“As the last witch burned, Dr Foyle smiled at his success. He didn’t believe in this foolishness, of course, but it gave him power. And that afternoon, he was drunk on it.

It had taken a lot of effort to convince the government that even though Salem was 200 years ago, there was a resurgence of witches. How else do you explain women being able to control complex industrial machinery? They must be bewitching the factories, putting the devil into every God-fearing man’s home! These devil-worshippers must be cleansed from the earth!

He removed this engraved pocket watch- paid for by witch hunting- from his waistcoat and joked with his colleagues about how stubborn these bitches must be, taking at least ten minutes to burn. Don’t they know us men have places to be? Important things to do?

His maniacal chuckling caught in his throat. It wrapped around his neck and choked him, squeezing tighter and tighter. His fellow executioners faced similar fates: Dobbins was seizing on the ground, eyes milky white; Williams’ bones cracked and splintered through his skin; and young Jefferson had blood pouring from every orifice.

They should’ve checked the women before they condemned them to burn. If they had done a search before they lit the torches (or even noticed the fake screams of torture afterwards), they would’ve known they were fucking with real witches. Leaders of covens, necromancers, dark blood magic. Elsbeth, Moira, Rosemary.

Moira brushed the ash from her skirts and picked up the pocket watch, right from underneath Foyle’s purpling face. Stopped ticking at 3:15, on that fine Tuesday afternoon. Just as the real villains’ hearts gave one final beat.” The shopkeeper finishes her story. She looks at me, expectantly, almost magically. “So, young man,” she asks, “do you want to buy it?”

That had to just be a story to convince me to buy this stupid watch, right? It’s never managed to stay sold- that old woman must be desperate. I didn’t even want to buy it. Why did I? It has to be a coincidence that I’m having a seizure at 3:15 on this fine Tuesday afternoon. It can’t be Moira from that damn antique shop.