March 1692, Old Witch Gaol (Salem Jail)
Lils smelled damp straw and a rotting stench, with the added touch of mildew and layers of body odor underneath. The jailhouse was smaller and colder than she’d imagined, a single room with a low ceiling and walls that seemed to seal moisture in. The light came from one small window set high up in the stone, too high to reach and narrow.
They’d taken her pentacle necklace from her. Stevon’s necklace.
That was the thing she kept coming back to that made her the most livid, even now, hours later. The constable had found it during his search and held it up by the chain like a diseased thing. A witch talisman, he’d said.
Technically he wasn’t wrong.
Stevon’s mother had pressed it into her hand at the funeral and she hadn’t taken it off since. Now Lils pressed her thumb against her chest where it used to sit and thought about how much it used to comfort her.
She thought of her capture earlier that day as she pressed her thumb down, tracing the shape of a pentacle.
The march from the hollow to the village had taken the better part of three hours.
She’d been fully asleep when they found her, and for one disoriented moment, she thought she was back home and Lucy was attempting to drag her out of bed. Perhaps this had all been a very long and extremely detailed nightmare.
Then Samuel and another man abruptly pulled her upright, and the cold and the jolt of truth hit her all at once. Before she knew it, she was bound with rope around her wrists and being marched through the outskirts of Salem.
She hadn’t fought, not physically. Fighting would mean looking guilty, and she needed every advantage she could hold onto. After the initial yelling confrontation, she’d let Samuel bind her and she’d walked with the men without resistance.
Levi was thankfully gone. She’d looked back at the hollow and saw nothing but bonfire ash, and realized that he’d either managed to escape or was hidden in plain sight. Good, Levi. Get far, far away from here.
Samuel had walked beside her the whole way, which was its own kind of torture. She’d learned his face with his tight jaw, and the self-righteous set of his mouth. The curly dark hair and jagged scar along his temple. And maybe most alarmingly, the matching pair of blue eyes, so similar to her own. He was stoic, quiet and self-satisfied for most of the march, which she’d almost preferred to having him boast outright or attempt conversation.
It was when they reached the edge of the village, where the trees gave way to the road and the first smoke of morning fires rose above the rooftops, that he finally spoke to her.
He leaned in close, grip tightening on her arm.
“I do not know what has become of thee, but thou art not my sister any longer. I sever all ties with thee. And you shall deserve every ounce of punishment that the judge will bring upon thee, may God have mercy on your soul.”
Good, then get out of my face, she wanted to respond, but held her tongue. Instead, she remembered a method her therapist had taught her for dealing with difficult people called “grey rocking,” and she kept her face as impassive as a dead lake, not giving him the satisfaction of a response.
And besides, he was more right than he knew… she was definitely not his sister Eliza.
I can’t believe I’m related to someone as horrible as him, she thought as he handed her over to the sheriff a half hour later.
Okay, she thought, taking a deep breath in. Okay, Lils, this isn’t over. You just need to think.
She’d been doing this for hours, cycling through options, and she was borderline spiraling. If only she could think of the way out, maybe remember a spell she had seen in the grimoire. Now the gray afternoon was fading away toward evening and the shadows were thickening and it was getting harder to keep her thoughts from capsizing her.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
What did she know?
The trials were upon her now. She had read the transcripts enough times to recognize that people who confessed, those who blamed the devil for their sins and repented sometimes survived. And the people who refused, who maintained their innocence, sometimes didn’t.
It would be incredibly risky either way she played it.
Her thoughts flashed to Giles Corey, who hadn’t confessed. He’d been pressed to death under stones, with his last words being more weight.
That hadn’t happened yet of course, but it was only a matter of time. And what about Tituba, had she been brought to trial yet for witchcraft charges? Had the witch trials kicked off yet? She couldn’t remember and shuddered involuntarily.
Don’t spiral, she told herself. Don’t spiral. It’s not too late to escape from all this.
Task one: find a way to contact Aunt Ivy. Across three hundred and thirty-three years, with no phone, no signal, no Google doc access, and no pentacle. Cool.
Task two, and arguably the most important one: stay as sane as possible.
Task three: Find a way to sleep a few hours, somehow. She’d be useless without sleep.
She thought about little Levi, back with Goody Martin by now she hoped, warm and fed. She thought about his face in the firelight the night before, sleeping against her shoulder. A nine-year-old boy who had tripped Samuel Proctor without hesitating, who had built her a fire and shared food and led her through the woods effortlessly to safety.
Thank you, sweet Levi, she thought, in the direction of wherever he was. Stay safe, and please don’t do anything stupid on my account.
She was aware this was a lot to ask of a nine year old boy, especially one like Levi.
The straw was damp beneath her and she shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make her body ache. Her wrists had been unbound when they threw her in here, which was a small mercy. She turned them over in the fading light, examining the raw red marks the rope had left.
Stevon, she thought, you would absolutely not believe this right now.
She could picture his face, shooting her a look with that raised eyebrow of his. Lils, he’d say, I believe it completely, this *would* happen to you.
Lils laughed involuntarily. She felt kind of insane laughing right now, all things considered.
The narrow window had gradually gone dark. Outside, she could hear sounds from a village winding down for the evening. Salem, her beloved Salem, but not as she knew it. Not at all.
The cold chill of the cell was back.
She pulled her knees to her chest and pressed her forehead down and promptly burst into tears.
“Hekate, God, any higher power listening… if you’re there, it’s me, Lilith. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to you like this, but if you can hear me, I need a miracle. Do you hear me? I need a miracle, I need out of here.”
And then her therapist’s voice was in her head, calm and steady as she continued to cry: you’ve been through hard times before, Lils.
Not like this, Lydia, she thought, imagining her comforting, motherly therapist hugging her. Not anywhere *close* to this.
No, the voice agreed. Not like this. But you’re still here. And you’re extremely resourceful and smart, remember that.
Yes, she was still here… for now. The second part she wasn’t so sure about, and that only made her cry harder.
The cold and damp started to feel all encompassing and the sound of her therapist’s voice in her head was beginning to fade when she heard it.
A sound from the far corner of the cell. Lils went very still.
“Didn’t want to startle thee,” said a small voice from the shadows, timid. “Thou hast been talking to thyself for some time, and I thought it best to let thee finish.”
Lils looked around, trying to locate the source of the sound. She couldn’t see for shit in this cell, and hadn’t realized there was anyone else in here.
Lils closed her eyes briefly. Great. “How long have you been there? Sorry, hast thou been here, I mean.”
“Since before thee arrived.” A pause, straw shifting. “They put me here two days past.”
Lils looked hard into the far corner, noticing what looked like a woman sitting with her back against the wall, watching Lils with a haunted expression.
“My name is Bridget,” the woman said. “Bridget Bishop. And thou art called?”
Lils shook her head. It was THE Bridget, unbelievable.
“Oh Bridget, hello. Tell me, is there also a woman named Tituba being held here?”