Page 29 of Salem’s Rise

Strega’s Hollow sits at the edge of a dark, wooded property surrounded by an old wrought-iron fence. The main building’s stone exterior looks like two different structures stitched together. One side is dark, cracked fieldstone, weathered and slouched with age, its uneven shingles patched here and there with moss. The other side rises taller and straighter, the stone a shade lighter, still gray but cleaner somehow. The slate roof on that half is steep and unblemished, none of the sag or wear of its older twin.

The place has presence, I’ll give it that.

Families wander the front path carrying shopping bags from the gift shop. Children race between wooden displays, a few of them stopping to pose beside a woman dressed as a seventeenth-century witch, while a guide dressed in colonial clothing theatrically recounts something to a tour group, earning delighted gasps.

I follow Rowan to the ticket stand where he graciously pays for my ticket and then escorts me to the first building we see. It’s a cute little store, crammed with crystals, spellbooks, and shelves of handmade talismans promising everything from good luck to protection against curses. The air smells like cinnamon and melting chocolate, layered with something earthier underneath—sage, maybe—and a chalkboard by the register advertises homemade teas and fudge.

“Exhibit A. Overpriced crystal crap tourists love,” Rowan says, nodding toward a display advertising handcrafted protective charms.

I instinctively reach for a black gemstone. I turn it over in my hand, feeling a shock as a buzzing sort of energy flows through me. On the back is a label that reads: Black tourmaline: for protection, to absorb negative energy, ward off harmful forces, and grant power.

“You don’t believe any of it’s real?” I ask.

“A bunch of rocks? No.”

“Me neither, I guess.” I shrug. “But they’re pretty.”

For some strange reason, I don’t want to put the black crystal down. I’m drawn to it. Something about the stone feels familiar, comforting, like it belongs to me, and I belong to it.

A flash of memory hits me then, and I see Silas’s ring again.

His black tourmaline ring.

I drop the crystal immediately, wiping my hands on my jeans until my skin stings.

“Let’s go inside the museum,” Rowan says and pushes me toward the exit. “That’s where Bea will be.”

We follow the winding path to the main building at the heart of the grounds. Rowan opens the door, and I step into air tinged with old paper and the lingering scent of ash. Glass display cases line the entrance hall, filled with colonial artifacts, handwritten journals, and enough broomsticks to stock a dozen Halloween movies. Every few feet, someone is taking selfies beside plastic skeletons or oversized signs declaring REAL WITCH CURSES!

Rowan steers me toward a rusty old witch’s cauldron sitting beneath a spotlight. It’s surrounded by fake fog, and a brass plaque announces: THE CURSED CAULDRON OF STREGA’S HOLLOW.

He lowers his voice dramatically. “Legend says if you touch it…” I look at him expectantly. “…absolutely nothing happens.”

I roll my eyes.

“You’re terrible.”

“Joking aside, people really do believe Strega’s Hollow is cursed,” he says. “Every couple of years, someone goes missing here—no trace, nothing. Supposedly it’s a thin spot where the veil between worlds is especially weak.” He shrugs. “Of course, the curse doesn’t apply to overpriced souvenirs. Otherwise, they’d never sell anything in the gift shop.”

I snort. “Naturally.”

Rowan motions for me to follow him deeper into the museum where he narrates exhibits with the confidence of a man who has spent an unreasonable amount of time making fun of them. A wax figure accused of witchcraft becomes “Agnes, patron saint of poor legal counsel.” A collection of rusted medical instruments earns a solemn warning about seventeenth-century dentistry. When we pass by a carved wooden bowl decorated with black feathers, he informs me that anyone who gazes upon it after sunset is doomed to receive mediocre service at every restaurant in town.

“Terrifying,” I say.

“Don’t mock,” he says. “There are few things worse in life than Kobe beef cooked at the wrong temperature.”

Eventually, the tourist attractions give way to displays that feel increasingly authentic. Original court documents rest beneath glass. A woman’s confession, written in ink gone brown with age, fills two fragile pages. A child’s shoe recovered from the foundation of a witch house torn down centuries ago. If Josh was here researching records for Vanished, I know that somewhere underneath all the nonsense, real history awaits.

I lean over a display containing a hand-drawn map of old Salem’s Fall. Several buildings are marked with family names I recognize: Blackhollow. Ashcroft. Hawthorne. However, a fourth section of the map has been damaged, the parchment darkened as though someone held it too close to a flame.

“Well,” a woman’s voice says as bracelets chime behind us, “either I’m hallucinating, or Rowan Ashcroft has willingly entered the historical wing.”

I turn to find a woman walking toward us, hands resting on the curved handle of a wooden cane that seems more decorative than useful. She’s dressed in a layered black skirt and a wine-colored velvet jacket embroidered with silver stars. Half a dozen long necklaces hang around her neck, each strung with a different colored crystal. Long gray hair falls in a loose braid nearly to her lower back. She’s giving total Stevie Nicks bohemian witch vibes.

“Bea—my favorite professor.” Rowan gives her an easy smile. “Always so lovely to see you.”

“Don’t sass me, young man.” Her gaze narrows, and she smacks him lightly with her cane. “The last time you visited, you convinced three small children that the Marsh Witch in the photo upstairs would steal their souls if she heard them speak. One of them cried uncontrollably for hours.”