Going to Salem

Walking down the empty hallway, I wondered if I had the right information. Slipping the flyer out of my pocket, I read for the millionth time “Salem meeting in Mahogany Hall”. I looked at the dark heavy door in front of me, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

I felt some trepidation but mostly excitement about pulling the trigger on my trip to Salem, my long-awaited graduation gift to myself. Having been to Boston a few years back, I wished I had taken the extra time to travel to Salem to pay my respects. The townsfolk who had been viciously killed hundreds of years ago deserved at least that.

The room was darker than it should have been when I entered, and it took me a minute to make out the shadowy group of students in the far corner of the room. They were not sitting around a table with notebooks and laptops as I had imagined. Instead, they gathered on oversized leather sofas set around a low coffee table. All heads turned to me as I stood in the doorway.

“Hello?” I called out, hesitant to enter. I was a bit disappointed by the vibe of the room. I was looking for fun traveling companions for my dream trip to Salem, and this seemed like a sullen bunch. How would I enjoy everything the town had to offer with this group? My gut told me something was off. I gripped my tattered notebook. Would my pages of research and itineraries make it to the light of day in this windowless room?

“And you are?” a thin, nasally voice called out from a sea of nondescript faces.

“Hi, I’m Abby.” Forcing air out of my lungs, I propelled the words across the dank space.

Silence.

“I’m here for the meeting,” I continued with a wavering voice. “You know, to plan the Salem trip.”

“Salem trip?” The question came back at me dripping with icicles.

Something’s wrong. Something is most definitely horrifyingly wrong. I gripped my notebook tighter, the spiral wire digging indentations into the palm of my hand. I reminded myself how desperately I wanted to visit the Dungeon Museum to watch the reenactment of the witch trials. I would not let this odd welcome stop me.

“Yes, the Salem trip.” I took a few bold steps forward. “I’m in the right place, aren’t I?”

“If you say so,” the nasal voice replied with no emotion.

A young man stood and approached me.

“Welcome. We are glad you came,” he said, his dark hair and eyes deadpan in sharp contradiction to his words.

“Won’t you have a seat,” he continued, waving his arm to the couch as the students shifted silently, allowing me space in the middle.

“Mariah, pour Abby a drink, please,” the nasal voice spewed out as I was finally able to put a face to her voice. She handed a mug to Mariah, her pointy black nails clicking unpleasantly against the copper, sending shivers down my spine.

I sat on the edge of the sofa trying not to slip back into the cushions and placed my purple spiral notebook on the dusty heavy table. It looked out of place among the plates of undistinguishable desserts. A glass pitcher sat in the middle filled with a dark liquid.

“Tell us a bit about yourself. Why are you here?” the petite nasally student asked as Mariah placed a drink in my hands. I stared down at the shadowy liquid swirling about. The copper mug was unexpectedly warm to the touch. I wondered how long I would be able to hold it without taking a sip. What was the rule of etiquette on creepy drinks?

My mind went to Proctor’s Ledge, the site of the 1692 hangings of the falsely accused. The nineteen handwritten prayers and basket of dried flowers sat on my desk impatiently waiting to be placed at each victim’s engraved stone. After years of obsessive research, I was finally going to walk the sacred ground of the memorial in person.

Every detail was in place, but being an enthusiastic traveler with a poor sense of direction, I craved companions to journey with. When I discovered the flyer with the words “Salem Meeting” in bold lettering, I had high hopes that I finally found my people.

I looked at the nameless students while preparing my answer to the questions presented to me. I glanced around the circle, noting the lack of expression on each face. The copper mugs sat empty on the table, and the strange desserts were untouched on the tray. My hand began to burn, but I couldn’t put down the drink. Nor would I take a sip.

“Think, think, think,” I chanted to myself. They want to know why I’m here. Who are these people, and why am I here? I felt panic rise along with the temperature of my drink. What in the hell was going on?

My purple spiral notebook mocked me from the darkness, the only color in the room. Remind me of who I am and why I’m here, I silently begged the shiny cover. Read to me my list of museum hours and entry fees. Guide me through the three-hundred-year old cemeteries with unreadable headstones worn with age. Show me where to park my car and pay for overpriced lattes to fuel me through my journey to the past. Remind me of life as it was before I entered that dark paneled room!

“I want to see the witches,” I blurted out nonsensically. I, of all people, knew better. I wrote my thesis on the Salem Witch Trials, detailing the innocent lives lost when mass hysteria spread throughout the town. I studied the trials obsessively, and was able to recite the transcripts by heart. Although hundreds of people were falsely accused, there were no actual witches in Salem.

“Confess!” The judge yelled across the crowded courtroom.

“I’m innocent!” Bridget Bishop pleaded for her life as her neighbors looked on with both pity and terror.

“Her specter is tormenting us!” Voices shouted as the children threw themselves on the floor writhing like animals.

“Guilty of witchcraft!” The baseless verdict rang out harshly.

“I am innocent!” The agonizing cry fell on deaf ears. Bridget was carted away in shackles to a filthy cell to await her execution.

“She wants to see the witches,” the nasal student roared, louder than I would have thought possible. She stood, towering over the low-lying couches, suddenly a force to be reckoned with. Her voice was strong and full, the tinny nasal quality suddenly a questionable memory.

“She wants to see the witches,” the crowd chanted in unison. Dark eyes turned to stare at me; eyes that had no gleam nor light.

Laughter erupted around me, becoming louder and louder threatening to swallow me whole. The mug slipped from my hands, the scalding liquid burning my legs as I stood and bolted for the exit.

“You scared away another one,” a chastising voice floated from the crowd as I pulled open the heavy mahogany door and ran, leaving my purple spiral notebook behind.