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Authors: Adriana Mather
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holds me a little tighter, and I don’t resist snuggling into the warmth of his body. My chest rises and falls a little faster against his side. Jaxon looks down at me. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”
I pause. Jaxon’s the first person to ask me to tell this story. “Four months ago, my dad was cooking breakfast. It was Saturday morning, and before he got sick I had a talent for sleeping till noon. I’d sleep through car alarms, fire trucks, basically anything. But that morning, somewhere in my unconscious brain, Vivian’s panicked voice registered and I shot straight out of bed. I didn’t know it then, but what I was reacting to was her on the phone with nine-one-one.
“I just remember running into the kitchen and seeing my dad lying on the black tiles. The weirdest thing is, in that exact moment I realized that he had been in the middle of making me my favorite breakfast—chocolate chip banana pancakes. His eyes closed just before I reached him.
“The doctors said there was a small tear in the lining of his heart. They fixed it with surgery, but he’s been in a coma ever since. They don’t know why.”
Jaxon shakes his head. “I’m incredibly sorry.”
“I wake up feeling panicked a lot now. I…I think it might be my fault. My dad’s getting sick, I mean.” I’ve never admitted that to anyone.
“Sam, it’s definitely not your fault.”
Suddenly I feel exposed and have a desperate need to hide. I pull away from Jaxon’s side. “You don’t know me that well. People always get hurt around me. I’m like a magnet for disaster.”
“You can’t blame yourself for—”
“Let’s just drop it.” I bite my lower lip. “I better get home. I never told Vivian where I was going.”
“Sure.”
We walk off the dock and back toward the street. It’s colder without Jaxon’s arm, but I’m not sure I’m comfortable being that close to anyone. Mostly people don’t touch me.
“Is there anything else to see on the way home?” I ask, hoping to push out my own dark thoughts. “Historical landmarks or anything?”
“Yeah, they’re everywhere,” he says as we walk. “Down that way a couple of blocks is Old Burying Point, the oldest graveyard in Salem. One of the Mathers is buried there. I’ll take you one day when it’s not dark.”
“Who’s scared now?” I ask.
He grins as we walk through a small street lined with beautiful old houses. “And down that way, Judge Corwin lived. A lot of people from Salem went there to discuss witchcraft accusations.”
His hand grazes mine, and I pull it away before I consider if I want to. “You really do know a lot of history. I’m impressed.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I give them when they’re deserved.”
“Can you repeat it? I wanna remember it.”
“No.” I try not to smile, but fail.
He stops in front of a ginormous mansion with big glass windows and a roof dotted with cupolas. It reminds me of a New England–style castle. The greens are beautifully laid out, and an imposing fence surrounds the property.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It used to be a jail.”
“Fancy jail.”
“It held prisoners from the War of 1812,” he explains. “A lot of people died here, most of them hanged. Home to the Boston Strangler.”
He points past the building to a graveyard. “Howard Street Cemetery.”
“You guys have cemeteries everywhere.”
“I guess there are just a lotta dead people in Salem.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” I say.
“Giles Corey was pressed to death here.” His voice has a dramatic edge. “It happened in this very alley.”
“What? Why would anyone do that?”
“Well, when he was accused of committing witchcraft as a very old dude, he refused to plead guilty or not guilty. Giles was stripped naked, put in a pit, and two heavy boards were laid on his chest with heavier and heavier rocks placed on top.”
“That’s seriously barbaric. Why didn’t he just plead not
I pause. Jaxon’s the first person to ask me to tell this story. “Four months ago, my dad was cooking breakfast. It was Saturday morning, and before he got sick I had a talent for sleeping till noon. I’d sleep through car alarms, fire trucks, basically anything. But that morning, somewhere in my unconscious brain, Vivian’s panicked voice registered and I shot straight out of bed. I didn’t know it then, but what I was reacting to was her on the phone with nine-one-one.
“I just remember running into the kitchen and seeing my dad lying on the black tiles. The weirdest thing is, in that exact moment I realized that he had been in the middle of making me my favorite breakfast—chocolate chip banana pancakes. His eyes closed just before I reached him.
“The doctors said there was a small tear in the lining of his heart. They fixed it with surgery, but he’s been in a coma ever since. They don’t know why.”
Jaxon shakes his head. “I’m incredibly sorry.”
“I wake up feeling panicked a lot now. I…I think it might be my fault. My dad’s getting sick, I mean.” I’ve never admitted that to anyone.
“Sam, it’s definitely not your fault.”
Suddenly I feel exposed and have a desperate need to hide. I pull away from Jaxon’s side. “You don’t know me that well. People always get hurt around me. I’m like a magnet for disaster.”
“You can’t blame yourself for—”
“Let’s just drop it.” I bite my lower lip. “I better get home. I never told Vivian where I was going.”
“Sure.”
We walk off the dock and back toward the street. It’s colder without Jaxon’s arm, but I’m not sure I’m comfortable being that close to anyone. Mostly people don’t touch me.
“Is there anything else to see on the way home?” I ask, hoping to push out my own dark thoughts. “Historical landmarks or anything?”
“Yeah, they’re everywhere,” he says as we walk. “Down that way a couple of blocks is Old Burying Point, the oldest graveyard in Salem. One of the Mathers is buried there. I’ll take you one day when it’s not dark.”
“Who’s scared now?” I ask.
He grins as we walk through a small street lined with beautiful old houses. “And down that way, Judge Corwin lived. A lot of people from Salem went there to discuss witchcraft accusations.”
His hand grazes mine, and I pull it away before I consider if I want to. “You really do know a lot of history. I’m impressed.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I give them when they’re deserved.”
“Can you repeat it? I wanna remember it.”
“No.” I try not to smile, but fail.
He stops in front of a ginormous mansion with big glass windows and a roof dotted with cupolas. It reminds me of a New England–style castle. The greens are beautifully laid out, and an imposing fence surrounds the property.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It used to be a jail.”
“Fancy jail.”
“It held prisoners from the War of 1812,” he explains. “A lot of people died here, most of them hanged. Home to the Boston Strangler.”
He points past the building to a graveyard. “Howard Street Cemetery.”
“You guys have cemeteries everywhere.”
“I guess there are just a lotta dead people in Salem.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” I say.
“Giles Corey was pressed to death here.” His voice has a dramatic edge. “It happened in this very alley.”
“What? Why would anyone do that?”
“Well, when he was accused of committing witchcraft as a very old dude, he refused to plead guilty or not guilty. Giles was stripped naked, put in a pit, and two heavy boards were laid on his chest with heavier and heavier rocks placed on top.”
“That’s seriously barbaric. Why didn’t he just plead not
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