Witches and Vampires

The sun had long since sunk beneath the tree line, leaving the forest outside the Nurse Homestead in a restless hush. Erin slipped into it the way other girls might steal into a tavern—furtive, guilty, exhilarated. She had not meant to make a habit of these night wanderings, but since her parents’ deaths in the cruel winter of 1688, no respectable women spoke to her. Only the Caribbean slaves, bound to the Nurse family as she now was, offered her words—and from them she had learned more than she ever expected.

***

The Nurses had taken her in as a housekeeper, a gesture of mercy more than necessity. Many other orphaned girls in Salem survived on the port’s coin, but Erin chose the homestead over the brothel. It meant meager pay, endless labor, and whispers behind her back. Yet it was safer. Safer, and stranger.

She listened to the women from the islands speak of heat and hurricanes, of ancestors and spirits, of their hatred for the Puritans who had stolen them. Among them, one voice commanded her more than the rest: Mireille, barely past twenty, who moved through the world with a sharpness like flint.

At first Mireille spat at her presence. “Parasites,” she would mutter whenever Erin—or any pale face—passed by. But one night Erin followed her into the woods and saw what she should not have seen: Mireille coaxing roots from the soil with nothing but her hands and a whispered breath. Erin had gasped, betrayed herself, and Mireille had turned, eyes bright as coals in the dark.

That was the night Erin learned witches walked Salem—and that she might become one herself.

Weeks followed. Nights of secret lessons, where Mireille taught her to move with the earth’s pulse. Erin learned to let the wind shift through her body, to call water like a friend, to feel the rhythm beneath the forest floor.

One night, emboldened, Erin asked about the word Mireille used most often: parasites.

Mireille’s face tightened. She did not look at Erin as she stirred the air into a restless spiral.

“On the island, we knew two kinds of pale-skins,” she said at last. Her voice was low, bitter. “The ones who chained us. And the ones who drank.”

Erin’s breath caught. “Drank?”

Mireille laughed softly, without mirth. “You call them men. But they are thirst given flesh. They walk in your markets, sit in your churches, smile at your daughters. And when night falls, they feed. Hunger in the shape of a man.”

The firelight flickered across her face. Erin felt the cold settle deep in her bones.

“How could you tell?” she whispered.

“At night, you cannot. They are shadows wrapped in skin. Only those who keep close with the earth feel the rot beating in their hearts. By day, they wear charms pressed to their brows, talismans that trick the sun into sparing them. But the sun is patient.” Mireille raised her hand, and with a flick of her fingers, a flame shivered up her palm. “And when the talisman slips…” She closed her hand. The fire vanished. “…ashes.”

That night, Erin walked back to the homestead trembling—with fear, yes, but also with an excitement she dared not name.

***

By midsummer, she had grown bold enough to wander the woods alone. Mireille lingered over herbs and flowers, while Erin was drawn to water.

She lit a small fire by the stream, rolled her dress to the knee, and began to move as Mireille had taught her. The water moved with her, answering her body’s rhythm: pebbles lifted, fish swam in spirals, the current bowed to her sway. Her heart swelled in the quiet joy of it.

Then the air shifted. Heavy. Hot. Something pressed against her chest, making her falter. The stones dropped with a violent splash. For an instant, Erin’s blood seared as though kindled from within.

“Evening,” said a man’s voice, far too close.

She spun, heart hammering. A man stood at the stream’s edge, taller than her, smiling with unsettling ease.

“Was that you with the stones?” he asked, as though remarking on embroidery.

Erin’s gaze darted to the water. Her reflection quivered in the firelight. Alone. His figure cast shadow on the ground but none upon the stream.

“Yes,” she said, stepping back, voice low and unsteady.

Her hand twitched toward the stones. “You’re a vampire.”

The man’s smile widened.

“I didn’t know Puritan women knew about us…you’re the strangest person I’ve met since coming here,” he laughed to himself.

Erin’s gaze darted toward the small flame she had built. With the right pull she could drive one of the burning branches through his chest.

He stepped back, hands lifted, sensing the intent in her body.

“Now, steady,” he said. His voice had softened, but there was an old lilt beneath it—French, weary, too smooth. “I did not come here for this. I’ve no thirst tonight. I only saw something curious and thought to look closer.”

Erin held his gaze, though her stomach churned. The stones at her feet quivered, but she knew he had slipped beyond her reach. She forced herself to stand tall, to pretend the branches still answered her will.

“Then speak. Tell me who you are and why you skulk in Salem’s woods.”

He sighed, the smile fading. “If it spares us both needless death, very well. My name is Remy. I was born in France. Fifty years ago, Spanish traders carried us across the sea. We sought England, but the tides delivered us south, to the islands.” His eyes flickered toward the firelight. “For six winters we have followed the northern star. Now we rest here, in your Salem. But truth be told”—his lip curled faintly—“I long for a place of endless shade, where the air does not cling like sweat.”

Something in his voice rang true, though Erin did not dare ask how many bodies had fed his journey. What chilled her more was a single word, dropped so easily from his tongue.

We.