Page 13 of The Witch

“If you’re turning in for the night,” Ethel says to me, “I would suggest you lock your bedroom door.”

“Lock my door?”

“Yes.” She cocks her head to the side. “Keep your door locked at night. Just…stay in your room.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She looks over her shoulder, and for a moment, I see a flicker of fear on her face. “Just lock your door at night like the rest of us, Julia. Please. For your own safety.”

With those words, she turns around and walks down the hall. I just stare after her, gaping, until she disappears into her own bedroom.

And I hear the click of the lock.

My knees feel wobbly as I walk back to my own room with the stack of blankets in my arms. When I’m inside, I drop the blankets on my freshly made bed. Now that I’ve used the bathroom and I have the extra blankets, I really don’t need to leave the bedroom again for the rest of the night, so I close the door.

And I lock it.

I feel a little more secure now. Of course, the things I was frightened of as a child were things that could easily pass through a closed door.

It really is warm, so I push aside those coral-blue combs and store the extra blankets on top of the vanity table—I doubt I’ll need them. I shut off the lights so that only the dim moonlight illuminates the room. I wait a second for my eyes to adjust; then I climb into the double bed, impressed at how tightly Ethel was able to tuck in the covers. I practically sprain my hamstring kicking them loose.

I’m utterly exhausted from all the hours of driving. Under any other circumstances, I would have passed out the second my head hit the pillow. But the stiffness of the mattress and the shadows on the walls are enough to keep sleep from pulling me under.

And of course, the memories of what happened all those years ago.

I was nine years old. No longer a baby, but I hadn’t yet developed the cynicism of a teenager. My family was visiting Pemberton, as we did every few months, and I was lying in my bed, the covers pulled up to my neck. I had started to drift off to sleep, when I felt a strange breeze in the room that made me shiver.

My eyes flew open. But when I looked around, the windows were shut tight. There was no sign of what had suddenly made the room so frigid. I nearly climbed out of bed in search of an extra blanket, but then something stopped me: a woman’s voice, whispering in my ear.

See…see…seeeeeee…

With each word, I could feel her breath tickling my neck, like ice-cold fingertips grazing my skin. Frantically, I looked around the room, trying to figure out who was talking to me. See? What was I supposed to see?

Except there was nobody there. Just that low voice.

See…

Naturally, I ran screaming to my parents’ room. They obligingly came back to the bedroom with me, and we searched the closets and even under the bed, but of course, they found nothing. It was just a dream, Julia. Go back to sleep.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. A woman who I couldn’t see was in my bedroom, whispering in my ear. She wanted me to see something.

The next morning, when I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I had that patch of white hair on my left temple. It never went away.

I refused to ever stay in that bedroom again. Pemberton used to be my favorite place in the entire world, and now I threw a fit every time my parents told me we were visiting. Whenever they forced me to go, I would insist on sleeping in their bed, huddled safely between my mother and father—and as a teenager, I’d find a friend who’d let me spend the night while my parents made the trip alone.

After I turned eighteen, I never went back.

I’ve seen my grandmother since then, usually at my parents’ house in Connecticut, but anytime my father suggested coming out to the old house, I refused. Because what if she spoke to me again?

It’s now nearly twenty years later, and the memory of that night has grown hazy. As an adult, I recognize it’s possible that it really was a dream, like my parents said. Maybe there wasn’t actually a spirit in the room who wanted me to see something.

But even now, I don’t believe that. The voice I heard that night was real. I would bet my life on it.

See…

What did she want me to see? Was it the painting downstairs? That disembodied voice should have been a lot more specific.

I wonder how long I’ll be living here. Gram told me she was delighted to have me stay for months, if I needed to. As long as you want, Julia! God knows, the three of them look like they could use some help, and the price is right. But…