My name is Ann Parker and I’m sentenced to be hung from the neck until dead on September 22 1692, in the city of Salem. My charges are simple: witchcraft. The ironic thing is that I know witches, for I am a Squib. I grew up 100 some miles to the south of Salem in a village that only allowed witches and wizards, the Magical Folk, I used to call them.

The likes of me were not welcome there, and when I didn’t get an invitation to a school of magic, I was shunned. The village had a strict habitation policy: witches and wizards only, no exceptions. But my mother, the wonderful being she was, pleaded to the council, “let her stay!” she would cry over and over again, “she is but a little girl, she would die out there!”

Eventually, her pleads were heard and they allowed me to stay on two conditions: 1. I never leave my house and 2. I’m gone before 12:01 am on my 17th birthday. My mother was so happy to give her consent; I on the other hand, would have preferred an early exile. But I was a good little girl, I stayed in the house, never leaving, and scurried past any window with an open shutter. I was miserable, yes, but I was alive.

March 13, 1690: The day before my coming of age. Needless to say, it was a very dismal day. Lo and behold, it was a Friday. Friday the 13th, the day of my banishment. The day of leaving my family… and the day I was free. Free of the village and the hate, and most importantly, free of my cage. After seven years of confinement, I was finally allowed to leave the house.

March 28, 1690: The day I finally made it to Salem, and sealed my letter of doom. After seven days of walking, I was beginning to grow hungry, having to ration my meals so carefully I was down to one a day. Reaching the city, I staggered to the nearest house, knocked on the door and collapsed. It had been four days since I had last eaten and eight since my last proper meal, all my strength had dissipated.

March 30, 1960: I woke up, immensely hungry, to find a Muggle lady hovering over me with a damp cloth, dabbing at my forehead. Seeing me awake, she ran off and returned moments later with a large wooden tray layered with toast and eggs. A large pitcher of water, I noticed, was on a table to my left.
The women introduced herself as Alice Scott, a midwife. We talked and she asked me a lot of question about where I came from, it seemed they were having a problem with witchcraft, and every newcomer was to be questioned. I told her I was a runaway from a town due north. Wasn’t a total lie, I was running away, but my ex-home was to the south. I refused to say more on my past.

April 3, 1690: Alice said that I was now fit enough to leave, I begged her to allow me to stay. She had a six-year old daughter, Sarah, and I said that I could watch her while she was busy and unable to, in exchange for food and shelter. I think she only agreed out of pity for me.

So for the next year that’s where I happily worked, and for once in the past eight years, I was happy. But that all changed on September 3, when Sarah got sick.

September 3, 1692: Sarah caught some kind of sickness, they’ve seen the symptoms before, but they don’t know the origins. It has only ever lead to death, normally long and painful. I remember feeling terrible for the little girl and doing everything I could to make her feel better, she only got worse.

September 16, 1692: Sarah dies and I was to blame. The last words to escape her parched lips were “Ann…” The village doctor, who in my opinion should be renamed the village idiot, thought she was ratting me out. I was after all the one who spent the most time with her.

September 19, 1692: I was found guilty of bewitching the girl and bringing her to her death. They never even gave me the opportunity to plead my innocence, they were to sure of their conviction. Date of hanging, September 22, 1692.

September 21, 1692: Today, the day I have written all of the above, is my eve of death. In a way, it’s relief. But in my heart I know the mere age of 19 is too young for me to die, I still had many things coming for me: A husband, children, and grandchildren… a life.

It appears as though my former village got what they always secretly wanted: me dead, and by dawn tomorrow I will be. In their minds, a Squib was a disgrace to the wizarding world. Worse than Muggleborns and lower than Muggles, I was worthless.

So there you have it, my tale to my short and dreadful life. The history of Ann Parker: Squib convicted of witchcraft.