The woods beyond Salem Village were a place few dared to tread. Even in the light of day, a hush lingered there, as if the forest held its breath in the presence of old secrets. Yet it was here that Prudence found her peace.
She came most often at twilight, when the air turned silver and the frost caught the dying light like glass. Her candle flame shuddered against the wind, casting frail halos against the trees. Beneath her boots, the earth was soft with decay — a rich perfume of moss, smoke, and time.
The villagers said the forest was cursed. They claimed witches met here to dance with shadows, that the Devil himself walked beneath the ash trees. Prudence knew only that the woods listened. When she was angry, the branches trembled. When she wept, the wind sighed as if to soothe her.
---
It was on such a night that she first heard the voice again.
She had come seeking yarrow and rue, plants that refused to grow near the village but flourished in the hollow. The moon hung low and red, the color of old wine. Prudence set her lantern upon a stump and brushed frost from the leaves.
A murmur rippled through the air — soft at first, then rising like breath against her ear.
> "Prudence…"
She froze. The woods were still. No creature stirred.
> "Why do you suffer their scorn?" the voice whispered.
"You are not theirs to burn."
Her heart beat fast, but not from fear. The voice was not cruel. It was ancient — tender and knowing, like something that had waited centuries to be heard.
"I seek only peace," Prudence said quietly. "But they will not let me have it."
> "Peace is not given, child," it breathed.
"It is taken."
The candle flickered, its flame stretching tall and green. The scent of iron filled the air, and the ground beneath her hand pulsed like a heartbeat. For a moment, she thought she saw shapes moving between the trees — women, cloaked in smoke and sorrow, their faces half-hidden but watching her with sorrowful eyes.
Then, as swiftly as it began, the forest fell silent. Only the whisper of the wind remained.
---
When Prudence returned to the village, her apron full of herbs, the minister's wife met her at the gate.
"Child," the woman hissed, "you've the stench of the Devil upon you. You've been to those woods again."
Prudence bowed her head. "Only to gather medicine."
"Medicine," the woman spat. "Witch's brew, more like."
By morning, the gossip had taken root. Goody Larkin swore she'd seen green fire in the hollow; the blacksmith's son claimed Prudence's shadow moved before she did.
And when a child fell ill that week, his mother cried out that the Ashcroft girl had cursed her doorstep.
---
That night, Prudence dreamed of the hollow again — the voice whispering through the trees, the women of smoke watching her with kind, mournful eyes.
> "They will come for you soon," the voice murmured.
"But do not fear, Prudence. You are of the old blood. You will not burn so easily."
When she awoke, the candle by her bedside had burned itself down to ash — yet the wick still glowed faintly, as though breathing.
And from outside her window, deep in the dark beyond the fields, she heard the forest whisper her name.