Page 3 of The Witch

I attempt a smile. “I travel light.”

“Are you still with that nice boy who came to Christmas last year?” Gram asks. “You mentioned you might be moving in together, didn’t you?”

I wince. Of all the things for her to remember, why did she have to remember that? The only thing worse than moving into a haunted house is having to talk about my love life. Or lack thereof. That particular relationship ended about nine months ago, when he told me he felt we didn’t have enough “chemistry” to move forward, and I have been on nothing but a string of bad first dates ever since.

“What was his name again?” Gram asks. “Wyatt? Watley? Westmore?”

“It was John, actually.”

“Oh.” She scratches her head. “Where did I get Westmore from?”

I can’t even begin to imagine.

“Well, how is John doing then?” she asks. “Any great-grandchildren on the way?”

“Uh no. It…it didn’t work out.”

“Oh no!” Gram looks crestfallen. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yes…”

“Would you like me to kill him?”

I stare at her, not sure if I heard correctly. “What?”

“I could kill him for you if you’d like,” she clarifies. “I’m eighty-five years old! What are they going to do if I get caught—throw me in jail for the rest of my life?”

“Um,” I say. “No. No need to kill him, but, um, thanks.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Gram seems disappointed. “Mickey, will you show Julia to her room please?”

Mick is still rubbing his chest, but he makes his way over to my luggage and grabs the duffel bag. It’s not that heavy, but it’s heavy enough that the weight of it makes him list to the side. I suck in a breath and try to grab it back from him.

“Mick, please,” I say, “I can carry that.”

“Absolutely not.” He waves me off. “It’s light as a feather.”

It’s very clear he’s not going to allow me to carry my bag, so I just let it go. He attempts to take a step, but the weight of the luggage drags him to the side. But then he manages to get his balance and starts gamely to the stairwell. I follow behind him, ready to catch him if I need to. Behind me, Gram clutches the banister for dear life as she takes the steps one at a time. My chest tightens as I imagine a scenario in which all three of us go tumbling down the steps in a jumble of arms and legs and white hair.

But by some miracle, we make it to the top in one piece. Mick starts down the hallway, but before he does, I glance at a set of stairs to my right, leading upward, presumably to the attic. But they’re not like any other stairs in the real world. Instead of each step being a flat level, each side alternates in height so that each foot lands on a slightly higher step.

When I was a little girl, I asked Gram about them. I remember the way she smiled mischievously at the question.

They’re witches’ stairs, Julia. They were built in houses during the seventeenth century in Massachusetts. They’re supposed to ward off witches, because witches can’t climb these kinds of stairs.

It was part of the lore of Pemberton, just like all the hidden nooks and crannies and trapdoors that littered the estate. But more than anything else, there was something about that wonky set of stairs that always made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Before I can dwell on it, Mick has turned and is leading me down the hallway, all the way to the last room. The door is closed, and when I reach for the knob and turn it, the door refuses to budge, even when I rattle the knob.

“It sticks,” Mick tells me. “You have to give it a good shove.”

I oblige, and the door pops open with an agonizing screech. The room is one I’ve never stayed in before, much larger than the tiny room I occupied as a child. This one looks to have once been a primary bedroom. The bed is neatly made with a rose bedspread, and it was clearly tidied recently, yet it still has that same mustiness that pervades the entire house.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s lovely.”

“We’re just so happy to have you here, Barbara,” Gram says.

Now she’s calling me by my mother’s name. I suppose that’s slightly better.

There’s an antique vanity table in the corner of the room with ornate designs carved into the walnut wood. The mirror has been cleaned so immaculately that I can see my reflection perfectly—my oval face, my tired eyes, which make it look like I’ve been traveling for weeks instead of hours. My messy ponytail is dark blond—nearly brown but not quite—except for a little patch of white on my left temple that I’ve had since I was nine years old.