EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – EVENING – JANUARY 26TH, 1692
Reverend Samuel Parris, a man of forty-five years with deep worry lines etched into his face, stood by the window of the very same cottage. His shoulders were hunched, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the curtain.
He watched them—Madame Ginevra and the other Puritans—his brethren, marching slowly past his home. He let the heavy curtain fall shut, blocking out the sight of them, and took a deep breath.
A loud snap of the wooden rod sounded as he tugged it too hard. He turned away, rubbing his temples, his eyes dark with exhaustion. He took a moment to breathe in and out. The only sound that was heard, were gallops of horses in a distance. Then he took a tiny candle from a nearby table, and lit the wick.
He reached down, carefully picked up the candle, and began to walk. The corridor stretched out long and dark before him, the hallway felt much colder than the other parts of the cottage.
He walked slowly, as he neared the end of the hall, he heard it.
Screaming.
He sighed slowly, for he knew from which mouth these voices came. It was a high-pitched, inhuman scream, full of pain and malice. It came from behind the heavy wooden door at the far end of the corridor.
He froze.
His mouth slowly fell open, as he forced himself to take a step forward.
Then it came again—another scream full of agony—followed by a deep, guttural moan that was even worse. His heart began to pound faster against his chest.
He turned his head toward the end of the dark hallway. There, barely lit by the candlelight in his hand, stood a heavy wooden door. Its surface was old and scratched.
He stared at it for a few seconds.
Then he took two more steps and reached the door. He placed his hand slowly on the brass handle. He hesitated, his fingers trembling, and then he slowly turned it.
The door creaked open
And then he saw them.
Betty Parris, his daughter—barely nine years old—lay on the bed. Her arms flailed in ways that were unexplainable, but her wrists were bound with rope, tied tight to the bedposts. Her hair was wild, plastered to her head with sweat.
She screamed again :
"URENTUR! FLAMMAE PURGANT! ME TANGUNT, PATER, ME TANGUNT!"
Abigail Williams, his niece—twelve years old—lay beside Betty. Her hand was raised high in the air, stiff as a tree branch, her fingers locked in a strange, claw-like shape. Her eyes were rolled so far back into her head that only the white part was visible. Her mouth was open in a silent, awful scream.
Samuel dropped the candle onto a small wooden table beside the door with a loud clatter. "What... has the devil done with thy souls...?" he whispered and walked slowly to them.
Titubi, his half-enslaved servant, a dark-skinned, middle-aged woman, was kneeling by the bed, wearing a torn shawl. She turned her head quickly toward him, her eyes wide, but not surprised. She held a warm wool rug in her hands and gently laid it over Betty's chest. Her other hand reached out and gently clasped Abigail's stiff fingers.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth Parris stood in the corner of this dim room. She was completely still. Her hands were tightly folded under her arms, and her body leaned against the cold window.
Her eyes were not focused on anything in the room, just locked in empty space. Her skin looked pale and grey, and her eyes were red and swollen, as if she hadn't slept in days.
Then her eyes slowly shifted, moving from the space in front of her to Samuel, her husband. Upon seeing him, she bit her lip, forcing herself not to scream for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.
She whispered
"It's been two weeks already, Samuel…"
She stopped talking for a second, holding back tears and with a bitter, hollow laugh, she added:
"Two godforsaken weeks..."
She paused.
Suddenly, a dry cough came from the bed.
It was Abigail.
It was a sound that seemed to tear at her little lungs, a harsh, wrenching noise that was far too abnormal for a child. Her body jerked slightly as the cough forced its way out of her throat.
Elizabeth's face changed as she turned her head toward the bed, her eyes full of unhappiness, and without a word, she walked to the door and opened it immediately. She was gone for a few seconds to get a cup of water.
As she left, Samuel stepped closer to the two girls lying in the bed. He lowered himself slowly onto one knee beside the bed. He placed one hand gently on the edge of the mattress, his fingers trembling.
Betty, his own daughter, lay still under the covers. Her face was pale, her forehead damp with sweat. Her long brown hair was sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was slightly open. She looked so thin and miserable.
Samuel reached out with a trembling hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face. He let his hand remain on her cheek for a moment. He stared at her, blinking slowly, his mind trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Then his eyes moved to Abigail.
She was lying on her side, stiff and frozen, her arm lifted halfway in the air as if she had been trying to reach for something that wasn't there. Her eyes were wide open, facing the ceiling.
Samuel touched her forehead aswell. His hand stayed there for a moment, before he pulled it back and let out a deep, shaking breath. His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. He shut it again, staring at the floor.
Then, slowly, he stood up.
He walked over to the table near the fireplace and picked up his Bible, which was old and worn, holding it tightly in one hand. He turned to face the door, his hand reaching out and resting on the brass handle. He took a deep breath once again and spoke softly, without turning back.
"We just have to believe… and have faith." He paused, then added, his voice a little softer, "In the Lord." He turned his head just enough to see the enslaved maid, Titubi, sitting quietly nearby, her head bowed. He gave her a slow nod. "I'll pray for them while I'm out."
His hand twisted the handle.
But before he could pull the door open, Elizabeth stepped back into the room. She held the cup of water in her hand and walked forward slowly.
Her eyes were narrow with confusion and her brow was furrowed as she watched her husband, puzzled. She didn't even look at the maid as she handed the cup to her. Her eyes were still fixed on Samuel. "You going…?" she asked, her voice calm and confused. "You going somewhere tonight?"
Samuel stopped.
His hand froze on the handle. His back stayed turned to her. "Yes, dear," he said, very quickly. "The Church is holding an important reunion."
Elizabeth stepped forward. She tilted her head, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest. "Samuel… don't you think it's wise of you to stay here?" she asked, trying to keep her calm demeanor steady. "Your daughter and your niece are sick. Don't you think you should be here… with them?"
Samuel slowly turned around, his face serious as he let out a deep sigh. He took a few steps toward her, slow and careful. "Honey…" he said softly, reaching up with one hand. He gently touched her cheek and whispered. "Tonight is… very important to me and to my fellow brethren. Perhaps the most important night ever…."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed as she tilted her head once again, letting out a short, cold scoff, and removed his hand away from her face and just looked at him in disbelief. He let out a sigh, barely looking at her, as he turned toward the exit once again. "As I said earlier," he uttered. "I'll keep them in my prayers."
She let out a small laugh. It was the kind of laugh you let out when something inside you is breaking, but you're trying to hold it all together with sheer rage. "Samuel, I mean… are you listening to yourself right now?" she asked, taking a step forward.
Elizabeth's voice was full of anger now. "So… after two cursed weeks of watching them suffer beneath your own eyes… this is your answer? More prayer?"
She took another step, her eyes fixed on his, begging that this was some kind of sick joke. "Just gonna pray it away? Again? Maybe this time God will finally answer, huh? Since He just missed the first fifty times you called upon his damn name."
Samuel lightly slammed the Bible down on the wooden table. A small puff of dust leapt from the old cover. He stared at Elizabeth with a sudden, burning anger.
"What…? You think this is easy for me as well?" he added. "You think… I… I haven't—" He paused, letting out a deep sigh as his gaze dropped to the floor. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. "Listen," he murmured. "I haven't been the same since the devil found its way into this house, okay?"
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes in disbelief. "Oh, I'd say it's been very easy for you," she said coldly. "Since I'm the one wiping vomit off the floors." She stepped closer to him, pointing at her chest with a trembling hand. "I'm the one holding them when they scream about demons crawling in their heads, begging me to make them stop seeing monsters that aren't even there."
A pause.
She wiped her sweaty palms against her dress. "So… go ahead and ask yourself who was never around?" she asked, her eyes filled with anger.
Silence followed.
Then she lifted her gaze and locked eyes with him.
"You, Samuel. Not once."
Samuel flinched and took a small step back. His mouth opened, but no words came—just a soft sigh. Then he shook his head, both hands half-raised as if fending off some accusation. "That's… that's far from the truth, Elizabeth, you know this," he stammered. "I—I was trying, I just—"
She didn't even let him finish. She stepped forward furiously. "And you have the bloody nerves, Samuel…" she hissed, leaning in close enough for him.
"…to stand here in front of me and talk to me about some dumb reunion you've got planned at the church?" She laughed without humor, shaking her head. "A gathering of saints, while your own house rots from the inside."
Samuel's eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked back up to her. His lips parted slightly, as though words might come if he gave them enough time—but nothing did. He looked cornered, and she stood just inches away, breathing hard.
"I mean, hell—Salem's got what? Forty ministers, maybe?" she said, almost laughing. "And how many of them actually show up to your little Friday circus? Six? Seven?"
She jabbed a finger into his chest.
"And still you walk about like missing a single gathering will tear the heavens asunder. As if God Himself crouches in the clouds, clutching a bolt of fire, waiting to strike Salem down because Reverend Samuel failed to show and mumble the same tired verses he's recited a thousand times."
Samuel's shoulders pulled back. Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his full height. His face turned to stone, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Nevertheless, Elizabeth." He placed a hand firmly over his chest, as his voice rose.
"I am a Reverend."
He stepped forward, closing the space between them until barely an inch remained. "And I carry a burden heavier than any man in this village. If I falter—even once—they falter with me!"
Then he looked at the sick girls.
"Look at them!"
Betty writhed against the bedposts, her wrists red from the rope. She bucked once, her face twisted in a silent scream, then let out a shriek. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her face like seaweed on a drowned corpse.
Just nearby, Abigail laid beside her. Her stomach lurched, as she had vomited a thick, tar-black sludge that sizzled and smoked as it splashed onto the wooden boards.
Samuel's hands trembled as he pointed with a shaking finger.
"Listen…" he said, his voice was deeper now. "If you even entertain the thought that I'll let that thing—" he gestured again, "—that devil—come between me and what I was anointed to do by the hand of God Almighty—"
He turned to face her, stepping in close range ."—then you might as well pack your soul and march it straight into hell with him."
Silence.
Elizabeth didn't flinch. She stared up at him with her face full of sorrow, and then slowly, she smiled. Not out of happiness. It was the smile of a woman who had suffered, screamed, and borne far too long to be afraid anymore.
"Is that so?" she replied, her voice was quiet.
"Yes, Elizabeth," he growled. "Yes."
There was a long, heavy pause.
Then Elizabeth let out another giggle, a dry, bitter sound. She took a single step back, her eyes wide, then shook her head slowly. "He still believes in a god. For pity's sake, Samuel," she repeated, her voice full of disbelief. She looked up—not at him, but at the ceiling above them.
She didn't wait for him to answer, as her boots slammed hard against the floor as she stepped forward angrily. "When the hell are you going to understand, Samuel?" She froze mid-step, her hands trembling as she jabbed a shaking finger at the floor beneath them. "This. Right here. This family." She let out a humorless laugh. "…This goddamn house."
Then, she exhaled through her nose—a wet, guttural sound echoed as the catarrh she'd been holding back finally escaped. She didn't wipe it away. Just stood there, eyes fixed on the girls.
"And this god you keep clinging to? He doesn't give two shits about any of it."
Then, she whispered.
"Just tell me where God is in all this....."
"Huh....?"
"We've already lost two of our own to the riot, I'm not going to just stand there and wait for another one to be taken away from me, Samuel." Her hand dropped slowly to her side, as if drained of all purpose. "....no amount of prayer… can explain what we've seen with our own eyes all these years."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, then another. She didn't bother to wipe them away. "I've tried, Samuel…" Her voice softened. "God, I tried.
Her hands rose on instinct, wiping the tears away, though they just kept coming. "For so long. For so long, I tried to believe in something." Then she looked up again, her eyes red and wet. She swallowed hard and uttered as she whispered.
"And if He's real…"
She blinked, and a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. "Then He knows exactly how hard I tried." She wiped her face again with the back of her sleeve.
"But I can't keep doing this," she whispered.
"I really can't, Samuel."
And then she just... stopped.
She stood there, her whole body trembling, tears slipping down her face in silence. Her lips parted slightly, as if another word might come, but it didn't. She had nothing left to say.
For the first time in a long, long while, Elizabeth felt so empty.
Samuel glanced once more at the girls and let out a long, quiet sigh, then gripped the bible tighter and walked to the wooden door. His hand wrapped around the handle.
Behind him, Elizabeth stared in shock. This… this was his response? After everything? After she had emptied herself right there in front of him? And then—without meaning to, without even knowing it was coming—she spoke.
"That's why I called someone over."
Silence.
And in that moment… Samuel froze.
He didn't turn at first. Just stood there with his hand still on the door. Then, slowly, he turned back. "What… did you just say?" he asked, his voice suspiciously calm.
Elizabeth didn't answer, only stepped back once, her eyes dropping to the floor.
Samuel's face shifted, his calm demeanor finally cracked. In a sudden burst, he grabbed her by the arms—roughly. "What the hell did you just say…?! Huh? What the hell did you say, Elizabeth?!!!"
Elizabeth gasped as her back slammed into the edge of the table. She stumbled, and her hands flew up, shoving at his chest with all her strength. "I called someone, okay?!" she shouted. "I called someone! Someone who might actually help! Because you sure as hell weren't going to!"
By the bedside, Tituba said nothing. She quietly pressed a damp cloth to Abigail's lips and tilted the cup toward her mouth. Her eyes never left the girl.
Samuel's bible slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a hollow thunk. He didn't even glance down. Instead, he screamed. "Jesus, Elizabeth! What in God's name were you thinking?!" Spit flew from his mouth, landing on her cheek.
He turned away, pacing fast, aimless, his eyes wide and wild. He dragged a hand through his hair and yanked it back, trying—failing—to calm himself."Do you have any idea what the Church would do to us—to me—if they ever found out what's happening in this house?"