Witch of Embers

Part 4

Uncertain, Rebecca scanned the crowd at the park, looking for a woman old enough to have worked in a factory in 1952. From her conversations with the woman's younger relatives, her interview subject was still living as independently as she could and remained outside of a nursing home, much to her eldest daughter's chagrin.

From her current vantage point, most of the occupants of the park benches were families or couples. She kept walking and searching.

When she rounded a corner in the walking path, an old hunched woman in a wheelchair waved politely to her near a fountain, gesturing her forward.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," Rebecca said as she shook the woman's hand.

"You're fine, hon. I usually get to places early anyway. I'm Martha," she said, smiling. Martha looked ancient, or definitely old enough to have worked in the factory as a young woman. "My granddaughter is off running errands, so we have plenty of time to ourselves." She gestured at the bench she was parked by.

"Rebecca." She pulled out a tripod and other equipment from her backpack as she sat down next to Martha. "Do you mind if I film this?"

"I do, actually."

Rebecca glanced at her in surprise. The old woman was staring her down with a pleasant smile on her face. Reluctantly, Rebecca started packing her equipment up again.

Great, she thought. So this will be useless.

When she sat down next to Martha with the notes app on her phone opened, the old woman spoke again. "You're very prepared for something like this. I thought you were asking about the ghost story."

"On my channel, I treat these stories as more than ghost stories," she began. "I do want to know what really happened because something clearly must have happened. And my goal is more about looking into what these stories say about the town. Why does a story stick and who's telling it? That kind of thing." Rebecca recited her YouTube channel's description with ease. She had long ago nailed down how to make it sound natural in conversation.

Martha nodded and smiled, a little sadly. Her hands were folded in her lap. She didn't say anything so Rebecca forged ahead.

"So, if I can't film  you, can I at least take notes?" She waved her phone vaguely.

Martha nodded, that polite smile never fleeing from her face. It gave Rebecca goosebumps. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"Well, um, can you tell me about the witch? I heard you were at the factory when it—when it was on fire."

The old woman frowned then and shifted a bit in her wheelchair. She broke her hold on Rebecca's gaze and looked off into the distance, not meeting the younger woman's eye. It took a while before she spoke and when she did, it was with bitterness.

"Everything you've been told is a lie. If you've already done some writing, every word you've written based on what you've heard is also a lie. Forget whatever you've been told. This witch nonsense is all a story that someone thought up and it caught on.

"The people you heard about are real, but Bridget Bishop was no witch and she didn't come back. She was an unfortunate woman living alone in a harsh land and harsher community. She died in a house fire. It was completely an accident, of course. The rumors started right after her death. She never killed anyone while she was alive and she didn't start the epidemic. There wasn't even a disease at that time. It's all made up.

"Someone's benefitting from slandering an independent woman who died centuries ago," She paused, waiting to see if Rebecca would interject. Fully in her role as interviewer, Rebecca stayed silent, hoping to elicit more from Martha. A pit was growing in her stomach.