The Witch of Tin Mountain(93)

“I can’t, Nathaniel,” Anneliese says. “But at least now . . . at least now you can rest. And so can I.”

He collapses with a mournful sigh, and begins to crumble like ash, until he’s nothing more than gray dust carried off by the wind.

Anneliese closes her eyes for a moment, then whispers beneath her breath. Suddenly, she’s Granny again, wearing all of her sixty-nine years once more. She’s never been more beautiful.

Sound crashes into my ears. The broken town slowly comes back to life. Doc Gallagher pulls up in his black Dodge and rushes out to see to the wounded. An ambulance whines in the distance. More help is on the way.

Granny takes my hand. I rest my head on her frail shoulder.

“Is it over?” I ask.

“It’s over, Gracie. Let’s go home.”





THIRTY-FIVE

GRACELYNN





1931




There ain’t much left of Tin Mountain. What the fire didn’t burn, the tornado plundered. Ten people died that night, including Al Northrup and Deputy Adams. Their bodies were found several miles away, in somebody’s cornfield.

Ain’t nobody seen Aunt Val, though somebody claimed a vaudeville dancer at a traveling show over in Carroll County looked an awful lot like her. That’d be fitting for Val. She was always a good actress.

The townspeople who are left are hollow. Haunted.

They come up the mountain and leave offerings at our door—tokens of apology as precious and rare as a roasted chicken, or a chocolate cake, with a hastily written note attached saying how sorry they are about all of that witch business with that preacher man, and they sure hope Granny gets better soon.

She’s still weak. But she’s strong. And I know she’s gonna pull through just fine.

She was near death when we got back up the mountain that night, but something told me to lay my hands on her, and the healing words came to my tongue. She’d spilled her own blood to unbind the promise she made and summon Anneliese’s spirit so that she might have the strength to face Mezroth. I gotta hope that, between the three of us, we drove that demon out for good and set Anneliese’s spirit to rest. I suppose we’ll see in fifty years’ time.

As for me, I’m bruised and broken, but alive, of course. I’m at the kitchen table, writing all this down with my good hand in the grimoire, because I’ve a mind to teach Caro the ways of witching, and I don’t want to forget anything that happened.

There’s a knock at the side door, and I figure it’s just another delivery of mournful mashed potatoes or contrite corn bread. Caro goes to answer it. She comes back to the kitchen, a look of confusion on her face. “It’s some old lady. Says she’s from Hannibal. Where’s that?”

“It’s up by St. Louis. Lots of fancy people live there.” I stand and stretch, smoothing out my apron. “Can you put the kettle on, Caro, just in case she wants tea?”

“Sure thing, Gracie.”

I go out to the porch. Granny’s sleeping on her daybed. I can see the lady pacing out back. She looks nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, her fancy patent leather heels sinking into the wet ground. I ease the screen door open, so as not to startle her. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She startles anyway, taking two steps backward and laying her hand across her chest like prissy ladies do in the movies when they’re about to faint. Then she starts crying. Hell.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry. Oh, my heavens.” She sinks down onto the steps, her handbag falling from her elbow to her wrist. She digs a lace-trimmed handkerchief out of it and presses it to her eyes. “It’s just that you look so much like her.”

“Like who?”

“Like my daughter.”



Esme Faulkner sits across from me, her teacup rattling against the saucer as she sips from it. Her eyes skitter toward Granny. “I didn’t know if I should come. Didn’t know if she’d still be living in Tin Mountain or living at all. You never know when you get to be our age.”

“How do you know Granny?”

“Deirdre and I were friends. In Charleston.”

I’m wary. It’s possible this woman could be telling the truth, but I’ve never heard Granny mention an Esme. “Charleston? I didn’t know Granny lived there.”

At this, Esme’s lip trembles. “I figured she wouldn’t tell anyone about me. We went to the same school there. A finishing school. We became close.” She takes a quick sip of her tea.

“I tried writing to her, over the years, but I mustn’t have had the right address, because all my letters were returned unopened. After I left school, I married the boy that had been courting me. Lionel. He was good to me. We tried, but we couldn’t have children of our own. One spring, we visited my parents in Hannibal. While we were there, we went to an orphanage in St. Louis. There was a little girl there. She was three years old. When I held her little hand, I knew she was Deirdre’s.”

I raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “You knew?”

“Yes. Deirdre and I . . . we have some of the same gifts. Clairvoyance and such.” Esme clears her throat and looks away. “I know, it sounds silly, doesn’t it? In any case, Lionel and I signed the papers that very day and brought Ophelia home.”