Massachusetts, 17th Century....
"Agatha! Here are your things!"
A gruff voice called out, echoing through the bustling village square. Simon, a stout man with a thick mustache, lifted a small wooden crate filled with medicine bottles and a chicken cage, then handed it to a slender woman with long, dark hair.
Agatha accepted the items with a soft smile. "Thank you, Simon. I really appreciate your help."
Simon chuckled and threw an arm around her shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Oh, you know I can't just stand by and watch a beautiful woman struggle with all this." He lowered his voice slightly, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "How's your husband, Lucas? Still out hunting?"
Agatha gave a firm nod. "As always," she replied simply.
After bidding Simon farewell, Agatha made her way to the village church. The grand wooden doors creaked as she stepped inside, her footsteps hushed against the stone floor. The scent of old wood and burning candles filled the air as she slowly approached the statue of Jesus at the altar.
Lowering herself onto the pew, she clasped her hands together, her fingers trembling as she whispered her prayer. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks unchecked. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
From the dimly lit corners of the church, a group of women gathered, whispering among themselves.
"Look at her… This is the thirtieth time she's come here crying."
"She still thinks her child is alive? The one who went missing last month? It's impossible… A witch must have taken that poor thing."
Agatha heard every word, yet she didn't care. Her lips continued moving in a desperate plea.
"Lord… Please, let my child be safe. I cannot bear to lose another. I've miscarried too many times. My body… it hurts so much..."
A strange sensation washed over her. Her skin grew cold, her breath hitched. She lifted her trembling hand to her face—her fingertips brushed against wetness.
She gasped.
The tears running down her cheeks had turned to blood.
A sharp, strangled breath escaped her lips. She stumbled to her feet, panic rising in her chest.
A horrified cry rang out from behind her.
"Dear God! It's blood!"
"She's a witch!" another woman shrieked. "She must've killed her own child!"
Agatha spun around, fury blazing in her eyes. "My child vanished into the forest! Do you truly believe I left him there, hunted him down, and murdered him? Have you all lost your minds?" Her voice trembled with rage and grief.
She wiped the crimson streaks from her face with the sleeve of her dress and stormed out of the church, leaving the horrified whispers behind.
---
That night…
The sky over Massachusetts held an eerie presence. The wind howled between the wooden houses, rattling the shutters. But the villagers weren't alarmed by the cold—something far more unnatural had captured their attention.
A brilliant light, too bright for the night sky, descended slowly from above.
People poured into the streets, craning their necks.
"What is that?" a man muttered.
"A falling star?" another guessed.
But this was no ordinary star. Its glow pulsed with an almost unnatural energy, sending an unsettling chill through the air.
Deep in the woods, a group of women danced around a roaring bonfire, their bare bodies illuminated by the flickering flames. Their movements were wild, frenzied—driven by something beyond earthly desire.
"I see Satan! I see Satan!" one of them shrieked, her voice laced with delirious ecstasy.
The falling star split apart. A small fragment veered toward the village, while the larger piece plummeted into the midst of the dancing women.
The smaller fragment struck Agatha.
A force, unseen yet immense, crashed into her chest. Her body convulsed, her vision blurred—then darkness swallowed her whole.
---
Hours later…
Agatha woke with a start, her breath ragged. A damp cloth pressed against her forehead, and as her vision cleared, she saw Lucas beside her, his brow furrowed in concern.
"Agatha… Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"
The words sent a bolt of terror through her.
Pregnant?
Her gaze dropped to her stomach. Her breath caught.
It was swollen.
No… This isn't possible…
"I-I can't be," she whispered, shaking her head. "I… I can't have children…"
Lucas merely smiled, placing a gentle hand on her belly. "Perhaps God has blessed us. We've done so much for the villagers—helping them with healing spells and remedies. Maybe this is our reward."
Agatha shuddered. She wanted to tell him the truth. That this wasn't a miracle. That something—something unnatural—had entered her body.
But when she looked into Lucas's eyes, filled with pure joy and hope, the words died in her throat.
Lucas pressed a kiss to her hand. "I want to name our child Abramelin."
Agatha swallowed hard. "What… What does that name mean?"
Lucas smiled. "It means 'one who is connected to angels.'"
Agatha stared at him, unable to speak.
Inside her, something stirred.