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    Lies: Ann Putnam Jr.'s Recounting of the Salem Witch Trials
    Lies: Ann Putnam Jr.'s Recounting of the Salem Witch Trials
    Lies: Ann Putnam Jr.'s Recounting of the Salem Witch Trials
    Ebook91 pages55 minutes

    Lies: Ann Putnam Jr.'s Recounting of the Salem Witch Trials

    By Oliver Dahl

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    About this ebook

    Salem Massachusetts, 1692: Tituba curses two young girls, but Ann Putnam Jr. isn't one of them. In order to help save her friends, Ann develops a plan to accuse the remaining supposed witches of Salem. As the death count rises, each lie buries her deeper and deeper under a curse of her own doing. This tragic experience of guilt, abuse, power, and love gives a first-person view into the spine-chilling months where neighbor turned on neighbor at the word of a little girl.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOliver Dahl
    Release dateFeb 10, 2014
    ISBN9781497725270
    Lies: Ann Putnam Jr.'s Recounting of the Salem Witch Trials

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      Book preview

      Lies - Oliver Dahl

      Books by Oliver Dahl

      The Dreamers

      The Nightmarers

      For more info about Oliver Dahl and his books, visit

      www.oliverdahl.com

      Chapter One

      January 1691

      The northeast wind billowed from the distant Atlantic, barely lifting the hem of my dress off the snowy January ground. The cold pricked my nose and cheeks as I stared into the falling snow, which was now so thick that the details of nearby things were softened. Even the church building that I had left seconds ago had become a silhouette behind me. As I walked through the snow-covered streets, I tried to swallow the uneasy feeling but no matter what, it kept coming up to the surface. It was an uncomfortable mix of guilt, and surprisingly enough, excitement.

      Hiding my face by looking down into the snow did not prevent me from being recognized. A bundled-up old man gave a nod and tipped his hat, to which I nodded back politely, secretly loathing myself for being seen.

      Betty Parris had invited me to her house to see something amazing after church. She had given very few details, but I caught the word exchanged between her and Abigail Hobbs. Magic.

      The word made my blood run as cold as the frost on the windows. Witchcraft. That was a sin. I had heard the tales. Just thinking of them, both warmed my curiosity and chilled my bones with a rebellious feeling the likes of which I had never felt before.

      I was the eldest in my family, named Ann after my mother. My father, Thomas Putnam, was the son of one of the town’s wealthiest residents. I was a pious young woman, righteous in the way of the Lord, and obedient to my parents and my elders. I was well educated, (as well educated as a girl can become in this day and age) and brought up in a formal home, with my eight soon to be nine other siblings. Despite my admirable upbringing, I could not shake off the terrified fascination I had for what Betty was inviting me to do.

      As I came around the corner and saw Betty’s home, the pit in my stomach enlarged, as did the feelings of pleasure and eager guilt. I shakily walked up to the door, only to feel a strong tug on my arm. Betty was nine, three years younger than I, but her grip was as hard as my father’s as she dragged me away from the door.

      No! she warned in a panicked whisper. My father cannot know. I merely nodded and followed her around into a back door, questioning my own involvement. Betty’s father, Samuel, was a Reverend in the church. If she did not want her father to know what we were about to do, it could not be good.

      My apprehension increased as I followed Betty into a back room.

      Maybe I . . . I trailed off. Betty had not seemed to have heard me. Perhaps that was a good thing. I could not let myself an older, wiser, more esteemed young lady appear weak-willed to a nine-year-old preacher’s daughter, now could I?

      I stood quietly behind Betty as she turned the doorknob and pushed. Once inside, she reached back out and pulled me in. The room was dim, the only light coming from a single lamp and a crackling fire under a large hearth. I sat down in the last open chair, a wooden rocker with somewhat ornate carvings along the support.

      I curled my toes and rubbed my hands together. Comfortably warm, I intertwined my hands and set them patiently on my lap. Sparks shot from the fire, landing on the floor of the stone hearth, quickly losing their heat. The cozy room smelled of wood smoke. Steam rose slowly from the damp overcoats laid near the fire.

      There were three other girls in the room: Betty, Abigail, and another girl I recognized but did not really know. The room, lined with split logs well-worn from years of use, was no bigger than my mother’s parlor. My gaze was drawn to the dancing flames, and the coals pulsed with intensity, almost as if the fire itself was breathing.

      Suddenly, the door sprung open. My heart jumped in fear but I was rooted to my chair. In shuffled a bedraggled old woman of Native, or perhaps even African, ancestry, with brown, wrinkled skin. She wore a shredded cape on her stooped back, on top of some sort of leather outerwear that tangled and clashed with her colorful earrings and pendants on chains. Her dreadful hair was all twisted and dry like tobacco, and she smelled of bile and herbs. She suspiciously turned an eye on each girl, one at a time. My heart raced in the time preceding our long visual connection. Her eyes were a strange stone blue color, not anything like Mother’s blue eyes.

      This woman, Tituba, she was called, was one of the Parris’ family slaves. She had a reputation for being strange and mysterious, murmuring after people and staring at things that were not there. I had been unnerved at the sight of this woman since childhood, and tonight was no different.

      Once she got to the front of the room, she turned to face us. Her teeth were cracked and yellowed, and her lips seemed two sizes too big for her mouth.

      Alright then. Shall we see what we can foretell?

      Betty nodded eagerly, along with the other girls in the room. I sat quietly in the rocking chair, not joining in, still quite terrified.

      Tell us! Whom will we marry? What will his occupation be? What else can you tell us? Abigail giddily asked.

      Tituba smiled. We shall see, shan’t we?

      She pulled a dirty glass from under her cloak as well as a small bottle filled with water. She set the clouded glass on the hearthstones, after filling it almost to the top.

      She then removed a brown egg from her clothing. She cracked it open and carefully dropped the yolk into the water, putting the shells aside.

      Come and see, she said, gesturing for us to examine the contents. Though I knew it was wrong, knew it with all of my heart, I leaned forward, intrigued. Betty sat down at the hearthstones, gazing into the cup holding the egg yolk. A feeling of filthiness came over me. I should not be here. This was wrong.

      Tituba cleared her throat, addressing the other girl in the room.

      Ahh. Very nice. Very nice, indeed. You will marry a good man. A successful merchant. The girl beamed as she struggled to see around Betty, who was still mesmerized by

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