says as she pulls me towards her car. I climb reluctantly into the passenger seat of her Jeep. My mind is asking hundreds of questions of me at once. I don’t know which to find the answer to first. Thankfully, Zoë takes hold of my thoughts as she starts the engine.
“So where exactly is Roque Bluffs, Maine?”
5. HISTORY LESSON
I unzip the backpack as she pulls away from the curb. On top of a small pile of rolled up sweaters, jeans, and t-shirts I find three sealed plastic bags. One has several well-used maps inside of it. Another has three leather journals in it, all tied closed by a suede cord and emblazoned with the same bizarre emblem that is on my pendant. The third has the money my father mentioned along with the cell phone and an electrical cord to charge it and a small flashlight. I pull out the flashlight and the map and immediately notice the highlighted route and the sticky note with written directions.
“It looks like we should take 93 South to 101, then head north to 95.”
I rest the map on my legs as a lump forms in my throat. I sigh deeply and audibly, hoping to suppress my nerves and stop any tears that might be preparing for battle in my eyes.
Zoë reaches over and grabs my hand. “Hey, it’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out together.” I nod my head and give her a half-hearted smile. She gives me the same back.
I turn my attention to the backpack and pull out the plastic bag that contains the journals. Opening the seal on the bag sends the scent of old leather, mildew, and knowledge into the air. I suspect that I am holding centuries of wisdom in my hands and use the utmost care while handling them.
I methodically untie the binding on the top one and open the cover. The journal is handwritten. The pages have yellowed and browned, indicating its age. The ink, while still legible, is faded significantly from when it was written. I read the inscription aloud.
Journal of William Thomas Owens, 11th December 1704.
“William Owens? 1704? What is that—like your great, great, great grandfather?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never heard of him.”
I flip absentmindedly through the pages for a quick glimpse before returning to the first page.
I begin to read aloud:
This account of my existence begins on the Thursday evening of the 11th day of December in the year 1704. That is the evening my family received the curse of the town witch, Isabel Del Bosque. My dearest wife Mary and two of my three beautiful daughters, Clara and Anna, were taken from me. My youngest daughter, Emma, was left to suffer the curse with me.
“A curse of the town witch? Are we seriously going to believe this?” Zoë snaps at me.
“I can read it to myself if you’d prefer,” I snap back.
She scowls again. “No. Go on.”
I had performed services as requested by Miss Del Bosque. Her horse was fitted for new shoes and a wheel on her wagon was in need of repair. I replaced the wheel on the afternoon of Thursday and requested her return on Friday morn to have the shoes I was forging placed on the hooves of her mare. She departed my property and headed East on her wagon toward her farm, across Old Crawford bridge, passing over the river. She resided with four other women and more children than I could count, in a residence kept for widows.
I was later informed by a witness of the events that transpired and have been able to record them.
As Madame Del Bosque passed over the bridge in her wagon, several planks gave way and the newly replaced wheel became trapped. Her mare struggled to free the wagon or possibly to break free and save herself, however she was unsuccessful. The great weight of the mare and the wagon pulling on the remaining planks from below caused the entire support of the bridge to collapse and fall nearly twenty feet into the icy December river. Miss Del Bosque managed to rescue herself. Her horse was unable to emerge from the river. Her daughter of the age of three, Angelina, was also aboard the wagon. Angelina was regrettably lost in the river.
Late in the evening on the 11th whilst I was forging bars for a fencing border per request of the town’s mayor, Miss Del Bosque returned soaked in the frigid water with icicles frozen in her hair.
She threw open