Historical Fiction
THE DAUGHTERS OF SALEM
Written by Camille Mussman
SUMMARY
In the winter of 1692, as hysteria grips Salem Village and accusations of witchcraft spread like wildfire through Massachusetts, Annabelle Sullivan walks a dangerous line between silence and defiance. A thoughtful young woman with a fierce sense of justice, Annabelle watches in growing horror as her neighbors—women she has known her entire life—are dragged from their homes and imprisoned on the flimsiest of charges.
Living on a modest farm with her iron-willed sister Elizabeth and their devoted mother Jane, Annabelle has always understood that women in the colonies must tread carefully. But as the trials intensify and the accusations draw ever closer to those she loves, Annabelle must decide how much she is willing to risk to protect the innocent. With Elizabeth's fearless spirit pushing them toward danger and Jane's quiet strength holding them together, the Sullivan women find themselves at the heart of a community tearing itself apart.
The Daughters of Salem is a story of courage in the face of persecution, of the unbreakable bonds between mothers and daughters, and of women who refused to be silenced even when speaking out could cost them everything. It is a testament to the power of love, loyalty, and the radical act of standing together when the world demands you stand alone.
CHAPTER I: The Weight of Whispers
The chickens were restless that morning, and Annabelle Sullivan took it as an omen.
She stood in the doorway of the small barn, her breath forming clouds in the frigid February air, watching as the hens clucked and scratched with unusual agitation. Behind her, she could hear Elizabeth sweet-talking the goats, her voice bright and unbothered by the cold that had settled into Anabelle's bones. The sun had barely crested the horizon, painting the snow-covered fields in shades of pink and gold, but already Annabelle felt the day pressing against her chest like a stone.
"They know something we don't," Annabelle murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.
"They're chickens, Anna." Elizabeth emerged from the goat pen, her long black curls escaping from beneath her cap in wild tendrils. Only two years apart, the sisters looked remarkably alike—both with long black curly hair and bright blue eyes—though their temperaments could not have been more different. Where Annabelle moved through the world with careful consideration, Elizabeth barreled through it with the confidence of someone who had never been taught to fear. "They're rattled because Louise tried to herd them again."
As if summoned by her name, Louise—a large, shaggy dog with more enthusiasm than sense—bounded through the barn door, nearly knocking Annabelle off her feet. Close behind came Cleo and Porter, the two older dogs who seemed to exist primarily to clean up Louise's messes, both literal and figurative.
"Weezy, down," Annabelle said firmly, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as she scratched behind her ears. The dogs were a comfort, especially with their father away on business in Boston these past six months. When Louise looked at her with those bright blue eyes, Annabelle felt less alone in the world.
"Girls!" Their mother's voice carried across the yard from the house, and both Annabelle and Elizabeth turned. Jane Sullivan stood on the small porch, wiping her hands on her apron, her face difficult to read in the early morning light. "Come inside. There's something you need to hear."
Elizabeth and Annabelle exchanged glances. Their mother was not given to dramatics; when Jane Sullivan said there was something to hear, it was worth listening to. They crossed the yard quickly, the dogs trailing behind them, and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. The fire was already blazing, and the smell of porridge filled the small room. Their mother had been up for hours—she always was. Jane Sullivan worked from dawn until well past dark, her hands never idle, her mind always calculating how to stretch their modest resources just a little further.
She had been managing the farm since Daniel left for Boston, refusing offers of "help" from men in the village who saw a woman alone as an opportunity. Annabelle had inherited her mother's determination and sense of justice, though she sometimes wondered if she had inherited enough of either.
"Sit," Jane said, gesturing to the rough-hewn table that dominated the room. Her face was drawn, and Annabelle noticed for the first time the dark circles beneath her mother's eyes.
"What's happened?" Annabelle asked, sliding onto the bench. Elizabeth sat beside her, their shoulders touching in the way they had since they were small children, sharing secrets.
Jane sat across from them, her work-roughened hands folded on the table. For a moment, she said nothing, and in that silence, Annabelle felt her earlier unease transform into something sharper, more concrete.
"Mary Burns came by before dawn," Jane finally said. "She was on her way to the Proctors' house, but she stopped here first. She wanted to warn us."
"Warn us about what?" Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest rather than fear. This was so like her sister, Annabelle thought—always ready to meet trouble head-on.
"The afflicted girls." Jane's voice was careful, measured. "Their fits have worsened. They've begun naming names."
Annabelle's blood went cold. She had heard about the girls—everyone in Salem Village had. It had started in January with Reverend Parris's daughter Betty and his niece Abigail, strange fits and unexplained illnesses that the doctors couldn't remedy. Then other girls had begun exhibiting the same symptoms, crying out that they were being tormented by specters, by witches who visited them in the night and pinched and prodded them with invisible hands.
At first, Annabelle had felt only pity for the girls. Illness was common enough, and the harsh winter had been difficult on everyone. But as the weeks passed and the accusations had begun, that pity had curdled into something else. Three women had already been arrested: Sarah Jeffry, a beggar woman who wandered the village with her young daughter; Alice Osborne, an elderly woman who rarely attended meetings; and Tituba, Reverend Parris's Caribbean slave. All of them were women on the margins, women without protection or power.
Women, Annabelle had noticed, whom it was easy to accuse and difficult to defend.
"Who have they named?" Annabelle asked, though part of her didn't want to know.
"Rebecca Engle."
The name hit Annabelle like a physical blow. Rebecca Engle was seventy-one years old, a respected member of the church, a woman who had birthed half the children in Salem Village and nursed the sick without thought of payment. If Rebecca Engle could be accused, then no one was safe.
"That's insane," Elizabeth said flatly. "Rebecca Engle is a saint. Everyone knows it."
"Everyone knows Sarah Jeffry wasn't a witch either," Jane replied quietly. "And yet she sits in chains in Boston, awaiting trial."
Annabelle stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Outside, the world looked peaceful, unchanged. The dogs were playing in the snow. The chickens had settled. The sun continued its climb into a clear winter sky. But something fundamental had shifted, some invisible boundary had been crossed, and Annabelle could feel it in her very bones.
"Mary Burns said the girls are claiming that Rebecca's specter visited them in the night," Jane continued. "That she tormented them, tried to force them to sign the Devil's book."
"It's madness," Annabelle said, her voice harder than she intended. "The whole village has gone mad."
"Anna." Her mother's voice was sharp, commanding. "You must be careful what you say and where you say it. These are dangerous times for women who speak too freely."
Annabelle whirled back from the window to face her mother. Her jaw was set, her eyes blazing with a protective fury that Annabelle knew well. This was the woman who had once chased a village magistrate off their property with a pitchfork when he'd tried to claim her late husband's debts gave him rights to their land. Jane Sullivan was not a woman who cowered or bent, but she was a woman who knew which battles to fight and how to win them.
"So we say nothing?" Annabelle asked. "We watch them drag Rebecca Engle from her home, and we say nothing?"
"We say nothing that will bring the accusers to our door," Jane said, her voice like steel. "I will not lose my daughters to this hysteria, Annabelle. Not today, not ever. I'll burn this village to the ground before I let them touch either of you."
Elizabeth reached out and took Annabelle's hand, pulling her back to the table. "Mother's right," she said, though her jaw was set in a way that suggested she liked it no more than Annabelle did. "We have to be smart about this."
Annabelle sat, but everything in her rebelled against the idea of silence. She thought of Rebecca Engle, who had brought them preserves and checked on them regularly, who had made sure Jane wasn't carrying the burden of the farm alone. She thought of Sarah Bry's little daughter, Millie, who was barely four years old and had watched her mother be taken away. She thought of all the women in Salem Village, going about their daily work with fear now as their constant companion, never knowing when a child's accusation might shatter their lives beyond repair.
"What would Grandmother say?" Annabelle asked quietly, looking at her sister.
Elizabeth's expression hardened with determination. "She'd say we protect each other. Always."
They sat in silence for a moment, the three of them, the fire crackling and the dogs settling at their feet. Annabelle felt Elizabeth's hand squeeze hers, felt her mother's gaze upon her, steady and anchoring. The Sullivan women had always been a unit, had always faced the world together. They would face this too, somehow.
But as Annabelle looked at her mother and sister, she made a silent vow. She would protect them, yes. She would be careful and smart and cautious. But she would not be silent. Not entirely. There had to be a way to help the accused without bringing destruction upon her own family. There had to be a way to stand up for what was right in a world that had forgotten the meaning of justice.
She just had to find it.
"I need to go to the village today," Annabelle said after a moment. "We need flour, and I promised Margaret I would help her with the mending."
Jane studied her daughter's face, and Annabelle met her gaze steadily. Finally, her mother nodded. "Take Eliza with you. And Annabelle—"
"I'll be careful, Mother. I promise."
Jane reached across the table and gripped both her daughters' hands in hers, her calloused fingers strong and unyielding. "You are my whole world. Both of you. I will do whatever it takes to protect you—lie, steal, fight with my bare hands if I must. And I will not let this village's hysteria take you from me."
Annabelle felt her throat tighten. Her mother was not given to displays of soft emotion, but her love was demonstrated in every callous on her hands, every boundary she defended, every threat she faced down. Jane Sullivan had worked herself to the bone to keep their small farm running, had fought off village men who thought a woman alone should be easy prey, had made sure her daughters had food and shelter and knew they were protected by a mother who would move heaven and earth—or burn it down—to keep them safe.
"We know, Mother," Elizabeth said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "We know."
Later, as Annabelle and Elizabeth prepared to walk to the village, bundling themselves in their heaviest cloaks and wrapping scarves around their faces against the cold, Annabelle looked back at their small house. Smoke rose from the chimney in a steady stream. Through the window, she could see her mother moving about the kitchen, already back to work, always working, always sacrificing.
They would be careful, Annabelle thought. They would protect each other, as they always had. But she could not shake the feeling that the world was changing, that the ground beneath their feet was shifting in ways they couldn't yet see or understand.
The chickens had been right to be restless.
Something was coming.
- END OF CHAPTER ONE -