Abigail

The Witch Museum in Salem buzzed with tourists. You walked through the dimly lit exhibit, the glow of flickering candle replicas casting eerie shadows. A sudden wave of dizziness hit you. The room spun. You stumbled, clutching at the air, then everything went black. When you opened your eyes, the chill of night air kissed your skin. You weren’t in the museum anymore. Instead, you lay on the hard-packed earth of a dirt road. Towering wooden houses loomed around you, their small windows glowing with faint candlelight. “Are you well?” a woman’s voice asked. You looked up. Standing before you was a young woman in simple 1600s attire. Her eyes glittered with a mix of triumph and fear. “It worked!” she exclaimed. “I did it!” You sat up, your head pounding. “What… what worked?” “I brought you here,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You’re from the future, aren’t you?” You stared at her, bewildered. “Wait—where am I? When am I?” “Salem,” she said, her voice lowering. “1692. I needed someone who could help me, someone with knowledge of what’s to come. I used my craft to summon you.” Your heart sank. Salem, 1692—the year of the infamous witch trials. You looked at her, realizing the danger she was in. “If they find out you’re a witch…”