Out of Salem Read online

  Z finally went back to school. Z’s mother, Mrs. Chilworth, had worked at the Integrated Academy of Lower Salem as a calculus teacher for six years. Z used to dread the day when their mother would be teaching them higher mathematics. When Z and Mrs. Dunnigan went into the school, Z saw that their mother’s name had not yet been removed from the door of her old office.

  Mrs. Dunnigan and Z had a hard time trying to convince the school to allow Z back. Though the meeting with the secretary in the hallway had initially gone well, the principal glared suspiciously at them both over his desk as he explained the school’s policy concerning the dead to Mrs. Dunnigan.

  “Our policy is to provide a safe learning environment to living students,” Mr. Bentwood told Z when they and Mrs. Dunnigan went to the office to explain the long absence. “Susan was, when alive, a proficient student and a powerful young witch. I am sure she is still capable of great things . . . if she is as you say fully conscious. If she isn’t, you understand that we have much to lose.”

  Z stared at Mr. Bentwood over the top of the desk, feeling they needed to speak up on their own behalf. “Trust me, I’m right as rain,” they said in their scratchy, whispery paper-voice. They realized as they spoke that their voice sounded less than convincing; their voice was still raspy, deep, and ominous.

  Mr. Bentwood turned to Z and glared at them. “Other schools have had undead students in the past that have been less than completely in control of their own actions, and I have no desire to repeat those incidents. The last thing I need on my record is an outbreak of necromancy. Pardon my vigilance, but we just can’t take too many chances. Especially with an elderly guardian. Pardon me, ma’am, but Susan would have had four more years here, and who knows what health issues might come up for you in that time.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of child care,” Mrs. Dunnigan said with a hint of ire.

  “I’m not a necromancer,” Z said. Their left leg hurt, painfully, and so did their head. It was aching and burning. Their head twitched on their neck in a brief spasm that was very difficult to conceal. Horrified, Z clutched their chair tighter. The ache in their leg got worse. “I’m really not.” Z thought about what Mr. Bentwood would think if he knew the real necromancer had been one of his employees.

  “We’ll have to get a written document from you to ensure that you don’t. A precautionary measure,” Mr. Bentwood said. “I understand that this is a difficult time and I don’t mean to place undue stress on you, but we really cannot let you attend classes unless you confirm in writing that you won’t use any form of death magic on the campus.”

  “I’ll sign whatever,” Z said, staring at the ceiling.

  “It’s just our policy. We don’t want any more zom—undead roaming around. Not all of them are as well-mannered as you.”

  “I sort of wish I had stayed dead.”

  Mr. Bentwood frowned. “How did you wake up?” he asked, flipping through the papers on his desk. “I don’t have any records of you being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, or having any prophecies associated with your childhood or adolescence. Did your parents ever place any protective spells on you?”

  Z and Mrs. Dunnigan exchanged a glance.

  “The test at the courthouse said it was a spell cast by someone who’s dead now,” Z said. “It might have been one of my parents, but the origin wasn’t totally clear.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Bentwood pushed a sheet toward Z. It was already filled out neatly in blue ink; the only blank space left was next to the x at the bottom where Z was meant to sign. “This confirms that you will only use approved forms of magic and will not raise any deceased persons or animals while on this campus.”

  “I don’t think I could do that even if I wanted to,” Z said, taking a ballpoint pen from the table and clicking the button on the bottom.

  “Not that pen,” Mr. Bentwood said, his tufty ginger beard quivering with nervous laughter. “It’s a permanent promise.” He held out a fountain pen. “A blood oath.”

  “Oh.” Z rifled through their pockets and pulled out a short penknife, making a cut along their index finger. No blood came out; the wound stayed gray and dry. After all, Z was dead. It was so unexpected that Z started to laugh shrilly, still staring at their hand. The laughter echoed and bounced off the walls. Mr. Bentwood laughed nervously too, sounding like a panicked goat.

  “I wonder if you can be bound by something other than a blood oath,” he eventually said, sounding slightly unsure.

  “No, hold on, something’s coming out,” Z said. A little drop of red-black viscous liquid had bubbled up at the cut. Z dipped the pen into the droplet and signed Susan Chilworth on the dotted line. I wonder if that still counts if I don’t think of it as my real name, Z thought idly.

  “Beautiful,” Mr. Bentwood said, his yellow teeth showing. “You can go to your next class while Mrs. Dunnigan fills out the rest of the paperwork.” He pulled at his mustache. “I’ll write you a note.”

  Z stood up and grabbed their bag. Mr. Bentwood handed them the little yellow note and watched Z as they crossed to the door. The hinges creaked as they opened it and then slowly shut it behind them.

  Z’s locker was exactly as they had left it. Z picked up their history book and crammed it into their bag. The bag felt much heavier than it had felt before. Z wondered how long it would have taken for their mother’s body to decompose if it had not been burnt. Z wondered how long it would take for the rest of their body to fall apart, or for their skin to fall off.

  “Susan! You’re back in school! You look terrible.” Bethany Black appeared next to Z as they turned to go to class. Her braces glimmered in the fluorescent lights of the hallway. “So skinny, though. Did you lose weight?”

  “I bet I did. I’m exhausted.” Z tried to smile and then stopped, realizing that was probably inappropriate. It occurred to them that Bethany’s comment probably hadn’t been in the best taste either. Bethany must have realized it, as she also made a nervous smirk and then hastily rearranged her face into a concerned expression.

  “I heard that . . . I mean, I heard about what happened with your family. We had a vigil for Mrs. Chilw—your mother last week here at school. I am so sorry.”

  “Yes,” Z said, unsure of what face to make. Bethany was their best friend, but suddenly that didn’t seem like it necessarily meant she needed to know everything that had happened.

  “Were you in the car too?”

  Z pointed to the stitches across their jaw. “Yes,” they said again.

  “Oh. Oh! I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking about it.”

  “It’s okay,” Z said. “But thanks.”

  Bethany walked next to Z as they went upstairs to history class. She didn’t seem to know what to say, but it did not stop her from talking. “Sam and Ginger got back together,” she said.

  “Isn’t Ginger such a dumb name?” Z asked, relieved to be in familiar conversational territory and to be talking about a subject unrelated to death.

  “Her real name’s Agatha. I’d prefer Ginger too. She’s got that nice hair, so it works.”

  “She’s so mean. She did push Tommy Wodewose off the roof last year. Did you forget?”

  “If Sam likes her she can’t be that bad. And Tommy’s weird. He wears sticks in his hair.”

  Z shrugged and went into class. “I don’t know.”

  Bethany hesitated at the doorway for a moment and then walked away. Z wondered if they should have said goodbye. They suddenly didn’t remember if they had used to say goodbye at the end of conversations with Bethany. In fact, Z didn’t remember much of anything of their old conversations with Bethany. The blurry spot in between dying and waking up seemed to have expanded over Bethany and any knowledge of why Bethany and Z had ever become friends to begin with. Z wondered if it was temporary but that made them wonder if their existence as a resurrected life form was temporary in general, and that was frightening to think about. Z opened the textbook to the page named on the whiteboard and waited for clas
s to begin.

  Mr. Holmes was one of the few nonmagical teachers at the school. It was a condition that caused adults some embarrassment. In the last thirty years, there had been more and more programs to teach adults basic spellcasting, and the number of magically stunted adults had been reduced in America by ten percent, but Mr. Holmes was apparently beyond help. He wore a large, shiny amulet at all times. As he entered he rapped on the wood of the door three times and threw a salt packet over his shoulder, a ritual he pretended was an elaborate joke but which everyone else suspected was at least half-serious. It was a little sad, since every one of his students knew that salt only worked against fey—who were not allowed at the Integrated School or anywhere else in America—and that knocking on wood didn’t do anything at all, besides maybe give one splinters. It was widely believed that Mr. Holmes had an endearing personality, though, so none of his classes were too hard on him.

  “Today we will be covering the Second Undead Uprising of Portland,” he said. Z looked up with a start. The page listed on the board corresponded to the beginning of a chapter on magical participation in the Civil War.

  Cecil Pritchett noticed as well. His hand shot up. “Mr. Holmes, the board says—”

  “I’ve decided to switch focus for today, Cecil,” Mr. Holmes said. “We haven’t focused on the West Coast very much in our studies, and I figured it was time to pay the sturdy pioneers a little attention.” He laughed jovially.

  Cecil lowered his hand, his brow furrowing.

  “Can everyone turn to page 675?” Mr. Holmes asked.

  Z flipped the book open to the page. There was a large woodcut of a skeleton with flesh falling from its arms sprinting down a muddy street, under the heading “Filthy Sewers, Walking Dead.”

  “Can someone read the first paragraph?”

  Z started to bite at their fingernails before realizing with a jolt that their fingernails probably wouldn’t grow back.

  Cecil raised his hand, and Mr. Holmes called on him.

  “The late nineteenth century,” Cecil drawled, “was a time in which many towns along the Western Coast expanded at unprecedented rates. The towns often did not have access to resources which would ensure consistent infrastructure like paved roads or sewer systems. The town of Portland, Oregon, for example, was called ‘the most filthy city in the Northern States’ in 1889. Nevertheless, the population at the end of the century was expanding. The First Undead Uprising of Portland, discussed in Chapter Six, had been very small by most standards, and was an isolated event most likely caused by a lone necromancer.” Cecil paused as Mr. Holmes gestured for him to stop reading.

  “Does everyone remember that? Chapter Six? Do we remember what the identifying characteristics of the undead were?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Susan, can you tell us?” Mr. Holmes was suddenly standing directly in front of Z.

  Z looked up sharply at Mr. Holmes. He had always seemed perfectly decent, but Z could swear there was something rather cruel in the way he was staring at them with his little smile.

  Z looked down at their hands. They were cold and gray and dry. “The undead were at first mistaken for victims of cholera, because in dying they lost most of their body fluid. The people—the living ones—could only identify them as . . . you know, dead . . . because of the gray and greenish tone of their skin and the fact they had no pulse.” Someone behind Z snickered. Z resisted the urge to touch the place where the vein in their neck used to mark their heartbeat.

  “Very good, Susan,” Mr. Holmes said, smiling. “Now, could you read the next paragraph?”

  Z swallowed, to no effect. There didn’t seem to be much water in Z’s body anymore. Could Mr. Holmes already know they were dead? Why would he want to let Z know that he knew? “Okay.” They took an ineffectual breath. “However, in 1891, three hundred warlocks of Irish and Chinese descent employed by Northern Pacific who had assisted in the construction of the railroad through Stampede Pass went on strike after their wages were withheld. Their numbers were not significant enough to prevent the use of the railroad, so they raised a group of forty dead former citizens who were buried in the cemeteries of Portland and Clackamas.”

  “Terrifying, isn’t it?” Mr. Holmes asked nobody. “The dead, walking.”

  The class stared at him, puzzled. Mr. Holmes did not usually behave like this. Cecil glanced at Z sharply and Z realized that no matter how confused everyone else in the class was, Cecil had noticed something rather off about their skin and the stitches on their wounds.

  The bell that rang at the end of history class sounded dull and tinny in Z’s ears. The din of zipping book bags and chairs being pushed back drowned out the little pathetic noise of relief that rose up from Z’s throat. Z stood and left the classroom as quickly as possible, but they didn’t move quickly enough. Mr. Holmes followed them into the hallway and stepped in front of them. His soaplike pale face looked down on Z. They could smell his warm garlic breath and hear the blood pumping in his heart. Which was odd, Z thought, since their senses, particularly their sense of smell, had otherwise been so dull lately.

  “Susan, I understand if you’re upset.”

  Z squinted at him.

  “As you know, I am preoccupied with safety,” he added, making a little uncomfortable chirruping noise and clicking his teeth on the last word.

  Z tried to move around Mr. Holmes, but he moved again to block their path. Other students, going to lunch, glanced back at both teacher and student curiously.

  “All your teachers have sworn not to inform students about your new condition, but I felt that it was in the best interests of everyone if I provided my students with more information on the living dead.” The loud whisper Mr. Holmes was using had a theatrical resonance. Z would have been astounded if any of the students passing by didn’t hear him.

  “Mr. Holmes, I don’t know if you were told of the details of my new circumstances,” Z said, struggling to keep their voice low.

  “I have been told you aren’t dangerous, Susan, and I am sure that they are right. However—”

  “I mean the part where my entire family is dead.” It was the first time Z had said this to anyone, and it sounded hollow and false in their own ears. Z didn’t even care that much. But it had the desired effect.

  “I’m very sorry,” Mr. Holmes said.

  Z pushed past Mr. Holmes’ shoulder and stomped down the stairs. They were faintly aware that they left a slight smell of decay behind, hanging foully in the air.

  Bethany had started sitting next to Catherine James while Z had been away. Z sat down at the table near the two quietly and smiled awkwardly at them. Catherine and Bethany were having a conversation about hair color, and as Z sat down the girls continued to talk.

  “I heard that the store in the mall is having a sale on Charmed Pink dye this weekend,” Catherine was saying. Her hair was short and bleached blonde with imperfect magic.

  “I don’t want pink though, eww,” Bethany said. “I wish I could get my mother to fly us out to the city for a day so I could get some Midnight Blue.”

  Catherine looked over at Z. “Have you ever dyed your hair, Susan?”

  Z blinked. “No. And, um. About my name. I like going by Z. Instead of Susan.”

  “It’s because she’s like, such a tomboy,” Bethany said. “Nobody calls her that, though, don’t worry.”

  Z looked over at Bethany. Bethany dropped eye contact and invested attention in her fruit cup.

  “I can call you Z if you want,” Catherine said, laughing.

  “I just like it better than Susan,” Z said, shrugging. “I

  don’t feel like I’m a girl, and Susan is a girl’s name. And it’s too much like my mother’s name.”

  Across the room, Tommy Wodewose was standing on his plastic chair and chanting quietly. In front of him on the cafeteria table was a bowl of salt, a bowl of water, and a tall black taper. In his hand he held a black stone about the size of his fist. A group of gawky n
inth-graders had gathered to laugh at him.

  “Doesn’t he usually eat lunch outside?” Catherine asked. “It must be too cold. Yikes, that kid is weird. Who the hell uses candles? It’s the digital age. Did he get lost in a fairy ring or something?”

  “He’s only trying to be thorough, I guess,” giggled Catherine.

  Purification rituals were supposed to happen before every meal, especially in a place like the school where so many types of magic were gathered and where magic was constantly happening. In theory, not performing purification would result in mixed magic, which supposedly attracted spirits that might tamper with spells.

  “Nobody really performs purifying spells according to the old method, though, do they? Not seriously. Like, what reason is there to draw pentacles and stuff when you can just wash your hands?” Bethany pointed over to where Tommy was now carefully blowing out the candle. “He’s just doing it for attention.”

  “Maybe,” Z said.

  Z wasn’t yet sure if they could eat or not. Since Z had not eaten a meal since the accident, not eating did not seem to be a problem. Mrs. Dunnigan had packed Z a lunch, and Z took it out of their book bag now and arranged it neatly on the table. The sandwich on white bread was cut into four equilateral triangles. Z tried to eat a little bit of the sandwich, but it had no taste and seemed very, very dry in their throat. They spat it out onto the table.

  “Honestly, you made the right choice, Susan. White bread is so bad for you,” Bethany said.