Salem, Massachusetts circa. 1692.
Torrents of rain poured down endlessly, thunder rumbled, and lightning struck as a murky mass of black umbrellas and sorrowful expressions marched down a soaking, cobbled street. A small, mahogany box featured in the center of the inky mass.
Watching this miserable funeral procession from afar, a cloaked, young woman mourned for the unfortunate child who met their end before their time. She continued to watch until the gloomy group almost left her sight, then in a split-second decision, began to quickly follow the group, silently joining the march.
All of a sudden, a person near the back of the mass turned their head to look in her direction. She tensed, readying herself to sprint, but the person’s head swiveled back to the front—likely due to her black cloak, whose color perfectly matched the group’s inky attire.
The procession continued to march down the road, stopping only once it reached a grass-filled hill which featured a singular, willow tree. Under this tree was a deep hole, just the right size for the child’s coffin. The handful of mourners carrying the mahogany box lowered it into the ground, stepping back into the crowd once they finished. One by one, people exited the inky mass and spoke of the life of the little girl forever confined by the wooden walls of her coffin. Once the remembrance of the young girl finished, the crowd entered a moment of silence and prayer.
All of a sudden, a loud sneeze broke the silence. The crowd froze, then turned to look at the formerly cloaked woman, whose powerful sneeze had knocked down the hood of her cloak. The woman cursed in her mind—there had never been a worse time to sneeze.
Soft murmurs arose within the group, until one of the mourners yelled: “That’s Mary White, a vile witch! She must’ve cursed and killed the girl! Get her!” The crowd erupted in anger, hands grabbing at Mary, who immediately began to sprint away from the group. Even though her legs ached and her lungs heaved, Mary continued to run until she could no longer hear the angry stomping of the mourners.
Once she felt safe enough, she hid away in a dark alley, feeling not fear, but pity for the disillusioned group who felt the need to blame the death of a poor young girl on an equally innocent woman. As day fell into night, the mourners continued their angry witch-hunt, but never found the mournful maiden whom they had labeled a witch.