Journal of a Witch

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This historical fiction was written with the greatest of respect for the victims of the Salem witch trials. May their spirits know peace forever.

Submitted: November 29, 2018

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Submitted: November 29, 2018

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Diary of Margret Milton 1692.

July 19

I hid today. I ran into the wood when no one was watching to escape the horror of it. I had to lie to mother about it, I told her I got lost while looking for berries. I did not know the others, but Elizabeth, she always had a smile for me in greeting when we would pass each other in the common. She is gone and I would call her a friend, but that would be bad.

 

July 25

There are more accused. I have heard they have been taken to the witch jail to await their trials. That horrible place. I have been shivering all day and it is not cold.

 

August 3

We were in church, mother, father and I. I did not hear the sermon, I heard the prayer. The one to rid Salem of the sin of black magic, that of the devil. I began to shiver again and mother took notice, asking why I was cold, did I feel ill. Shaking my head, I willed to control it. It was so hard but I finally did.

 

September 6 

It is over a month since I made my last entry. I'm so afraid of being accused. More have been hung, some have passed in the witch jail. That horrible place. I'm so afraid.

 

October 1

I have heard another, it was Sarah and she was crying. I knew it was her and it was just as it had been with the others who came to me before it all began. The first to speak to me was a native man who was old and kind. He told me to be careful, that fear and ignorance would soon plague Salem. I remember that he was kind. After I wanted to tell mother of him, but he said to be careful, so whenever I was tempted to do so I stopped myself. He was so kind.

 

December 30

This is my last entry. There are always looks of suspicion and whispers of secret. When I see them I lower my head. I wonder all the time now, is my connect to the spirits of the dead that of the devil? The native man seemed so kind, but perhaps it was a lie. I do not hear Sarahs cries any longer, I have willed myself not to hear them. With this, the last of my words, I will then hide what I have written. Perhaps in time some one will understand.


© Copyright 2019 LE. Berry. All rights reserved.

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