I shook my head, banishing that train of thought almost as soon as it arose. Dipping my toes back into that world, where I used my powers for profit, was something I had no intentions of doing.
Not unless it was a last resort.
Gwendolyn Goode —what sort of name was that, anyway?— and her witchy little shop would simply have to find someone else.
Chapter Seven
I like my emotions how I like my water.
All bottled up.
- Imogen Warner, getting in touch with her feelings
Fallen leaves crunched beneath the bicycle tires, flying up behind me in a vortex as I rode. At Gigi’s insistence, I’d borrowed Declan’s bright green two-wheeler for my day of job hunting. (Sometimes, being so short-statured came in handy.)
The air on my cheeks was crisp and cold, but I didn’t mind. My body temperature was even more elevated than usual from the rapid pedaling that carried me down one of paths that crisscrossed Salem Common, into the heart of the city.
So far, Salem wasn’t like the other stops I’d made on the Imogen Warner International Tour of Misery. Mostly because it was absolutely adorable. Small town charm practically oozed from the cobblestones, which were strewn with crunchy leaves of various red, yellow, and brown hues. The houses I passed by were old and historical — ornate Victorians and stately Colonials lined the square, which looked like something out of aGilmore Girlsepisode with its round stone bandstand and lush grass lawn. Every bench was occupied by people chatting, drinking coffee, snapping photographs, reading books. I wished more than anything that I had time to hop off my bike and waste away the day in the park alongside them. But I was a woman on a mission.
First stop: the job board.
Gigi had warned me the area would be busy —‘Two days till Halloween… The entire town is mobbed with tourists looking to get their freak on! And I do mean that literally!’ — but even with the warning, I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me when I hit downtown.
I braked hard, screeching to a stop and staring, mouth agape, at the dense crowd. There were people everywhere, filling the entire street from end to end, spilling off the sidewalks onto the road — which, thankfully, was currently closed to car traffic. Practically everyone was dressed in full costume even though it was mid-morning. I saw vampires with fake plastic teeth, alien invaders with green face paint, monsters with horns jutting from their heads, and characters from every pop-culture phenomenon over the past twenty years. Marvel Avengers, Star Wars Jedi knights… Zombies, scarecrows, devils… Above all, though…
Witches.
So many witches of every possible variety. It was a veritable sea of pointy hats and striped tights, black cloaks and swirling skirts. Some were historical, in corsets and petticoats, holding baskets of herbs or gnarled walking staffs. Others were chic and cool, with heavy eyeliner, artfully torn fishnets, and sexy leather bustiers.
My eyes were saucer-wide trying to take it all in as I parked Declan’s bike in one of the racks across the street from the imposing stone facade of the Witch Museum. Clearly, it was a popular tourist destination. A long line of people snaked around the corner, waiting for their chance to enter. A little girl dressed like Elsa fromFrozenwaved at me from where she stood sandwiched between her parents.
I waved back, wondering if they made those sparkly princess gloves in my size. For obvious reasons, Elsa was my favorite of the Disney Princess brigade. (I mean…Conceal, don’t feel?Talk about relatable.) My own gloves today were lace, with dainty buttons at the wrists. They matched my dress — a white, boho-style number I’d thrifted ages ago, with drapey sleeves and lacing at the bodice. Not exactly bike riding attire, but I wanted to look nice for my job hunt.
Adjusting my skirt, which had ridden up slightly as I pedaled, I ran my fingers through my windswept waves to tame them as I best I could without a brush, pointed my low, snip-heel booties in the direction of the mob scene, and started walking. I passed by the busy Hawthorne Hotel, with its (supposedly) friendly poltergeists, then meandered down Essex Street, which seemed to be the main hub of activity.
It wasn’t much of a street, seeing as cars couldn’t drive down it. But there sure were a lot of people. I passed by a guy dressed like Freddy Kreuger, giving him wide berth, and in the process almost smacked straight into Dracula. His white face paint was nearly an inch thick, his collar was up around his ears, and his plastic fangs were lopsided when he grinned.
“I vant to suck your bloooood!” he informed me in a terrible fake Eastern-European accent.
“Sucks for you.” I darted around him, calling back over my shoulder, “You can’t always get what you vant!”
He was crestfallen.
Leaving Dracula in my dust, I wove slowly through the throngs, coughing on fake fog that poured from shop entryways, ducking to avoid ruining photographs. Everywhere I looked, people were posing with scary costumed movie villains, sticking their heads into fake stocks and pillories, snapping selfies in front of the fountain, buying snacks from the various food vendors, sitting for outlandish caricatures, and pausing to listen to the busking musical artists who’d set up to perform. Massive orange banners were strung overhead, proclaiming SALEM’S HAUNTED HAPPENINGS in spooky black font.
A man dressed as a knockoff Jack Sparrow shoved a glossy pamphlet into my hands, which advertised half-off admission at the local Pirate Museum. As I walked away, he complimented my ‘fine sea legs’ which may or may not have been a misguided attempt at flirting.
In any case, by the time I made my way to Derby Square — the small plaza home to the Old Town Hall — I had three other pamphlets from different street hustlers advertising ghost tours, witch history walks, and psychic readings. I slipped them into my backpack as I fished out my small leather-bound journal and a pen to take notes.
The community bulletin board was right where Gigi said it would be, smack in the center of the plaza. Every square inch of it was plastered with flyers. There was the typical fodder — yard sale announcements, shop advertisements, car wash services, missing pet reward posters, a schedule of events for an ‘Autumn in the Park’ concert series… I scanned for potential job listings amongst the multicolored mishmash, lifting the top layer to reveal even more papers tacked underneath.
After a decade of practice finding part-time gigs, I knew what to look for and what to ignore. In under five minutes, I’d amassed a series of potential leads — a dog-sitting service was looking for new walkers, a family-owned sailboat charter needed crew, a home renovation company was seeking commercial painters, and several local bars and restaurants were in desperate need of staff to get through the high season. Nothing exceptional… but I’d done worse things for money. (Don’t even get me started on my short-lived stint as a stall-mucker at a horse farm in a podunk corner of Pennsylvania three years ago.)
After jotting down the necessary phone numbers and information, I left the Halloween hullabaloo behind and sought out a quiet spot to make my calls. This took a fair bit of walking, but eventually I found an empty bench on the outskirts of town, overlooking Salem Harbor.
First up?
A place called Mercy Tavern was looking for a new bar-back. I summoned my most pleasing phone voice and began to dial…