Religious Quests : Shadows from the Forests Edge

EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – NIGHT – JANUARY 26TH, 1692

Reverend Samuel Parris, a man of forty-five with deep worry lines, stood by the window of the very same cottage. His shoulders were hunched, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the curtain. He watched them—Madame Ginevra and the Puritans, his brethren—march slowly past.

He let the curtain fall shut and took a deep breath.

A loud snap of the wooden rod sounded as he tugged it too hard. He turned away, rubbing his temple, eyes dark with exhaustion as he lit up a tiny candle.

He reached down, carefully picked up the candle, and began walking—slowly—into the corridor.

As he neared.

He heard it—

Screaming.

He sighed slowly, for he knew from which mouth these voices came out from. A high-pitched, inhuman scream from the end of the corridor.

He froze.

His mouth slowly fell open, as he forced himself to take a step forward.

Then it came again—a scream, chilling and full of pain—followed by a deep moan.

His heart was already pounding, he then turned his head toward the far end of the dark hallway. There, barely lit by the candlelight in hand, stood a heavy wooden door. Its surface was old and scratched. The handle was made of brass.

He stared at it for a few seconds.

Then stepped much closer, he took two more steps and reached the door, placing his hand slowly on the handle. He hesitated at first, and then turned it slowly.

The door creaked open.

And then he saw her.

Betty Parris, his young daughter—barely nine—lay tied to the bed. Her arms flailed, but her wrists were bound with rope. Her hair was wild and her face expressed only pain and madness.

She screamed again.

"URENTUR! FLAMMAE PURGANT! ME TANGUNT, PATER, ME TANGUNT!"

Abigail Williams, his niece—twelve years old—laid beside Betty. Her hand was raised high in the air like in mid-prayer. Her fingers were stiff. Her eyes were rolled so far back, only the white part was visible. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

She laid still.

Samuel dropped the candle on a small table beside the door. "What... has the devil done with thy souls....?…" he whispered and walked slowly to them.

Titubi, a half-enslaved servant, dark-skinned, middle-aged, wearing a torn shawl, was kneeling by the bed. She turned her head quickly toward him, her eyes wide, but not surprised.

She held a warm wool rug in her hands and gently laid it over Betty's chest, and seemed to be praying for her. Her other hand reached out and gently clasped Abigail's.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth Parris stood in the corner of the dim room, completely still. She didn't move, nor blink. Her hands were tightly folded under her arms, resting her body on a window.

She stared forward, her eyes not focused on anything particular in the room—just locked in empty space. Her skin looked pale and her eyes were red and swollen, as she hadn't slept in days.

Then her eyes slowly shifted, moving from the space in front of her to Samuel, her husband. Upon seeing him, she bit her lips, forcing herself not to scream for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.

She whispered.

"It's been two weeks already, Samuel…"

She stopped talking for a second, as she was holding the tears back.

Then, with a bitter laugh, she added :

"Two godforsaken weeks."

Silence

Suddenly, a dry, hacking cough came from the bed.

It was Abigail.

It was a kind of cough that felt like her little lungs were tearing themselves apart trying to breathe. Her body jerked slightly as the cough forced its way out of her throat.

Elizabeth's face changed, she turned her head toward the bed with eyes full of unhappiness. Without saying anything, she walked across the door and opened it to get a cup of water.

As she left, Samuel stepped closer to the two girls lying in the bed. He lowered himself slowly onto one knee beside the bed. He placed one hand gently on the edge of the mattress.

Betty, his daughter, lay still under the covers. Her face was pale, her forehead damp with sweat. Her long brown hair was sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was slightly open. She looked so weak and miserable.

Samuel reached out with trembling fingers and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His hand remained on her cheek for a second. He stared at her, blinking slowly.

Then his eyes moved to Abigail.

She was lying on her side, stiff and frozen, her arm lifted halfway in the air like she had been trying to reach for something. Her eyes were wide open, facing the ceiling, but they didn't move.

Samuel touched her forehead gently. His hand stayed there for a moment before he pulled it back and took a deep breath. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. He shut it again, staring at the floor.

Then, slowly, he stood up.

He walked over to the table near the fireplace and picked up his Bible, which was old and worn. Then held it tightly in one hand.

He turned to face the door, as his hand reached out and rested on the handle. He took a deep breath again and spoke softly, without turning back:

"We just have to believe… and have faith."

He paused, then added, "In the Lord."

He turned his head just enough to see the enslaved maid sitting quietly nearby. He gave her a slow nod.

"I'll pray for them while I'm out."

His hand twisted the handle.

But before he could pull the door open, Elizabeth stepped back into the room. She held the cup of water in her hand and walked forward slowly. Her eyes were narrow with confusion and her brow furrowed as she watched her husband, puzzled.

She didn't even look at the maid as she handed the cup to her. Her eyes were still fixed on Samuel.

"You going...?" she asked, her voice calm but confused. "You going somewhere tonight?"

Samuel stopped.

His hand froze on the handle. His back stayed turned to her. "Yes, darling," he said, very quickly. "The Church is holding an important reunion."

Elizabeth stepped forward. She tilted her head, arms still crossed. "Samuel... don't you think it's wise of you to stay here?" she asked, trying to keep her calm demeanor steady. "Your daughter and your niece are sick. Don't you think you should be here.....with them?"

Samuel slowly turned around, his face was serious as he let out a deep sigh. He took a few steps toward her, slow and careful.

"Honey..." he said softly, reaching up with one hand. He gently touched her cheek gently and whispered.

"Tonight is… very important to me and to my fellow brethrens, perhaps the most important night ever....."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, she tilted her head once again, scoffed, and removed his hand away from her face.

He sighed, and barely looking at her, he turned towards the exit once again and uttered.

"As I said earlier, I'll keep them in my prayers."

She let out a small laugh, the kind of laugh you let out when something inside you's breaking but you're trying to hold it together with sheer rage. "Samuel, I mean... are you listening to yourself right now?"

She takes a step forward.

Elizabeth replied with an angry tone "So… after two cursed weeks of watching them suffer beneath your own eyes… this is your answer? More prayer?"

She added angrily staring into his eyes, begging that this was some kind of sick joke.

"Just gonna pray it away? Again? Maybe this time God will finally answer, huh? Since He just missed the first fifty times you called upon his damn name."

Samuel lightly slammed the Bible down on the wooden table. Dust leapt from the old cover. He stared at Elizabeth with anger.

"What...? You think this is easy for me as well?" he added. "You think... I... I haven't—"

He paused, let out a deep sigh as his gaze dropped to the floor. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. "Listen," he murmured. "I haven't been the same since the devil found its way into this house, okay?"

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes on disbelief. "Oh, I'd say it's been very easy for you," she said coldly. "Since I'm the one wiping vomit off the floors." She stepped toward him, pointing at her chest with a trembling hand.

"I'm the one holding them when they scream about demons crawling in their heads, begging me to make them stop seeing monsters that aren't even there."

A pause

She wiped her sweaty palms against her dress. "But... want to guess what I didn't see?" she asked, eyes fixed on the space between them.

Silence followed.

Then she lifted her gaze and locked eyes with him.

"You, Samuel. Not once."

Samuel flinched and took a small step back, the floorboards made small noises. His mouth opened, but no words came—just a soft sigh. Then he shook his head, both hands half-raised as if fending off some accusation.

"That's... that's far from truth, Elizabeth, you know this" he stammered. "I—I was trying, I just—"

She didn't even let him finish, she stepped forward furiously. "And you have the bloody nerves, Samuel..." she hissed, leaning in close enough for him. "...to stand here in front of me and talk to me about some dumb reunion you've got planned at the church?"

She laughed without humor shaking her head. "A gathering of saints, while your own house rots from the inside."

Samuel's eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked back up to her. His lips parted slightly, as though words might come if he gave them enough time—but nothing did. He looked cornered, and she stood just inches away, breathing hard.

"I mean, hell—Salem's got what? Four hundred people, maybe?" she said, almost laughing. "And how many of them actually show up to your little Friday circus? Six? Seven?"

She jabbed a finger into his chest.

"And still you walk about like missing a single gathering will tear the heavens asunder. As if God Himself crouches in the clouds, clutching a bolt of fire, waiting to strike Salem down because Reverend Samuel failed to show and mumble the same tired verses he's recited a thousand times."

Samuel's shoulders pulled back. Slowly, deliberately, he rose to his full height. His face turned to stone, eyes narrowing to slits.

"Nevertheless, Elizabeth."

He placed a hand firmly over his chest, as his voice rose.

"I am a Reverend."

He stepped forward, closing the space between them until barely an inch remained.

"And I carry a burden heavier than any man in this village. If I falter—even once—they falter with me!"

With a sudden sweep of his arm, he gestured toward the sick girls.

"Look at them!"

Betty writhed against the bedposts, her wrists raw and red from the rope. She bucked once, then let out a noise between a sob and a scream. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her face like seaweed on a drowned corpse.

Just nearby, Abigail laid beside her. Her stomach lurched, and she vomited a thick, tar-black sludge that sizzled as it splashed onto the wooden boards. The room stank of bile and rot.

Samuel's hands trembled as he pointed with a shaking finger.

"Listen..." he said. "If you even entertain the thought that I'll let that thing—" he gestured again like he was out of control, "—that devil—come between me and what I was anointed to do by the hand of God Almighty—"

He turned to face her, stepping in close enough that their noses almost touched.

"—then you might as well pack your soul and march it straight into hell with him."

Silence

Elizabeth didn't flinch. She stared up at him and then slowly, she smiled. Not out of happiness. It was the smile of a woman who had suffered, screamed and bore far too long to be afraid anymore.

"Is that so?" she replied, quietly.

Samuel's nostrils flared. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Yes, Elizabeth," he growled. "Yes."

There was a long, heavy pause.

Then Elizabeth let out another giggle. She took a single step back, eyes wide, then shook her head slowly. "He still believes in a god. For pity's sake, Samuel." she repeated, her voice flat with disbelief. She looked up—not at him, not at anything in particular, but at the ceiling above them.

She didn't wait for him to answer. Her boots slammed hard against the floor as she stepped forward angrily. "When the fuck are you going to understand, Samuel?"

She froze mid-step, hands trembling as she jabbed a shaking finger at the floor beneath them. "This. Right here. This family"

She let out a humorless laugh ".....This goddamn house."

Then, she exhaled sharply through her nose—a wet, guttural sound echoed as the catarrh she'd been holding back finally escaped. She didn't wipe it away. Just stood there, eyes fixed on the girls. "And this god you keep clinging to? He doesn't give two shits about any of it."

Then, she whispered.

"Just tell me where God is in all this."

Her hand dropped slowly to her side, as if drained of purpose. "No prayer… no faith in all the world explains what we've seen with our own eyes, Samuel."

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. She didn't bother to wipe them.

"I've tried, Samuel…"

Her voice broke.

"God, I tried."

Her hands rose on instinct, wiping the tears away, though they just kept coming. "For so long. For so long, I tried to believe in something." Then she looked up again. Her eyes, red and wet. She swallowed hard and uttered.

"And if He's real…"

She blinked, and a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. "Then He knows exactly how hard I tried." She wiped her face again with the back of her sleeve, frustrated and desperate.

"But I can't keep doing this," she whispered.

"I really can't, Samuel."

And then she just... stopped.

She stood there, her whole body trembling, tears slipping down her face in silence. Her lips parted slightly, as if another word might come, but it didn't. She had nothing left to say.

Nothing left to give.

Then silence followed.

—for the first time in a long, long while, Elizabeth was empty.

Samuel glanced once more at the girls and let out a long, quiet sigh, then gripped the Bible tighter and walked to the wooden door. His hand wrapped around the handle.

Behind him, Elizabeth stared in shock.

This... this was his response? After everything? After she had emptied herself right there in front of him? And then—without meaning to, without even knowing it was coming—she spoke.

"That's why I called someone over."

Silence.

And in that moment....Samuel froze.

He didn't turn at first. Just stood there with his hand still on the door. Then, slowly, he turned back—his movements stiff. "What… did you just say?" he asked with a suspiciously calm demeanor.

Elizabeth didn't answer. Her lips parted, but the words caught in her throat. She stepped back once, her eyes dropped to the floor.

Samuel's face shifted—his calm demeanor finally cracked. In a sudden burst. He grabbed her by the arms—roughly. "What the hell did you just say....?! Huh? What the hell did you say Elizabeth?!!!"

Elizabeth gasped as her back slammed into the edge of the table. Her hands flew up, shoving at his chest with all her strength.

"I called someone, okay?!" she shouted. "I called someone! Someone who might actually help! Because you sure as hell weren't going to!"

By the bedside, Tituba said nothing. She quietly pressed a damp cloth to Abigail's lips and tilted the cup toward her mouth.

Samuel's bible slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a hollow thunk. He didn't even glance down. Instead, he screamed. "Jesus, Elizabeth! What in God's name were you thinking?!"

Spit flew from his mouth, landing on her cheek.He turned away, pacing fast, aimless, wild-eyed.He dragged a hand through his hair and yanked it back, trying—failing—to collect himself.

"Do you have any idea what the Puritans would do to us—to me—if they ever found out what's happening in this house?"

Elizabeth yanked free from his grip, stumbling backward. One hand caught the edge of the table as she steadied herself. Then she screamed furiously.

"Damn the church, Samuel! And your pious pretenses! I care not what wrath they rain upon me—I saved these girls, and by my soul, that is what holds meaning in mine eyes!"