A/N: Thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts!

So, since I missed an update yesterday (RL and all that), this here is two chapters in one.

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 6 – Closer

Massachusetts Bay Colony – Andover Village: 28 September 1692

"Idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy…"

Mother reads to Father and I from the Bible on an afternoon that begins in typical fashion. Whilst she reads aloud, Father polishes the golden buckles on his shoes. I sit by the hearth and mend a pair of his black stockings, her words a monotone to mine ears.

'Tis colder than usual, a gray sort of day, even for the autumn season. Also typical in the mid-autumn afternoons, the auburn sun commences its fall from the grace of heaven, creating a glow that seeps through the windows and blankets all in a shade that begins as the color of crackling leaves but shall end in a shade that mimics my unseen love's hair – darkness interspersed with fiery flames. 'Tis a beautiful shade with which to end the day.

"…drunkenness, orgies, and the like..."

My unseen love. He makes his self sparse this past fortnight. Yet, I think of him often; with a constancy that bewilders me – for a creature with red eyes, who refuses to show himself, should not consume so much of one's soul. Yet consume me he does. What is more, as I have lain in my bed and read from my book of poetry, my gift from mine inconstant lover, then twice more performed that act to mineself that hath left me pleasured and pleading for him in breathless whispers, I begin to wonder if…perhaps…I am losing my wits.

Perhaps none of what occurs is real. At the very least, 'tis not real in the manner in which my mind hath placed these occurrences- as if they all should fit like a winter's quilt sewn together from like pieces. 'Tis fact, aye, that there was a Wampanoag warrior I once saw three years earlier when Father and I went to trade with them on their land. 'Tis fact that this Wampanoag warrior, with his golden beauty and his overt freedom, awakened sensations within me I knew not existed. 'Tis fact that, more recently, Father traded with the Wampanoags again and was given a book of poetry in exchange for his goods. Perhaps, those be the only facts.

Perhaps there was never a creature with red eyes gazing at me through the church windows. Perhaps he never followed me about the village, hidden in the shadows. Perhaps he was never hidden in the woods the day Rosalie and I argued. Perhaps he was never in my room, shrouded by darkness so that I merely saw his eyes aglow with excitement as he watched me call out for him with the only name I have for he:

My love.

For perhaps I have no love. Perhaps the warrior who gave Father the book, and mine warrior, be not one and the same.

And so, as I sit close to the hearth, utilizing the light from the flames to perform this mindless, witless task which I do detest, I make a valiant attempt not to think of him. For I have other thoughts on which I may think, such as my troubles with Rosalie, which she and I have not addressed. Or Salem's troubles with strange afflictions, which everyone in Andover addresses in frightened whispers.

"I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God..."

Mother continues, yet my mind doth insist on wandering, my traitorous thoughts invariably trailing to-

"Isabella, did thou hear what I just said, child?"

Mother's chastising tone makes me jump so that I stick the needle into my finger rather than into Father's stockings.

"Ow!" I cry out, then instinctively put my bleeding finger to my mouth.

"Pull thy bleeding finger from thy mouth," Mother cries in horror. "Thou be a woman, not a beast in the wild!"

"Pray forgive me, Mother. But it stung," mutter I, attempting to conceal the sting to my pride at being thus reprimanded. Nonetheless, I do as told and pull my finger from my mouth.

"Where be your mind, daughter? On what thoughts does thou spend thy efforts? For to be sure, thou was not hearing one word I just read from the holy book."

"Again, forgive me," say I more in an effort to have her shut her mouth and cease her ceaseless censure rather than due to any remorse.

"I may forgive thee, daughter," Mother replies, her tone refusing to be mollified despite her words of forgiveness, "but the Lord may not be as forgiving."

"Wife, 'tis sufficient rebuke for one evening. Do not ye think? Isabella shall know to pay heed in the future, both to your Bible-reading and to her needle."

Father looks at me, his rag and shoe in his hands, whiskers twitching. He then turns back to Mother, who quirks an eyebrow at he before returning her gaze toward me. Mother, I can acknowledge, despite my current state of resentment toward her, has the looks of a woman who was once quite pretty. I have been told I have her looks and Father's eyes. Alas, despite having a decent husband in my father, as far as husbands within mine observation seem to go, Mother has borne too many of our Puritan restrictions on her shoulders. As a result, I cannot recall when was the last time I saw her truly smile with her whole being. And so, at five and thirty, her features have withered and grown dry, merely an echo of what mine memory recalls from my early childhood. For a moment, I picture mineself forced to grow as dry and mirthless as she, any bloom of youth withered until I be merely an echo of what I could have been. A shudder runs up mine spine.

And so, when I meet her gaze, her look is not of someone wholly convinced of my contrition.

"Shall she, Husband? I fear I am not quite as confident as thee, for thy daughter be of the willful, bullish sort who prefers to learn through deed rather than heed."

"'Tis not a bad thing, wife, for man learns best through deed."

"Aye, perhaps man learns best from deed, but thy daughter be woman," Mother contradicts with more vehemence than I am used to witnessing from she, "and know thee well that the laws of our land neither encourage nor tolerate deed from women. And with times such as these," her voice trembles now, "when neighboring Salem be finding witches in its midst-"

"Be that what occurs in Salem, Mother? Witchery?" ask I, suddenly much more interested in the conversation.

"There be no witches in Salem," Father proclaims.

"Whether there be or not witches in Salem be not the issue," Mother says, frowning impatiently at him. "The issue be that the Salem elders have now found a blame for all that goes wrongly in their village. And 'tis just the sort of solution that would appeal to our elders – to the goodly Reverend Newton." She shuts the Bible. "Good Lord, Husband, why did you allow Isabella to refuse the Reverend's son?"

"Because I did not love him, Mother." My warrior, my love, flits through my mind…riding atop his great stallion…handing Father the book of poetry for me. But he does not exist.

Mother shuts her eyes. When she reopens them, she meets my gaze once more. Her look now is beyond silent beseeching. 'Tis…haunted. 'Tis the look of someone who knows any further pleas be futile, for they shall fall on deaf ears. 'Tis the helplessness of a mother who knows she has given birth to a child who is now beyond her. Even more so, she has not the power to protect that child because the child no longer desires the safety of her mother's skirts.

With a sigh of exhaustion, almost as one would speak the word 'surrender,' she asks,

"Where be your thimble?"

"I have misplaced it," admit I.

She shakes her head. "If thy head was not attached to thy body."

"Isabella, perhaps a brisk walk to the blacksmith shall cure thee of thy afternoon fog," Father suggests. "You may procure thyself a thimble and see if Goodman McCarty has my new buckles ready."

"Aye, Father," say I, briskly sprinting from my seat.

"'Twill be dark soon," Mother warns as if I were walking ten miles rather than a small fraction of that, and to a destination I could locate blindfolded with how many times I have taken the same, unvaried path.

"She shall be back before the sun finishes setting. Correct, Isabella?" says he with urging in his tone.

"Aye."

"Very well," Mother murmurs, though I have already donned my cloak and pulled my cape over mine head. And with a grin concealed by the hood, I yank open the door with the desperation of a young woman who has been shackled for ages.

"I shall return quickly!"

OOOOO

A few houses down, I come to the property belonging to the Hale's. In the vegetable garden, someone be knelt and hunched over the cabbage patch, a black cloak covering the person from head to foot so that only pale, thin, and bony hands peek out from the wide sleeves, two fingers on the right hand wearing a series of rings.

"A good afternoon to ye, Goody Platt," say I as I pass Rosalie's maternal grandmother, lifting the hem of my cloak to keep it from dragging in a mud puddle.

For a few moments, she continues picking and weeding by the fading daylight without reply. I do not find this strange, for Goody Platt, a gray-haired and toothless woman, speaks but rarely. When abruptly she looks up and meets my gaze, I be somewhat startled. My breath hitches quietly, for her blue eyes, though they resemble those of her granddaughter, be filmed in the milky, white gauze of old age.

"I realize now, I have taught her too well," says she, as if we had been mid-conversation.

"Pardon?"

"She shall not speak with thee, Isabella," Goody Platt states, startling me all the more. But Rosalie has always claimed, quietly and with a secret smile I have always believed displayed teasing, that her grandmother be a seer, who hath passed down her abilities to her granddaughter. They be claims I have always listened to with a quiet smile of my own, for Father says there be no witches, no seers, no long-toothed monsters nor demons lurking in the shadows – excepting the ones our minds create.

But…if mine secret love exists, perhaps such things as seers, witches, and monsters exist as well.

In the next moment, I recall that my secret love does not exist. That recollection ceases my momentary fear of Goody Platt's second sight.

I offer a smile to Rosalie's grandmother. "Goody Platt, I come to speak with Ros-"

"Come hither, child." She beckons me with a bony, ring-encased finger while fog rolls in behind her and blankets the vegetable garden. For a moment, Goody Platt appears to be floating in midair.

My brow furrows as I hesitate.

"Come."

Swallowing, I do as bid, then I kneel beside her. Without speaking a word, she yanks my left hand, and I gasp as she further extends my finger – the one I pricked – and squeezes the tip, drawing a drop of blood. It drips into the unseen vegetable garden. She then pulls two of her rings off her finger and slides them onto mine. I must look at her with an expression that displays my massive confusion, for she grins a toothless smile.

"'Tis the best I am able. For she no longer listens to mine advice, and ye have claimed not merely both the beauty and the wit, but the affection she desires." She moves in and then, whispers in mine ear. "Never remove those."

"Goody Platt, I do not comprehend-"

"Go now, Isabella."

"But I want to speak with Rosalie."

"Go."

Goody Platt holds my gaze through eyes that appear almost blind…yet somehow seem to see through me. And…Lord help me, I have not the courage to defy her.

"A good evening to ye, Goody Platt," say I, rising once again to mine feet.

Goody Platt resumes her garden work.

OOOOO

As I stand by the smithy with Emmett, my mind be in an unsettled state as muddled as the wet ground. I cannot think straight. Emmett, however, appears not to notice mine upheaval. He apprentices for his Father, and so Goodman McCarty has gone home and left his son to close shop.

"You arrived just as I be about to douse the fire," Emmett says, shining mine new thimble. "The rain has kept most customers home, and 'tis late in the afternoon in any case."

"I do apologize, Emmett," say I, though my thoughts be on other issues rather than his smithy.

Emmett pauses. He leans in, hunching his shoulders for he be quite tall, then levels his eyes with mine.

"I ask not for an apology, Isabella, for I would have kept the smithy open all night had I known ye had a need for mine services." He smiles and hands over a shiny, new thimble. "You may have it without charge."

"I thank you," say I simply.

Emmett takes a step forward, closer than he has ever stood to me. Closer than most would deem wholly appropriate. I take a step back.

"Isabella-"

"Emmett, what of Rosalie?"

"What of Rosalie?"

"When we were younger, thought I, thought she, thought all, 'twas she whom you would marry."

He grins softly, tilting his head to the side as if he finds my words endearing. "When we were younger, I did fancy her. But I be not a boy, rather a man now."

I shake my head. "Say not such things, for she be my friend and-"

Emmett holds up a finger. His head moves from side to side. Then he looks at me and gestures wordlessly toward the back of the structure.

I offer him a deep frown in reply.

"These are strange times, Isabella," he whispers. "I would not wish someone see us and speak lies which would find you in trouble."

"For no troubles would find you," state I with irrepressible fire, for my patience with the inanities of the day, the inanities of our world, bubbles like water in a boiling cauldron.

Emmett shrugs, and when he turns and walks toward the back of the blacksmith's shop, to where the woods encroach on our village, I hesitate. Then, with a glance over my shoulder, I follow.

We walk with he in front and me further back. Twice, I stop, for I did not expect we would wander into the woods. Thought I we would merely stand behind the structure and away from prying eyes so that we may speak of he and Rosalie.

Twice, I hiss his name. "Emmett!"

He looks over his shoulder and smiles, his pace un-halting. Through the canopy of trees above us, the moon has made its appearance. 'Tis whole this eve, keeping the darkness at bay. The evening breeze bites at my face. An owl hoots in the distance. My heart races.

Just as I determine I shall turn back, regardless of Emmett's continued trek forward, he stops. When he turns, I draw in a breath of relief as I approach.

"Emmett, I know Rosalie would make thee a good wi-"

He is upon me, his mouth on mine, his hands first in my hair then on my bottom. I reel back; or rather, I attempt to reel back, to avert mine mouth, but Emmett follows with his mouth.

"Emmett, what think you do?" I shout.

Rather than reply, he crushes his mouth against mine harder, with bruising force, so that mine teeth dig into the inside of my lips. I cry out, place my hands on his chest and push with all mine might. But 'tis as if I push against a wall.

"No!"

He obeys not.

And for a moment, for the smallest fraction of a second…I consider not struggling.

I think of my secret love, my nonexistent love. 'Tis he I want with every fiber of my being, but…be he exists not. And I feel desire. Dear Lord, for that same fraction of a moment, I do feel desire in my breast and in my mouth, and I think to myself that perhaps…perhaps I might pretend…

But Emmett kisses me roughly; not with the hunger of a lover, but with the demands of a possessor. His large hands paw at me with the fury of a bear, of an apathetic beast. He be a monster who cares only for his own gratification. Whether or not my love exists, I shall not be treated in such a manner.

Never.

For no one.

"Stop, Emmett!" say I, struggling against him. "STOP!"

When he fails to heed me and instead attempts to silence me by pressing his mouth all the harder against mine, then forcing his tongue deep into my mouth, I bite that invading tongue. Hard.

"ARGHH!" storms he, backing up. He then grabs his tongue between two fingers, and I see blood pooling, then dripping off his tongue.

"Harlot!" cries he, glaring at me contemptuously, though the word sounds peculiar with the manner in which he holds his tongue between his fingers. I know not why, perhaps 'tis all the confusion of the day, the blood pounding within mine chest, the edge of fear turned into madness.

I laugh.

I laugh loudly, the sound echoing through the woods and bouncing off the trees. His glare turns rabid, like a true wild beast, yet I cannot stop laughing – until his right arm pulls back, all five fingers on his hand extended. Aye, my laughter ceases, but I lift my chin high.

"If thou strikes me, I shall strike thee back."

Now he laughs. "What harm can a mere woman-"

He be unable to complete that thought. Quite suddenly and bewilderingly, Emmett flies upward. He be suspended in midair for two heartbeats, his eyes bulging in pure fear. In the next moment, his back strikes the tree behind him and falls he limply, like a marionette I vaguely recall from mine childhood. The leaves that were shaken off the tree from the impact scatter about and atop him.

For what feels like an eternity but merely lasts longer than did the handful of seconds of Emmett's attack on me, I stand there. My chest heaves. My vision blurs and transforms everything before me into an amalgamation of colors – oranges, browns, greens, and red…bright red.

Finally, he sets a hand on my shoulder; the touch of a comforter, of a lover. 'Tis so careful and soothing, like a butterfly perched on mine shoulder.

"Are you well?"

I shut my eyes at the sound of his voice. Deep. Strong. At the warmth of his breath washing over me.

"Aye," I breathe in return. "Somewhat sore…be he dead?"

"Not yet. But I shall avenge you and sate my thirst with one-"

"No," say I quickly. "Nay, do not."

He moves not, and we stand silently. I reach for the hand resting upon mine shoulder, and I pull him closer, the heat of his frame behind mine. His hand be cold, and a peculiar shade as if it should be honey-toned but it is not. I turn over his palm and bring it to my mouth, pressing my lips to it.

He releases a long breath against the nape of my neck. "Isabella…"

My name falling from his lips, murmured with such surrender, with such adoration…I drop mine head.

"My love. Come closer."

I feel his other hand rest lightly on my hip; unsure, seeking permission, unlike the monster now under the tree.

"Hold me."

"I do not want to frighten you."

"Thou are not he, and I am not frightened. Hold me."

Ever so slowly, he slips both arms around me, then gently pulls my back against his hard chest. His hands rest upon my stomach, and he buries his face into the crook of my neck. And we both exhale as if we knew…somehow we knew…we would end up here.

"Isabella…" repeats he against my skin, over and over, sounding joyous and pained all at once. His frame is cold, but I have sufficient heat traversing through me to set the forest aflame, and so cold I feel not. "Isabella, I was hunting. I had to, for it had been too long. Had I been mere seconds longer…"

"You saw me that day when I went with my father to trade."

"Aye," confirms he, brushing his lips against my neck, back and forth. "I saw thee."

"You have been watching me…since then?"

"Almost since then."

"You sent Father the book for me."

"A gift for you, my love."

I am awash in tenderness. Yet, when I attempt to turn in his arms, he holds me firmly. His grip be a thousand times stronger than Emmett's grip; I sense it. Yet, I have no fear, for I know intrinsically that he shall never use it against me. I know this in the manner I know that no God that hath made this world would make him capable of hurting me.

"I want to see you," plead I. "I need to know thou art real."

"Feel my arms around you," breathes he in my ear. "Feel my breath on your neck. Real, I am. Yet, I am not the sort of man thou has ever seen."

"You are Wampanoag."

He chuckles but 'tis a mirthless sound. "I am both more and less than Wampanoag."

"Thou eyes…"

He stiffens at the mention of them.

"Allow me to see you," I repeat.

Slowly, his careful restraint eases, and I turn. Mine gaze first remains on his bare chest, for he be tall and dressed in the clothing of a Wampanoag warrior. The ends of his hair blow in the evening breeze. I draw in a handful of breaths. Then, I tilt mine head up.

His features be sharp and angular…just as I recall them, as is his peculiar-shaded hair, both too light to be native and too dark to be English. His eyes…are black and fathomless, like a moonless, starless night.

He tilts his head to the side, and holds mine eyes, his expression impassive. But 'tis as if he conceals great emotion. When I rest a palm upon his cold cheek, those eyes shutter.

"They become red, thine eyes?"

Eyes still closed, he nods. "When I must feed."

I do not comprehend what that means, but I do not admit this.

"Be ye afraid?" he whispers.

There be fear in his tone, timidity from such a powerful frame – a frame I just witnessed pick up Emmett in midair as if he were a ragdoll. I confess to myself that it fills me with a sense of power, this knowledge that he somehow fears me. But 'tis a power I neither shall ever use against he.

"Nay."

He reopens his dark eyes, watching me so fiercely that, did I not trust him with everything in me, I would be frightened. The moonlight creates a dark halo behind him, like a crown for a creature of the shadows. His next words add to this mystic image, as do the words he spoke earlier, which did not register in those first few seconds, but now…

'I shall avenge the wrong done you and sate my thirst…'

"Why does thou not want me to kill him?" he questions, the nostrils on his straight nose flared. "After what he has done…"

"Can he walk? Know ye?"

My love scowls darkly. "Aye, if I allow it, he shall walk, though with difficulty and broken ribs, away from this."

"Then allow him to walk, and perhaps he shall have learned never to attack a woman again."

He studies me through a gaze so black I thrill at the thought of losing my way within it. Then, he offers me a sharp, unwilling nod.

"Now, I must go."

Again, he merely nods.

"My father and mother," I explain, "they shall worry."

Another nod. When I cage his face between mine hands, those black eyes grow round.

"Here me, my love. I am not afraid."

An expression of pain crosses his features before he grins a cold, mocking grin. "Perhaps thou should be afraid. Ye have yet to ask what I be."

"I care not."

"Again, perhaps ye should. Isabella, I crave thee a thousandfold more than he ever could," he sneers, "and in ways thou cannot fathom."

The words are meant to unnerve me, to fill mine breast with alarm. Yet, instead, they make it all the harder for me to walk away now, though I know Mother and Father must be frantic.

"Come to me this eve, my love; hide within my room, as you have before."

His eyes widen infinitesimally, but he makes no reply.

"Make your vow here and now, and one way or the other!" I hiss fiercely, my grip on his face tightening. "Vow that ye shall come to me or forever stay away! For these weeks have been madness, and I shall not go on in such manner."

"My vow you have, Isabella Swan," he hisses in return, curving his hands around mine hips, "for I can no longer pretend to keep away. If you want me…I shall live for you," says he plainly. "I shall die for you if I must. And I shall kill any and all who try to keep me away."

If any of what has transpired this eve should frighten me, perhaps it should be this speech. However, now 'tis I who merely nods, for his words are, perhaps, the most beautiful words I have heard in mine life. They are the first thing to make total and complete sense.

When I lift myself on mine toes, he dips his head, his eyes veering betwixt my eyes and my lips…

"Isabella…"

Our mouths meet.

Instantly, I am more lost than I thought I ever could be…disoriented…astray…yet I am grounded, forever where I belong as he sighs quietly into my mouth, breathing his eternal devotion into me. His lips mold around mine with a gentleness that belies the animal strength within him. He suckles on my bottom lip, then the top, and aye, he is something…other. I do know that much.

"Open for me…" he murmurs, and I open, his tongue overpowering and excising what Emmett did earlier.

And when I come up for breath, I ask a question that, perhaps, should have been asked earlier. But it makes little difference.

"What is your name?"

His soft kisses cease not, even as he replies. "My mother passed away in childbirth. Her people named me Soaring Eagle for the violent yet transcendent manner in which I came into the world."

"Soaring Eagle," echo I.

Pulling back, he brushes his mouth against my forehead.

"My father's people call me…Edward."

A/N: Thoughts?

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Chapter Song Rec: CLOSER, covered by J2, featuring Keeley Bumford (original by Ne-Yo)

OMG, PLEASE LISTEN TO THIS COVER, GUYS. TALK ABOUT HAUNTING!

Turn the lights off in this place
And you shine just like a star
And I swear I know the face
I just don't know who you are
Turn it up in here
I still hear you loud and clear
Like you're right there in my ear
Telling me
That you wants to own me
To control me
Come closer
Come closer

Oh I just can't take myself away
Under a spell I can't break
I just can't stop
I just can't stop
I just can't stop
I just can't stop

In prep for the coming chapters, our SHORT HISTORY LESSON today will be about The Reverend Samuel Parris and his niece, Abigail Williams:

Samuel Parris was born in 1653 in London, England, to a family of modest financial success and religious nonconformity. He emigrated to Boston in the early 1660s, where he attended Harvard College. When his father died in 1673, Samuel left Harvard to take up his inheritance in Barbados, where he maintained a sugar plantation.

In 1680, after a hurricane hit Barbados, damaging much of his property, Parris sold a little of his land and returned to Boston, where he brought his slave Tituba and married Elizabeth Eldridge. Elizabeth was reportedly incredibly beautiful and was said to be one of the most beautiful women in Salem Village. They had three children, Thomas Parris, Elizabeth Parris, and Susannah Parris. Although the plantation supported his merchant ventures, Parris was dissatisfied with his lack of financial security and began to look to the ministry. In July 1689, he became minister of Salem Village (now Danvers), Massachusetts.

Salem Village was a contentious place to live and was known to be quarrelsome by neighboring towns and villages. Parris was the fourth minister appointed in a series of unsuccessful attempts to keep a permanent minister. Further tension was caused by Parris' delay in accepting the position and his inability to resolve his parishioners' disputes. There were also disputes over Parris' compensation. In October 1691, the town decided to stop paying his wages. These issues, and others that were more personal between the villagers, continued to grow unabated.

The events which led to the Salem witch trials began when Parris' daughter, Betty, and her cousin, Abigail Williams, became the first afflicted girls in Salem. Despite the fact that she was one of the main accusers during the Salem Witch Trials, not much is known about Abigail Williams before or even after the trials ended.

What historians do know is that Abigail Williams was born on July 12, 1680. At the time of the Salem Witch Trials, Abigail was living with her uncle, Reverend Samuel Parris, his daughter Betty Parris and Parris' slaves Tituba and John Indian. It is not known why Abigail was living with the Parris family but many historians assume her parents had died.

William's troubles began in the winter of 1691/2, when some of the afflicted girls were reportedly experimenting with fortune-telling techniques, specifically a technique known as the "venus-glass" during which the girls dropped egg whites into a glass of water and interpreted whatever shapes or symbols appeared in an attempt to learn more about their future husbands.

According to the book A Modest Enquiry Into the Nature of Witchcraft by local minister, Reverend John Hale, on one of these occasions, the girls became terrified when they saw the shape of a coffin in the glass.

Shortly after the incident, in January of 1692, Betty Parris and Abigail Williams began behaving strangely, having fits, screaming out in pain, and complaining that invisible spirits were pinching them. Ann Putnam, Jr., and the other afflicted girls soon started experiencing the same symptoms.

At the end of February, Reverend Samuel Parris called for a doctor, who is believed to be Doctor William Griggs, but he couldn't find anything wrong with the girls and determined they must be bewitched.

Just a few days later, the afflicted girls named three women they believed were bewitching them: Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osbourne.

The women were arrested and examined on March 1, 1692. During Tituba's examination, she confessed that she was a witch and warned the court that there were other witches in Salem. This confession confirmed the colonist's greatest fears that the Devil had invaded the colony and sparked a mass hysteria and a massive witch hunt in Salem.

"See" you tomorrow!