Page 16 of Secrets in Salem: Part One

I check my hand, thinking maybe the rush of adrenaline has masked a broken wrist or some fingers at the least. There’s nothing; my hand is completely intact like it didn’t just have a collision with an oncoming car. I look at the vehicle again, and, sure enough, the handprint remains. Confusion and concern war with each other inside my mind. That's not possible. I couldn't have done that.Right?

But the evidence is right before my eyes in the perfect shape of my small hand and slender fingers. How the fuck is it possible for me to have dented acarwith nothing but myhand?

Chapter 9

Willow

Standing infront of the car, staring at my hand in alarm, I don't realize I'm being spoken to until someone grips my bicep and shakes a little. The touch is like a shock to my system despite the hand being gentle. My head snaps up, and I stare wide-eyed at the woman who almost ran me over.

"Are you okay?" she asks, checking me over with frantic eyes.

She looks genuinely worried, so I pull myself together quickly, nodding and dropping my hand. "Yeah, totally fine. It was my fault. Sorry about that."

My voice sounds distant, and I don’t sound at all okay. Before she can reply, I'm hurrying away with my hands tucked in my pockets, too freaked out to stay and apologize some more. At least she knows I’m not dead and she didn’t accidentally commit homicide. I hurry toward the library, practically sprinting along the sidewalk while simultaneously ignoring the strange looks I get from passersby.

It takes me half the time to reach the library than it normally would, my feet rushing to keep up with the racing thoughts in my head. As I breathe heavily, my body shakes and worry claws at me, my pulse thrumming in my veins much too fast to be normal.

A sigh of relief leaves me, thankful to find myself in a place where I can be alone and freak out privately. Alone time to sift through my thoughts is exactly what I need. I wouldn't be able to do it at home because Mom is a hoverer. I definitely don't need to be hovered over right now.

Taking the steps two at a time, I open the heavy door before stepping into the place that I come to at least four days a week. It's a two-story building, tranquil and relaxing. The upstairs is more of a cyber café, with computers and a small coffee bar in the corner. Downstairs is nothing but books upon books, shelves filled to the brim with an array of paperbacks.

At the front desk, Clara taps away at her keyboard, her oversized glasses sliding down her nose. Her blue and purple locks are balled into twin buns on either side of her head, a few strands framing her face where they've escaped the hair ties. Just as she pushes them back from her face, I make my way toward her. She hears me approaching, my shoes loud on the wooden floor in the otherwise quiet space.

"Hey, Low," she says with a smile before it twists into confusion. "Wait, what day is it? I could have sworn it was Friday. You don't normally come in on Fridays."

"Uh, yeah. I just needed to do some research, and Tracey's was infested," I explain, omitting my research topic. My hands are still shaking from the near collision, so I tuck them in my pockets, wanting to avoid any questions. "Anyway, can I have an access code for the internet? I have my laptop on me, so I'm going to hang out upstairs after I find the books I need."

Nodding quickly, she says, "Oh, yeah! Sure, give me a sec."

She slides her glasses back up her nose and scribbles the code down on a piece of paper before handing it to me. With a cute grin and pierced dimples, she asks, "Are you coming to the party on Saturday? A few of us are going to the old barn for a few drinks if you want to join."

I offer her a smile, though I'm sure it looks more of a grimace than anything. I'm not a party person. I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon than attend a party in Salem. It's like attending a party at a frat house, with obnoxious yelling, overdrinking, and vomiting everywhere. I'm grateful now more than ever that I'll be out of town.

"I'd love to, but I'm heading out of town on Saturday. Maybe next time?" I tell her, internally cringing because there definitely won't be a next time. Not that she knows that.

She shrugs with her smile in place. "Sure, no worries! Enjoy your research!"

It takes a lot to bother Clara, I've found. She's carefree and as laid back as any person can get. It kind of makes me feel guilty for lying to her, but I can't outright tell that cute face I'd rather choke and die than go to a party. A little white lie never hurts every now and then. In fact, one might say it's healthy for a person.

Waving, I head to the furthest corner of the library and start searching through the books, looking for ones on the devil, supernatural and paranormal shit, and even an ancient Bible to mull over. Books in hand, I rush up the stairs and to the furthest desk without a computer on it. I drop my bag at the side of the worn table and sit down heavily on the plastic chair, making it groan in protest. Breathing out a harsh exhale, I slap my hands over my face and do my best to calm down.

It doesn’t work.

I lift my hands and hold them in front of my face, glaring at them like it’ll scare them enough to give up the answers I need. A tremble shakes my fingers, my hands vibrating while the last of the adrenaline slowly drains from them. I keep watching, like I'm expecting lava to pour from them or flames to erupt from my damn fingertips. I mean, what does that say about my sanity? That I'm sitting here expectantly waiting for the impossible to happen...

But the impossibledidhappen.

I melted a handprint into the fucking car that almost hit me.

Or perhaps I only think I did. Maybe I was just seeing things? Maybe I only thought I left a handprint in the metal of that car, but it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. That doesn't excuse the burn I couldfeelin my hand. A physical pain, as though I'd stuck my hand through a scorching flame.

How can I possibly excuse that?

Chewing on my lip, I pull out my laptop and notebook from my bag. My hand grazes the metal of the knife in my bag, and a chill slithers down my spine. A lot of things aren't adding up right now. Knives don't just bury themselves into my door, weird photos don't stick themselves beneath the blade, and my hand doesn't grow hot enough to melt metal. Either I’m losing my mind, or things are getting weird here in Salem. Either option is probable.

I shake my head and set up my laptop, opening my notebook a little too quickly in the process. Photos spill over the desk and fall to the floor, landing in a heap of one disturbing image after another. Shit.

Groaning with impatience, I bend to my side, swiftly gathering the photos. As I’m picking them up, one in particular catches my attention. Burning hand and melted car forgotten, I scan the photo. A beautiful blonde woman is the prominent aspect, with gold hair that falls down to her knees in a waterfall of curls, porcelain skin, and bright blue eyes. Or eye, rather, since the other is as black as coal and only half of her body holds the glow of humanity. The right half of her body is a grotesque patchwork of red skin and charred flesh, ashes covering her arms and legs while blackened skin hangs in various places. If I were to put a mirror in the middle of the photo, one side would show a young, beautiful woman, while the other would display a horrifying being with deadened eyes and a burnt body.

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