#9910208

First things first: I will never forgive the town for what they did to Kennedy Holst.

She was the one good thing I had there, and everything about her was destroyed to create something worse.

I know I should start from the beginning and give a proper explanation, but Corsica deserves this, even if they’ll never read it. Whatever thing is ruining that town, whatever thing ruined Kennedy, it needs to be said that it is horrible and disgusting and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell anyone.

Kennedy and I grew up in Corsica, Pennsylvania. The Holsts moved into town one July evening when I was four, and my mother made fast friends with them. Right away, Kennedy and I took a liking to each other. We were the same age, we both had older siblings who also became friends, though I don’t know what really happened to Josephine after she got out. I know Alex still lives at home. He never did escape, not the way I did. Nor the way Kennedy did, as fucked up as it was.

I don’t know if I feel bad for him or not. I think I was scared for him, once, but now… I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows what’s really happening there.

I’m not sure I do, either. But I’m not afraid of it anymore. Just angry.

There is--was--a house in Corsica, Pennsylvania, we called the Crucible House. It was old and abandoned and always smelled vaguely of smoke. People reported hearing screaming or smelling burning hair when walking by, but investigations into the place found nothing. It was named the Crucible House because of rumors about modern-day witch trials that took place there, rumors about girls being burned at the stake within its walls. I thought it was all bullshit, just a spooky story told by the seniors in high school to scare the freshmen that had just read The Crucible for their summer work--watch out, or you’ll get sent to the Crucible House.

I thought it was entertaining. Now it’s not funny anymore.

Kennedy and I stuck together all the way through high school. The two of us were best friends, you wouldn’t find us anywhere without the other. I told her all of my secrets, and she… well, I thought she told me all of her own.

I was a little in love with her, if I’m being honest. She was so sweet, one of the kindest people I’d ever met. Despite her family’s struggles with money and mental health and whatnot, she managed to keep smiling through it all. Managed to keep her chin up, almost until the end. She was… so pretty, too, with long blonde hair and the prettiest brown eyes. Admittedly, I was more than a little in love with her.

We were two parts of a whole, people would joke. We were fated to be friends, platonic soulmates in their eyes. Though I would’ve liked to drop the platonic part. I don’t know if Kennedy would have felt the same way, before everything happened, but… I think she did. I think she still felt it, even after everything. I kind of hope she did.

I just don’t know if that would bring her back to me. I’d like it to. But I don’t know how any of this works.

Kennedy stole a lot. It was a bad habit of hers, something she did all the time, she’d pocket anything small enough that she could get away with. Sometimes, she would return things, but more often than not she’d just forget what she’d bought and what she’d stolen. I thought it was a bit endearing, the forgetfulness, but the stealing was a touch concerning.

But I never bothered her about it. It was her life, who was I to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? Fuck capitalism, anyways, these were big stores that could handle a few losses. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

But then her father found out.

James Holst started out a kind, understanding, patient man. I remember him, back when I was little, he was always so sweet. He was like a father to me, since mine was never in the picture, up until sophomore year of high school. Then, he began to change. I don’t know what it was about him, but he grew temperamental, rude… hot-headed, I guess works. And his eyes were a horrible red, it was unnatural--they’d always been brown, but one day they weren’t, and quite honestly, I’m still a bit scared of him. I don’t know where he is now, but he’s not dead. He did not die in that fire, that night.

James caught Kennedy stealing one afternoon, and yelled at her out in the yard for everyone to see. It was one little thing, and he brought Hell down on her head, screaming like a lunatic--it scared me. It scared my brother, it scared Josephine, it brought Kennedy to hysterics. And the neighbors just watched like it was a show. Kennedy’s mother looked almost amused as James shouted about damnation and Hell and how Kennedy was awful, horrible for all of these little things. He even said some queerphobic bullshit about Kennedy and Josephine, and nobody did a fucking thing.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice it until that moment, but everyone’s eyes had turned so… cruel. My own mother, who would have clutched her pearls at the idea of someone screaming at a child, was silently staring, eyes alight with intrigue, as if wondering how this would play out.

Kennedy was dragged inside, and I had never felt more afraid than I did in that moment. I honest to God thought James was going to beat her.

I almost wish he had, as horrible as that sounds, because she may have been able to escape that. She may have been able to get away, if that was all he did.

Later that night, my mom said we were going out with the Holsts for dinner and a show to try and lighten the mood. Alex and I were apprehensive, but I went over to Kennedy’s house to bring her back to mine so we could get ready together. She needed the space from her father.

She was quiet when she came over. Had I known that would be our last night together, that quiet, afraid July evening like the one she moved in on, I would have done more, I would have said something, I would have told her everything I felt. But the truth of the matter is that I didn’t, and I don’t know if I will ever be able to tell her.

I remember how she looked that night, in a plain white dress and sneakers, because she didn’t have any nicer shoes to wear. I thought it was cute, charming--the typical thoughts of a young girl who was hopelessly in love with her best friend. I sat her down, took her by the shoulders, and told her that I would always be there for her, through everything, and she could tell me if things were worse than they seemed. She could tell me what was wrong, what was going on with her father.

“It’s over, Adri,” Kennedy said. “We won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

I didn’t know what she meant. But I loved her, I trusted her, I had to trust her. So I did.

I shouldn’t have.

I only realized just how bad things were when we pulled up in front of the Crucible House. James was there, waiting, with his wife and Josephine, and about two dozen other people from town. It’s a small town, I had known these people for years, the families had been nothing but kind, but that night--that night their eyes were cold.

Millicent Jacobs, the kind, young, single mother of two-year-old Evan Jacobs. Romeo Payes, my English teacher. Ellie Johnson, the eldest daughter of the Johnsons. Kind, regular people, big names in a town of roughly 300, people I knew and people that knew me.

Turns out I didn’t know them at all.

The building was hot when we entered. Stuffy, stifling heat. I began to sweat almost immediately, and it was disgustingly dry inside. I couldn’t get away. I was afraid, I didn’t know what was going on, this wasn’t what my mom had said was happening, and I did not trust a word anyone said to me from there on.

James sat Kennedy down on a chair at the front. Everyone else took their seats in benches that surrounded the large, wooden stake in the center of the room. It was all so closed in, so hot and cloying and awful, and Kennedy looked afraid and resigned all at once and I wanted nothing more than to hold her hand, than to run with her, than to get away.

But I sat and looked pretty, because I could not escape without these people going after me--I knew, then, that they would chase me if I ran. I didn’t know how to get us away safely, so I sat, frozen, clutching Alex’s hand so tightly it hurt. Josephine held my other one. We didn’t know what was happening, but we were afraid, and we knew it would be bad, whatever it was.

James tied Kennedy’s wrists above her head, pinning them to the wooden stake. I clutched Josephine and Alex’s hands so tightly I thought I would break them. I couldn’t do a thing as the kindling was arranged.

Kennedy did not scream when she was set on fire.

The crowd cheered when she went up in flames. I think I may have been screaming. Josie and I were crying. Alex didn’t even look present. Kennedy burned alive in her pretty white dress without a sound, and everyone was happy.

She died.

And then she didn’t.

Cheers turned to screaming when the building caught fire, and Kennedy tore away from the stake, still burning. Her eyes were golden in the rising flames, and she shoved through the crowd, leaving footprints burned into the wood in her wake, and she grabbed my arm and ran.

It burned. There is a handprint scorched into my skin where she grabbed me. We left that house, and she left me on my front porch in tears.

“Stop crying, Adri,” she said softly, “it’s over.”

I was afraid of her in that moment. She was different, leaving burned footprints in her wake, smoke curling off of her shoulders, looking untouched by the flames. She did not touch me again, and disappeared before anyone returned to find her.

The next morning, the Holst household had been burned to the ground. Josephine had taken the car and left. I moved away for college two months later, and I’m never going back.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

- This is not the first time Corsica, Pennsylvania has come up. In Case #9971014, Ms. Coombs moved to Corsica before her home caught fire in 2002, and she has not been seen since.

- Fire seems to be a commonality between these two statements. It’s interesting, to say the least, along with the sudden shift from kindness to cruelty noted here. I don’t know what would cause such a thing, but whatever is afflicting this town seems to enjoy causing pain.

- As for Ms. Holst, she reportedly died in a house fire on July 19th, 1990, though that is clearly not the case if what’s stated here is true.