Religious Quests : Shadows from the Forests Edge

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

Tears poured freely now.

"If the Puritans come for me? Fine! Let them! Let them come!"

She yelled. "At least, I did something!" And pointed at him with a trembling hand. "While you? You were hiding behind your goddamn title. Sitting there and pretending. Waiting for a miracle—while those girls were dying!"

"Every single damn time I tried to get help," she said through clenched teeth, "you had a goddamn excuse."

Then she raised her voice into a mocking, childish lilt:

"'Oh no, Elizabeth, let's pray first.'"

"'Oh no, Elizabeth, God is watching.'"

"'Oh no, Elizabeth, we must wait and be tested.'"

"Tested?"

Her eyes flashed.

"Tested?! These are children, Samuel. Can't you see?"

Then, she took another step toward him, raised her finger to warn him. "And you listen to me, Samuel... That God of yours better forbids—"

She turned toward the bed and slowly, she turned back to face him. "—that not even one of these girls dies here tonight. In that bed. While you stand there in your holy little corner, chanting to the ceiling like it's listening."

She choked, but pushed the words out. "Because if that happens…" Her voice lowered. "I swear on everything I have, I'll never forgive you." She shook her head slowly. "And I'll never forgive myself... for staying beside you this long."

A tear slid down her cheek.

She didn't wipe it away.

Samuel's face instantly changed. "That's it?" he growled. He stepped forward hard—his boots thudding. "That's bloody it?!" He let out a short laugh.

"You've already done the worst thing you could've possibly done, Elizabeth!"

He jabbed a finger at bed. "And you better pray to that God you keep mocking that we don't end up hanging in the square....."

He shouted with such fury that flecks of spit flew from his mouth:

"…because of your bloody foolishness!"

Another tear slipped down Elizabeth's cheek.

She even care to wipe it.

She just stared at him intensely.

Then Samuel's voice rose again:

"If you weren't such a worthless wife—"

Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke the words.

"—if you'd done the one thing God asks of you, and brought them to church like a decent woman, none of this would've happened! Not a damn thing!"

He glared at her.

"But no. You stayed behind. As always. And now look what's come of your neglect....."

"....because deep down, you never loved this family to begin with."

But that—that line, that one sentence—was what broke her the most. Not the constant insults. That sentence cracked something so deep inside her, she swore she felt her soul pull away from her body just for a second, like it didn't even want to be in the same room with him anymore.

And she just stood there, completely frozen, so still that it didn't even feel like breathing was worth it anymore, just stood and stared at him with eyes filled with so much disbelief, that how come the very man she once swore herself to in front of a lying God and a church full of blind fools, could say something so shallow, so cruel, without flinching.

She had seen him mad, sure. He'd been angry a thousand times—over money, over the girls, over dinner being late, over the weather—but never like this.

Her eyes dropped—not out of fear, but because she was holding herself together, trying not to make an already fucked-up situation even worse.

"All I've ever done....."

She said it with that same sad little laugh, like if she didn't say it out loud, he'd never believe her. "…is love this family."

Then she looked up at him slowly, tears streaking her face, her nose running, her eyes red. And then she screamed, finally letting out all that rage and anger she had bottled up for years:

"All I've ever done is give — my time, my body, my goddamn life to this family! I gave you everything I had — every bloody drop of me — even when there was nothing left to give! And still, I kept going, just to keep up the stupid lie that we were okay!"

She couldn't take it anymore. Her hands flew to her face as she broke, sobbing into her palms, her cries loud.

After a few seconds, she wiped at her face, smearing tears across her cheeks, sniffing hard. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands. Her eyes, red and swollen, locked onto his.

Her voice was soft now.

"And what do I get in return?"

Just a pause.

"…A man who forgets his own damn family the second his shoes hit the mat. A man who remembers God more than he remembers his goddamn wife. Hiding behind his Bible because he knows damn well that the truth burns more than Hell!!!"

"So don't you stand there and tell me I don't love this family. Don't you dare open your mouth and twist your shit into righteousness when you've been checked out of this marriage since before our youngest was even born."

And she stepped closer.

"I have bled for this family. I've starved myself—of food, of sleep, of love and hope—just to keep this rotten house of woods and stick from collapsing."

"Don't you dare question my love when you can't even remember the last time you held your daughter without looking at the clock."

She took another step and jabbed a finger toward his face "So don't you ever dare look at me like I'm the one who let this fall apart."

A single tear broke loose. And she didn't even move to wipe it away because it didn't deserve that much attention.

"Because the only one who gave up on this family, the only one who checked out and left us behind while still pretending to lead us with that crooked, useless faith of yours…"

She leaned in slowly:

"…is you, Samuel."

Meanwhile, In the corner, Tituba looked up. Her hands froze mid-motion over Abigail's trembling fingers. She didn't speak. Just stared for a moment—then dropped her gaze to the floor.

Samuel stepped forward and replied.

"Watch your mouth, woman."

Silence.

And then—

Elizabeth's voice exploded out of her, finally cracking open after years of being held back, her scream so full of anger.

"OR FUCKING WHAT?!"

She shoved him so hard, her open palm hit his chest, and the shock of it made him stumble. "You'll hit me? Is that going to prove your point?

She didn't wait for his answer—didn't need one—because she was already in his face, charging forward with every footstep, her face inches from his, breath ragged, eyes wide, and she didn't care anymore about who heard them, who judged them, or what God thought.

"Go on then, Reverend," she spat the word. "Hit your bloody wife. Hit me in the name of your holy, make-believe, dead God. Maybe that'll finally make Him notice you again."

"Do it, Samuel!" she shrieked, fists clenched, veins bulging.

Tears streamed down her face, but they didn't soften her—if anything, they made her look more terrifying. And she didn't look away. She raised a shaking arm, pointed toward the bed—the bed where their girl laid. "Go on, Samuel," she growled. "Go show us what God truly wants from His loyal little servant like you."

And then—

Nothing.

Silence.

Samuel just stood there. Hollow. Deflated. His hands limp, his arms useless. All that puffed-up rage? Gone. Replaced by the kind of calmness you only see in men who realize too late they've already lost everything they've worked for all their lives.

Elizabeth noticed it, just how weak of man he was.

Then she whispered :

"Coward."

And with the word, that rage came back once again. Samuel lunged without warning and slapped her across the face so hard the sound echoed through the room like a whip—her head snapped sideways, and she went down, crashing to the floor with a thud, the side of her face already swelling, a thin stream of blood running from the corner of her lip down to her chin.

He stood over her, breathing hard, his chest heaving, then spat on the floor right beside her like she was filth, like she meant nothing, and the spit landed just inches from her hand.

She stared at him with her eyes wide open. She stayed there on the cold floor, one hand holding her weight, the other dragging across her lip, wiping the blood slowly, like she was trying to understand what just happened—and when her fingers came back red, she stared at them for a moment like she'd expected it, like part of her already knew this day would come.

Then she looked up at him, slowly, her eyes full of tears, though managed to make a tiny smile. "There it is... there's the man of God you keep preaching about..."

She pulled herself up slowly, knees shaking, blood still on her face, her dress dirty as she wiped her mouth.

"Pretty sure HE will be so proud"

Silence

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door.

It was quiet—just two soft thumps on the wood. But it felt loud, like a wild animal scratching to get in.

Elizabeth stood up slowly. Her heart was beating fast, as she walked to the door quickly. Samuel followed just behind her. But much slower.

Elizabeth reached the door. Her hand was shaking, as she opened it.

Cold air rushed in.

She shivered.

Standing outside the door was the doctor—Dr. Elias Griggs.He was tall and dressed all in black. His long black coat had something strange hanging from it, like a dark charm.

His face looked empty. His skin was dark, and his eyes were sunken.

He looked tired. Almost like he was already dead, as if someone had pulled him out of a grave.

In one hand, he held a lantern which was dull, and in his other hand, he carried a leather bag which looked old and heavy, filled with the tools he used for his work.

He gave them a quiet look.

"I came as early as I could," he muttered, with a raspy voice, eyes barely meeting theirs.

Samuel said nothing. Just stepped aside and opened the door wider. The physician stepped in, his boots crunching softly against the wooden floor.

As he walked by, the snow clinging to his coat vanished without a trace.

His eyes shifted almost immediately, looking around the house which already made Samuel quite suspicious. Elizabeth led the physician to the room where the girls laid.

His eyes landed on them.

He froze.

Two small figures curled beneath blankets.

"Sweet mercy…" Dr. Griggs whispered, stepping forward, he moved closer and said. "How long have they been like this?"

He looked at Samuel for answers.

Samuel stuttered and said "Erm... four weeks....? Or about...."

"Two weeks, Doctor," Elizabeth gave him a death stare and immediately cut him off. She moved beside him, wringing her hands.

The doctor dropped to one knee, his bag already opening with practiced fingers, revealing instruments and cloths and strange-smelling bottles.

He checked them carefully, methodically—pressing fingers to their necks, to their temples, opening eyelids, watching their pupils drag.

"They respond," he murmured as he stayed at Elizabeth, "but only barely. Their pulse is normal and so is the breathing...but...." Then he paused, frowning, reaching for the smallest girl's hand, which twitched rhythmically—unconsciously.

"What's this movement in the hands?"

"She does it for hours," Elizabeth answered as she knelt beside him. "Sometimes she cry out in her sleep. But it's the talking…" She swallowed, jaw shaking as she covers her mouth. ".....which terrifies me the most."

Dr. Griggs didn't look up. He was listening.

"Sometimes, they speak in voices that do not belong to them. Voices of… of people I know are dead. Especially of people who died four years ago during the invasion"

That made the physician stop. His fingers froze mid-air. He looked up slowly, eyes scanning hers to see if maybe, just maybe she might be making this up.

"Have they spoken names?" he asked, his voice calm still.

Elizabeth blinked.

"What?"

"Have they named anyone?" he said again, more slowly now. "Accused? Called anyone out? Perhaps in their sleep? Or while speaking in those voices you talked about earlier?"

At that, Samuel stepped forward defensively. "They don't know what they're saying. They're probably just sick. Delirious. You said it yourself—they are responsive."

Dr. Griggs turned his gaze on him. "You'd be surprised what the unconscious remembers," he said, his gaze went back to the children.

The Doctor then rose to his feet, brushing the front of his coat with a long sigh, his gloves stained from contact.

"I cannot find a fever. Their temperature is too low, if anything. No rash, No discoloration, No swelling in the throat. It's not the plague....." He hesitated, eyes shifting to the fire.

Elizabeth's eyes darted around as she spoke.

"Then what is it?"

The doctor hesitated.

Then, finally—he said it.

"Witchcraft."

And then he said more. "Your girls have been touched by an evil hand… a spirit not of God, but of the devil."

Elizabeth stumbled backward, eyes wide, hands over her mouth. Samuel remained frozen.

But Dr. Griggs wasn't finished.

He stepped toward the fire, staring into it. "If they've named someone or spoken the names of the dead… or the guilty… it mustn't be ignored. We are dealing with something ancient....."

Samuel shook his head firmly, cutting him off.

"No. We're not doing that."

Dr. Griggs turned to face him "I understand it's difficult," he said slowly. "But we need to face the truth, Samuel. Whatever this is... it's not going away. And I don't have the answers nor do I have the tools to send it away."

"I've done everything I know how to do," the doctor continued. "I've checked for infection and signs of poisoning. Nothing explains this"

He bent down and gathered his bag. "I shouldn't stay. I have other homes to visit before dawn. And… to be honest, I'm not sure there's anything more I can do here right now."

"You're giving up?" Samuel asked without looking at him, trying to mock him.

"I'm saying I need help. A lot of it. Maybe from the capital. Or… someone who knows more than I do. I'll write a letter tonight and send for someone."

Elizabeth stood up and walked over, trying to keep her cool still. She walked down the hallway making out a smile. They reached the main door and she opened the door for him. Snow blew in around the frame.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said softly.

Griggs nodded once. He paused, then glanced at Samuel.

"Please… stay strong," he said. "You'll need each other."

He left without another word.

Silence.

Elizabeth drew in a long, steady breath, bracing herself from the encounter. Her hand hovered near the handle, ready to shut the door on the night.

But before she could move, Samuel stepped forward—quiet, deliberate—and pressed his hand flat against the wooden frame.

Then he turned his gaze towards her.

"Now what?" he asked, his tone was full of mockery. "Doctor's gone. Girls still in the room, same as yesterday. You think that helped anything?"

She didn't reply.

He walked to the table and picked up his Bible, staring down at it and then he turned, heading toward the door again like earlier.

Elizabeth's voice stopped him.

"I don't know what else to do, Samuel," she said quietly.

Samuel rolled his eyes.

"I don't know where I went wrong, I really don't. I've done my best to keep this family together. And still… you look at me like I'm the reason things happen."

He finally turned his head slightly, just enough that she could hear him clearly.

"Or maybe your best wasn't good enough, ever think about that....?"

She stared at him and blinked rapidly.

He looked away and opened the door wider. The wind outside had picked up, the snow falling heavier now. Then he stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving her all alone.