An hour later, I was all washed up and heading downstairs to eat and watch CNN. Not many people my age watch the news, but I feel it’s important to be knowledgeable on what’s going on in the world. I hate being unprepared when people bring up current events. Besides, I think it’s important to try to fight the stereotype that pretty girls can’t also be smart.

I’ve been told on several occasions that I’m both.

I pushed the power button on the remote, then took the box of Fruity Pebbles out of the pantry and poured myself a generous bowl. Plopping down in the chair right in front of the TV, I let my legs hang over the armrest and started munching away. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I never missed an opportunity to start my day off on the right foot.

I tried to pay attention to what the anchors were saying on the screen, but after a few minutes, my mind wandered back to my dream. It was one I’d had before. Hundreds of times, actually. But it didn’t matter how many times I dreamed it, I was always left feeling uneasy. Beyond the fact that it was totally messed up to watch this woman be hanged over and over again, I knew that what I was seeing had really happened.

And to top it off, she happened to be related to me.

Okay, so the woman was a few dozen “greats” back, but it was true. I’m a direct descendant of Bridget Bishop. You’d think that’d be a fun fact I could throw out at parties, but people got a bit wigged out when you told them that your great-great-grandmother times twenty was sentenced to death by hanging for being a witch during the Salem witch trials.

Go figure.

And if that wasn’t disturbing enough, the fact that I had to watch it happen over and over again . . . well, they don’t call them nightmares for nothing.

This time was different, though. I’d never heard the conversation between Bridget and her daughter before. The exchange had left me feeling even more emotionally drained than usual. Not just because of the words they’d shared but because it seemed as if my mom had inherited more than just her good looks from Great-Great-Grandma Bridget. Since I could remember, my mom could always communicate with me telepathically. The only difference between our situation and that of our ancestors’ was that I’d learned early on how to block my mom out when I didn’t want her in my head.

This new wrinkle gave me something to think about, and I made a mental note to talk to my mom about it later.