THE PHOTO TRAVELER (THE PHOTO TRAVELER SERIES - BOOK 1)

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER TEN

I grab the book and start flipping through the brittle, tightly printed pages hoping that something will grab my attention. For about an hour nothing jumps out at me. Just pages upon pages of hopeless material. Maybe I was wrong to think I actually had a chance. Estelle was right. There are hundreds of images. This is beginning to look impossible.

            Then, on page 378, a drawing of the Salem witch trials of 1692 catches my eye. It depicts a real scene of a 1690s courtroomtaken from behind a pile of wooden crates. There’s a girl crouched over on the floor. A crowd of people that looks frighteninglyangry. And a guy with big hair, whom I think is the judge, presiding before the cowering girl.

            I reach for my camera lens because I notice a small smudge on a corner of one of the crates. When I use the lens to magnify it, it seems to actually be a couple of carved letters or symbols, like when people carve their initials inside a heart on a tree trunk. It’s probably just a scratch, but it’s the closest thing to a lead that I’ve seen so far after going through about 200 illustrations and images.

            Estelle and Bud said I should never travel to a photo where my presence would stand out. From what I remember in class, the witch trials were violent and intense. I should be able to travel there without the chance of being noticed.

            I place a sticky note at the top of the page, right over the image, so I’ll be able to find it again later, and sit up straight, breathing in deeply. Then I chant: “To this time, allow my travel. Take me there, let time unravel.”

* * *

I’m in the courtroom. It’s filled with agitated Puritans screaming at a teenaged girl who is being held to the floor by two burly men. Standing behind a tall counter across the room is the judge.

            Fortunately, I’ve landed behind the crates, which gives me a perfect view of the trial. I probably should have changed clothes to something less… modern. I don’t think they exactly wore jeans in this era.

            I’m trying to hear the judge’s words, but it’s difficult because the dozens of townspeople are howling over one another. One woman shrieks, “I’ve seen her wandering the streets in the middle of the night! What decent lady would act so?”

            A toothless, disheveled man next to her shouts, “And her husband! He’s disappeared!”

            Another man leans forward and spits on the girl. “She’s a daughter of the devil! With my own eyes, I’ve heard her speaking the language of demons!”

            The mob starts chanting. “Witch! Witch! Witch!”

            This is crazy.

            The girl, who I don’t think can be older than sixteen, is slumped over on the floor. Her hands are bound together with thick, coarse brown rope. She looks petrified and is weeping while facing the ground. I can’t hear her saying anything, but she seems to be whispering to herself. Maybe praying. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved black dress with a white collar and cuffs and her hair is hidden in a white bonnet. Like a costume. Like something along the lines to what pilgrims wore.

            I can’t believe that the actions playing out in front of me are actually real. But they are.

            “Elizabeth Wills!” the judge shouts. The two men holding the girl refer to him as Magistrate John Howlands. “You have been accused of demonic witchcraft. How do you find yourself?”