I wrote this for history class. (I made 100) =) Let me know what you think.
----------------------------------------
Broomsticks, brews, specters, and magic. I haunt you by day, my specter haunts you by night. I move in one direction you jerk in the same. I have pins and needles I stick and prick you with. I torture you at every turn. I am a witch. I have signed my soul to the devil. I am evil in every way. I must be gone, I must be hanged.
So is how they portray me. Although I have been a farmer, a friend, a neighbor, a wife, a mother, for fifteen years, now I am a witch, or so they say. Who are they? They are those terrible girls that writhe and scream and cry when I, or another “witch” torture them, or so they say. I say they are good little play actors.
It seems so long ago that I had been sitting in my house mending dresses and stockings and breeches, as my beautiful young girls played with corn husk dolls. So long ago, that I had walked to church in my clean and crisp calico dress with a bonnet upon my head. So long ago that I cooked a nice meal and prayed with my family. Those memories feel faded and lost.
The one memory that is bright as day is the one when they came and took me away. I had been sweeping the floors, not long after our midday meal, when a banging sounded at the door. My husband, John, went to answer the door, but it flew open before he reached it. Three of the men from the church came in. They told me what I was accused of. One held John back as they bound my hands and forced me into the wagon. I still remember looking back to see my wide eyed daughters and my husband fighting to get lose of the man’s grasp.
These terrible girls have poisoned these once beautiful New England colonies. Where once there were farms, small villages, churches, family, true friends, and a beautiful ocean, there has now been a dark, grim cloth thrown upon us. We have been cloaked in darkness.
As I sit in my cold, damp cell, I cannot imagine when we will see that light again. I know not when I will see my family again. Oh, I do know. I will see them at the trial. I will see them at Gallows Hill. How do I know this? Because, I refuse to confess. I will not confess to something that I have not done.
They can shake and scream. They can twitch and cry. They can bleed and hurt themselves all they want. I shall not waver. I shall hold my head high. I shall stand before jury and judge in my tattered and ripped dress. The calico has faded but my spirit has not. I WILL NOT CONFESS.
I have gone from keeping house and tending to my children, to haunting young girls and casting evil spells. I have gone from milking cows and loving my husband, to meeting with the devil and trying to recruit others to do his evil bidding as well. That is what they say of me. Now as I walk up to the noose, as I look out at the people I had once trusted and loved but have now betrayed me by saying I have haunted them as well, nothing matters. As the priest tells of my evil deeds one final time, I am deaf to it. I close my eyes as the rope tights around my neck. I know that my God loves me. I hang. I LIVE.
