Page 96 of The Witch

Ethel comes into the living room, brushing invisible lint from her sweater. When she catches sight of me and Gram sitting together in the living room, her expression sours.

“This is a cozy little conversation,” she comments.

My grandmother has an expression of absolute dread on her face. I force a smile, ignoring the pounding of my heart.

I jump up from the couch to face Ethel. “Gram was just showing me her knitting.”

“Was that Henry Ziegler’s car I passed leaving the property?” Ethel asks me. “You’re not dating that boy, are you, Julia?”

“Sort of,” I admit.

She shakes her head in disgust. “You realize he doesn’t actually like you. He’s just manipulating you to get his grimy hands on Pemberton.”

I flinch at her comment. Was Ethel always this way? Was she always this…cruel?

“Listen,” I say quietly, grabbing Ethel by the arm and pulling her out of earshot of my grandmother, “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to leave Gram alone in the house anymore. If you had told me you had plans to go out, I wouldn’t have left.”

She grunts. “What are you so anxious about? Mick is upstairs.”

“But he’s not here.”

“So?”

“So she could wander off.” I glance over at Gram, who has gone back to her knitting. “It’s not safe for her to be alone anymore.”

“Dear God, Julia!” She throws up her arms in exasperation. “You sound just like your father. Such a worrywart.”

I want to tell her what I found Gram doing in the backyard that day, but if I do, she’ll use it as another reason we can’t sell Pemberton. Still, it isn’t safe to leave Gram alone. Something has to be done.

While I’m trying to figure out how to express the seriousness of the situation, the phone starts ringing. Ethel starts for it, but I’m closer, and I manage to snatch it up before she gets there.

“Hello? Is this Julia Barlow?” a gruff voice on the other line asks.

I glance up at Ethel, who is looking at me curiously. “Yes…”

“This is Alistair Dixon.”

“Oh!” I’ve managed to put that ghost recorder out of my head, but now it all comes flooding back. “What’s going on? Did you finish…interpreting the recording?”

“I did.”

“And?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Actually, I’d like to come over and let you listen for yourself.”

“What is it?”

“Really,” he says, “it’s better if you hear for yourself.”

I grip the phone more tightly, aware that both Ethel and Gram are staring at me. “Can you come now?”

“I’m sorry. The earliest I can make it is tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow? I can’t hide my disappointment. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I wonder if the contents of that recording will give me a clue about whose skeleton is buried in our backyard. “Is there any way you can play it for me over the phone?”

“No,” he says. “I promise, this is something you’ve got to hear in person.”

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