Page 19 of The Witch

I scratch the back of my neck as the overhead lights flicker. “Oh…”

“And here’s the even stranger thing.” He holds up the silver analog watch hanging from his wrist. “My watch also stops every night. At exactly the same time. It all started a few months ago.”

I wonder if it started around the same time the museum made an offer on Pemberton. “Do…do you know why?”

Mick opens his mouth as if to answer my question, but then he shakes his head. “I can’t say. Just one of those strange things, I guess.”

And that’s when it occurs to me that it was around 3:41 in the morning that I was woken up last night. If I wasn’t having a heart attack before, I’m pretty damn close now.

“Are you okay, Miss Julia?” he asks me.

“Fine,” I choke out.

That’s a lie. I am not fine. But I have got to get the hell out of Pemberton, if only for a few hours.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m going out. Do…do you think you could keep an eye on Gram while I’m gone?”

I suspect Ethel must leave her here alone with some frequency, but Mick immediately nods in understanding. “No problem. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

At least that’s one thing I won’t have to worry about today.

14

The Woodhaven Museum is impressively large for a relatively small town. The building is made from bricks that each appear to be a slightly different shade of brown, with a stained-glass window just above the ornately carved wood of the front door. The whole thing gives it a castle-like appearance.

My father didn’t give me any details about who I’m supposed to meet with. He simply instructed me to show up at ten and said I would be greeted at the door. When I push my way inside, the interior's high ceilings and arched doorways mirror the exterior's grandeur.

I stand in the entranceway corridor for a moment, not quite sure what to do. I hoped somebody would greet me the second I entered, but nobody is waiting. It’s only ten in the morning, which is hardly prime time, and the entrance is relatively quiet. The only person in sight is a teenage girl occupying the welcome desk, chewing on gum while she scrolls on her phone.

Is she the person I’m supposed to meet? It seems hard to believe this girl will convince me to talk my grandmother into selling her estate. But I don’t have any other options, so I approach her.

“Hello?” I say tentatively.

The girl doesn’t acknowledge me.

“Hi,” I try again. “I’m Julia Barlow.”

“Hang on.” She’s playing some sort of game on her phone and seems really into it. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I grit my teeth, ready to give this young whippersnapper a lecture on work ethic, but before I can do so, a voice from across the room calls out, “Julia Barlow! Thank you so much for coming!”

I whirl around in time to see a man jogging toward me. I expected the curator to be an elderly gentleman, and for a moment, I think that’s exactly what he is. The man is wearing wing tip shoes and gray tweed trousers, with a pin-striped shirt, topped off with a pair of suspenders. Even his black-rimmed glasses look like something I saw people wearing in the history books from the 1930s.

But when he gets closer, I realize that the man is not old at all. He’s around my age, or at most a few years older. He’s handsome in an old-fashioned sort of way, with his dark brown hair clipped short and parted on the side—he would have been quite the catch back in 1940. He grins at me and extends a hand in my direction.

“My name is Henry Ziegler,” he says. “I’m the curator of the Woodhaven Museum.”

His grip is firm as he holds eye contact with me. He pumps my hand twice then releases it.

“Julia Barlow,” I say.

“I know.” His grin widens. “You’re Letitia Barlow’s granddaughter. I’m really glad to hear you’ve come to stay with her. I had…concerns.”

“Yes,” I murmur, but I don’t say that I share his concerns. It’s none of his damn business.

“I’m so glad you came by to talk,” he says. “I’ve been the biggest champion of the museum’s purchase of your grandmother’s house, and anything I can do to make this happen…well, just say the word.”

“I understand,” I say, “but you have to know that it’s not up to me.”