duannewalton
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- May 7, 2001
- Messages
- 1,305
- Points
- 36
In the Year of Our Lord, Sixteen -Hundred and Ninety -Two...
May God grant wisdom to those who find this, that they may know the how and why of what I have done.
We came to this new world seeking to worship in peace, but Lucifer drew his schemes to destroy us We were struck with harsh elements and threats from the savages, but we stood firm and endured. But Lucifer determined if we would not be destroyed from without, we would be destroyed from within. He has drawn from among us souls into his service, to afflict and torment us. His Hellish mark has been left in our neighboring villages, now he has come to leave it in ours. But never had I dreamed in such a fashion.
It began at our Sunday morning service, during the reciting of the Psalms. All was well until the most unseemly noise disrupted us: several young ladies in the congregation began giggling uncontrollably. The more they were ordered to stop the more they continued. They were soon on the floor, faces red with such laughter that had never been heard, begging for it to stop. It was realized that this was something far more serious.
Investigations were made as to their afflictions. They insisted that they saw huge dark birds perched in the rafters of the church, watching them with eyes that glowed with the flames of Hell. They then took wing and flapped around their persons. Their feathers had sent them into the giggling fits, driving them to mad hysteria. Satan had struck!
The village fathers gathered for an urgent meeting. How could we fight off this evil? I was certain that it would be dealt with. Surely the Governor's newly appointed court would hear and determine these matters? But the others were not so convinced. Grateful though they were for our Governor's intervention, they had more established methods at their disposal.
All eyes looked to Reverend Bradler, our minister for the past seven years. The imposing German stood and promised that The Lord's will would be done. He knew exactly what had to be done.
And it was determined that I would assist him.
The wind and rain on that first night were dreadful, and the jail was no better. As we headed down the dank passageway towards the cell where the first accused awaited, I spoke of my doubts to Reverend Bradler. Were these methods so necessary? The Reverend told me this path had been chosen for him long before he was even born. His father had hunted down witches, wizards, and other servants of Satan in his beloved homeland, as did his father before him. It was a divine purpose given by God, and he would not fail at it. As he journeyed to the new world, he knew he would one day have to heed the call of his family, and he prepared for it night and day.
The single flame of a candle did nothing to dispel the gloom of the cell. If anything, it was only made worse! On the table next to the candle were the queerest things: a bowl of salt brine, a large spoon, and a long rod. Under the table, undisturbed by our entrance, slept a pair of young goats on a pile of straw.
And there, in the middle of the cell, was the object that made the gloom even more worse: a chest large enough to contain a single person, the lid a row of narrow bars running down the entire length. A pair of women's boots stuck out through two holes at one end, like stocks. Inside the chest, strapped down by her legs, wrists, and forehead, was the accused.
She was a mature woman of the Catholic faith, yet was tolerated in our village mostly because of her skills as a dressmaker. Yet she had been discovered dancing in the forest with her feet unshod and wearing the most scandalous scarlet dress. It was this flimsy rag that now covered her, but only barely as her womanly shape could be discerned. She peered up at us through the bars with an odd smile that put me at ill ease. How I longed to be at the tavern with a mug of cider at that moment!
Reverend Bradler began to ask her questions. Was she a witch? Did she afflict the ladies of the church? Did she summon the birds? Were they her Familiars? Would she confess? She only laughed and mocked our "Puritan Roundhead" ways. Reverend Bradler looked to me and told me to remove her boots. I did so, then he handed me the bowl and spoon and instructed me to pour the salt brine over her naked soles, while he awoke the sleeping goats. What were the strange feelings that bedeviled me as I watched her soles crinkle as the brine trickled down them? They taunt me even as I write this!
The Reverend gave her another chance to confess, which she rudely refused. The goats were unleashed at her feet and lapped at her soles from heel to toes. The accused writhed in her straps as her lips made a forced smile, then began to laugh loud and long.
The Reverend retrieved the rod from the table and proceeded to gently prod her stomach and sides through the bars, which made her laugh even more. He began to question her again. Why did she wear such ungodly garments? Why did she go about barefooted? Why did she dance in the forest when dancing is forbidden? Was she dancing for her Satanic master? When would she confess?
I gripped the Reverend's arm before I could stop myself. He would surely drive the woman mad! Was that his purpose? He saw my fear and laid his hand upon my shoulder. Courage, he told me. We had to be bold if we were to be victorious, and that meant using bold actions.
He then instructed me to take the longest piece of straw I could find from the goat's bed, and use it upon the accused's neck, ears, and nose. I steeled myself and did just as he said. Tormenting her neck and ears appeared maddening enough, but it was her nose that seemed to be the worst: as I swirled the end of the straw around her flaring nostrils, her cackles sounded inhuman! Could she really have been a witch?
It continued through much of the night, only seeming endless. Reverend Bradler would question her, she refused to confess, the salt brine would be poured on her soles again, and the torture would begin anew. But who was more tortured, the accused or I?
Suddenly, her laughter changed from screeching cackles into deep, lustful chuckles. She looked into my eyes and licked her lips, then chuckled even more. I stopped immediately, but the Reverend and the goats continued. She moaned and rolled her eyes. The Reverend bellowed at her to confess. She answered with long, low moans and chuckles and quick, sharp gasps.
The gasps came sharper and louder, threatening to drown out even Reverend Bradler's booming questions. But neither he nor I were prepared for what came next: she arched her back and unleashed a deafening scream that threatened to burst our ears. The goats stepped back and dove under the table. Her scream softened to a sigh, and she fell asleep with such a look of ecstacy on her sweat and tear drenched face! The heavens flashed and thundered outside.
I rushed into the tavern knowing that cider would not be enough for what I had experienced. I needed a full mug of ale. And after that, another. And then, still another. Thankfully, our tavern-keeper is a very discerning man. He refused to serve me anymore and urged me to return home before I did something to disgrace myself. Yet I left wondering if it was too late. Had I already done so?
I slept very little that night. Her hysteria-twisted image appeared before my eyes and her laughing and moaning and gasping filled my ears. Some say witches are able to take leave of their bodies and afflict their victims in spirit form. Was that really it? She let loose that haunting scream, and her smiling image faded before me just as the sun arose. I laid in my bed weak and weary, but certain of one thing: be it witchcraft or no, Satan had indeed come to us!
It was with ill relief that I listened to Reverend Bradler's determination: the accused's resistence and refusal to confess only proved her guilt. She was promptly sentenced to the Hangman's Limb.
As her body slowly turned in the chilled wind, I silently prayed that this ordeal would now be over, that Satan would flee from us.
But he did not.
How could it be possible? The Widow Goodrich had been a beloved member of our village for years! Her two daughters had grown up before the whole community into fine young ladies! Why did they now stand accused of working the devil's will? The village fathers and Reverend Bradler agreed that no stone must be left unturned. No one was immune to Satan's influence, and those that had fallen must be found out, lest they tempt others to fall also.
And once again, I met Reverend Bradler at the jail, to assist him in his inquisitions to discover the truth.
It was heart sickening to see the Widow Goodrich in the stocks in that dismal cell, wrists manacled to the wall so that her arms were above her head. Her daughters, Faith and Mercy, sat across from her, imprisoned in identical fashion. All three recited The Lord's Prayer in perfect unison.
I looked to the Reverend. Surely that proved they were innocent! Witches were unable to recite The Lord's Prayer perfectly! He merely stood there with his mouth open for a moment, then his face became as stone. No, he said. He had to be sure. He said it with a queer gleam in his eye I had not seen before.
He instructed me to remove their shoes and see that their soles were covered with salt brine. He then left the cell. The sensations returned anew as I uncovered their bare feet, particularly those of Faith and Mercy. As I took the bowl and spoon and readied to drench her young soles, Faith gently asked me what the purpose of all this was. They had done harm to no one. I could not look into her face, but whispered to keep strong and look to God.
Reverend Bradler soon returned with three goats and said if they could perfectly recite The Lord's Prayer as the goats licked their soles, then they would prove their innocence. The goats were released at their feet and eagerly lapped the salt brine. I desperately wanted them to prove themselves, even as I actually envied the goats that tongued their twitching soles and toes! Where did these conflicts come from?
Alas, they started out well. But sweet Faith was the first to falter, as she fell into helpless giggles. Mercy pressed on, but soon sputtered. She struggled to resume her place, but it was to no avail. Their mother went the farthest of them all, but the torment overcame her as well. Reverend Bradler actually seemed pleased as the accused writhed with laughter.
And, God forgive me, so did a small part of myself.
The goats were restrained, and when they had regained control of themselves, Reverend Bradler began pleading with the Widow and her daughters. He urged them to give God the glory and confess. Satan may have snared them, but they still had a chance. They could not be able to experience peace of conscience without a free confession. His voice was pleading and persuasive, as it could sometimes be on Sunday mornings, but that gleam in his eye was still there, and it disturbed me.
Faith sat chewing on her lower lip and Mercy merely blinked at us, but both stayed silent. Their mother, however, spoke firm and clear: they were innocent.
The goats were turned loose at their feet again, and laughter rang out in the cell. The Reverend turned to Faith and dug his fingers into her vulnerable sides and underarms. She bucked and thrashed, but there was no escape. He looked to me and ordered me to do the same to Mercy.
I turned to Mercy. She was too overtaken by her torment to notice me. I begged for her forgiveness and dug my fingers into her heaving, quivering stomach. I could feel her body beneath her clothing and knew it was soft and warm. That set me aflame and my fingers dug harder, working around to her sides.
She looked into my eyes as her own began to tear. There was the same queer gleam that Reverend Bradler had! I then realized she was not tormented at all, she was actually enjoying it!
Reverend Bradler roared for them to confess as he continued to torture Faith. She shrieked as his fingers worked up to her neck and chin. She screamed for her mother to make him stop. The Widow Goodrich was helpless with her own laughter for a moment, then declared their innocence again.
The Reverend turned away from Faith and began upbraiding the Widow. Did she think it sport to see her daughters in such a state? What of the afflicted ones, did she think that sport as well? She may have thought she could deceive the church and the whole village, but did she dare think she could deceive God? I was shocked at his harshness, but lacked the courage to interfere. The Widow insisted through her laughs they had deceived no one.
Reverend Bradler dug at her stomach and sides, driving her to laugh even harder. I renewed my attention to Mercy, focusing on her underarms. She rolled her eyes and moaned deeply. She fixed a lustful stare at me and asked if I intended to send her to Hell... or to Heaven? I shut my eyes and prayed to God that they would confess and end their torment, and my own!
My prayer was soon answered. Poor, tortured Faith confessed with a desperate shriek. The goats were immediately restrained. Between gasps for breath, Faith gibbered about how Satan appeared to them and promised them great power if they agreed to do his will. They signed their names with their own blood in his black book and performed unspeakable debaucheries with him.
I refused to believe a word of it! The torture had driven the girl mad! Her shocked mother screamed at Faith to be silent, that she knew not what she was saying. Mercy merely looked between Faith and I with great sadness. But which sadness was greater, her sister's lies or that her wicked pleasures had ended so soon?
Witnessing the deaths of the Widow Goodrich and Mercy at the Hangman's Limb was horrible enough. But Faith made it even more so as she looked on with a face of lifeless stone. No tears, nothing. What demon held her in his grip, that she could betray her mother and sister and feel no grief at their deaths, which she had caused?
And it was to become even worse.
There seemed to be no stopping the accusations. The cells became filled with women young and old, none safe from pointed fingers and screamed allegations. And none safe from Reverend Bradler and his established methods of inquisition.
Endlessly and mercilessly, goats licked at their soles and toes while fingers probed at their sides and underarms. Their hysterics reverberated throughout the jail and into the night, tormenting me in my efforts to sleep. Their faces swam before my eyes, some contorted by tortured mirth and others filled with lust.
And behind it all stood the man that claimed it be The Lord's work. By day, he was our beloved spiritual leader, Reverend Bradler. But by night, he was the villainous torturer of women, driving some to betray their families and neighbors, inflaming others to a lust that rivaled his own. And God forgive me, I was one of them!
That is the reason behind the action I have taken. May God take me while my mind is clear and my senses are my own. And may whoever finds my body at the Hangman's Limb pray that I am at peace, free from the devils and their human servants that walk as angels of light.
May God have mercy on us all.
Jonathan Hopewell
May God grant wisdom to those who find this, that they may know the how and why of what I have done.
We came to this new world seeking to worship in peace, but Lucifer drew his schemes to destroy us We were struck with harsh elements and threats from the savages, but we stood firm and endured. But Lucifer determined if we would not be destroyed from without, we would be destroyed from within. He has drawn from among us souls into his service, to afflict and torment us. His Hellish mark has been left in our neighboring villages, now he has come to leave it in ours. But never had I dreamed in such a fashion.
It began at our Sunday morning service, during the reciting of the Psalms. All was well until the most unseemly noise disrupted us: several young ladies in the congregation began giggling uncontrollably. The more they were ordered to stop the more they continued. They were soon on the floor, faces red with such laughter that had never been heard, begging for it to stop. It was realized that this was something far more serious.
Investigations were made as to their afflictions. They insisted that they saw huge dark birds perched in the rafters of the church, watching them with eyes that glowed with the flames of Hell. They then took wing and flapped around their persons. Their feathers had sent them into the giggling fits, driving them to mad hysteria. Satan had struck!
The village fathers gathered for an urgent meeting. How could we fight off this evil? I was certain that it would be dealt with. Surely the Governor's newly appointed court would hear and determine these matters? But the others were not so convinced. Grateful though they were for our Governor's intervention, they had more established methods at their disposal.
All eyes looked to Reverend Bradler, our minister for the past seven years. The imposing German stood and promised that The Lord's will would be done. He knew exactly what had to be done.
And it was determined that I would assist him.
The wind and rain on that first night were dreadful, and the jail was no better. As we headed down the dank passageway towards the cell where the first accused awaited, I spoke of my doubts to Reverend Bradler. Were these methods so necessary? The Reverend told me this path had been chosen for him long before he was even born. His father had hunted down witches, wizards, and other servants of Satan in his beloved homeland, as did his father before him. It was a divine purpose given by God, and he would not fail at it. As he journeyed to the new world, he knew he would one day have to heed the call of his family, and he prepared for it night and day.
The single flame of a candle did nothing to dispel the gloom of the cell. If anything, it was only made worse! On the table next to the candle were the queerest things: a bowl of salt brine, a large spoon, and a long rod. Under the table, undisturbed by our entrance, slept a pair of young goats on a pile of straw.
And there, in the middle of the cell, was the object that made the gloom even more worse: a chest large enough to contain a single person, the lid a row of narrow bars running down the entire length. A pair of women's boots stuck out through two holes at one end, like stocks. Inside the chest, strapped down by her legs, wrists, and forehead, was the accused.
She was a mature woman of the Catholic faith, yet was tolerated in our village mostly because of her skills as a dressmaker. Yet she had been discovered dancing in the forest with her feet unshod and wearing the most scandalous scarlet dress. It was this flimsy rag that now covered her, but only barely as her womanly shape could be discerned. She peered up at us through the bars with an odd smile that put me at ill ease. How I longed to be at the tavern with a mug of cider at that moment!
Reverend Bradler began to ask her questions. Was she a witch? Did she afflict the ladies of the church? Did she summon the birds? Were they her Familiars? Would she confess? She only laughed and mocked our "Puritan Roundhead" ways. Reverend Bradler looked to me and told me to remove her boots. I did so, then he handed me the bowl and spoon and instructed me to pour the salt brine over her naked soles, while he awoke the sleeping goats. What were the strange feelings that bedeviled me as I watched her soles crinkle as the brine trickled down them? They taunt me even as I write this!
The Reverend gave her another chance to confess, which she rudely refused. The goats were unleashed at her feet and lapped at her soles from heel to toes. The accused writhed in her straps as her lips made a forced smile, then began to laugh loud and long.
The Reverend retrieved the rod from the table and proceeded to gently prod her stomach and sides through the bars, which made her laugh even more. He began to question her again. Why did she wear such ungodly garments? Why did she go about barefooted? Why did she dance in the forest when dancing is forbidden? Was she dancing for her Satanic master? When would she confess?
I gripped the Reverend's arm before I could stop myself. He would surely drive the woman mad! Was that his purpose? He saw my fear and laid his hand upon my shoulder. Courage, he told me. We had to be bold if we were to be victorious, and that meant using bold actions.
He then instructed me to take the longest piece of straw I could find from the goat's bed, and use it upon the accused's neck, ears, and nose. I steeled myself and did just as he said. Tormenting her neck and ears appeared maddening enough, but it was her nose that seemed to be the worst: as I swirled the end of the straw around her flaring nostrils, her cackles sounded inhuman! Could she really have been a witch?
It continued through much of the night, only seeming endless. Reverend Bradler would question her, she refused to confess, the salt brine would be poured on her soles again, and the torture would begin anew. But who was more tortured, the accused or I?
Suddenly, her laughter changed from screeching cackles into deep, lustful chuckles. She looked into my eyes and licked her lips, then chuckled even more. I stopped immediately, but the Reverend and the goats continued. She moaned and rolled her eyes. The Reverend bellowed at her to confess. She answered with long, low moans and chuckles and quick, sharp gasps.
The gasps came sharper and louder, threatening to drown out even Reverend Bradler's booming questions. But neither he nor I were prepared for what came next: she arched her back and unleashed a deafening scream that threatened to burst our ears. The goats stepped back and dove under the table. Her scream softened to a sigh, and she fell asleep with such a look of ecstacy on her sweat and tear drenched face! The heavens flashed and thundered outside.
I rushed into the tavern knowing that cider would not be enough for what I had experienced. I needed a full mug of ale. And after that, another. And then, still another. Thankfully, our tavern-keeper is a very discerning man. He refused to serve me anymore and urged me to return home before I did something to disgrace myself. Yet I left wondering if it was too late. Had I already done so?
I slept very little that night. Her hysteria-twisted image appeared before my eyes and her laughing and moaning and gasping filled my ears. Some say witches are able to take leave of their bodies and afflict their victims in spirit form. Was that really it? She let loose that haunting scream, and her smiling image faded before me just as the sun arose. I laid in my bed weak and weary, but certain of one thing: be it witchcraft or no, Satan had indeed come to us!
It was with ill relief that I listened to Reverend Bradler's determination: the accused's resistence and refusal to confess only proved her guilt. She was promptly sentenced to the Hangman's Limb.
As her body slowly turned in the chilled wind, I silently prayed that this ordeal would now be over, that Satan would flee from us.
But he did not.
How could it be possible? The Widow Goodrich had been a beloved member of our village for years! Her two daughters had grown up before the whole community into fine young ladies! Why did they now stand accused of working the devil's will? The village fathers and Reverend Bradler agreed that no stone must be left unturned. No one was immune to Satan's influence, and those that had fallen must be found out, lest they tempt others to fall also.
And once again, I met Reverend Bradler at the jail, to assist him in his inquisitions to discover the truth.
It was heart sickening to see the Widow Goodrich in the stocks in that dismal cell, wrists manacled to the wall so that her arms were above her head. Her daughters, Faith and Mercy, sat across from her, imprisoned in identical fashion. All three recited The Lord's Prayer in perfect unison.
I looked to the Reverend. Surely that proved they were innocent! Witches were unable to recite The Lord's Prayer perfectly! He merely stood there with his mouth open for a moment, then his face became as stone. No, he said. He had to be sure. He said it with a queer gleam in his eye I had not seen before.
He instructed me to remove their shoes and see that their soles were covered with salt brine. He then left the cell. The sensations returned anew as I uncovered their bare feet, particularly those of Faith and Mercy. As I took the bowl and spoon and readied to drench her young soles, Faith gently asked me what the purpose of all this was. They had done harm to no one. I could not look into her face, but whispered to keep strong and look to God.
Reverend Bradler soon returned with three goats and said if they could perfectly recite The Lord's Prayer as the goats licked their soles, then they would prove their innocence. The goats were released at their feet and eagerly lapped the salt brine. I desperately wanted them to prove themselves, even as I actually envied the goats that tongued their twitching soles and toes! Where did these conflicts come from?
Alas, they started out well. But sweet Faith was the first to falter, as she fell into helpless giggles. Mercy pressed on, but soon sputtered. She struggled to resume her place, but it was to no avail. Their mother went the farthest of them all, but the torment overcame her as well. Reverend Bradler actually seemed pleased as the accused writhed with laughter.
And, God forgive me, so did a small part of myself.
The goats were restrained, and when they had regained control of themselves, Reverend Bradler began pleading with the Widow and her daughters. He urged them to give God the glory and confess. Satan may have snared them, but they still had a chance. They could not be able to experience peace of conscience without a free confession. His voice was pleading and persuasive, as it could sometimes be on Sunday mornings, but that gleam in his eye was still there, and it disturbed me.
Faith sat chewing on her lower lip and Mercy merely blinked at us, but both stayed silent. Their mother, however, spoke firm and clear: they were innocent.
The goats were turned loose at their feet again, and laughter rang out in the cell. The Reverend turned to Faith and dug his fingers into her vulnerable sides and underarms. She bucked and thrashed, but there was no escape. He looked to me and ordered me to do the same to Mercy.
I turned to Mercy. She was too overtaken by her torment to notice me. I begged for her forgiveness and dug my fingers into her heaving, quivering stomach. I could feel her body beneath her clothing and knew it was soft and warm. That set me aflame and my fingers dug harder, working around to her sides.
She looked into my eyes as her own began to tear. There was the same queer gleam that Reverend Bradler had! I then realized she was not tormented at all, she was actually enjoying it!
Reverend Bradler roared for them to confess as he continued to torture Faith. She shrieked as his fingers worked up to her neck and chin. She screamed for her mother to make him stop. The Widow Goodrich was helpless with her own laughter for a moment, then declared their innocence again.
The Reverend turned away from Faith and began upbraiding the Widow. Did she think it sport to see her daughters in such a state? What of the afflicted ones, did she think that sport as well? She may have thought she could deceive the church and the whole village, but did she dare think she could deceive God? I was shocked at his harshness, but lacked the courage to interfere. The Widow insisted through her laughs they had deceived no one.
Reverend Bradler dug at her stomach and sides, driving her to laugh even harder. I renewed my attention to Mercy, focusing on her underarms. She rolled her eyes and moaned deeply. She fixed a lustful stare at me and asked if I intended to send her to Hell... or to Heaven? I shut my eyes and prayed to God that they would confess and end their torment, and my own!
My prayer was soon answered. Poor, tortured Faith confessed with a desperate shriek. The goats were immediately restrained. Between gasps for breath, Faith gibbered about how Satan appeared to them and promised them great power if they agreed to do his will. They signed their names with their own blood in his black book and performed unspeakable debaucheries with him.
I refused to believe a word of it! The torture had driven the girl mad! Her shocked mother screamed at Faith to be silent, that she knew not what she was saying. Mercy merely looked between Faith and I with great sadness. But which sadness was greater, her sister's lies or that her wicked pleasures had ended so soon?
Witnessing the deaths of the Widow Goodrich and Mercy at the Hangman's Limb was horrible enough. But Faith made it even more so as she looked on with a face of lifeless stone. No tears, nothing. What demon held her in his grip, that she could betray her mother and sister and feel no grief at their deaths, which she had caused?
And it was to become even worse.
There seemed to be no stopping the accusations. The cells became filled with women young and old, none safe from pointed fingers and screamed allegations. And none safe from Reverend Bradler and his established methods of inquisition.
Endlessly and mercilessly, goats licked at their soles and toes while fingers probed at their sides and underarms. Their hysterics reverberated throughout the jail and into the night, tormenting me in my efforts to sleep. Their faces swam before my eyes, some contorted by tortured mirth and others filled with lust.
And behind it all stood the man that claimed it be The Lord's work. By day, he was our beloved spiritual leader, Reverend Bradler. But by night, he was the villainous torturer of women, driving some to betray their families and neighbors, inflaming others to a lust that rivaled his own. And God forgive me, I was one of them!
That is the reason behind the action I have taken. May God take me while my mind is clear and my senses are my own. And may whoever finds my body at the Hangman's Limb pray that I am at peace, free from the devils and their human servants that walk as angels of light.
May God have mercy on us all.
Jonathan Hopewell
