Mercy

Mercy is an original work of fiction by Shannon Gausepohl.

Part One.

I.

Quincy mindlessly swirled her spoon in her now-cold tea at the cafe. Her mind was wandering, and she was exhausted.

She was jobless, and her future felt hopeless—she kept replaying the whirlwind of the last week in her head.

While her clichéd upbringing — a festive, happy haunted home overlooking a graveyard— was as magical as it seemed, she was determined to succeed beyond the confines of Witch City, albeit unsuccessfully.

Staring out the window, her eyes fixated on the trees grasping onto their remaining orange leaves, as she sank into her not-so-distant past.

She joined the startup in New York with the hopes of catapulting her professional career. It was going well until it wasn’t. They were going in a different direction, but she wasn’t invited. Her position no longer existed.

Autopsying what she could have done differently, she exhausted all possibilities and ultimately decided she would have still ended up back in Salem. Back home.

She mourned her fall off the corporate ladder, barhopping with friends before calling it a day, finally booking her Amtrak ticket to Boston, bags in hand.

“Hi, sweetie,” her mother, Lilley, cooed, hugging her head at an awkward angle, greeting her at the T in Salem.

Crowds of excited visitors clad in spooky costumes impatiently pushed through their reunion.

“Hey, Quinzy,” her dad, Sam, said.

Her parents grew up in New Jersey and the Boston areas, and after graduating together from Wellesley in the early 1980s, they lucked out and bought a gorgeous place on Summer Street in Salem, Quincy’s haunted childhood home.

It was the perfect town for her mom to showcase her artistry and her father to work at a bank in the area, though his true love was writing.

Years later, her parents purchased a neighboring property and converted it into a Bed and Breakfast—the Cozy Cauldron Cottage. The name delighted guests almost as much as it delighted her parents to name it.

“Hey, guys,” Quinn responded despondently. “I guess I’m your roommate for a bit,” she said.

“Ah—well, we had a better idea,” Lilley said, dangling a set of keys with a kitschy cauldron keychain attached. “We thought you could help run the Cauldron for a while as you figure it out. We added that mother-in-law suite in the hopes you’d make us happy and move home forever someday.

Plus, your old room is now my pottery studio,” she quipped.

“You’ll be alright, Quinzy,” her dad said, patting her on the back.

That was two days ago.

The sound of her phone buzzing on the table snapped Quincy back to reality.

VIV: Are we still on tonight? I’m dying to see Bristol perform at Bad Witch. She’s a client at my store, a local performer, AND said some drinks were on her!

Vivienne has been her best friend since kindergarten. She made their plans tonight, it’s Good Witch Bad Witch Costume Night at the Village Tavern, which was bound to be packed to the gills. Worse yet, Quincy hadn’t filled Viv in on her recent life changes.

QUINZ: Won’t it be packed? It’s Halloween, and the town is a tad crazier than usual.

VIV: I don’t care. It’s fun, Quinz! Plus, I got your drinks.

Quincy waivered for a moment.

QUINZ: Fine, but I’ll complain.

VIV: Complain with free drinks then. Meet at the statue at 8. Byeeeee

II.

Moonlight flooded the in-law suite, reflecting off a full-length mirror and onto her mess.

Quincy perfected her smoky eye—swirls of black, gray, and glitter complemented her bright green eyes.

Her favorite black lace dress, spiderweb fishnet stockings, and her trusty Doc Martens, styled with her leather coat, made for the perfect comfortable Halloween fit.

Quincy grabbed her new set of keys and locked her private entrance, her Cozy Cauldron keychain jingling in hurried excitement.

She breathed deeply, the stinging cold air and the scent of late autumn filled her lungs. The night sky was clear and speckled with stars. Quincy couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so many.

The feeling of being at home settled in her chest. It was good to be back.

“Quinz! You look amaaaazing!” Viv squealed, startling the crowd at the Bewitched Statue. Dressed-up tourists queued to take their Halloween Instagram photos to post with captions like, "Salem absolutely bewitched me." “Salem, you put a spell on me!” or “Salem, you’ve bewitched me body and soul.”

Quincy rolled her eyes.

“It’s good to see you, Viv,” Quincy said, leaning into a hug.

Quinn took in the view of Essex Street, quietly observing Halloween chaos that went on as far as the eye could see—crowds of drunk, boisterous, and festive partygoers filled long lines to get into bars. There were performers, psychics, and tarot card readers who divined and dazzled the easily amused visitors up and down Essex.

“Are we really going to the busiest spot in town?“ Quincy lamented.

“So when were you going to tell me you’re home for good?” Vivenne cut through. “Your mom came into the shop today and accidentally, on purpose, told me you were laid off. I’m sorry.”

Vivienne’s eyes looked sad and sympathetic. Quincy wasn’t averse to her sympathy. She rolled her eyes, classic Lilley.

“Thanks, what can ya do? I was planning on telling you tonight, but I wasn’t thinking it would be in a crowd at a costume show,” she said. “At least mom and dad are letting me crash at the Cauldron temp job and all.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re home. I’ve missed you, and now we’ll have plenty of time to get back into mischief,” Viv said, rubbing her hands together, plotting. “Plus, Bristol said some drinks were on her since she owes me after I picked up a rare piece for her collection.

To top it off, we’re going to the cemetery later for a seance, oooooOOOhhhh,” Viv wiggled her fingers above her head for dramatic effect. “Who doesn’t love a classic Halloween night out?”

“We’re what now?”

“Bristol knows a guy who knows a guy that got us access to the cemetery, and she said she wants to show us a scary good time,” Viv shrugged, grabbing Quincy’s hand.

“Let’s go, we have Halloween to celebrate.”

III.

The Village was even more crowded than the girls anticipated.

Viv and Quinn effortlessly navigated the sea of people in costumes and spooky makeup to the table that Bristol so kindly and mysteriously had reserved for them.

High on hometown happiness and drunk on tequila sodas, Quincy reveled in the magic of Halloween night and briefly forgot her unemployment blues. She found herself questioning why she ever left the shores of Salem in the first place.

Wishing to evade the start of November, Quincy danced on the energy that kept the town buzzing.

It may have been cliché, but it was a hell of a night.

“I put a spell on you!”

“And now you’re miiiine!” Quinn and Viv sang in drunken unison as they exited the Tavern, their spirits as high as their bar tab.

“Well, that was amazing! I had more fun than I thought I would. And Bristol! She was insane! That name, too.”

Vivienne lit a cigarette, taking a hurried drag. “It’s a family name, apparently,” she answered lazily, an orange glow accentuating her shrugging hands.

“Are you sauced up enough for the second portion of the night?” she asked, smoke caressing the chilled air, “Time to get reacquainted with some ghosts in this town.”

She raised her brows and flicked her cigarette, smiling mischievously.

Quincy had forgotten about the spooky portion of the night; she was having too much fun to think of much else.

“Ah, yes, who can forget what made this town so famous? Let’s spend the rest of the most haunted night of the year trying to speak to those ghosts along with everyone else here,” Quincy said sarcastically.

Viv went on to explain that Bristol is a witch and performer —a real jack-of-all-trades kind of gal. She visits Viv’s boutique to shop for performance pieces and to catch up on the latest town gossip.

She thought it would be nice for Quincy to make some new friends upon her unceremonious return home. So, tonight, Viv, Bristol, and Quincy were meeting at The Burying Point, next to the Witch Trial Memorial, for a little haunted walk and classic Halloween mischief.

“‘Cause I want it thaaaaat wayyyy,” they buzzed, singing along their route to the cemetery.

Quincy stopped.

“Do we have to go? I’m ready for bed,” she implored, the exhaustion she was carrying feeling heavy once again.

“Oh, stop, I figured this could be the welcome home you need. Don’t forget your spooky roots,” Viv wiggled her fingers in the air again before pushing Quincy across the street.

What was once a sparkling night suddenly flattened as the mood changed, as the thick air and high energy of the tourists thinned at the entrance of the graveyard.

“Good evening, witches,” Bristol cackled.

“Hi,” Quincy said flatly. The tiredness crept over her.

“Who is this little witchy treat?” Bristol purred, playfully twirling a piece of Quincy’s chestnut hair through her fingers.

“Aside from meeting in the crowd earlier,” Vivienne retorted, lighting a fresh cigarette. “This is Quinzy, my best friend from childhood. She’s good people.”

“Right,” Bristol smirked, turning the key at the gate.

A click accompanied by the creaking of an antique gate welcomed the trio to the home of eternal rest.

“Let’s go, girls,” Bristol beckoned.

IV.

The three settled into the cemetery just out of view from the street—the stillness of the deserted hollowed grounds sent shivers through Quincy’s bones. It had been a few years since she’d been to this otherwise crowded cemetery, and she was a little uncomfortable.

Steadying herself, she took a deep breath, crossing her arms. Glancing around, she spotted the grave of John Hathorne, a judge from the Witch Trials, grimacing with disapproval.

Bristol wasted no time, getting to work on her casting circle—first, she poured a thick ring of salt. She then pulled out herbs, an obsidian knife, and some candles, which she lit at the four corners, calling in her spirit guides and the dead that had kept them company.

She took a seat.

Bristol pulled out an impressively old-looking leather-bound book, opening the stacked, uneven, inky parchment to a bookmarked page. The thing looked ancient.

She glanced at her watch.

“Ladies, it’s time.”

Quincy glanced at her phone; it was 1:11 a.m.

“Take a seat inside the circle, and we shall begin,” Bristol said with seriousness.

Viv raised her eyebrows at Quinn with excitement. Quinn flashed a half-hearted thumbs-up back.

“Ladies, your hands.” Bristol reached out, the three now physically connected.

“Take a breath, close your eyes, and bow your heads.”

A group of people laughed from the street, drunkenly wandering home, interrupting the otherwise silent cemetery.

A wave of nervousness hit Quincy.

Bristol, now focused, intoned:

Ancestors, mothers, and sisters!

Summon the wind, the skies, and stars to resurrect what once was ours.

Return the souls of those once stolen and forgotten.

Resurrect them, body, blood, and soul, lives begotten.

Pausing, Bristol glanced down at the instructions.

She lifted her left hand, then her right, which was now holding the sharp obsidian knife. She sliced her palm, revealing ruby red blood. Wincing, she added a drop to a pile of dirt.

Quincy involuntarily jumped, covering her mouth in silent horror.

Blood spilled is blood returned. May you walk this earth, seeking revenge you’ve earned.

“Revenge?” Quinn mouthed to Viv, heart pounding from the unexpected turn the night had taken.

Blood for blood. Eye for an eye.

Sky to sea, so mote it be.

Bristol mixed her blood and soil offering with unidentified herbs and salt before sealing it with candle wax, then quickly wrapped her hand.

Slackjawed and shocked, Quinn wasn’t entirely sure what Viv was thinking. This felt dangerous and unsavory. And on Halloween! Of all nights!

She would have more than a few words with Viv once they got back to the Cauldron.

“Now we wait,” Bristol said.

“W-wait? For what?” Viv squeaked out, finally chiming in.

“Okay, well, this has been fun. Lovely to meet you, Bristol,” Quinn nervously said, wiping the leaves and grass from her stockings, grabbing Viv’s hand. “Time to go.”

Just as Quincy bent down to grab her bag, she spotted someone in white from her periphery. They appeared to have materialized a few feet from their circle.

The woman was tall and slender, dressed in a long cotton frock. Before Viv could get the sound out to ask who was behind Bristol, the woman spoke.

“Pray pardon me, my dears,” the mystery woman said, walking over barefoot and otherworldly. The sound of her voice was like nothing Quincy had ever heard, a feminine timbre with a modest, menacing growl.

Bristol jumped to her feet with nervous excitement, shouting, “Oh my GOD! It worked, oh my god!”

“What worked, what the fuck worked?!” Quincy panic-whispered at Viv.

“The glow of thy candles enchanted me,” she added, softly smiling, now gripping Bristol’s shoulder, her onyx, unearthly eyes transfixed.

“I can’t believe you’re here! I have dreamed of working with you my whole life! I have an altar, and everything, even a whole workshop ready to go in your honor just beyond the Common,” Bristol said, nearly shouting with frenetic star-struck excitement.

“Aren’t thou sweet,” the woman said, snatching the sharp obsidian blade from Bristol, inspecting it. “I care not.”

She turned her wrist over, taking in the size of the sharpened stone. The blade sparkled in the moonlight, and a smudged reflection looked back at the strange woman.

Viv was now holding Quinn’s hand. “I don’t like this,” she whispered. Quincy squeezed back, whispering her desperation, “Me neither.”

“My, what a prize you are,” the woman sweetly hissed, leaning in to hug Bristol in celebration. Bristol embraced her lovingly.

Without warning, the woman pulled out of the hug and, with supernatural precision, sliced Bristol’s neck from ear to ear.

The smell of acrid blood filled the air, lightly steaming as it showered the woman, a scarlet and sticky baptismal return to life.

Bristol crumbled to the ground, slow and fast, all at the same time.

Her breathing slowed, drowning in the very same blood intended as an offering— her awful final breaths suffocated by her good intentions.

“It’s good to be home,” the woman said calmly.

Part Two.

V.

“It’s good to be home,” the woman said, calmly, a breath loosened her tight chest.

The girls silently stared back at the woman, frozen in fear.

Bristol’s life-ending squelching ceased, and silence filled the graveyard.

It took a moment, but Quinn and Viv snapped out of it. They heard horrific guttural screaming, only to realize it was coming from them.

Still holding hands, the two took off in tacit agreement, bolting through the wrought-iron gate, their adrenaline revitalized, powering their escape.

“Who was that?” Viv asked again. Tears rolled down her face.

Quincy remained silent, unsure how to respond.

They walked into a random alleyway to catch their breath out of sight.

“I-I-didn’t memorize her face,” Viv was quietly crying, doubled over, hands on her knees to catch her breath. “We need to go back, we need to be able to describe that woman to the police.”

Rejecting what she saw, Quincy proposed that the display was a gaffe. She asked if Bristol ever used special effects blood during any of her performances. Maybe this was a well-produced Halloween prank, she proposed.

“Yes. For the New Year's Eve party, she was Lady Gaga for a performance and really went for it,” she said, eyes vacantly searching through the details, chewing on her cheek. “Maybe she was pulling a Halloween prank.”

“Let’s go back,” Viv said. “She’s probably cleaning up, wondering why we took off so quickly.”

VI.

Viv did her best to shake off the shock to confront Bristol. She had no problem with spooky shenanigans, but this was a bridge too far.

“Come on,” Viv growled, pulling a reluctant Quincy back into the cemetery they had escaped.

The graveyard was empty.

The salt circle had dissolved, and the knife, book, and candles, and most importantly, Bristol were gone.

The girls turned on their phones' flashlights to search for signs of Bristol. After 20 minutes of shivering from the cold and fear of what they might find, Viv called it off.

“I’ll have to text her tomorrow. It’s late and I’m freezing,” she muffled as she shakily lit another cigarette. “I don’t even know her like that,” Viv said, gesturing, the cigarette dropping orange ashes onto the hollowed ground.

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s time to go,” Quincy sighed, nerves calming. “Give me one of those,” she said, gesturing for a cigarette.

Viv obliged and lit her up.

Quincy’s drag was warm and comforting. The smoke wrapped around her anxiety and released the pressure tight in her chest.

She kept replaying the bloody scene in her head. It was out of a horror film. The seance finishes, a mysterious lady materializes, she slices Bristol’s throat, and “kills her” in cold blood—it was intense and bizarre.

Quincy kept coming back to the visceral reality of the experience— the smell of the blood.

“Let’s go eat and get ourselves together. I’ll text my friend OC,” Viv said. “He should be able to hook us up with food.”

VIV: Been a wild night, I have a crispy $100 for you if you can plate us some French toast and bacon with a carafe of coffee.

“OC?” Quincy said.

“Yeah, Johnny O’Cafferty, he was a couple of years ahead of us in school, cool dude,” Viv said.

OC responded.

OC: You and everyone else in town. What makes you so special, Viv? It’s 3 a.m., kindly fuck off.

VIV: Look, it’s been a rough night, and I’m not at liberty to share all the details. It’s about time I owed you one, anyway, OC. You feed us, we were never there, and you get $100. Sound good?

Two tense minutes later, he responded.

OC: Fine. Food and coffee will be out. Put dirty dishes in the bin, and the money in the envelope. You have to give me the details on what laws you broke in person, though. Don’t put it in writing.

VIV: Deal. Thanks, buddy.

Relieved, they headed toward the exit, but something caught their eye.

Viv stopped in her tracks.

An orange-yellow glow emanated from the usually dark, historic cross-patterned windows of the Pickman House at the edge of the cemetery.

The weathered cedar's natural dark color loomed like a shadowy, menacing lair—the central chimney now gently smoking. The once-fruitful pear tree, now skeletal and haunting, loomed, protecting the temporary inhabitant.

Gesturing toward the house, Viv silently beckoned Quincy to follow, finger pressed to her lips.

They walked over and crouched under the brightest window, casting soft light through the thatched design. The shadows danced onto the street, unconcerned with their company.

They could hear the muffled voice of someone talking to themselves, carrying on.

The two counted to three and peeked over the windowsill to see what was happening. They looked through the wavy, weathered glass and into the oak interior.

On the table lay Bristol’s body, bloody and lifeless. Her empty eyes faced the ceiling, staring into the abyss that now stared back.

Viv reacted in horror—covering her mouth and gagging at the bloody scene, confirming the reality of the events.

Quincy waved Viv over, rubbing her back in comfort.

“Mercy, who may this young lady be?” The woman inquired to herself as she paced. Her white frock dragged across the heavy oak floors. “Uncouth woman stole from Mercy! Her blood spilt by her own words. She knows not of what she did.”

She continued murmuring and planning to herself.

“Mercy?” Viv mouthed at Quincy, shrugging in confusion.

“Let’s get our bearings and make plans on how we bring this bitch down,” Viv whispered. “We’re going to Reds.”

VII.

The glassy-eyed girls shuffled up Central Street in silence. The reality of the situation drained all human-like emotions, ghosts of themselves floating through the remaining hours of Halloween.

Finally arriving at their blessed destination, they admired the big, red historic building that housed Red’s Sandwich Shop, located in the landmark London Coffee House, established in 1698. Red’s came around in the 40s—a staple ever since.

Everything in Salem was historic, mercantile, witchy, or Puritan —even legendary sandwich shops.

They entered through the back of the establishment. OC left the kitchen door unlocked for them; scents of cinnamon, butter, and divine coffee filled the air.

Quincy’s stomach rumbled; time slowed down enough that she could feel her body’s natural cues again.

“Oh my god, I’m so hungry,” Quincy announced to no one.

An empty, stark-white envelope sat on the black stone counter.

YOU WERE NEVER HERE ;)

Viv picked it up, sliding in the promised crispy $100 bill. Quincy pulled out $50 more as her own thank you.

Three massive plates were filled family-style with French toast, bacon, and home fries, placed before two neatly laid mats and napkin-rolled silverware. The two grabbed their portions and sat comfortably in silence for a few bites, interrupted only by mouthfuls of “mmms” and “mmhms,” a symphonic approval of the meal.

“Thank god for OC,” Viv said, breaking the silence, inspecting a piece of crisp bacon, before taking a greasy, crunchy bite. “Best $100 I’ve ever spent.”

Quincy got down to business.

“Do you think the woman is Mercy Harlowe?” she asked Viv.

“Huh?” she said mid-bite.

“She called herself Mercy at the Pickman House,” Quincy said. “I’ve been doing a little searching, and I think it might be her.

Mercy Harlowe wasn’t officially recognized as a convicted witch. The townsfolk brutally murdered her before she got a trial because they were terrified of her. There wasn’t much known about Mercy Harlowe until pretty recently,” Quincy shared. “It’s barbaric, start to finish.”

Quincy pulled up the information on her dying phone, which was now at 3% battery, and summarized who she thought Bristol resurrected.

Mercy Harlowe was the daughter of a seafarer who worked for a wealthy merchant in town. She was the eldest of 11 siblings. Toward the end of the Witch Hysteria in 1693, she was brutally murdered by fellow villagers.

She was accused of dalliances with the devil, blasphemy, cursing neighbors’ crops, and necromancy. The necromancy charge was allegedly for her attempt to resurrect her beloved friends, murdered by the state.

“They often found hoards of cats and bones by her home, and there were reports of people levitating in her presence. Reports of her actually dancing with the devil sent the exhausted population over the edge,” Quincy read aloud.

That was when they decided “enough was enough.” An angry mob hanged her and dragged her body by her noose through the streets to set a final example.

“She never received a proper burial or an official apology on behalf of her mistreatment,” Quincy said. “Present-day officials only knew this information from a letter they found written by Mercy outlining her torture and fear of being murdered, which she then put in a bottle and buried. The bottle was found during renovations to her home in Marblehead in the 1970s,” Quincy said.

It wasn’t until the 2000s that one of the relatives who inherited the Harlowe house gave the artifacts to the Peabody-Essex Museum. The donation arrived in a well-wrapped package from the homeowner, who wrote only “you should see this” on it.

“Necromancy? Mob justice? Jesus.” Viv responded in disgust. “Maybe it really is her. I knew things were brutal back then, but holy hell.”

“So what now?” Viv asked.

The two agreed that sleep, showers, fresh clothes, and charged phones had to be the next move. After cleaning up, they exited the way they entered and walked across town to Summer Street and through the welcoming threshold of the Cozy Cauldron.

The two barricaded Quincy's doors and drew all the shades closed.

Freshly bathed, with clean, brushed hair and teeth, the girls changed into the coziest clothes they could find, finally climbing into bed.

Quincy drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, still holding onto Viv’s hand.

VIII.

The sound of banging on the door startled Quincy awake.

She turned over, groaning—9:00 a.m. Saturday, November 1, her lock screen read.

“Ughhh, who is it?” her groggy voice cracked.

“It’s Dad. I have pumpkin spice lattes and scones for the party animals!” he said jovially.

“One sec!”

Viv threw on her Salem State sweatshirt and tossed her hair in a bun. Quincy grabbed her glasses and put on fresh socks to greet Sam.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, leaning into a side hug. “Hey girls, how was your night?” he said, mid-hug, coffee balancing on a carrier with pastries in the middle.

It smelled divine. Sweet scents of cinnamon, milk, and sugar filled the room.

It was a welcome reprieve from the dark chaos. Nothing will brighten your day like a chat with Pop, complete with dad jokes.

He put the goodies on the tiny kitchenette counter.

“So, how was it? Did you give them pumpkin to talk about?” He raised his brows. “Ahhhh—I’m joshin’, we heard Essex was a disaster.”

Viv and Quincy exchanged looks before bursting into giggles.

They gave him the G-rated version of the evening, talking about how high their bar tab was, how much they sang and danced, the miracle of getting a table, with both agreeing they’ve never experienced a night out like that, maybe ever.

“Must have been some party,” Sam said, cleaning up and waving goodbye. “Enjoy your day, pumpkin!”

He smiled and winked at Quincy. Classic Sam.

IX.

They wasted no time getting strategic.

“We’re going to Bristol’s workshop,” Viv said confidently. “She should have what we need to know there.”

They wanted to be equipped for whatever they might encounter. They grabbed hunting knives, baggies for evidence, extra battery packs to keep their phones charged, water, snacks, and twine.

They felt prepared.

Quincy and Viv’s trek across town gave them time to observe what the rest of the world was up to the day after the big holiday.

The air was cold and crisp under the bright November sun, which shone onto the groggy, post-party crowds of Salem. The chill pricked Quincy’s nose, stinging her senses.

A gaggle of fresh-faced visitors flooded from the T and into town, bright, hopeful, and overconfident that Salem wouldn’t be as crowded now that Halloween was over.

“We’ll head to Bristol’s detached garage,” Viv directed. “That’s where she told me she would ‘secretly practice’ her "witchcraft. Her family disapproved of it,” Viv rolled her eyes.

Quincy flashed a confused look. She lived in Salem her entire life and hadn’t met many people who were adverse to witchcraft.

It was then she realized she wasn’t familiar with Bristol’s family, either.

“You wouldn’t be,” Viv said. “They sent her to a private elementary school, then Andover, before she went to Yale.”

“Oh, Andover,” Quincy said, fully understanding the level of old money involved.

“What if the cops are there looking for her?” Quincy stopped, panic crowding her chest.

“I guess they will, eventually,” Viv said flatly. “Her parents leave town all of October to spend time in their home in the Bahamas to miss all this,” she said, gesturing her arms to emphasize their surroundings.

The answer didn’t quell the panic, but at least they could get onto the property undetected.

From Summer Street, down Essex, through the sprawling faded green of Salem Common, and over to Winter Street, they’d finally arrived. Beyond the garden stood an old garage, its blue paint peeling and weathered. A door sat ajar, waiting for Bristol’s return.

X.

The two stopped in synchronized unison at the scene before them.

It was like something straight out of Dexter. Transparent sheets hung throughout the workshop, bordering two tables with white sheets. Needles were prepped on two tables, ready for use. Bright, sterile tools bared their sharp teeth on a wheeled chrome tray.

She was planning to take lives that night.

Their lives.

Quincy felt dizzy.

A stack of books on Bloodcraft and Blood Rites was carelessly open and strewn about. She was obsessed, and clearly bloodthirsty; her educational book pile was as tall as the counter—The Ins and Outs of Blood Offerings, How to Drain Blood without Draining Your Life, Salem’s Lot, and Under the Tuscan Sun were stacked neatly to the side.

The place was a physical representation of Bristol’s careful planning: piles of notebooks, sticky pads, and a big, illustrated family tree accompanied the mess. Crumpled balls of paper concealed failed ideas, while sticky notes written out in neat marker filled in the holes of her demented brain.

Befriend a local and unsuspecting friend

Earn trust by liquoring up at an event—(stay sober B)

Bring back Mercy when the veil is thinnest at the bloodline’s graveyard

Show Mercy we can bring everyone back with fresh blood (slay queens)

Strap new pals in and borrow take their blood (sorry, homies)

Take over Salem with Mercy and exact revenge to atone for the town’s sins

Live out dreams of being a powerful witch (live your truth girl!)

This wasn’t just a spooky little seance; Bristol was prepared for a complete hostile haunted takeover of Salem, and she was going to drain her blood to do it.

Quincy doubled over, hands on her knees, taking deep breaths.

This is all too much.

The small space packed a big punch of information. Behind transparent walls were copied pages of the Grimoire she used on Halloween, stapled to the wooden walls of the garage.

The opening page hung for all to see:

This belongs to Mercy Harlowe,

thou shalt be cursed upon reading, and thine eyes shall wither.

“Oh, good god,” Quincy said. “She stole Mercy’s Grimoire and used it to bring her back. She cursed herself.” She concluded.

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Viv said, breathing heavy. “Look at this.”

She handed Quincy a 1997 newspaper clipping.

FAMILY CELEBRATES LOCAL HISTORY BY GIVING BACK

Emerson Parker and his wife Patience “Patti” Hathorne-Parker, pictured with their daughter, Bristol Parker, are celebrated by the North Shore Historical Preservation Society for their generous gift at a recent luncheon.

The family’s $25,000 donation will support the ongoing preservation of historic sites associated with the Salem Witch Trials. The period is considered a dark, horrific time in the North Shore’s long history. During the trials from 1692 to 1693, 200 people were accused of witchcraft, and 19 people were hanged.

Accurate representation of these historical places remains a priority for the Preservation Society and Essex County officials.

“My family’s contribution to the horrors cannot be erased, but we can offer reparations to the best of our ability,” Patti said, a descendant of Judge John Hathorne, who was best known for his harsh questioning of the accused with little remorse.

“Holy shit,” Quincy said. “She’s in the bloodline of the bad guys! The incantation was to seek revenge on those who did this to the witches!”

Bristol’s parents seemed to be saving face with the donation, rather than offering sincerity. They kept Bristol away from any “influences” of the town, away from its history, and always left the country for October.

“Who could remember their bloodline’s sins on a beach with a drink in their hand,” Quincy said, an attempt at levity.

The two documented everything they could. Quincy pocketed the newspaper clipping and took a few photos of the sticky notes.

“Why do self-hating wealthy people stay in their hometowns when they clearly loathe it? I don’t get it,” Viv said.

“The answer is always money. Money older than the country itself and the historic power to show for it, I would guess.”

The rabbit hole hypnosis broke, and the two suddenly realized they had likely overstayed their welcome. Cops would be crawling through this place soon enough.

“We have to go, Viv!” Quincy panicked, squarely back in reality. “We’re going to get caught dead to rights; we have to move it!”

Quincy’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears. A wave of dread crashed over her.

The energy buzzed and heightened—the hair on Quincy’s neck stood on end.

Behind them, the door to the only entrance swung open.

Viv and Quinn shrieked in horror.

“We meet again.” Mercy purred, onyx knife in hand.

Shit.

XI.

Quincy and Viv wordlessly communicated their intention to get out as peacefully as possible.

“Uh, hi, nice to see you, um, we were just leaving,” Quincy said. “We just wanted to get this,” she said, holding up a pair of gardening scissors and smiling nervously.

“Yeah, gardening is super important around here,” Viv supported in a confused, defeated tone.

“How interesting,” Mercy said. “Who knew thou practiced herbology,” she said.

“And took such interest in me,” she hissed, pulling copies of her Grimoirie off the wall. “Dost thou take me for a fool?”

Sweat rolled down Quincy’s neck.

“Us? N-No n-not us, this is Bristol’s place,” Quincy stammered. “She wanted to partner with y-y-youto kill us,” Quincy said, swallowing hard. “If it weren’t for you, we would have met our maker.”

Mercy’s shoulders relaxed, and her posture was confident.

Quincy could see her wheels turning as she considered the situation.

“I’ll make thoust a deal,” Mercy said, smiling.

Confused, Quincy and Viv paused what they were doing and exchanged looks.

“Meet me at Gale’s Head Fort at dusk. Bring thy candles.” She demanded.

“A deal for what?” Viv said. “You murdered our friend. You owe us!”

“Friend?” Mercy postured. “Dost all thy friends collect thoust blood? Gale’s Head. Dusk,” Mercy demanded, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.

Silence relaxed in the tense space between Quincy and Viv, hearts beating in synchronized panic.

XII.

Cop cars sped past Quincy and Viv as they slowly made their way back across town.

“Oh shit, they must have found her,” Quincy said.

“Yeah,” Viv said despondently, playing with the hem of her sweatshirt.

They agreed to swing by the crime scene. They disappeared into a crowd watching a reporter who was on a live shot.

Police say an employee of the historic Samuel Pickman House, located here behind the Peabody-Essex Museum and just next to the historic Salem Witch Trials Memorial, found the body of the young woman. The employee tells us the victim was lying face up with fatal injuries to her neck.

Our sources say the neighboring businesses lost power from midnight to 4 a.m. due to a car wreck around then. They have no video of the surrounding streets or the graveyard through the early morning hours to provide to the police.

The young woman’s name has not been released, as the family has yet to be notified.

Police have not named any suspects at this time. The Salem Police Department is seeking information and tips regarding the crime and asks for any witnesses to call their tip line at 978-333-6666 with any information.

It seems residents need to be wary of more than just ghosts this Halloween. From Salem, I’m Alley Kominsky, NBC10 News Boston.

The girls exchanged looks. They didn’t commit the crime, but they didn’t report it, either. Plus, how could they prove the murderer is someone who died in 1693? They were cooked.

“You don’t have to go tonight to the meeting, Viv. I can handle it if you want to take time to mourn your friend,” Quincy offered. “Or our freedom.”

“Be real, Quinz. Bristol wanted us dead. Besides, we’re in this too deep,” Viv said, eyes fixed ahead. “Let’s dust this bitch.”

XIII.

Back at the Cauldron, the girls changed into athleisure, and warmer sweatshirts. If they had to fight a supernatural enemy, it certainly wasn’t going to be in pants that didn’t stretch.

Gale’s Head Fort, the location requested by Mercy, is now known as Fort Sewall, on Marblehead Neck.

Fort Sewall was built in 1644 as a fortifier against threats to the colony. It was later used as a prison and, during the 18th and 19th centuries, as a naval base for maritime defense.

It also offered gorgeous rocky views with incredible sunrises.

Solid location, but they would have to drive.

Delirious from recent events, tired and giggly, the two wondered how Mercy would get there, “She doesn’t even know what a car is!” Viv hollered, laughing at the image of Mercy walking all day up to Marblehead Neck, barefoot, in that filthy cotton frock for their dramatic meeting.

“What if she figured out how to call an Uber with her supernatural powers?” Quincy said between laughs, “Can I pay you in shillings?”

The two dissolved into hysterics.

“Damn, she’s going to be too tired to hurt us,” Viv said, wiping tears. “She’ll need to stop at a packie for a wine to deal with the stress of the trek.”

Their shoulders shook in uncontrollable laughter.

“Imagine someone from the 1600s walking into Bunghole? She might die again before we meet with her,” Quincy said between guffaws. “Dost thoust have wine in thine Bunghole,” Quincy hiccoughed through belly laughs, wiping tears from her eyes and nose.

The girls wordlessly smiled, silently grateful for each other in this moment, taking in their precious final moments before it all ends.

“You ready?” Quincy asked Viv through a big sigh, wiping a tear.

“Ready.”

XIV.

The sun beamed its final moments of daylight, crafting a stained-glass blue, orange, and red sky over Fort Sewall’s intimidating white exterior. The fort was embedded in the rocky cliffs of Marblehead Neck, overlooking the dark, cold Atlantic.

All Saints Day would end with three of Salem’s biggest sinners.

The girls grabbed their bags, each equipped with a hunting knife, blankets, a backpack, bottles of wine, snacks, and an LED camping lantern.

The two wordlessly nodded and took off toward the fort.

A dishelved Mercy Harlowe appeared, candle lantern in hand.

“Greetings, sisters,” she hissed, candlelight glowing in her onyx eyes. “A word?”

Part III

XV.

A dishelved Mercy Harlowe appeared from the fort, lantern in hand.

“Greetings, sisters,” she hissed, candlelight glowing in her onyx eyes. “A word?”

The irony of their current timeline wasn’t lost on them. This might all be happening in Salem around Halloween, but this wasn’t Hocus Pocus. There were no directions, no Black Flame Candle to burn out, no situation-ending sunrise to disappear their dilemma.

This was uncharted territory.

Quincy and Viv stood before Mercy in a silent, tense stand-off.

“You said you had a deal for us. So, what’s the deal?” Viv asked impatiently.

Brisk November air seeped through their clothes, lodging discomfort in the spaces between them, stealing their warmth.

Viv’s anger cut the tension.

“If you asked us here to kill us, then let’s dance! I don’t have all night to wait for a fight to start,” Viv said aggressively. “If you’re serious, then let’s get to business,” she said while removing her earrings and pulling her hair up in a messy bun.

Viv’s necessity for resolution usurped her fear.

“I hear you, Viv, but I think we should just talk,” Quincy said, gently placing her hand on Viv’s elbow. “You know I’m always ready to throw down, but look at her. This is not a fair fight.”

Viv took a moment to observe Mercy and understood. Calming herself, she nodded.

XVI.

Mercy’s physical appearance was frightening. Her unkempt, knotted hair caught in the wrong places in the wind. She was covered in Bristol’s crusted dried blood, and her own from minor injuries. Her skin was pale where it wasn’t filthy, bags weighed heavily under her eyes, and she appeared weak, even hungry. She was gently swaying in the wind, her feet uneasy, bloodied from her long trek.

Mercy breathed heavy, feigning the strength for a fight she would surely lose. She steeled herself for another violent, slow end.

Quincy and Viv’s fear dissolved into sympathy. Their enemy was a pathetic opponent.

Quincy and Viv reached into their bags.

“Here,” Quincy said, tossing an old hoodie and sweatpants at Mercy. “I can’t reason with you looking that pathetic. Suit up. These will keep you warm.”

Viv pulled out a pair of gently-worn Uggs. She hated how they made her feet look like dinner rolls under her jeans, and parted with them near-gleefully.

“Put them on your feet, it’ll help warm you up,” she instructed.

Disarmed by their kindness, Mercy began to weep.

“Much obliged,” she said through tears. Emotion swept through her.

Mercy had been distraught since the moment she arrived. Every minute has been spent in fight or flight—she was terrified. She may have been back in Salem, but she has never felt more lost or confused. She was overwhelmed by the constant noise, smells, and hordes of strangers that crowded her once-lush home. Nothing was familiar.

“Thank you, your kindness is ferly,” she said.

“D-did you say ferly?” Viv asked.

Mercy nodded.

They quickly Googled its meaning—it means unexpected—and “ooooooh’d” as it clicked.

“Yeah, no, this is not going to be easy. File this under things I didn’t consider,” Viv said, exasperated by the ferly language barrier.

“Okay then, let’s get to it. You like wine, bread, and cheese?” Quincy asked. “We’re not doing this on an empty stomach.”

“Ay,” she affirmed.

Viv cracked open the screwtop of the Cabernet Sauvignon as Quinn ripped into crusty, yeasty baugette, passing around the chewy pieces for their unholy communion.

XVII.

The three gnoshed their provisions in silent relief.

“Thy providence is admirable, ” Mercy said, making eye contact with the girls. “I must apologize for my insolence.”

Viv and Quincy looked back as they sipped their wine, listening intently.

“I departed this world so brutally, and reentered just so,” Mercy said, her voice quiet and gentle. “I am regretful for my intemperance and accept thy consequences. I am not unfamiliar with the noose.”

Viv and Quincy exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“Pause,” Viv said. “Hold thy horses.” She commanded, raising her pointer finger.

“Will you give us a moment?” Quinn said.

The two convened to a private corner, whispering back and forth, hands over their mouths.

“I thought we agreed there was no worthy fight?” Viv asked. “I think she thinks we’re the ones to exact justice? I won’t lie, I just don’t have it in me at this point.”

“No, yeah. Same page, honestly,” Quincy whispered back. “The amount of work it would be to cover it up, in addition to the ongoing investigation, might not work in our favor. Covering a murder might be an overcommitment.”

“Look, we have wine, cheese, and a baugette. I say we learn everything we can and go from there. Worst-case scenario, we drive her to the Berkshires and let her wander off,” Viv said, offering a plan B. “Besides, I want to hear about the Trials.”

Always in sync, the two agreed.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Quincy said, laying the cards out for Mercy. “We have wine and food. Let’s come to an understanding before we make any moves. Capisce?”

“Capisce? What, pray tell, is a Capsice?” Mercy asked.

“It just means you understand.”

“Ay, I understand.”

XVIII.

The three sat close in a small circle, protected from the wind, surrounded by candles. The waves crashed with a powerful cadence, a natural soundtrack for the evening.

“Not gonna lie, this is way spookier than yesterday,” Quincy whispered tensely to Viv, who nodded in agreement.

“We’re sure you have questions,” Quincy said. “Ask away.”

“What year is it? What have I missed?” Mercy inquired. “Thy world is loud.”

“Fuck, what a loaded question,” Viv sighed.

The girls took turns explaining what happened in Salem in the years following Mercy’s murder. They explained that, at present, Salem is internationally recognized as a sacred, historical, and intriguing destination. People have written plays and movies based on what happened to Mercy and her loved ones.

The abundance of information presented an overwhelming number of detours to travel while explaining. They did their best to provide simple explanations when possible. They spent an hour on pop culture and only 15 minutes on the American Revolution.

“This all would have been quicker if we played We Didn’t Start the Fire,” Viv joked. Quincy snickered in agreement.

They poured some more wine and broke more bread. It was going to be a long night.

XIX.

Mercy, now generally acquainted with the 21st century, brought Quincy and Viv back to pre-Colonial times.

“Tell us everything about your life before you died,” Quincy said. “What was it all like?”

Mercy sipped her wine, contemplating where to begin.

“The Village was filled with endless hunger for the discovery of these strange shores. We relied on the land and neighbors,” she said.

She spoke of the quietness that blanketed the evenings, she recalled the inky black skies glittering with more stars than they could comprehend.

“Where did all the stars go?” she asked, concerned and sad.

“Light pollution,” the girls responded.

Mercy honored her past life, reverent for the land, trees, and shores where she spent her time. The land had its own personality, but respect for its abundant diversity was abandoned in favor of property lines, which devolved into extensive fighting, greed, and pride.

There were wars between the natives of this land and the Puritans. The leaders of the pilgrimage insisted their settlement was God’s will.

Quincy and Viv became overwhelmed. It was challenging for them to wrap their minds around the firsthand accounts of Pilgrims, Native Americans, Salem villagers, and the Witch Hysteria. This wasn’t reading from a textbook; this was Mercy’s life.

She told them stories of happy gatherings, loving families, and a grit for life. What they held in happiness, though, was met with equal strife.

Mercy recounted years of brutal winters, unfamiliar diseases, short lifespans of neighbors, bitter infighting, land disputes, and power struggles that sowed fear, jealousy, and incessant struggle. Life was uncomfortable and uneasy, but it was all she knew.

“Were you a witch?” Viv interjected.

“Vivienne!” Quincy could barely contain her uncomfortable laughter. “Jesus.”

“Ay, spiritually I followed Paganism,” Mercy said. “I loved working with the land, communicating with nature, observing the stars, and old gods. My practice was private and sacred.”

She said it had nothing to do with her murder, though. That was a direct result of Reverand Parris and the corresponding hysteria.

“Reverand Parris was a weak, desperate man,” Mercy said, not making eye contact. “Parris couldn’t fill the pews of a church if the village were starving, and the seats were laid with food.”

“Say more,” Viv encouraged, topping off everyone’s wine, lips now stained purple.

Mercy smirked, receiving the energy.

She detailed the villagers’ distaste for Parris, a stern and inflexible man who demanded tithing and absolute religious obedience from a cash-strapped population, creating dissenters who were unwilling to join his church. The town wanted him gone as their pastor, and Parris panicked.

“The first afflicted were borne of his blood, accused in his own house,” Mercy said.

Parris was an insecure man who saw his power dry up before him, with no contingency plan, and so he took matters into his own hands.

“The devil was in Salem, alright,” she asserted, “but his place was upon the pulpit.” Mercy drained her wine. “Suddenly, the town needed their faith more than ever.”

“Wait, are you saying Parris fabricated everything?”

“Ay. There was no affliction. Only lies,” she responded, looking through Quincy with intense, unbroken eye contact.

XX.

Quincy and Viv held their breath as Mercy continued.

“Parris took things too far, and something came over the women of Salem. We had a plan,” she said.

The idea of revenge spread through the village in whispers. The women communicated their plans through secret channels—notes and hurried conversations — when the men weren’t looking.

The women of the village agreed to beat Parris at his own game and run him out of Salem once and for all.

“These violent delights, we discovered, have violent ends,” Mercy said.

Her beloved friends and peers were sick of the Puritanical, patriarchal demands of obedience, and needed to do something, anything—what was once an accusation borne of desperation materialized into horrifying, unteathered female rage. They put their talents to work, shrieking guttural screams from the depths of their rage, the most talented contorted their bodies into inhuman shapes, they crafted masterful lies, accusing the Devil as the ringleader forcing them to dance. Parris was left with no other option than to meet the moment his desperate situation had conjured and instill the fear of God back into the populace.

It was a sound idea until it wasn’t.

The afflicted spread outside the agreed-upon circle, and the number of accused had grown out of hand, with 200 people now involved; it was well beyond their control. People went missing, were sent to jails outside of Salem, and disappeared. The weight of the failed plan crushed them as the accused were put to death.

The villagers’ fear triumphed over their distaste for Parris; hysterics drowned Salem, and the fire they set for the pastor.

XXI.

Mercy wiped gentle tears from her blood-stained face. Her historical anger persisted.

Power-hungry men never pay for the consequences of their actions. They are soulless and broken from the rot of their insecurities. They never carry the weight of their sins. The blood staining their hands can be washed with vigor, restoring their cleanliness, while the victims of those violent hands are left to repair the broken and dismantled, responsible for picking up the pieces.

“Still true,” the girls said in unison, before taking a big swig of wine.

On the day of her death, Mercy was collecting cinnamon fern to aid with her monthly bleed, when two men grabbed her—they accused her of rendezvousing with the Devil, her accusers swore she signed her name to his Book.

It was late into the hysteria, and the rumor mill churned with desperate finality.

Her family attempted to find her to warn her, but they couldn’t locate her, and were too late.

By the time they reached her, Mercy had already been hanged by the angry mob and had been dragged by her noose through town.

Her father arrived only in time to collect her body.

Mercy’s mother and siblings cleaned her body between sobs and shrouded her in white linen filled with dried flowers, their attempt at a peaceful burial and afterlife for her.

In the cover of night, they made their way to the fort. Her father saw it from the water countless times, sailing back into town. He was motivated by its representation of protection and strength.

He could think of no better place to lay Mercy to rest. There, the family buried her in the grass, overlooking the sea.

Viv and Quinn were silently sobbing, tightly wrapped in each other’s embrace.

“Mercy, I’m endlessly sorry,” Quincy cried, wishing to atone for the sins that stained her home’s soil. “You deserved better.”

“There aren’t words,” Viv added. “I’m so profoundly sorry.”

Mercy thanked them, appreciative of their gracious hospitality in the face of horror.

The stormy seas Mercy once traveled finally quieted; she was free from the sins that weighed upon her soul.

“What now?" Mercy asked through tears.

“We go home,” Quincy said.

Epilouge

The three women left the sacred fort, forever changed.

Out of the cold and into the warmth of their homes, they separately crashed onto the comfort of their beds and slept for three merciful days.

The Salem Police never received any reliable tips about Bristol’s murder, and the case went cold. The gossip about her villain’s lair spread through the town like wildfire, adding a layer of lore to the already infamous Witch City.

Bristol’s parents eventually sold their home and moved to the Bahamas full-time.

Mercy enthusiastically embraced her second shot at life. She lived with Viv and worked at her shop. She savored her independence.

Quincy eventually took over the Cozy Cauldron Cottage, which allowed her parents to retire. She was able to settle in her magical haunted home once again.

Lilley and Sam moved over to the in-law suite so they can live in Puerto Rico for six months of the year, and in Salem for the other six. Retirement suited them.

In the days, weeks, months, and years following Mercy’s homecoming, she finally settled into modern life.

Her newfound freedom allowed her to practice her spirituality without prejudice, speak openly about her passions, and live as her entire self. When she wasn’t at the shop, she volunteered at the Peabody-Essex Museum, slandering Rev. Parris every chance she got. She also volunteered to maintain the local historic cemeteries.

Decades later, Mercy purchased her childhood home in Marblehead, in cash, with the help of some modern friends who appreciate historical secrets. She established a small homestead to live off the land, and relished contemporary comforts.

For the first time in her life, Mercy witnessed herself aging. She made time to admire herself in the mirror and truly see who she was. She had a soft spot for the crow’s feet that hugged her eyes, beaming like rays of sunlight, highlighted by strands of silver that framed her face.

Mercy delighted in the varied seasons of her life, just as she had in the seasons of the year.

Every September, Mercy would return to Fort Sewall to place flowers at her makeshift grave. There, she talked to her long-gone family, thanking them for their kindness and asking them to be with her as she navigated this new, strange life.

She told them of her life and her pursuit of happiness.

“And when the sun sets on my life,” she whispered in prayer, “walk with me once again, in peaceful celebration.”

Autumn once again greeted Salem like an old friend, decorating her trees with bright yellows, scarlets, and rich oranges. Perfectly timed crowds flooded the streets in waves of celebration.

Mercy could set her watch to the tides of Halloween three-quarters of a century after her unceremonious return.

Mercy was tired in her older age. She was wistful this particular Halloween, as she admired the stars shining from the comfort of her bed through her window—memories floating in, carried by the crisp, salty air. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so many shining.

As Mercy drifted into sleep, the sounds of people in her home startled her back to consciousness.

A symphony of laughter, conversation, and glass clinking in celebration floated through her home and up to her bedroom.

Mercy ventured down the stairs and into the kitchen.

There were no earthly examples of the scene that appeared before her.

“I’ve missed you, my love,” her mother warmly greeted, taking her in. “You look beautiful.”

Mercy’s mother, father, and siblings surrounded her in a spectacular, holy embrace.

Joining the party were Salem’s familiar ghosts—the spirits of the women she lost centuries ago, smiling in alongside Viv and Quincy; beloved pets, friends, and familiar faces.

Mercy memorized the sacred sensation of their presence. Gentle, warm tears cascaded over her carefully carved features.

She looked up to see her father smiling in admiration of his eldest daughter.

“To Mercy,” her father raised a pearlescent, glowing chalice.

“To Mercy,” the guests toasted in her honor.

Mercy celebrated Halloween singing and dancing with her loved ones, wrapped in warm, intimate laughter.

As twilight approached, Mercy grew tired, the most tired she had ever been. A euphoric wave crashed over her, releasing the weight she had been carrying.

“I’m so happy you're home,” her mother cooed.

“I am too,” Mercy sighed as she closed her eyes, never again to wake.

This story is dedicated to my friends and family, who have always encouraged me to return to writing and explore fiction. I love you all, and your persistence!

This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Shannon is a writer, psychic medium, diviner, storyteller, friend to the spirits, and Siren. She aims to enchant as many people as possible, helping them believe in magic again.

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