Page 27 of The Trouble With Spells
He stared at me for a long minute, a strange look on his face. “I never thought of it like that but it makes sense in a way.”
“Salem is still full of witches, Michael,” I chuckled, waving an arm towards all the many storefronts. “You can’t turn around without bumping into something witchy.”
He opened his mouth to protest, and I cut him off. “Did you honestly think it was all for show, for tourists, to make money? That’s just smart business cashing in on what is right in front of everyone’s noses. Macy is about to get started.”
Macy started her welcoming, well memorized speech, playing up on pointing out that she was a witch (she wasn’t), and introducing me. People always got weirdly more excited when I joined her and she introduced me as witch Callum. Male witches tended to be looked on as an oddity. She then explained once more what the tour would consist of, because even though it was spelled out on the website when people signed up and bought tickets, there was always someone who forgot what they read.
The tour would last about two hours, and we would be stopping at the famed Witch’s House, Howard Street Cemetery, which was noted to be one of the most haunted cemeteries in the town. We’d breeze by the haunted Ropes Mansion, which was used in the filming of the movieHocus Pocus, and would then have the most time to spend at the Witch Trial Memorial. We would end up back here where we started. There was some grumbling when people realized the Witch’s House was closed to tourists, but Macy told them with a smile what the museum's hours were and where theycould buy tickets.
Michael was mostly quiet on the tour, listening to Macy intently, and taking in the sights like he’d never seen them before. It was possible he hadn’t, not really. He had said he had never been that interested in our town’s history, and had likely never bothered to pay any attention to any of the famous sights. A lot of locals tended to avoid the higher traffic tourist spots if they could.
When we got to the Memorial, people milled around, some taking pictures, while others asked questions of Macy.
I placed a flower on one of the benches that had been built inside the perimeters, reading the name inscribed, along with the execution date. Even though I had them all memorized.
“She’s very knowledgeable,” Michael commented, his voice low and quiet.
Moving to the next bench, I placed another flower, and Michael followed, reading each bench as we moved down the line. “She was a history major in college. Did her thesis on the witch trial. She’s probably forgotten more about Salem than I ever knew.”
Michael looked around the memorial, at the handcrafted granite walls that surrounded three sides, at some of the flowers and trinkets that had been placed on the benches by other visitors. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. It’s surprisingly peaceful. I feel like I saw a sideof Salem I’ve never bothered seeing before. It’s really very interesting.”
“It is peaceful here,” I agreed with him, placing my last flower. “No ghosts or ghouls hiding out. It’s one of my favorite places to come to.”
He took my hand in his now that I had deposited all my flowers, and brushed a stray lock of my hair off my forehead. “Do you think we could maybe take one of the other tours before…before your family returns? I’d like to see some of the other famous sights.”
“We could do that,” I agreed, “if you want.”
The tour was heading out, and I gently prodded a couple who were still meandering around, taking pictures, so we could finish up for the night.
“This concludes the 1692 Witchy Walking Tour.” Macy’s voice was loud and clear at the front of our group, as we came to a stop in front of Turner’s Seafood at Lyceum Hall. These Turners were no relation to me, but the building was rumored to be haunted. Regardless, it had been built on what had at one time been Bridget Bishop’s apple orchard, one of the innocent people executed in the famous witch trials. I figured if anyone was going to haunt the place it was probably Bridget, and not the rumored tavern owner.
“Thanks for being with us tonight,” Macy continued to engage the crowd, “and please leave us a review if you enjoyed yourself. If anyone would like to book a tarot cardreading with Callum, he has his calendar with him, and any tips are appreciated but not expected. I’ll be here for fifteen minutes to answer any questions you may have on anything we saw tonight.”
A handful of people came over to me, interested in booking readings during their stay in town. Ready with my calendar open on my phone, I booked them in and took down their information.
“Is the food good at Turner’s?” One woman asked, as the few stragglers from the restaurant filed out and they locked the doors behind them. Turner’s closed at nine, as did more than a handful of restaurants in Salem.
“It is,” I nodded, then lowering my voice, I whispered, “it's haunted. If you eat there you might get lucky and catch sight of the ghost.” This tour participant had asked endless questions about ghosts and the haunted buildings. I figured she’d love the possibility of being able to see a ghost in person.
The one time my family had eaten there, nothing supernatural had been going on. It had been a very nice, ghost-free evening.
The crowd finally started to disperse, but Macy was still answering questions for a few lingering folks. I collected some tips from a few people heading off to finish their evenings with a smile and a polite thank you.
Michael had been scrolling his phone the last ten minutes, frowning. Finally, when it was just us, Macy, and thecouple who had question after question, he whispered, “I’m starving. What’s the best pizza place in town? That’s open after nine? I forgot how early everything closes here.”
“Georgia’s,” I told him, winking when I caught Macy’s eye and as she patiently answered another question from the couple. “They’re open until ten.”
Nodding, his scrolling stopped as he must have found the listing. “What do you like on your pie? No mushrooms though; I’m allergic. Can’t even do them on your side, sorry.”
“I like sausage.” I said absently, then felt my cheeks heat when he gave me a smirk and realized what I had said. Shaking my head at him, I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
His smirk turned into a full-blown smile, “I’m aware you like sausage.”
“Just order the pizza,” I instructed, but I couldn’t help but smile with him.
“That’s all you want is sausage?” he questioned, using his thumb to enlarge the toppings menu on his screen. “No olives, onions, pineapple? Please don’t say pineapple.”
“Anchovies,” I told him, my voice serious.
