The year is ’74 and the seasons’ were beginning to change color by color at a trepid pace.

A sleepy Massachusetts town located outside Salem tends to attract history buffs during the

month of October. Mass crowds merge at historic sites, cider is sold by the jug, and “haunted”

tours are frequently guided by high schoolers trying to scrounge an extra buck.

Seventeen-year-old Holly Harrington lived a considerably plush lifestyle, and she would

admit that to just about anyone willing to listen. Coming from wealth, although not necessarily

born into it, she did not need the minimum wage job at WitchTours. The store was the cheesy

hub of superstition and everything tacky and made many of her classmates scratch their heads in

dismay seeing her in a uniform behind the counter. Granted, seeing Holly Harrington in any

uniform other than expense would be a shock. She turned heads no matter where she went, so the

looks never bothered her. The truth? Well, her life-long girlfriends convinced her it would be fun

to do just for their senior year before they are off to college and never see each other ever again

for the entirety of their lives. Clearly, college is the place all the big kids go to disappear and

never return, right? Holly Harrington was truly something special. Silky pin-straight chestnut

hair gliding down to the bridge of her curved hips, frustratingly beautiful features, and always

put together. She would rather be caught dead outside the house without her red lipstick, a

probably too strong (and expensive, of course) floral perfume, and a little green velour purse.

You wanted to hate her because she was everything you were not, but she had a personality of

gold. She cared for anyone she encountered and had a sense of humor that made her a ball to be

around. The one person who she could never seem to entrance, however, was her birth father.

She loathed this man, preyed upon his downfall even. Lawrence Wenstrup, or Larry, was an

investment banker that had a, for lack of better description, wandering eye. He up and left her

and her mother for a younger woman he had met at a music festival in Nova Scotia back when
Holly had just turned ten. It was traumatic, to say the least, and some might say the root of a lot

of her behavior to follow. They have not spoken since and his whereabouts are a total mystery.

She had everything, but not having him made her life feel incomplete. Everyone wanted her, but

why not him? The one person who should have been there regardless of any circumstance

shacked up with a younger woman and forgot about his entire life back in Massachusetts. A sad

story it is, but it only begins there.

Holly’s mother, Heather Wenstrup-Hohnes, remarried when Holly was twelve. She

hyphenated her last name to remind people that she was married to a big-wig before the even

bigger-wig she ended up with. Henry Hohnes was a lux political figure in Massachusetts.

Arguably, he became one of the wealthiest men that their town, even the state, had seen in a

while. A prestigious defense attorney that never encountered a case that his intoxicating charisma

could not tackle. He eventually transitioned to the political scene after twenty years. Fifteen

years Mrs. Wenstrup-Hohnes’ senior, Mr. Hohnes has been the longest standing mayor the state

of Massachusetts had ever had. Living on top of a winding hill, their quarters could dance circles

around the surrounding homes, and he would not let you forget it. A funky midcentury modern,

the dirty money that Henry Hohnes managed to reel in election after election allocates for this

plush lifestyle plus ten others. Where did all this money possibly come from? No one really

knew, and Holly could not stand her stepfather for the rumors that came from this. She loved his

wallet, of course, and all the guilt gifts he would whirl her with but despised the limitations set

upon her. He found some sort of high in the belief that he had some form of authority over her

due to the absence of her biological father. Sure, the alcohol drove his arrogance, but it takes a

special kind of person to justify what he had done.

 School is where Holly felt the most special. She did not particularly love all her classes,

but she adored reading anything she could get her hands on. The days of sequestering herself in

the dark school library were plenty, finding peace within the escapism of a quality mystery book.

The school counselor encouraged this love for reading by filling her schedule with as many

English electives possible. This year being her senior year, there had been only one English class

that Holly had not already taken, and she jumped on the opportunity. The teacher, Scott Schmidt,

reminded her of one of the mystery books she would read. He did not tell the class much about

his personal life and got right into the material of the class, which Holly liked. She also liked

how he seemed to find her particularly interesting out of the rest of the students, too. Standing

around six-foot-three, the dark scruff on his weathered face perfectly outlined his sharp jaw and

his deep brown eyes were almost animal-like. He was charismatic in a way that reminded her of

her stepfather but had a way of making you feel like it was just the two of you in a room full of

people, unlike her stepfather. He seemed to be all the good parts of Henry Hohnes and missing

all the bad. He would lecture in front of the class, and only look into her eyes for the entire hour.

Subtle, but made Holly feel special. He would ask her to stay after class to talk and seemed to

laugh a little harder at what she had to say. Discrete, but made Holly feel heard. She looked

forward to each class, always prepared a little extra on his assignments, eager to participate in all

class exercises. He noticed her excitement in his class, which only fueled his adoration. What felt

weird about this adoration, besides the obvious, was how instant it was. Almost as though he had

known her for years. Why did he stare at only her on the first day of class? What does he find so

interesting about only her life? Who truly is Scott Schmidt?