“Katy! Weren’t you afraid to go in there?”
“No, not in the beginning. It looked just like any other old house. Our guide opened a door and led us down a dark, narrow stairway. I didn’t like it very well, but it was too late to change my mind, because there wasn’t room to turn around. The stairway led to the dungeon where the witches were kept before they were hanged. It was a big dark cellar room lighted by one small barred window. Br’r’rr, I got back up those stairs again as fast as I could.”
“But Katy, how could anyone be so silly as to believe in witches? I’ve always thought a witch was a Hallowe’en decoration.”
“People used to believe in witches long ago. The trouble in Salem started with Tituba, a slave girl, telling stories to some little girls. She told tales of voodoo and black magic, and she must have frightened the children half out of their wits, because when bedtime came they shuddered and screamed and saw things in dark corners. The village doctor was called and he said they were bewitched.”
“But why?” asked Janie. “How could he tell?”
“I don’t know, except that he could see that they didn’t have measles or mumps or anything of that sort, and I suppose he just had to think of something in order to earn his fee. The naughty little girls enjoyed being the center of attention, and when they were questioned they accused Tituba of being a witch, and she was tried and hanged.”
“Oh! How perfectly awful.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t all. The story spread and belief in witchcraft grew until there wasn’t an old lady in Salem who was safe. Even the wife of a minister was accused. When the governor’s wife was suspected the trials came to an end, but not until nineteen persons had been hanged on Gallows Hill and two died in prison.”
“Katy,” quavered Jane. “Turn on the light, and don’t let’s talk about it any more.”
Katy reached for the light switch, and the familiar room clicked into view.