I decide against it. I’ll go see the new exhibit at the Met, then hop a train back north. No more silly games; it’s time to concentrate. I accomplished what I came here to do. I pitched my own idea—not that this was ever in doubt—and poisoned the well of Simone’s thriller. Now I need to get to work. I have my own book to write.
Chapter 25
The Hawthorne
The Hawthorne Hotel in Salem is as historic as they come, a handsome brick edifice flying its standards over the town’s cracked sidewalks. Inside, the Oriental carpets are thick; there are grandfather clocks, fresh flower arrangements, numerous oil paintings of whalers. There’s rumored to be an entire captain’s cabin on the top floor, an homage to the building’s original use as the Maritime Society. The air smells of lemon wood polish and fried food from the tavern. This is exactly the kind of luxury hotel I’d enjoy staying in under normal circumstances, that I request from the Hercules team when they’re booking my accommodations. Unfortunately, I’m no longer on tour, and today is Halloween Eve, and Salem is a boiling cauldron of insanity.
“It’s been like this all month,” the clerk at the front desk confides as she’s validating my parking, which, stunned by the hysteria outside, I’d neglected to do when first checking in. She hands me back my license and room key, which surprisingly is plastic. I would have thought no tacky digital cards for the Hawthorne, rather a big heavy brass thing that slips into a lock, but at least this one has a watercolor of the hotel on it. “The Chamber of Commerce actually tells peoplenotto come here in October. It’s on the city website.”
I give a curt nod.Thank you, Lady Obvious.I’m so annoyed I don’t even bother to assess her fuckability. I practically sustained a black eyeand broken ribs fighting my way through the black-clad purple-haired tattooed and pierced estrogen extravaganza outside. My suite tonight cost $1,200, which I’d attributed, silly me, to fall foliage season, and if it didn’t come with a Privileged Guest spot, I’d be parking in the sea.
As I’m tucking away my wallet, the clerk says, “Wait, aren’t you that superfamous writer from Maine?” Somewhat mollified, I’m about to sayYes, yes I am, when she adds, “You wrote the book about that haunted hotel! I should’ve given you Room 612.” She taps rapidly at her keyboard. “Too bad, it’s taken. Are you here to”—she lowers her voice—“channel something?”
“You must have me confused with someone else,” I say, “I’m just a regular warlock,” and I storm across the lobby, elbowing through the Wiccan wildebeests. I take the elevator up with a gang of teen ghouls who disperse into the third floor, leaving me with a gray-haired granny whose V-neck saysProud Croneand aWitch in Trainingin a stroller.
“Going to 612?” theCroneasks when I re-jab the button for the sixth floor.
There’s no way in hell I’m telling her my room number. “Why do you ask?” I say, eyeing theWitch in Training, who is violently shaking her juice box upside-down.
TheCronewinks and leans over the stroller bar, exposing an expanse of crinkled cleavage I’d give a month of my life not to have seen. “So are we,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “Going to see Miss Bridget. Though she’s more active at night. So we’ll come back then too.”
“Sounds like a party,” I say. The doors open, and I push the Close button as I slide through. “Oops! Sorry about that!”
The top floor is mercifully quiet. I look upMissBridget/ Rm 612/Hawthorneand discover that the hotel is built on the former apple orchard of the first woman to be hanged in Salem, Bridget Bishop. Of course it was. And that she is said to roam this floor in a white nightgown. As one does. That’s why all these lunatics are here, to commune with the likes of Miss Bridget. What do they expect will happen on Halloween, exactly? The resurrection of the witches, scarlet A’s burstinginto flames on their bosoms? The midnight ride of headless Nathaniel Hawthorne? Every deranged shrew in the country is rioting on the streets outside, hoping to assuage the emptiness of their lives through some pathetic sorceress power fantasy. Good fucking luck, ladies. After this one night it’ll be back to casting spells in your lonely living rooms, cats your sole companions, vibrators your only magic wands. I’m still muttering to myself as I locate my suite—notRoom 612—and turn the key in the lock.
Why didn’t Cyndi warn me about this? It was her idea to come here. Or rather, it was mine to meet somewhere other than her cat-infested hellhole, after I spent a night there following my visit to New York and one cat scratched me so badly I needed stitches, and another pissed in my shoes.Kitten, I’d said, once Cyndi was satisfied,how about our next rendezvous, I take you on a trip?This was what I’d planned anyway; it’s how it always goes, meeting at their place, then a few overnights, then—if they prove trustworthy—my home. Except no woman has ever lasted more than a night there, just long enough for a little sportfucking, because they always let me down. But never mind. I remain hopeful, ever the romantic optimist.
Cyndi was reluctant.That’s alovelyidea,she said,but I don’t know if I should travel. The cats.I’d thought she was kidding the first time she’d said this; did she never really leave her home?Can’t the downstairs tenants take care of them?I suggested. Cyndi had screwed up her dear little face, thinking about it, closing one big blue eye, then the other.I guess. But also, it’s almost Halloween.I laughed.What happens on Halloween, kitten? Do you go trick-or-treating? If you show me a trick, I’ll give you a treat.Cyndi did not laugh.It’s when the membrane is thinnest between this world and the next, she said firmly.I’ve never been away from my altar. Margaret might visit.I detached a cat from my head, where it was sinking claws into my scalp.What if, I said,we bring your altar with us? It’s portable, no?Cyndi thought about this some more.You know where I’ve always wanted to be on Halloween?she said finally.Tell me, I said.The Hawthorne, Cyndi said.It’s supposed to be a portal!Her big eyesgrew round, as if she were an orphan viewing a feast through a window.We could have a séance, I suggested. Cyndi clapped.Ooooh! We could summon Margaret!I ran my thumb down her clavicle.I’m sure she’d come, especially if we read your book in the tub.Cyndi squeaked:Eeeeee! Yes! But...Her face fell.I’veneverbeen able to get a room there. It’s too expensive, and especially not on Halloween. I’m sure it’s been booked for months.I discreetly propelled a cat across the room with my foot, hiding a smirk. My poor dear Kitten, so unaccustomed to the perks of wealth and status.Leave it to me, I said.
I did not understand at the time, nor like any sane person would I ever have guessed, what a broiling brouhaha Halloween is here, but the suite consoles me somewhat. It’s as peaceful as the streets are psychotic, with thick carpet, medallioned wallpaper, a writing desk by the window that might have pleased Nathaniel himself. I’ll be putting that to good use later, along with the four-poster bed I requested and the claw-foot tub. Although the view isn’t directly of the harbor, there’s the sense, as always in seaside towns, of light bouncing off water. A luxurious, well-appointed cocoon. Except for Cyndi’s battered red rollaway, which she’s abandoned in the middle of the room—why?—and the squirrel’s nest of items that, I am beginning to suspect, accompanies her everywhere: on the couch a cardigan inside out, a half-eaten apple, a brush choked with blond strands; on the coffee table tarot cards, a Ouija board, a candle, the crow under glass. Of course she had to bring him with her. At least there are no cats. That I know of. I set my briefcase on the desk.
“Kitten,” I call, wheeling Cyndi’s suitcase to the bedroom—why must women always overpack? We are here for one night. Canopy bed, as promised. I recall against my will Simone performing an endearingly clumsy but arousing striptease on a similar bed, swiveling out of her sundress and thumbing down her thong, and thrust the memory away with a growl.No. Go away.The Hawthorne may be haunted, by Bridget Bishop and God knows who, but the only ghost I believe in is Simone.
“Kitten, where did you go?” I call.
No answer from Cyndi. But there’s the zapping sound of somebody unlocking the main door to the suite. I return to the living room, frowning, in time to see the handle flipping from horizontal to vertical. Housekeeping? This late in the day? Or a guest who’s mistaken the room for his own—but then why would he have our key? Is it room service; does complimentary champagne come with the suite? For this price, it should.
“We don’t need anything, thank you,” I call with irritation. “And don’t you knock?” For the door is already swinging open. I go to block it with my foot—
—and it’s Simone.
“Simone?” I say doubtfully. “Is it you?”
She pushes past me, corporeal enough. I smell the cold wind in her hair and on her skin, and there’s a half-dead maple leaf caught in her braid. She’s in her yoga pants and sneakers and a suede jacket, and I think stupidly that I’ve never known her in fall. She looks around, breathing hard, her cheeks flushed as if she’s run up the stairs.
“Cyndi?” she calls. “I’m here!”
“What are you doing here?” I say. I’m still so bewildered by the presence of actual, three-dimensional Simone after weeks of being haunted by her that I’m slow to calculate. My body is happily responding to her, her scent, her chest rising and falling—I took my meds in the car, and boy are they kicking in. I want to go to her, thrust my tongue into her mouth, reach into her shirt and twist her breasts. I don’t know whether to fuck her or shake her.
Then I realize she’s called Cyndi by name.
“Why are you here?” I ask again. My scrambled brain coughs up an unlikely but happy answer—a threesome? Did they plan this? Do they think it’s my birthday? How does Simone know Cyndi? I move toward Simone, but she sidesteps me, bristling.
“I’m here to verify whatyou’redoing here,” she says. “And so is she. Hey, Cyndi! Where are you, girl?”
She’s across the room before I can catch her, but finally I start functioning again. “No,” I say furiously, snatching for her and grabbing onlyair. “You can’t just come in here andmaraud.” For she’s racing around like a greyhound, rampaging through the bedroom. I lunge for her and catch her elbow. “Simone!” I grip her arm. “What the fuck are you doing!”
Simone glares at me. Her eyes are lurid with tears.
