The Crowley School for Boys sat perched on the edge of a grassy cliff, high above an outcropping of jagged rocks standing like soldiers against the crashing waves of the ocean below. Its cluster of wood-shingled buildings, weathered to a dull gray by the salt-tinged wind, looked more like an old fishing village than an academy of higher learning. The only access to the lofty campus was via a narrow sandy path that wound its way up from the coastline below. There was no need for a gate or signs warning against trespassing. The rugged New England landscape itself acted as both a deterrent and endurance test for anyone contemplating a visit.
In truth, Crowley students did spend nearly as much time fishing their dinner out of the rough sea from small rowboats as they did in class. They also filled their days adding rocks to the long seawall or chopping wood for the coming winter. The administration’s philosophy revolved around the idea that students who had no free time were less likely to use it unwisely. Thus, a program of hard work and calluses demanded as much attention as traditional classroom time. A premise that seemed archaic to many of the roughly one hundred teenagers in attendance, but which made perfect sense to their parents, who, after all, were the ones paying the hefty tuition.
Reaching the top of the path, Lester took a moment to catch his breath before approaching a group of students. They were sitting on the grass, mending fishing nets. None looked up from their task as he stopped to ask for directions, but a boy wearing a necklace made out of what appeared to be shark’s teeth paused long enough to point to a long low dormitory.
As Lester stepped inside, he passed several additional students. Some wore blazers with ties and carried books, while others dressed in rubber overalls, with matching boots that smelled strongly of fish. Each moved with purpose, barely slowing enough to eye him suspiciously.
Following the main hall, Lester walked to the last door on the left. It was open.
The small room was lit by a single lightbulb hanging down from a low ceiling. It cast a pale yellow glow on bare cinderblock walls, devoid of posters, photographs, or anything of a personal nature. Between a pair of gray metal bunk beds pushed to opposite ends of the room, a young man sat at a tiny desk, his back to the door.
Lester cleared his throat.
“Give it up, Will,” the young man said without turning around. “I’ve already told you I’m not switching kitchen jobs.”
“Not even for me?” asked Lester.
At the sound of Lester’s voice, the young man at the desk spun in his chair, and his eyes went wide. “Lester?”
“Hey, Mathis. How’s it going?”
The boy from the photograph hanging in the North’s kitchen jumped to his feet and pulled Lester into a giant bearhug, nearly knocking both of them over as he did.
“Wow! Look at you!” Mathis North marveled, letting go of Lester and taking a step back. “You’re almost as tall as me now.” Then the joy that had lit his face upon seeing Lester suddenly disappeared. “Wait. What are you doing here? Is everyone okay? Mom? Dad? Bernard?”
“They’re fine,” Lester said. “Everyone’s fine. I’ve — come on my own.”
“They don’t know you’re here?” Mathis asked, arching his eyebrows.
“Not exactly,” said Lester.
Mathis stared at him for a long moment, and Lester worried he might send him away. What would he do then? Who else could he turn to? Lester still had the roundtrip bus ticket in his pocket, but he couldn’t just go back home.
“Okay,” Mathis said, his warm smile returning. “Since it’s just the two of us, let me grab my coat, and I’ll give you the tour.”
It had been a long time since Lester had seen his brother. As they walked down the hill away from the school, he couldn’t help noticing that Mathis no longer resembled the childhood companion he remembered. It shouldn’t have been surprising. He was in his junior year of high school, after all, and soon would be off to college. Still, Lester kept looking for the young boy behind the broad shoulders and stubbly beard.
Mathis wore a black wool peacoat, a favorite with local fishermen. It had large buttons that fastened on one side and a stiff collar that he’d turned up against the ceaseless wind. His shaggy hair was the same dark shade he and Lester shared with their mother. Anyone seeing them walking side by side would not have been surprised to learn they were related.
Their physicality, however, was where the similarities ended. Lester had always been eager to please, at school and home. He was driven by an internal desire to do the right thing, or at least what was expected. Mathis, on the other hand, possessed a fierce streak of independence. Which often put him at odds with the adults in his life. He didn’t act out simply for the sake of rebellion, nothing so angsty. Nevertheless, Mathis’s unnerving habit of casually stating the truth of a situation often made the teachers and parents doing their best to tip-toe around it uncomfortable.
In Giles Hollow, everyone thought Lester was the smart one. But Mathis’s intelligence came from an intuitive place. He sailed through school, seemingly without trying, even though he had a reputation of an absent-minded daydreamer. It hadn’t been until after his brother was sent away that Lester had realized how much he’d looked up to him.
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Reaching the shoreline, they followed a thin road in the direction of a cluster of houses and shops in the distance.
“As great as it is to see you, Lester,” Mathis said, after they’d been walking a while, “I’m guessing this isn’t just a friendly family visit.”
Lester glanced at his brother. He’d been trying to figure out where to begin since they’d departed the school’s grounds, but the words wouldn’t come.
“It’s complicated,” Lester said, looking away. “And it might sound a bit — mad.”
To Lester’s surprise, Mathis gave a small chuckle.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” he said.
Alone, far from his parents and The Council, with the rhythmic sound of the crashing surf urging him forward, Lester screwed up his courage and told his brother everything. He spoke quickly, afraid he’d lose his nerve if he stopped, and the story flowed out. But even to his own ears, each event in his tale seemed more unbelievable than the last. Mathis nodded and grunted in all the right spots to show he was listening, but didn’t interrupt, so Lester kept going.
Doing his best to present his case in the most objective way possible, Lester only included events he’d personally witnessed. Still, of those, he left out no detail. By the time he’d recounted the confrontation with their mother and the lengthy bus ride from Elmwood City, they’d been walking for nearly an hour and had reached the edge of a seaside village.
Here the end of the seawall stretched out like a long stone arm, providing shelter to sailboats moored in a small bay. Neither of them spoke as they stood side by side, staring out at the watery vastness beyond.
Lester watched the waves break onto the rocks, their foaming mist casting brief rainbows against the light of the low-hanging sun. Would his brother accept his story? Would Lester, if the tables had been turned? It troubled him to realize this was a question he could not easily answer.
“I believe you,” Mathis said, as though reading his thoughts.
“You do?” asked Lester.
“Yes, of course. You’re my brother.”
Lester watched a small blue boat bob up and down in the surf and felt a lightness in his legs. He blinked back the unexpected tears that had begun to well up in his eyes.
“However,” Mathis said. “As flattered as I am you trusted me enough to come this far. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to give you all of the answers you’re looking for.”
The blue boat dipped, and Lester’s heart sank with it.
“But what I can do,” his brother continued, “is help you fill in some of the gaps of what you already know. I will do this on one condition. What you choose to do with the information once you have it, where you go from here, is a decision you’ll have to make on your own.” He turned to face Lester. “Do we have a deal?”
Lester looked at his brother’s outstretched hand. It was rough and callused. A white, jagged scar sliced across the palm where someone had crudely stitched up a nasty cut. He wondered what exactly Mathis had endured in the years he’d been away and how much of the boy he’d grown up with was still in there. But, then again, hadn’t Lester himself changed in just the last few months? Besides, what other choice did he have?
“Deal,” Lester said and shook on it.
“Great,” Mathis smiled, his tone once again light and gregarious. “Now, let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”
They moved inland, away from the docks, toward the rows of colonial houses. The road down from the school had been deserted, but this coastal neighborhood bustled with people. Most appeared to be local residents running errands, washing cars, and walking dogs. But as they got closer to the village center, the sidewalks grew crowded with tourists. They chatted excitedly, pointing at various landmarks and stopping abruptly every few feet to take photographs. At one point, Lester nearly plowed into the back of a short man carrying three separate cameras and a tripod.
Mathis navigated the sightseers with practiced ease, avoiding the most congested areas by randomly ducking down barely noticeable alleyways and cutting through hidden parking lots.
Lester jogged to keep up.
His brother pulled open a nondescript door at the back of a random building and stepped casually into the middle of a busy restaurant’s kitchen. Lester was sure they’d get yelled at, but Mathis simply nodded to the cooks and followed a group of waiters into an elegant dining room. Fist-bumping the maitre d’, he then continued out the front door.
Lester came to a stumbling halt.
It was as if they’d stepped back in time. In front of them stood a large brick-lined courtyard with old-fashion gas lamps and ornate storefronts. Horse-drawn carriages clicked up and down a street absent of cars, stoplights, and parking meters. Additionally, the ring of old buildings surrounding the space blocked out any sign of the modern world, completing the feeling of a photograph from a history book come to life. The only thing that betrayed the time-traveling spell cast by the cloistered square was a mass of brightly dressed tourists. Like those they’d passed on their way here, they bustled about, darting in and out of shops, arms laden with purchases.
There was so much to see that Lester found himself spinning in place, unsure where to look first. Then he noticed something odd. Scattered among the shoppers, covered in drab tattered clothing, were what looked like escapees from a Circus of the Macabre. One man, wearing a soaking wet sailor’s uniform, stood in a puddle outside a store called The Black Cat Coven. His voice gurgled as he slowly turned the crank on an antique music box and tunelessly sang about a ship that had gone down in a storm. When he reached the part where its doomed crew disappeared under a mountainous wave, Lester thought he saw a tear roll down the man’s face, but he was so wet it was hard to tell.
On the opposite side of the street, between Third Eye Fortune Tellers and Beyond the Veil Books, swayed a woman in a faded and torn wedding dress. Her face was powdered to an ashen gray, and she moaned mournfully as she handed out flyers for an evening ghost tour.
In the center of it all rose a shiny golden statue. It was surrounded by groups of people waiting patiently to have their photographs taken in front of it. As a smiling family of four stepped aside, Lester leaned in to have a look.
The life-size bronze sculpture depicted a woman on a broomstick, flying over a swooping crescent moon. She smiled as she held on to her pointed hat, the wind billowing her cloak out behind her. Underneath the dangling toes of her pointy boots, a plaque shaped like a cloud read Discover the Magic of Salem.