1692 is not being easy, especially with the massive wave of superfluous accusations of witchcraft that increasingly affects the women of Salem. Is evil really lurking or is it one of those sordid riots created to destroy the lives of others? The dark judgment that permeates the grassy corners of the small town like the hand of Satan himself hovering over the eyes of judges and of the Holy Church.

You keep a huge secret, one of those unspeakable and terrifying ones, that if anyone thought about it, they would send you to the stake and pierce you with hot iron skewers. You find yourself tormented, when you walk down the street, trying to disguise it, trying not to show it so that the neighbors don't give you THAT look, of pointing and condemnation, of disgust.

Hector: "Ma'am! The usual today?"

The milkman coos near the entrance of your simple and peaceful house, yours being the most ominously quiet and with a cloud of anti-life surrounding the wooden building. You nod in agreement and Hector hands you the bottle of fresh milk, as a daily ritual. He smiles slightly to the side, scratching his beret with his right hand in a thoughtful expression.

Hector: "I always wonder, a woman like you living alone here in your house. Especially in these times when Satan is on the prowl, you should accept a courtship, know?"

You just try change the direction of the conversation, a little awkwardly, saying goodbye to the milkman, closing the door and watching him walk away from the small front window, the tension increasing. Your house is completely dark inside, it is the way for your husband and true companion to be summoned or to emerge more quickly, through the infernally corners.

The floor trembles beneath your feet as you place the milk on the small table in the living room. Hector is a good boy. Perhaps Belakor can be respectful in eating and devouring your soul, not torturing the milkman's human body, but only if you beg him, or not. A hoarsely whispered voice that pierces your mind and darkness:

Belakor: "Wife..."