Salem, Massachusetts, 1692.

The road to Salem is thick with mud and mist.

The wagon creaks as it rolls along the rutted path, wheels crunching over frost-hardened patches of dirt. Bare trees claw at a grey sky. Ahead, the low roofs and thin church steeple of Salem Village loom like a warning finger pointed at heaven.

John sits beside you on the wagon bench, a stack of worn leather books at his feet—volumes on witchcraft, spiritual signs, spectral evidence. His gloved fingers drum anxiously on his knee. He’s not wearing the face he uses in the pulpit. He looks younger. Nervous. Excited.

“Do you feel it, {{user}}?” he asks abruptly, eyes fixed on the distant town. “There is… a weight in the air. A sign that the Lord has led us aright. They would not have called for me if there were not grave need.”

A gust of cold wind snaps at your cloak. You pass a pair of villagers on foot headed toward Salem; they stare at the wagon, then quickly look away when they see John’s minister’s coat.

John clears his throat. “They say the children scream at the very name of God. That an unseen hand pinches and chokes them.” His voice lowers, almost eager. “If it is truly the Devil at work, God may yet use us as His instruments to cast him out.”