Salem Witch Trials Memorial, Challenge Completed!

Continuing my walk, I pass the Bewitched sculpture and think about how Salem reshaped its identity over time. What began as a town marked by tragedy eventually became the “Witch City”, drawing on pop culture—Hocus Pocus was set here—and tourism to revive its economy. For years, Salem tried not to dwell on its past, but eventually it embraced that history in a way that served its future. It’s striking how commemoration and celebration now coexist in the same space.

I stopped at the Salem Witch Museum for a visit and crossed the street to walk through the commons. As I reached the harbour, I passed by The House of the Seven Gables, the home that inspired Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel. Hawthorne was a direct descendant of Judge John Hathorne and felt uneasy about his great-great-grandfather’s role in the witch trials. To distance himself from that legacy, he added a “w” to his surname. 

From there, I made my way to the Salem Witch Trials Memorial, a small, contemplative park tucked between the streets and a historic cemetery. It’s a quiet afternoon, with a slight breeze passing through. Mature trees shelter the etched stones along the perimeter walls. Each name—twenty in total—stands as a solemn reminder of the lives lost: Elizabeth Howe, Hanged, July 19, 1692; John Proctor, Hanged, August 19, 1962; Giles Corey, Pressed to Death, Sept. 19, 1962. Name after name, I pass by slowly, remembering their stories as this journey unfolded, touching their stone as if I could reach in and somehow provide a measure of comfort for what they endured. 

The Memorial is understated, but its simplicity carries power. Each stone is a voice restored, a reminder that history is made up of individuals, not just events. I think of Rebecca Nurse and Martha Corey, hardworking women raising families, whose steadfastness in faith cost them their lives. I remember Bridget Bishop, whose independence was twisted into guilt, and Sarah Good, whose poverty and pregnancy brought unbearable tragedy to her family. 

I ponder how the hysteria reached its crescendo that summer, culminating in the tragic executions of 1692. By October, the fervour that had swept through Salem began to wane. Accusations grew harder to sustain as doubt crept into the courts and scepticism spread among the people. Governor Phips, who had established the Court of Oyer and Terminer and initially supported the trials, disbanded it amid growing concerns about the legitimacy of spectral evidence. Over the following months, prisoners were gradually released, and by May 1693, the trials were formally concluded.

Restitution and exoneration were slow to come. It would take twenty years before financial compensation was provided to the families of those accused, and the majority were formally exonerated by the 1700s, with excommunication reversed. Yet some accused would not see their names cleared until the 21st century. John Proctor, for example, was exonerated in 2001. The last person to be formally exonerated was Elizabeth Johnson. Initially sentenced to death, she was granted a reprieve. Having no children to champion her cause, she slipped into obscurity until an eighth-grade teacher and her students took up her case. Elizabeth Johnson was finally exonerated on 28 July 2022.

As I prepare to leave the Salem Witch Trials Memorial, I step over the stone slabs at the entryway and pause. Set into the ground are the words of the victims themselves, their voices carried across centuries. I read them in silence:

“For my life now lies in your hands”
“On my dying day, I am no witch”
“God knows I am innocent”
“Oh Lord help me”
“I am wholly innocent of such wickedness”
“If I would confess I should save my life”
“I do plead not guilty”