The nightmares plagued me, day and night, a portal to 1692 that wouldn’t shut. They went something like this:

“Did you hear what happened to Mr. Marshall this week?” asked Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a friend, and Mr. Marshall was my nosy next-door neighbor who glared at everything through his soot-covered curtains when he thought nobody was looking. 

“No, what happened?” 

“He’s had a run of bad luck ever since you accidentally broke his fence yesterday,” explained Elizabeth, stifling a giggle. 

“And… why are you telling me this?”

“I’m afraid he might accuse you of being a witch,” Elizabeth said, suddenly changing her voice to a nervous murmur. “Be careful, okay? Try not to go out too often.”

This was ridiculous. I’d heard the stories of witches, but it wasn’t like I had any witch-y attributes.  

After Elizabeth left, I paced the house in boredom, glancing at the family painting. Suddenly, I remembered Father. Wasn’t he supposed to be home by now? A swift knock perked me up, and I scurried toward the door. Too excited to check, I threw open the door, wearing a dazzling grin, just to realize it was only the constable and Mr. Marshall. 

“May we come in?” asked Mr. Marshall. His face hosted a triumphant smirk, accompanied by two chilling eyes that made me want to slam the door in their faces and hide in the attic forever. 

“Y-yes,” I stammered, avoiding his cold gaze. 

The two men walked into the kitchen and made themselves at home. 

“Do you know why we are here, Alice?” The constable paused, waiting for my answer, then thought better of it and droned on. “Mr.  Marshall here has accused you of witchcraft, young lady. That means unless we can prove your innocence, you will be hanged.”

Two minutes, and I was already sweating profusely. “I-I assure you, I’m not a witch. I’m right-handed, I don’t own any animal-shaped marks,–”

“See? I told you she was a witch!” Mr. Marshall growled. “She knows every single witch’s mark, yet she is still a little girl.”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” the constable replied, though I could tell Mr. Marshall was winning him over. “There is another way to prove your innocence. We’ll take your piss, bake it into a cake. If the dog eats it, you’re safe. If it doesn’t…we’ll talk about it when it comes to that. Sounds fair enough, right?”

It didn’t sound fair at all, but I nodded anyway. 

The next morning, we laid the cake on the porch, half of us hoping the dog would eat it. The other half, well, let’s just say they thought I was a witch. The dog bounded up to the cake, took one sniff at it, and ran away. My face paled as I realized what came next. 

“Tomorrow, at the gallows?”

I glanced frantically at my father, but his expression betrayed nothing as he gave the tiniest hint of a nod. 

“Very well. See you later, witch.”