Page 41 of The Witch

We stare at each other across the table for a moment. It’s painfully clear that there’s nothing I can say to convince Henry that the spirit of Caroline Eldridge is haunting Pemberton. Even I have serious doubts.

Henry wipes his hands with his napkin and gets out of his seat. “I’m going to the bathroom. When I get back, we are going to have a discussion about me taking that haunted house off your hands, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree.

While he’s gone, I pull my phone out of my pocket. There’s a text from my father, asking how Gram is doing. I can’t bear to tell him the reality, so I just text back that she’s fine. Then, on a whim, I google:

How to tell if there’s a ghost in your house.

I read the list, which seems to include everything I’ve experienced. Cold spots, unexplained sounds, electrical disturbances, and it even mentions that feeling of general unease that I’ve noticed since coming to Pemberton. In one article, there’s a mention of phone apps that can be used to detect supernatural activity.

A phone app? That can’t possibly work, can it?

I feel a little silly as I browse the app store, looking for ghost-detecting apps. There are a lot of them, although several include a disclaimer warning that they are for “entertainment purposes only.” I manage to download one before Henry reappears, and I shove my phone back in my purse.

Henry is in a better mood when he returns to the table, possibly because of whatever song is playing on the jukebox. Maybe the Beatles or that band with Mick Jagger or I don’t know, and I’m afraid to even guess because I’m sure my guess will be horribly wrong.

“I’ve never known somebody my age who is so into stuff from the baby boomer era,” I comment as he slides back into the booth across from me.

He laughs. “Well, my grandparents raised me, so I got a taste for things that are a little…old-fashioned.”

I thought his old-fashioned manners were drilled into him by his mother, but apparently, it was his grandmother—makes sense. “Your grandparents raised you?”

Even though he’s the one who mentioned it, Henry looks a little uncomfortable at the question. “Yeah.”

“Well, nothing wrong with that.”

“They’re both gone now.” He frowns. “Toward the end, my grandfather was so confused. I moved in with him, just to keep him from having to go to a nursing home, but I couldn’t be there all the time, and that’s what he needed. He kept wandering away, and I was scared something would happen to him.” He picks up a french fry from his plate, then decides against eating it. “I hope this doesn’t sound forward, but when I met your grandmother, I got the sense that she’s been struggling in the same way.”

“Her memory isn’t what it used to be,” I admit. “When I was a kid, she was the most amazing cook in the world. She used to make me this grilled Muenster cheese sandwich that was the cheesiest, gooiest, most buttery sandwich I’d ever had. I still think about it.”

“Sounds good.”

“Yeah.” I sigh heavily. “Except the other day, she was trying to make me a slice of toast, and she scorched it so badly, it was black when she served it to me.”

He flinches. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, I had to unplug the stove when I left the house, to keep my grandfather from using it. It might not be a bad idea.”

He’s right. I’m going to unplug the stove as soon as I get home.

“She also calls me by the wrong name half the time,” I go on. “And she won’t change out of a nightgown unless I force her.” I look down at my plate, knowing I’ll never be able to swallow anything else around the lump in my throat. “It’s really hard to see her like this, you know?”

“I do know,” he says slowly, “And you should know that I fought with the donors to get your grandmother more money than that house is worth. It’s enough to pay for full-time care as long as she needs it. Wherever she needs it.”

My eyes snap up to his. I’m suddenly sorry that I confided in him about my grandmother. Henry isn’t a friend—he’s just a man I met yesterday, whose only goal is to take possession of our family estate. I have to be careful what I say to him.

“I’m not telling you this because I want to take her out of her home,” I say. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“Of course not.” His smile is so easy. Henry Ziegler is a charmer—I have to give him that. “No pressure, Julia. I’m just trying to give you options.”

“No pressure?” I snort.

“Look, this is a win-win situation,” he says. “If she sells us the house, your grandmother will have enough money to go to a place that will keep her safe and happy. And also, I can take that awful haunted house off your hands.”

He winks at me when he says that last part. I can’t deny that he makes some good points. Maybe the best thing we could do for Gram is to unload that property and take the offer from the museum. The offer is incredibly generous—much more than the house would be worth on the market. And although the estate wouldn’t belong to our family anymore, I would still be able to visit any time I like.

But I can’t seem to shake the feeling that even if we do accept the offer, the house won’t let itself be taken.

30