Chapter Two

October 2025

“Fancy meeting you here,” I said as I sashayed up to my college roommate.

Beatrice spun around, that famous grin lighting up her beautiful face, and let out a whoop. Before I could protest, she picked me up in a bear hug and swung us in a clumsy circle. I laughed even as I slapped her hands away.

“Put me down, you lunatic!”

“I can’t help it! I’m just so excited to see you,” she said. “Three years, Harriet. That is too damn long to go without seeing you in the flesh.”

I stepped back to look her up and down. Where I barely cracked five feet, Beatrice Reynolds stood a statuesque six foot one. Her long dark hair swooped in graceful waves over her shoulders, complementing her olive skin and deep-set eyes. The slouching college kid, who always wore oversized men’s sweatpants, had grown into a sophisticated woman with a sultry air of mystery.

“You look marvelous,” I told her.

Trix shrugged her shoulder, an eloquent acknowledgment of the change she’d undergone.

“You, on the other hand, haven’t changed a bit,” she said, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “But you always did have style.”

I laughed, thinking about my mother’s constant “advice”. She was an ambassador, so her image had been of utmost importance. Unfortunately, that applied to me and my father, too. Thanks to her vigilance, I’d never suffered the awkward years most teens go through, but no one would call me a style icon. 

“Yes, well, it was either decide what I liked early or suffer the indignity of my mother choosing my wardrobe. If it were up to her, I’d dress like an octogenarian.”

Beatrice guffawed and pulled me into another tight hug before quickly stepping back.

“I absolutely love that you think you don’t dress like a little old lady,” she teased.

I stuck my tongue out at her, but couldn’t be mad. Beatrice wasn’t wrong. I stuck my nose in the air and employed the haughty British accent I rarely used anymore.

“I prefer to think of my style as classic. Timeless, one might say,” I said. 

“Enough about how fabulous we look,” Beatrice said. “Come in and let me show you my baby!”

I hooked my arm through hers and stared up at the colonial style in front of us. A new sign hung above the old doors, spelling out Dunhallow University Museum & Archives in brass letters.

As the heavy white door creaked open, I smelled the familiar mustiness of the foyer and my mind flew back in time to our work-study days.

“Do you remember when I dropped that stack of books and The Witch screamed bloody murder? I could have sworn she was going to drown me in the pond out back,” I laughed.

“Oh, my God! I do! I thought she was going to have an aneurysm and finally die at her desk like we’d always said she would,” Beatrice whispered.

“What happened to the old battle-ax?” I asked as she opened the inner door to the museum.

“Agatha is still here.” Beatrice’s voice was notably quieter than mine had been.

“No! What if she heard me?” I hissed out the word before I lightly slapped her on the arm.

“I can’t help it that you haven’t learned how to be quiet,” I laughed.

“Beast!”

“Oh, calm down. Today is her day off.”

“You….” I stopped walking and glared at her until she burst out laughing. “You are the worst.”

She ignored me, knowing how much I’d missed her. We’d bonded as college roommates, but she’d become the sister I’d never had, and I loved her, teasing antics included, with every fiber of my being.

“If you’re done being ridiculous,” I sniffed, “I’d like to see this magnificent exhibit you’ve promised me.”

She grinned at the return of my Oxbridge accent and waved me forward into the once familiar space.

“Make sure you wipe your feet well. I don’t want any mud tracked into my museum,” Beatrice said.

I raised my eyebrows at her, remembering the worn-out space. As soon as I stepped inside, I understood. The main room of the library, once painted a ghastly shade of white and sporting a carpet with an indistinct gray-brown color, had undergone a fully renovation.

The original wood floors had gleamed under layers of varnish and sported a handful of elegant Persian rugs that added warmth and quiet to the room. Sleek wood and glass display cases filled the center of the room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the perimeter of the room, each one fitted with an enclosed case to display the museum’s most treasured manuscripts. LED spotlights shone down on each space, augmenting the glittering chandelier that hung in the main hall. I lost count of the seemingly insignificant details Beatrice had included to protect the fragile materials in the space, from state-of-the-art sprinklers to an interactive display map discreetly hung on the entrance wall.

“Wow, Trix, this is… amazing,” I said.

“Thank you. I won a grant for the physical upgrades last year, just after I started, and we spent this spring doing the renovations.”

She bumped my shoulder as she looked around at her handiwork.

“And don’t call me that,” she reminded me.

I chuckled, but nodded. The old nickname had slipped out, but she was right. It wasn’t appropriate in her workplace.

“Where is the witch trial exhibit I’ve heard so much about?” I asked.

“Right this way, madame,” Beatrice said.

She led me toward the back of the building and a pair of French doors that hadn’t been there before.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” she said with a slow smile.

“Impossible. I know this building from top to bottom.”

“You haven’t been here in a hot minute.” Beatrice reminded me.

Suddenly, it really hit home how much had changed since I last set foot on the Dunhallow campus. Where had those five years gone? It felt like a blink of the eye, but the changes I saw proved I’d missed a lot.

I hurried to keep up with Beatrice’s long strides, trying to take in all the changes since Beatrice had taken over as the museum’s director. It wasn’t just the curated items or their displays that impressed me; it was how well Beatrice had crafted the beautiful blend of displays, educational aids, and artwork that brought the history of the Salem Witch Trials to life.

“Harriet!” Beatrice called. I pulled myself away from a case that displayed the architectural plans for the large presidential mansion on the edge of campus.

“Sorry!” I said as I caught up with her. “I didn’t know the museum had the blueprints for the President’s Mansion. Was that part of the collection when we were students?”

Beatrice stood in front of a pair of French doors I suspected she’d reclaimed from an older building and restored to their original beauty.

“No, we found that and so much more a few months ago when the Mansion was cleaned out for the new President to move in.”

“This,” she declared, “is my crowning glory.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Your ‘crowning glory’ is your hair, ding dong,” I teased.

“Shut up. You know what I mean,” she said without heat.

I did, but I loved that my friend still messed up old idioms like she had when we were kids. I wasn’t about to miss the chance to needle her about it. She rolled her eyes and focused on the doors again.

“Welcome to the Alistair Peabody permanent collection of artifacts from the Salem Witch trials.”

She stepped forward and pushed the French doors open wide, revealing a beautiful, wood-paneled room with a high glass ceiling. Sunshine poured in to illuminate a magnificent collection of artifacts dating back to Massachusetts’ darkest days.

“Permanent collection?” I asked. “That’s amazing, Beatrice!”

Securing the funding and artifacts for a permanent collection was a huge coup for any museum director, especially one in her first year. More than that, a collection as extensive as this one was rare at small universities, even at one of the academic jewels of the northeast like Dunhallow University. Then again, with an endowment to rival Harvard or Yale, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

Beatrice grinned at me and clapped her hands excitedly before regaining her composure. I giggled at her child-like excitement.

“Yes! That’s part of why I really wanted you to be here. You are one of the preeminent historians in the field,” she said in her snootiest tone. “You’re the perfect person to give the inaugural lecture for the collection.”

“Beatrice!” I gasped, clutching my pearls in mock horror. “You just want me for my work at the intersection of architectural history and folklore? Are you angling for me to tell ghost stories about the buildings that housed the witch trials?”

“Well, your students don’t call you ‘Haunted Harriet’ for nothing!” She said. I groaned and covered the furious blush on my cheeks with both hands, making Beatrice laugh even harder.

“Please don’t remind me! Who knew they’d retaliate against my skepticism by giving me that horrible moniker?” I shook my head, honestly bewildered. “But seriously, I’m flattered you asked me. I’m sure the powers that be would have preferred a much older…”

“Male,” Beatrice inserted with a derisive snort.

“…speaker. I hope I can live up to the hype.”

“Stop it. Of course you can,” she said. “Let me show you the rest of the exhibit. You’ll never believe what President Thorne secured for the centerpiece.”

“The new guy you were telling me about?” I asked. 

“One and the same,” a smooth voice said from just behind Beatrice.

Beatrice spun around in surprise, revealing the stylish figure of a man a few inches shorter than her. He wore gold wire-framed glasses, a tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches, and an Argyle sweater vest in Dunhallow’s trademark saffron and green. Though he appeared to be in his early 40s, the sprinkling of white hair in his well-trimmed beard hinted he might be older than he looked.

“You must be the brilliant doctor Carr that I’ve heard so much about,” he said, grasping my hand with both of his.

“Don’t believe everything you’ve heard,” I said with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you. Please call me Harriet.”

His grip was firm, but damp. I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my pant leg when he finally let go.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Harriet. I’m President Charles Thorne the fourth, but please call me Thorne. We’re honored, absolutely honored to have you join us for this unprecedented event.”

I couldn’t place his accent and suspected he’d cultivated it through long hours of study and practice, just like his quintessential academic don wardrobe. His obsequious tone was in direct contrast to the haughty look on his face and the obviously practiced movements of his body. Nothing about Thorne was authentic, and I took an instant dislike to him.

Thorne leaned forward and invaded the invisible bubble surrounding me. I fought the urge to step backward and instead held my ground and met his muddy gray eyes with a look I was pretty sure screamed “back off”. He maintained his uncomfortably intense focus on me, oblivious to my body language.

 “I’m sure you’re aware of how important this is for Dunhallow University,” Thorne continued. “Our magnificent exhibit brings me one step closer to the university I envisioned when I became president.”

“Really?” I asked dryly. Beatrice glared at me over his shoulder, and I quickly schooled my face.

“Oh yes,” he said with an earnest nod. “Dunhallow can be an incredible institution. I really believe that. With my strategic leadership and a few healthy investments,” he winked awkwardly, “I will put this university on the map!”

“Naturally, Beatrice has played a central role in helping bring my vision to life.”

He patted Beatrice on her lower back and beamed up at her with improbably white teeth. Beatrice stepped sideways, gracefully putting a glass display between them.

“That’s kind of you, Thorne. Harriet, this is the first piece I want you to see,” she said brightly.

I nodded, outwardly maintaining a smile of polite interest while internally I mulled over what it meant for Beatrice and Dunhallow to be helmed by someone like Charles Thorne. Beatrice caught my attention again when she described the journal of a long-dead housewife who’d borne witness to the witch trials in Salem.

“Our darling Beatrice,” Thorne interrupted, “has done exceptional work here at the university. I anticipate great things from her. Great things. I couldn’t be more pleased with Miss Reynolds’ appointment as director of this establishment if I had picked her myself.”

He grinned at us as if he’d just given her an amazing compliment and we should now return the favor. In less than five minutes, Thorne had shown me there was nothing of substance in him to applaud, and I worried about how Beatrice could work for the twit. Then I thought about Agatha and knew she must absolutely loathe him, which made me grin. Apparently my expression worried Beatrice, though, because she nudged me forward and away from Thorne. 

“Harriet, let me show you the centerpiece of the collection. President Thorne secured the donation himself,” Beatrice said with a tight smile. He bowed at the waist in acceptance of her acknowledgement, then glanced at his watch.

“I wish I could join you, but alas, duty calls. I have an appointment starting in ten minutes on the other side of campus.”

Thorne squeezed my hand between his clammy mitts and pumped my arm with more enthusiasm than style.

“Harriet, I look forward to your speech tonight. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask Beatrice. She has my full support,” Thorne told me.

I nodded and bit my tongue, lest my thoughts escape and cause trouble for my friend. Beatrice and I waited until the door closed behind him before either of us spoke.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded softly.

“That,” she said, looking like she was torn between tears and laughter, “was my new boss.”

“Dear lord, the man is an eejit,” I burst out. The color rushed back into Beatrice’s face, and she snorted as she looped her arm through mine.

“He is,” she agreed, “but I love my job. Thorne’s only been here a few months, and I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s insecure, I think, but hopefully, he’ll calm down as he settles into his role.”

I knew my expression was skeptical, but I nodded in agreement. One could always hope.

“Enough about him. Let me show you the real star of the show,” she grinned.

As we walked, Beatrice pointed out her favorite artifacts, regaling me with their origin stories. I was in awe of the research, fundraising, and good old-fashioned persuasion she’d pulled off to assemble the collection.

“I was stunned when I realized how many artifacts we already had in our collection,” she told me. “There were items in storage that had been logged wrong or misunderstood. Their relevance to the overall history of the Witch Trials had been completely overlooked.”

Beatrice shot me a look of wonder, and I knew she was still excited about the discovery.

“I started cataloging everything in storage after I was hired. It took me a while to realize I was sitting on a potential gold mine. Even longer to realize we had the foundation of one of the world’s best collections on the Witch Trials.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I said with a quick side hug.

“Thank you, Harry, that means the world to me.”

“Oh God, please don’t call me, Harry!” I groaned. I really hated that nickname.

“Sorry,” she said, hands up in surrender. “I can’t help it. It’s still my affectionate little nickname for you, at least in my head.”

“No problem, Trix, as long as it stays in your head.”

“Mutually assured destruction. I can respect that,” Beatrice said with a decisive nod.

“Are you ever going to show me this showstopper of yours?” I asked.

She practically skipped to a large case that held two books spread open on velvet pillows. The first pillow was the color of dried blood and held a small book that could have easily fit into the palm of my hand. The second pillow was navy blue and a book about twice the size of the first. 

I turned to the book on the red pillow, leaning closer to study the page on display. I could tell it was incredibly old and was written in Latin. It had the distinctive look of an early printing press, when the type was set slowly and painfully, letter by letter. When I realized what was written on the page, I gasped and stood up straight.

“The Malleus Maleficarum?” I asked, both horrified and impressed.

“Not just any copy,” Beatrice said. “This copy belonged to Judge John Hathorne.”

The words landed like a thunderclap, and revulsion rippled through me. I stared at the book, imagining how it might have influenced Hathorne to condemn twenty innocents to death. The academic in me recognized the value of the artifact, while the rest of me recoiled.

“Where did Thorne find it?” I asked.

“In the attic of the president’s mansion, with this,” Beatrice said as she led me over to another case a few feet away.

A second book was nestled on a larger velvet pillow of midnight blue. She tapped the case with her long, clean fingernails.

“When he moved in, Thorne had everything pulled out of the attic and brought here to be cataloged. His predecessors had filled the space for generations with forgotten treasures. The Malleus and this grimoire were among the most precious finds.”

“Grimoire?” I asked curiously. “Do you know who it belonged to?”

It hit me that the grimoire was the antithesis of the Malleus—large and beautiful in its handcrafted simplicity. The tome was open to a hand-drawn page of herbal remedies. Images of plants had been sketched along the margins, illustrating the detailed notes about where to find the plants, recipes to turn them into remedies, and instructions for use. A beautiful drawing of a nettle plant caught my eye, and I read the recipe. Though it was hundreds of years old, the medicine was solid and recognized today as an effective natural remedy for treating allergies and the flu.

“Maybe. We found several books that dated back to the founding of the university, some beautiful clothing that was really well preserved, and in the midst of it all, a small chest filled with an assortment of vials, pouches, and the grimoire.” 

“That’s remarkable,” I breathed, excitement bubbling up inside me.

“I haven’t even told you the best part yet!” Beatrice crowed, bouncing up and down on her toes like a little kid.

“When I opened the chest, the grimoire was on the very top with layers of other items beneath. The Malleus was at the very bottom—and get this! It was wrapped in leather and sewn shut. Sigils were debossed in all four corners, and a pentagram marked the center of the binding. An iron chain, the most delicate one I’ve ever seen, was wrapped around the leather and sealed with a padlock.”

I gaped at Beatrice. Whoever owned the book believed it was evil, and with good cause, I thought. They’d taken extraordinary measures to bind it and prevent the malicious spirits within from causing more harm. I looked at the manuscript again, lying passively on its bed of velvet, and shivered.

“Where are the bindings?” I asked, eyes still fixed on the book.

“Over here,” she said, then led me to an adjacent display. “The kids who work here have been anxious about the opening for weeks, since word leaked about the books.”

She buffed an invisible mark off the glass display as I leaned forward to examine the chest and its contents. The embossed leather wrapping and iron chain lay close by. I saw what Beatrice had meant about the chain. The links were small enough for a necklace, but it was at least six feet long. A heavy padlock sat impotently beside it.

“What’s making them so anxious?” I asked absentmindedly as I circled the case to view the back of the chest.

Beatrice shrugged and fell silent for so long that I paused my examination to stare at her. A deep crease appeared between her eyebrows, but still she didn’t say a word.

“Beatrice?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Some, uh, some things have gone wrong recently. And…,” her voice trailed away, as if she’d disappeared into her thoughts again.

I waited patiently until she shook herself and offered me an embarrassed smile. Beatrice returned to the primary display and stared down at the Malleus and the grimoire, sitting benignly side by side.

“And what?” I prodded, watching her closely.

“Well, the students believe the museum is cursed. Because of them.” Beatrice pointed at the books and, as if by magic, the museum plunged into darkness.