Religious Quests : Shadows from the Forests Edge

EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – DAY – FEBRUARY 2ND, 1692

The church bell rang out again.

Louder this time.

Forcing villagers to start coming out of their cottages — rubbing their eyes, holding their shawls tight, still half-asleep. Some looked annoyed, others looked… nervous. Nobody said anything at first, but you could tell by the way they were looking at each other that they knew something had happened.

The church bell didn't ring unless something bad had gone down.

A few villagers carried baskets, probably thinking they'd head to the market after figuring out what the fuss was. Others had their kids clinging to them.

Then he showed up — Sir Malevich. He approached the edge of the village, his brown and white horse stepping slowly over the uneven cobblestone path.

His cloak billowed gently behind him, and his grey eyes scanned the growing crowd quietly — searching for something… or someone.

As he got closer, the church finally came into view.

The outside was made of these grayish wood panels, while some parts were covered green with moss. The whole place looked like it was leaning slightly to one side.

There were tall, narrow windows all around the church, which with time became just smudges of faded red, blue, and gold.

At the top of the church was a crooked steeple. It reached so high into the sky that it disappeared into the clouds if you looked at it from the wrong angle. There was an old iron cross on top — rusty, tilted to one side, squeaking whenever the wind pushed it.

And the front doors were massive, made of thick, dark wood. They were cracked and chipped all over, like someone had tried to claw their way in… or out. Metal bands wrapped across them in big X shapes, and there were carvings on them too — but they were so worn down you couldn't tell if they were holy symbols or just scratches.

Today, though, one of the doors were open.

Just a little.

People didn't go near it. They stood in a loose circle around the front steps, whispering to each other. Some crossed themselves, while others just stared. Everyone was waiting — not sure whether to go closer or to run away from the view that was headed their way.

Sir Malevich just dismounted without a word and he tied the reins to a rail, which was miles away from the crowd, beside an old cart heaped with drying herbs — sage, mugwort, rosemary. A raven, perched on the edge took flight as he stepped past.

The bell rang again.

Once.

And just like that, everyone went silent.

Though Malevich was still curious to see why the villagers looked… well, not just confused — they looked scared, like something had shaken them and no one wanted to say it out loud.

Even for Salem, this was different.

Malevich didn't move for a second. He just kept staring, as a few backed away from the door, pulling their kids with them. One old man — Mr. Davers, crossed himself five times in a row. Another woman whispered something and dropped to her knees right in the mud.

Then he heard it.

Screaming.

High-pitched, guttural cries.

His gaze quickly fell on the chaotic scene by the right side of the church.

Twelve girls.

Their bodies thrashed violently as if thrown to the ground a thousand times. Two grown men, both in plain Puritan garb, clutched the ends of the girls' tunics and dragged them across the rough cobblestone.

Their gowns tore at their shoulders as they kicked and shrieked, their bare legs scraped red by gravel and wood. Their mouths contorted in ways, that seem impossible to replicate. One of them foamed at the mouth while another's eyes had rolled back entirely. One pounded her fists against the ground until her nails broke and bled.

Malevich's brow furrowed, though he was hesitant to move forward.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward a boy lingering by the left side of the church— one wiry youth he'd seen a dozen times before, always snacking on something or slipping food into his pockets.

Today was no different.

The youth couldn't have been more than twenty-two. He wore a tunic that hung off him like a curtain, cinched around the middle with a length of twine. Having dust all over his face and his bare feet were scuffed from too many getaways from angry vendors and worse

He was hunched over, scooping raw oats into his mouth by the handful, chewing loudly like a goat at the market. Between bites, he glanced up—and paused. A tall figure was approaching. At first, he didn't think much of it… until he realized the stranger wasn't just passing by. He was watching him.

The boy froze, mid-chew.

Then, with the smooth panic of someone who'd been caught, he straightened up abruptly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and trying to look innocent. The oats disappeared behind his back in one swift, clumsy motion.

"Hello!!!!....." the boy said with a weird enthusiasm, hopping on the barrel like he'd just been announced on stage. "And welcome to my corner of Salem — finest view of the church and home of the best of gossips in the county!"

He swept into a dramatic bow, nearly knocking over the wooden doll dangling from his belt. The doll's grimy, chipped face stared blankly as he flashed a grin.

"You need directions? Gossip? A sermon? Perhaps more Gossip?" he said as quick as possible, patting the pouch of oats as he winked. "I got a little of everything — for the right price, of course."

Sir Malevich stared him down, silent and unmoved. Then his eyes flicked to the group of shrieking girls being dragged across the square. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "you know something about the girls....?"

The boy blinked. Then leaned in as if letting Malevich in on a secret, though he knew absolutely nothing about the girls—he just figured if he spun the tale right, maybe this tall stranger would drop a coin or two.

"Oooh. Them," he whispered, dropping his voice to a spooky hush like he was about to tell a campfire ghost story.

He glanced dramatically around, then pointed vaguely in the direction of the church steps, where the girls had been dragged screaming.

"They say the Devil himself slipped in through the trees last Blood Moon. Been whisperin' in their ears ever since. Girls started wakin' up screamin', speakin' in backwards words, sayin' names that aren't supposed to be said. One of them swore her dead uncle climbed out of the stove and offered her tea."

He held his breath and then it out, then added with a wry grin, "Personally, I think the tea part's suspicious. No one drinks tea that late."

He gave a playful shrug, then glanced side to side and whispered, "But what do I know? I'm just a local oat professional, food enthusiast, and part-time ghost historian." He offered a short, mock bow.

Then, sheepishly:

"…Also not technically allowed near Thomas Maule's bread store anymore."

Malevich said nothing. Just watched.

The boy's smirk wobbled. He leaned back slightly awkwardly.

Still silence.

"…Right. Cool. Great talk." He popped another oat in his mouth and muttered, "Oh, almost forgot, that will be 77 coins, Sire…"

A long silence followed.

Malevich's eyes lingered on the boy for a moment longer, then drifted back to the scene ahead. Without a word, he turned and walked past, his cloak brushing the dust as he moved—eyes narrowing as he approached the girls, their screams echoing louder.

The boy popped another oat into his mouth and mumbled under his breath:

"Rude…"

At the same hour, within the quiet halls of the Salem's church itself, the sound of footfalls echoed. Puritan men in dark coats passed wordlessly through narrow corridors, while nuns and reverends whispered Latin prayers near wooden pews.

Down one dimly lit hallway, tucked behind a crooked door with iron hinges, was a small, shadowed room. It had only a desk, a wooden chair, and a single crucifix hung slightly askew on the wall.

Madame Ginevra sat on her wooden chair, arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes locked on the crooked clump of papers filled with names brought by one of her witchfinders—Sarah Osborne.

She spoke low.

".....I need to know who abideth in there, Thomas."

She paused.

"I'm positive I sensed a presence not of God, nor of man."

Thomas stood beside her, he looked at the cross and said. "I suggest... it's not our time to go, Madame," he said, voice lower out of respect. "What if... what if Malevich being there that night actually saved our lives from whatever horror laid inside?"

Ginevra turned sharply to look at him, eyes narrowing.

"Thomas... have you lost faith in the Lord?"

His gaze remained.

"No, Madame, Absolutely not" he said quietly. "I'm just trying to say that... perhaps the Lord works through others. Even through a man like Malevich. If he hadn't been there, we might've walked straight into whatever's nesting in that place."

She stared at him, unreadable. "And what would you have us do, Thomas? Sit idle? Let evil root itself deeper while we wait for clearer signs?"

Thomas shifted uncomfortably. "I only mean we need to know more before we act. There's something unnatural there. We go blind, we don't come back."

Ginevra looked down at the names in her hands.

"Then find me light, Thomas. Find me truth."

She stood slowly, her voice harder now.

"Because if that house is what I believe it is... then waiting will be the very thing that damns Salem."

Thomas gave a stiff nod.

"I'll send for—"

A knock.

A figure entered softly, careful not to draw attention. Her dress was darker than what most women wore in Salem. Her hair, jet black and brushed smooth, fell behind her shoulders without the bonnet that most of the village women tied so tightly over their heads. Her eyes were startling blue, scanned Thomas and Madame Ginevra quickly before she lowered herself with just modesty

Sarah Osborne

A former Puritan widow, she had recently remarried—a man from outside the Salem covenant. Her presence in the church was tolerated, than welcomed.

In her gloved hand, she held a small, folded piece of parchment—creased and smudged from handling. She paused before the Madame Ginevra, who sat with her back straight with no sense of acknowledgement.

Without speaking, Ginevra extended her hand. Sarah placed the paper into it. Madame Ginevra unfolded the note slowly. Her eyes fell across the two names written there:

BETTY.

ABIGAIL.

Her voice went cold, as she stared at her.

"Any proof they're possessed?"

Sarah lifted her chin slightly. "Well, my.... husband is a physician. He was called to a home just beyond the eastern wood, just last week. A woman named Elizabeth—he believes she's the mother of one of the girls. As for the man of the house… we've heard little.....to nothing about him"

She stepped closer.

"When my husband arrived, he found the girls twitching, muttering in strange tongues. He said… it was not fever nor a plague, but a sign of witchcraft."

Madame Ginevra gave a quiet exhale, already annoyed. "Right…" she muttered, already slipping the paper beneath a drawer lined with dozens more like it.

Sarah kept her voice composed, hands clasped tightly before her. "Trust me—what I bring you is valuable. You won't hear it from anyone else."

Without another word, Ginevra opened a shallow drawer and withdrew a pouch of coins. She tossed it lightly onto the desk. It landed with a dull clink. "There you go," she said, her lips curling into a faint smile.

Sarah took it, turned, and began walking toward the door, her fingers counting by touch alone.

One. Two. Three...

She stopped. Her brows furrowed.

Then, slowly, she turned back.

"I believe there's been a miscalculation," she said quietly with a smile. "It's supposed to be twelve coins. This is nine."

Ginevra's smile did not change.

"Not at all" she said sweetly. "There's no miscalculation." She rose slightly from her chair, resting her fingers on the desk. "That is precisely what your crooked little story is worth, honey"

Silence.

Sarah's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more. She turned her gaze once again towards the coins. Madame Ginevra returned to her seat.

But Sarah wasn't done yet.

Sarah blinked, confused by the finality in Ginevra's tone. "But I brought you the information," she insisted, clutching the pouch tighter. "Who else could possibly do it better than I do?"

Ginevra didn't flinch. Her fingers interlaced calmly atop the desk, as she rested her head on them. "Yes," she replied evenly. "But some things have changed, Sarah"

A pause.

"And to be perfectly honest with you'—not to lead you on—I don't believe we'll be needing your services any longer"

Sarah opened her mouth to protest—"You found someone else for—"

But before the words could fully take form, there was a sharp knock on the door.

It creaked open.

Antonella stepped inside—the wooden doors creaked as they shut behind her. Her tall figure was cloaked in a black-and-white Puritan gown which cinched tightly at the waist.

A black bonnet sat on her head, though it failed to contain the unruly curls that had slipped free—strands of brown hair falling around her temples and the nape of her neck.

She didn't speak.

Her brown eyes fell on Sarah across the room and locked onto her like a hawk.

Sarah stepped back instinctively.

Antonella crossed the room slowly.

She said nothing until she reached the worn table where Madame Ginevra sat. Without a sign of modesty like Sarah had done earlier. Antonella slid into the seat across from her. From beneath the folds of her heavy cloak, she withdrew a single piece of folded parchment sealed and maintained with a deep red wax.

She set it down gently. "There's news," Antonella said, her voice. "Twelve girls. Found across the village of Salem."

She let the silence hang before continuing.

"Skin flaking. Eyes rolled back in their skulls. Unresponsive, muttering tongues not heard in this world."

She looked directly at Ginevra, gaze unblinking.

"All possessed."

Sarah straightened slightly.

Antonella leaned forward, her gloved hands pressed firmly to the table. "There are likely more in the village," she said. "My men have already moved—the afflicted have been brought to the church steps."

Madame Ginevra didn't speak nor blink. Her gaze remained locked on the parchment she held, her fingers curled around the edge of the list.

Twelve girls?

When she finally looked up, it was at Thomas—not Antonella—her eyes widened, but still, she said nothing. Then, deliberately and without haste, she stood. Her cloak fell back into place around her. She turned without a word and walked.

Sarah Osborne stepped aside quickly, eyes wide, pressing herself against the wall as Ginevra brushed past.

The hallway was tight and dimly lit. As Ginevra moved, other robed Puritans had to step aside to let her through. Thomas followed right behind her, silently furrowed, his steps quicker to keep up.

Then—

The doors to the church swung open with a low groan of wood.

What greeted them was chaos wrapped in reverence.