The accusation was printed in the online neighborhood forum on a Tuesday.
A long post. Anonymous, but everyone knew the writing style — precise, righteous, the kind that comes from someone who has been waiting for permission. It said: There are individuals in this community practicing occult rituals in Caldwell Wood. One of them is a minor who attends our school and has been involved in incidents of vandalism, property damage, and disturbing behavior throughout her time here.
It did not name Nora. It described her exactly.
The comments ran to three hundred and forty-seven within twelve hours. Most were afraid. Some were curious. A handful were gleeful in the way some people become gleeful when someone else is exposed. And a small, quiet minority said: this is ridiculous, this is a witch hunt, let people be.
They were the loudest eventually. But they were not the loudest first.
Nora's father showed her the post silently, the screen turned toward her, face unreadable. She read it. She kept her hands flat on the table.
"Is this you?" he asked.
She looked at him — really looked at him, maybe for the first time. He was tired. He had always been tired. He worked hard and came home and tried to be present in a house where presence was complicated, and she realized she had no idea, not really, what he believed or didn't believe, what he was capable of.
"Yes," she said.
He closed his laptop. He was quiet for a long time. "Are you safe?"
She blinked. It was not the question she'd expected. "I — yes. We weren't doing anything dangerous. We were just—"
"I don't need the details." He rubbed his face. "I need to know you're safe."
"I'm safe," she said. Her voice cracked on the last word.
Her mother said nothing for three days. She moved through the house like a ghost — making meals, doing laundry, existing in the same rooms as Nora without looking at her. On the fourth day she sat down at the edge of Nora's bed and said, very quietly: "My grandmother was like you."
Nora went still.
"She died alone," her mother said. "They didn't burn her — we're not in that century — but they ran her out of town. She died alone and unhappy and I swore." She stopped. Closed her eyes. "I swore I would make you different. I would raise you to be normal. I would protect you from it."
"You were trying to protect me," Nora said softly.
"I was terrified," her mother said. "That's not the same thing. I know that now." She looked at her daughter — really looked, finally, finally — and her eyes were wet. "I'm sorry I made you feel like something to be ashamed of."
Nora crossed the small distance between them and her mother held her, and the storm in Nora's chest did something she hadn't expected — it gentled. Just a little. Just enough.
But outside, the town was still talking.
And the school called the next morning to say Nora was suspended pending investigation.