The Ebony-Eyed Children Of Salem

The children of this story are not ordinary children. You see, these children I speak of are unique and bear the distinctive eyes of darkness and mystery, with an ebony film of terror over them. The incredible legend of these children had originated upon one memorable day of autumn in the year 1816, at the seaport of Salem, Massachusetts, in Essex County.

Several months before, an eerie and unseasonable phenomenon in New England had tormented the area. It had snowed six inches in June, and the months afterward of that year were marked by a hard frost. The temperature had dropped as low as forty degrees in July and August. Crop failures had a huge impact on the region, causing hoarding and significant price increases for agricultural commodities. Squashes, beans, cucumbers—all were affected tremendously.

People were starving to death, imploring for divine intervention, while others confabulated that it was the malicious act and ensample of an inimical Satan that had led them into an absorptive aberration. The times were desperate and desolate, as a veil of implacable doom preponderated over the righteous minds of Salem, filling them with disturbance and apprehension.

Consequently, an eldritch activity had triggered the precipitous sequence of a disappearance that unsettled Salem, bringing inauspicious signs of trepidation, unbelief, and rumors. It all began suddenly with the inexplicable disappearance of three young girls, who were the daughters of a farmer by the name of Jeremiah Harwood.

My name is Joseph Murdock, a Bostonian by birth and a known magistrate by trade. I was sent to Salem to investigate the strange disappearance and question the few witnesses present. There was a certain Englishman who had been arrested on suspicion of the disappearance of the three young girls and was the prime suspect. His name was Nathaniel Taggart, a privateer by occupation.

Once I had arrived by carriage at Salem, I took lodging at one of the inns near the port.

Verily, the tumultuous sounds of the port had manifested in the drunkard sailors and rogues of amplitude, who caroused the area and brabbled in brawling. It had been not more than a year since the cessation of the War of 1812. It was the first time I had visited Salem, and I knew only the unique folklore of the history of the town aforehand, and its attachment to the devious spells of witchcraft conjured. Although this was never really proven, it was always embedded in the following generations that had succeeded afterward.

At the cell where the defendant was held prisoner in solitary confinement, I spoke to the privateer. It was extremely cold and damp inside the chamber in which the defendant was immured, as he awaited trial. He was dressed in the traditional garments of an inmate of that period, but his appearance was quite disheveled, as it was apparent that the time incarcerated had altered his guise. His countenance was gaunt, and his hazel eyes were full of fear and anxiety. His curly brownish hair was long and shabby. His beard and mustache likewise were unkempt and not trimmed.

His demeanor at first was demure and resigned; yet I sensed an urgent need in him to tell his version of events to me.

Mr. Nathaniel Taggart, I presume?" I asked with conciseness.

"Yes, it is my name, sir, but who are you, if I may ask so eagerly?" he inquired, as he rose to his feet.

"Good. My name is Joseph Murdock of Boston, Mr. Taggart. I am the magistrate in charge of your case. I have come today to take the deposition of your testimony, so that I may understand your case better."

"By Jove, you must believe me, when I tell you, my lord, that I am innocent of these nonsensical and unfounded accusations that have mistided. I do not know the exact reason why I have been accused and put in retention, except that I am a privateer and an Englishman from Stafford, England."

"I am a man of the law and inference, Mr. Taggart, and my commitment is to uphold my civil duty to the communities I serve. This takes precedence above all, and is intrinsic to my final decisions. Inductive reasoning, Mr. Taggart, is the logic we attribute to our implicit ratiocination in law," I replied.

"Yes, I understand, and you have eloquently explained yourself, my lord, but I am an unassuming man of virtue. Certainly, you can give me an advisory opinion that could guide my thoughts effectively," he responded.

"That I shall not doubt, but I did not come here to put you on trial, and I cannot give you much counsel, except to tell the truth. I came to hear your account, for I strongly believe in judicial impartiality, not irregulous suppositions. Whether these accusations are incontrovertible or not, it is for the court to determine, Mr. Taggart."

"Indeed. You must believe me, my lord!" He implored.

"Peradventure! Words can be pure placitory things to be acknowledged or elided. Now, let us begin in earnest with this deposition. Please, if you can relate, Mr. Taggart, where were you on the day of October 6 of the year 1816?" I asked retrospectively.

He proceeded to relate his account and answered my questioning. "I began the day as usual, at the harbor near the ships that dock, when I was given permission to spend time in Salem, along with my other crew members. I must admit I spent the day in the local pubs and with women, and they can attest to my whereabouts, my lord."

"Were you carousing at around five o’clock in the evening, when supposedly the three young Harwood girls went missing then?" I asked him directly.

He hesitated for a moment, as if to ponder that question, before he timorously replied, “I shall be very sincere with you, my lord. I had my good beers by the flagon, but that was in the late afternoon. This much I say through my admission willingly.”

I knew I had to be apprised with no indubitable aplomb but exactitude. "I need to know the precise time, Mr. Taggart, for that is a portentous piece of information to compute. It would prove or disprove your possible disposability. You state that you were inebriated with your crew members. Perhaps, I can interrogate these individuals. Perhaps, this might be the silver lining. If they were in an undesirable insobriety as you were, then their declarations shall be truly voided of any pertinent validity. As for the women, am I correct to assume without abashment that these young ladies were prostitutes, not seemly young ladies of propriety nor befitting accompaniment?"

This time he was straightforward with his response. “I believe so, my lord, but I shall repeat that I am innocent; and I was nowhere near the vicinity where those young girls disappeared. This I affirm, my lord, with honesty. I don’t remember everything that had betided, but I am no criminal nor murderer.”

He paused, as though his mind struggled to wrest a memory from the recesses of confusion, before he exclaimed with sudden realization, “Good God, I remember now! I was walking past a refurbished colonial mansion.”

“A colonial mansion, you say? Give me, to the best of your ability, an accurate description of this mansion,” I urged.

He began to describe the mansion as his memory pieced together the lingering details. “It was a two-storey house, with a projecting front porch and a massive central chimney. There were four casement windows, with a parlour and bedchamber above. It had an overhang adorned with carved pendants. The mansion boasted a three-gabled garret, wood paneling, sash windows, and beams and mortises upon the gables. It stood abutting a kind of shrub or arbutus. But there is one thing I recall most plainly—there was a lady within the house. I remember clearly passing the embouchure.”

“Do you know the name of the river, Mr. Taggart?” I inquired with interest.

“Not quite well, my lord, for I was only informed that it was near the site of an old Native American village,” he answered.

“It was probably the Naumkeag River,” I said sententiously.

He then grew visibly troubled, as if the act of remembering unsettled him deeply. “I remember now—there were three young girls, who stood on the hill outside the mansion. Their eyes... yes, their eyes were black, completely black,” he confessed with a trembling voice.

"Black eyes, what do you mean by that? What hill do you speak of?" I had pressed him further, my curiosity piqued despite my inclination for reason.

“You must think me mad, my lord, when I tell you that they were not human eyes, but devilish eyes of the fiend,” he said, his voice quavering as if he feared the daunting memory.

"Devilish eyes of the fiend, you say. Surely, you must have mistaken their eyes in the fading light. Are you certain you did not confuse the children with some
wolves or some other creatures common to these parts?" I asked, my tone seeking to anchor him back to reason.

He nodded his head slowly and answered tentatively, "No, I am certain of what I saw, my lord. They were demons or witches—nothing natural walked in their skin."

"We can discuss the matter of the black-eyed children later," I said, steadying the course of the deposition, "but for now, let us continue. What happened next? What did you do afterward?"

He swallowed heavily, the recollection weighing visibly upon him. "I remember only that I followed the children into the forest, as a balmy breeze turned quickly to a whipping wind. Then—the strange lady of the mansion began to follow me. But when I turned to confront her, it was not the lady who stood there—it was a bloody witch! I tell you, my lord, these parts are full of many tales of witches and demons, conspiring in secret."

"A witch, you say?" I echoed gravely. "Can you describe this strange lady? Was she old or young? Tall or short? Was her complexion light or dark?" I continued my questioning with renewed intensity.

"She was in her forties or so, and of medium stature. She was light-skinned also. This is all vaguely what I recall, my lord,” he replied, his voice trembling slightly, as though unsure of the very reality of his own memories.

This inextricable mystery, laced with witchcraft and eldritch lore, began to tug at my curiosity in a manner I had not expected. The strangeness of his tale, so thick with dread and uncertainty, spurred my thoughts and heightened my perception, urging me to probe deeper into the shadowy corners of this uncanny occurrence.

I had finished with my questions and stood to take my leave, telling Mr. Taggart that I would return soon. I gave him my word that I would thoroughly investigate his claim and account. His eyes, weary and strained, conveyed both relief and resignation as he thanked me for my visit, but I could see that he remained deeply aware of the dire consequences he faced, and the slim chances of salvation that awaited him.

The fact that he had been in such a bacchanalian state was not overtly propitious, though it did not carry the weight of an admission of guilt. It was certainly an oddity in itself, but in the context of his occupation and the times, it hardly proved his innocence—or his culpability.

Indeed, it was possible that he had been weaving a web of deceit from the very start, a calculated ruse designed to elude the sharp scrutiny of the law. My own insight, at that moment, was far from adequate to unravel this complex tangle of suspicion. Had I the gift of foresight, perhaps my perception would have been sharpened, and I might have discerned more clearly the path ahead.

But as it stood, the evidence was paltry. Only a torn sleeve, discovered near the site of the disappearance, and the accusations of the father, who had seen Mr. Taggart near the area on the fateful day, stood in opposition to his claims. Neither was enough to definitively condemn him.

Would you like to continue developing the atmosphere with more details or explore the consequences of this investigation on Joseph Murdock?

The declarations of Matthew Winthrop, a merchant of some renown, and Benjamin Robbins, the clockmaker, were hardly substantial enough to serve as conclusive evidence. Neither had witnessed the abductions or murders of the missing girls firsthand, and their testimonies, though earnest, were merely circumstantial. As for the strange claim of black-eyed children and the possible nexus to witchcraft, these had only served to deepen the mystery and exacerbate the already volatile situation.

This was an exceedingly perplexing matter, one which seemed to resist any attempt at rational resolution. It strained the limits of my corrigible logic and apperception; yet, despite the confusion that clouded the case, I persisted. The truth, whether dark or mundane, was my responsibility to uncover. I could not renege on my duty, nor would I allow any unnecessary interference—no matter how well-meaning—from muddling my pursuit, unless a sudden revelation forced my hand.

Thus, the urgency of the matter began to take hold of me. I felt compelled to speak with the crew members Mr. Taggart had mentioned, as well as the prostitutes who had been in his company. After much effort, I located only three of his crew: a Scotsman, a former Negro slave, and a Mohawk Indian. I questioned them at length, as well as the women who had been chambering with the sailors, and in the end, they all corroborated Mr. Taggart's account of the events, albeit in a manner that seemed neither too clear nor too remarkable. Their statements, while consistent, lacked the vital details that might bring clarity to the case.

With the testimony of these individuals in hand, I turned my focus to Mr. Harwood, the father of the missing girls. He had been steadfast in his accusations, but now I needed to speak with him personally, along with the other witnesses who had supported his claim. Their declarations, I knew, would be vital to the case, though I could not help but feel uncertainty gnawing at the edges of my resolve. Would their words ring true, or would they be nothing more than extemporaneous aphorisms born of emotion, not fact?

The weight of these uncertainties pressed upon me as I set out to confront the remaining pieces of this elusive puzzle.

As I stood at the edge of Mr. Harwood’s barren fields, the weight of the man’s grief hung heavily in the air. His crops, once promising in their potential, now lay wasted by the unforgiving frost. It was a stark reminder of the harsh realities that men like him faced, and it would not have been entirely unjust for me to delay my questioning—yet, duty called.

I approached him, offering my condolences for the losses he had suffered, before introducing myself as the magistrate from Boston assigned to investigate the case of his missing daughters. His eyes, already filled with the exhaustion of a man defeated by nature itself, flickered briefly with the spark of an old anger when I mentioned my reason for being there.

His recounting was a murky one, vague and full of half-formed sentences. He spoke as though he had already passed judgment in his mind—there was no room for doubt in his convictions. His focus was singular: the privateer, Nathaniel Taggart, was the guilty party, and nothing I said could dissuade him from this belief. Despite the lack of concrete evidence, Mr. Harwood clung to his assertion with a certainty that bordered on obsession. As much as I pressed for more details, he could offer nothing more than vague allusions to the events that transpired on the night his daughters disappeared.

It was not my duty to convince him otherwise, only to gather facts and corroborate his claims with what little evidence there was. His sorrow had transformed into a rigid certainty, and I could not help but feel that his grief was coloring his perspective, clouding any reasonable judgment.

After a few more exchanges, I took my leave, knowing full well that I had yet to uncover anything concrete from Mr. Harwood that would shed light on the mystery.

Next, I sought out Mr. Winthrop and Mr. Robbins, the two men whose testimonies had been previously mentioned as part of the investigation. Their accounts were sparse, dry, and frustratingly ambiguous. Neither offered any substantial details beyond what had already been provided to the first local magistrate, Ezekiel Goldsmith, whose inexplicable disappearance only deepened the murkiness of the case. Why had Goldsmith vanished? And why were Winthrop and Robbins now so reticent in their responses?

This new twist—the sudden disappearance of a man who had once been involved in the case—was troubling. It was a sign that something far more insidious than a simple crime might be at play. Perhaps Goldsmith had uncovered something that others had not wanted revealed. Perhaps he had been silenced.

As the threads of the investigation continued to twist in unpredictable directions, I began to realize that the case was no longer simply about finding the truth behind the disappearances of Mr. Harwood's daughters. It was quickly becoming something much darker, a tale of hidden forces, veiled motivations, and the possibility of things far beyond the realm of ordinary criminality.

The sight that greeted me at the Gallows Hill was one that would sear itself into my memory for years to come, if not for the rest of my life. The sun had barely crested the horizon, its dim light casting long shadows over the notorious site where so many were condemned during the witch trials. It was eerily silent, save for the faint rustle of the breeze and the unsettling cawing of ravens that circled the tree.

Mr. Winthrop, the merchant I had spoken to only days earlier, hung lifeless from the strong, gnarled branch of an old oak. His body was limp, and the ravens—those black harbingers of death—had already descended upon his remains. The grotesque scene was made even more ghastly by the way the birds had torn into his flesh, leaving only the decaying remnants of what had once been a man.

I approached cautiously, my mind racing with questions. How had he come to be here, and why had no one reported his disappearance? The mere sight of him hanging there spoke volumes—this was not an ordinary death, not a simple suicide or accident. No, this was something far darker, and it confirmed every suspicion I had been grappling with.

I examined the scene with as much composure as I could muster, my thoughts lingering on the ominous words of Mr. Taggart. The black-eyed children, the mysterious lady, the talk of witches, and now this—Winthrop’s death, hanging from the same tree that had witnessed so many executions during the Salem witch trials, could not be a coincidence. There was something deeply wrong at work here, something rooted in the intrinsic fabric of the town’s grim history.

I turned my gaze to the surroundings, seeking any sign, any clue that might lead me closer to the truth. The wind was picking up, carrying with it a chill that cut through my coat. It almost felt as if the land itself were whispering, warning me of the dangers I had yet to uncover. Gallows Hill had always been a place of death, but now it seemed as though the very earth was haunted by the ghosts of the past, and perhaps even the living, their motives obscured by shadows.

I ordered the local constables to remove Winthrop's body from the tree and bring it to the town's morgue for a more thorough examination. The ravens, however, refused to leave. They lingered, watching from the branches, as if guarding the hidden secrets that Winthrop had taken with him to the grave.

This was a turning point in the investigation. The death of Winthrop had shifted the entire atmosphere of the case. It no longer seemed like a simple matter of a missing person or a potential murder. There was something far more insidious at play—an ancient evil, perhaps, or a curse long forgotten, now resurfacing in the most brutal of ways.

The image before me was both grotesque and incomprehensible. The privateer’s body, stiff and lifeless, lay sprawled on the cold stone floor of his cell. His once menacing countenance, now slack with death, was marred by the unmistakable sign of violence—the gaping sockets where his eyes should have been. This was no common killing; this was a ritualistic act of malevolence, a deliberate attempt to desecrate the very essence of the person.

My mind reeled with the implications. Mr. Winthrop, the merchant, had met a similar fate. Both had been known figures in town, their lives, for better or worse, entwined with the townsfolk. And now they were gone, their deaths as inexplicable as they were macabre. But who would commit such a gruesome act—and why?

The privateer had been detained, locked away in the very cell where his life had been snuffed out. There were no signs of struggle, no indication of a break-in. Could he have been killed by another inmate? But that would leave too many questions unanswered. And then, there was the most chilling thought of all: What if the killer was not of this world at all?

I had arrived at this grim conclusion too quickly, but the evidence around me seemed to lean in that direction. The plucking of the eyes was not merely a brutal act; it felt as though it were an assertion of control over life itself, a desecration of the soul, as if the killer were trying to erase their victim’s very essence.

I turned to the jailer, the one who had first greeted me with the news. "Tell me, who was the last to see him alive?"

The jailer hesitated, his face pale, as though the very air had thickened with a tension too unbearable to voice. "I... I was the one who locked him in last night, sir. No one came in after that. We checked on him in the morning, and... he was like this."

A cold chill crawled up my spine. The fact that the privateer had been alone made the situation even more sinister. There were no other witnesses, no signs of intrusion. How, then, had the killer gotten in? And why had no one heard a sound?

I made my way out of the cell, my mind churning with the latest horror. It was becoming increasingly clear that this was no ordinary investigation. There was something far darker at play—something ancient, something that refused to be understood by the rational mind.

I could feel the walls of the town closing in on me, the suffocating atmosphere of suspicion and fear pressing harder with each passing moment. As I walked toward the exit, I cast a final glance at the dead man on the floor. His face, even in death, seemed to scream a silent plea for justice. But in the wake of this atrocity, I was left with more questions than answers. And I was certain that the answers would only lead to more death.

It was time to confront whatever force had stirred this malevolent chaos in our midst. But where to begin?

It was now evident that someone had a vendetta against Mr. Taggart, Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Robbins the clockmaker, and Mr. Harwood. Swiftly, I headed toward their homes, and, as with the others, they were dead. The question remained—who had killed them? The horrific plucking of their eyes was unmistakable, a grotesque symbol of foreboding.

My instinct led me to believe that the key to solving this mystery might lie with the ancient colonial mansion. Thus, I took a carriage through the weary tract that led to the imposing structure. There, before the mansion’s towering façade, I halted, staring at it without entering. It is often said that the human eye is susceptible to seeing the supernatural when it fails to discern the true presence of beings beyond our comprehension, beings who quietly inhabit this world alongside us.

It is easy to assume that the supernatural is nothing more than the stuff of myths and fables. However, what I was witnessing—what I had been part of—was not mere fiction. These were not the imaginings of folklore but verifiable, tangible phenomena. The beings that existed within this realm were very real, and the evidence was becoming clearer with each passing moment.

I traveled to Salem to delve further into the bizarre tale of witchcraft that was inextricably linked with the town’s history. I was aware of its mysticism, as well as the auto-da-fé of the Spanish Inquisition. Upon arriving at the local museum, I spoke to the curator, who graciously allowed me to peruse several books on the subject. One book, in particular, chronicled the events with remarkable clarity and immediately captured my fascination. In its pages, I found the following account:

The Salem witch trials were a series of hearings and prosecutions of individuals accused of witchcraft in colonial Massachusetts between February 1692 and May 1693. These trials led to the executions of twenty people, fourteen of them women, with all but one of the executions carried out by hanging. Five others, including two infant children, died in prison. Twelve women had been executed earlier in Massachusetts and Connecticut during the 17th century.

Although these trials are commonly referred to as the Salem Witch Trials, the preliminary hearings in 1692 took place in several towns: Salem Village (now Danvers), Salem Town, Ipswich, and Andover. The most notorious trials were held by the Court of Oyer and Terminer in 1692 in Salem Town. I was particularly intrigued by the writings of Joseph Glanvill, who claimed he could prove the existence of witches and the supernatural realm. Glanvill had written extensively about the denial of bodily resurrection and the supernatural spirits that lingered in the world.

In his treatise, Glanvill argued that rational men should believe in witches and apparitions; if they doubted the existence of spirits, they would not only be rejecting demons but also denying the Almighty God. Glanvill sought to prove that the supernatural could not be dismissed. Those who denied apparitions were regarded as heretics, as it would also disprove their belief in angels. Furthermore, Glanvill was intent on demonstrating that demons were indeed real.

During my investigation, I uncovered that the old colonial mansion had once belonged to a prosperous family connected to Mrs. Sara Osborne, one of the first to be accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials. Mrs. Osborne, born Sarah Warren, had married Robert Prince, a prominent man and the brother of a woman who had married into the influential Putnam family.

In 1662, Sarah and her husband moved to Salem Village, where they had two sons and a daughter: Joseph, James, and Elizabeth. Robert Prince passed away in 1674. Could she be the mysterious woman, or perhaps the ghost, the privateer had witnessed? Good God, what if this was true after all?

I left the museum, shaken by this revelation, as a thick fog began to roll over Salem. It had started at the port and was creeping inland. As I exited the museum, I noticed an unfamiliar figure following me at a distance.

At first, the stranger, who appeared to be a man, casually trailed my steps. Perhaps it was an overreaction on my part, but the sequence of events made me uneasy enough to glance over my shoulder several times, growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment.

I decided to deceive the stranger following me by altering my course. He continued to trail me, and it became increasingly clear that he was watching my every move. For a moment, I considered confronting him, but I realized it wouldn’t be wise to accuse someone of ill intent merely for walking the same path as me. The mystery had only grown more tangled by this bizarre occurrence.

Perhaps I had been too hasty in my reaction. Fearing for my safety, I hurried into the woods to escape his presence. But the stranger persisted, causing me to quicken my pace as I made my way toward the forest. I then directed myself toward the hillside known as the Gallows, where the wind began to whip violently, adding a sense of urgency to my steps. Eventually, the stranger stopped following me, and I found myself alone once more.

The ground, covered in tawny, decaying leaves, crackled beneath my feet, blending with the rustling of the trees. It was then, amid this eerie setting, that I saw them—the three missing girls. As I drew closer, they vanished into thin air. But when I turned to retreat, I saw them again—the ebony-eyed children of Salem. Their dark eyes pierced through me, their gaze filled with an ominous warning.

For a full minute, they held my gaze with an unrelenting authority, as though commanding my every thought. Then, just as quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared into the mist, their figures dissolving above the leaves, which continued to rustle softly. In the brief moment before they vanished, I distinctly heard their whispers. The words were faint, but they were unmistakable. I would remember them vividly for a long time.

"Those who are dead were responsible for our deaths."

An obstreperous shriek echoed around me, the sound of their voices reverberating in the air. For several minutes, my ears were deafened, consumed by the overwhelming noise. I felt as though my pupils were about to burst, the sensation so intense that my eyes began to bleed. The ghosts of the hanged victims from the Salem Witch Trials—their faces contorted with agony— passed by me on the hill known as the Gallows. My hands instinctively went to my ears, and I closed my eyes, screaming in fear.

When I opened my eyes again, they were gone, as though they had never existed. The surreal experience left me trembling, my body frozen in a trance-like stupor. I was abruptly awakened by the harsh cawing of ravens overhead. Instinctively, I raised my hands to shield myself, but the birds were gone as quickly as they had come. The fog, which had blanketed the area, was now dissipating, and the first snowflakes began to fall gently to the ground.

As for the mystery, only I knew the truth of the tale. The three Harwood girls were never found, and I later discovered that their father had killed them. The clockmaker and the merchant were murdered to keep their silence about the truth. The privateer, it turned out, had been complicit in the act, for though he had not committed the murders himself, he had allowed them to happen and did nothing to stop it. His loyalty to the culprits would ultimately lead to his own downfall. He was betrayed and chosen as the scapegoat, exposed for a crime he did not commit but was bound to by his silence.

There was an unmistakable connection that bound them all together, a nexus that became clear as the facts coalesced. They were all notable Freemasons. It was evident that their unyielding loyalty to the hermetic brotherhood and their dedication to preserving the secrets of Freemasonry influenced how they handled their personal affairs.

Within the abandoned mansion, symbols were discovered, each one seemingly linked to the clandestine meetings held by the Freemasons. The most significant find was a carving on the wall: a square and compass, with the letter "G" etched into the design— a symbol that was unmistakably Freemasonic.

The mist settled low in the forest as I ventured deeper into the silence. Suddenly, I stopped, the air thickening. Three figures stood in the clearing ahead. It was the children. They were silent, their ebony eyes staring straight at me with an intensity that chilled my soul. Their faces were pale, their clothes were destinctively peculiar, but it was their familiar eyes that held me—black and unblinking, as though they could see straight through me.

I hesitated, unable to move, as the cold began to seep into my bones. Without a word, they turned, vanishing into the mist as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind only a lingering, oppressive silence.

Two mysteries remained unsolved, though—the identity of the mysterious woman associated with the mansion and the enigma of the ebony-eyed children of Salem. Perhaps the woman never truly existed, nothing more than a phantom of the past. And as for the children, they were likely wandering spirits, trapped between realms.

I often found myself haunted by the disturbing images those children’s piercing eyes must have seen in their short lives. I eventually returned to Boston and compiled a detailed report on the case, though, naturally, I omitted any mention of witchcraft. What, then, did I write? I documented the mysterious disappearance of the Harwood girls and the brutal murders of several individuals. The girls’ bodies were never recovered, and they were officially declared deceased.

This act brought a semblance of closure to the case, but I chose not to report the strange and haunting presence of the ebony-eyed children. They were omitted from the report, deemed non-essential to the official record.

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