Once a Witch, Always a Witch

Sarah planned to arrive in Salem on Friday night, precisely forty-eight hours before the city’s Halloween festival was set to be in full swing. This itinerary allowed her plenty of time to unpack and settle in at The Wayward Witch’s Inn, located within walking distance of the wharf. It wasn’t Sarah’s first pilgrimage to one of the country’s most infamously haunted hamlets. And she didn’t plan for it to be her last.

She’d grown weary of her life, tucked away in west Tennessee. Sarah craved the freedom to dress in black, dye her hair purple, and openly carry her spell bag. She dreamt of a time and place where she could cast intentions and commune with other spiritual intuitives.

Sarah despised the patron's daily complaints about the library’s lack of new releases at the tiny library where she worked. Hello, e-books? Once, she looked forward to organizing the weekly children’s story circle. Now she could barely stand to read a children’s book aloud. After her divorce was finalized, Sarah had planned to leave town. Somehow, she’d allowed ten years to pilfer way because it was easier for her to stay than to go.

Before leaving work, Sarah stretched across the book credenza in her office to cross out the last square on the Massachusetts tourism calendar. Now, only hours remained before her flight to Boston and a ferry excursion into Salem. She looked forward to dressing in her long black dress with its lace train and hooded cape. Looked forward to the sounds of her boots’ heels hitting the cobblestone streets. This would be her tenth pilgrimage to Salem, and she couldn’t wait to pop into her favorite haunts like Nathaniel Hawthorne’s House of Seven Gables and Proctor’s Ledge.

Her assistant, Louise, interrupted her daydream sprinkled with gaslights and dark shadows. 

“Want me to make a fresh carafe of coffee, Sarah, dear, before I go?”

“No, ma’am, I’m good.”

“How ‘bout that last glazed donut before I throw the box out?”

“Goodness, no. But thanks for asking.” 

Scones and cappuccino awaited her at Witch’s Brew Cafe. A far cry from an over-roasted breakfast blend and day-old donuts.

Sarah shook her head as she examined her surroundings. A breakroom the size of a broom closet. Dusty, aged books that belonged in an antique shop, not a struggling county library.  A conference table crowded with unused desktop computers. Racks of magazines no one was interested in reading anymore. 

Why am I still here?

Silly question. Paying off her grandmother’s stack of outstanding funeral expenses since she was the only remaining family member willing to do the deed. Of course.

“How long ‘ya gonna be gone this year, Sarah?” Louise dusted around the welcome center by the door and muttered under her breath that the maple table still hadn’t been decorated for Halloween, only two days away.

Sarah heard Louise. All the way from the main desk where she’d double-checked the book scanner, one last time.

“A little more than a week, Louise. Y’all will be fine,” Sarah reassured the woman who’d been the head librarian before she kept forgetting to lock the doors each night. 

“I’ll set up some candles and crystals. Put out a couple of pumpkins. And a stack of Shirley Jackson novels before I leave.”

“Thank you, dear. Anything’s better than nothing.” Louise favored a fall wreath display with burlap bows. With middle-grade reading selections by R. L. Stine and Carolyn Keene flanking each side.

Sarah ran through the last-minute things she needed to pick up at the drug store while she watched Louise complete her laborious nightly routine. Black nail polish, eyeliner, heavy eyelashes, lavender lipstick. A lilac rinse for her hair. Though listed at the top of her to-do list, Sarah forgot to call the hotel to re-confirm her reservation.

After driving to nearby Memphis, Sarah parked in the extended-stay garage. Her Delta flight included a five-hour layover in Atlanta, but that was okay. She planned to reread John Saul’s The Blackstone Chronicles, one of her perennial favorites. Sarah barely made it to Boston Harbor in time to catch the last ferry bound for Salem. Exhausted from a day of traveling, she shoved her suitcase between two rows of seats before collapsing near a window where she could gaze at Boston’s disappearing lights as they left the city.

“Guessing you're headed to Salem?” Sarah’s eyes widened. She didn’t turn around to search for the owner of the deep voice. Instead, she busied herself with loosely braiding her long black hair, then, securing it with a ponytail clasp she found at the bottom of her handbag. 

“Sure thing,” she answered.

“What is it with you women? Obsessing over Salem at Halloween?” Sarah didn’t concern herself with matching the baritone voice with its owner, for he’d moved from the stern of the ferry to sit directly across from her.

“Don’t see how that’s any concern of yours,” she answered, avoiding eye contact. She looked over his head to see if the bar was still open, serving cocktails. It was closed.

“Just trying to be friendly. My family owns an inn near the graveyard. Name’s Will. Glad to meet you.” She didn’t return the gesture and ignored his introduction.

Instead, she asked, “Really? Which graveyard is that?”

“You know, the one everyone’s interested in, where all the witches are buried.”

No, the women hanged as presumed witches in 1692 didn’t have a proper Christian burial. The only souls laid to rest in Old Burying Point Cemetery included the likes of Judge John Hathorne who presided over the witch trials. And various other dignitaries of the time. No witches laid to rest there. 

As the hour-long ferry ride neared its end, Sarah stepped out onto the deck to admire the town’s lights as they rocked into Salem Harbor. She kept a safe distance from the water crashing violently against the ferry, noting the surf was much rougher than she’d remembered. Too early for a second high-tide. Perhaps a storm was brewing?

Mesmerized by the clapboard homes nestled into the cliffside, she admired the ones with large uncluttered windows, warmly lighted, welcoming guests to enter safely from the night. She closed her dark violet eyes and listened to the sounds of the sea. Within moments, she heard the notes of a church hymn. Then, her name, echoing from the cliffs where wave after wave pounded repeatedly.

“Sarah….”

She thought of going back inside but knew there’d be no escaping the thinly stretched voice.

“Come home, Sarah…come back to us.”

She looked over the side but kept a strong, steadfast grip on the railing. Sarah’s downward glance only lasted a second or two before Will threw open the cabin’s door and grabbed her from behind.

“What are you doing, woman? The sea’s too rough for you to be out here alone.”

He held on tightly to her and fought against the wind to return them safely inside.

“Take your hands off me, please,” Sarah yelled. “What do you think you’re doing? Let me guess, the ferry’s captain demanded that you wrestle me back inside. Is that ‘bout right?” 

“No, I was honestly concerned for you. Don’t worry, won’t happen again.”

“It better not, or I’ll be lodging a complaint.”

“You’ve come to the right place, Sarah. This town’s famous for complaints filed against innocent people.” Will took off his pea coat and shook the water from it. After wrapping a grey scarf around his neck, he sat and made no effort to disguise staring at Sarah, from the top of her dark wavy hair to the heels of her black boots. 

“That’s not the only jacket you have, is it? ‘Cause I can guarantee it’s too light for the cold wave arriving this weekend. Are you a Southerner or something?”

“Actually, I am.”

“God, help you. I’m not even going to ask your religion.” Will leaned forward, his elbows resting upon his knees. He gazed directly into her eyes, made certain she was aware of his focus. “You do know what you’re getting into, don’t you?”

“Of course. This isn’t my first visit, Will. I’ve been celebrating Halloween here for years.”

Sarah felt the ferry hit the wooden mooring, knew the anchor would be dropped in a minute or so. She grabbed the handle on her suitcase and made her way to the exit plank. While it annoyed her that Will was fast on her heels, she did take comfort in the knowledge she wouldn’t be walking alone. Will had dropped enough hints to confirm that his family owned the very same Wayward Inn where she’d planned to stay, easily within walking distance.

A beautiful fall night greeted them along the bricked and cobbled streets. Salem’s sea air swirled with an unexpected October chill as the gas street lamps added a perfect touch of warmth. Not far from where the ferry docked, closer to the heart of town than its usual daytime mooring, the inn’s black sign loomed over a shadowy Derby Street. Will didn’t speak until they were at the foot of the inn’s stone steps.

“Let me grab your bag for you,” he said as he walked in the direction of the inn’s office. 

No argument here.

“Hi, Ruth, I’ve run into a guest of yours this evening. This is Sarah…I’m sorry, I don’t catch  your last name.”

“Good. Sarah Good.”

Will looked at Sarah’s luggage tag. The name Black was boldly written in indelible ink.

Sarah watched Will’s confusion and attempted an explanation. “Black was my married name, Will. I’m divorced, so Good is my maiden name.”

Ruth looked at Will, who stared at Sarah. 

“Is my room ready?” Sarah asked. “It’s been a really long day.”

After checking for a reservation under both of Sarah’s last names, Ruth reported there was no record of a confirmed reservation.

“Did you call us back with a credit card to confirm?”

“Honestly, I don’t remember if I did or not.” Sarah lied. She knew full well she’d forgotten to take that additional step. Now, here she stood, during the most popular week of the tourist season, with no place to stay.

“Do you have a storage area, with a cot, or something similar, so I can stay until someone checks out?” Sarah fought back the tears pooling in her eyes. How could she make such an egregious error?

“No, ma’am, we simply don’t have any availability, whatsoever.”

“Can you recommend another accommodation?”

Ruth kept her eyes on Will until he returned her gaze. One eyebrow went up. Still, Will didn’t respond. “Do you want to offer it?”

“Offer what?” 

“Your boyhood room, Will.”

“Why would she want to stay there, Ruth?”

“It’s either there or she returns to Boston. The city sold out weeks ago for Halloween weekend.”

“Do you mind, Will?” Sarah asked. “I’m desperate.”

Will sighed. “Don’t expect too much, it’s not one of the inn’s nicer rooms. I’ll come by and check on you tomorrow. Take care of her, Ruth.” He took a step closer to Sarah, as though he might kiss her cheek, then thought better of the idea and stepped back.

Ruth drew up the paperwork quickly. When Sarah reached into her purse to hand over her credit card, Ruth said, “No need, Will’s not gonna let you pay to sleep in his bedroom. Put that away.”

“I have to do something to reciprocate. I can’t stay here free of charge.”

“We’ll figure something out. Sign the reservation card,” Ruth said. “Here’s your key. I’ll walk upstairs with you, see that you are settled in.”

It wasn’t until Sarah placed the key into the latch that she noticed a noose deeply scorched into the brass plate attached to the key. When she flipped the plate over, Sarah held her breath as she spotted the number 19 etched on the reverse side.

Wasn’t that the number of people hanged on Gallows Hill back in 1692? All accused of practicing witchcraft. She remembered most had protested their innocence until their final breaths. Sarah’s heart pounded as she sensed her Halloween pilgrimage taking an unexpected turn.

Ruth stayed long enough to make sure the room had been freshened. She leaned over to light the gas pilot in the fireplace grate and double-checked the bathroom before leaving. “I’ll send up fresh towels for you, I’ve no idea when they were last changed.  Sleep well. Breakfast is served at 8:30 in the main dining room. Good night.”

“Thank you so much, you’ve been incredibly kind.”

Sarah locked the door and slid the bolts at both the upper and lower edges of the door. She felt certain Will had a key to his own bedroom, so those bolts provided her additional security. What a bedroom, it was, though. A double bed with a thick, cozy plaid duvet, a beautiful hand-carved mahogany writing desk, shelves and shelves of books, and a marble fireplace, more than likely original to the house. What an incredible space to spend childhood. 

Suddenly, she felt jealous and unable to explain why. How could Will be so fortunate as to grow up with such security? Sarah wanted cozy comfort, she craved protection and adoration. Was this why she had subconsciously returned to Salem, year after year? In search of something she coveted.

A forever home, a place to fit in.

Sarah reached for her spell bag, somewhat anxiously. She hadn’t cast an intention in a long, long time. Not since the last one that had gone horribly wrong.

I need to meditate on this. 

She wondered if the kitchen was open and if she could get a glass of cognac to settle her nerves. It was quiet in the hallway when she opened the door. As she widened the door’s gap to peak out, a swift gust of wind slammed it shut, nearly hitting her in the face.

Maybe I’m not so welcome after all. She dialed the front desk.

“Is there room service this evening? I know it’s rather late, but I was looking for a cognac, or glass of wine, to settle me.”

“Ma’am, our staff has left for the evening,” Ruth said. “But there’s a fully stocked bar in the dining room. You’re welcome to help yourself to any of the spirits.”

“I’ll grab a robe, first, in case other guests are doing the same.”

“Be careful,” Ruth suggested. “The house has some strange…habits, shall we say?”

“I’ve gathered that tonight. Thanks.”

Sarah changed into silk pajamas and wrapped the ends of the matching robe around her waist. This time when she opened the door, Sarah wedged her right foot through the opening to make sure she could get out. It never occurred to her that she might not gain re-entry.

Will sat by the fire with a brandy sniffer balanced in the palm of his hand. He’d watched Sarah tiptoe through the open double doors of the dining room. Her silhouette seemed to float ahead of her entrance, nearly ghost-like in nature. He watched her movements quietly, not wishing to startle her. 

“Wow. I cannot believe this selection,” she said as her forefinger trailed the length of the variegated marble bar top with a nautical navy backdrop. She searched for a bottle of Grand Marnier and found one. After she’d splashed three fingers against four ice cubes, Sarah turned around and gasped when she realized Will had been watching her.

“What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”

“Looking at you,” he answered. 

Sarah sipped her drink before approaching the fireplace. Despite having only met him a few hours ago, Sarah felt like she’d known Will her entire life, during all of her earlier lives, for hundreds of years. She pulled a wing chair closer to him before sitting.

“This is perfect, a perfect ending to a very challenging day.” She smiled when a log shifted in the fireplace, partly because she was relieved to find it was a real-wood fire, partly because she was so glad to finally be back in Salem where she felt like she belonged. 

“Who are you?” Will asked. “I mean, really.”

“I think we’ve been over this, Will. I’m Sarah Good. I’m happy to turn the question around on you. Who are you, really?”

“William. William Good. If you know as much about Salem as you claim, you know who I am, how I defended you, and how it broke me to watch you hang more than 300 years ago.”

He let his words seep through the layers of Sarah’s consciousness. “Starting to make some sense to you?  Understand why you’ve kept coming back here, year after year, searching for something you’ve never found?”

Sarah’s cognac lasted less than ten seconds. She downed it one swallow, then exhaled deeply. “Did you recognize me? As soon as you saw me on the ferry?”

“I know your soul, Sarah. You’re not a woman who’s easy to forget.”

Sarah noticed rows and rows of rich, leather-bound books lining the bookcases. She walked to the built-ins, just to the left of the fireplace, and sought fortitude from the dying embers that crackled down to their last breaths. Is this where the entire transcript of the Salem witch trials was stored?

“If you need more evidence, I can give you the page numbers of your testimony,” he said, joining her.

“No, that’s not necessary. Apparently, I was a witch.”

When she turned to face Will, his arms encircled her tightly. When they parted, Will’s lips lightly brushed hers.

“Apparently, you still are one.”

“Now, what?” Sarah dared to whisper.

“Stay. Let’s get it right this time around.”