“Order,
order,
order!”

The magistrate struggles to be heard above the chatter of the crowd.

All of Salem, hungry for drama, seems to have squeezed into the small courthouse.

Just as the murmurs stop, the shrieks begin.

The afflicted girls, enthroned on the first bench, wail at the sight of you.

You turn away, and their heads twist too.

“Your specter is wrenching my neck!” one cries.

You clasp your hands, and they say you’ve pinched them.

You bite your lip, and their mouths bleed.

You shift a weary foot, and their legs go wild.

Even the sternest judges—determined to have more than “specters” for evidence—can’t help being impressed.

The judges get their evidence. The constable tells how he found a witch’s tit—a purple spot—on your left leg. That’s where Satan suckles when he comes to you.

And Abigail Hobbs, a confessed witch, tells the court that she’s seen you drinking blood at the devil’s sacrament.

Silence, louder than the girls’ screams, cloaks the room.