WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelson
The Witch’s Bond
Revised Chapters (with Jennie Nash edits)
By Emma Nelson
CHAPTER 2
Salem's full of magic—I’ve felt it ever since coming back—and I feel it the
second my feet hit the cobblestone, walking alone late at night, fog swirling around me
like a shroud.
The tightly-packed colonials lining the street are decorated in an odd mix of
holiday lights and pentagrams. I pass a yard with one of those witches crashed into a
tree—this one’s wearing a Santa hat—to show Christian and Pagan derivatives at their
finest. As neither Christian nor Pagan, nor any other religion for that matter, I’m in the
enviable spot of wrapping my lights around the Yule log, tossing it in the fire, and calling
it a day. Not really. I’m too superstitious—mess up a Yule ceremony and it’s a year of
bad luck—but I’ll definitely stick with enjoying solstice bonfires and sitting on Santa’s
lap. Win/win.
Jennie Nash� 9/25/2016 11:17 PMComment [1]: Soit’sbeeneverpresent?Isthatwhatshemeans?Anddoesshemeanshedidn’treallyfeelitbefore?
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:55 PMComment [2]: Toofast–yourreadermightnowknowwhattheseare
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelson
I pull my coat tighter, my clunky heels click-clacking against the uneven sidewalk
in the midnight silence as I wonder why I’m going back. Any kids smart enough to get
inside the church probably weren’t stupid enough to stick around this long.
“Yeah, I know,” I say out loud to keep my face from freezing.
Part of me likes to think I’m being benevolent—checking on a historic building
that may have been infested by vandals—but most of me knows it’s because of the way
the banging took me back to that night of finding Granme. The reminder that this is why
I’m out here. This is why I want Hank to take me on as a ghost hunter. I want to be the
one going after mysterious happenings, and this is my first chance to try.
It probably was vandals, but the mere possibility that it could be poltergeists at
play is delicious in its sinister…ness? Would you say sinisterness? Mischievousness?
Malevolence? Perniciousness. Yes, let’s stick with perniciousness. Ten bucks if you can
work that into your next tour montage, Ceece.
It’s five minutes to the church; three if I power walk. The graveyard is far behind
me when I cross Charter Street to the path beside the Peabody Essex Museum, making a
mental note to visit again soon. They have a new gluttonous animal exhibit I’m dying to
see. It also wouldn’t hurt to brush up on my maritime history if I want to steal the
haunted nautical tour from Liz, who currently monopolizes all attractions by the shore.
The museum’s side buildings glow in the darkness. Their after-hour lights
illuminate the path, making the parking lot to my right feel even more man-with-a-knife-
hiding-behind-the-cars dark. I stick my hand in my pocket and clutch the cylinder of
pepper spray, quickening my steps.
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:55 PMComment [3]: Lovethis
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelson
There’s a small smattering of walkers on the streets—all hurrying different
directions. It’s dark. It’s a week till Christmas, three days till Solstice. Why are you even
out here, people? But mostly it’s quiet.
The museum path ends at Essex Street, then I cross over to New Liberty. From
there, I’ll see the church, taking up the whole corner of Brown and St. Peters Streets. I’d
know my way through town blindfolded and high on paint fumes. Still, sitting in the
Smokey Cauldron, sipping a cinnamon whiskey with Griff sounds so much better right
now. I could turn right and be there in no time.
“Just go get the drink,” I mumble.
A man I hadn’t noticed bumps into me. “What?”
I whirl around. “What?”
“What’d you say to me?” His trench coat is too big and his accent is Bostony
Bossy.
“Nothing.”
“Crazy bitch.” He doesn’t even try to say under his breath.
“Happy holidays.” I paste on a fake smile he doesn’t turn to see. So I give him the
middle finger, which he also doesn’t turn to see. Jerk.
I’ve only walked a couple of feet, when I hear footfalls behind me. The Boston
prick is following me. Maybe he did see me flip him off. I slouch into my coat and walk
faster.
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The steps behind me hurry too. When they’re so close they seem to merge with
mine, I grip the mace and pull it from my pocket, then turn on him like a pissed off
skunk, pointed and ready to spray.
As soon as I whirl, the man jumps forward, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Boo!”
“Griff!” I shriek, swatting at his chest. “You scared the crap out of me!”
The familiar grin widens. “Sorry. I thought you saw me when you were talking to
that guy.”
“Ugh. I wasn’t talking to him. What are you doing here? I thought you were at the
bar?”
“My best friend says she’s going to a sketchy old church alone in the middle of
the night? Of course I’m coming.”
“Ah, you’re the best.” My heart jolts a bit when he calls me his best friend. We
hadn’t even been on speaking terms until a few weeks ago.
“I know,” Griff shrugs and falls into step beside me. “Nice eyes, by the way. Is
that why dude-bro back there was flirting with you?”
I widen my contact-lens stare like I’ve practiced in front of the mirror, knowing it
makes my black pupils dance in the surrounding liquidity of my iris-less eyeballs. “Ew.
No. He was a Bostontonian.”
“Ah, say no more.” He gives me a half smile, even though we both know he’s
probably more Boston than Salem.
“There were some kids banging inside the church,” I offer without Griff asking.
“I want to make sure they didn’t screw up anything.” I specifically don’t mention that I’m
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:55 PMComment [4]: Ithinkitwaspepperspraybefore
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:55 PMComment [5]: Thisputsalotofemphasisonthatguy.Ishegoingtoplayaroleorno?Ifno,IwouldminimizethisandjusthaveGriffsurpriseher
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:55 PMComment [6]: Ohinteresting….
Jennie Nash� 9/25/2016 11:23 PMComment [7]: Bostonian?
Jennie Nash� 9/25/2016 11:24 PMDeleted: Banging inside the church.
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonhoping there’s ghostly activity. My fixation with the shadow above Granme’s bed is one
of the reasons Griff stopped talking to me for months before we’d both ended up back in
town.
He pushes his hands deeper into his pockets. “Crazy kids. It’s the middle of
December—they should be spiking eggnog and hooking up with freshmen.”
“Yeah, well, welcome to Witch City. Where shenanigans ensue year round.” I say
brightly.
He snorts into his scarf, some fancy cashmere thing that perfectly accents his
outfit. Charcoal wool peacoat. Soft leather boots. Dark-wash straight jeans with the
perfect tuck at the ankle. I tug self-consciously at my too-tight squishy parka I’ve
probably owned longer than I’ve known Griff.
“Hank wants me to start wearing a witch hat and cape,” I say.
“Wow. Your boss is a visionary.” Griff’s voice drips with sarcasm.
“I thought you’d be on his side. You love witches. You’re like the witch guy.”
“Not kitschy witches. Not like, whoring out my employees by making them walk
through the snow dressed in cheap Halloween costumes.”
“It’s a work uniform. Lots of people dress up for their job.” I shrug, suddenly
defensive of Hank and his lame costume idea.
Griff laughs. “Yeah, but you have a real job. You’re lucky enough to inherit a
family business.”
“If washing dead peoples’ hair for the rest of your life is what you’re into.”
“Because having people follow you while talking about dead people is so much
Jennie Nash� 9/25/2016 11:24 PMDeleted: he’d Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:56 PMComment [8]: Weneedatinybitmorehere–i.e.hethoughtshewasobsessed.Somethingaboutthereason
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonbetter?”
“But the people from the tour could be around. That’s the point. It’s not like
they’re just laying on a cold slab like the ones at the morgue.”
“Ah, here we go. Those elusive spirits you keep trying to find. Ceece, you’re a
grown-ass woman with a teenager job. You have a PhD for hell’s sake, but now you’re
back living with your parents and working shifts nobody else wants. It’s like you’re back
to the moment you left high school.”
“Says the man who dresses dummies as fake witches.”
“Whatever, Ceece. I’m actively pursuing a career. You’re actively
pursuing…strangeness.”
My stomach turns. I know he means well, but he doesn’t get that I deal with
reality all the time. With people whose reality was cut short by old age or freak accidents.
I do the adult job because it matters. It matters to Dad, it matters to the dead people, but I
much prefer the history and legends. “It's Salem. Everybody's strange.”
He kicks the ground. “Nah. Even for Salem, you're weird. I mean, I love you.
You’re the best. But you’re strange.”
An awkward silence hangs on the air, like every time we argue. But still, I move
closer against him to loop my arm through his. The houses and trees are black,
silhouetted against the murky sky, and a biting wind pierces through to my bones.
Griff bends over to tighten his shoelace, then links arms with me again. “I love
you, Ceece. We’ve been friends for…like…forever. But you have to let go of what you
thought you saw. Your grandma was old. Old people die. You have an awesome career
Jennie Nash� 9/25/2016 11:26 PMComment [9]: GREATGREATGREAT
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:56 PMComment [10]: Secondtimehesaysthis–dothheprotesttoomuch?
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonahead of you, either as a mortician like your dad, or as a professor, or whatever you want.
You’re smart and driven. Please tell me someday you're going to have higher ambitions
than being a tour guide?”
“And a ghost hunter,” I mumble.
He groans. “How are we even friends?”
I pull my arm from his and smack him lightly on the stomach. “You’re being a
douche-nozzle tonight. Quit being mean. You own a bunch of wax witches from bad
movies. You have no room to talk.”
“First of all,” he starts, his voice rising an octave. “They're genius movies. You
can't say you love Salem and not be into witch movies. And second, I'm a business
owner. If I'm classy, my place will be classy. I'm not some phony jonesing for tourist
money. I'm capturing history. I'm like a historical scholar.”
I snort-laugh. “Tell that to fake Cher's breasts spilling out of her Witches of Easter
costume.”
“It’s Witches of Eastwick, and she's classy. Me. Cher. The wax museum. We're all
classy.”
“Yes, well, you keep it classy. In the meantime, I’ll just be over here, being
strange…”
Griff smiles, his dimples busting through his pale five o’clock shadow as he
squeezes my arm and pulls me against his bony shoulder. His version of an apology. “I
had this guy come in the shop today with a selfie stick, and he kept slipping it under the
ladies' dresses. He'd look over his shoulder, like he was being all stealthy, then stick his
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsoncamera up there and snap a picture. He thought he was so sneaky, but I watched him the
whole time on the monitor. Wish I’d had some popcorn.”
I chuckle. “Poor ladies. So violated. What’s under there? Panties? Nothing?”
Griff wiggles his eyebrows and smiles but doesn’t answer.
I try to imagine what Griff would put on them underneath their witchy robes. “Oh
man, that’s too funny.”
“He seemed particularly drawn to Bonnie.”
“Ah Bonnie, that saucy vixen. Wait, which one is she again?”
Griff stops walking and turns on me. “Bonnie. The Craft. Neve Campbelle’s
character that always wears those short skirts.”
“They all wear short skirts. The Craft girls basically invented the slutty emo witch
of the 90s.”
“Don't talk about the ladies like that.” He fake glares and starts walking again.
“Right. Sorry,” I mumble and let him pull me along.
“So this guy’s making his own peep show up the skirts of wax mannequins. Who
does that? I'm used to telling customers not to touch or get too close, but this was a first.”
I bark a laugh. “Fetishizing wax statues of pop-culture witches. Is that a thing
now? Is there like a whole internet subculture of wax witch worshippers?”
He chuckles. “Probably.”
I look up at him and grin. “Nah. You would’ve started it. Nobody loves the ladies
more than you do.”
“It's true. They're my life. Frozen in time in their sheer perfection.”
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:57 PMComment [11]: Ifsheimaginesit,weshouldseehermakeaguess
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“Okay, now who’s strange?”
“Touché,” he laughs.
If anyone doesn’t fit here, it’s Griff. He’d bailed on Salem the second he
graduated and had been happy in the big city.
Or so I’d thought.
I’d been surprised when he’d applied for law school in the first place. He’s always
been fascinated with artifacts and history and pop culture, especially of witches. He
would’ve made an awesome absent-minded professor teaching courses on Puritan New
England witch hangings and their re-enactments in film and literature. Instead, he’d
wanted something with more money and stability than entering a “black hole of
unemployable PhDs,” so he’d gone to law school and finished with honors.
Now I was the one living in a black hole of unemployable PhDs. When I moved
home, Dad told me he’d seen Griff in town, so I’d texted him immediately. We met up
for drinks, just like the old days—only more awkward, since last time I talked to him, I’d
told him his girlfriend was a shallow diva, that he was unsupportive, and that I never
wanted to see him again.
I guess we’re good now, though. He broke up with the girlfriend, he’s back to
being mostly supportive, and we see each other every day.
It took a lot of coaxing for him to finally tell me that his first month into
practicing law, he’d started having panic attacks. He said the golden handcuffs were too
much—leaving school a hundred grand in debt, so you get a big job to pay it off, then
you buy the house and the car and private schools for your kids, so you can never quit
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:57 PMComment [12]: Thisconversationgoesonalittletoolong–whichmakesitfeellikeit’smoreimportantthanIthinkitis
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:12 AMComment [13]: Alittlepassive
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:13 AMComment [14]: greatJennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:13 AMDeleted: ’dJennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:13 AMDeleted: ’dJennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:13 AMDeleted: ’dJennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:57 PMComment [15]: anunsupportivefriend,youmean?
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:58 PMComment [16]: thisisallgreatb/cit’sveryyoungadult–rightontargetforthat.Butit’satinybitofaninfodump…..itslowsthestorydownabit
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonbecause it’s all too expensive. Before you know it, being a lawyer sucks away your soul,
and you’re a forty-year-old partner, and your youth has passed you by. Oh yeah, and
you’re still a hundred grand in debt.
By that time, he’d had some success selling collectors items on ebay, so he’d
decided to come back to Salem, live in the home his parents never sold when they’d
move to Florida right after he’d finished high school, and open up a shop with the
collectors items he’d already been selling.
Griff’s witch wax museum makes a lot more sense with his interests, but less than
zero sense with his law school debt.
He gives me a hard time for having school debt and being a tour guide. Somehow
it escapes him that his situation really isn’t that different.
I feel bad for him that he’d ended up back here, but glad for me.
Life is better with him around—despite what I’d said all those months ago.
The ley lines and Dad’s failing business were the final straws to drag me back
here, but there isn’t anything I don’t love about this town.
Salem’s like Halloween year round—the smells and spells. The stories. The
gawking tourists trying to absorb a fraction of what I get to be part of every single day.
I love the kitsch factor of Salem—a dark fantasy that erases the reality of the
corpses back home. I love the mortuary and what it represents, but the tours are my life
blood. They’d made me love life again, when I’d been dragged down into a depressed
obsession with death and dying.
With the tours, I can still be obsessed, but it’s by making the dead into caricatures
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:16 AMDeleted: ’dJennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:16 AMDeleted: HJennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:16 AMDeleted: S
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:17 AMComment [17]: Loveit–settingupthetension
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonfor visitors, instead of just dolled-up bodies for their grieving relatives. Like Matthias
English and his dad Philip, living on in St. Peters, their hauntings a never-ending
reminder of the lives they’d lived.
As if on cue, there it is, the church looming over us in the darkness like a
brooding monster.
CHAPTER 3
“Five minutes,” Griff says. “We check it out, then we haul butt to the Smoky
Cauldron and drown our sorrows.”
My mouth waters as I think about the spicy fire I intend to dump down my
throat—but first, business. “Deal,” I say, staring at the massive steeple of St. Peters.
“You check around back?” I say. “Make sure everything’s quiet there, and I’ll
check up front?”
Griff nods, and he heads to the right, while I trace the steps I’d gone earlier to the
front of the building.
I’ve always loved this church—its bright red door. The quatrefoil on the tall
tower, the first symbol I learned to recognize in Gothic architecture.
And I’d studied it a lot more after moving home.
The original church was made of wood, but in 1833 it was torn down and rebuilt
with stone. In 1871 a chapel was built over the graveyard, starting the tombstone musical
chairs that left everything in its current disarray. Some grave markers were left inside,
some were outside, and the bodies weren’t necessarily next to any of them. It’s part of the
Jennie Nash� 9/29/2016 6:59 PMComment [18]: CantherebeSomethingshefeelsinherbones?Giveussomethingtoworryabout–somethingforhertodecide:DOIgoin?orWHYdoIcaresomuch?
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:18 AMMoved (insertion) [1]Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:18 AMMoved up [1]: My mouth waters as I think about the spicy fire I intend to dump down my throat—but first, business.
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonreason some people think it’s haunted—all those displaced bodies and their unmatched
headstones.
The building is tall and stately and gorgeous. The awe factor is part of why it’s
the first stop I do on my tour.
Hank likes us to start at Old Witch Gaol or Burying Point, one of the bigger
location players in the witch trials. But St. Peters is way better. It shows the marriage of
the witches and the ghosts. Tourists expect Salem to be all about the trials, but it was also
built on an Indian burial ground. It’s survived three massive fires that nearly decimated
the town. It’s full of modern hauntings and ghosts of every variety, from the
Revolutionary War to last Tuesday. Limiting Salem to witches would be tragic.
At the front of the church, I scan the windows.
Everything looks dark. The graveyard tucked against the stone wall is quiet, the
tombstones shadowy and motionless.
I jump the four steps and stare at the red door where I’d impaled my hand. It’s not
hard to find the point of a nail, mocking me with its sharp tip. “You skewered me, you
little bastard.”
The nail doesn’t respond.
Neither does anything else. Silence surrounds me. No banging on doors. No
voices. Nothing.
I crane my neck to see the glass above the door. There’s a soft glow in the back,
but nothing out of the ordinary. It’s still—all buttoned up and tucked in for the night.
No on-again, off-again lights like there’d been during the tour.
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:19 AMComment [19]: Titleidea???
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:20 AMComment [20]: Ha–great
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelson
I look down at the nail again. It seems out of place on the smoothness of the red
shellacked surface. I lean in closer, holding my breath as I study it. It’s like, right in the
middle of the door. It’s not holding anything togeth—
Something bumps my face.
I jerk back swatting midair, but it comes again. A feather brushstroke against my
cheek.
Swish-swish. Swish-swish.
I shriek and spin around, flailing my hands at the unseen enemy as I back against
the door. The door swings under my weight and I fall inside with a thud, watching the
zigzag of my attacker above me.
A bug.
My butt aches almost as much as my pride. It’s a moth though, I justify. Moths
are worthy of horror. They’re like worms with wings. They dive bomb you and get that
funky powder all over. They’re disgusting.
I push myself to my feet and squint at the insect zipping back and forth in front of
my face and realize it’s not a moth after all. It’s too big to be a moth. The white wings are
thin and pale—almost iridescent and silky—not chalky. Deep red lines the edge of each
wing like a lacy fringe, spiraling up into an eye-looking flourish.
“What are you doing?” I hold out my finger to touch it, and it flits away. “Aren’t
you supposed to migrate south for the winter?”
It flies closer again, hovering just above my head.
“Shoo!” I whack it mid-flight, catapulting it toward the ground. Then I feel bad
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:21 AMComment [21]: Loveit–sogood!
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonfor hitting a butterfly like it’s a common moth.
The insect regains its balance and circles closer, as if it’s the one inspecting me. I
give it a final swat, then take another step into the not-supposed-to-be-open church to
catch my breath. I’d checked the doors on my tour, and they’d been locked. Solid. No
way for someone to just fall inside. But it’s quiet at least—no vandals or signs of chaos.
“Reverend Jones?” My voice echoes across the walls in harmony with the
clunking of my boots. “Anyone here?”
A single candle burns at the altar, the flame flickering across the surface and
sending shards of shadows bouncing against the walls and stained glass windows behind
it. A massive chandelier droops from the ceiling, heavy and black, catching the
movement of the glow across its surface.
The slightest flick on my hand makes me look down. The butterfly perches there,
its wings pulsing slowly, open and closed.
“Creepy stalker,” I mumble, shaking off the bug as I scan the room. The red
velvet pews are stark and bare in the empty silence.
A chill settles across me, and I pause.
It’s not the first time. At all of the tour stops, there’s an indescribable coldness. A
feeling that’s different from not-haunted places. There are strange sounds and smells.
People claim to sense things that may or may not be there. I always tell my tours if they
feel cold spots, it may be spirits. At least that’s what my research says.
I take another step forward, and then stop again. This time it hits my like a bucket
of ice water. Or like I’ve walked into an invisible freezer. The slight chill—in a single
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:22 AMComment [22]: Maybethisiswhatsheshouldfeelwhenshefirstcomesbacktothechurchandthenherefeelisevenstronger?
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonfootfall—becomes frigid. My lungs burn as I suck in a deep breath, and I release it
slowly, the air billowing from my mouth in a smoky white fog.
An icy knife travels down my spine. A feeling of warning. A feeling like someone
is there, watching.
“He…” I clear my throat. “Hello? Griff?”
The words echo vaguely before being swallowed.
“Reverend Jones?”
I turn to face the door. Suddenly I can’t tell if I’m being paranoid or if someone’s
really here. Stupid Griff. His jump scare from earlier has me all tense.
“Griff?”
The frigid air deepens, and my short rapid breaths escape in glacial clouds. I force
myself to take another step. This is what I want. The hunt. I can’t run away the first time
my nerves get the better of me.
Goosebumps rise across my arms and neck. I take another step. Then another, the
cold nearly incapacitating as I wrap my arms around puffy coat. But the cold is inside me.
I feel it in my bones. In the pit of my stomach.
The delicious thrill of the quest wavers, and all I can think about is leaving. Even
knowing Griff is outside isn’t enough. I want to leave. Get plastered with Griff and forget
about this place until daylight. I’ll come back tomorrow and ask Reverend Jones if he’d
noticed anything off.
I swing toward the door, then stop, suspended mid-step as a hoarse scream echoes
through the chapel.
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:22 AMComment [23]: Loveit–socreepy
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:22 AMComment [24]: YES!
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:22 AMComment [25]: Excellent!
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelson Then again. Like a man in horrific pain.
The sound curls inside me, screeching and clawing.
“Reverend Jones? Are you okay?” I call as loud as I dare, but old habits die hard,
and it’s impossible to yell in a church.
A shout.
There’s a thud somewhere above me. Then gasping.
A low moan.
And then nothing.
My heart pounds in my chest—I can hear it ricocheting in my ears as silence
surrounds me once more.
“Reverend Jones?” it comes out as a squeak. “Griff?”
I start to run for the door, but then I stop. I stick my hand in my coat pocket,
barely registering the stupid butterfly I knock to the floor. I grab my phone and push the
button to light the screen. 9-1-…the screen goes dark. It flickers green, blinking on. Off.
On. Off… I shake the phone and push the on button again. “Come on. Come on.”
My hands tremble so badly I’m afraid I’m going to drop it. But it doesn’t matter;
the thing won’t turn back on anyway. The hairs rise on the back of my neck.
Someone’s definitely watching me. I have to get the hell out of here.
“I’ll get help!” I call. Maybe. Maybe I’ll get help. I look at the door, try to step
toward it, but my body won’t move.
I clutch the phone, my fingers numb and solid around it. Go, go, go, my mind
reels, but my body won’t budge. It’s surreal—my brain telling my feet to move. My feet
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:23 AMComment [26]: great
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:23 AMComment [27]: great
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonlike they’re cemented to the floor. My head spinning, the colors of the room blurring and
swirling before my eyes. My body still. Only still. Nothing can move. I try to force my
mouth open to scream, but it doesn’t move.
My heart slams in my chest, panic welling inside me. I’m paralyzed. Not with
fear. Not metaphorical. Like, literally paralyzed.
I try to focus, force myself to move, but there’s a disconnect. I’m slogging
through quicksand but only sinking deeper.
I open my mouth to scream, but the world spins faster and no sound comes out.
“Help,” I think I say, but things are foggy, and I can’t tell if it’s only in my head.
A touch on my shoulder from behind.
My body tenses, then releases. In that second, I can move. I spin to confront the
unseen person.
“Ceece? Are you okay? What’s happening?”
“It’s you,” I choke. My eyes fill with scared, happy tears as I throw my arms
around Griff. “I’m so glad it’s you.”
He pushes me back to look at my face, his hands strong on my shoulders. “Of
course it’s me. I heard you yell.”
My surge of relief disappears as quickly as it came, and I move away from him.
“Did you hear the screaming?”
His brows drop an inch. “Yes. I just said I heard you yell.”
“No,” I shake my head. “No, there was a guy’s voice from upstairs.”
Griff looks around the room. “I only heard you.”
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:23 AMComment [28]: great
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:24 AMComment [29]: oksohereisthemomentweneedtoknowifsheLIKEShimorhelikesher.Hereiswhereoneofthemwouldfeelit–ornot
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelson
I want to vomit. Or leave. Or both. But instead of “let’s ditch this place like a
moldy sandwich,” my traitor mouth says, “come on, we have to go check.”
“No way, Ceece. We’re officially breaking and entering. I thought we were only
looking around the outside.”
“It’ll only take a second.” My feet move farther into the chapel. “Where are the
stairs in this place?”
I look at the altar, and the single candle is still alive and well—not sputtering like
if there had been a draft. The wind blowing twistiness of the room hadn’t been in my
head—but it also hadn’t been in the rest of the room. Griff’s presence gives me a false
sense of bravado, and I’m ready to find some answers.
“We’ll call the police. Tell ‘em you heard screaming. Look. I’m dialing now.”
Griff punches the screen of his phone.
“Great. Call them.” I look around the room. “It’s too quiet. Don’t you think it’s
weird that the door’s open and even Jones isn’t here?”
“Dude. You’re a tour guide.” He frowns at his phone and slips it back in his
pocket. “It’s not your job to keep tabs on Reverend Jones. Maybe he’s at some wild,
Saturday night Christian party or something.”
“At 1 a.m.?” I wander deeper into the corner of the church, looking for stairs that
lead in the direction of the screams.
“I don’t know, Cici. Let’s just go. I don’t need a trespassing charge.”
He follows behind though, dragging his fingers through his hair until his Ken Doll
waves are standing up all over the top of his head. “Okay, look, we’ll peek up the stairs.
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:25 AMComment [30]: sogood!
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:26 AMComment [31]: Butmaybehedoesn’tbelievetherewasscreaming?Wouldn’tthataddtension?Hecouldwanttocallthepolicejustforbackup….?
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:27 AMComment [32]: Why?Hadhehadothers?
WorkinProgress:TheWitch’sBondbyEmmaNelsonTwo seconds, and then we’re out of here, okay?”
“Okay,” I nod, momentarily excited I’ve won the argument—before I remember
what the argument is. “Found ‘em.”
My eyes follow the stone steps until they disappear into the darkness, halfway up
the tower.
Griff groans. “Then we’re getting that drink. And you’re buying.”
“Definitely.” I put my foot on the bottom step and grab his hand.
Jennie Nash� 9/26/2016 10:27 AMComment [33]: Loveit.You’relettingusintoherhead
