Page 29 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

I try not to feel like a failure as I walk away from the police station and head farther down the street to the Salem’s Fall Public Library.

I had been hoping to get more out of my visit with the detective, but at least I now have the name of another potential victim—Carla Moretti.

I try to stay positive. Perhaps the library will have more information for me.

The wind picks up as I arrive at the entrance. The Gothic architecture looms in front of me, the dark stone and pointed arches giving it an ancient, imposing feel. The library, like most everything else in Salem’s Fall, is steeped in history, carrying with it the weight of the past.

I push open the heavy wooden doors and step inside.

Dim lighting casts long shadows that flicker across rows and rows of old books.

The librarian, a silver-haired woman with her hair pulled into a neat bun, sits behind the large circulation desk near the entrance.

As I approach, she looks up, eyes squinting toward me, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I reply with what I hope is a friendly smile. “I’m looking for information on a few local murders. Specifically, ones that happened on Halloween, going back a few years. And some older cases too, a few decades ago. ”

“Halloween murders, you say?” She clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “You’ll want to check the archives. I’ll show you where they are,” she says, standing up and motioning for me to follow her.

She leads me down a narrow staircase into the archives.

The deeper we go into the stacks, the quieter it becomes, the soft whispers of pages turning and muted chatter fading into silence.

The air here is musty, cooler than the rest of the library.

The scent of old leather and brittle paper is thick, the smell of history itself.

She points to an old microfiche machine that sits beside a tall metal filing cabinet.

“That’s where you’ll find old newspaper clippings and public records.

We’re a small town, so not everything makes it online—especially not the old stuff.

Files are arranged by date,” she explains, giving me a thin smile.

“The machine still works—mostly. If it starts acting up, just give me a shout.”

I head for the files and slide the first reel of microfilm into the machine.

The screen flickers to life, the motor whirring as I begin scrolling through old November editions of The Salem’s Fall Gazette .

I figure November is as good a place to start as any.

Anything occurring on Halloween is likely going to show up in the papers then.

I start with the most recent case first, the one Detective Harris mentioned—Carla Moretti. Though Detective Harris wasn’t as forthcoming as I’d hoped, I’m grateful I at least have a name to search for.

I find what I’m looking for right away. It turns out Moretti was not just a housekeeper.

She was Damien and Lucien’s former nanny and helped raise them.

The articles don’t dive too deeply into her relationship with the family, but there are subtle hints.

Neighbors claimed she was a “mother figure,” fiercely protective of the boys even as they grew up into adult men.

Her body was found on the grounds of Blackthorn Manor, her throat slashed and surrounded by eerie symbols.

My pulse pounds as I read more. The symbols found around her body were like the ones in the photos of Damien’s fiancée’s and my mother’s murders—the Mark of the Veil.

The case is still open, authorities asking for any leads.

I take notes and pictures on my phone, every small connection I find tightening the knot in my stomach.

There’s no mention of the Blackhollow family being involved—nothing beyond the fact that the murder happened on their estate—but I know better. This was no random act.

I get through at least three more years of Gazette November issues but, other than Moretti, there’s no other murders in Salem’s Fall on Halloween. I don’t know if I should feel disappointed or relieved. But then I remember how the detective mentioned the nearby towns of Danvers and Peabody.

Unfortunately, the library archives don’t appear to have newspaper files for anything outside Salem’s Fall, but on a whim, I swivel toward the desktop library computer beside me and jump online to run a search for recent Halloween murders in those two towns.

Nothing for Danvers, but Peabody gets a hit right away.

Bingo!

It seems Elise Hartsworth—a former girlfriend of Damien’s, his college sweetheart—was killed three years ago, on Halloween, at a dinner party in Peabody packed with New England elite.

Hartsworth, a well-known socialite, was discovered in a secluded part of the estate’s garden, her body brutalized and surrounded by ominous symbols carved into the ground.

She was posed in what the papers described as a “sacrificial position.”

The article highlighted her many accomplishments.

She’d served as chair of the New England Historical Society’s annual Gala.

President of the Peabody Garden Club. Sought-after member of the Rotary Club.

But her most notable claim to fame was her past connection to Damien Blackhollow.

No charges were ever filed, though Damien was questioned due to their prior relationship.

Though they’d broken up years prior to her death, he’d been seen with her recently, perhaps rekindling their romance.

He was ultimately cleared of any wrongdoing, though rumors swirled about his involvement.

My skin starts to itch with excitement. I’ve uncovered something huge .

Van Buren and Hartsworth. Two women Damien was intimately involved with, both viciously slain on Halloween in ritualistic manners.

Plus, the nanny. Same method of murder. Same symbols.

Same Blackhollow connection. The pattern is undeniable.

I continue scrolling through the microfilm, this time going back further—two decades—looking for anything tied to Damien’s father.

Eagerly, I scan through the records, searching for something that will connect the dots.

More hours fly by, and I worry the library will close before I find anything else helpful, but then I hit the jackpot.

A rash of murders in 1991, 1992, 1993, and 1994, all in Salem’s Fall, all on Halloween night.

The victims were all from prominent Salem’s Fall families, all found brutally slaughtered, their deaths never solved.

The articles all give the same sort of vague details, but one universal similarity about the slayings stands out.

Each body had the same ritualistic markings either carved into the skin or the surrounding walls and floors, or both.

The symbols match the same design: spirals, pentagrams, jagged lines radiating outward. The Mark of the Veil.

There are reports of court proceedings—a series of lawsuits involving the Blackhollows and the victims’ families that were mysteriously dropped or settled.

And then, just a few weeks after the fourth murder, something shocking jumps out at me.

There’s a major headline in the papers: “Blackhollow Industries’ Resurgence. ”

According to the article, Ian Blackhollow had been on the brink of bankruptcy in the early ’90s.

The family business was crumbling until suddenly in late November 1994—after the last Halloween murder—Ian acquired a string of new investments and partnerships.

Blackhollow Industries’ wealth skyrocketed again seemingly overnight.

I pull the film from the machine and sit back in the chair, staring blankly at the screen. My head spins. The murders, and then the Blackhollows’ meteoric rise to power again. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.

I don’t believe in the supernatural…

My phone vibrates sharply in my pocket, making me jump.

I stare down at the screen and let out a long sigh.

It’s Katie again, for the third time today.

I’ve been dodging her calls. She clearly thinks I’m crazy for still staying in town, and I’m not in the mood to argue.

Still, she’s my best friend and I can’t ignore her forever.

“James, finally!” Katie’s voice comes out in a rush, a mix of exasperation and worry when I answer. “Why are you avoiding my calls? Where are you—and please tell me it isn’t Salem’s Fall!”

“I can’t leave yet, Katie. Too much is happening,” I say, whispering as I look around the archive room, but I’m all alone. Everyone else has gone home for the evening.

“I’m freaking out over here!” Katie screeches into my ear. “Are you really still working for Blackhollow even after everything we’ve been hearing? James—he’s a killer!”

“I’m a criminal defense attorney, Katie,” I say. “This is part of the job. I can’t just walk away.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Katie speaks again, her voice is quieter, more careful.

“Look, I know how important this is to you—prestigious law firm, big paycheck, partner track,” she says. “But a successful career isn’t the most important thing in life.”

I grit my teeth. Of course, Katie can say this.

Her family didn’t just follow the New England old-money playbook—they helped write it.

Their name is literally etched into Harvard’s law school, with a building on campus bearing the Tang family name, for crying out loud.

Their influence stretches from the United States all the way to Asia.

Her grandparents were Beijing powerbrokers, deeply tied to China’s political elite; her father is the former U.S.

Ambassador to China. And while it’s not her fault she was born into privilege most people couldn’t fathom; she can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be me.

To feel like you have to earn your place in this world, every single step of the way.