MicroHorror

The moon shone coldly on the stones of the cell. Goodwife Taylor wept quietly. She cursed John Sanders, and the unjust God in whose name she was to be burned tomorrow. She stared out the window, but the view was obscured by a dense white mist.

It was the fault of the pale stranger, she had decided. On her way back to Salem a week ago, she had become aware that someone was following. She felt foolish, being out after sunset, but Goody Brown’s fresh sage had been too tempting to pass up. The spicy aroma was still in her nostrils when she noticed the pale man in the long blue cloak. Being that the making of acquaintance on a country road was out of the question, she quickened her pace, but to no avail. She turned into the next farm she came to, realizing too late to whom it belonged.

Mr. Sanders was notorious among the women of town. He was a lecher, and made life very difficult for those who spurned his advances. Indeed, several young women had had to leave town, having found their bellies full with his ill-gotten offspring. It was common practice, then, to avoid being alone with the man at all costs. And now here she was, walking right up to his front door; the man himself was standing with a lantern, watching her approach.

Unfortunately, things played out exactly as anticipated, and not ten minutes later, Emma found herself fighting off the man’s advances. It was pure luck that he had been holding the lantern. When he turned to set it down, the better to lay hands on her, she made good her escape. The corpulent man gave chase, but she easily outdistanced him by the time they reached the main road.

The next morning, her heart sank into her stomach when fierce knocking came at the door. It was men from the Council. John Sanders had lost a sheep to “mysterious causes” in the night, and held this death to be evidence of witchcraft. She was to be tried.

Because Emma was a strong woman, a farmer’s daughter, she withstood their needle pricks as they searched her nakedness for the devil’s mark. Because she could swim, she survived the ducking chair. But because she survived, she was condemned.

Now she pounded her fist against the stone and cursed the evilness of John Sanders once more.

“I’ve not heard a lady speak so in quite some time.”

Emma gasped and spun around. There, still dressed in his indigo cloak, was the pale stranger.

“I owe you an apology Miss. If I hadn’t been so eager the night before last, you shouldn’t be in this situation.” She flushed with anger at this, but before she could respond, he continued, “I’d like to make things right. I offer you a second chance at life, freedom to do as you wish, and more–I offer you revenge.”

Looking at the stranger’s terrible beauty, his bloodless lips, creaseless white skin, and flowing black hair, she realized what he wanted. But in truth, she was going to die tomorrow, and that made all the difference. She made the sign of the cross one last time, and said, “I accept.” Night closed in then, and all was dark.

The next morning, just after sunset, Emma was tied to a stake, and a fire was lit. No one, however, expected what happened next. With an audible whoosh, the heat flared, and Emma, standing calmly, was consumed in a single flash of light. All that remained was the ashes of the woodpile, and a rising column of smoke.

That night, Sanders slept the sleep of the self-righteous. The sound of his window opening startled him awake. Mist poured into his room, and then suddenly, Goody Taylor was standing over his bed.

He found his words. “Witch! Truly thou wast!”

Emma bared her teeth in a wide grin. “No, John Sanders. Not a witch at all.”