Today in Salem: A hot wind is blowing as the Sheriff’s cart creaks to a stop under an old oak tree. A branch as big around as a man’s waist reaches out overhead and holds a noose, swaying in the empty air.
A hot sun glares down from the sky, and the horses are sweating, but the metallic smell of fear overrides all else. Hundreds of people have gathered, hungry to see the spectacle, and now they surge toward the tree. “Old witch!” someone shouts.
The once-unruly Bridget Bishop is standing in the cart, trying not to look up as a deputy ties her hands behind her back. She’s wearing her Sabbath clothes, the ones her daughter brought to her yesterday, the ones she wants to be buried in.
The deputy drops to one knee, gathers Bridget’s petticoats, and ties a rope around her legs. He yanks a sack down over her head, and then the noose, testing the knot.
Nearby, a minister is swaying on horseback, and now he raises his hand. The crowd shuffles, quiet for the moment, as he invokes the righteous fire of an angry God, and prays for Bridget’s soul. “Amen,” he says, finally, and the Sheriff’s horse jolts forward with the cart.
A giant huzzah lets loose from the crowd as Bridget leaps into the air and snaps down, hanging from the tightened rope, kicking and twisting for what seems like days before she is still.