EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – NIGHT – DECEMBER 31ST 1691
She entered the meeting room, her bonnet tied firm under her chin, her black cloak brushing the floor. She walked to the center. There, in the very heart of the room, stood something like an altar. Upon it rested a huge Bible, its leather covered dark. Beside it was a tall black cross.
She stopped in front of this altar, lifting her head slowly, her eyes moving over every face in the room. One by one, she met their gazes — the villagers, Reverend Samuel, Madame Ginevra and Thomas, before they settled on the bound woman seated in the chair of the accused.
"Brethren, we are gathered here in fear and in duty. For it is written in the book of Exodus: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' (Exodus 22:18). And now before us sits one who has consorted with the Devil."
"I have seen with my own eyes what she has done. By her works, ten good folk lie dead while she smiles, but it is the smile of one led by the Serpent himself."
Sitting just behind her, was Magistrate Hathorne, the judge, a serious-looking man with deep lines etched into his face.
His hands rested flat on the table as he leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "You speak bold, Ann Putnam. Take care, for the Lord seeth all. Speak only the truth, as you shall answer for it on the great Day."
Goody Ann Putnam bowed her head, her voice breaking but steady. "Sir, I swear before God Almighty, I speak only but the truth. I would not risk my soul in lying."
To one side of the meeting room stood a heavy, simple wooden chair for the accused. Today, that chair held a thin, pale woman — Elizabeth Device. Her wrists were tied together with rough rope that had chafed her skin raw.
Her dress was faded and wrinkled, and she looked tired, as if she had not slept in months. Yet, her eyes still held a quiet, defiant strength trying to still break free. She stared forward, not at any single person, but at the empty space above Putnam's head, there was a cross, whispering silently to a God, she was sure was watching. A single candle on the table near her was lit.
"Before us stands a woman whose hands—though outwardly frail—have wielded powers most foul. Powers not gifted by Heaven, but whispered into her ears by the Father of Lies. Ten men… good and God-fearing… now lie in their graves as their souls have been ripped away from this earth by unnatural means...."
There was a pause.
Goody Ann Putnam turned slowly, her gaze settling on a small, veiled figure near the front. "Mary Warren," she said softly, but with an authority that silenced the murmuring crowd, "you have known grief unlike many here. Will you tell this court your story?"
From the crowd, a thin woman in a worn gray shawl rose to her feet, her black mourning veil fluttering as she turned to the villagers and the Puritans. Beneath the veil, her eyes were dark and hollow, her face pale from sleepless nights. She clasped her hands before her.
The magistrate nodded once.
"Speak what you have seen...."
She let out a deep breath and narrated:
"It was… on the second morning of November, he went hunting....." she began, her voice shaky.
She gave a small, sad laugh, as the beautiful memory came flooding back to her. "…as he always did when the frost came. But this time he....he never came back home."
She swallowed hard and continued. "I went searching with my brother, Philip. We found him lying face down in the snow… and when we turned him over—"
She shut her eyes tight, pressing her hand against her mouth before forcing herself to continue. "His stomach was… ripped open. His heart was lying on the ground, not even a hand's width away from him. I thought some animal had done it. But there were no tracks nor a trail of blood."
Goody Ann Putnam leaned a little closer. "And why do you believe this horror is the work of.....the accused?"
Mary Warren head lifted as she stared at the accused. "Because… three nights before, I saw her. I saw her standing in the trees behind our home, staring through the window where my husband sat sharpening his blade. Her eyes… they glowed in the moonlight... and it seemed like her lips were moving on their own."
The crowd gasped. Some whispered prayers, others looked around with wide eyes.
Goody Ann Putnam narrowed her gaze.
"And what do you believe she said?"
Before Mary Warren could answer, the accused jerked against her ropes, her wrists started to bleed as she shook her head wildly and lifted her head at last, her voice was hoarse like she hadn't spoken in a very long time.
"I was never at her window! She speaks false!"
The magistrate struck the table with his hand for silence. "Peace, woman. You shall have to answer in time. Mary Warren, speak true — did she say anything to you?"
Mary swallowed hard, she thought for a second before replying. "No, sir… but her lips moved as though she did mutter, though I heard no sound. I feared it was no prayer of Christ."
Goody Ann Putnam offered Mary Warren a soft, pitying smile as she cleaned her tearful eyes, then sank back onto the bench.
Then Goody Ann Putnam turned to the crowd, her voice was louder. "So… as you can see with your own eyes… this witch has walked amongst us for far too long. Eating our bread, smiling at our children… all while dancing with the devil in secret."
Her arms lifted slightly, guiding the crowd's attention to the accused. "This is not only a crime against man—it is a crime against God Himself! For in harming His children, she has spat on His name. And know this—such evil never works alone. The Devil works through his servants, and she has been all too willing…"
Behind the accused, at the very back of the meeting room, sat a row of benches for the onlookers. Most of the seats were filled with members of the Puritan community. They sat straight-backed and unmoving, a single, dark block of silent judgment.
In the middle of them was Madame Ginevra, who had her black bonnet tied so tightly under her chin. Her long black dress covered her from neck to feet, and her posture was perfectly straight. On her lap, her gnarled fingers clutched a worn prayer book.
Beside her, stood Thomas, his hands were clasped. Around both of them were other high-ranking Puritans—men in plain black coats, their faces severe and unsmiling.
"Villagers, I call upon you to bear witness to her guilt. For the sake of our homes, our children, and the soul of Salem itself, we shall see this evil rooted out and burned away, that it may never again poison our fields or darken our days....."
"And let the name of Elizabeth Device be remembered—not as one of Salem's daughters, but as one of Hell's own..."
Silence followed.
And with that, Goody Ann Putnam concluded her speech, her gaze sweeping the crowded room before falling on the woman bound before her.
The accused.
She was a wreck of a figure, slumped against the wooden post, her hair matted to her face with sweat and dried blood. Ugly purple and yellow bruises were across her cheekbones, and her lips were split, one side crusted with a dark line of red. When she tried to straighten her back, the rope pulled tight against her already bruised wrists.
Goody Ann Putnam's voice was louder this time. "Before God, before this court, and before the same villagers who have trusted you… who have prayed for you… I ask you—have you anything to confess?"
Silence.
The accused lifted her head with effort, she let out a raspy cough before replying.
"I… didn't… do it,"
Suddenly, Mummering broke through the crowd—some scoffing, others whispered prayers.
Goody Ann Putnam's brow furrowed, lips curling into that look of disappointment. "You deny," she said slowly, "even now? With so many souls departed under your witchcraft?"
The woman's head jerked in a frantic shake. Her chest puffed as she forced more words out. "I never… harmed… a soul. God strike me… if I lie."
Silence once again.
The crowd rustled as Goody Ann Putnam let out a deep breath and turned from the accused to face the magistrate.
"Nevertheless, The good people of Salem deserve to know the truth," she declared, "That's the reason why today I have brought with me not one, but two witnesses—neighbors of the very accused—whose eyes and ears have seen what the Devil would have kept hidden."
The murmurs grew louder. All eyes fell on the first figure—a gray-haired woman, wrapped in a worn shawl—who stepped forward, clutching her hands tightly.
Goody Ann Putnam said letting the woman pass as she made her way to the altar. "Goodwife Martha, kindly tell this court what you have witnessed."
Goodwife Martha made a cross sign and took a deep breath "Three months past, as I was gathering herbs by the creek, I saw her—this woman here—kneeling in the water. She was speaking to it… as though it were listening. When I called to her, she turned to me with a look I shall never forget. It chilled me to my very bones to be honest"
Goody Ann Putnam asked curiously "And did she speak words you understood?"
Goodwife Martha replied, narrowing her eyes, trying to remember the details clearly. "No.....not really… it was no English I've ever heard. Sounded like… muttering, but strange, like from the throat."
Goody Ann Putnam asked curiously, as she narrowed her eyes. "Would you call it… prayer?"
Goodwife Martha lightly hesitating replied "…Perhaps… but not the Lord's prayer, Ma."
Goody Ann Putnam quickly turned to the judge and said "Not the Lord's prayer—yet spoken with devotion in the dead of night by the stream. I put it to you, Salem… who, but a witch, kneels to the waters and prays in a tongue unknown?"
Gasps spread through the crowd. The accused tried to rise to defend herself, but the guards forced her back down.
Magistrate Hathorne struck the table with his hand for silence, and said out loud "Let the other step forth who hath knowledge of this woman's works."
Then Goody Ann Putnam lifted her hand, calling the second witness forward—a tall man in a leather apron, his face dark with soot.
A broad-shouldered farmer, coat worn from labor, rose slowly from the benches. His boots struck heavily on the wooden floor as he came forward. He bowed stiffly to the magistrates.
The Magistrate asked "Your name?"
"Jacob Fuller, sir."
The magistrate dipped his quill to record the name. "Tell this court what you have witnessed."
Jacob took his hat off as a sign of respect before looking at the crowd. "It was but a fortnight past. My cow, strong and doing well in the morning, was found dead in the evening. No wound upon her, yet the animal was stiff and black around the tongue. That very night, as I went to draw water, I met this woman upon the road. She stopped, and she looked at me with a smile most strange. And she said—"
He paused, swallowing hard.
"'Your cow will give you no more milk and your hens will give you no more egg.'"
The magistrate leaned forward.
Jacob fuller replied staring at the judge and then at the accused. "And I hoped that....that was the very end of it all.....but two of my hens were also found dead likewise, with their necks twisted as though by unseen hands."
The accused's head jerked up, her voice ragged.
"I never spoke such words!!"
Jacob's face reddened, his fist clenching tight upon his hat. "She lies, sir! As God is my witness, she cursed me to my face, and the curse fell." The villagers gasped, as some women clutching their children closer.
The magistrate raised his hand for silence.
"We have heard. Goodman Fuller, you may step back."
Jacob bowed once more, his eyes still locked on the accused, then returned to his bench.
Goody Ann Putnam turned to the crowd, her voice rising. "Dear Villagers, here are two witnesses, of sound mind and long-standing in our town. Both have seen the unnatural works of this woman with their own eyes. Are we to dismiss their words and risk the Devil's hand upon our homes? Or shall we take the righteous path and cut the root of this poison from our midst?"
The crowd erupted into a low mummering once again, whispers and gasps were heard all over the room. Faces turned, some filled with fear, others with anger.
Goody Ann Putnam stood tall on the altar, her chin high, her eyes never leaving the bound woman. She waited—calm, patient—as though she expected the accused to finally give in, to break, and confess before all.
But the accused did not.
Instead her gaze met Ann Putman intensely, her lips trembling, yet no words came at first. Instead, her eyes searched the crowd—wild, desperate—until they landed on a small figure at the front.
Her daughter.
The girl stood pale and trembling, her hands clutched together, her wide eyes full of confusion and fear. She looked too young to understand what was happening to her mother.
The accused's face showed intense pain, while her eyes filled with rage as she shifted her gaze from her daughter and fixed them back on Ann Putman.
"You bunch of lying fools!"
Silence returned.
Goody Ann Putnam took a single step forward and replied with a smile. "Then you leave us no choice… for the truth shall come forth, even if dragged from the lips of a soul that knoweth not good nor evil."
The accused's eyes widened, darting between Ann Putman and the hostile faces in the crowd. What? Another bloody witness? The accused thought.
Goody Ann Putnam's voice was calm, almost gentle, as she beckoned the child.
"Jennet…come forward…."
The accused's head jerked toward the name—she seemed to have stopped breathing for a second.
From the back of the crowd, the small figure of her nine-year-old daughter emerged, walking slowly, hesitantly, with her bare feet. Fifty pairs of eyes turned to watch. The girl's hands fidgeted in front of her, clutching the hem of her dress tightly.
The accused's face is filled with shock. Her eyes, wide and watery, locked on Goody Ann Putnam in horror. "No!!" she shouted, struggling against her bonds.
Jennet froze in the middle of the hall, her gaze locked on her mother. "Ma…?" The girl's small voice trembled, the first tear slipping down her cheek. She began to sob and clutching her dress tighter.
The accused pushed herself to her knees, ignoring the ache in her ribs. Her hair had fallen over her face and her voice was quite strained from the constant shouting.
"Don't touch her! I beg of you! She's all I have!"
Magistrate Hathorne struck the table with his hand for order once again.
Silence.
Goody Ann Putnam's eyes softened as she looked at the trembling little girl before her. She stepped forward slowly, her skirts brushing the dirt, and knelt so that her gaze met Jennet's.
"Jennet… listen to me, child…" she said in a voice as low as a whisper, her hand rising to cup the girl's cheek. The touch felt almost motherly.
"I know… how you feel, believe me…"
The girl tried to hold back her tears. Her small shoulders shook, and her lower lip trembled slightly.
Goody Ann Putnam leaned closer, her voice gentle, almost motherly. "But sometimes, child…" she whispered, tilting her head just so, her eyes never leaving the girl's, "…God takes from us what we love most. Not to harm us… but to keep us safe."
"The things we cling to… the things we beg never to lose…" she paused, her eyes teared up too as though she, too, had once wept such tears, "…He lets them go. Because He knows what we cannot handle"
The little girl's tears rolled down, slow and silent.
Goody Ann Putnam's lips curved into a small, sorrowful smile. She lowered her voice so only the girl could hear. "And I know, my sweet child, that it breaks your heart. Oh, I know it well…"
She reached out and let her fingers almost touch the girl's cheek, but stopped just short and said "…God just....," she finished softly, "...just asks us to be braver than our years, and to speak the truth… no matter how heavy it feels."
From the floor, the accused pulled hard against the guards, her wrists straining against the rope until she was bruised. Even in that pain, she managed to tell out.
"Don't listen to her, Jennet! Look at me! I'm your mother!"
Goody Ann Putnam did not flinch. She stayed beside the trembling girl, her hand resting lightly against Jennet's cheek, wiping the tears away. "Hush now, little one…. You are still so young… too young to see the truth for what it is. But one day—when you are grown—you will understand."
"The woman who calls herself your mother is not what she seems. You think she loves you… but monsters wear the faces of those we trust.....the most"
Jennet's eyes darted to her mother. The bound woman stared back, her battered face looked so pale, her hair hanging loose in tangled strands. She looked thin, scarier than Jennet had ever seen her—Jennet asked herself if she had been blind all along to not have seen these signs?
The mother's mouth opened once again. "Jennet, please! They're lying to you! You know me—you know me! Look in your heart, child!" She struggled to rise, but a guard's boot pressed her shoulder down hard against the floor.
"Hold her still," another muttered.
The crowd murmured once again.
Goody Ann Putnam withdrew her hand, letting her palm slide slowly away from the girl's cheek. She stood, smoothing her gown as the judge's hammer struck the wooden block with a loud thud.
"Silence," the judge's voice echoed.
Goody Ann Putnam slowly stepped back, her skirts brushing the dirt floor as she gave the girl room. "Go on, dear," she said softly with the calm demeanor. "Speak thy truth."
Jennet swallowed hard. Her small hands twisted the fabric of her dress. She felt the eyes of the village—fifty faces, stern and waiting—bearing down on her, waiting for her testimony.
She took a deep breath.
Ann Putnam turned then, her gaze falling on every face in the room as she spoke once again. "Jennet Device, the daughter of the accused, has a confession to make. Against her own mother."
A ripple of gasps moved through the crowd.
"If we do not believe Mary Warren," she continued, "or Goodman Fuller, then who among us could doubt the words of a child? A child whose own blood is tied to the accused? Tell me, Salem—who would not believe the daughter of a witch?"
A murmur swept across the benches. Men leaned forward, women clutched their children closer, and all eyes turned back to the trembling girl.
Ann Putnam's smile returned, warm and bright, as she looked at Jennet. Then slowly, the smile faded, her face tightening just immediately. "Who stands here before the people of Salem… before the judge… and before Almighty God Himself."
She fixed the girl with a steady stare.
"Do you understand, child?"
Jennet nodded quickly, her tears fell down quickly.
"Jennet Device," Ann Putnam said. "Is your mother… an evildoer and a witch?"
There was a long pause. As everyone seemed to stop breathing and every eye was locked on the little girl. Jennet's lips trembled as sobs escaped her chest. She looked at her mother one last time.
The accused stared back, eyes wide and her face was filled with disappointment. She seemed to have given up hope as she knew the only person that could have at least given her a chance to survive this trail seemed to turn their backs against her aswell.
"Jennet…" Ann Putnam called again with that same stern look.
The girl whimpered, a soft sound like a wounded bird. "Mh…"
Ann's voice grew more demanding.
"Is your mother a witch?"
Silence followed once again. But this time, the girl's head bent lower, her tears dripping onto her dress. At last, in a broken whisper, she spoke:
"Yes…"
The mother's eyes widened in shock. There was a silent cry as her tears streamed down her bruised face. The guards dragged her to her feet. She fought to look at her daughter one last time as the ropes bit into her wrists.
Goody Ann Putnam let out a tiny smile, slow and satisfied, as the crowd spat their curses and hissed their prayers. Mothers shielded their children's eyes, men called out "witch," and the name "Elizabeth Device" was spoken with scorn.
As for Jennet, she just stood frozen, her hands covering her face.
She wiped.