Picture this: it is 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts, and the Witchfinder General is patrolling the area in search of accused witches. The bodies of the women most recently found guilty are still hanging by their necks from the gallows; tensions are high, suspicions running wild. And suddenly, onto the town green, strides a middle-aged woman in a long cloak and tall, tapered hat. She scratches a pentagram into the dirt. She mutters incantations. She sacrifices a goat and eats its heart and declares eternal fealty to the Devil himself. And when someone points and shrieks, “Witch!”, she cheerfully replies, “Heck yes, I am!”
