ADORA
Weeping Hollow, Maine
November 16, 2020
The silence was loud,counting down the seconds until the sun rose.
When morning arrived, there was no new beginning. Daylight spread, but Mrs. Madder was still dead. It was high tide, but Lena was still trapped in the cell in the underground tunnels for using magic, on standby for her execution. Darkness faded, but the Shadows hadn’t been conquered. And though it was a brand-new day, I was still engaged. Of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I could make a difference in only one.
When a witch was guilty of breaking a law, the Order would imprison them in the cell. There, they were starved and left to the angry spirits that haunted the tunnels. These ghosts kept the prisoner awake for a week until their final day, when the witch was forced to walk through the tunnel to Weeping Hollow’s highest peak. It was there that their body was thrown into the Wicker Man. Death by fire kept the magic surrounding our town bound and balanced. Both a sacrifice and a punishment.
But I was determined to sneak into the cell before the afterlife would take Lena. She couldn’t die believing no one from her coven stood by her side.
But that would have to wait until just before nightfall.
I slipped out from under the quilt, and the attic door creaked as it opened. Behind me, my family slept soundly. After the night we had, nothing would wake them.
On this day, I picked clothes from a special drawer—the bottom one filled with ugly clothes saved for bad days such as these. Inside, worn jeans and holey tees, washed too many times to count, and sweatshirts I wouldn’t typically wear lay folded neatly. I picked the over-washed denim and a pale blue Weeping Hollow sweatshirt.
Soon, our cottage would be surrounded by nosy, concerned neighbors, Officer Stoker, and those from St. Christopher’s Funeral Home. I left before Jonah wheeled Mrs. Madder out of the house, wishing not to see, and walked through Town Square with her screams echoing in my mind.
Sidewalks were empty, lamp posts were out, and the town was suffocated by an eerie silence. Muted skies, flurry-kissed flesh, and a whisper in every harsh breath. The dreary season held us close, desperate to have Weeping Hollow as its chilling secret. Its only motive was to keep us locked away in a harrowing glass snow globe with no chance of escape.
In front of Tuck’s General Store, where barrels once filled with penny candies kids shoveled into pails and weighed at the register, and postcards once swiveled in tall carousels, I passed the crack in the sidewalk that looked like a middle finger. It had always been there, just as Johnny Blackwell’s tiny handprint in front of Blackwell Apothecary marked this town. And initials from teenagers, who were sick in love, were carved into the weathered wood of the gazebo.
Kane had never carved a K+A for Kane and Adora, as some would believe.
Kane had carved a K+A for Kane and Adeline.
Other landmarks such as these were littered around town, and I found a sort of comfort in them. Anything and anyone outside the spell’s barrier wouldn’t understand the emotional attachment of a crack or handprint. Despite the Shadows and winter, these things made this town what it was. Nothing could take away the scars of Weeping Hollow.
With my satchel hung across my chest, I entered The Strange&UnusualBookstore and spotted Milo Andrews with his back to me. I slipped past him and beelined to the back of the bookstore to avoid him.
As I walked down the aisle, leather-bound spines lined the shelves, and the scent of chocolate and the finest coffee in all of Weeping Hollow swirled in the dusty store. Here, the coffee was rich, creamy, and like home. The Bean’s coffee was a knockoff. But if others knew, this place would be swarmed.
Milo’s head popped up through an empty space in the shelf between us, appearing suddenly from thin air, almost scaring me.
A newsboy hat covered his curling chestnut hair. Headphone wires dangled from his ears, and his head bobbed to a beat only he could hear.
He slid a book onto the shelf. “I’m having a hard time finding another vintage Vogue issue. I’ll need more time.”
I pulled my lips tight. “That’s not why I’m here.” I tried to sound like I had nothing to hide, but we both knew why I lurked inside the bookstore every now and then, and Milo being my vintage Vogue dealer wasn’t the only reason.
Milo pulled off one side of his headphones, and his honey-brown eyes behind black eyeglasses looked at me. He leaned down to reach into a nearby book cart to pick up another novel. “You know, you’ll have to let go at some point.”
Sometimes he knew too much about me. My eyes shimmered from trying to hide behind them, and I blinked before settling them back on him and his unwanted advice about my mother.
“How did you end up with a job here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out there reporting or doing whatever it is you’re best at?” I imagined a black and white image of Mrs. Madder in the obituaries.
Black and white didn’t seem to do the colorful woman justice.
“I’m tired of writing articles about death. I needed a break.”
My laugh was empty. “Hide in here with all the books, Milo. I’ll come and get you when it’s over.”
He slid another book onto the shelf between us with an arched brow.
Normally, he was used to the bite in my words. This was how we communicated. But I was on edge, and he could tell.
