American VVitch

Spring of 1692

Old Salem Village Meetinghouse

Lilith Proctor stood before Magistrate Hathorne, her hands bound in front of her with hemp rope, the painful red blisters forming around her wrists burning every time she jolted around. She noticed the meeting house reeked as soon as she walked in, the smell of unwashed villagers and tallow candles made her eyes burn.

Across the room, thirteen-year-old Ann Putnam collapsed to the floor, shuddering. Little Abigail Williams, Ann’s junior by barely a year, joined in, convulsing beside her.

Stay calm, Lils willed herself, taking a deep breath through her nose. Just stay calm.

As if telling herself to calm down had ever worked out for her.

Her hometown’s history had always fascinated her, as Lils was drawn to the darker parts of Salem’s past. And even more so after Aunt Ivy revealed to Lils that a witch trials victim was one of their distant ancestors. Their link to Eliza Proctor was discovered through a UMass ancestry project on Salem’s colonial settler descendants. But beyond that, no one knew much about her.

Three hundred and thirty-three years in the future, Lils used to sprawl on Aunt Ivy’s porch with her best friend Stevon, taking turns reading trial transcripts out loud. She’d laughed at the girls then, at how obvious their acting had been.

Yet facing trial with their wails front and center and a magistrate hell-bent on persecution was something else entirely.

Lils didn’t flinch at Ann and Abigail’s thrashing around, knowing any reaction would be perceived as proof of guilt. And if she tried to explain she was Lilith Proctor from 2025?

She’d likely be sent straight to the gallows for that one, no doubt.

Magistrate Hathorne leaned forward from his raised platform, his face flushed red like raw meat, eyes glittering. His manic gaze focused directly on her, and it almost seemed like he was enjoying himself, savoring the rapt attention of the crowd.

“Eliza Proctor,” he sneered. “These girls swear it is you who afflict them. Are they liars?”

He pressed forward, glaring at Lilith as if waiting to ensnare his prey. As if on cue, they both began writhing and wailing again, acting as if their hair was being pulled by invisible hands.

“Answer me, are they lying!?” Hathorne pointed at Ann and Abigail.

If Lils said yes they were lying, she’d insult the “tormented” girls and undermine the court. If she said no, she’d admit to bewitching them by default. A trap. She spotted Goody Martin’s worried face in the crowd, the one friendly witness in a lion’s den. Lils felt a minor flood of relief at seeing the familiar face, even under these circumstances.

She took a deep breath to steady herself and imagined a beam of white light surrounding her and protecting her.

“No, Your Worship,” Lils said. “But I believe they are deceived. The Devil delights in falsehoods.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Hathorne’s jaw clenched and he leaned forward.

“Then name the true witch!” he barked.

The crowd began to chant, name the witch, name the witch, name the witch in a frenzy.

Another trap. Lils couldn’t name an innocent soul to save herself, wouldn’t perpetuate this nightmare. She could destroy someone and she wouldn’t do it. Not like this.

“God alone will judge,” she answered. “I will not bear false witness.”

The room exploded with surprised shouts, prayers, a few loud amens. For a moment, something flickered in Hathorne’s expression. Doubt? Respect? Gone before she could read it.

Then he raised his hand. “Silence!”

The gavel crashed down like the snap of a cracked bone.

And there stood Lilith Proctor, sixteen years old and originally from three centuries in the future, accused of witchcraft in her ancestor Eliza’s place. She thought about her little sister Lucy and her Aunt Ivy back home, in a time that might as well be another world. She thought of the real Eliza, whose place in this nightmare she had taken.

“The court will reconvene at first light tomorrow,” Hathorne declared. “We shall hear more of the charges brought against Eliza Proctor.”

He motioned to the sheriff. “You may take your prisoner.”

His tone gave nothing away, but he hadn’t condemned her—not yet, anyway. The villagers watched as Lilith Proctor, who all believed to be Eliza Proctor, was led back to the jailhouse to await the second day of her trial.

Tomorrow, round two.