Jr. on the chair by the fire, her gaze unfocused.
“Someone sits in Grandmother’s chair across from me, even now. She is pale.”
I pretend to sweep near the main room, needing to hear Anne, Jr.’s condemnations.
I do not trust that girl. At times, she does appear afflicted, but others—I think she craves the attention. Needs it like a drunkard to his drink.
“Be it one of the Parris family?
I step into the other room, suppressing my gasp.
John’s stare is quizzical.
“What? What is going on?”
John is unable to decipher emotions. In order for him to understand someone’s anger, the person need strike him or curse him to his face.
The language of the eyes, that’s oft in complete contradiction to people’s words, is foreign to him. I am his interpreter.
My brother isn’t stupid, quite the opposite, but his inability to decipher faces left him constantly guessing, and anxious.
I sigh, wishing that the intensity of my love for him, would heal him. He feels like an immigrant, even among his own people.
“Goodwife Putnam just suggested another ! I know not what shall become of this town.”
“Aye, Goody Nurse was always kind to me. Look what happened to her.”
“No, it could not be?”
“Pray what, sister? Speak plainly.”
“The Putnams have argued with the Nurses as long as I can recall about where their land halts, and the Nurses’ begins. Do you suppose they would suggest this to Anne to influence her? To get the land?”
John shrugs. “Some people’s hearts are black as ink.”
I grin. No doubt John took considerable time working out that comparison. And practiced it.
Anne Jr.’s voice rings out, and we both turn toward the sitting area. “Yes, I do believe it was Goodwife Nurse, ma’am.”
My mouth pops open, along with the floodgate of fear.
“As I live and breathe, John. Goodwife Nurse’s breaths be numbered. No soul be safe in Salem.”
* * *
Chapter 11
Saturday, October 28th, 5:30 a.m.
Dawn was seeping through the clouds again, its filtered rays shining through a mostly overcast morning.
Truman hurriedly typed ‘ Salem Witch Trials ’ into the search engine and held his breath.
A tottering pile of books surrounded him, all on the subject at hand. He stifled a yawn.
Obsession was Ram’s diagnosis. His fingers compulsively rubbed Verity’s locket. His eyes flicked to the calendar.
Two weeks. No letters. No contact. No moon. Nothing.
If not for the bit of silver between his fingers, he’d be doubting his own sanity by now.
Sweat dampened his palms. He opened the journal to the last entry, re-reading it for the fifteenth time.
~ ~ ~
Truman…the whole town seems enchanted. People are accusing John. It’s only a matter of time ’til they come for me. I will keep checking the door. I so wish to see you again. I fear I am not long for this world.
~ ~ ~
It’d been too long since he saw her. Each day, a worried, aching need burrowed deeper into his heart like an emotive parasite.
Only one thing would halt it: to see her, touch her, know she still lived.
Each day he checked the door, and each day it stayed maddeningly closed.
The more days past, the more his anxiety mounted. He took it with him to bed and in the morning it was breathing down his neck before he opened his eyes.
Focusing on his job was insanely difficult. He preferred to be a stalker at the bridge. Then he felt he was doing something .
Over a figment of your imagination! Ram’s voice, a- gain .
His eyes flicked to the corn maze, finally finished yesterday, amidst fifty-million other duties leading up to the Fall Festival.
It was the orphanage’s most important fundraiser of the year. And here he was, hiding in his room, neglecting his chores. Like one of the bloody adolescents.
Dr. Linkler wouldn’t attend this year—the old man was having trouble walking…so they’d conference call him after it was done to discuss the proceeds.
A book slipped off his
“Someone sits in Grandmother’s chair across from me, even now. She is pale.”
I pretend to sweep near the main room, needing to hear Anne, Jr.’s condemnations.
I do not trust that girl. At times, she does appear afflicted, but others—I think she craves the attention. Needs it like a drunkard to his drink.
“Be it one of the Parris family?
I step into the other room, suppressing my gasp.
John’s stare is quizzical.
“What? What is going on?”
John is unable to decipher emotions. In order for him to understand someone’s anger, the person need strike him or curse him to his face.
The language of the eyes, that’s oft in complete contradiction to people’s words, is foreign to him. I am his interpreter.
My brother isn’t stupid, quite the opposite, but his inability to decipher faces left him constantly guessing, and anxious.
I sigh, wishing that the intensity of my love for him, would heal him. He feels like an immigrant, even among his own people.
“Goodwife Putnam just suggested another ! I know not what shall become of this town.”
“Aye, Goody Nurse was always kind to me. Look what happened to her.”
“No, it could not be?”
“Pray what, sister? Speak plainly.”
“The Putnams have argued with the Nurses as long as I can recall about where their land halts, and the Nurses’ begins. Do you suppose they would suggest this to Anne to influence her? To get the land?”
John shrugs. “Some people’s hearts are black as ink.”
I grin. No doubt John took considerable time working out that comparison. And practiced it.
Anne Jr.’s voice rings out, and we both turn toward the sitting area. “Yes, I do believe it was Goodwife Nurse, ma’am.”
My mouth pops open, along with the floodgate of fear.
“As I live and breathe, John. Goodwife Nurse’s breaths be numbered. No soul be safe in Salem.”
* * *
Chapter 11
Saturday, October 28th, 5:30 a.m.
Dawn was seeping through the clouds again, its filtered rays shining through a mostly overcast morning.
Truman hurriedly typed ‘ Salem Witch Trials ’ into the search engine and held his breath.
A tottering pile of books surrounded him, all on the subject at hand. He stifled a yawn.
Obsession was Ram’s diagnosis. His fingers compulsively rubbed Verity’s locket. His eyes flicked to the calendar.
Two weeks. No letters. No contact. No moon. Nothing.
If not for the bit of silver between his fingers, he’d be doubting his own sanity by now.
Sweat dampened his palms. He opened the journal to the last entry, re-reading it for the fifteenth time.
~ ~ ~
Truman…the whole town seems enchanted. People are accusing John. It’s only a matter of time ’til they come for me. I will keep checking the door. I so wish to see you again. I fear I am not long for this world.
~ ~ ~
It’d been too long since he saw her. Each day, a worried, aching need burrowed deeper into his heart like an emotive parasite.
Only one thing would halt it: to see her, touch her, know she still lived.
Each day he checked the door, and each day it stayed maddeningly closed.
The more days past, the more his anxiety mounted. He took it with him to bed and in the morning it was breathing down his neck before he opened his eyes.
Focusing on his job was insanely difficult. He preferred to be a stalker at the bridge. Then he felt he was doing something .
Over a figment of your imagination! Ram’s voice, a- gain .
His eyes flicked to the corn maze, finally finished yesterday, amidst fifty-million other duties leading up to the Fall Festival.
It was the orphanage’s most important fundraiser of the year. And here he was, hiding in his room, neglecting his chores. Like one of the bloody adolescents.
Dr. Linkler wouldn’t attend this year—the old man was having trouble walking…so they’d conference call him after it was done to discuss the proceeds.
A book slipped off his
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