“That is exactly what I’m here for, Kathy,” Ian says smoothly, his eyes never leaving her face, which causes a blush to spread across her cheeks. “What can you tell me?”
She almost bounces up and down with elation at his words, her eyes creasing charmingly with her wide grin. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking to hear? I’m afraid if you don’t direct me that I will yammer on until summer.”
“Let’s see,” Ian says, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. “Any prominent figures named Mary in the history of the town? Or anything spooky related to Erik’s house?”
“I’ll do you one better,” she squeaks happily. “How about a spooky Mary who died in his house?”
“That is music to my ears,” Ian says quickly, leaning up against the counter. “Though probably not awesome for Mary.”
We listen as she regales us with the story of the meadow witch who may have poisoned her husband, or had her servant do it and who had definitely poisoned George Madison who she’d been having a torrid affair with. Ian and I looked at each other with that tidbit, both realizing the significance of my ancestor having been her lover. Suddenly her focus on me seems less bizarre and more organic. After, Mary had apparently taken her own life in the cellar of my very house. The old jail where Juniper and I had played as children, ducking in and out of the rusty bars, playing cops and robbers.
“Wow,” I say when she has finished and is staring at me excitedly for my response. “Where is she buried?”
“Unmarked grave, unfortunately,” Kathy says with a sigh, as she leans her shapely hips against the back counter. “When someone was an accused witch they didn’t bother to give them a proper burial. In this case it was made even worse by Magistrate Madison’s anger, and he made no attempt to commit a location to record.”
“What happened to George’s widow?” I ask, feeling odd about framing her that way when I was her direct ancestor as well.
“Sarah Madison never remarried and died alone in the house of illness, not long after the magistrate went mad and killed himself,” she says with a heavy sigh. “It’s a really dark history.”
“Did Mary have any children?” Ian questions, while fiddling with a postcard display. His fingers always seem to be doing something, but it doesn’t seem like a fidget, but more a curiosity threaded through every movement.
“Besides the one that died with her? Yes, she did. Iris Worthe, who she sent away right before she was arrested. We originally had no idea where she went or if she survived, but we recently received a family bible from a sister historic society in Boston.” She leans forward and looks at each of us dramatically. “People used to keep records and birthdates of family in them. This one listed an Iris Adams née Worthe, with her parents listed as Jonathan and Mary Worthe of Bishop. Apparently she’d fled there and married, according to the bible.”
“That’s incredible,” Ian remarks, drumming the counter. “For a young woman of that time period, alone, to make it to Boston and thrive there,”
“Indeed,” Kathy smiles. “She was only 16, it defied the odds.”
“Kathy, this has been so incredibly helpful,” I begin, but she throws her hand up with a tantalizing eyebrow lift. “Ah, but wait, there’s more?”
“Oh yes,” she wiggles her eyebrows at us and I see Ian smile widely. “They found a sort of spell book on Mary’s body, hidden in a secret pocket of her dress. The magistrate found it to be a product of evil and blessed it and kept it locked away. Erik, your grandparents donated it to us decades ago, where it’s been ever since.”
“That is excellent,” Ian purrs. “Is there any possibility that we may see it?”
“So normally no one is able to see it,” she begins. “However, with this book originally belonging to Erik’s family, and you being a professional, I can’t imagine not showing it to you.”
Ian and I exchange a relieved look as we follow Kathy into the back and down to the cellar.
“We’ve converted the old basement to a temperature and moisture controlled environment to house all the important Bishop documents,” she explains as she leads us down, navigating the narrow hallways expertly. Soon she closes a door behind us and pulls out a document safe and lifts out the old book with a flourish.
“We plan to scan it eventually if there is any interest, but currently it remains an original,” she says with a kind smile, encouraging them to inspect it. “Just be extraordinarily gentle. We believe it is at least 350 years old.”
Ian nods and gingerly looks at the pages. They are somewhat frail, but in startlingly good condition considering their age. The pages are filled with a variety of different handwriting, and some are smudged or just illegible based on the chicken scratch they were scrawled in.
“I don’t think you should make this public,” Ian remarks as he peruses the headings. “In fact, I think that would be a remarkably bad idea.”
“Spooky and dark stuff, right?” she asks enthusiastically.
“Right,” he agrees, stopping at a certain page and pointing to some stains that have melted and dried onto the paper. “This looks like dried blood.”
Kathy leans forward to examine it. “Why yes, it does appear to be. That’s especially creepy considering it’s a page about resurrecting the dead.”
Ian and I stare at each other before he looks down again and examines it carefully. When Kathy turns away to start cataloging documents, Ian takes out his phone and snaps pictures as I watch nervously.
“Thank
