The following is Chapter Three from the novel, “Hunting For Witches — Salem’s Burning”
Ashton glared into the bathroom mirror of the restaurant. Dark hair, gray eyes, a tall, athletic build that was tense as a bowstring.
Stupid Tyler. It was true: So far, Little Salem wasn’t shaping up to be as perfect as he thought it would be. For a place that was supposed to be the most haunted town in America, it seemed exceptionally quaint and ordinary. The witch trials the town was known for were long in the past, and while the boys had already encountered a couple of odd experiences, they couldn't be rated as anything amazing. Nothing to do with the paranormal, nothing that would be of any use to pump up their fledgling YouTube channel.
Ashton remained determined to go all out in the hopes that Little Salem contained the strange, spooky experiences he was chasing.
So far, this outlook seemed overly optimistic.
Maybe Tyler was right. Maybe they never should have come to this stupid town. Despite the weird, indescribable connection he had to the setting.
Feeling lost and volatile, his temper on a razor’s edge, Ashton angrily grabbed one paper towel after another from the dispenser.
“Ouch!”
He cringed, noticing he cut his finger on the disposer blade.
Great. Some trip this is turning out to be.
Ashton grabbed another towel for his bloody finger and exited the restroom. He was so distracted with wrapping his injury he neglected to notice the smallish hooded figure passing him in the hallway, only beginning to pay any interest when he felt the warm breath from a pair of cherry-colored lips whispering: “You're cute.”
Startled, Ashton spun around to address the figure, but no one was there.
“Hello?”
He turned and observed the empty corridor behind him and crept to the end of the L-shaped hall. Glancing warily around the corner, he spied a door swinging closed in front of him. He swiftly raced to it and pulled it open, stepping outside into a dark alleyway where a young woman wearing a gray hoodie was turning the corner at the other end—a girl he was sure he had seen once before.
“Stop! Wait!”
He rushed to the end of the alley to intercept her. But as soon as he turned the corner, he collided with a pedestrian.
“Hey, man! Watch where you're going!” the stranger exclaimed.
“Sorry. Sorry about that—”
Ashton watched the stranger dust himself off, noting he was a young Latino man. Late teens, maybe twenty. The young man was noticeably skinny, with expertly disheveled hair and was dressed in a flashy black pinstripe suit that gave off a rebellious rock ‘n’ roll vibe. Not exactly the type of wardrobe one would expect to see in a small town. Definitely too cosmopolitan.
Feeling off-balance, Ashton glanced up and down the empty street. “Um, excuse me. Did you happen to see a girl in … I think she was wearing a hooded cloak?”
“Did I see a what?”
Ashton frowned with embarrassment as the young man turned to leave. “You take care now, Mr. Rose,” he said and took off skipping down the street.
Ashton’s body stiffened. “Wait. How did you—?”
The young man turned around. In his hand was Ashton’s wallet, his state driver’s license with his name and picture on it shining in the moonlight. Snickering wildly, the thief started walking backward up the boulevard, and Ashton began marching straight for him with clenched fists.
“Hey! Hey! Come back here!”
The young man’s derisive snicker turned into a maniacal laugh as he skillfully dodged his victim with ease, at one point juggling the wallet in his hands like a circus monkey while Ashton fruitlessly chased after him.
“Gimme back my wallet, you freak! Dude, I am not playing!”
Eventually, the pair reached the middle of the main drag, and the skinny hooligan ran to the converted Victorian home that stood across the street from the frozen yogurt shop. The place seemed much eerier and more disconcerting at night as opposed to when Ashton first caught sight of it during the day. This probably had to do with the fact that the establishment’s massive handyman was outside on a ladder, painting the exterior pitch-black.
Laughing with glee, the shameless pickpocket ran up the steps, and Ashton gritted his teeth and followed. When he reached the doors, he came to a halt at the sight of what was waiting for him.
Standing between the twin pillars that lined the doorway was a waifish young woman who appeared to be in her late teens—she was nineteen going on twenty, to be precise. The girl had an unruly mane of dark, tangled hair that hung down to her waist and was dressed in a white tank top, gray hoodie, black pleated miniskirt, black stockings, and black combat boots. She held herself in a manner that projected poise and confidence and wore an impish smile, her thick, pillowy lips painted the color of dark cherries. But the thing that stood out the most was her piercing blue-violet stare; huge, haunting, otherworldly eyes like nothing he’d ever seen.
There was something odd about this girl—and wild and magnetic. Ashton didn’t know it, but he just met Ada van Dreyer.
“Hi there, stranger,” Ada said. “Fancy a drink?”
Ada guided Ashton by the hand as opera music played faintly in the background. The main room of the converted Victorian residence occupied the entire ground floor of the building and was larger than one might have expected, given the modest size of the historic dwelling. The humble tavern that resided within was about the size of a small bar or club and still partially under renovation. There were scraps of black carpeting still not fully tacked to the floor and black wallpaper gilded with gold leaf glued haphazardly to the walls in places. A large oak bar that looked like it had been sitting in a dusty basement for over a century adorned one wall, cardboard boxes containing expensive bottles of liquor stacked on top of it. And at the back of the room, a doorway led to the stairwell to the building’s two upper floors, with the jukebox where the music was coming from sitting alongside it. The two remaining walls (minus the entrance that housed the building’s front windows) were adorned with slick black vinyl booths. This was where Ada was leading him: toward a trio of young people sitting at a table tucked away in the far corner, and an experience he would rank as one of the strangest in his mostly uneventful life up to the present.
“So things are starting to get hot and heavy,” a sultry and energetic voice exclaimed, “and the woman breaks free and says, ‘Oh my! I need to get some air!’”
It was the redhead who said this as a petite young woman of indiscernible origins—gypsy or Romani, possibly—giggled at the passionate performance. The buxom ginger-haired beauty, who looked to be in her early to mid-twenties, was dressed just as provocatively as when Ashton and Tyler had spied her barreling into Little Salem behind the wheel of a flashy cherry-red convertible (a 1964 Cadillac DeVille), blasting riotous rock ‘n’ roll on the stereo. She was wearing a low-cut, partially see-through red blouse that showed off the red bra supporting her impressive freckled bust, which was accentuated with a selection of expertly chosen jewelry and hair and makeup that was picture-perfect. It was obvious she put a great deal of time and care into her appearance and was intimately aware of the jaw-dropping effect she had on both men and women alike.
The intriguing young woman sitting across from her was dressed in a manner that was equally eye-catching. The petite gypsy girl appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties (possibly the same age as Ada or a bit younger) and was dressed in a vintage leopard-print coat worn over a faded heavy metal T-shirt. The most striking feature about the girl’s appearance was the abundance of sparkly jewelry she was wearing. She wore rings on every finger, her dark shoulder-length hair tucked behind her ears to show off her large dangly earrings that glittered in the lamplight. Ada was by far the most casually dressed of the three, but by the way her friends were carrying on, it appeared that some kind of celebration was underway. Ashton didn’t know the reasons for the occasion, but it would only be a matter of time until he found out.
As Ashton warily took in the offbeat company and scenery, Ada pulled him beside her into the booth, sitting across from the final member of the party who was dressed a bit more modestly than his companions but looked exceedingly sharp nonetheless. The stranger was a young African-American man, most likely in his mid-twenties, wearing a black sports coat over a casual blue button-down shirt and black jeans. Ashton couldn’t see much of the man’s face, only viewing it in profile as his head was cast downward while he lazily scrolled on his smartphone. But just like the girls, he appeared to be fit and attractive, with pleasant features and enviable bone structure.
To Ashton, Ada and her friends were noticeably striking—but not in a conventional sense. Their appearances were almost…supernatural. And like Ada, whom he had only just met, they all seemed to be just as mysterious and were probably well past their first round of libations, based on the peculiar energies he was receiving from the gathering.
“So the woman scurries out of the room,” the redhead continued, delicately swirling the glass of wine in her fingers, “and she rushes down the stairs, where she almost collides headfirst into her landlord, who’s talking to a policeman. She turns her head and notices further down the hall a sight that makes her body shiver: A pool of blood oozing into the hallway directly outside the door to her neighbor’s apartment…”
The petite gypsy girl cringed, completely riveted by the story. By contrast, the African-American gentlemen seemed much more disinterested, turning his attention to pouring some wine for Ada and motioning to pour a glass for Ashton, which he declined reflexively.
Noticing several of the guests were distracted, the redhead leaned forward, making her ample cleavage more visible. She seemed to be reacting to the fact that she was losing the crowd’s attention due to the appearance of the party’s newest arrival: a girl who seemed gifted with a presence that commanded everyone’s notice whether she was doing anything or nothing at all. The strangest thing of all was that while Ashton was listening to the redhead's story, he began to feel somewhat light-headed—although, at this point in the evening, he was choosing to ignore the peculiar reaction.
“So, with her heartbeat quickening,” the redhead grinned, “the woman creeps ever-so-slowly to the doorway. She peers inside and spies none other than the body of her lover lying dead and bloody on the floor. The very same lover she left in her apartment just a few moments earlier, kissing the woman’s soft ruby lips.”
This concluded the redhead’s chilling tale, and Ashton watched as she leaned back with immense satisfaction at the silence that had come over the table.
“Mmm. That was a good one,” the gypsy said, her dark eyes gleaming.
“That was good, wasn’t it?” the redhead answered proudly.
“Do the one about the living portraits!” the gypsy pleaded.
The African-American gentlemen snorted dismissively, inspiring the gypsy to reach for her wine, pouting like a spoiled child.
“Oh, Miles,” she moaned theatrically. “You hate all of my favorites.”
Feeling confused and befuddled by the whole affair, Ashton turned to Ada. “What is this?”
Before she could answer, the redhead leaned forward, once again showing off her glorious rack for their special guest to admire.
“This?” the redhead grinned. “This is how we go about breaking in our new clubhouse. Care to join the fun, um—?”
“Ashton,” he muttered, averting his eyes self-consciously.
It was curious—while the redhead addressed him, he felt a wave of strange sensations. Like his senses were being assaulted by a powerful fragrance that made his blood rush like crazy and his head feel dizzy. And yet, he was convinced it must only be his mind playing tricks on him, feeling more distracted by the sight of the three girls leaning toward him like hungry wolves.
“Know any scary stories, Ashton?” Ada asked.
“You like scary stories, don't ya?” whispered the gypsy.
“Me?” Ashton mumbled awkwardly. “Well, I have encountered a ghost or two. My friend and I are paranormal investigators. We hunt ghosts and stuff.”
“My, how fascinating,” the redhead exclaimed.
And once again, there it was—a perfumed odor attacking his senses, accompanied by the sound of tiny bells. Tinkling softly and euphorically every time she opened her plump and delectable lips.
“You should explore the town with Ada,” the redhead said. “She knows all the sexiest, spookiest places.”
Ada rolled her eyes as she reached for her wine. “Oh, Agatha…”
It was at this point that Ashton seriously started to question things. He wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong or what was going on with him, but he suddenly felt very uncomfortable with being in the company of these strangers and was searching for an excuse to make his daring escape.
“Maybe another time,” he said. “I really have to get—ow!”
Ashton winced, and the girls all stared at him in stunned silence as he removed a bloody hand from his pocket. His finger was still bleeding from the cut he received on the bathroom towel dispenser.
“My stars!” the gypsy gasped. “Are you hurt, baby?”
Ashton began to mutter a string of excuses, but these were all ignored. Without warning, the gypsy grasped his hand into her own, the three girls now fretting over him like a helpless child who had bumped his head on the jungle gym.
“It’s just a scratch,” he protested. “Really, I—”
Naturally, his arguments fell on deaf ears. The far-out-looking bohemian kept a firm grip on him and proceeded to blow warm breaths over the injury.
“Now, just think happy thoughts,” she instructed. “You’re walking in the sunshine, a pretty girl by your side…”
Feeling incredibly awkward, Ashton gazed helplessly at the girl as she rubbed his hand until a few moments had passed. When she was satisfied, she finally released him and let out a cheerful exclamation:
“And voila! All cured.”
Ashton glanced at his finger and was surprised to discover the cut had not only healed but it was as if the wound had never existed.
“Wow. How did you…?“
The young eccentric winked and let out an amused giggle.
“Gypsy magic, baby.”
Rendered speechless, Ashton glanced over to Miles, who shrugged his shoulders with indifference. He was about to pester Ada for an explanation when the flush of a toilet interrupted the gathering, and all heads turned in unison to a skinny young Latino man entering from the back.
“Whew! I feel ten pounds lighter.”
“You! You’re the freak who took my wallet!”
Before Ada could stop him, Ashton leaped to his feet as the young man laughed uproariously, mockingly holding up his hands with his accuser’s wallet in one of them while the increasingly hostile victim of his cunning thievery began his steady approach.
“Yo, calm down, playa!” the smarmy pickpocket exclaimed. “I was gonna give it back. Say, smokin’ hot picture of your girlfriend by the way. Yowzahs.”
“Hey, Rudy. Hot potato.”
The tension in the room was palpable, and there was no telling what Ashton intended to do to the sly thief. However, as soon as these words were uttered, he witnessed another odd event to add to his list. The seemingly innocent comment appeared to inspire Rudy to drop the wallet instantly, as if his hand was burning, with the skinny miscreant grasping his fingers and scowling with fury in the direction of where the remark was delivered.
“Ow! Not cool, Miles,” Rudy hissed. “I'll put a hex on you, I’m warning you!”
Miles started to snicker while Ashton snatched up his wallet, still ready for a fight if it came down to it. Meanwhile, Agatha, the redhead, once again dissatisfied with not being the center of attention, yawned with halfhearted disinterest as she lazily flipped her hair and adjusted her cleavage.
“Did I hear you have a girlfriend, Ashton?” she asked casually. “Is she as titillating as the rest of us?”
And once again, as soon as she opened her lips, the sound of tiny bells began ringing inside of Ashton’s head, making his body feel faint and woozy but also filling him with an urge for carnal lust.
The reaction was so extreme this time it was impossible to just ignore it. But before he had a chance to address this predicament, Miles raised his voice and cast a cold stare at his sultry ginger cohort.
“Agatha, that’s enough,” Miles said, before turning to Ashton. “It's getting late, stranger. You should be getting back.”
Curiously, this innocuous comment had a strange effect on him as well. As if all the feelings he was experiencing had been wiped away and the only thought that was left was the desire to do what Miles suggested.
“Right. I should be getting back.”
Ada jumped up from the table, like an actress who’d been given her cue. “I'll walk you to your hotel,” she said, leaving her distressed companion with very little reason to argue.
Ashton felt he might enjoy a few extra moments with his newest acquaintance to help him come to terms with things. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what such an unconventional group of strangers was doing in a town like Little Salem. Or why every other voice at the table seemed to have such a bizarre effect on him.
And yet, it was funny—as he rose to his feet, he found he no longer remembered what was troubling him. He only felt that he best be off and on his way as Miles had recommended.
Ashton turned politely to the group and wished them well, but as he approached the entrance with Ada accompanying him, confident that the strange and unusual affair was over and whatever had been bothering him was ancient history, the last thing he heard was a woman’s voice calling back to him:
“The pleasure was all ours,” the voice said.
And once again, he heard the sound of tiny bells and his temperature began to rise unexplainably.