I mean, it wouldn’t work, but that makes me think one of us was probably on the periphery to take advantage of the supernatural “signs” that such things inevitably produce. Most of the psychics and mediums I’ve met are human and just very good at reading people. But I’d bet there are a few spawn out there who wouldn’t hesitate to masquerade as such. Which is, at the very least, hilarious, if not downright ironic—actual magic wielders pretending to be gifted, for the chance to feed or mock.
“The mausoleum on the east side of the cemetery is, as Jo suggested, empty. So, technically, a cenotaph. It was donated by an anonymous family member as a memorial for five girls who went missing in the seventies, one of whom was never found,” Devon continues.
“Yes!” Chessa says, startling everyone. “I found an article on that in my research on deaths in and around Beecher.”
Deaths that she thought might bemyfault. Though even she can’t blame me for ones happening that far back.
“The police thought at first it might be a copycat of the Boston Strangler,” Chessa says. “That’s where the serial killer rumors come from. Five girls vanished, one by one, over the course of a week. They were presumed runaways at first because, you know.” She rolls her eyes. “Girls, emotionally unstable, blah blah. Police eventually found four of them dead in Danvers in a pasture somewhere.”
“But it’s still unsolved.” Her brow furrows in dismay at the thought of more injustice running rampant in Beecher. “And the mausoleum, cenotaph, whatever, it’s rumored to be haunted. Apparently, the families all donated a personal possession to be keptin the mausoleum, and people used to think they could hear the girls whispering and giggling inside.” She shudders.
Sounds more like urban legend, something to scare girls into “behaving.” Not the deaths themselves—very possible, unfortunately, serial killers have frequented college campuses more than once—but the stories in the aftermath. Society always wants young women to be fearful; it’s how they control us.
“I saved the best for last,” Devon announces. “One of the oldest graves in the cemetery is rumored to be occupied by a Mary Grace Scott, the sister of a woman executed during the Salem witch trials. She lived in Salem with her sister at the time.”
“Wait.” Chessa holds up her hand. “You’re saying the magic was real?”
“The magic was real, but not the witches. They don’t exist. It’s just us.” I fold my arms across my chest. “I’ve always thought the Old Ones or a bunch of spawn were there stirring the cauldron, so to speak.”
“You don’t know for sure?” she asks me, as if I am the one personally responsible for putting down the quill pen, derelict in my duty.
“It’s not… we’re not a cohesive group like that,” I say, exasperated. “And even if we were, I’ve done my best to stay out of that world. Remember?”
“We don’t exactly keep tight records, love,” Devon says gently. “Some groups are more fastidious than others.” He glances at me, and I know he’s referring to Aphrodite’s Family. “But even they have gaps.”
Under normal circumstances, the grave of someone who was around during the witch trials sounds like the most likely bet for aspawn, but the timeline would be extremely odd for someone who is active now. That’s alongtime to be hiding or regenerating. Also, I didn’t think anyone besides Old Ones could live that long. Still, it’s worth checking out.
But… there’s also something about the empty mausoleum that makes my brain itch. “What year did you say that those girls went missing?” I ask.
“Uh, one second.” Chessa pulls her phone up and clicks through. “1977. Why?”
I close my eyes and mentally shuffle through the spreadsheet summaries I’ve been creating for Dr. Kelleher. She’s had me scanning old admission files and student information. Something nudges the back of my mind. Everything’s digital from about 2005 onward, but prior years are a mess of faded printer paper, onion skin carbon copies, and actual typewritten pages.
It’s an absolute pain in the ass, when entering the information into a searchable database would be much faster. Especially when Kelleher wants a summary of each year.
But it does make it easier to pick up on patterns. I’m stuck somewhere in the fifties now—the 1950s. I’ve been through the nineties, eighties, seventies, and the sixties.
I open my eyes, excited now. “At work, Kelleher marks certain students and their families with red asterisks on the printouts she makes me give her. They’re the ones she wants to make sure aren’t on the contact list.”
“Because they’re dead,” Chessa guesses.
“Some of them, yeah, but it’s also anyone who had a ‘less than stellar Beecher experience.’” I use finger quotes around Kelleher’s words. “She doesn’t want to stir up bad publicity or a lawsuit. Some of them are what you’d expect for the time. Gropey professors,sexual assaults on campus, blatant discrimination, but a lot of them are suicides or suicide attempts. Weird deaths.”
Considering it now, I wonder how many of those “weird deaths” over the years would be centered in proximity to the cemetery.
“Just like Beecher is known for, like you said.” Chessa shrugs, clearly still angry with me. “A statistical anomaly.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t always like that.” I picture the sea of red in the later documents. “In the fifties, one or two incidents. Maybe the odd year of five. Until—”
“Let me guess, the 1970s?” Carter asks. His hair is shoved back off his forehead, but I can still see the lines my fingers made running through it.
I tear my gaze away from him, trying to keep my focus. “You got it. From the late seventies and through the eighties and nineties, the number is double or triple that of the early days, and stays that way as far as I can tell.”
“But that could just be a cultural shift,” Chessa argues. “No one was keeping that shit hidden anymore. You know that more was happening here than was ever reported. That’s true everywhere.”
That is a fair observation. Which does not stop the flush of annoyance from rising in my chest. Because this feels… personal somehow. Like she needs me to be wrong.
“Besides, what’s more likely to be a source of all this? An empty mausoleum with a bunch of old junk in it or an actual grave with one of you in it?” she scoffs.
