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.
"Rumors start up like that after someone's death a lot, especially someone who's all alone or different," Martha said.
"Could you tell me about the factory then?"
"I'd like to tell you about someone in particular first. Ann Hibbins. Has anyone else mentioned her at all?"
Rebecca shook her head.
"Bishop never returned. I want to make that clear. Someone made up a story about her after she died. The same thing happened to Ann. "
"I don't understand. Ann was the witch?"
Martha's mouth tightened into a straight thin line, giving away her displeasure at the question.
"Ann was not a witch. She was a normal person just getting by. She was my friend. She was a worker in the factory and was a good girl, but she didn't have a family. She came into Grover one day and got a job with no word on who or what she left behind. I never got her to say anything about her past. All I know is she's from somewhere south of here and it didn't sound like she thought anyone was looking for her. No one ever came to town inquiring about her or anything. I think I was the only one curious about her, but then again, I was her only friend, really."
Martha hesitated. "I loved her and she loved me."
The old woman looked Rebecca straight in the eye, making sure she didn't miss her meaning.
Rebecca fidgeted, clearly surprised and embarrassed by this information. "What was she like?" she asked politely as she half-heartedly tapped her phone screen and pretended to take some notes on the conversation. She didn't see any connection to the Witch of Embers and thought none of this would be useable, anyway.
"She was grim. She was young, but she was very serious and dour. It was hard to make her laugh, although it was a real treat whenever you got her to smile. She was also very particular. I remember she always had her day planned down to the minute and it would be hopeless to talk to her during the workday since she'd be so concentrated on her work. She was determined to be the best worker in the factory, even though the bosses didn't give a damn, especially about a young woman like her. We got paid less, you know. We still do."
Rebecca nodded, her brows furrowing, but she didn't look up from her writing.
Martha shifted again, uncomfortable with her position or the topic. "We might as well jump into it. You want to know about the factory fire."
Rebecca nodded again and hit the enter key a few times on her app so she'd be ready.
"It wasn't a witch. No woman started that fire. It was men and a machine. You see, the Pullman factory started with just one small boiler for the factory, but they kept adding on and building more space to the building for more workers and machines. They had to build a second boiler to accommodate for the growth but kept the first around as a backup. When that second boiler had to undergo repairs, they decided to just use the first until the main boiler was fixed.
"Ann was always one of the first in. She was a hard worker, remember, and was always in early. There were maybe a hundred people in the factory early that morning. The boiler had only been running for a short while, but it was enough. It couldn't keep up with how big the factory had gotten and it exploded.
"The factory collapsed in on itself, trapping a lot of people and the entire building was on fire. I was just coming in when it happened and was a couple blocks away, but I heard that explosion and I heard the screams afterward.
"It was haunting. I don't know how I can make you understand."
Rebecca stopped typing.
"Ann didn't get trapped like a lot of the others. She was able to crawl free. I'm not sure how, exactly, or what exactly happened to her. I just saw her crawling over the rubble toward the crowd. That's where 'the Witch of Embers' stuff really comes from. You've heard about how the witch appeared out of the blue, completely aflame with horrible injuries?
"Well, I suppose I need to ask you to pardon my language, but, quite frankly, that's bullshit. Ann crawled from a fire caused by her employers and yes she was injured." Martha's breath was catching and she paused to compose herself.
"What did they say the witch looked like?" she said after a few moments, turning to look right at Rebecca with piercing eyes.
Rebecca froze. She had been unsure of how Ann connected to the Witch of Embers, but now it was all too grotesquely apparent. "She was injured on her shoulder and face."
"That's true. Something hit Ann there and hit her there hard. You could see her bone. I saw her bone. And she was badly, badly burned. Her work clothes were still on fire when she got out and her hair was smoldering. You can imagine what her skin looked like. They had to beat her with some blankets and put out the flame before she got any help medically. And only then did she scream.
"I found her later in the hospital. She was unconscious. She never woke up again while I was there. I waited by her bedside for a while. No one really noticed me. The hospital was crowded, you see, and there was no one really paying attention to her. And I didn't want her to die alone."
Martha was crying softly with twin tears running down her cheeks. Yet, her voice never wavered and she forged on.
"She just went out the next day. They'd done what they could and wrapped her in a cocoon of bandages, but she was too grievously hurt. It was a good thing she was unconscious. She didn't go out like a flame. She didn't scream again or hurt anymore. Instead, she went out slowly and quietly. She was like an ember, if you want to get poetic about it for your video and make that connection to the witch from the legend."
Martha paused again, thinking hard.
"My girl went out like an ember too far from a fire," she said. "But a lot of people saw her when she'd been hurt. It was gruesome, yes. But then they made up a whole story about her and demonized her. They made her into a monster to scare tourists with. And to top it all off, somehow she's blamed for the factory fire now, or Bishop is." Martha hesitated again. "So many people know about the Witch of Embers malarkey, but no one knows about Ann Hibbins. No one's telling her story. No one until you."
The old woman turned suddenly and glared at Rebecca. "Now, what does that story say about this town?"