W hile in the cozy living room of the Thompson household, the Christmas tree glowed with twinkling lights, casting a warm ambiance over the festive decorations. Eric, twelve, and Kim, ten, sprawled on the couch, munching popcorn as the TV blared a horror movie they’d snuck past their parents’ usual restrictions. It was Christmas Eve, and the siblings had begged to stay up late, arguing that the holiday spirit deserved a little thrill.  Their parents, exhausted from wrapping gifts, had...

The cemetery behind Plymouth’s old First Church smelled of salt wind and wet leaves. Charlie—eight years old, knees scabbed, pockets full of acorns—had slipped away from the school field trip. The other kids were inside the replica village learning how to churn butter. Charlie preferred the quiet company of headstones. He found the grave by tripping over it. The stone was thin, half-sunk, the lettering worn to whispers: HERE LYES YE BODY OF EZRA BLACKWOOD DIED NOV. 23, 1621 AGED 29 YRS ...

The locket arrived in a plain brown box, no return address, postmarked from a town whose name Eliza had never heard. Inside lay a silver oval no larger than a quail’s egg, its filigree blackened with age. When she pried it open, a single lock of auburn hair slid against her thumb like silk soaked in ice water. A note, written in violet ink, read only: Wear me if you dare to know.