“Welcome to Witch City,” Mathis said, chuckling at the look on his brother’s face, before heading off. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

Lester pirouetted, trying to take it all in as he followed.

A man smoking a long black cigarette leaned beneath the doorway of a tattoo parlor called The Dark Mark. He was very tall and thin, with more piercings than Lester had ever seen in his life, let alone on one person. While his head did not move, his dark eyes slid slowly sideways, following them as they passed.

Mathis made a quick stop at a food cart on the outskirts of the crowd. He greeted the owner by name and ordered two clam rolls with fries. Dinner in hand, they slipped down a side street, emerging at the edge of a large cemetery, where they found a spot on an empty park bench.

A waist-high stone wall encircled the old graveyard and its slate-blue headstones, adorned with carvings of palm trees, urns, and winged skulls. Beyond, in the distance, the water of the small harbor glimmered, reflecting the late-day sunshine. The scene might have been idyllic but for the lone towering oak rising out of the middle of the emerald green grass. The half-dead tree loomed above the cemetery, its leafless branches swaying in the breeze, casting quivering black shadows across the ground. It stood, barely, as a half-alive reminder of the slow decay that awaits all things.

“Alright,” Mathis said, wiping tartar sauce from his chin. “Let’s begin with a brief history lesson. In 1626, about six years after the Mayflower landed at Plymouth Rock, another group of pilgrims struck out for the New World. After a harrowing sea journey that left more than half their number dead, they came ashore at a place they would later name Salem. Those early years were harsh, and simply finding enough food to survive the long brutal winters was a challenge. But the settlers who chose to call this rough coastline home were tough. By the time the American Revolution was over, they’d built their small town into one of the world’s most prosperous shipping ports. Despite this success, and the countless other events of note that have happened here in the nearly four-hundred years since, Salem, Massachusetts, will always be known for one thing.”

“Witches,” said Lester.

“Correct,” nodded Mathis. “In May of 1693, a local doctor diagnosed several teenage girls as bewitched. This quickly caused a hysteria that sent the residents of the town on an actual witch hunt. Neighbors accused neighbors. Some people even accused members of their own families. All were then arrested and thrown in jail to await trial. A court was established specifically to prosecute the crime of witchcraft. By the time the whole thing was over, twenty people had been put to death.”

“That’s horrible,” Lester said, looking again at the cemetery.

“Yes, it is,” said Mathis. “Even worse, nineteen of those accused were hung from that very tree.”

A shiver went up Lester’s spine as he pushed the image of a rope swinging from one of the oak’s thick branches from his mind.

“Hold on. Nineteen?” said Lester. “I thought you said twenty people were killed.”

“Good,” Mathis said, getting to his feet. “I’m glad to see you’re paying attention.”

He led Lester to the edge of the cemetery, through a stone arch, and down a long flight of cement stairs. At the bottom, they emerged onto a tree-lined street with expensive-looking townhouses. There were no shops here or packs of wandering tourists, only fancy cars parked in front of meticulously cared-for front gardens.

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“The original main street of the town used to run right through here,” Mathis said, standing in the middle of the deserted lane. The sounds from the busy square above were muffled and seemed far away. “George Corwin, the local sheriff at the time, who also happened to be the son-in-law of the magistrate overseeing the witch trials, later went on to own this entire block. He acquired most of the property at a substantial discount after seizing it from those accused of witchcraft.”

“Your kidding?” said Lester.

“No. In fact, some speculate the Salem Witch Trials were nothing more than

one of the most notoriously perpetrated land grabs in history.”

“Is that what you believe?” Lester asked, stepping out into the street to stand next to his brother.

“Whatever Sheriff Corwin’s true motives, he enjoyed his work by all accounts,” Mathis said. “That is, until the incident with Mr. Corey.”

“Who?” asked Lester.

“Mr. and Mrs. Corey owned the most successful farm in Salem and were a well-respected couple with impeccably mannered children. This was why the sheriff made sure the entire town witnessed them being dragged out of their fancy house. He wanted to send a message that no one was above suspicion in his quest to rid the land of witchcraft. Poor Mrs. Corey was tried, sentenced, and hung that same day. Unfortunately for Sheriff Corwin, the case against Mr. Corey proved to be a bit more problematic.”

“How so?” Lester asked.

“According to the law at the time,” said Mathis, “you couldn’t be brought before a judge until you plead either innocent or guilty. Mr. Corey wouldn’t cooperate. He refused to utter even a single word after his arrest. Normally, the sheriff would have just let him rot in his cell. Jails were so terrible back then that they were as likely to kill you as any death sentence. But support from the townsfolk was wavering. So many people were being accused that everyone felt like they could be next. Some were even beginning to question the legitimacy of the court itself. The sheriff needed something to reassert his authority and decided to make an example of the old man. He had his men dig a hole, right about where you’re standing, stripped Corey naked, and threw him into it.”

“Naked?” said Lester. “Were they hoping to embarrass him into confessing?”

“Most of the town did gather to watch, but sheriff Corwin’s plans went well beyond embarrassment. Once the wealthy farmer was in the hole, they placed a long wooden board over his body and started stacking heavy stones on top of it. After each one, they’d ask him to enter a plea again, and he’d refuse. Mr. Corey was tough. Seventy-one years old, and he still managed to hold out for three days before he died.”

“Why didn’t he just say he was innocent?” Lester asked.

“No one knows,” said Mathis. “Maybe he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction after what they’d done to his wife. More likely, he was relying on the fact that they couldn’t seize his property without a trial. He did have a son to consider. Anyway, not long after his death, the governor’s wife was accused. Suddenly it was decided the whole thing had been a mistake. They released and pardoned everyone still in jail, and life in Salem slowly returned to normal. Too late for Mr. Corey, who was buried in the hole where he lay.”

Lester looked down at his feet and imagined the old man’s crushed skeleton somewhere beneath. As he did, he noticed a stone marker set into the pavement and stepped back to read it. Giles Corey, Pressed to Death, Sept. 19, 1692.

“Mathis,” Lester said, staring at the inscription. “What happened to the people who’d been accused after they were let out of prison?”

“What would you do if your neighbors thought you might be a witch and were willing to kill you just to be on the safe side?” Mathis asked. “Once pardoned, most left Salem as soon as they could. A few went back to England, while others found homes in nearby settlements. A group was even rumored to have traveled inland beyond the colonies, disappearing into the uncharted wilderness.”

Lester crouched and ran his finger over the engraved letters on the marker. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “They went inland,” he said to himself, “and built a town on a hill, naming it Giles after one of their own — and Hollow in remembrance of the horrific way he died.”

Mathis smiled broadly. “Well done, little brother. I’d been at The Crowley School for nearly a year before I worked that out.”