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I barely slow down as I reach them. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We race into the woods, running up the hill and to the bridge. None of us hesitate this time as we cross, heading to the other side and back to our cars without any hesitation or discussion.
I hop into mine, shoving everything in the back seat.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I need to go home. I’ve had about all the creepy I can take for a while,” Piper groans from the back seat.
I bite my lip. Oh, Pipe, it’s only just begun.
“That sounds good to me. I’ll take you guys home,” I say. Truth is, I have a lot of reading to do, and if I want to figure this shit out, I better get to it.
Setting Agnes’s file aside, I pull theHistory of Castle Pointebook from my backpack. Luckily, both my grandmother and mom were preoccupied when I got home, so I was able to slip inside without too much interrogation.
Cracking open the front cover of the book, the spine cracks, old age and unuse making it stiff. The paper is rough, thick, and slightly yellowed. Pictures of the beginning of Castle Pointe appear, all black-and-white photos, the old side of town when it used to be populated and active. People wave to the camera, wearing a mix of poufy dresses and work clothes.
“Wow,” I whisper, my fingers brushing the old pictures.
I turn to the next page, seeing that Castle Pointe was established in the nineteen hundreds.
I read through the history, my eyes widening as I find out everything there is to know.
Castle Pointe, running along Lake Superior and the Canadian border, population three hundred. A small town which has been dubbed by many as the Salem of the Midwest. Suspicion of witchcraft for many of the folk here caused people to grow leery of their safety in Castle Pointe, and they fled in the years to come, to Canada or to the lower cities in Minnesota. Unnatural, supernatural happenings have been occurring for years, and multiple bloodlines have been found accused of witchery.
It all began with Sibley Alastair and Beryl Kipling.
In the early nineteen hundreds, Sibley Alastair was the first accused of witchcraft. She and her family were accused of stealing the livestock from nearby homes and sacrificing them on her property. Blood magic and other dark rituals have been seen by others, which brought on the Castle Pointe Witch Trials in the late 1930s.
“The Castle Pointe Witch Trials? Alastair? As in Agnes? Who is Kipling?” I whisper, turning the page.
I can’t stop reading, the history of the witch trials, the long process with all the citizens of Castle Pointe, it’s fascinating. It was eventually found that both Sibley Alastair and Beryl Kipling were found guilty of witchcraft.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, turning the page and seeing a picture of the center of town where the asylum now stands. Two large gallows stood in the road, and a picture of two women, hanging from their necks, with blank looks on their faces, stare at the camera.
A chill breaks up my spine.
They were hung where the asylum sits.
Sibley Alastair and Beryl Kipling were cousins, and at the time of their deaths, they were in their late twenties. Sibley Alastair left behind three children, and Beryl left behind one child. Since the Alastair and Kipling death, there have been no other sacrifices, black magic, or any suspicion of witchcraft for many years.
“Who are Sibley’s kids?” I whisper, shoving the book aside and pulling out Agnes’s folder. “They have to be related.”
I dig into the back of the folder, looking for family history, or a family tree, or anything.
There’s nothing.
I groan, my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose as a raging headache hits me.
I feel like every time I get two steps ahead, I take four back. I keep hitting dead ends, and while this information is useful, none of it is telling me how to save Castle Pointe.
My eyes crack open, and I sit up in bed, shoving the books and folder aside as I glance out the window.
Shit, I slept all night.
I can smell sage and incense burning through the air in the house. As I slide from my bed, I know I have to talk to my mom and grandma if I’m going to solve this. I know I shouldn’t get them involved, but I need their advice. They know what to do.
My bare feet pad across the wood floor, and I slip my hands into the sleeves of my hoodie, pulling the hood over my head. The last thing I need is for my mom or grandma to see the fingerprints around my neck. Opening the door, I slip out of my room and make my way down the hall. Fresh muffins and bacon reach my nose as I get closer, and I inhale deeply, my stomach grumbling as I saunter into the kitchen.
“Oh, Hazel. Finally, you’re awake!” my grandmother says from the couch. She has a needle and yarn, and she’s knitting yet another blanket to add to her stack.
