From my novel, 7c, which follows women who lived in the same apartment over decades. Jane, a literary editor, reads an excerpt from a novel she is working on. One of my first novels, still unfinished from 2023.
May 1692, Salem, Massachusetts.
The townspeople whispered of witchcraft as they gathered outside the meeting house, their eyes trained on the figure standing trial before them.
Agnes Hathorne, a husbandless woman with raven hair and an austere gaze, held her head high in defiance despite the accusatory stares that bore into her very soul.
“Tell me, Mistress Hathorne,” began Father O’Malley, the Catholic witch hunter sent to rid the village of its demonic presence, “have you not been seen consorting with strange creatures in the woods at night? Have you not been witnessed performing unholy rituals beneath the waning moon?”
Agnes clenched her fists, swallowing hard, knowing full well the danger that awaited her should she falter in her response. “I am but a simple woman, Father,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor that threatened to betray her fear. “I keep to myself and worship the Lord as any good Christian should.”
“Ah, but do you?” countered Father O’Malley, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face for signs of deceit. “For we have testimony from your neighbours who claim to have seen you cavorting with the Devil himself. Are they liars, then, these God-fearing folk who would see justice done?”
“Or perhaps they are merely frightened,” argued Agnes, unwilling to let her life be ripped apart by baseless rumours and superstition. “Frightened of a woman who dares to live alone, without the protection of a man.”
“Enough!” thundered Father O’Malley, slamming his fist upon the table. “I find you guilty of witchcraft, Agnes Hathorne, and I condemn you to burn at the stake for your sins against God and man.”
The town, perched on the edge of the untamed wilderness, was a stark landscape of thatched-roof cottages, wooden palisades, and twisted, snow-laden trees. The residents lived in perpetual fear of the unseen, ever mindful of the devil’s lurking presence.
The Puritans of Salem held fast to a rigid moral code, viewing any deviation from their strict beliefs as a direct affront to God. Suspicion and paranoia were rife, and the slightest aberration could brand one as a witch or a heretic.
The infamous Salem Witch Trials had already claimed several lives, victims of a frenzied populace desperate to purge their community of perceived evil.
Accused of consorting with the devil, Agnes’ fate was sealed by a jury of her fearful peers, the court of public opinion. Her trial had been swift and cruel, devoid of reason or compassion. Agnes, a frail figure in her tattered gown, had protested her innocence, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.
The townsfolk, driven by a fervour bordering on madness, hungered for retribution.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, ghostly shadows across Salem’s snow-covered cobblestone streets, a sombre procession began to form. Torches flickered, casting eerie, dancing lights upon the faces of the grim onlookers. Agnes, bound and shackled, was led through the chilling night, her breath visible in the frigid air.
The town square, usually a place of community gatherings and joyful celebrations, had become a sinister tableau. The townsfolk had erected a monstrous cross, its gnarled timbers stretching high into the dark sky.
Agnes was brought forward, her eyes, wide with terror, scanning the sea of accusing faces. Her tormentors, wrapped in woollen cloaks against the cold, remained unyielding in their resolve. The flickering torchlight danced in their eyes, rendering them hollow and soulless.
They fastened Agnes to the cross, the cruel wood biting into her flesh. The crowd grew silent, each breath a frozen cloud in the bitter night. A hushed prayer emanated from the most faithful, a desperate plea for salvation or redemption, but it carried no warmth, only the cold, harsh reality of their collective judgement.
The executioner, hooded and faceless, approached with a flaming torch. The firelight danced in his eyes as he lowered the torch to the tinder-dry pyre at the base of the cross.
As the flames licked at her feet, Agnes stared unflinchingly into the eyes of those who would see her die. “I am no witch,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the roar of the inferno that had started to consume her. “But may the Lord have mercy on your souls, for you are truly lost.”
Agnes’ scream pierced the night, a tortured cry that seemed to echo through the very soul of Salem itself.
As the flames consumed her, the townsfolk watched in morbid fascination, faces contorted by a complex blend of fear, righteousness, and perverse satisfaction. Agnes’ anguished cries became the chorus of that unforgiving night, a haunting reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the veneer of their devout community. Salem, a crucible of faith and fear, had once again sacrificed its own in the name of its unwavering beliefs.