Prologue: The Curse

Mount Olympus, Ancient Greece

Apollo’s fingers, warm and delicate as a summer breeze, brushed against Cassandra of Troy’s lips, his voice rich and intoxicating like honey pouring from a jar. “Accept my gift,” he urged, his gaze intense, “and you shall see all that is to come, the threads of fate laid bare before you.”

But Cassandra, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and defiance, recoiled from his advances, and turned her head away as though to escape the weight of his promise. Fury twisted the features of the god’s face, darkening his once radiant countenance. “Then keep your sight,” he thundered, his voice a tempest, “but know this: no soul shall ever believe your warnings. Your truths will rot as if unspoken, lost in the winds of disbelief!”

A piercing scream tore from her throat as the curse seared through her very being, its fiery tendrils binding her to an eternity of damnation. In that moment, as despair washed over her, she understood the cruel price of Apollo’s “gift”—a gift turned into a malediction, leaving her forever trapped in a web of foresight and isolation.

Part I: Visions in the Wheat

Salem Village, Massachusetts – March 1692

Cassandra Bishop knelt in the barley field, the stiff stalks bowing around her like a frayed golden crown. March had gnawed at the frost-hardened earth, leaving it pocked with mud and half-rotten snow. She pressed her palms to the ground, fingertips sinking into the thawing soil. It smelled of damp iron and the secrets of things buried too long. Listen, the land seemed to say. Listen, and see.

At the edge of the world’s waking, as the gray dawn crept over Salem’s ragged fields, Cassandra’s breath steamed in the chill and mingled with the sigh of the wind threading through the barley. She stayed motionless, eyes clenched tight, letting the whisper of melting snow and the sorrowful caw of distant crows braid themselves into her thoughts.

Beneath her hands, the pulse of the land hammered a warning—an ache that thrummed up her arms, singing a requiem only she could hear. The hush was fragile, stretched taut as a snare, and in that heartbeat before the world’s clamor returned, Cassandra felt the vision gathering—a storm waiting to break, poised to rip open the silence and spill its terror into the fragile dawn.

When the vision struck, it was as if lightning seared her mind. It was a girl, no older than twelve, clawing at her own face, her eyes wide and white as a spooked mare’s. Behind her, villagers swarmed like beetles, hauling a woman by her salt-and-pepper braids.

Panic flashed through Cassandra’s chest, the vision unspooling in jagged bursts as the girl’s screams twisted the morning air; the crowd grew, faces contorted with zeal and dread, their hands grasping for stones, for torches, for anything to wield against their terror.

The woman, whose braids dragged through mud and melting snow, met Cassandra’s gaze for a fleeting instant—her eyes defiant, sorrowful, pleading for mercy that would never come. The feverish energy of the townspeople rippled outward, infecting even the birds overhead, who scattered in a cacophony of wings.

Cassandra gripped the earth, her knuckles white, as the cruelty echoed back into her body, pressing her to the ground, and when the vision faded, only the bitter memory lingered, the taste of smoke and salt stinging her tongue. The world snapped back, the shouts—“Witch!”—still ringing, the violence already set in motion, and Cassandra recoiled, gagging on the phantom stench of burning hair.

“Witch!” they continued shrieking, their voices fraying into animalistic howls.

The woman’s cheek split open against a sharp-edged rock, and the blood that welled up was not like a bloom from a poppy but a violent, shocking smear against the dirty snow. When the fire came, as it always did, it did not swallow—it raged.

It was a sputtering, filthy yellow, the colour of a festering wound, spewing black smoke that choked the air and rained hot ash down on the screaming mob. It didn’t lick at the meetinghouse spire; it clawed at the clapboard walls, and the sound wasn’t a scream but a deep, groaning roar as beams gave way and families’ entire lives were consumed in a vomit of sparks and heat so intense it blistered the paint on houses across the road.

The phantom stench that filled Cassandra’s nostrils was no longer just burning hair; it was the gut-wrenching, sweet-meat smell of flesh catching fire, a smell that would cling to the back of her throat for days.

Cassandra recoiled. Her brother Thomas caught her shoulders, his calloused hands anchoring her. “Another fit?” he murmured, too quietly for the neighboring field hands to hear.

She blinked up at him, his features wavering behind the glossy curtain of her tears. Worry knotted across his brow, tracing old sunburn lines carved from endless days wrestling sheep beneath a ruthless sky and coaxing life from unforgiving earth. Though he was only twenty, the ghost of their father haunted his silhouette—sharp edges, guarded breaths, and the quiet gravity of resignation.

“They shall drown this place in flames,” she rasped, still trembling. A clump of barley clung to her skirt, its barbed husk pricking her wrist. “It starts with the girls. It starts today.”

Thomas glanced over his shoulder. Across the field, Goody Putnam paused in her gleaning, sharp eyes tracking them. Others followed, like old Widow Hobbs muttering into her grandson’s ear, as well as the blacksmith’s sons pretending not to stare.

The inhabitants of Salem Village had always treated Cassandra like a cracked pewter cup—mostly useful, but unsettling. She was the girl who regularly hummed dirges in no known tongue; who woke gasping of “ships with bloodied sails” weeks before the militia returned from the frontier, bearing their dead on stretchers; a girl who whispered “fire” and “lies” in her sleep, though the Bishop homestead had never once burned.

“Enough,” Thomas said hotly, helping her stand. He brushed dirt from her apron with rough, quick swipes, as though scrubbing away her strangeness. “Thou wilt fetch worse than stares if thou keep on. Thine brethren doth protest Mercy Lewis crossed paths with the Devil’s hound last night.”

Cassandra gripped his sleeve. “The only devil here is thine own fear, brother. Can thou not feel it? It’s in the air, thicker than frost.”

For a heartbeat, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Then he pried her fingers loose. “You’re shivering. Go home. I’ll say thou took ill.”

As she stumbled toward the tree line, the villagers’ whispers trailed her like gnat bites, saying things like, “Fey creature, that one,” “Ought to marry her off before she spoils,” and “Mark my words, ‘tis no natural sickness she has…”

The barley rippled silver in the wind, hiding their faces. Hiding everything but the afterimage scorched behind her eyelids; the fire, the blood, and the girl who would soon point a damning finger.

First the wheat, Cassandra thought, bile rising in her throat. Then the women. Then the gallows.

She pressed a fist to her lips, fighting the urge to retch as the memory of scorched earth and shrieking voices swarmed her senses—with dreaded certainty that with every passing day, the rumors would take root, curl through the village like bindweed, choking the air until no one remembered what was real.

Cassandra knew then that terror was a harvest, too: it would be sown among the barley and gathered in the fearful glances of neighbors, reaped in the desperate prayers of mothers, and finally, bound tight with rope as innocent girls dangled from the noose, all because no one dared name fear for what it was.

That evening, she decided she would tell Thomas what she’d seen. “It’s starting,” she had said, her voice soft but full of conviction. “They shall burn this village to ash if we don’t stop it.” He frowned. “Who are ‘they,’ Cass?”

When she did not reply, Thomas shook his head. “Thou ought not speak of such things,” he whispered.

Cassandra watched Thomas retreat into the hush of the fields, his silhouette dissolving into the trembling dusk. Unease lingered in the space between them, thick and unspoken, as if their words had echoed off the trees only to return warped and heavier.

She lingered a moment longer, hands clenched at her sides, the chill of the gathering night pricking her skin. Each step she took toward the edge of the village felt muffled, as though the world itself held its breath, waiting for the spark that would set Salem ablaze.

Part II: The First Accusation

The air in the Parris household was thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and drying herbs. Reverend Parris’s daughter, Betty, writhed on her bed, her small body arching as she howled of spectral pinpricks and a yellow bird pecking at her. The gathered women murmured prayers, their faces pale masks of dread.

Cassandra stood at the room’s edge, her stomach knotting. This is how it begins, she said silently to herself again. ‘Tis the spark before the inferno.

She knew she could not remain silent any longer.

She pushed forward, her voice cutting through the panicked whispers. “Reverend, this is not witchcraft. It is a fever of the mind! It is fear given a voice! Can thou not see? If thou call it demonic, thou wilt make it so!”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to her. Reverend Parris’s face was a thundercloud. But it was Mercy Lewis, Betty’s cousin, who spoke first. She uncoiled herself from the bedside, her eyes glittering with a strange, excited malice.

The silence pressed in, brittle and charged, as Mercy’s lips curled into a mocking half-smile and she prowled forward, her gaze locking on Cassandra with the predatory intensity of a hawk eyeing a quivering mouse.

“See what?” Mercy spat, taking a step toward Cassandra. “How does thou see it, Cass Bishop? Thou hast always been strange, humming thy devil’s hymns. How did thou know Betty would fall ill? Tell us that. Was it thy familiar that whispered it to thee?”

The accusation hung in the air, poisonously perfect. Cassandra’s pulse thrashed against her throat. They’ll accuse me now. It starts here.

Cassandra’s thoughts spun, her breath quickening as the venom of Mercy’s accusation seeped into the room, infecting every glance and whisper. She felt the walls closing in—the suspicion, the hunger for a scapegoat—growing heavier with every heartbeat. The tension in the atmosphere seemed to vibrate with anticipation, as if the village itself demanded a sacrifice.

Desperate to break free, Cassandra searched the faces around her, but found only shadows: fear, delight, and something far more dangerous—a collective eagerness to believe. Even before Thomas’s intervention, she sensed the tide turning, her name already whispered in the undercurrents, a prelude to the storm that would soon engulf them all.

Before she could form a retort, a strong hand clamped around her arm. Thomas. His face was ashen, h is grip painfully tight. “Forgive my sister,” he said to the room, his voice strained. “She is unwell. She has these… fits.” He began pulling her toward the door, away from the accusatory stares.

In the frigid outside air, he finally released her. “What was thou thinking?” he growled, his breath a white cloud of frustration and fear. “Dost thou want to hang?”

“I was thinking of the truth!” Cassandra shot back, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. “The girl in there is a liar, and Mercy a serpent. They shall be the two to ignite the spark that will burn this village to the ground!”

“Thou is only one speaking of fire!” Thomas shouted, his composure breaking. “I cannot protect thee from thine own tongue, Cass! Thou must stop ‘helping.’”

Cassandra flinched as Thomas’s words echoed in the wintry air, his desperation slicing through her resolve like a blade. She wanted to scream—to shake him and make him understand—but the words tangled inside her, helpless against the tide of mounting hysteria.

Once more she watched his figure disappear into the shadows, leaving her alone in the biting cold. Through the glass, she saw Mercy Lewis smile, a tiny, vicious curl on her lips, before turning back to the afflicted girl with a performative gasp of concern—a mocking reminder of how quickly the village could turn against its own, and Cassandra felt the crushing weight of isolation settle over her.

Yet even as the night pressed in, icy and unforgiving, she refused to let fear silence her; in that moment, as the world seemed to shrink around her, she vowed to keep fighting, no matter the cost.

By week’s end, Betty had named Tituba a witch. The village erupted. Cassandra watched the slave woman’s frantic, bewildered testimony at the meetinghouse, her own voice trapped like a bird beating itself against the bars of her throat. Itried to warn them.

But no one listened. They never did.

Part III: The Gallows Tree

As the nights grew longer, the village’s soul withered. The girls’ fits became a public spectacle, a theater of the macabre where Mercy Lewis was the lead actress, pointing and shrieking at specters only she could see. And each shriek bore a name: Sarah Good. Rebecca Nurse. John Proctor.

Cassandra’s sleep was a battleground. Visions of gallows plagued her, the rough hemp of the nooses brushing her cheek in the dark. She would wake, gasping, the names of the condemned already echoing in her mind, their faces—etched with a despair so profound it felt like a physical blow—impossible to forget.

While Thomas slept, she feverishly scribbled her warnings onto scraps of parchment, the quill scratching in the silent house like a mouse’s frantic feet. “The court is the Devil’s snare!” “Thou art condemning the innocent!” “Beware the fire thy are kindling!”

Under the cover of deepest night, she became a ghost, slipping the desperate pleas beneath doors. Beneath the door of Magistrate Hathorne himself. Into the home of the Putnams. For the blacksmith, the cooper, and the farmers she had known since childhood. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest with each delivery, a wild drumbeat of terror and resolve.

She knew it was madness. She was making herself a target, ensuring she would be next in the web of accusations. But the ancient curse demanded she speak, even if the only listeners were the moon and the unheeding night. It wasn’t long before they found her out.

At her trial, Mercy Lewis pointed, trembling. “She hath afflicted me! She knoweth of things no mortal should!” Magistrate Hathorne lifted Cassandra’s prophecies—the very list of the condemned. “How does thee explain this, Miss Bishop?”

“Because I can see,” she pleaded. “Why can thy not see too? This hysteria will consume thine all!” Her voice rang out across the meetinghouse, slicing through the jeers like a blade, trembling but unwavering, desperate for a sliver of understanding.

The magistrate paused, his lips pursed in disdain, but Cassandra pressed on, her gaze sweeping over the faces twisted by suspicion and dread. “Each accusation breeds another—like rot spreading through a harvest. You call for justice, but sow only fear.”

For a moment, uncertainty flickered among the crowd, but then Mercy’s trembling finger found its mark again, and the tide surged back. Thomas kept his eyes fixed to the floor, and in the hush that followed, Cassandra felt the shadow of her fate settle on her shoulders as his silence condemned her more finally than any magistrate’s gavel, she felt the last flicker of hope within her extinguish. Apollo’s torment was finally complete.

Part IV: The Flames

Dawn leaked a dull, bloody light over Gallows Hill, doing little to warm the air that reeked of damp wool and the sour sweat of the crowd. Cassandra stood on the warped planks of the scaffold, her wrists burning where the hemp ropes had scoured her skin raw. The noose was a cold, greasy weight against her throat, its knot a hard, unforgiving lump beneath her jaw.

Below, the faces of the villagers were a blur of grey and brown, their features hardened into a single, monstrous mask of judgment. There was Mullins the blacksmith, who’d once gifted her a honey cake on her tenth name day; only now he stared, arms crossed, his face a block of stone. There was Widow Harlow, whose fever she’d eased; her lips now pressed into a thin, self-righteous line.

The executioner, a hulk of a man smelling of stale tobacco and onions, adjusted the knot with a brutal, professional twist, grinding the rough fibers against her windpipe. A sharp splinter from the rail dug into the sole of her bare foot, a tiny, focused pain in the face of the abyss. The priest’s words were a dry rattle, a meaningless insect buzz she could no longer hear.

Her final vision was not of flowers, but of the truth: this soil, forever fertilized by innocence, would remember nothing but the sound of the drop and the silence that followed.

“Hast thee any last words?” the magistrate barked, impatient for his breakfast.

A vision seared her thoughts: centuries unspooling, seasons cycling, until the gallows lay buried beneath a carpet of wildflowers. Stone markers jutted from the soil like broken teeth, names etched by time’s patient hand: Bishop, Parker, Pudeator… all those that the village had devoured. A girl in a starched linen dress knelt there, placing snowdrops at the base of a weathered plinth. “Forgive us,” the child whispered to ghosts.

Cassandra’s lips twisted. The truth would outlive her, yes. They’d build their monuments and sing their penitent hymns. But the soil beneath her bare feet would remember the weight of her body, the crack of timber, and the way innocence could curdle into lies in the mouths of the righteous.

Cassandra’s voice was a scrap of torn cloth. “Dost thou believe the fear dies with me? It is thine legacy.”

Then, the world vanished from beneath her feet.

Epilogue: The Stones

Danvers (formerly Salem Village), MA – Present Day

Tourists cluster near a weathered monument, its inscription stark: “Victims of the Witch Trials – 1692.” A young girl pauses, tracing Cassandra Bishop’s name.

“She predicted it all,” a guide says. “They called her a witch for telling the truth.”

The wind stirs the barley fields beyond, carrying whispers only the girl hears: “Beware the fire…”

A Note from the Author’s Desk:

Cassandra of Troy’s myth mirrors the Salem tragedy: a warning ignored, truth drowned in fear. In the hush that follows, the murmur of barley and the echo of Cassandra’s warning linger as a quiet admonition to those who will listen.

The stones—silent, steadfast—bear names etched by fear, but the land itself holds memories deeper than any monument, reminding each generation that truth, once uttered, can neither be reclaimed nor erased by fire or forgetfulness.

The past persists in the air, in the earth, and in the stories that refuse to be buried, asking us to remember, to question, and to heed the lessons whispered by the restless wind.

While her character is fictional, the trials claimed twenty very real lives, their stories a testament to the cost of hysteria. This story blends myth with history and attempts to underscore the timeless peril of silencing voices that challenge collective madness.

Thank you so much for reading.

Hi there everyone. You probably already know that my name is Julie Grayson and I am the author of the psychological thriller Brighter When Broken.

One of the most frequent questions I get asked about is related to my protagonist, Lachlan: How do you take a woman chained in a basement—the ultimate victim—and turn her into the driving force of her own escape?

The key was to make her a strategist, not just a survivor. From the very first chapter, even disoriented and drugged, Lachlan’s mind is working. She notices the “stair-step” pattern of her bruises (a clue to a past “accident”), the darker stains beneath the fresh ones on the mattress (hinting at history), and she remembers. Her weapon isn’t physical strength—it’s her deep, personal knowledge of her antagonist, her husband Jack.

Her flashbacks aren’t just backstory; they’re Lachlan’s training montage. Every poker lesson, every boardroom showdown, every veiled threat was Jack unknowingly teaching her how he operates. His tells—the twitch in his jaw, the phrase “no delays”—become her lifelines. She uses the very tools of his manipulation (psychological pressure, seeded doubt, the promise of money) against him and his henchmen.

I also wanted to explore a specific kind of resilience. It’s not fearless. It’s the act of being terrified and choosing to think anyway. It’s the gambit with the soap, the calculated performance to get Jenna close enough. Her goal shifts from mere survival to active dismantling: “Survive. Then dismantle him, step by step.”

In a genre where female characters can oftentimes be passive, I wanted Lachlan to be an active architect of her own destiny, even from the floor of a prison. She’s broken, but she uses the sharp pieces. For me, that’s the most compelling kind of hero—one who redeems themselves not by magic, but by meticulous, painful cunning.

Who are some of your favorite protagonists who use their minds as their ultimate weapon?

You know that friend who says “literally” in every sentence? The one who “actually” can’t stop saying “actually”? Congrats—you might be that friend in your writing. 

Overused words are the junk food of prose: addictive, empty, and guaranteed to bloat your manuscript. But fear not! Let’s turn your bad habits into a game (with a side of shame). Enter: The Author’s Swear Jar.  

The Problem: Your Manuscript’s Secret Crutch Words 

We all have them—those sneaky words we lean on like a caffeine IV during a deadline. They slip into sentences, repeat like a broken record, and scream “amateur hour” to agents and readers. 

Top Offenders: 

– “Very”: “The dragon was very angry” → Yawn. Try “seething” or “apoplectic.” 

– “Just”: “She just wanted to leave” → Delete it. Now. 

– “Suddenly”: “Suddenly, the door exploded!” → Let the action speak for itself. 

– “Really”: “He was really tired” → “He resembled a zombie who’d marathon-watched The Office.” 

– “Began/Started”: “She began to run” → “She bolted.”

The Cure: How the ‘Swear Jar’ Works 

1. Download a “Crutch Word Hit List” 

   Tools like ProWritingAid or AutoCrit will scan your manuscript and flag overused offenders. Print the list. Tape it to your monitor. Embrace the shame. 

2. Assign Fines 

   Every time you spot a crutch word, drop a dollar (or a coffee pod, if you’re broke) into a jar. Pro tip: Use a clear jar for maximum guilt. 

3. Reward Your Progress 

   Empty the jar monthly and treat yourself to something not related to writing (wine, hockey tickets, a nap). 

How to Fix Your Verbal Tics (Without Quitting Writing) 

1. The Synonym Shuffle 

   Use Power Thesaurus to swap generic words for vivid ones. 

   – “He walked slowly” → “He lumbered/lurched/meandered.” 

2. Murder Your Darlings 

   If the word doesn’t add meaning, delete it. “She whispered quietly” → “She whispered.” (Where else would she whisper? Beside a jet engine?) 

3. Read It Aloud 

   Your ears will catch repetitions your eyes glaze over. Bonus: Neighbors will think you’re rehearsing for a one-person play. 

4. Embrace Silence 

   Not every sentence needs an adverb. “He yelled angrily” → “He slammed his fist on the table.”

When All Else Fails: Hire a Hitman (Editor) 

Sometimes you need a mercenary. A good editor will: 

—Circle your crutch words in red pen (like a vengeful grammar god). 

—Force you to justify every “very” and “really.” 

—Charge you $50/hour to do what the swear jar does for free.

Your Homework 

1. Dig up an old chapter. 

2. Search for “very.” Replace it 90% of the time. 

3. Marvel at how much sharper your writing feels..

My Final Thoughts: Your crutch words are like hockey penalties—they happen, but too many and you’ll spend the game in the sin bin. Clean up your prose, and your readers (and word count) will thank you.

Personally, my issues aren’t with words at all. Instead, I’m guilty of overusing em dashes and ellipses. So what are your crutch words? Sound off in the comments below!