1
Every once in a while Devin Lyle couldn’t help herself. People did such outrageous things sometimes that she just had to step in.
She stepped forward, positioning herself a little closer to the group standing by the memorial so she could hear what they were saying.
“Burn, witch! Burn!” a young man said. Despite his words, he was actually reverently placing a flower on the bench dedicated to one of the victims of the witch trials.
“How horrible. I can’t even imagine burning to death,” an older woman said.
“Excuse me,” Devin said. “None of the condemned in Salem were burned. Nineteen were hanged, and one man, Giles Corey, was pressed to death.”
“Really?” The older woman sounded relieved. “Not that hanging must have been less than horrible, but to burn...” She shuddered.
“Almost any tour you take in Salem is going to tell you about the victims—and tell you that no one was burned,” Devin said. They were all staring at her, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. She wasn’t a tour guide, after all. She wrote sweet, fun children’s books about a slightly crazy “witch.”
But Salem was her home. And she hated the misinformation about it that spread far too frequently.
“I saw it in a movie,” a kid said, nodding sagely. “They burned them in the movie.”
“That movie took license with history, I promise you,” Devin assured him.
“And men were called witches, too? Not warlocks?” the older woman asked.
“Yes, they were all accused of being witches. And at the time, witchcraft was punishable by death,” Devin said. “So, if you ‘hexed’ a neighbor—just cursed him, or say you had a voodoo doll, whether there was any real magic there or not—you were considered a practicing witch and subject to execution.”
“So they were all guilty?” someone else asked.
“No, not all of them―you have to remember, even just saying that you had cursed someone was considered to be witchcraft. Kids would read their futures in broken eggs, and that was witchcraft, by the standards of the time. Those who were condemned and hanged refused to plead guilty, because they were innocent and feared for their souls if they did. During the hysteria, all kinds of crazy things happened. You really need to take a tour—or just start at the Witch Dungeon and get a good overview of the entire situation.
“People were at odds politically, creating an atmosphere ripe for petty arguments. It was winter, it was bitter cold and it was, frankly, miserable. Most scholars believe that the tales Tituba—a slave from the Caribbean—told to a group of girls started them making up their own stories. And since people not only believed fiercely in the devil but that he also lived in the woods, they...” Devin’s voice trailed off, and she smiled as she saw an old friend, Brent Corbin, standing nearby. He owned an occult and souvenir store on Essex Street, and led one of the best night tours of the city.
She could see that he was grinning at her, with a teasing light in his eyes. Brent was a little stout, but he had a cute thatch of blond hair, beautiful bright blue eyes and a great smile. He was clearly as bemused as she was by the conversation.
Ten years ago Brent had graduated with her from Salem High. They’d fought like crazy when they’d been kids, teased and tormented each other over dating as they’d gotten older, and now—especially with her living back in Salem—they laughed over their old squabbles. It had been great to spend time with him now that she was back to town, and no way was she letting him get away without an introduction.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “We’ve got one of the city’s best tour guides right here. This is Brent Corbin. He owns Which Witch Is Which just over on the mall and no one—seriously, no one—knows Salem’s history better than Brent. I’ll leave you in his capable hands.”
She waved to him, laughing when the smile disappeared from his face. But then it was back, and he shook his head in amusement as he watched her go.