STAIN (My Soul To Wake Book 1) by Tara Oakes Page B

sanctity of this place.
    The night is dark, the dancing flames of the many candles bobbing as their owners step forth, leaving golden shadows flickering against the stones. I read the names.
    Giles Corey- pressed to death, Sept. 19, 1692.
    Sarah Goode- hanged to death, July 19, 1692.
    Mary Parker- hanged to death, September 22, 1692.
    John Proctor- hanged, August 19, 1692
    Bridget Bishop- hanged, June 10, 1692
     
    “Rumor has it…” Aaron’s voice calls from the other end of the memorial.
    I look up and find that the crowd is surrounding him. I’m alone, tracing the outline of the indentations of the letter with my pointer finger. I shake my head. Somehow I’ve fallen drastically behind the rest of the group.
    He continues as I turn back to the stones, listening half-heartedly as I finish my examination.
    “… one name is missing from the stones. Some swear there’s no missing name, but stories have been passed down generation to generation about a young woman who got caught up in the accusations. Her trial was swift and the hanging the next day. There were witnesses to the execution. It was known…” his voice trails off.
    “… for some reason… all records of it were destroyed. Some say by direct order of John Hathorne.”
    I freeze as Aaron mentions the name. I see the flame of my candle flicker and a knot forms in my belly as I watch it go out, the wick burning a deep red as it cools.
    “Nobody knows why the records were burned and all history of the trial destroyed. Her name has even been lost along the years. Some say she was a preacher’s daughter. Some say she was Hathorne’s own daughter. Some believe she was a bastard child of an outcast. Most historians doubt she existed,” Aaron continues.
    The voice is merely an echo in my mind as I look up to see I’m alone. The crowd is gone. Pitch black fills the space and I start to panic. Where had everyone gone? How did I not notice them leaving.
    My heart pounds in my ears. I turn myself in circles looking for any sign of an exit among the darkness, knowing that I could easily trip if I take a misstep in the wrong direction.
    I hear a faint noise, a branch cracking from behind. I turn quickly. I’m looking over the stone wall of the memorial into the graveyard beyond, the Burying Point Cemetery.
    I hear the noise again, this time accompanied by a wind that seems to carry a voice, a word. I can’t make it out, but I strain to hear more of it. I squint my eyes and see a small orange flame in the distance far into the row of tombstones.  
    That’s it. They must be taking a tour of the cemetery. I need to catch up quickly before I fall too far behind and lose all trace of them. I search my pockets for my phone and use the flashlight app to light my way over and through the rubble of aged grave markers.
    I keep sight of the flickering candle ahead and use it as a focal point. It does not move. It’s the only constant in this labyrinth of a maze I wander through to get to it. Many of the graves are old. I can read some of them in passing. It seems the further I walk, the older the burials are.
    The wind picks up, threatening the life of the distant candle as I travel toward it.
    Please don’t blow it out , I pray. I’m almost there.
    I finally reach the lone candle as it sits atop a plain grave marker in the furthest corner of the holy space, far removed from the nearest neighbor, isolated. The candle is perched on the stone, flickering and dancing wildly, growing in height as I approach it to  read the name that it bears.
    I bend low, holding my phone ahead to illuminate the letters as well.
    Marcelle de les Songe- Beloved daughter September 29, 1692
    My mind spins. I know that name. I think hard remembering the tale Will had recited to me at the old abandoned house. The lovers, the love story. It was her! Marcelle de les Songe. It was real.
    A hefty wind billows past blowing the candle out, reducing my light source to only my cell phone. I swallow