The Salem Sisters

“Bubble, bubble,

Toil, and trouble,

Cauldron burn,

And then it’s his turn.”

She wrote in her notebook while she watched him.

The professor walked through the small town without much care in the world. The money was rolling in from the book, and not ten minutes ago his agent told him a filmmaker wanted to do a documentary about what he discussed in the text.

The place was like many small cities on the coast, lots of brick and old buildings. He visited a couple classrooms at the local college to give a couple quick talks.

He walked down to a small cafe to get a coffee. There was a young woman at the other side of the restaurant who caught his eye. She was looking at him over her glasses while she pretended to read.

He nodded and returned to his coffee.

The professor looked over his notes for his talk later. He’d given the lecture several times now, but he liked staying fresh. And you never knew what questions someone would ask.

More and more young college students liked ambushing him with questions, especially if they had a friend filming.

He looked back up from his notes and the woman was gone already. It was curious he didn’t see her leave, but he quickly thought of other things as he went back to his notes.

A few hours later, he arrived at the bookstore. The employees were setting up his books and a line was already forming to get in.

He signed a few copies of the text to have ready when the signing started.

The professor took the lectern and gave his talk. At first he was just supposed to do a reading, but over the last couple weeks he turned into a lecture, as he found just reading tedious.

He made headlines when he first published Salem’s Plot; it made waves as he challenged the modern notion that the witch trials were a bad thing.

After his talk he took questions from the audience. He noticed the same red haired woman he saw at the cafe was in the front row.

Her hand shot up.

“Yes,” the professor said.

“Do you ever feel guilty?”

“Guilty for what?”

“Defending the people who killed all those women?”

“You mean the witches?”

“There’s no proof they were witches.”

“Why would I feel guilty?”

“Because you are defending a massacre.”

“For the record I’m not saying what they did was right.’

“You don’t say it was wrong either.”

“I’m pretty clear in the book…”

“I read the book. You justify by saying how it galvanized the community and maybe they don’t make it without someone to blame.”

“I’m aware of the points I made in the book.”

“You know you can use that logic to defend a lot of atrocities.”

“I’m not condoning other tragedies.”

“Just this one.”

“I wasn’t there. I’m not on trial.”

“No, those women were. And they died because they were sick, or couldn’t prove they weren’t a witch. It was a sham.”

“I know that.”

“And yet you wrote the book anyway.”

“Next question,” the professor said.

Later on the man saw the woman in line while he was signing.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

“Why?”

“I didn’t think you liked the book.”

“I don’t but I love to debate.”

“Should I sign it?”

“I didn’t stand in line all this time for no reason.”

He scribbled in it, and as she walked away she noticed he signed it “To my biggest fan.” She smiled. He was a jerk but he had a sense of humor.

Later, the professor was at the pub talking to some people who’d been to the lecture. He was leaning against the bar when he saw the woman from his lecture.

She was sitting alone in the corner and asked if he could join.

“Be my guest,” she said, “Are you looking to continue our debate?”

“I’m off duty.”

“I see.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“You may.”

He signaled the waitress and soon another glass of wine arrived.

“You really gave it to me today,” he said.

“It had to be said.”

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“Yes I like being challenged.”

“I see.”

They chatted for a while.

“You know for a pompous academic you’re good company,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

‘Would you like to come back to my place?”

“Absolutely.”

She took him home where they chatted on the couch.

“So how did you get into this Salem stuff?” she asked.

“Family business I guess. My ancestor was one of the judges.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said, “my grandfather said my family was part of an old order dedicated to stopping witches.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” the professor said, showing her the pin on his jacket, “this is the sign for them. It’s just superstition now. The old man had all kinds of beliefs.”

“Like what?”

“Like he always made me carry this,” he said, showing her a small flat stone with a hole in it.

“Wow,” she said.

“A hag stone he called it. Supposed to ward off witches.”

“Really?”

“Ridiculous I know,” he said, tossing the rock onto the coffee table.

“Any other tricks?”

“He made me carry a bag with juniper berries. But I lost it.”

“Juniper huh?’

“I know, crazy old man.”

“Sounds like it,” she said, taking a drink from her glass.

She leaned in and kissed the professor.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said.

“Yes you were.”

The professor laughed and then noticed something.

“Um, I think you bit your lip or something. I taste blood.”

“No professor,” she said.

He realized the blood was in his mouth right before he passed out.

The professor woke up sometime later. Groggy, he noticed he was outside. To make matters worse he realized he was tied to something outside.

The red haired woman appeared from the mist along with a dozen other women.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh I think you know professor.”

“Oh god,” he said when he saw the torch.

“You can’t do this,” he said, struggling against the ropes.

“Can’t what? Burn people in the woods for doing nothing wrong?”

“Please. I’ll take the book back.”

“It’s too late professor. We’re the Salem Sisters and your kind needs to learn a lesson.”

“What’s that?”

She smiled, “You should have burned us all when you had the chance.”