I run out of the apartment like my ass is on fire, get into my car, and slam the accelerator all the way to work. Luckily, there’s only one red traffic light on my way there. My phone, lying on the passenger seat, lights up with a message. I angle it to my face to see the text.

Pippa: Miss you mucho, bitch. Still haven’t given up on you. Call me.

I hate when she does this.

When she pretends like I’m Old Ever.

Like nothing happened.

Like I could still have nice things for myself.

Friends, family, a social life.

I open the text, then delete the message.

You don’t need to give up on me, Pip. I’ve given up on myself for both of us.

Fifteen minutes later, I step onto an imaginary soapbox on Essex Street, then clear my throat.

It’s not that I’m good with crowds—I hate public speaking of any kind—it’s that putting myself through something I absolutely loathe gives me a perverted sense of pleasure. As I said, I deserve any punishment I can get. Why not add frequent and stressful human interaction into the mix?

Tonight is packed. There are maybe fifty people waiting. The maximum we allow on a single tour. I adjust my cordless headset and smile a painful, wide smile that almost cracks my skin open. I know I’ve caught everyone’s attention with my ghoulish attire and red, witchy hair.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the Salem Night Tour. My name is Everlynne, and I will be your tour guide.” Camera flashes blink back at me as people take pictures. I continue, feeling my soul drifting away from my body. I’ve always hated getting my picture taken. So this is a nightmare.

“We’re going to cover some of Salem’s history, including the witch hunt hysteria of 1692 and the exhumation of bodies of people who were believed to turn into vampires—yay, consumption!” I punch the air, making people laugh.

“We’ll talk murders, ghosts, curses, civil war. You know, all the fun stuff!”

I draw another wave of giggles from my audience. A mishmash of tourists from out of state and teenagers looking for a way to burn time tonight. Originally, I’d moved from San Francisco to Boston looking for a library job. But a week into the hubbub of the big city, I realized it was all too much. Too big, too gray, too harsh. Everything was expensive, packed, and sold out. Boston felt like San Francisco, sans the rose-colored filter through which I viewed my hometown. After dropping out of Berkeley and running away, it felt redundant to return to California a few weeks post my escape. So I moved to Salem instead. It seemed like it was tailor made for me.

Morbid? Check.

History drenched? Check.

Cold? Gloomy? Full of witchery and cemeteries? Check, check, check.

“First things first.” I grin at my audience conspiratorially. “I need to know who here still goes to school and wants to impress their history teacher?”