Because It Is My Name

A breeze brushed against Sandy’s skin as she stepped out of the rental car, the crisp autumn air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. She pulled her scarf a little tighter around her neck and turned to Kevin, who was stretching after the long drive from Boston. 

“You ready for this?” she asked, glancing at the small welcome sign marking the entrance to Salem Village. 

Kevin smiled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You know me, history nerd that I am—been ready since we booked the tour.” 

Sandy chuckled. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been ready since you read The Crucible in high school.” 

The two joined their tour group near the reconstructed Salem Village Parsonage. Their guide, a woman in her mid-thirties with sharp eyes and an animated voice, introduced herself as Rachel and began leading them down a gravel path. 

“What most people think of as the Salem Witch Trials,” Rachel explained, “actually happened here, in Salem Village—modern-day Danvers. Salem Town, now just ‘Salem,’ was where the trials were held, but the hysteria started here.” 

Kevin and Sandy listened intently as Rachel painted a picture of the village as it had been in 1692: a small, deeply religious Puritan settlement on edge, where rumors and grudges festered like an open wound. The group moved through the preserved sites—the home of Reverend Samuel Parris, where the accusations began, the foundation of the old meetinghouse where examinations were held, and the village cemetery, where stones bore names that had long since passed into legend. 

“Bridget Bishop, Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Good…” Kevin murmured, reading some of the names aloud as they passed a historical marker. 

Rachel nodded. “Nineteen people were executed—fourteen women and five men. And let’s not forget Giles Corey, who was pressed to death under heavy stones for refusing to enter a plea.” 

Sandy shuddered. “I can’t imagine the fear they must have felt—knowing that nothing they said would save them.” 

The tour continued into the evening, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows over the village. Their final stop was Proctor’s Ledge, the site historians now believe was the actual location of the hangings. A small memorial stood there, simple yet profound, inscribed with the names of the accused. 

Kevin and Sandy stepped away from the group for a moment, letting the weight of history settle over them. The air was cooler here, and the silence was thick, as if the very ground held its breath. 

Kevin reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of Sassenach Whiskey. He unscrewed the cap, the faint scent of oak and spice drifting into the air. 

Sandy raised an eyebrow. “Really? You smuggled whiskey onto the tour?” 

Kevin gave her a wry smile. “I had a plan.” He knelt, pouring a generous measure of the amber liquid into the earth. “To John Proctor,” he said solemnly, his voice low but firm. “Because it is his name.” 

Sandy watched as the whiskey seeped into the soil, a quiet offering to a man who had refused to surrender his integrity, even at the cost of his life. 

Then, just as Kevin capped the bottle, a cold breeze kissed their skin. It was sudden and sharp, threading through the trees with a whispering sigh. 

Sandy exhaled slowly. “Did you feel that?” 

Kevin nodded, rubbing his arms. “Yeah.” He glanced around, as if expecting to see something just beyond the edge of the lamplight. “Maybe it’s just the wind.” 

Sandy didn’t reply right away. Instead, she looked down at the spot where the whiskey had vanished into the earth, then up at the darkening sky. 

“Maybe,” she said softly. 

But as they turned to return to the tour group, the wind rose again, rustling the leaves, and for just a moment, it almost sounded like a voice.

Kevin and Sandy lingered for a moment longer, standing in the dim glow of the tour group’s lanterns. The other visitors were murmuring among themselves, some taking pictures, others rubbing their arms against the unexpected chill. 

Rachel, their guide, had noticed as well. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she said, stepping closer. “There are always reports of cold spots here, even in the middle of summer. Some people say it’s just the way the land lies, others… well.” She shrugged, her eyes glinting in the low light. “Others think it’s something else.” 

Sandy looked at Kevin, her lips slightly parted. She wasn’t the type to believe in ghosts, but she wasn’t about to dismiss what they had just felt, either. Kevin, ever the rationalist, was staring down at the patch of earth where he had poured the whiskey, his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Proctor’s last words,” Kevin murmured, almost to himself. “He refused to sign a false confession. He said he couldn’t live without his name.” 

Rachel nodded. “That’s right. He wouldn’t let them take his honor, even though it cost him his life.” 

The wind stirred again, rustling the dried leaves at their feet, and Sandy couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t entirely alone. Not in a menacing way—just… watched. A presence, quiet but undeniable. 

“You know,” Rachel continued, lowering her voice as the rest of the group started making their way back toward the road, “there have been stories of people making offerings here—whiskey, flowers, coins—and then feeling something in return. A touch on the shoulder, a whisper on the wind.” She tilted her head. “You poured that whiskey as a tribute, didn’t you?” 

Kevin exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. It felt like the right thing to do.” 

Rachel gave a small smile. “Maybe he thought so too.” 

A shiver ran down Sandy’s spine, but it wasn’t fear. It was something deeper, more profound—a connection to history, to memory, to the echoes of those who had stood in this very place centuries ago. 

Kevin reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

As they turned to leave, the breeze rose once more, curling around them like a whispered acknowledgment. 

And though they never spoke of it again, neither of them ever forgot the feeling.