A Witch Woman Speaks
Bridget Bishop Speaks:
I was not a witch.
I was a wife. A business owner. A woman who wore bright clothes, spoke her mind, and kept my tavern running despite the whispers.
I was born Bridget Playfer, in Norwich, England. I came to the colonies young, hopeful, like so many others. I married three times — the last to Edward Bishop. They said I was too bold. That I laughed too loudly. That I didn’t know my place.
They called me “colorful.” But they meant it like a curse.
I ran a tavern, served cider, spoke with travelers. I lived a life with opinions and presence. I owned property — an orchard. I knew loss. I had children. And I worked hard for every inch of freedom I had.
But then the girls began their accusations.
They said I bewitched them. Said I pinched them with invisible hands, made them writhe and scream. One by one, they named me. Bridget Bishop.
I stood in court. I looked them in the eye and said: I am innocent. I have never done witchcraft. I am as clear as the child unborn.
But it wasn’t enough.
They said I had a third nipple — a witch’s teat. They said I appeared in dreams, wearing red. They brought in neighbors who spoke of dolls and poppets. They paraded fear in front of justice and called it truth.
I was the first to fall.
June 10th, 1692. Gallows Hill. The rope was rough. The silence from the crowd, deafening.
They hung me for being bold. For being loud. For being different. For being inconvenient.
And though my breath stopped, I did not go quietly.
I speak still. In the creak of floorboards. In the rustle of apple trees. In the unease that settles over Salem when the wind changes.
I speak for every woman called “too much.”
I was not a witch. But I was a woman. And that was dangerous enough.
It didn’t start with magic. It didn’t start with curses or Satan or even fear of witches. It started with whispers. Jealousy. Pettiness. Control. Misunderstanding. Bullying.
Young girls picking targets. Adults believing lies because it gave them power. A society looking for someone to blame — someone different, someone quiet, someone outspoken, someone vulnerable, someone strong. And the word “witch” became a weapon.
It was bullying that escalated into hysteria… and then into tragedy.
And when you bring forward these stories, with the faces of real women, real mothers, real families — it pulls the curtain back on the lies history tried to tell.
Salem is still haunted.
Visitors have reported hearing voices at Proctor’s Ledge, where nineteen innocent people were hanged. Some say they’ve seen shadowy figures in the graveyard beside the Old Burying Point, or felt an unseen hand brush their shoulder during ghost tours.
In some of the historic buildings — like the Witch House and the Joshua Ward House — people say they’ve heard crying, or felt sick to their stomach for no reason at all. Electronics fail. Cold spots drop like ice. And one name — Giles Corey — is still whispered in fear.
But if these spirits remain, it isn’t because they want revenge. It’s because their stories have been twisted. Sensationalized. Sold on T-shirts. Packaged as Halloween fun.
Their pain has become a tourist attraction.
And the human part — the mother, the child, the woman falsely accused — and the families that loved them, has been stripped away.
Maybe they haunt because no one truly sees them anymore.
Maybe they’ll rest when we remember they were never witches. They were people. Just like us.
Back then… they called it witchcraft. Today… we call it "different".
Bullying. Slandering someone’s name. Spreading gossip.
It ruins lives. Be mindful.