Mystery of The Salem Witch

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the clearing as Eliza Gardner walked back from the river, her basket of herbs swinging gently in her hand. The village of Salem was quiet, save for the distant murmur of voices from the marketplace. She had always found the quiet soothing, a welcome contrast to the endless gossip and judgment that seemed to cling to every corner of town.

Eliza had kept to herself for as long as she could remember, her days filled with the tending of herbs and simple tasks. She was no stranger to whispers, especially from the women in town, but she had never cared. At nineteen, she was unmarried, and though some saw that as a failure, she saw it as freedom.

But freedom had its price.

It had started innocently enough, as these things often did. Thomas Wainwright, one of the most respected men in Salem, had begun visiting her more frequently. At first, he’d asked for remedies — tonics for his headaches, salves for his wife’s aching joints. Eliza had always been wary of Thomas, though he’d never given her a reason to be, at least not openly. But then, the tone of his visits had shifted. His smiles lingered too long, his hands brushed hers when they didn’t need to, and his compliments grew bolder.