Prologue
The Witch Of Salem Wood
A local ghost story
[New England origin, unknown author, late 1900s]
Beware the witch of Salem Wood
The old hag made from stick and vine
She’ll steal your soul, drink your blood
But of her sins they’ll find no sign
If you hear her creeping near
Moaning, groaning, in the trees
Keep still and quiet through your fear
Or her next victim you will be
For if you make a single sound
Your very voice is hers to keep
Until you’re buried in the ground
Another word you’ll never speak
Chapter One
I’m like an ice cube. I seem chill at first but really, I’m just moments away from a total meltdown.
- Imogen Warner, playing it cool
The door creaked open, allowing a shaft of sallow light to spill into the dark bedroom. I kept my eyes shut against it, my breaths steady as a metronome despite the sudden fear that lashed through my chest. My fight-or-flight instincts were screaming at me to do something. Flee into the night, scream like a slasher-movie heroine, clock him over the head with the nearest heavy object…anything, really, except lie there, listening to him stumble over the threshold.
I overrode these instincts with sheer force of will.
Stick to the plan, Imogen.
Adrian was drunk. I could smell the scotch rolling off him like cologne. On the upside, his lumbering steps down the hall had given me ample time to feign sleep. Stiller than stone on my side of the king-sized bed, I listened to a set of clumsy hands prying off a pair of shiny loafers that cost more than the junker of a car I’d purchased in secret two weeks before. (All cash, plus some extra thrown in so they’d store it for me on the lot until I was ready to make my escape.)
You’re ready, I told myself for the millionth time.You’ve been ready for months.
My heart lurched as his hands fumbled for his designer belt. It hit the floor, as did his immaculately tailored slacks. He slurred a curse as he teetered off balance, catching himself on the wooden bed post. The impact rocked the whole frame.
Eventually, I felt the duvet jerked back. His tall form slid under the sheets and the mattress depressed beneath his weight. I fought the natural urge to tense, keeping my muscles relaxed and my breaths measured. All the while, praying like hell he wouldn’t roll my way; praying the amount of alcohol buzzing in his veins would be enough to dampen any misguided romantic inclinations.
Whatever god was listening must’ve heard my heavenly bargaining because soon enough, his breathing leveled off into rhythmic snoring that reminded me of an old freight train rattling down the tracks. Some of the steel bands of trepidation squeezing my lungs loosened ever-so-slightly.
He was asleep.
Out cold.
I waited a while, until I was certain he was truly unconscious, before I risked cracking open my eyes. The beam of light spilling in from the hall prevented the room from being fully dark, but it still took a few seconds for my vision to adjust. When it did, I examined the man lying two feet away. He was on his side, facing me. His handsome face had gone slack. His perfectly toned physique — painstakingly maintained via daily sessions in the gym with his personal trainer — was hidden by thousand-thread-count sheets. In the space between our bodies, his hands clutched the duvet, balling up the fabric in his fists.