Page 23 of Salem's Fall
“I should be back tomorrow, but the fridge is stocked,” I tell her. “And I left a casserole for you too. It’ll last you at least two meals, okay?”
“Gross.” She makes a face. “I’ll just order DoorDash.”
“Eat the casserole, please. It’s good for you. But here”—I grin, handing her two hundred dollars in cash—“for emergencies.”
“Ohhh! Perfect!” She shoves the money in her pocket greedily. “I just saw the cutest new workout set for the gym.”
“Maddie–”
“Thanks, Jamie.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, big sis!”
I groan. She’s incorrigible.
“Love you too. Be good, Mads,” I say, heading for the front door. “Please study. And donotoversleep and miss any exams this week!”
“Of course!” she says with a big wink that is not at all reassuring. It makes me nervous to leave Maddie unchaperoned, especially during midterms, but I don’t have much choice.
Though Salem’s Fall is only a few miles from my Boston apartment, the drive takes almost an hour in traffic this time of year. People come from all over the world to the charming little New England town to celebrate fall and Halloween. Even the drive feels magical as the landscape changes from bustling streets to winding roads lined with ancient maple and elm trees. The leaves are already changing colors and starting to fall.
By the time I arrive, the sun hangs low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the narrow streets. It’s only the first week of October, but the place is already a madhouse. Cars and people everywhere. Halloween decorations all around. Jack-o’-lanterns, witches’ hats, and skeletons adorning doorsteps and porches. It’s a town that feels caught between worlds with modern-day tourists weaving through streets steeped in history.
I head first to the Cauldron Cottage, the cute little bed and breakfast I found online. I’m lucky they had a last-minute cancellation. Getting housing here this time of year can be challenging. Most places are booked months, if not years, in advance. Not to mention finding a pet-friendly spot is never easy, but thankfully, the Cottage allows cats.
I check in and settle into my room, which is beyond adorable with all the Salem’s Fall charm they promised online.A pumpkin-orange flannel bedspread and a sign above the headboard that reads “Beware of Witches,” which tries to look old and authentic, but I’ve already seen a dozen just like it while driving through town. A tiny black cauldron of silver-wrapped candies sits on the nightstand, a nice touch. Heavy purple curtains frame a window overlooking the cobblestone streets outside, while a wrought-iron candleholder casts flickering light, creating an inviting, almost eerie glow.
After unpacking, I settle Lucky with treats and water, then put Disney Junior on TV to keep him company. He lets out a low yowl in protest, clearly unimpressed as I head for the door, his eyes full of judgment.
“I’ll be back soon. Keep your whiskers on,” I tell him, slipping out for my interview.
I step out of the Cottage and head to the Wandering Raven, an occult gift shop, to meet Professor Hargrove—the expert Mark tracked down. As I walk along, an eerie thrill prickles my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. I haven’t been to Salem’s Fall since I was a kid, and it’s still as delightfully peculiar as ever. Each storefront I pass is more eclectic than the last. Crystal balls, tarot cards, shelves of witchcraft books, and magical candles. There’s an energy to this place, something old and charged that hums just beneath the surface, as if the town itself is watching, waiting.
I find the shop tucked away on a side street, its sign creaking in the wind. A bell jingles softly as I push the door open, the scent of old paper and incense surrounding me. All around are shelves packed with mysterious artifacts and rows and rows of books about magic and alchemy. At the counter is a college-aged girl, working the register. She nods like she’s been expecting me and disappears into a back office to grab Professor Hargrove.
I browse the store while I wait. A dusty, leather-bound book resting on a wooden display catches my attention.Bloodand Bone: New England’s Hidden Histories of Magic, Mysteries, and the Occultis embossed in faded gold letters. My breath hitches as I scan the contents, spotting a drawing of the Mark of the Veil—the Blood Rite symbol—right away.
I can’t believe it. What are the chances?
As I flip through the book, a familiar name leaps out at me—Blackhollow. My hand trembles on the page. It’s the first direct reference to Damien’s family that I’ve seen explicitly connected to the occult. There’s no denying it now. Something strange is going on, and I’m right in the middle of it.
“You must be James Woodsen.”
A voice startles me, and my jaw drops as I turn to find Mark’s occult expert. Only, he’s nothing like I imagined.
I was prepared for an old man with silver hair and a wizened face, but Professor Nicolas Hargrove is anything but. He’s in his mid-thirties, with glossy chestnut locks that fall perfectly into place, a rugged jawline, and eyes that are the exact shade of polished emeralds. He wears a leather jacket over a casual button-down, making him look more rockstar than academic.
“Professor Hargrove?”
“Not what you were expecting?” His mouth curls into a half-smile as if aware he’s caught me off guard.
“Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect,” I say, trying to maintain my professionalism. “But I certainly wasn’t picturing an award-winning Occult Studies professor to look like… well, you.”
He laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrates in the air. “I get that a lot,” he says and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you.” His grip is firm and warm, lingering a moment too long. He’s so attractive, though, I don’t exactly mind.
“Thanks for making the time, Professor. I appreciate it.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says. “And call me Nick. No need for formalities.”
“Okay, great. Thanks… Nick.” I grin. “As I explained on the phone, we represent Damien Blackhollow and are looking into some kind of secret society, or cult, I guess, called the Order of the Veil.”
