Page 2 of Secrets in Salem: Part One

"I'll be stealthy. Real ninja-like," he assures, confident as ever in all things he does.

Max Freeman is the most charismatic kid I've ever known. He lives life with a smile on his face, an easy going outlook, and always has a good word to say about anyone. His mom, Cassie, is also one of the good ones.

Newly divorced, pregnant, and raising one rambunctious kid on her own, she didn't hesitate to offer eighteen-year-old me a job babysitting a three-year-old Max when she heard I was searching for work. Miss Molly came along three months after I was hired, and we've all been thick as thieves ever since. Cassie regularly asks me to watch Max and Molly, sometimes inviting me over just for us all to spend time together. I think she enjoys the company and likes to know the kids are with someone safe who thinks the world of them. They're like a second family to me, and I adore them to pieces.

"Alright, Ninja Gomez. Where's your sister?" I ask, looking around for the spritely redhead who I'm pretty sure hung the moon. At least that's how I look at her. These kids have me so wrapped around their fingers that it's almost laughable.

"She's sick. She wanted to come trick or treating, but Mom said she had to stay in bed," Max says, sounding truly upset for his younger sister. Their bond is one I wish I’d had with a sibling as I grew up. He always looks out for her, and she always looks up to him. It’s beautiful. As it was, being an only child who was homeschooled until she was twelve followed by finding out at sixteen that she was adopted? Well, that doesn't really offer a person that kind of opportunity. But it’s fine. I have Max and Molly, Cassie, my best friend, and Mom. That’s family enough for me.

"Well, how about you use your ninja-like stealth to sneak more candy for Molls instead? I'm sure I can go to the store for mine."

He nods like I gave him the best idea ever. "That's good. I'll do that. I'll try and sneak some chocolate for you, though."

"Thanks, Maximilian," I tell him with a smile. I pull him in for a hug, his head reaching my chin since he grows too fast and I only stand at five foot four. He returns the hug with a tight squeeze and lets go just as someone calls his name.

"I best get back to my friends. They're waiting to go to Mrs. Elderman’s because she has-"

"-The best candy. I know. Go have fun, squirt,” I finish, ruffling his spray painted black hair.

He gives me a grin and turns around to run off, calling, "I'll see you on Sunday!"

In seconds, he’s surrounded by kids in costumes, and I laugh when I hear muffled voices of excitement before they move on.

Taking off toward my destination once more, my eyes scan the sky. It’s already started to fade to a deep navy blue, stars speckling the expanse while the moon glows big and bright. If I look closely enough, it almost appears like there’s a glow pulsing around it.

I shake my head and hike my bag further up my shoulder, tucking my hands into my coat pockets and heading off toward Hollow Grove. The closer to the woods I get, the quieter my surroundings become, only the sounds of nature surrounding me. Children don't come here, warned by their superstitious parents about the woods that contain vicious monsters. It's ridiculous, but at this moment I'm glad for the peace and quiet while the trees rustle in the wind, fallen leaves scattering across the floor when the breeze grows stronger.

I shiver when a lick of air tickles my neck, the wind cooler here for some reason. It's been that way for as long as I can remember, but I've never received a logical response when I've wondered why. It's always monster-related, something to do with demons or witches cursing the land. It's utter nonsense, but it's the only reasoning I've been given.

Ignoring the fabled tales told to me as a child, I button up my jacket, brushing over where it flares at my waist. I pull up my black tights and brush a spot of mud off my black suede boots, take a deep breath, and make my way into the woods. My footsteps remain steady, even when an owl hoots from a branch above and the air growls chillier the further into the dark forest I go.

Chapter 2

Willow

Once Iget over my irrational fear of the woods, it doesn't seem so scary. I mean, the trees loom ominously over my head, and the wind sends shivers down my spine, and the scurrying of little animals racing through the foliage is nerve-wracking… Well, it's still a scary place to be, but I keep my cool. I pretend as though I'm taking a leisurely stroll through the park or something, ignoring the creaks and groans of old trees and the snapping of twigs behind me.

The walk is lengthy. I forgot how large the woods is before, but now that I'm in the depths of it, surrounded by looming trees, it feels never-ending. What feels like an hour later but can only be about twenty minutes, I find myself coming to an uneven gravel path that leads to old cracked stone at the opening in the woods I’ve been looking for.

I hurry my pace, walking until I can see the starry night sky above and the moon visibly hanging in all its glory without a single tree to obstruct the view. The light from the moon beams down onto an ancient moss-covered fountain that lays fifteen feet away from the very large willow tree named the Wicca Tree. This very tree has been known to have protective properties, making it the safest thing to be near when messing with things that are better left alone. I'd have done this in my bedroom, but Mom insisted I come here if there was no talking me out of my stupid plan.

The cracked stone travels all around the Wicca Tree, leaving only a small gap filled with earth surrounding its trunk. There are several stone benches placed evenly around the tree, aged and cracked, but sturdy enough to sit on without fear of them crumbling to dust. I think.

I walk steadily to the bench that looks least likely to break the moment my ass touches the surface of its seat, dropping my bag onto it carefully. Just in case. I kneel, open my bag, and pull out the contents I'd gathered for tonight: five large white candles, matches, a stick of chalk, and a photograph of the woman that I've been told is my biological mother.

That was a tough pill to swallow. I remember the day I found out like it was only yesterday. I was interested in my family tree, keen on finding out where Mom and I originated. It fascinated me, and I was desperate to know about my ancestors. Only, it turns out my branch didn't belong to the same one my mother came from.

At age sixteen, I found out I had been adopted at the age of six, though I don't remember a time before then. My mom told me I'd been in foster care for six years after my biological mother put me into the state’s care as a baby, never having a home that stuck. They always returned me to the children's home. Again, I have no knowledge of this ever happening, so much so that I thought Mom was playing a horrible joke on me. After some convincing, she took me to a doctor so we could understand where those memories had gone. It just so happens that the brain is a peculiar thing.

A child begins to remember at the age of three to four. Based on that logic, I should have at least two years worth of memories of my time in care, but it's just…blank.The mind also has the ability to protect itself from traumatizing memories. It blocks out memories as a defense mechanism so as not to overwhelm or break a person. At least, that's what the doctor told me. That my brain was protecting me from memories that were bad enough that even my own mind didn't believe I'd survive them.

Anyway, when I asked Mom about my biological parents, she could only give me the photo of a woman who looked a lot like me. Pale eyes that I'm assuming are probably a shade darker than mine and the same dark hair, though hers has a soft curl to it. The woman in the photo has the same small button nose, sharp cheekbones, and full lips as me. It's undeniable that this woman is the one who birthed me. And she’s dead. Or that’s what my mother told me. When I asked about my father, however, Mom shut down the conversation. I pushed for answers until one day she snapped and yelled at me for the first time, throwing an empty bowl onto the floor in anger. I never asked again, deciding that knowing what my biological mother looked like was enough.

Carefully, I ease the old ouija board from my bag next, putting it down gently onto the ground beside me. I let my jacket slide off my shoulders, folding it neatly and placing it on the bench before standing. Brushing my hands down my form-fitting black dress, I follow the action by tugging on the sleeves to straighten them. My necklaces jingle loudly as I move, clicking against one another as I bend to retrieve all five candles and the chalk.

Arms full, I move to an empty space between the rustic fountain and the dilapidated benches, setting the candles gently on the ground. Chalk in hand, I go about drawing a pentagram on the ground. The lines aren't perfect thanks to the haggard stones, but it's good enough. I position the candles at every point before going back to retrieve the matches, board, and photograph.

I lower the ouija board into the very middle of the pentagram, planting the photograph in front of it with reluctant movements, eyes roaming over the face of the woman I wish I’d known. With everything in place, I strike a match and light each candle before settling on the ground on my knees in front of the board. The set-up is entirely overdramatic in my opinion, but when I searched how to properly conduct a conversation with the deceased, this is what I was told to do. If I want any chance of this actually working, then I'll do what it takes.

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