The Harrow House

Preface

Salem Town, Massachusetts Bay Colony
1693

Distant cheers emanated from across the road, echoing through the empty halls of the mansion. The quick patter of hooves and determined stride of boots against the cobble soon followed as the crowd filed out of the court house. From beyond the shutters of my window, I could see the flickering crimson glare of their torches as they made their way through the night-shadowed town. Lifting my gaze, I watched them pass. My eyes searching the shadowed faces of the mob for one that I recognized until suddenly, the loud crack of a musket suddenly fired, startling me.

Jerking away from the window, I shook the desk before me, swaying the lit candle adjourned atop it. The candle wobbled as the commotion grew louder, and just as it made its way to tip, I reached a hand out to sturdy it. Distracting myself, I watched the small flame flicker, casting a dim orange light over my suit-clad arm while I waited for the drum of their steps to pass by my residence and fade into the night.

When they had finally gone, a deafening silence fell over the dark walls of my room. Shifting in my chair, the wood creaked and groaned as I reached for my quill, dipping it in the ink as I wrote.

Mother,

Today marks the eve of the 5th of November, more than six months since your passing. Though it has been some seasons hence, I feel the need for your guidance now more than ever. Not a day has gone by where I do not think of your untimely death, nor does Father. Though we both mourn, I fear that he has descended beyond grief, falling into the madness that has swept this town like plague.

Word has spread around town that this winter will be one of the coldest winters on record, which with the events of each passing day, I cannot help but feel a sardonic sense of agreement with. Ever since the new Reverend came sweeping into the village, this town has never been the same. Madness like fever has swept over this town, taking young and old alike in its detranged clutches.

Though they have long passed, even as I write, I can still hear the crowd's anxious chants as they make haste from the court to the Gallows once again. As of late, it seems there is not a night in which I do not hear them. Thus I have no doubt that he is among them. Father, being the proud Governor he is, is no doubt compelled to guide the people to another gruesome trial in hopes that the death of another witch might end this madness.

Yet, it appears I am the only one who can see that his actions are futile. With each death, fear spreads, leaving nothing but chaos and pain in its wake. Nothing anyone has done has had any impact at all on the sickness that has cursed this town and taken many lives, including yours. But with each passing day, I wonder which plague is worse; the one of sickness or the one of fear.

The hysteria that is consuming the colony and the resounding actions of man is perhaps more terrifying than anything I have ever seen, and will surely not go without consequences. Even now as I write, I can feel my own fear of the impending wrath that awaits us, and I feel as though I have come upon a crossroads. For I know things cannot go on they way they are and a great change is imminent. Though what it may entail, I am unsure.

Yours truly,

Edward Harrow

As my quill drew the final curve of the "w" in my name, a thud suddenly sounded from just beyond my bedroom door. Setting aside my quill, I turned in my chair, glancing at the solid oak door that separated my room from one of the mansion's many hallways.

I watched the door, waiting for the sound to come again. The clock hung on my wall ticked with each passing second, yet the silence only stretched on. Just as I was about to turn away, i noticed something begin to move. My gaze settled to the door, and the knob that had begun to move. The old metal creaked as the knob slowly began to turn, as if someone was trying to open the door.