Hocus Pocus Read online

  Copyright © 2022 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue,

  Glendale, California 91201.

  First Hardcover Edition, August 2022

  eBook Edition, August 2022

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022931907

  Hardcover ISBN 978-1-368-07668-5

  eBook ISBN 978-1-368-09803-8

  For more Disney Press fun, visit www.disneybooks.com.

  Cover and interior designed by Scott Piehl

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Winifred Sanderson’s Last Words

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  HE WORLD was full of wild things then. It brimmed with oak and hemlock and dark whispering places that turned you round and round until there was no turning back.

  The womenfolk said that on early mornings near the harbor you could hear echoes of witchsong, which sounded like birdsong but more bitter. The menfolk said godliness would save them from any witches, but they honed their axes and twisted new rope just the same.

  The witches said there was nothing so sweet as the shinbones of little girls. Or perhaps a well-braised scapula with sparrow spleen compote. It was all in the preparation.

  They lived near town, the witches, but not so near as to be a bother, until a milk cow died or a child took sick. Then the town would start to mutter about the Sanderson girls—Mary and Sarah and especially Winnie—who had not been girls for a very long time but who did not merit the title “ladies.”

  Someone always intervened.

  They’re no bother, someone would say. Just batty girls playing in the woods.

  Leave them be, someone would say. Don’t you remember how kind their mother was, and how generous?

  It all made perfect sense at the time, but once the people of Salem left the town meeting and went back to work, not a one of them could remember who that someone had been.

  That is, until Emily went missing. It was not unlike Emily Binx to stray so close to the wood. Her mother had often scolded her for doing precisely that, though she tried not to scold too hard, for nine-year-old Emily was a serious child, and pious, paging through her prayer book without minding where her footsteps took her.

  Emily was old enough to know the rumors about the Sanderson sisters, but she also knew that whenever she ran across any of them in town, they were kind to her. It was rare to see Miss Winnie or Miss Mary or Miss Sarah smile, what with their crooked backs and twisted, dusty faces, but when they noticed her, they beamed and clapped—well, Mary and Sarah, anyway—and praised her pink cheeks and pretty hands. Her mother never praised those things, for fear of encouraging vanity and sin. Even skeptical Miss Winnie would pat Emily’s shoulder awkwardly and tease that she should return to her mother lest Winnie eat the little girl right up.

  All this to say that Emily was not afraid of the wood as others were, and was especially less afraid than her brother, Thackery, who, like his best friend, Elijah, was seven years older than Emily and of an age when boys found anything at all to do with girls or women highly suspect.

  So when the wood began to creep into her dreams, it didn’t startle Emily.

  In the dreams, the field between Salem and the trees smelled of warm hay and fresh flowers, and its waves of trailing sweetgrass tickled her arms and legs as she walked.

  In the dreams, the edge of the field ran right up to the edge of the wood and then stopped, as if perplexed about where to go next.

  In the dreams, the wood was cool and welcoming, and the air tasted faintly of damp soil and crumbling bark—a taste that seemed as sweet as almond cake to young Emily, for it promised an adventure to rival her well-worn copy of Pilgrim’s Progress.

  Thackery had begun to dream of that place, too—that knife’s edge between the world he knew and the world of witches—but his dreams were thick with moss-colored smoke and the press of hands upon his skin and the taste of sweat and bile and river muck. The dreams made him wake, night after night, more tired than the day before, but he didn’t tell his parents or his sister or even Elijah, for he feared the dreams meant something dark about his mind—or worse, about his heart.

  Emily didn’t tell because she was afraid her mother might scold her for letting her imagination run beyond the pages of her prayer book.

  And the other children didn’t tell for their own reasons, each of them more personal than the next.

  When Emily Binx woke to the dreamy light of dawn, she first believed it was due to the cocks crowing in the yard—but for whatever reason, the animals weren’t making a single sound.

  Emily crept to the window and found the roosters asleep—even the chickens, who clucked softly as they dozed. It was so strange that she slipped out of the house without changing from her bedclothes, an act that would surely scandalize her mother if she caught her.

  There was a soft song in the air that sounded nothing like birds, but also not quite like the hymns the pastor’s wife led at church. It sounded more like the delicate crust on sugared almonds or the sweet cream of Christmas custard. It sounded like something that could melt or sour if it wasn’t used up right away.

  Emily stepped into the yard and past the clustered chickens and nodding family of sheep whose coats were thickening for winter. She petted the nose of Mopsie, the black pony her father had brought back from last year’s trip to Boston, and giggled when he released a happy little snort.

  She passed the milliner’s house, and the butcher’s, but their curtains were drawn and their houses stood silent. A downy rabbit was napping in the yard of the town’s best baker, as if it had settled down to sleep in the open—unafraid of hungry foxes or rowdy boys with sticks. Elizabeth, the baker herself, was awake, though. There was a smell of boiling fruit and sugar, and Emily spotted her through the shutters of her kitchen window, humming to herself.

  Elizabeth lived in a small cottage on the edge of town with her husband and daughter, though they were scarcely seen since the witch trials had begun in Salem. Those who did see her when she dropped off baked goods remarked on her simple beauty. She was a tall woman in her early twenties, with dark curly hair, and she wore her pale yellow cloak in almost any weather.

  A little girl around Emily’s age peeped her head just above the sill. The girl had clear chestnut eyes and a chipper smile, and she gave Emily a friendly wave.

  “Ismay, get away from the windows,” came a man’s voice from within the house, hushed and urgent.

  The little girl ducked away.

  Elizabeth stepped up to the open window and locked eyes with Emily. “What brings you outside so early this morning, Miss Emily?” Elizabeth inquired, pushing the window open to better see the girl. “And how on earth did your mother let you outside without shoes, my dear?”

  Emily giggled. “The whole world seems to be asleep.”

  “John Barker’s ale must have been strong last night,” said Elizabeth. She held up the apple she was slicing. “I’ll have pie later, but you won’t be allowed in until you’ve changed.”

  Emily nodded somberly. “I’m go
ing to find the music first,” she said.

  Elizabeth’s demeanor turned suddenly grave. “Don’t follow it,” she warned.

  “But it’s prettier than any tune I’ve ever heard before, miss,” said Emily.

  “Beautiful things have a way of obscuring danger, my dear girl. Don’t—” She stopped short as the smell of burning fruit filled the air and the sound of clumsy gurgling reached her ears. She hastened to remove the delicate preserve from the stove, but when she returned to the window a moment later, Emily was already gone.

  Thackery jolted awake to the sound of Mopsie whinnying like he’d been kicked.

  He sat up straight, a layer of sweat sticking his pale linen shirt to his back, and let his ears adjust to the commotion outside the window. The sun was high—he must have slept through the cock crow, which meant his father would be angry because he hadn’t yet milked the cow. Thackery flopped back into bed, wondering whether he could plead sick. He glanced to his left, hoping he could ask Emily to cover for him, but her bed was empty and unmade. Her church dress still hung by the fire, as did her gabled cap.

  Thackery hurried out of bed and looked about the small plain bedroom they shared at the back of the house. Emily’s shoes were by the door, which was very unlike her.

  He sniffed the air but couldn’t catch the smell of woodsmoke that would mean his mother was preparing porridge in the main part of the house. Nor could he hear the good-natured sound of his father greeting neighbors as they passed on their way back from the harbor.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He dashed into the yard, where the chickens were scrambling as if they knew it was time for supper. Mopsie had torn himself from the tree, and his lead hung limp and ominous from an upper branch. A shiver crept down Thackery’s spine. From the gate of the sheep’s pen, Thackery spotted Elijah Morris, his best friend, who was rubbing his eyes as if he’d just risen, as well.

  “Elijah!” he called, forgetting his own shoes as he crossed between their yards.

  When Thackery grabbed Elijah’s forearm, his friend turned to him, blinking as if coming out of a dream. Elijah was only a hair’s width taller than Thackery—at least, that’s what Thackery said—and wore an identical linen shirt and long-locked hairstyle. The townsfolk called the two of them accidental twins.

  “Has thee seen my sister, Emily?” asked Thackery.

  “Nay,” said Elijah. “But look: they conjure.”

  Thackery followed his friend’s gaze and saw, far past the fields that surrounded town and deep within the Salem Wood, a plume of heavy smoke crawling into the clear late-morning sky. It was an unnatural shade of pink—bright and conspicuous. It made his stomach turn.

  “The woods,” Thackery managed, the half-dreamed ghost of witchy hands tightening around his neck. He grabbed Elijah by the shirtsleeve, and together they raced down the lane and to the field. There Thackery caught sight of his sister’s slight frame slipping into the shadow of the trees.

  “Wake my father,” he told Elijah, keeping his eyes trained on where his sister had just been. “Summon the others. Go!”

  Before Elijah could answer, Thackery was racing toward the witching wood, shouting his sister’s name. He leaped over one branch and ducked beneath another, and then lost his footing and tumbled down the steep embankment until he landed in a thick bed of browned leaves. He groaned, forcing himself up onto one arm and then farther up onto his hurting bare feet.

  Before him stood the Sanderson house, a cottage that sat crookedly upon its haunches and sagged in its eaves despite being younger than many buildings in Salem proper. Intricate wooden shutters obscured its windows, and weeds grew in thick drifts around the house and even between some of the floorboards of the porch. A few sported bright blue flowers despite the chill of October’s last day. Thackery had no doubt that these blossoms smelled and tasted like honey but would kill a man within a few minutes.

  On the house’s left side, a huge waterwheel caught the tiny creek and turned, groaning from the labor. Above it, the smoke hung thick and promised something as wicked as a snake in paradise.

  Emily disappeared inside as Thackery watched, helpless—trapped by a memory of clambering down there with Elijah when both of them were twelve, of daring each other to throw pebbles at the door, of his heart knocking hard against his chest when the door opened and Winifred Sanderson stepped out with her wild red hair and threatened to roast them with chicken of the woods and worm snakes’ tongues.

  Thackery pushed aside his memories and crossed the flat stepping stones to a low window that looked into the only room of the house. Inside, the sisters were doing the Devil’s work, each of them wearing a heavy cape with a pointed hood—one green as leaves before the fall, one red as clay, and one a purple deeper than an elderberry’s juice. Together, the women danced and rocked slowly around his poor sweet sister. They had seated Emily in a heavy-looking chair, and she looked patiently up at them as if she expected a present at the end of it all. Her eyes widened when she saw Thackery, and he hurried out of sight and shut the window.

  He wasted no time clambering past the waterwheel and ducking into an alcove just as the creak of a rusted hinge pierced the air. The high haughty voice of Winifred Sanderson rang out above him.

  “Oh, look,” she sighed. “Another glorious morning. Makes me sick!”

  The window slammed shut again, and Thackery leaned into the stone of the old building.

  He was relieved not to have been caught, but it didn’t help the feeling that his ribs were knotted tight with rope. Emily was trapped inside with the witches, and he had no idea what to do.

  “My darling,” crooned Winifred Sanderson, and Thackery was sure the words were meant for Emily.

  But then she added, equally lovingly, “My little book. We must continue with our spell now that our little guest of honor has arrived. Wake up,” she coaxed, like a mother to her child. “Wake up, darling. Yes—oh, come along. There you are.”

  Thackery clambered up the waterwheel, which allowed him to enter the house through a thick-paned window on the second floor. It opened to a narrow loft that looked down into the large room, which made it the perfect hiding spot. Thackery slunk in and pressed himself as close to the floorboards as he could manage, peering down at his sister and the witches below.

  “Ah, there it is,” Winifred was saying. Her book was open on an angled table, and a massive iron pot was bubbling over an open fire beside her. She read from the book’s pages: “ ‘Bring to a full rolling bubble; add two drops of oil of boil. Mix blood of owl with the herb that’s red. Turn three times, pluck a hair from my head. Add a dash of pox and a dead man’s toe.’ ” She turned to Sarah, the narrowest sister, and perhaps the youngest, though no one in Salem seemed to remember. “Dead man’s toe,” Winifred ordered. “And make it a fresh one.”

  Sarah Sanderson brightened then and began to dance around chorusing the command, and Thackery cringed. He thought of George Flamsteed, the kind old fisherman whose boat had capsized in late September. He’d washed ashore untouched—except that he’d been missing both of his big toes. For days after, the townsfolk had whispered about the Devil’s work.

  Mary tossed a toe into the pot and then flung another one at Sarah for good measure.

  When a wayward digit landed upon Winifred’s back, she rounded on them both. “Will you two stop that?” she demanded. “I need to concentrate.” She turned back to her book and then, satisfied, called her sisters to the pot. The surface of the bubbling liquid was obscured by a thick sheet of white smoke.

  As Thackery spied, he chewed his bottom lip, tasting blood. Emily sat quietly off to the side, and he wondered what could possibly be going through her head. He’d seen a flash of recognition from her before, but now she sat as serenely as the doll he’d believed her to be when the midwife had first wrapped her in a clean blanket.

  “ ‘One thing more and all is done,’ ” chanted Winifred, waving her hands over the surface of the pot, “ ‘add a bit
of thine own tongue.’ ”

  At once, all three sisters stuck out their tongues and bit down with a crunch, turning Thackery’s stomach. They spat into the pot and began to stir the vile liquid with a large wooden spoon.

  “One drop of this,” breathed Winifred, “and her life will be mine.” She caught herself. “I mean, ours.”

  Thackery looked over his shoulder, but there wasn’t a single sound outside. Where was Elijah? Where was his father? Surely they’d arrive at any moment.

  When the sisters began to advance on Emily, Winifred carrying the huge spoon of the dark bubbling potion, Thackery jumped up. “No!” he shouted, leaping down from the loft before they could feed any of their wicked brew to his sister.

  “A boy,” growled Winifred. “Get him, you fools!”

  Thackery dodged the two younger witches, dancing around the bubbling pot so they couldn’t catch him. He grabbed the lip of the pot and shoved, not caring about the searing pain that shot through his hands.

  Once the poison was spilled across the ground, he rushed toward his sister, but it was too late: Winifred had given her the draught of potion left in that huge wooden spoon. The decrepit witch delicately—even lovingly—wiped his sister’s mouth with her own cloak before turning to face him.

  “Always keep your eyes on the prize, my boy!” She cackled as she raised her free hand. The air filled with a violent green light.

  All at once, Thackery’s world filled up and spilled over with hurt.

  His muscles betrayed him, his field of vision blurred and went dark, and his body collapsed like a bundle of sticks on the floor.

  Thackery’s mind went blank from the pain in his body. When he could finally blink again, he wasn’t sure whether he’d lost a few seconds or a few minutes or much, much longer. He tipped his head to the side and saw that Emily was still there, as were the three hideous Sanderson sisters.

  Emily sat serenely in the wooden chair, attentive but church-quiet. Her pale skin and white sleep dress looked almost iridescent in the house’s low light. Thackery watched, helpless, as that iridescence turned into a warm golden glow the likes of which one might expect to see spill from the skin of an angel.