“You sure have a lot of questions this morning,” he said.

“I can’t help it, my brain is swarming like bees.” I made Oz go with me to see the sights, not just read about them in a book.

Sevilla, the librarian, was kind enough to suggest a few local tourist spots and places to gather more information on the witch trials. I wasn’t sure if it was all connected, but I needed to eliminate some pieces of the puzzle.

“So why are we going to this house again?”

“This was the living quarters of Bridget Bishop."

"Who?"

"She was the first girl to be accused of witchcraft and hung during the hysteria in 1692."

 “A witch huh?” He scratched his chin. “What makes a person a witch?”

 “I don’t know. A pointy hat and stripped socks?”

 “I think it’s green skin, flying around on a broomstick, and cackling at small children.”

We both laughed and made disgusting faces at each other. As we approached the Bishop property our laughter dissolved.

A thick low-lying fog swirled around the dirty white wood. The years were unkind to the single story house. The stench of decayed earth filled my nose. A solemn feeling blanketed us as we inched along the dirt path.

We stepped up three wooden planks to a small porch. The rotted wood creaked beneath our feet. I was nervous to ring the doorbell, but I did it anyway.

We waited.

A curious raven circled above us and kaughed. It flapped its oily feathers and perched upon a small headstone resting at the side of the house.

Oz glanced at the bird and then back to me. “And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting. On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.”

I joined him. “And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.”

Together we finished. “And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor. Shall be lifted - nevermore!”

The door knob jiggled and the hinges whined as it groaned open.