Page 17 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

O utside the Cottage, Damien Blackhollow ushers me into the luxurious backseat of his chauffeured car.

The leather interior smells faintly of money and privilege.

As I slide into the seat, his driver, Bennett—a distinguished older gentleman with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair and a meticulously kept uniform—tips his cap in my direction.

Moments later, we’re gliding down the road, Bennett steering with steady precision.

We arrive at Strega’s Hollow just after one p.m. Bennett drives us up to the very front of the memorial, dropping us off at VIP parking.

The place is buzzing with tourists. All around us are families, couples, and groups of teenagers flocking toward the entrance.

The atmosphere is a weird mix of eerie and amusement park.

Some are quiet and reverent, here to soak up the dark macabre history.

Others laugh and take pictures with their phones, checking this off their list of spooky Halloween attractions.

Damien strolls along beside me, silent for once, as we walk the weathered path to the main gate.

I steal a glance at him, his sharp jawline clenched.

He looks disinterested, almost bored, but I can sense his tension.

There’s a subtle shift in the air around him, like he’s trying too hard to appear unaffected.

Even in the daylight, there’s an undeniable weight to this place. A lingering feeling of history and foreboding. Something about it makes my hair stand a little on edge.

Finally, the main building comes into view.

It’s smaller than I expected. An old, stone structure that looks like it was carved out of the surrounding forest. Dark stones cracked and weathered.

Ivy clinging to the walls. The roof is slanted, the shingles uneven, giving the place an almost hunched appearance, as if it’s been sitting here for centuries.

As we pay our entrance fee and move inside the iron gates, I overhear a woman explaining to her young daughter that this is where “the bad witches were punished.” The child’s eyes grow wide with fear.

“Ridiculous.” Damien snorts beside me as we’re corralled into a small group and put into a waiting line. “It’s like they’re trying to make this place into some sort of haunted house attraction.”

Before I can respond, our tour guide arrives. He’s a tall, lanky man in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair and a frayed brown jacket that looks like it’s seen better days. He carries a walking stick and his pale blue eyes sparkle with mischievous enthusiasm.

“Welcome, welcome!” His voice is loud and cheerful. “I’m Callahan, your guide today. I hope you’re ready for some real Salem’s Fall history. None of that watered-down stuff you get in the town square,” he says, winking at the group and then ushering us all into the building.

Inside, it’s dim and cramped, all creaking floorboards and rough-hewn beams. Shelves overflow with artifacts from the witch trials. Weathered apothecary bottles, Puritan relics, and even a few weapons like rusted blades and frayed nooses, each with a small plaque detailing its grim history.

Callahan launches into storytelling mode. “This place,” he says, gesturing dramatically, “was once an execution spot for those accused of witchcraft. They say the energy here is unlike anywhere else in the world, charged by the very souls of all who perished here.”

Damien scoffs next to me, but I ignore him, intrigued, as Callahan begins pointing at various objects inside the memorial.

“Not everyone got a trial,” Callahan continues.

“Sometimes the townspeople would take it upon themselves to punish the accused. They were brought here and executed.” He stops in front of a stone fireplace, its hearth large enough to hold a person.

“Gather closer! Closer!” he calls out, his eyes sparkling in the muted light as tourists encircle him, cameras poised.

“Legend has it that some witches were burned right here,” he says, gesturing inside the fireplace.

An older woman next to me gasps, “How barbaric!”

Callahan continues, stopping next to a framed photo of a sad-looking woman named “The Marsh Witch,” and tells us a particularly grisly story about how she was drowned in the marsh behind Strega’s Hollow after being falsely accused of hexing the local minister.

“A convenient excuse to get rid of anyone they didn’t like,” Damien mutters behind me, his voice full of disdain, clearly uninterested in the tour’s theatrics.

At one point, I catch him rolling his eyes as Callahan points out a rusty old witch’s cauldron, telling us in a spooky voice that the cauldron is cursed and anyone who touches it will meet a tragic end.

An older boy in our group shoves his younger brother toward the cauldron.

The boy squeals, terrified, and misses touching its metal edges by mere inches.

“That’s not really true, is it?” the boy asks Callahan, still shaking. “About the curse?”

“Yes, I believe it is. This whole place is cursed.” Callahan pauses, savoring the tension.

“You see, every couple of years, someone goes missing at Strega’s Hollow.

A worker restoring the site or a tourist who wandered a little too far off the path.

Police search, but they never find any bodies, no footprints, no signs of struggle. The Hollow just... swallows them up.”

“They disappear ?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. Damien looks at me sideways, as if warning me not to take this too seriously.

Callahan nods. “Never to be heard from again.”

The group murmurs, and the mounting fear is palpable.

“People say this place is a thin spot. A place where the veil between the living and the dead—between good and evil—is especially fraught.” Callahan inches toward the cauldron, though he takes care not to get too close.

He lowers his voice. “You can feel it. Visitors here often report cold spots, whispers, strange sensations, invisible hands brushing against them.”

I suppress a shiver. I don’t know if it’s just his words, but I swear the air around me has grown colder, the dampness clinging to my skin. I notice several others in our group, rubbing their arms, as if they’re also feeling the temperature drop.

“Rubbish! I don’t believe in that sort of nonsense,” an older man scoffs, folding his arms across his chest.

Callahan smiles, a thin, knowing smile. “You don’t have to believe, friend,” he says.

“But whether you do or don’t, there’s one rule you should always abide by: never come here after dark.

That’s when things get really… unsettling.

” He taps the floor with his walking stick.

The sound seems to echo unnaturally, cutting through the air like a knife.

“Shadows move where they shouldn’t, and if you listen closely, you can hear voices— whispers —from the other side.

Some say it’s the spirits of the witches, crying out for justice.

Others believe it’s something far worse.

..” Callahan licks his lips, almost eagerly, and continues.

“Okay, let’s move on, shall we? I want to show you something truly special. ”

He leads us outside the building, circling the grounds and steering us toward the middle of the glade. In the center lies a large stone slab that looks positively ancient, its smooth surface cracked and weathered by time.

“Now here’s where the stories get really interesting,” Callahan says, gesturing at the stone.

His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial tone, like he’s about to share a secret.

“This stone slab you see here, folks, has more history than any of the books or records will tell you. They say this slab was once used for human sacrifices.”

Several people in our group shift uncomfortably. I hear Damien snicker beside me, a low, quiet snort escaping him. I glance over and give him a warning look, but he doesn’t seem to care that he’s being rude.

“What kind of sacrifices?” someone asks behind me.

“Legend has it there were real witches operating in Salem’s Fall during the witch trials,” Callahan explains.

“These weren’t the poor innocent townspeople accused, mind you.

No, these were truly evil beings, using the panic of the time to hide their own dark agendas to gain power and make pacts with supernatural forces. ”

A couple of teenagers in the group laugh nervously.

“But that’s just a made-up story, right?” A young woman in the back shivers, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. “That’s not true, is it?”

“Isn’t it?” Callahan asks, his eyes narrowing.

“Of course, there are naysayers. Modern historians dismiss it as lore created during the hysteria of the witch trials, and it’s true there’s little concrete evidence to support it.

” He grins wide, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

“I suppose you all can decide for yourselves what you believe.”

The tour concludes shortly after that and Damien grabs me by the elbow, steering me toward the exit. “What a sham,” he says under his breath. “You ready to go?”

“I enjoyed it,” I say, a bit annoyed by his dismissiveness. “I thought his stories were entertaining. It’s part of the experience. Besides, if you think it’s all a big joke, why are you here? You’re the one who said this place is dangerous.”

“Oh, the danger is very real—just not the tall tales that guy was spewing,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “How so?”

He pauses, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Another time,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. This place has a way of getting to you if you stay too long.” He points to the little gift store over by the main entrance. “Some light shopping before we leave?”

“I’m working, Damien.” I snort. “I don’t have time for shopping?—”

“You’ll like it,” he says, grabbing me by the elbow and pulling me toward the store. “Trust me.”