Page 114 of The Witch

Gideon emerges from the house then. He nuzzles against my palm, looking up at me with his yellow eyes, and I know that wherever we go, we will take him with us. He approaches Jonas next, and Jonas strokes him absently, his eyes never leaving my face.

“I will,” I say.

And that is how I accept the marriage proposal of my future husband over the grave of the husband we murdered.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

JULIA

There was no funeral.

It’s hard to hold a funeral over three hundred years after a person dies. I suppose you could do it, but it’s certainly not typical. Although if there had been one, I bet half the town would have come.

Either way, I’m happy that after over three centuries, Caroline Eldridge finally has a gravestone in Woodhaven.

Henry has come with me to the cemetery today to bring flowers for Caroline. This particular cemetery has been closed to new burials for many years, but they made an exception for Caroline. This is the same cemetery where Archibald and Molly Eldridge are buried too, and now Caroline finally has a spot in the family plot.

“I hope she doesn’t hate it here,” I say to Henry as I kneel beside her grave, my jeans digging into the dirt. “I’m not sure if she would like the idea of spending all of eternity with Molly.”

Henry, ever the skeptic, says, “I don’t think it works that way.”

Henry feels strongly that Celia Caine and Mick Wheeler were responsible for every bit of the haunting activity that took place at Pemberton. There was even a hidden trap door leading from Mick’s room to the attic, and that’s how he was able to get up there so quickly and easily without being seen and without making many footprints. Everything could be explained.

Except those whispered words we heard on the recording:

Celia…Celia…Ceeeeelia…

Unlike Mick, who was quietly buried in a local cemetery, Celia survived that fateful night at Pemberton, and she sat through a trial in which she was found guilty of two counts of first-degree murder. She will be spending the remainder of her life in prison, although it’s not clear how long that will be. None of our family members will be visiting “Great-Aunt Ethel.”

As for the real Great-Aunt Ethel, that was a hard one for our family to get over. My father was terribly shaken to discover that the woman who he believed was his mother all those years was the sister of the woman who gave birth to him. It was some comfort to know that Letitia had loved Ethel and only wanted to respect her dignity and give her child a good home. But it’s challenging to resolve those feelings, given that Letitia Barlow only vaguely remembers what happened. Although she technically committed a crime when she covered up Ethel’s death, nobody had much interest in prosecuting a confused elderly woman for a transgression committed over fifty years ago.

We did have a funeral for the real Ethel though. Her remains were found in the backyard, not far from Caroline’s—I understand why Gram got confused. She was reburied near her parents—my great-grandparents—who died believing their youngest daughter was angry with them and left town without speaking to them ever again.

Henry would say it’s all in my head, but after we had the funeral for Ethel, somehow it felt like that strange presence I always felt at Pemberton disappeared. It’s nothing I could prove, but I’d like to believe that we helped the real Ethel find peace.

“I hope you like sunflowers,” I say.

I lay them in front of Caroline’s headstone. It bears her name, Caroline Eldridge, followed by the years she lived, 1672 to 1692. She was only twenty years old when she died, although in my head, she always seemed much older. Judging by that oil painting, Archie and Molly lived much longer than poor Caroline.

“Sunflowers were popular in colonial America.” Henry pushes his glasses up his nose as he speaks. He is always a wealth of information. “I’m sure if she were alive, she would’ve enjoyed them.”

“Good.” I run my fingers along the engraved surface of the stone. “And, Caroline, I promise we will take good care of your house.”

The museum officially purchased Pemberton after the investigation was concluded. Now that Celia was out of the picture, my father gained power of attorney over his adoptive mother and agreed to sell, using the money to pay for her care. I decided to accept Henry’s offer to help turn Pemberton into part of the museum, and I’ve been working my butt off ever since. I feel like there is no better way to honor my family history than to turn it into a piece of American history.

Plus, it gave me an income as well as an excuse to stay in Woodhaven. Good thing, since Henry and I moved in together two months ago. After we sat down and he told me the full story of all he went through with his grandfather in his final years and his frustration with Celia’s refusal to acknowledge there was a problem, I understood why Henry felt a need to call Adult Protective Services. He apologized profusely for having done it without talking to me, but he only did it out of concern for Letitia. I forgave him.

“Hey.” Henry is looking down at his watch pointedly. “We better get going soon. We’ve got our lesson in half an hour.”

Oh yes, and we’re taking ballroom dancing lessons together, including the foxtrot. I want to start competing, because we’re pretty damn good. I’ve even gotten to like Frank Sinatra. And Henry is right—he does sound better on vinyl.

And yes, a trilby is totally different from a fedora.

“Okay.” I struggle to get back to my feet. Henry—ever the gentleman—offers me his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Great. The GPS says traffic is light.”