Hester Beckett's House

Although born in Salem over twenty years ago, Kylie thought she had no memory of it. She grew up surrounded by mountains, palm trees, and pools in Los Angeles. Now she drove past New England cedars, white-washed houses, and stacked granite walls. It was so different and yet familiar. That left her feeling unsettled, especially after the sudden death of her beloved great-aunt.

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There was just enough twilight in the sky for Kylie to snap some photos of the front façade with her cell phone. It was a yellow and white two-story home encased in horizontal ship lathe. Brick chimneys graced both the left and right sides and smoke stains marked that they were often in use. The house attempted symmetry with an equal number of windows on each side of the central, dark purple front door.

That symmetry was broken by a small, covered porch that wrapped around to the right. Proud of that was a narrow yard with bright green grass and a gravel path that led to the back garden. A white picket fence and gate sheltered the front yard from the sidewalk. She chuckled at the black metal lawn ornament of a witch in flight being used to hide a broken fence slat.

Kylie didn’t believe in supernatural witches but the thought of meeting some modern-day Wiccan ones enticed her. She pictured Wiccans as sexy and mysterious, like her goth friend from high school who dabbled in witchcraft one summer.