Summer of 2025 - Three Months Earlier
Noon at Phillips Library, Salem
Lilith sat on the floor in front of two towering shelves deep in the heart of the Phillips Library, surrounded by several stacks of books about colonial Salem. Genealogies, court records, transcripts from the witch trials… she’d pulled everything they had on the Proctor family. Her notebook lay open in her lap, already filled with several pages of notes in her cramped handwriting.
“You know there are tables, right?” Stevon’s voice came from above her. “Perfectly good tables. Chairs too, if you can believe.”
Lils looked up to find her best friend grinning down at her, two iced cinnamon lattes and a chocolate chip cookie in hand. His dark hair was getting long again, curling at his collar the way it did every summer before his mom made him cut it. He wore his usual, a faded band t-shirt (Sleep Token today), ripped denim despite the heat, and the silver pentacle necklace he never took off.
“The floor has better grounding energy right now,” Lils said, accepting the coffee and warm cookie gratefully.
Stevon settled down beside her, folding his lanky frame into the narrow space between shelves. “I figured you hadn’t eaten for a while. What’ve you found?”
“So you know how Aunt Ivy found out about that UMass ancestry study?” Lils’s words came out in a rush, the way they always did when she got excited about research. “They’re tracing the genealogy of Salem’s colonial families, and they reached out to her because our last name is Proctor. And I thought, okay, we’re probably descended from John and Elizabeth Proctor, right? The famous ones?”
“The ones Arthur Miller wrote about?” Stevon took a sip of his coffee as Lils lifted an eyebrow. “What? We had to read The Crucible last year. I pay attention sometimes. Anyway, go on.”
“Turns out we’re not descended from John Proctor directly— Eliza and Samuel are John Proctor’s cousins.”
“Ohhh.” Stevon leaned closer, studying the faded handwriting on the photocopy. “Eliza Millicent Proctor,” he read aloud. “Accused of witchcraft by Ann Putnam Jr. and Abigail Williams. Tried, convicted...” He looked up at Lils, his brown eyes widening.
“And hanged by the neck until dead. Jesus.”
Lils’s voice dropped, even though they were alone in this section. “And she was our age when it happened. There’s barely any record of her, just this transcript. Nothing about her life or who she was at all.”
He turned the page over, examining both sides. “Well, that’s just sad. Your poor great-great-great whatever Aunt deserved better. But girl, come on, it's time to get out of this stuffy library and come out with me. I've come to break you free.”
“Alright, I hear you,” Lils smiled, yet felt that familiar pull in her chest, the one she’d been experiencing more and more lately. Like someone tugging on an invisible thread.
Lils looked down at Eliza’s name on the page, tracing it with her finger. “Aunt Ivy’s been teaching me more from the grimoire lately.”
“Oh yeah?” Stevon whispered conspiratorially. “Anything good?”
“Some real stuff, not just kitchen magic and glamour spells. She’s been weird about it though, keeps warning me about blood magic and telling me not to even look at it yet.”
“My abuela is the same way,” Stevon said, nodding. “She got super intense last month when she caught me reading her old spell book.” He shook his head. “Old witches, man. Loca.”
“Right?” Lils laughed. This was what she loved about Stevon, he was the only person who understood this part of her life. At school, they were both the quiet kids, but between them, they had an entire secret world and endless inside jokes.
He grinned. “Good thing I have my license now. If you need a getaway driver for your rituals, I’m your guy.”
Lils punched his arm. “You just got your license, like, two days ago.”
“Hey, these are fresh driving skills.” He stood, offering her a hand up. “Come on, I'll help you close everything up and let's get out of here. Can’t let your ghost ancestor take you away from me forever.”
“You’re right,” Lils let him pull her to her feet, scooping up her notebook and shoving it in her bag. “I promised you we’d figure out chapter fourteen.”
“Fiona has been stuck on the witch roads for like, three months now,” Stevon said as they wound through the stacks toward the exit. “Is she going to choose or what?"
“She’s processing. It’s a big decision!”
“She’s been processing for twelve pages, Lils. I say this with love, but it’s time to speed things up.”
Witch Roads was their baby, a graphic novel series they’d been working on for over a year about a girl with a crow companion that enabled her to walk between the worlds of the living and the dead. Stevon did most of the dark ink work illustrations, and they both co-wrote the story and brainstormed world building. They’d finished eleven chapters so far, just for themselves.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
They emerged from the library into the bright July afternoon, the heat hitting them like a wall. Salem in summer was always packed with tourists, but the library was in the quieter part of town, away from the main attractions.
Still, Lils could hear the distant sounds of a tour group, a guide’s voice carrying on the breeze: “...and in 1692, the hysteria that would consume Salem Village began...”
“Want to hit The Witch House first?” Stevon asked, squinting in the sun.
“God, yes. Then we can grab lunch after and work on the comic."
They started walking, falling into their familiar rhythm. Stevon was taller than her by almost a head, and he had this loose, easy way of moving, with long strides that were never rushed. Lils had always envied that about him, the way he seemed to flow easily through the world.
“So tell me,” Stevon said as they cut through the common, “if you do figure out how to reach Eliza, like really reach her – what would you say to her?”
Lils thought about it. Thought about the sixteen-year-old Puritan girl who’d nearly been erased from history, reduced to a mere footnote.
“I’d tell her that people still care about her. That someone knows her name and gives a shit that she existed.”
Stevon was quiet for a moment. Then, “Hell yeah. To Eliza," He said, raising what was left of his cinnamon latte as a 'cheers.'
They reached The Witch House, the only structure still standing in Salem with direct ties to the witch trials. It had belonged to Judge Jonathan Corwin, and its dark wood and structure always gave an ominous feeling. “Twenty bucks says there’s a group taking selfies by the front door right now,” Stevon said.
“I’m not making that bet, because there's always a group blocking the entryway taking selfies.”
Sure enough, a family of four was posing in front of the entrance, the two little girls in witch hats throwing up peace signs while mom took pictures with her phone.
“Hey kids, people were sentenced to death in here over 300 years ago. Say cheese,” Stevon muttered quietly to Lils as they passed by, but he was smiling.
Stevon paid their entrance fee and they wandered through the rooms. Lils had been here dozens of times, but she still never got tired of it. The low ceilings, narrow stairs, the small windows that let in only slivers of light. This house had seen the trials, the accusations; it felt like a living, breathing integral part of Salem's history.
Stevon leaned in and whispered as they stood in Judge Corwin’s study. “This room gives me the creeps."
She had to agree.
By the time they left, the afternoon heat had mellowed. They walked down Essex Street, past the shops selling crystals and tarot decks, past the Witch Museum with its stark facade.
“Gotta appreciate that Salem has fully leaned into it now," Stevon said, gesturing at a shop window display featuring a mannequin dressed as a stereotypical witch, complete with pointed hat and broomstick.
“Capitalism always finds a way,” she said dryly.
◆◆◆◆
They ducked into the Gulu Gulu Cafe, their favorite spot. Dark wood, mismatched furniture, walls covered in local art. They claimed their corner booth and ordered the usual, a hummus plate to share and syrupy Italian sodas.
Stevon spread out his sketchbook while Lils opened her laptop. This was their routine, had been for about a year now. They’d sit for hours, working side by side, occasionally bouncing ideas off each other.
“Okay,” Stevon said, pencil already moving across the page. “So chapter fourteen. The living world is behind her, the world of the dead is ahead. What does she choose?”
“That’s the thing,” Lils said, pulling up their working document. “I don’t think she chooses, because she doesn’t have to live in one world or the other. She can exist in the in-between as long as she has her crow.”
Stevon looked up, eyes bright. “Oh shit, okay. Go on.”
Lils was already typing, the words flowing. “She’s been thinking of it as binary, living or dead, one or the other. But what if she doesn't have to choose, what if she can go between both without being harmed?"
Stevon started sketching. “So she could be standing right at the crux point, here, and both worlds are branching off from where she stands. Maybe her crow can be alive on her shoulder in the living world, and then a skeleton in the world of the dead, and we see both.”
They worked in silence for a while, the hiss of the espresso machine, murmuring, and low jazz music lulling them into a soothing rhythm.
“Can I ask you something?” Stevon said eventually, not looking up from his drawing.
“Of course.”
“Wanted to bring this up earlier, but... have you been having weird dreams lately, by chance?”
Lils’s head snapped up.
“I'm not sure who exactly it is but,” He adjusted his pentacle necklace, a nervous habit. “I keep dreaming about being chased through the woods and there's a girl’s voice calling for help. I wake up and can still hear her voice sometimes. The thing is Lils, is that... well, she sounds a lot like you. And she’s wearing this necklace.”
The cup she was sipping on nearly slipped from Lils’s hand.
“That's so weird. I've been having the exact same dreams for like, two weeks now."
Stevon reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Hey. Whatever it is, you don’t have to figure it out alone, okay? That’s what I’m here for. Whatever you need.”
Lils squeezed back, grateful. “I know. Thank you.”
"Guess what?" Stevon said, his smile returning. "I'm feeling generous. Want to split a tiramisu with me?"
◆◆◆◆
They worked until the cafe staff started giving them looks and sweeping vigorously around them. They'd been there for around three hours, after all.
Outside, the summer evening was settling in, the last of the daylight slanting through the streets.
“Can you drive me home?” Lils asked, shouldering her bag.
“Obviously.”
They strolled through downtown Salem as the sun set, past the Peabody Essex Museum, past the memorial to the victims of the witch trials, a series of stone benches, each engraved with a name and date of execution. Lils always slowed down walking through here, reading the names like a prayer. Rebecca Nurse. John Proctor. Bridget Bishop. Sarah Good.
When they finally reached Stevon's car, he pulled out the keys. It was his dad’s old Subaru.
“Ugh, I’m so jealous you can drive now,” Lils said. “Only two more months until I can take the test.”
“I’ll chauffeur you around until then,” Stevon promised. “Actually, want to go with me to the beach tomorrow? I’ve been wanting to practice highway driving.”
He jangled the keys. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Plus you’ve been spending waaay too much time in the archives, you need some time in the sun."
“Fine, fine. Text me in the morning when you're up.”
They blasted music the rest of the way, singing along at full volume. Then he dropped her off with a quick hug, waved, and was gone around the corner. Just like he had done any of the other countless nights they hung out.
What she didn’t know, standing there in the warm summer evening, was that this would be the last good day she would have for a very long time.
She didn't know she would wake up with a scratchy throat the next morning and have to cancel, didn’t know that Stevon would go to the beach without her. Didn't know that he would end up driving home at the exact same time a drunk driver was crossing the center line on Route 128. She didn't yet know that he would be hit head on and killed instantly. Killed instantly was a small mercy, at least.
All she knew, standing in the golden hour light that night, was that they had a whole summer ahead of them and Stevon had a car now. She went inside, daydreaming about their next chapter of Witch Roads.
She did not yet realize that they had already written their last one together.