Paul B. Thompson - The Devils Door: A Salem Witchcraft Story

It could only be one thing: Witchcraft!

When Sarah Wright and her father arrived in Salem Village, a strange affliction had begun tormenting some young girls there. After the doctor could not find a cause, he determined that it could only be one thing: Witchcraft! As fear and panic spread, so did the accusations. Nobody was safe. After the executions began, Sarahs father was arrested on suspicion of witchcraft. Will Sarah be able to save her father? Follow Sarah Wright on her journey in this terrifying tale of the Salem witchcraft trials.

The Devils Door tells a suspenseful tale and keeps it true to the period of the Salem witch trials.

About the Author
Paul B. Thompson is a freelance writer and novelist. He has written over twenty titles, including Libertys Son: A Spy Story of the American Revolution for Enslow Publishers, Inc.

If Mankind have thus far once consented unto the credit
of Diabolical representations, the Door is opened!

Sarah had the dream again, despite her many prayers. It was always the same. She awoke in her familys house in the Eastward. The house was eerily quiet and empty. Sunlight shone through the open door.

She threw back the quilt. Motes of dust whirled in the shaft of sunlight dividing the one-room house. No fire blazed in the fireplace. There was no sign of her father, Ephraim, her mother, Mary, or her brother, Simon. For some reason she did not call out to them. Throughout the dream she never spoke a word.

Wearing only her shift, she went to the open door. Outside, the yard was completely empty. Where was the dusty brown rooster who could not crow on key? Where was Simons dog, Kip? She stepped over the log threshold into bright daylight. The morning was hot, strange weather for so late in the year. Joseph Strong, who farmed the land over the hill, called it Indian summer. Sarah had heard the Wabanaki Indians practiced sorcery. Their powwows, or wizards, made pacts with the Devil to gain power over the weather.

She looked in the barn, which was just a shed tacked onto the end of the house. It was as quiet as a tomb. The pigs usually squealed loudly when anyone approached. She saw why the barn was so still: All the animals were gone. The only thing Sarah found was a single brown egg nestled in the straw. It was still warm.

Her heart raced with sudden fear. Where was everyone? Her father should be in the cornfield at this hour. He would know where everyone was.

Sarah walked, barefoot in her linen shift, down to the big maple tree. Its leaves were already gilded yellow. At the maple, the path forked. Straight ahead the path led down the hill, through the fallow field to the woods. Beyond the woods lay the Casco River. To the right were her familys fields. Sarah went that way.

Grasshoppers stirred as she kicked through the weeds. They fluttered away, brown as dead leaves. Flying slowly in dream-silence, they were the only living things she saw.

Shriveled and brown, the corn stood a foot higher than Sarahs head. Her father and brother had been cutting dead stalks and binding them into sheaves, but the work was only half done. There was no sign of Ephraim or Simon.

Something on the ground glinted in the strong sunlight. Sarah found her fathers sickle lying in the dirt. Her father would never leave a valuable tool on the ground. She picked it up.

An unrecognizable sound brought her around. It might have been a birdcall, a shout, or a scream. The dream-silence was so profound Sarah did not know what she heard, if anything. She wandered back through the soldierly rows of dried corn to the path. There was a ditch at the far end, lined with a blackberry hedge, and on the other side of that the garden patch where the Wrights grew squash and beans. Still holding the sickle, Sarah started toward the ditch.

Halfway there, she faltered. Staring at the sunlit gap in the blackberry hedge, Sarah knew she could not go any farther. There was something on the other side of the ditch, something terrible. The gap in the hedge beckoned like an open door. She could see nothing, but she knew it was there. Death was beyond the blackberries. Death, and the Devil awaited her.

The smothering silence ended like a clap of thunder. The sickle fell from Sarahs hand. There were stains on the blade she had not seen before.

Run! Run! Run, to save your life!

Hitching up her shift, Sarah ran. Her first thought was to get to the house, but by the time she reached the maple tree, a strong smell of smoke filled the air. Smoke was rising from the housemore smoke than ever came from the chimney. Sarah turned and ran to the unplanted field. She had long legs and could run like a deer. The wind tore her cap from her head, releasing a stream of honey-colored hair. She wanted to look back, but did not dare.

She quickly reached the woods. Goodman Strongs cows foraged there, trampling the underbrush until it was easy to run through. She heard the snap of twigs breaking behind her. Every sound was a stab in the back. Sarah plunged on, ducking under the low branches in her way.

Abruptly, she burst out of the trees, at the top of a steep hill. She almost fell. Waving her arms, she threw herself against a nearby boulder. Sarah clung to the sun-warmed stone, feeling every beat of her heart against her ribs. Her father and Joseph Strong had laid stone on the slope to make steps. At the bottom of the hill was a narrow, muddy beach. Every few weeks a boat came up from Casco Bay, bringing messages from the Bay Colony and goods for sale or trade.

Whatever was behind her was still coming. Twigs cracked and branches snapped all around her. Sarah pushed off the rock.

Halfway down the hill Sarah heard shouts from below. The boat was there. It was a big craft with high, pointed ends, manned by six rowers and a steersman. Sarah could see many people crowded into it. One was standing and waving furiously at her.

The sharp rock slabs cut her feet. Smears of red stained every step. Voices from the boat were calling, Come on, come on, dont stop. At one point she slipped, sprawling on her face. Then she heard someone call, Sarah, Sarah, get up! It was her father.

She scrambled up, and in two hops reached the little beach at the foot of the hill. Cold mud felt like balm on her torn feet. Leaning her hands on her knees to gasp for breath, Sarah was amazed to see a man in a steel helmet stand up in the boat. He raised a long musket, sighted along the barrel, and fired.

Flint scraped steel. She saw the priming flash, but did not hear the shot. Everyone in the boat was shouting now, calling her, begging her to come. Sarah waded into the cold stream. She knew how to swim, but no one could swim far with a wet shift on. Sarah waded and waded until the water was up to her chin. The people in the boat begged her to hurry.

A second man in the boat rose, shouldered a musket, and fired. This time the blast rocked her. She slipped and went under.

She was hauled, spitting, to the surface. Her father had her. Ephraim Wright heaved his daughter into the boat. Sarah landed in the laps of people she did not know. The womens faces were streaked with soot. Tears cut tracks in the black dust. Already the oars were biting the water. The boat pulled away from shore.

The last part of Sarahs dream was always the same. She sat up, gripping the side of the boat to steady herself. She looked back at the landing. Standing there were three men. A fourth lay sprawled on the steps, unmoving. They were Wabanaki warriors. Two clad in long buckskin shirts waved war clubs over their heads and howled like demons. It was the silent one, however, who haunted Sarahs sleep from that moment on. He was a great, muscular man, bare to the waist, with his head shaved except for a narrow scalp lock. Half of his face and chest was painted blood red, and the other half was dead black. In his hand was a long knife. He stared at the retreating boat, directly into Sarahs eyes.