Page 43 of The Witch

“And be careful,” she says. “You know Caroline’s ghost is up there.”

Those are definitely not the words I wanted to hear before entering the scary attic of this three-hundred-year-old house. But I’ve got the key in my hand now. I need to see what’s up there.

The first thing I do is check to make absolutely sure Ethel is actually gone. Her car is no longer in front of the house, and when I call out her name a few times, there’s no reply. Mick is doing work out in the grounds in back of the house, although when I look, he seems to just be standing there absently, holding a rake in his right hand and scratching his head like he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Yesterday morning I found the lawn mower to give the grounds a much-needed trim.

The house feels so strangely quiet with everybody out and the grandfather clock having stopped. I creep up to the second floor, instinctively trying to be quiet, even though the house is nearly empty. As I stand at the foot of the steps to the attic, I realize that the stench from the other night is gone. It was so overpowering, I could barely breathe, but now the air just has that same dank odor as in the rest of the house.

Once again, I make my way up the witches’ stairs to the attic door, clinging to the railing the whole time. It’s a relief when I get to the top, and there is no ethereal glow coming out from under the door. The rotting smell hasn’t resurfaced either.

I look down at the necklace of keys in my hand. I need to be quick about this. I don’t know when Ethel will be home, or if my grandmother will start looking for me. At some point, I assume she’ll put it together that I am not, in fact, her eighty-year-old sister.

So I pick out one of the keys and fit it into the lock to the attic door.

31

1692

CAROLINE

I am under arrest?

For witchcraft?

“Surely this cannot be true!” Archie is the first to speak up, a distressed look on his features. I am gladdened that despite his prior accusations, he recognizes the folly in this arrest. “Caroline is not a witch!”

“I am afraid there are many charges laid upon her.” Strickland has a look of satisfaction on his face as he delivers this piece of information. “We must seize her forthwith for the safety and good of our township.”

And then, from within the depth of his black cloak, the deputy pulls out a pair of manacles much like the ones snapped on Jonas Reeve’s wrists last night. That is when I start to panic.

“I will not go!” I cry. “This charge is preposterous!”

As the word leaves my mouth, it occurs to me that I said the same thing about Hitty Atkins. And now she is dead.

“You may join us by your own accord, or we shall escort you against your will.” He licks his lips at the idea of the latter. I remember the way he eyed me at the jailhouse and shudder. “But mark ye well, it will be a blow against you if you do not cooperate.” Then he adds, “Hitty Atkins did not cooperate.”

The idea that poor Hitty had to be taken by force out of her home is enough to make me physically ill, if I were not already.

“Archie,” I beseech my husband. He is a man of great fortune and has much influence in this town. Perhaps Hitty did not have anyone to save her, but I am far better connected. “Pray, you will not permit him to take me to the jailhouse, will you?”

“Of course I will not permit this!” he bellows, and I am heartened that he supports me even though I lied to him earlier.

“Mr. Eldridge,” Strickland says, “if you do not allow us to take her, we can seize your entire property.”

Archie blinks as if he has not considered such a thing. Pemberton was his far before we were man and wife—it is the home his parents built. His shoulders sag.

“You must go with him, Caroline.” Archie’s voice is low but resigned. “If you are innocent, it will be proven in the courtroom.”

I stare at him. “If I am innocent? Do you reckon I might be a witch? Tell me you know that is not true!”

Archie hesitates. It is brief, but I catch it. After being married for three years, you grow to know a person very well. “Of course you are innocent. And we will demonstrate your virtue during the trial.”

At least he said the right things. But it does not change the fact that I am being pulled from my home in the middle of the night to be taken to the town jail.

“Extend your hands, Mistress Eldridge,” Strickland instructs me.

I do as he tells me, and he snaps the pair of rusty metal shackles onto my wrists. He makes them tight enough that they bite into my skin. I wonder if these are the same manacles that encircled Jonas Reeve’s wrists yesterday when he was marched to the jail.

I wonder if Reeve is still in the jail cell. I heard that his crimes are great enough that he will be moved to Boston for his trial, but he may very well still be there when I arrive. The thought of being near him—even in the same building—is enough to make my skin crawl.