Page 22 of Secrets in Salem: Part One

I draw nearer and Bishop moves aside enough for me to peer into the room over Willow's head. It looks like it's the only room that hasn't been annihilated. There are, however, a lot of photos. Is that...Satan? It is. Her room is decorated with various photos and depictions of the Devil. They cover every surface of the space, littered all over the floor, her bed, the dressers. Everywhere. They're even stuck to her walls like some fucked up version of wallpaper.

"What the hell is happening?" Willow whispers brokenly, the hand against her mouth beginning to shake as she loses the battle with her tears. "Who would do this? Where's my mom?"

"We'll help you figure it out, Willow," Bishop promises, dropping his hands onto her shoulders gently. She jumps anyway, sucking in a lungful of air with her shock.

Willow wipes her face on her wet clothes, ridding her cheeks of her tears, but leaving rain water in their place. She heaves out a shuddering breath before saying, "Okay. I should call the police. File a missing person report or something."

She seems to be talking to herself, stepping away from her room before walking down the short hall and to the stairs, completely bypassing my brother and me. She continues rambling as Bishop and I share a worried look.

We both hurry after her, and just as she reaches her cell phone, I ask, "Are you sure she's missing? She didn't go out and leave the door unlocked? Didn't leave a note?"

Willow blinks her stunning gray eyes at me, dropping the phone from her ear. She looks completely helpless. "My mom is anal about locking the door. She doesn't leave it unlocked when she's home, and she triple checks it's locked before she leaves the house or goes to bed. As for a note, I don’t think there is one. I don't have a text message or anything. She was waiting for me to come home, but I was out longer than I’d planned to be. I called her just after leaving the library, and she said she was leaving shortly."

Bishop takes a step closer and asks, "She hasn't left to go to the store or something?"

Willow shakes her head firmly, her eyes hardening, "She wouldn't leave without telling me unless it was an emergency. Fraya is the most protective mother ever. She's always calling me or asking me to call her to let her know I'm safe. She always tells me when she's going out or how long she'll be. I'm twenty-five, but she still treats me like I'm in need of constant supervision. She wouldn't go anywhere without at least leaving a text. Shecertainlywouldn't have left the door unlocked for someone to sneak in and do this. She may be reckless and eccentric with her own life, but she always looks out for mine."

She gestures around the room, her hand clenched tightly around her cell. I can see her body shaking still, but I can't tell if it's from the cold rain coating her, the fear, or both.

I clear my throat and walk closer to her, holding my hand out. "I'll call the police. Why don't you go grab some dry clothes? You'll get sick if you stay in those."

It's like she only just realizes she's soaked to the bone, and when she does, her shivering doubles. Once again, she surprises me and does as I ask, nodding slightly before sniffling and sucking in a breath before releasing it slowly. She pauses before turning and reluctantly asks, "Can one of you come with me? Just stand outside the bathroom or something. I don't want to be alone right now."

"I'll go with you. Come on," Bishop offers, guiding her from the living room and leading her back upstairs with a hand on her lower back.

Left alone, I hesitate before calling the police. Something doesn't feel right here, but I can't place my finger on it. There's an uneasy sensation plaguing my stomach, the Satan collage telling me this is more than someone trashing and vandalizing Willow's house.

Shaking my head, I sigh and make the call.

Chapter 12

Willow

My handswon’t stop their infernal shaking no matter how hard I try to make them. It's like a bone-chilling cold has niggled its way under my skin, and I can't get rid of it. I can't even be sure if it's the chill from my wet clothes, or if the terror I felt as soon as I stepped inside the house that has claimed me.

Walking in silence up the stairs with my arms crossed around my waist, I almost forget Bishop is standing behind me. For someone of his size, I'm surprised by how light on his feet he is. We both make it to my room and I pause, not remembering the photos that cover every inch of the room until they cross my vision. I literally can’t look anywhere without seeing Satan. The same photos I found in the envelope have been scattered on the floor, the walls, and low and behold, there are some on the ceiling. There isn't a single spot in here that isn't decorated with crude photos of the Devil. I kind of want to throw up at the sight of it all.

My jaw clenches tight, and the shaking worsens. Just as my body grows cool and clammy, an almost scalding heat appears at my back. I don’t have to turn to know Bishop has walked closer. Gently, he suggests, "You get in the shower. I'll work on removing this shit."

I don't even put up a fight. I don't have it in me.

"Okay," I answer, my voice only just above a whisper. I drag my feet reluctantly into my room, photos sticking to my wet shoes as I go. Doing my best to ignore them, I hurry my steps until I'm standing in my bathroom. For a moment, I realise I don’t have my phone with me, yet I’m in my house with two strangers. But the fear I should feel isn’t there. Like my brain knows I’m safer with them than I would be alone. I’ll go find it when I’m out of the shower, just in case.

Instead, I focus on the walls here. They’re their normal white, not a photo or spray painted sigil in sight. This is the only room in the entire house that hasn't been victimized by whoever wrecked my home. Why would they leave my bathroom as tidy as I left it this morning?

Slipping out of my shoes, I walk to the shower and turn it on, waiting for the stream of water to heat up. I strip out of my sopping wet clothes, dropping them on the floor where I stand before testing the water and stepping under the scalding spray. The cold has taken up residence in my body, so the touch of hot water stings until it slowly starts to warm my cool flesh.

Under the stream, I finally break down like I've been wanting to since I saw my ruined house and no sign of my mother. Sobs wrack my body, my chest aching while tears pour from my eyes. Catching my breath grows harder the more I think about the trashed living room, the broken photographs of me and Mom, the stained walls, and the fact that my mother is fuckinggone. Where the hell is she? Did someone take her? Is she okay? Could she really have just up and left without letting me know first? I hate having to consider that might be the truth.

The questions assault my brain with unrelenting force, crowding my head in an endless loop. Gripping my head, I tangle my numb fingers through my hair and crouch low, letting the water spray against my back while I try to control my breathing and emotions. This is not what anyone needs right now. I need to shape up, be strong, and figure out what the hell happened here. I have to know where Mom is and if she's okay. What I don’t need is a complete breakdown in the shower.

My crappy pep talk does the trick, and I take a deep breath before standing and wiping my hands roughly over my face. They come away smeared with black mascara, and I curse. How did I forget I had makeup on? Rolling my eyes at myself, I wash my face entirely, leaving it bare and clean. I follow that by rushing through my shower, rinsing away the rain and dread. With harsher motions than usual, I scrub my hair thoroughly and rinse it, taking a moment to breathe deeply before climbing out of the tub. Snatching a towel off the warm radiator, I secure it snugly around my body.

"You okay in there?" Bishop calls through the door, his voice muffled and distant as though he’s not directly outside the door but still in the room. It’s no less alluring than before. Flinching, my grip on the towel loosens, the fabric almost falling right out of my hand.

I clear my throat, trying to disguise the fact that I've been sobbing in the shower and startled. It takes me a moment to find my voice, calling back with a rasp that quietens the rods a little, "Yeah. Fine. I, uh, I don't have any clean clothes in here, so I'm going to need to come in there."

The room grows silent, so I wait a few moments before heading into my room, the door quietly sliding open. I come to a sudden stop when I see Bishop kneeling on the floor, picking up photographs and tucking them into a bag that I didn't know he’d even found. His head is tucked partly under my bed, so when he drags himself back up, he calls, "Let me know when you're ready to come out of the bathroom. I just realized you didn't take in clean clothes with you."

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