The slight breeze tickles the crisp autumn air. A tan rope with a loop is coiled tight around a girl’s neck, but it seems her soul is sucked away, leaving only a pale face and body suspended in the air like a rag doll. 

***

We live in Salem, Massachusetts, and the Witch Trials are happening, but we try to ignore it as much as we can. Our lives aren’t like they used to be. At least I still have my family. 

It all started with Abigail Williams and Betty Parris. They were the town's attention for weeks, and they struck fear into everyone's hearts and minds… 

In February 1692 they got eminently ill. Both of them kept going into fits, and their health didn’t improve, so a doctor came in to see what was going on, and they were diagnosed with bewitchment. More and more people fell into that behavior, and the hysteria started. We created a special court to accuse people of being witches. The first accused witch was Bridget Bishop; her lifestyle was flamboyant, and she didn’t dress properly; the proper way to dress for women is wearing similar clothing and plain colors. They don't want to attract attention. Women wear dresses that cover everything from their necks to the floor, with white aprons, and their hair is usually up in a bun. From there the trials and hangings kept going and going, like a snowball getting bigger and bigger as it rolled down the hill.

***

My plate is wiped clean from the cake. “That was a delicious cake, Mother!” 

“You really think so?”

“Really.”

“It is your special day, Charity, you deserved it.”

I am about ready to fall asleep, but I am terrified about the Witch Trials creeping into my dreams again. Every night since the Witch Trials started I have been having nightmares about me being tried and hanged or put into jail. But what is so bad about them is that they feel so realistic, and when I wake up I am on the verge of tears. 

I creep down the squeaky stairs, trying not to make much noise, but when I am down, my mother is drinking her morning tea and reading a paper with fear. Her eyes are deep and sharp and never leave the paper, and they start to get glossy and her nose red. I know what she is reading, and why she is crying. Her tears are for me.

I can hear the rain falling through the roof and the buckets trying their best to catch the droplets. We are having our lunch quietly, except little Phoebe, laughing and throwing her food everywhere. It is a perfect quiet lunch until a knock pounds the door. 

The next thing you know, cold metal is wrapped around my arms, and hot tears are running down my cheeks; my parents are pleading not to take me, and even Phoebe is upset. The door slams behind the escort and me. The pouring rain makes my body heavy and wet. The cobblestone roads are drenched, and the court is in sight. 

The air inside makes me choke, and I can hear the muffled sobs of people in the courtroom. I am next, and I know that I will reply just like all the others, with broken words and wet faces. The escort shoves me into the room, and I can hear the click of the door. There is no way out now. 

“You, Charity Ellison, have been accused of being a witch and practicing witchcraft,” his deep voice says. “You have freckles, and skip Church, and do not dress properly, and that makes you a witch.”

“But-”

“Now, have you talked to the devil?”

“N-”

“Liar!!! You are accused of being a witch, you have freckles and skip Church; any last words?”

“Um, I only skip Church because I can’t sit still, and it is so boring, and I am NOT a witch!” I squeak as my lips tremble and the hot tears flow down my cheeks.

“Stop lying, Church is never boring, and you do practice witchcraft. I am not afraid of you.”

 “You are afraid! You just don’t want to show it; you are just fighting your fears by ignoring them, and that doesn’t work!!”

“Bring her to jail, and lock her with the other ones. You will be hanged in two days; no visits allowed.”

The escort stomps into the room and puts the tight, cold metal back on my hands. He shoves me toward the dark smelly hallway, towards the jail. My tears won’t stop, even though I try hard to calm myself down. I will never see Phoebe or Mother and Father. I should have never skipped Church and should have listened to them in the first place. 

The jail is full, gross and old, dust gathered in the corner, and people are constantly moaning and sobbing. I am put into the last empty cell and given a plate of hardened mashed potatoes and a stale piece of bread. It is freezing, and people around me are starving and cold. I’m not the only one.

***

Only one day has passed, and my dress is already slipping off my shoulders; my life is shortening every minute. Every day I think of my old memories, and my family, trying to keep every single moment with them, but my hands are full, and the grasp of them is slipping. Soon I won’t remember anything, and my mind will be blank.  There won’t be any grasp; my hands will be limp, the memories slowly slipping away and out of reach. 

***

Today is the day, and I am sweating, but it is cold; I would be shaking if I had enough energy. The wind whips at my face and curly brown hair, and the crisp autumn air is enjoyed by most people, but not me, not now and not ever. I am dragged to Gallows Hill.  The closer we get the quicker my heart beats. A throng of people follow behind the escort and me, my family in front. I knew this would happen eventually. What will happen to my family after this? 

There is an eerie silence, and it is making my spine tingle. 

It feels like everything is going in slow motion. 

My hands feel limp, and everything is gone.

Charity Ellison

1680-1693

Hanged on Oct. 18, 1693

-Lauren Lamme