turned off the exit ramp and onto a poorly lit side street littered with industrial buildings and abandoned factories. I pulled into the shipping bay. Docks lined the beach side of the two-lane road. Giant warehouses with numbers painted on the roofs indicated the pier number. A boardwalk ran the length of the shore in between the piers and the corresponding warehouses.
I never came here. Peter forbade me from visiting—he said it wasn’t safe. Consequently, I couldn’t remember whether Peter work
ed at Pier 12 or Pier 14. I parked behind the giant warehouse with the red 13 painted on the tin roof.
Lucky 13.
Peter’s truck was in the parking lot. At least I was in the general vicinity. Another car pulled in behind Pier 14, but there was no sign of anyone else. No workers, no bums, nothing.
I grabbed my bag and pulled my hood over my head. The snow fell as I walked through the narrow alley between Pier 13 and Pier 14. The heavy odor of fish lingered in the air. Crates were stacked against the warehouse. Trash littered the ground. I could see why Peter didn’t want me down here.
I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.
Naturally, I whirled around to see who it was.
Two men were behind me. They were in their mid-twenties and both were wearing worn jeans, combat boots and dingy old jackets. The larger man’s head was shaved. He had a tattoo on the side of his neck—something written in cursive. The other man, who was taller, but much thinner, had long greasy hair and patches of stubble on his cheeks.
My gut immediately told me these two were shady characters.
I turned back around, trying to appear calm, and quickened my pace. I was only a hundred feet from the boardwalk. I could make it.
“Where you going, honey? We were just coming to say hello,” a deep voice said from behind me.
Crap.
The other man laughed.
“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing down here?”
I risked a glance over my shoulder. The men increased their pace. This was not good, not at all. I was thirty feet from the boardwalk. The alley was dark. The only light was from the lamps on the boardwalk, but even those illuminated a weird orange tint.
The snow continued to fall. The wind whipped the snowflakes in all directions.
I could hear their footsteps. The gap between us was rapidly diminishing. I reached into my bag for my cell phone. I felt my keys, wallet, lipstick, tissues, and a pen—everything but what I needed. Did I leave my cell phone at home? No, I’d called Peter when I was driving. I must have left it in the car.