Return to Salem: Salem Witch Haunt series, #2

By Theresa Sneed

Through a series of ill-fated events, Bess Martin finds herself thrust back to Salem in the middle of the Salem witch trials. Last time, her sharp tongue earned her 'high suspicion of sundry acts of Witchcraft', and she barely escaped with her life. Will Hezekiah, the brave young man who came through the rift to the future with her three years earlier, follow Bess back to Salem and rescue her, before her quick temper decides her fate?

 

From the ninth great-granddaughter of Susannah North Martin, who was accused and hanged as a witch, comes book two in the SALEM WITCH HAUNT series: RETURN TO SALEM, a realistic time travel steeped in suspense and intrigue with a touch of sweet romance. Using primary sources, Theresa Sneed masterfully weaves the trials and hangings of Reverend George Burroughs, Martha Carrier, George Jacobs Sr., John Proctor, and John Willard into this insightful historical fiction.

 

[The] Salem Witch Haunt [series] held me spell-bound from the beginning and then kept getting better and better. At the end, I found myself wishing there were more pages to read. Sneed is an excellent writer with a wonderful, engrossing story to tell. It has a clever, satisfying twist at the end. That she is a descendant of the people she writes about enriches the story. You can feel her love of the topic and personal involvement in these lives even though the story is fictional. Excellent read! – Jan M. Martin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theresa Sneed
• Release date: Jun 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9798986809465

Theresa Sneed

Author Theresa Sneed graduated cum laude with a BA in education, and though she loves teaching, she is currently taking a break from it to pursue a writing career. Her books are unique; each story will take you to places you have never imagined before. She writes across four genres—mystery and suspense, fantasy, historical fiction/time travel, and realistic paranormal. All of Theresa’s books have elements of sweet romance, and while none of her books have profanity or sexually explicit scenes, each book is intriguing and white-knuckle intense—the kind you can’t put down. The No Angel series is the story about a guardian angel with an attitude, and the ever present, but misunderstood spirit world. There are four published books in the series with many more to come. Book one is called Angel with an Attitude, book two – Earthbound Angel, book three – Destiny’s Angel, and book four – Earth Angel. The Sons of Elderberry series has one book out called Elias of Elderberry. Book two is called The Wood Fairies of Estraelia. Harry-Potterish—with wizards, fairies, elves, pixies, yōkai shapeshifters, and dragons, this epic story has it all! Theresa anticipates another three to five books to finish that series. Escape is the story of a 15 year old girl abducted by a corrupt sheriff in the 1970’s. He keeps her captive in his cellar for five years until she escapes with his truck and his young daughter. Escape is book one in a three book series. Book two, Missing is Theresa’s current WIP, (work in progress.) Salem Witch Haunt was intended to be a stand-alone book, until the shocking ending made it apparent that her characters were not finished telling their story. As the ninth great granddaughter of one of the women hanged as a witch in Salem, Theresa has a vested interest in this epic time-travel. Thoroughly researched, all interactions with real people from that era are based on primary sources—the trial scene with Susannah Martin is taken from Reverend Samuel Parris’s transcript verbatim. All Theresa’s books are available in print edition. Visit her website at http://www.theresasneed.com. She loves hearing from her readers and may be contacted through her website or through her email at mailto:[e-mail]. Follow me on twitter! https://twitter.com/TheresaSneed Friend me on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/TheresaMSneed/ Favorite me at Smashwords!

Book preview

Return to Salem

Salem Witch Haunt

Book two

Theresa Sneed

Through a series of ill-fated events, Bess Martin finds herself thrust back to Salem in the middle of the Salem witch trials. Last time, her sharp tongue earned her ‘high suspicion of sundry acts of Witchcraft’, and she barely escaped with her life. Will Hezekiah, the brave young man who came through the rift to the future with her three years earlier, follow Bess back to Salem and rescue her, before her quick temper decides her fate?

From the ninth great-granddaughter of Susannah North Martin, who was accused and hanged as a witch, comes book two in the SALEM WITCH HAUNT series: RETURN TO SALEM, a realistic time travel steeped in suspense and intrigue with a touch of sweet romance.

Using primary sources, Theresa Sneed masterfully weaves the trials and hangings of Reverend George Burroughs, Martha Carrier, George Jacobs Sr., John Proctor, and John Willard into this insightful historical fiction.

Prologue

Hunted

They’re coming! Run! I sprinted up the hill, hoping that Hezekiah would think to look for me in the clearing deep in the woods. Sweltering heat beat upon my brow and salty sweat trickled down my nose and lips. My long dress clung to my skin, entangling my legs, making it nearly impossible to move with the speed I needed to escape. Tripping, I frantically snatched at the tufts of grass and tall golden rod. They would be after me soon—I had been recognized!

Why hadn’t I been more careful? In my haste to get to the clearing, I had foolishly let my guard down. I should have remembered that this was the hill the circle girls climbed for their secret rendezvous. As I rounded the bend, I nearly bowled her over—Betty Hubbard—the leader of the circle girls, who along with Mercy Lewis had caused the deaths of many.

My heart thudded deep within my chest, like a muffled mallet beating against my ribs. I had fled the horrific hangings earlier that morning and was now physically and emotionally exhausted—unsure I could go on. I lay prostrate on the rough ground, panting, digging my fingers into the soil.

I heard nothing—no pursuit, maybe they didn’t see me in the tall golden rod.

Maybe they were sneaking up to me right now! Skittish with fright, I couldn’t stay still and forced myself up. I was halfway up the hill, when Betty’s scream pierced the air.

There she is! Up there! she shrieked. WITCH!

I swung around long enough to see her clutch at her chest then fall to the ground, twisting and writhing, jerking about like a poisoned snake. That part of the circle girls’ performance always bothered me—they did it so well, so convincingly. Apparently, there were others who shared my opinion, only in a different way.

A small group of men took up the cry. After her! Get the witch! Brandishing axes and shovels as weapons, they dashed toward the base of the hill—chasing after me, a teenage time traveler who loathed 1692 almost as much as it loathed me. Just hours ago, I had witnessed the horrific hanging of my 11th great-grandmother, Susannah Martin, along with four other innocent women. I trembled as I remembered their bodies swaying in the morning sun, like laundry hanging out to dry in a stiff breeze. I scrambled up the rest of the hill as fast as my weary limbs could take me, pushed on by the jeers of the approaching men, and the fear of a shovel slammed against my skull, and imprisonment in a cruel time I only wanted to escape.

Clusters of onlookers watched the frenzied pursuit from the bottom of the hill. A few dangled muskets over their shoulders or leaned against them on the ground. Crouching down behind a veil of dense shrubbery, Honovi hid from view. He had heard of the strange happenings in the white man’s village and watched the men chase the woman with keen interest. And they call us savages, he thought grimly. Suddenly, the accused woman turned and continued her frantic ascent, her eyes wild with panic.

A low, guttural groan caught in Honovi’s chest. Nashota! He had replaced the loss of his sister with the white woman, and though she had greatly disappointed him at first, she had become as a sister to him. He had given her an Indian name—Nashota, but she was also known as Bess.

I will not let you hurt her! He reached back for an arrow, but dropped his hand to his side, recognizing the white man closing in on her—Hezekiah. He had run faster and harder than the rest and had gotten to Nashota first, ushering her into the trees. Keeping to the thick undergrowth, Honovi weaved through the trees beside them.

Honovi had nothing left. His village burned, Magena murdered; anger and revenge ripped through him. Weeks had passed since the white man, Hezekiah, had purchased and then freed him. It was the only reason he did not kill him now.

He followed them stealthily through the dense forest. All of a sudden, Nashota caught her foot on a tangled root and stumbled. Honovi’s taut muscles flexed as Hezekiah worked her foot free. Struggling to stand, she floundered, not able to put full weight on her foot. With a gentleness Honovi had not thought possible of a white man, Hezekiah swept her into his arms and lumbered forward. The dull thud of shovels and axes glancing off each other and the rumble of angry voices got louder as the white men neared.

Honovi drew an arrow. Readying his bow, he took aim. Just then, Nashota slipped from Hezekiah’s arms and stood limply beside him, and Honovi got a clear view of the anguish on her panicked face. His heart held still as memories of her and his village overcame him. He would protect Nashota. He swayed as he waited for the white men to break through the trees.

The men entered the small clearing and crept toward Nashota, cornering her, as if she was a hunted animal. Honovi pulled the arrow back, but just as he did—Nashota disappeared. Without moving forward or falling backwards, she simply vanished. Stunned, he eased the arrow off the bowstring. She had been right there, in that very spot, and now both she and Hezekiah were gone!

The white men had seen it too, and fear engulfed their pale faces. They froze in place, as in an instant, her face reappeared, floating in the hazy fog. Their eyes widened in fear, and they filled the forest with screams, as they scrambled to flee the strange sight.

Honovi fell back. What magic was this? Nashota? With arms flaying, he groped the fog where she had just been. Nashota!

All at once, a sucking sensation gripped his body, twisting and swirling him around and then down.

This is death, he breathed out in a raspy voice. I welcome it. With the loss of his beloved Magena, he would have died willingly—almost hopefully, so great was his agony. But something strange happened. He did not die but rolled to a stop against a rock.

Bracing against it, he pulled himself up. He glanced around, expecting to see the white men rallying, but even the shovels they had dropped were gone. His heart beat fast as he took in his surroundings. The very trees had changed. Where small saplings once grew, giant oaks touched the heavens, and dense thickets of cypress and fir were replaced by clusters of tall birch. Uh? He swung around. Uh? Uh! His palms sweating, he crouched behind the rock, panting vigorously.

Confused and disoriented, he took off through the strange woods, using the sun as his guide. Near the edge of the trees, peculiar sounds met his ears. Greater than the screech of an eagle, or the growl of a bear, or the rumble of a herd of buffalo—he grasped his bow and left the safety of the trees.

The small village was gone!—and in its place, stacked buildings reached the sky, glimmering in the afternoon sun. Carriages without horses of all sizes and shapes roared down stone roads, like cougars without legs—so fast, he could barely keep his eyes on them before they were out of sight.

AAHHHEE! In a crazed panic, he pulled arrow after arrow from his quiver, shooting them over the hill. Suddenly, a great carriage without horses—bigger than ten carriages and faster than any beast—thundered down the road. From its belly a deep blast erupted. Honovi fell back on his hands and feet and then turned and scuttled into the trees. He kept running until he found a small cave and burrowed his way in. Hours passed before a bright light fell upon his trembling face, blinding his eyes, and strange men pulled him from his dark hole and bound his wrists with cold, metal rings.

One

Presumed Dead

It was impossible. Wasn’t it? I mean, that the Indian mentioned in the news article on the internet could be Honovi—my Honovi from 1692. And yet, I was back from the past myself. Ugh. It was so confusing. There wasn’t a picture in the write-up about the young, disoriented Indian found wandering the woods three years ago—the same time Hezekiah had jumped forward in time, but could it be? Dare I hope my Indian friend was here in the future? I watched over Hezekiah’s shoulder while he searched every possible keyword he could think of to pull up anything else about the Indian, but other than that article and one other, there was nothing. He looked up at me with his hazy green eyes, and I temporarily forgot about the mysterious article. He reminded me.

It’s him, Bess. I’m sure of it.

I swallowed hard. It might not be. I mean, how? He gave me that wry look I sometimes get when I say things too quickly without thinking.

My gaze turned back to the article. I tingled all over as the possibility of seeing Honovi hit me. You really think it could be him? I drew in a breath. Honovi should be dead for over 300 years, but if he followed us through the rift, then he would still be alive! I grabbed Hezekiah by the shoulder. Really?

Yes, but three years have passed. Who knows where he is or what he’s been doing? He grimaced. And if anyone guessed he was from the past, he could be part of a scientific study right now.

I pursed my lips. That thought had occurred to me too. If anyone suspected that Honovi was from the past, they could be examining him under a plethora of microscopes right now. Nah. Impossible. No one would do that to another human being. Unless they didn’t see him as human. I wish I could believe that all mankind held everyone in the same light, but I hadn’t seen that in my short lifetime. It seemed that there would always be those, who, for whatever lame reason, elevated themselves and their platforms above others. Lost in thought, Hezekiah’s voice brought me back.

And Bess, if it is Honovi, he’s got to be totally freaked out, like I was when I first arrived, only worse, because . . .

I finished his sentence, "because you were expecting to see the future, and he never expected to see anything like it. I reached over him, pressed print, and then pulled the article from the printer. Well, I guess the first thing we should do is find her." I pointed to the woman’s name—Ayesha Yazzie, staff writer for The Salem News. Come on. We’re going to Beverly.

Hezekiah stood. Why Beverly?

I grabbed his hand and pulled him along. "My great aunt used to work for The Salem News. They’re located in Beverly by the music theater on Dunham Road."

The ride to Beverly didn’t take long, and about forty-five minutes later, we pulled up in front of the newspaper building. Inside, Hezekiah approached the front desk.

We’re looking for one of your staff writers.

The man looked up from his computer. Yes?

Ayesha Yazzie, I said.

May I ask what this is about?

Well, I began, I’m Bess Martin, from Danvers, and I have a few questions about an article she wrote three years ago—about a disoriented Indian.

The man’s eyebrows rose. Disoriented Indian? He suddenly looked suspicious, and then he grunted. She’s not with us anymore.

Really? Disappointed, I glanced around the room, taking quick note of the names on the desks, and then I stormed over to one and picked up the placard. Really? I said, thrusting her name toward him.

Look, Miss Martin, she’s barely over what happened back then. Can’t you give her a break?

What happened? I repeated slowly.

Hezekiah stepped in. Look, Mr. Smith, he said, glancing at his name, we just want to know what happened to the Indian. That’s all.

He tapped his pencil on the desk. Can’t help you.

Can’t—or won’t? I asked, feeling my temper rise.

Can’t, said a soft voice behind us.

We turned to see an older woman with a light, honey-colored complexion and deep brown eyes staring at us.

Ms. Yazzie?

Yes, that’s me.

Aw, Yeesha, don’t dig all that stuff up again, Mr. Smith said with a groan. Come on guys, leave her alone. It nearly killed her trying to help that poor kid.

What happened? I said forcefully, regretting it immediately when tears formed in the rims of her eyes.

I wish I could help you, but I can’t.

I swallowed hard. Why not?

Because, he’s dead, she said, looking away. He died a long time ago.

Her words hit me hard, and I collapsed in a fit of tears. I was surprised to see her countenance change, from sadness to surprise, to curiosity. Why do you care about him?

Hezekiah spoke up. If he’s who we think he is, he was her friend.

Mr. Smith glanced sideways at Ayesha and then back at me. He didn’t speak English, or leastwise, very little. No offence, but I doubt he had any friends.

Wrong, I said, regaining my composure. He had me. I turned to Ayesha. Where is he buried?

Her eyes narrowed as she studied my face. I felt like I was under some kind of examination. I guess I passed the test as her countenance softened.

Follow me.

Ayesha—let it go! the man said.

No, not this time. She motioned for us to follow her outside.

Two

The Grave

My heart weighed down with indescribable grief. Dead? Honovi was dead? Numbly, I walked beside Hezekiah as we followed Ayesha to a picnic table outside. I almost turned back. What did it matter now? We could have helped him three years ago, but we didn’t know he was here! I hoped now that it wasn’t him—that he had lived a good, long life back in 1692.

Ayesha sat down across from us. How did you know him?

Yeah, well, I was minding my own business, when he and his friend Igasho captured me and took me to their village. I grimaced, blinking back tears. I met him three years ago. She frowned, and I quickly added, Well, three-and-a-half years ago.

She started to stand. So, you really didn’t know him very well.

I stood too. As a matter of fact, I knew him quite well. She did not sit, and I suspected our conversation was over. We didn’t get along at first, I blurted out. True that. I scowled when remembering the whipping I had received at his hands. In his tribe, women did not interrupt the men unprovoked, especially white women. I had raucously spewed out harsh words and my quick tongue had offended. It was, um . . . a misunderstanding. I kept my face straight. I had forgiven Honovi, but his initial treatment still angered me.

Her staunch expression revealed she didn’t believe me.

A misunderstanding because of our cultural differences and a pretty big language barrier.

That seemed to interest her. She sat back down. Language barrier?

Yes. When I met him he couldn’t speak a word of English.

How is that possible? she whispered, deep in thought.

Incredulous in this day and age, but I had met him 326 years ago. I sniffed. She could never know the real reason behind his lack of English acquisition. Who knows?

Wrong answer. She slapped her hands down on the table and stood. Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Sorry for your loss, she said sincerely, then turned and took a few steps away.

I couldn’t blame her for not believing me, but the truth would have had her calling security. It probably wasn’t Honovi anyhow, I said dejectedly.

She stopped short and whipped around. Honovi?

Her shocked look gave me a spark of hope. Yes.

But then her eyes narrowed as apparent skepticism settled in. Maybe your Honovi is a different one than mine.

How many disoriented Indians named Honovi from three years ago could there be? I struggled with what to say next. If it truly was him, then he would not have fit into modern society that easily. I assumed he would have somehow tried to communicate that he was from the past. Eeks. Just how much information should I reveal? "He probably tried to indicate that he was from an ancient tribe, and he probably wore authentic Indian clothing." I hoped that wasn’t too much information.

She tilted her head and looked at me as if she saw me in a different