Page 99 of The Witch

When I emerge from my bedroom, fully dressed, I discover Gram standing in the hallway, looking lost. She’s wearing another nightgown, and her hair looks unkempt. I’ve been coaxing her into the shower daily, but her hair is impossible to tame.

“Gram,” I say, “how would you like to go for a haircut this afternoon?”

My grandmother’s face lights up, which makes her look younger—the way she looked when I was a little girl. “Oh, yes!”

By the time I help her back into her room and select some clothes for her to wear, I’ve got less than a minute until Dixon arrives. I hurry downstairs to find Ethel sitting calmly on the sofa, her hands and legs both folded. She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Of course, she didn’t find a pair of muddy footprints outside her door in the middle of the night.

“Julia.” Ethel’s lips twitch slightly when I walk into the living room. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send a rescue party after you.”

I can’t even manage a response. She appears to have no idea how much help her sister requires every morning.

My gaze briefly falls on that painting of Archibald and Molly Eldridge. That was where Dixon found the most paranormal activity on that weird meter thing of his, so that’s where he put the recorder. As I stare at the painting, it feels like Molly is staring right back at me, mocking me with her eyes.

She is the one responsible for Caroline’s death. If Caroline is haunting this house, it’s because of her.

Not to mention the fact that the bone we found in the backyard is still up in my bedroom.

A loud knock on the front door pulls me from my thoughts. I whip my head in the direction of the sound, but it’s Ethel who gets to her feet and goes to answer it. I follow close behind.

Alistair Dixon is standing at the front door, his duffel bag full of ghost hunting supplies swung over one shoulder, his forehead creased. He almost seems reluctant to come inside.

“I…I can’t stay long.” He actually looks like he’s ready to take off at any moment. “But I need you to listen to this recording.”

“Why don’t we sit down in the living room?” Ethel suggests.

“Not the living room.” He casts a worried glance at the room where the recorder was picking up sounds for the last week. “The kitchen will be fine.”

The three of us go into the kitchen, and Dixon lays his phone down in the center of the table while the lights above us flicker. He taps on the screen a few times, while I wait, my stomach fluttering.

“I used an app to enhance the sounds I heard,” he says. “Obviously, a lot of it was your own conversation. And some of it was just white noise.” He pauses, squinting down at the screen of his phone. “The most activity was at night.”

With those words, he hits a button on his phone. The sound we hear is a bit staticky, but it doesn’t sound like anything abnormal. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking like it is right now in the other room. I look up at Dixon questioningly, and he holds up one finger, indicating that I should wait.

Then the ticking abruptly stops. Instead, there’s another rhythmic sound. It almost sounds like…

Hoofbeats.

“What the hell?” I breathe.

“There’s more.” Dixon taps on his phone a few more times. “Okay, now listen.”

And now I can hear that same voice that I heard the first night I stayed here. The woman sobbing. It must’ve been quiet, but at this moment, it seems to fill the room. And then I can just barely make out a single syllable:

No.

And then:

Stop.

Dixon peers up at us, his leg bouncing under the table. “Was this either of the two of you speaking? Or anyone else in the house?”

Ethel and I exchange looks. I shake my head, and she does the same.

“Are you sure?” he presses us. He almost looks like he hopes the answer is yes.

“It wasn’t us,” I say weakly. “And it definitely doesn’t sound like my grandmother.”

“Anyway,” he says, “there’s more.”