Page 87 of The Witch

As I’m trying to get my GPS to load, I glance over at the parking lot of the motel. There are only a handful of cars in the lots, and one of them is a white Buick.

Actually, it looks exactly like Ethel’s car.

Except that makes no sense. Why would Ethel be parked in the lot of a seedy motel one town over? I can’t even imagine a reasonable explanation for that.

I start to walk over to get a closer look, but the map suddenly jumps onto the screen of my phone. Thank God—I’m back in business. I abandon my investigation of Ethel’s car’s twin and climb back in my own Ford. I’ve got to get over to the museum and figure out what Henry learned about the skeletal remains in our backyard.

It’s nearly the end of the day, so when I get to the museum entrance, there’s no line. That same girl is there—the one who seems to be using this job as an excuse to surf the internet. I approach her, and she briefly manages to rip her gaze away from her phone and stare up at me with eyes lined heavily in black.

“We’re closed in half an hour,” she tells me.

“I’m actually looking for Henry,” I say.

She gives me a blank look.

“Henry Ziegler,” I clarify. “The curator.”

The girl scratches the side of her nose, where she has a diamond stud. “Nobody by that name works here.”

I clench my teeth in frustration. They really need to hire somebody better for the front desk. “Henry Ziegler. I’ve met with him several times. He definitely works here.”

The girl looks up at me thoughtfully. “Actually, there was a curator by that name who used to work here a long time ago.”

She must be confused. “How long ago?”

“Like, I don’t know, decades ago,” she says. “There was a big fire in the museum back in 1952. A few of the staff members were killed—burned alive before the fire trucks could arrive—and he was one of them.”

What? No…

“I’ve heard a few people say that they’ve seen him walking around the museum late at night.” She shudders visibly. “The stories kind of creeped me out, but I never really believed it.”

I stare at her, my mouth hanging open. “Oh…”

She raises her eyebrows. “You say you saw him?”

“I…I did. I mean…”

“Was he wearing suspenders and a tweed jacket?” The girl leans forward, her eyes bulging. “That’s what they always say he’s wearing.”

My head is spinning. She must be confused. The man I have met with three times now was very real. We danced together and he held me—he kissed me. He definitely did not die back in 1952. It’s impossible.

Except…

I’ve never met a man quite like Henry Ziegler. He’s so…old-fashioned. The suspenders, the haircut—even his shoes look like they belong to someone who lived a long time ago. And then there is his fascination with music from decades ago, and his knowledge of all the old dance numbers. He said it was because his grandparents got him into it, but when I tried to ask about it, he clammed up.

And then there was that flash of anger when he talked about how awful it would be to return to the world of the living after your death. How painful it would be to walk among the living, knowing you weren’t one of them. In a way, it all makes a terrible sort of⁠—

“What the hell, Lina?”

I jerk my head up just in time to see Henry walking toward us, practically jogging. His lips are pulled down, and for a change, his hair looks a bit tousled. The girl jumps out of her seat, her index fingers crossed together and held out in front of her as if to ward him off.

“Be gone, evil spirit!” she shouts, although now she’s giggling.

Henry comes to a stop in front of her desk, glowering at her. “What did you say to Julia?”

“Oh, it was great! I told her you died in a terrible museum fire! In 1952!” The girl, Lina, bursts into peals of laughter. “And she believed it!”

Henry turns his gaze on me, looking a bit rattled. “You didn’t really?”