Page 29 of Salem's Fall
Damien holds my gaze, studying me in a way that sends an uneasy pulse through me. “Was it?”
I try to keep my face impassive, but my mind is racing. Okay, yes, even though the official ruling from the authorities was a car accident, I still have my own doubts about the circumstances surrounding Mark’s death. I’ve suspected something far more nefarious ever since the threatening email I received. But Damien wouldn’t know about that, right? I certainly never said anything to him. I never said anything to anyone except?—
“Quinn told you?” I stare at him, a bit annoyed.
“Of course, Quinn told me. He works for me. As do you, though you seem to keep forgetting that,” he says, taking a step closer. “You want to go to Strega’s Hollow today—fine. But you’re not going alone.”
“You may be my client, but you can’t tell me what to do?—”
“I can and I will,” he cuts me off. “And if you want to keep working for me, you’d better learn to be a bit moreaccommodating.”
He says it in a way that makes it crystal clear I don’t have a choice. Not if I want to stay on the highest profile case of the decade with the firm’s most important new client.
“Fine,” I mutter, “but don’t get in my way.”
He smiles, a dangerous, magnetic smile that sends a jolt of electricity through me. “I’ll do my very best.”
Outside the Cottage, Damien Blackhollow ushers me into the luxurious backseat of his chauffeured car. The leather interior smells faintly of money and privilege. As I slide into the seat, his driver, Bennett—a distinguished older gentleman with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair and a meticulously kept uniform—tips his cap in my direction. Moments later, we’re gliding down the road, Bennett steering with steady precision.
We arrive at Strega’s Hollow just after one p.m. Bennett drives us up to the very front of the memorial, dropping us off at VIP parking. The place is buzzing with tourists. All around us are families, couples, and groups of teenagers flocking toward the entrance. The atmosphere is a weird mix of eerie and amusement park. Some are quiet and reverent, here to soak up the dark macabre history. Others laugh and take pictures with their phones, checking this off their list of spooky Halloween attractions.
Damien strolls along beside me, silent for once, as we walk the weathered path to the main gate. I steal a glance at him, his sharp jawline clenched. He looks disinterested, almost bored, but I can sense his tension. There’s a subtle shift in the air around him, like he’s trying too hard to appear unaffected.
Even in the daylight, there’s an undeniable weight to thisplace. A lingering feeling of history and foreboding. Something about it makes my hair stand a little on edge.
Finally, the main building comes into view. It’s smaller than I expected. An old, stone structure that looks like it was carved out of the surrounding forest. Dark stones cracked and weathered. Ivy clinging to the walls. The roof is slanted, the shingles uneven, giving the place an almost hunched appearance, as if it’s been sitting here for centuries.
As we pay our entrance fee and move inside the iron gates, I overhear a woman explaining to her young daughter that this is where “the bad witches were punished.” The child’s eyes grow wide with fear.
“Ridiculous.” Damien snorts beside me as we’re corralled into a small group and put into a waiting line. “It’s like they’re trying to make this place into some sort of haunted house attraction.”
Before I can respond, our tour guide arrives. He’s a tall, lanky man in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair and a frayed brown jacket that looks like it’s seen better days. He carries a walking stick and his pale blue eyes sparkle with mischievous enthusiasm.
“Welcome, welcome!” His voice is loud and cheerful. “I’m Callahan, your guide today. I hope you’re ready for some real Salem’s Fall history. None of that watered-down stuff you get in the town square,” he says, winking at the group and then ushering us all into the building.
Inside, it’s dim and cramped, all creaking floorboards and rough-hewn beams. Shelves overflow with artifacts from the witch trials. Weathered apothecary bottles, Puritan relics, and even a few weapons like rusted blades and frayed nooses, each with a small plaque detailing its grim history.
Callahan launches into storytelling mode. “This place,” he says, gesturing dramatically, “was once an execution spot for those accused of witchcraft. They say the energy here is unlikeanywhere else in the world, charged by the very souls of all who perished here.”
Damien scoffs next to me, but I ignore him, intrigued, as Callahan begins pointing at various objects inside the memorial. “Not everyone got a trial,” Callahan continues. “Sometimes the townspeople would take it upon themselves to punish the accused. They were brought here and executed.” He stops in front of a stone fireplace, its hearth large enough to hold a person. “Gather closer! Closer!” he calls out, his eyes sparkling in the muted light as tourists encircle him, cameras poised. “Legend has it that some witches were burned right here,” he says, gesturing inside the fireplace.
An older woman next to me gasps, “How barbaric!”
Callahan continues, stopping next to a framed photo of a sad-looking woman named “The Marsh Witch,” and tells us a particularly grisly story about how she was drowned in the marsh behind Strega’s Hollow after being falsely accused of hexing the local minister.
“A convenient excuse to get rid of anyone they didn’t like,” Damien mutters behind me, his voice full of disdain, clearly uninterested in the tour’s theatrics.
At one point, I catch him rolling his eyes as Callahan points out a rusty old witch’s cauldron, telling us in a spooky voice that the cauldron is cursed and anyone who touches it will meet a tragic end. An older boy in our group shoves his younger brother toward the cauldron. The boy squeals, terrified, and misses touching its metal edges by mere inches.
“That’s not really true, is it?” the boy asks Callahan, still shaking. “About the curse?”
“Yes, I believe it is. This whole place is cursed.” Callahan pauses, savoring the tension. “You see, every couple of years, someone goes missing at Strega’s Hollow. A worker restoring the site or a tourist who wandered a little too far off the path.Police search, but they never find any bodies, no footprints, no signs of struggle. The Hollow just... swallows them up.”
“Theydisappear?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. Damien looks at me sideways, as if warning me not to take this too seriously.
Callahan nods. “Never to be heard from again.”
The group murmurs, and the mounting fear is palpable.
