Salem

PILOT: PART ONE.

SALEM

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There has always been superstitions with witches, but the most infamous of times for it was in 1692 in Massachusetts. Some called it a lesson learned, some a waste of time and people. Yet most people called it one thing; the Salem witch trials.

From 1692 to 1693 there were fourteen victims; most consisted of women, all hanged except for one. It was a time of unforgiving paranoia; people pointed and unconditionally believed what was said for the sake of security. Afterall, anybody could be withholding a dirty secret from you without your own good in mind. To say the least, those two years were incredibly dark times that all would hope to leave in the past.

Unfortunately history repeats itself. One scrambled date later, in 1926, the superstition rises again; but this time it is not in a crowd, but in a single man.

Reynold Hawthorne.

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FEBRUARY, 1926. SCARSDALE, NEW YORK. 12:01 P.M.

The pews are emptied within the minute of the service ending. The corridors are vastly populated with both the departing and the mingling, causing the rows to easily become constipated. The contradictory reactions to freedom are less than appealing for the person who possibly wants to leave the most: the priest.

Reynold Hawthorne, a man in uniform but struggles to keep his hair in check, is desperate to escape the church after hosting a long lecture. While technically he is the one the church looks to for assistance and integrity, he is the last of anyone to be helpful; one of the skills he's exceptionally developed is getting out of things at record time. He hopes to expand his talent to simply getting out of the chapel before he can be stopped.

He weasels through the clusters of socializing, occasionally half waving and bidding farewell to those who get back in his way. As of the starting minute he's only seconds into his departure and is more than halfway through; notably faster than the usual. Perhaps he will get out of talking to anyone today. He can only hope so.

"Oh hello!" A woman shoots out to block him, "Astounding lesson today, Father Hawthorne, really!"

He staggers back before he can knock into the twittering intruder. His plans of escape are scratched when he takes in who's talking. It's her again - his new neighbor Abigail Brewer, the frumpy ginger. She's attacked him mercilessly for the past week with her pastries and inquiries.

Reynold blinks, mildly startled. "I can only take so much credit..." He flashes a faux smile to cover up the end of his sentence trailing off. After a mere split second of painful smiles and eyes flicking about the room he tries to get moving again. He pats the woman on the shoulder and pushes along.

She frowns briefly before going after the man. "I - I wanted to ask you something, actually!"

"Sorry Miss Abigail, quite busy! Must go now!" He is one mile an hour away from sprinting out of the chapel. He leaves the chattering behind as fast as possible, craving only one thing after a long day of speaking to a crowd of people.

Bourbon.

Reynold plops down in a worn in, patchy armchair and lets out a long breath of exhaustion. He puts the poison of choice to his lips and takes a long slurp rather than a logical sip. He's rationalized by now that if anything were to be this wonderful to indulge in, it should be taken full advantage of. The only consequence is an easily curable hangover.

He unbuttons and unbuckles everything to lay there a sloppy drunken mess. He's always been a cheap drunk, he's never spent more than a handful of coins on a splurge. His personal record of getting tipsy is within the hour with only a few bottles of his favourites.