Spring thaw came late that year.
The river ran clear again, but the earth beneath the village remained cold—as though the frost had crept inward, beneath every doorstep and soul.
When the old minister took ill and passed, the council wasted no time in calling another.
They said he would bring reason to Salem.
They said he would drive out the shadow that lingered since the Ashcroft girl's vanishing.
His name was Reverend Nathaniel Corbin.
He came from Boston, with a Bible bound in red leather and a mind honed sharp as a blade.
He did not believe in ghosts.
But within a fortnight of his arrival, he could not close his eyes without seeing her.
---
Corbin made his home in the old parsonage beside the meetinghouse—once owned by Reverend Hale, who had fled the village without farewell.
In the attic, Corbin found Hale's few remaining possessions: a burnt candle stub, a feather black as pitch, and a small mirror, cracked across its face.
He meant to discard it.
But when he caught his reflection, the crack across the glass seemed to move, like smoke curling in a draft.
For an instant, another face flickered beside his own—a woman's, pale and watchful, her eyes gray as stormwater.
He dropped the mirror, heart hammering, and the image vanished.
But a single whisper lingered in the air, faint and mournful:
> "You cannot pray away the roots."
---
That night, he dreamt of the forest.
He saw the hollow where the ash trees grew, and a silver flame burning without heat.
A figure knelt beside it, her hands clasped not in supplication, but command.
When he awoke, the room smelled of rue and damp earth. The mirror lay on the floor beside his bed. Its surface was unbroken.
He tried to pray.
But every time he spoke the name of God, his candle flared green and hissed out.
---
The villagers welcomed Corbin's fervor. He preached long and loud, calling for cleansing—of homes, of hearts, of memory.
They fasted again. They salted their doors.
And still, the forest crept closer.
By midsummer, the first ash tree sprouted in the square, roots breaking through the cobblestone.
Corbin ordered it torn up.
By morning, two more had grown in its place.
---
Desperate, he sought the source.
He returned to the attic, the mirror clutched to his chest. "Show me the evil," he whispered.
The glass clouded, shadows swimming beneath its surface.
And then he saw her.
Prudence stood in the hollow, eyes burning like cold flame. She did not speak, but lifted her hand. The reflection wavered, and suddenly he was there—standing beside her in the dream, the forest alive around them.
"Why do you haunt me?" he demanded.
Her voice was soft as falling ash.
> "Because you preach against what you have already become."
He stepped back, horrified. "I serve the Lord!"
> "Then tell me, Reverend," she murmured, "why does your soul tremble at the sound of my name?"
The mirror shattered.
---
The next day, Corbin left his pulpit mid-sermon. He walked from the church to the riverbank and stood staring at his reflection until dusk.
When the constable found him hours later, the river was still.
The mirror floated at his feet, whole once more—its surface rippling with faint gray light.
From that evening on, no one entered the old parsonage again.
Those who passed by swore they saw smoke curling behind its windows, and sometimes—
when the wind was just right—
the faint sound of a woman's voice whispering through the glass:
> "The roots remember."