After Goodman Brown: Salem’s Curse of Suspicion

Prologue

Spoken by a Chorus, dimly lit, as the stage remains dark except for a faint glow of ribbons drifting down.

Chorus
In Salem’s soil lies more than bones.
Here sleeps Goodman Brown — or so men say.
Yet though his coffin closed, his shadow did not.
For suspicion, once planted, roots deep.
It twines through prayer, through hearth, through cradle,
Until the village itself wears his eyes.
Was it dream? Was it truth? None can tell.
But all have felt the whisper: Trust no one.
And from that whisper grows a forest no fire can fell.

(This performance begins with a familiar tale and unfolds into newly imagined acts, offering an original continuation inspired by its themes.)

Scene 1 — The Forest’s Temptation

Setting: Split stage. Stage Left — Salem Village: a modest timber cottage with a low doorway, a bench, and a lantern. Stage Right — The Forest: gnarled trunks, a narrow path, bramble silhouettes like grasping hands. A vague farther space upstage right hints at a clearing where firelight may bloom later.

Lights: Begin with warm amber on Salem; the forest holds a cool moonlit blue. As the scene advances, amber recedes and blue deepens; at the climax, a brief flare of red-gold firelight rises from the upstage clearing, then abruptly vanishes.

Sound: A cock far off; dogs somewhere within the village; then crickets, owls, and the sighing hush of leaves. Beneath the forest moments, a low, almost musical hum appears and disappears like breath.

At the Doorstep

At rise: Faith stands in the doorway, pink ribbons bright against dusk. Young Goodman Brown (cloak, hat, a stick for the road) lingers, unsure. The lantern between them halos both faces.

Faith
Dearest heart, prithee tarry this night. A troubled dream hath made me fearful, and I would not sleep alone.

Goodman Brown
(trying a smile that does not reach his eyes)
Sweet wife, of all nights, this one I must needs depart. Tempt me not with thy voice, which hath power to draw me back by a hairsbreadth.

Faith
If thou must go, then go not far—nor long. Thy errand—could it not wait upon the morrow?

Goodman Brown
’Tis but this one night, Faith. Before sunrise I am thine again. Say thy prayers; keep the door well bar’d; think kindly of thy husband when the clock creeps toward midnight.

Faith touches his cheek; her hand lingers as if to hold him in place by gentleness alone.

Faith
The night is full of whispers. Promise me thou shalt look to heaven when any shadow bids thee look elsewhere.

Goodman Brown
I promise… that at daybreak I shall be home.

He kisses her quickly, a man afraid of lingering. He turns. She stands with her hands lifted as if in prayer, ribbons trembling. The amber washes out; the forest’s blue gathers him in.

The Forest Path

Goodman Brown enters Stage Right. Moonlight lattices through boughs. The path seems to curve without moving. From deeper shadow, a Traveler steps forth: older, uncannily like Brown in bearing, dressed plainly, a polished serpent-headed staff in hand. The serpent’s carved coils catch light as if alive.

Traveler
You are late, Goodman Brown.

Goodman Brown
(startled, composing himself)
The village held me awhile.

Traveler
(smiling)
Aye, and a young wife with pink ribbons hath a cunning grip. Yet here thou art.

Goodman Brown
I marvel you walk so easy upon this road. Some say it is not safe for Christian feet.

Traveler
The road is as safe as the feet that walk it. Come; we have far to go, and little patience to spend.

They begin. The forest hum breathes in and out. Branches seem to lean to listen.

Goodman Brown
Sir… though I am resolved to meet thee, let it be understood that this is but to test the rumor of such company. My father and his father were honest men.

Traveler
So were mine. We know each other’s stock. I was well acquainted with thy grandsire when he lashed the Quaker woman through the streets of Salem; and with thy father when he set fire to the Indian village. Many a goodly deed done in daylight, and not a one kept me from walking at their side when dusk fell.

Goodman Brown
(shaken)
Sir, speak not so freely of my kin.

Traveler
Then speak thou freely of thyself. Wherefore com’st thou?

Goodman Brown
A single night’s errand—no more. After, I shall cleave to Faith and be the better man for having left her this once.

Traveler
(pleasant, almost paternal)
It comforts me to hear such resolutions; the forest thrives on them. Hold, we have company.

The Familiar Faces

From between trees, Goody Cloyse appears, a catechism book tucked under her arm. She mutters to herself, passing close without seeing the men. Goodman Brown brightens, as if rescued.

Goodman Brown
Goody Cloyse! Good evening— (He stops himself, hides with the Traveler behind a trunk.) Nay—why do I hide?

Traveler
Because thou art not ready to see her clearly.

The Traveler steps out boldly, taps his staff on the path. Goody Cloyse starts, then smiles in recognition.

Goody Cloyse
Ah! Good sir, I had feared the road would be lonely.

Traveler
And yet, thou know’st it well.

Goody Cloyse
As well as my catechism. (To the shadows) Goodman Brown, do not crumple like a schoolboy behind the Scriptures. I taught thee thy questions—and their answers.

Goodman Brown emerges, appalled.

Goodman Brown
Mistress—thou?

Goody Cloyse
Why, child, thou look’st as if the Devil pinched thee. (She reaches for the staff; the serpent seems to twitch in her palm.) Mercy on thee—thou tremblest.

Goodman Brown
(aside, breaking)
If she, who taught me my prayers—

Traveler
Come, Goodman, the road lengthens.

Goody Cloyse glides off, humming a pious fragment. The hum blends with the forest’s breath. Goodman Brown’s steps falter; he leans on a tree, face to bark.

Goodman Brown
This cannot be. She is a saint of Salem.

Traveler
Saints by day, pilgrims by night. Walk on.

The Minister and the Deacon

The Minister and Deacon Gookin cross the path, lanterns low, speaking with cheerful gravity.

Minister
There will be a sweet communion tomorrow, Brother Gookin.

Deacon
Aye, if the weather hold and the congregation be complete— (their voices dip) —as I trust it shall be this very night.

They pass. Goodman Brown clutches his chest.

Goodman Brown
My soul is crushed between two millstones—piety and midnight.

Traveler
Still resolved?

Goodman Brown
(angry and afraid)
I will go no farther. Faith kept me back; so shall I keep myself.

Traveler
As you please. Take my staff; it will bear you easily home.

He offers the serpent staff. It gleams like wet bark. Goodman Brown recoils.

Goodman Brown
Keep thy staff. I will find my path without a serpent coiling in my palm.

Traveler
Then take nothing—save what the forest gives.

He steps away and is gone with indecent ease, as if absorbed by shadow. Goodman Brown is left breathing hard.

The Ribbons

A breeze, sudden and tender, unsettles the leaves. Somewhere a chorus of voices—neither hymn nor heathen song—rises faintly. Above, a pink ribbon flutters down, drifting like a slow, quiet flame. It lands on Goodman Brown’s shoulder.

Goodman Brown
(startled whisper)
Faith.

Another ribbon descends; another. They spin past his face, catch moonlight, pale to ash at the edges. He snatches one, crushes it to his lips.

Goodman Brown
My Faith is lost!

He staggers toward the upstage path, half running, half falling.

The Clearing

Lights shift: a low red-gold pulse gathers upstage, barely cresting above the ground line. Tree silhouettes tilt outward like an amphitheater. Cloaked figures occupy the clearing’s edge—men and women, indistinct. The Traveler stands near a rough-hewn altar of root and stone. A second figure, veiled, waits opposite. The hum coheres into a dark chord.

Chorus of Figures
Welcome, children of the race. Here is the communion of your kind. Here all masks fall and the one face remains.

Two attendants lead Goodman Brown forward; two lead the veiled figure to meet him. As the veil loosens, Faith is revealed—ribbons faintly glowing against her hair. She looks neither wicked nor bewitched—only terrified, and strangely luminous.

Faith
(seeing him)
Husband?

Goodman Brown
(pleading)
Faith, look up to heaven!

Traveler
(to the crowd)
Shall they be known among us? Shall they see their fellows as they are, and themselves likewise?

Chorus
Let them see.

In the flicker, faces of Salem appear around them—Goody Cloyse, the Minister, Deacon Gookin, neighbors, elders, youths—an entire congregation of contradictions. They do not leer; they recognize. Faith trembles. Goodman Brown’s breath saws.

Traveler
This night ye learn the secret that unites. Evil is the nature of mankind; it is the bond that binds the church and the street, the cradle and the coffin. Take up the truth and be at peace.

Hands descend toward the couple as if to seal them. Goodman Brown flings out both arms.

Goodman Brown
With heaven above, and Faith below, I will resist!

Instant: the fire snuffs; the hum collapses into the silence of dew. Darkness total.

Dawn

A bird calls. Grey enters between trees like apology. Goodman Brown lies alone among leaves, damp to the bone. No altar. No congregation. Only a single ribbon near his hand, stained with earth. He sits up, dazed, and looks about as if the forest could be persuaded to explain itself.

Goodman Brown
(hoarse)
Was it a dream? Or hath Salem danced in darkness? And my Faith— (he clutches the ribbon) —oh God, was she there?

He rises unsteadily, staggers downstage along the path toward Salem. As he goes, sound from Stage Left returns—dogs, a vendor’s cart, a woman drawing water. Warmth creeps back onto the village set. But Goodman Brown does not meet the light; it slides past him as water slips past a stone.

He stops just at the divide between woods and threshold, the ribbon clenched white in his fist. Faith appears in their doorway, fresh as morning, the pink ribbons neat and new.

Faith
Husband! Thou art returned—praise heaven! What ails thee? Thee looks as one chased by shadows.

Goodman Brown
(staring, the ribbon hidden)
Dost thou sleep well, wife?

Faith
As well as the fearful may. Come—break thy fast. The day is fair.

He does not cross to her. The distance between them is no more than a few steps and the length of a lifetime.

Goodman Brown
(very softly)
Aye. The day is fair.

She waits, hopeful; he does not move. After a breath, she lifts her hands as she did the night before—blessing, prayer, pleading. He watches, unreadable.

Lights hold a long moment on the split image: Faith in warm doorway, Goodman Brown turned half back to the woods. Then the village glow thins; the forest blue rises one last time. A whisper—whether memory or wind—passes through the trees like a wire pulled taut.

Whisper
Trust no one.

Goodman Brown flinches but says nothing. He tucks the soiled ribbon into his coat and steps—neither toward his wife nor back into the forest, but along the seam between. The lights fall to a cool wash across both worlds.

Blackout.

Scene 2 — The Grave That Would Not Rest

Setting: A Salem churchyard at dusk. At center stage rests Goodman Brown’s coffin, plain wood with a faded pink ribbon atop it. Villagers gather in uneasy clusters, their faces lit by lanterns. Faith stands near the coffin, pale but composed. The minister prepares to speak.

Lights: Dim orange glow of lanterns. As the service progresses, shadows lengthen unnaturally.

Sound: A slow tolling church bell, muffled whispers, a restless wind through pine branches.

The Minister’s Eulogy

Minister
Brothers and sisters, we are met to lay in earth our neighbor Goodman Brown. Long he dwelt among us, a husband, a father, a man of diligence. Yet I must speak plain — he was troubled in spirit. A shadow fell upon him in his youth, and from that hour his heart seemed never at rest.

He pauses, the villagers nod uneasily. Faith clutches her hands tighter.

Minister
Still, we commend him unto the Lord, who knows the secret chambers of the heart. For though his days were dark, God’s mercy is light everlasting.

Faith’s Farewell

Faith steps forward, laying her faded ribbons on the coffin. Her voice trembles but grows steadier as she speaks.

Faith
Goodman… husband of my youth, thou wert stern in thy later days, but I knew thee once as kind. I remember the dawn when thou didst leave for the forest, and I prayed thou wouldst return unchanged. But the man who came back was never whole again.

She bows her head. A murmur passes through the villagers.

Faith
Yet I loved thee still. And though thy eyes grew hard, I held hope in mine. May heaven grant thee peace, where my prayers could not.

She steps back, weeping softly. The minister nods gravely.

The Villagers’ Whispers

Two villagers lean close, whispering audibly enough for the audience.

Villager One
He trusted no man, no woman — not even his wife.

Villager Two
Aye, and didst thou not hear? He claimed to see us all in the forest, chanting at a Devil’s altar.

Villager One
Madness, say I.

Villager Two
Or truth. For who among us hath not sins unspoken?

They glance at Faith, who shivers as though she overheard. A third villager, older, joins in.

Old Villager
Dream or truth, it matters little. Goodman Brown saw too much, or thought he did, and it devoured him. Mark me: such visions are a contagion.

Faith’s Rising Doubt

Faith turns suddenly, her grief giving way to sharpness.

Faith
(controlling her voice)
What mean you by contagion? Would you make of my husband a curse?

Old Villager
Nay, mistress, I mean only that a man’s gloom may spread, as fire spreads from a spark.

Faith
(faltering, then whispering)
And if his spark lit truth, what then?

The villagers fall silent. Faith presses her hands to her face, trembling. The minister quickly interjects.

The Minister’s Warning

Minister
Enough, friends. Let not whispers stain this hour. Goodman Brown’s life is ended; let not suspicion live beyond him. We are a Christian people. Speak charity, not doubt.

But his words ring hollow. The villagers avoid one another’s eyes. One woman murmurs faintly:

Woman Villager
I dreamed of him last night… standing in the forest, his eyes burning like coals.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Faith freezes, staring at the coffin. The minister raises his hand to silence them.

Minister
Dreams are but shadows. Let them not sway your hearts.

The Lowering of the Coffin

The coffin is slowly lowered into the earth. The villagers watch. As soil is cast upon it, a faint fluttering sound fills the air. From above, a ribbon drifts downward, glowing faintly in the lamplight. It lands at Faith’s feet.

Faith
(startled, whispering)
Goodman?

The villagers gasp. The minister stiffens but does not speak. Faith picks up the ribbon, holding it close to her chest. Her eyes dart to the forest edge as though expecting to see him standing there.

The Stranger’s Voice

A young villager, perhaps no more than a boy, speaks out suddenly, his voice trembling with fear and awe.

Young Villager
What if he was right? What if the forest holds us all in its grasp, and Goodman Brown but saw what we hide?

Villager One
Hush thy tongue, boy! Such words dishonor the dead.

Young Villager
Nay — it honors the truth. Look upon the ground — even death will not bind him.

The boy points at the grave, where the earth stirs faintly, glowing with a pale light beneath the soil. The villagers recoil, murmuring in fear. Faith falls to her knees, clutching the ribbon, torn between grief and dread.

The Minister’s Closing

Minister
(raising his arms, voice shaking)
Lord, deliver us from temptation, from fear, from the snares of the Devil. Guard this town from shadows, and let the dead sleep in peace.

The bell tolls again, heavy and final. Yet the villagers do not look at heaven — their eyes remain fixed on the grave. The glow fades slowly, but the unease lingers. The whispers rise once more, circling the stage like a chorus of doubt.

Final Tableau of Scene 2

Faith kneels by the grave, clutching the ribbon, her face lit by a trembling lantern. The villagers cluster in silence, suspicion etched on their faces. The coffin lies buried, yet the ground above it seems unsettled, as if something beneath waits. What seems like an ending is already the beginning of a darker tale.

Blackout.

Scene 3 — Salem in Suspicion

Setting: Salem village square, months after Goodman Brown’s funeral. The square is simple: a wooden well at center, a few benches, the church steeple visible in the background. Villagers go about their routines, but their movements are stiff, their faces wary. Faith is present, thinner now, the ribbons she once wore faded and tucked in her bodice. The mood is restless, as though the town breathes in suspicion.

Lights: Bright daylight at first, then gradually dimmer as shadows lengthen unnaturally during the action.

Sound: The hum of ordinary life (a market call, a child laughing) turns uneasy — whispers, footsteps halting. Occasionally the distant wind mimics a sighing voice.

Opening Tension

At rise: Faith sits on a bench with her basket of sewing. She looks pale, distracted, and stares often at the church. Villager One and Villager Two enter, carrying water buckets. They speak in hushed tones but clearly audible.

Villager One
The man is gone to his grave, yet still he troubles us.

Villager Two
Troubles? He is dust now. What more can he do?

Villager One
More than dust, say I. I dreamed yesternight of Goodman Brown standing at the forest’s edge, calling my name. When I woke, my feet were wet with dew.

Villager Two
Dreams are naught but shadows. Yet — (glancing nervously toward Faith) — some say the grave itself was found unsettled, as though stirred from below.

Faith stiffens but says nothing. The villagers notice her and grow quiet, then move away quickly.

Faith’s Doubt

Faith rises, clutching the faded ribbon in her hand, speaking half to herself.

Faith
Husband, why dost thou not rest? If thou art gone, why do I hear thy voice when the wind stirs, whispering, “Trust no one”?

She presses her hand to her chest. A Child runs past, chasing another, but stops suddenly at Faith’s feet. The child looks up at her with wide eyes.

Child
Mistress Faith, they say thy husband walks in the woods still. Is it true?

Faith
(horrified, kneeling)
Who told thee such a thing?

Child
The other children. They say he comes at night with ribbons in his hand. They give us stones to throw when we see him.

Faith recoils, pressing her fingers to her lips. The child runs off, leaving her shaken.

The Town Divided

The minister, deacon, and several villagers enter. They gather near the well, speaking louder now, no longer hiding their unease.

Minister
We must end this. Goodman Brown is dead. His eyes see us not, his lips speak no more. Yet rumor and fear spread like plague.

Deacon
Rumor is not born of nothing. More than one among us hath dreamed of him since his burial.

Villager One
And dreams oft hold truth! Did he not, in life, accuse us all of hidden sin? Perchance his soul walks yet, to reveal what we deny.

Villager Two
(bluntly)
Or perchance the Devil himself wears his likeness to torment us.

The group murmurs. Faith steps forward, trembling but strong.

Faith
Enough! Goodman Brown was my husband. If his soul speaks, it is to me alone, not to you.

Minister
(softly, with pity)
Mistress Faith, forgive me — but dost thou not also dream of him?

Faith falters, unable to answer. The villagers murmur again, suspicion rising like a tide.

The Grave Disturbed

Enter Young Villager (the boy who spoke at the funeral), pale and breathless.

Young Villager
The grave! The grave is open!

The crowd gasps, rushing toward him.

Young Villager
I passed the churchyard at dawn. The earth was heaved, the stone askew. And in the soil — (he hesitates, trembling) — a ribbon lay, bright as blood.

Faith stumbles, clutching her chest. She looks down — in her hand is the ribbon she thought she carried. But when she opens her fist, it is gone. She cries out faintly, the villagers recoil.

Villager One
Witchcraft!

Villager Two
Nay, not witchcraft — but Goodman Brown himself, risen to haunt us.

Minister
Peace! Peace, I say! (though his own voice shakes) The Devil sows discord in our midst. We must cling to prayer.

Deacon
And if prayer fails? What then?

The villagers turn on each other, their voices overlapping: some calling for prayer, others for cleansing, others muttering fearfully of the forest. The sound builds into chaos.

Faith Confronted

Faith cries out, silencing them.

Faith
Stop! Stop thy bickering! (breath trembling) Goodman Brown is dead… and yet… he lives in me.

The villagers stare, shocked. Faith steps forward, voice growing louder, almost possessed.

Faith
Each night his words follow me: “Trust no one.” I see his eyes in yours, his suspicion in thy smiles. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there is none in Salem pure.

Minister
Mistress Faith! These are the Devil’s words, not thine own. Cast them off, lest thou carry his curse!

Faith
(weeping, almost laughing)
If I carry his curse, then so do all of you!

The villagers recoil, whispering fiercely. Some cross themselves, others glance toward the forest as though expecting to see Brown there.

The Suspicious Blessing

The minister raises his hand again, voice trembling but resolute.

Minister
We shall hold a service, a prayer for Salem, that the shadow of Goodman Brown trouble us no more. All shall gather at the meetinghouse this Sabbath.

But his blessing sounds hollow. The villagers nod, but suspicion still glimmers in their eyes. Faith drops to her knees, clutching the air where her ribbon should be. Her whisper carries into the silence.

Faith
Goodman… why wilt thou not rest?

Closing Image

The light dims as shadows stretch across the square. Villagers disperse in silence, but none look each other in the eye. Faith remains kneeling, staring into the distance. As the stage darkens, a faint ribbon drifts down from above, glowing faintly before fading into black.

Blackout.

Scene 4 — The Lantern Circle

Setting: The edge of the Salem forest on a windless, star-stained night. Trees arch like ribs over a narrow clearing. Lanterns glow in a ragged ring, their light too small for the dark. A rough path leads from the village road to the clearing; a second path vanishes deeper into the woods. Faith is older now—worn, vigilant, her ribbons kept in a kerchief at her throat. Young Villager (now a man), Villager One, Villager Two, Deacon, and others drift in by twos and threes, speaking low. The Minister arrives late, coat buttoned high, eyes wary.

Lights: Lantern ring: warm, breathing. Beyond it, blackness that swallows sound. As fear rises, lanterns falter one by one.

Sound: Distant owl; the faintest hum, like voices submerged under water. When the crowd chants or prays, the forest seems to answer with a breath.

Arrival

At rise: the ring is half-formed. Young Villager sets a lantern, then another, kneeling as if at an altar.

Young Villager
(to the dark)
If thou art there, make no mischief. We gather not to worship, but to ask—what we have always feared to ask.

Enter Villager One and Villager Two with a third, Old Widow. They look over shoulders, crossing themselves in different ways, as if one custom cannot suffice.

Villager One
I told thee we should meet in daylight.

Villager Two
Daylight masks its own evils. Night is honest.

Old Widow
Night remembers. Day forgets.

Footsteps on gravel. Faith appears, kerchief tied close, a lantern held high. She halts at the ring’s edge; the others step back as if heat radiates from her presence.

Villager Two
Mistress Faith. We did not think—

Faith
—That I knew the path? I knew it before my hair went grey. I will hear what thou mean’st to speak in whispers.

Enter Deacon; a moment later, Minister, breathing hard from the walk.

Minister
This gathering is unwise. If any soul from Salem should stumble upon us—

Deacon
They would believe we sought the Devil, when we seek only relief.

Minister
And yet relief in darkness looks much like devotion to it.

The ring completes. The lanterns quiver in the breeze that is not breeze.

The Purpose

Young Villager
We have prayed in the meetinghouse. We have kept fasts. Still the dreams come. Still the words he spoke infect the day. Trust no one. I would know if we are cursed by his suspicion—or by our own sins he named.

Villager One
If he was a prophet—

Villager Two
—Or a madman.

Old Widow
Or both. The world is seldom neat.

All glance to Faith. She holds the gaze. When she speaks, it is with the weariness of a woman who has bargained with night and never won.

Faith
Goodman Brown, my husband, was neither demon nor saint. He was a man who saw—too much, or nothing at all, I cannot say. But his seeing taught us all to close our eyes. If thou ask what curse lies upon us, it is this: we have mistaken doubt for wisdom.

Deacon
Then let us end it. Let us speak his name into the trees and be done.

Minister
Names invite what they describe.

Young Villager
We invited him already when we believed him. Now we must either dismiss him—or be ruled by a ghost.

The hum deepens, like a low organ note beneath the scene. Someone shivers; someone else whispers a prayer.

The Test

Old Widow
Light is proof. Bring light to where he walked. If no shadow moves, then he is gone.

She lifts a lantern and steps beyond the ring. Faith reaches out, stops her.

Faith
Nay. If light is our proof, keep it held together. Darkness eats the lone.

The Young Villager nods, takes two lanterns. He and Faith step a foot beyond the ring’s edge, light overlapping in an oval of safety. They face the deeper path.

Young Villager
(voice firming)
Goodman Brown—if thou art wind and dream, we claim this ground. If thou art more—

His words falter. The hum stops, like breath held. A ribbon flutters from above and lands across the lantern glass, pink where it crosses light, grey where it slips into shadow.

Faith
(whisper)
I burned them all.

Villager One
There are more.

Villager Two
Or they make themselves.

Minister
This is theatrick. The forest is a juggler.

Deacon
Or a mirror.

The ribbon slides off the lantern and curls at Faith’s feet. She does not pick it up.

Confession & Counter-Confession

Villager One
Perhaps the forest remembers that night because we all were there—
(he stops himself, horrified by his own admission)

Minister
Mind thy tongue!

Villager One
I said perhaps.

Villager Two
(urgent)
What if our fear keeps him? We wear his doubt like a saint’s relic. We repeat his curse as if it were prayer.

Old Widow
Then unlearn it. Say aloud what thou trustest.

A cruel pause. No one speaks. They look at one another—at husbands, wives, neighbors—and find their throats closed by years of caution.

Faith
(quiet, then stronger)
I trust that I loved him. I trust that love is not the same as blindness. I trust that if I still hear him, it is because grief is a stubborn bell.

Minister
I trust the Lord, though my heart trembles.

Deacon
I trust the brethren—
(his eyes wander; he cannot finish)

Young Villager
I trust that fear, left to grow, will bear the fruit it promises.

A sound—soft footfalls—moves along the tree line. The ring tightens. Lanterns jitter.

The Circle

Minister
(to all)
Form a circle. If this be folly, let it be orderly folly.

They join hands, lanterns at their feet, the ring of light breathing again. The Young Villager begins a psalm; voices enter, uneven at first, then steadier. As they sing, the hum returns—this time answering their melody, winding between notes like smoke.

Villager Two
Do you hear—

Old Widow
—an echo.

Faith
—him.

The psalm frays. The voices thin. One lantern flutters and dies; then another. Shadows pour inward.

Minister
Hold fast! Lift thy voices!

Deacon
(white-faced)
They will not lift.

The ring breaks as Villager One jolts away, kicking a lantern. Oil spatters; the flame gutters, then climbs with a hiss.

Villager One
He is here!

The Whisper

A single voice glides through the clearing, not loud, but impossibly near, thin as a drawn blade.

The Whisper
Trust no one.

The words cut the song to silence. Every face turns toward Faith. She shakes her head—no, no—yet her eyes fill, betraying recognition.

Faith
Leave us, Goodman. Thou wilt break the living to keep the dead.

The Whisper
The living were broken already. I only named it.

Minister
(thunder at last)
Get thee behind us! Thou art a shadow stitched from men’s fear!

The lanterns flare as if agreeing; the ring brightens. For a breath, resolve returns—hands find hands, shoulders square.

Young Villager
(through his fear)
We name thee doubt, not prophet. We bury thee with the man.

The Whisper
Then bury yourselves with him.

On that line, a wind slams through the clearing—no leaves move, yet flame bends flat. Every lantern snuffs in a click-click-click cascade until one remains: Faith’s. She holds it high; its light shakes like a heartbeat.

Faith’s Stand

Faith
(voice clear, almost young)
I will not inherit thy night. I will not teach my children thy eyes.

The Whisper
Thou already hast.

Faith
Then I will unteach them.

She steps forward, alone, lantern lifted over the boundary where no one dared stand. The light pushes a narrow wedge into the dark. In that wedge, motes float like ash; among them, for a blink, Goodman Brown’s face—older still, more shadow than man—rises and dims.

Faith
(soft, aching)
Husband. Rest.

The face does not soften. The whisper threads the trees like cold wire.

The Whisper
Trust no one.

Faith
Then I shall trust first, and let trust make me a fool rather than a stone.

She lowers the lantern to the ground at the forest’s mouth. It burns steady, a small sun refusing to move.

Fracture

Villager Two
(awed and terrified)
She sets light where his footfall was.

Old Widow
Now see if light draws him—
—or keeps him out.

Minister
(to the circle)
Join her, or else our fear will.

They do not. Some shift half a step forward, then back. Deacon stares at the flame as if it were a trap. Young Villager takes one bold stride, sets his lantern beside Faith’s; its wick catches from hers. Two lights. The clearing changes—a second wedge of safety.

Young Villager
(to the dark)
We are finished with thee.

The Whisper
(with a smile you can hear)
You are finished with yourselves.

From the trees, more ribbons stir—half a dozen, a dozen—spiraling down in pale drifts. Where they land outside the light, they grey to ash; where they touch the light, they blush pink and keep their color. The villagers gasp. A few weep openly.

Villager One
Miracle—

Minister
—or test.

Deacon
Or both.

The Lanterns’ Choice

One by one, uncertain, villagers bring lanterns to the border and set them down, forming a new ring—this time at the forest’s mouth, not away from it. The circle’s light grows, pushing the trees back an inch, then another. In the enlarged glow, the path deeper in shows its first bend and nothing more.

Old Widow
He is not gone. But he is smaller.

Faith
(half to herself)
So was he, in our house, once.

The whisper grows thinner, as if distance frays it.

The Whisper
Trust… no…

It scatters, more breath than word.

Minister
(astonished, humbled)
It seems—(he swallows)—it seems doubt also requires our consent.

Deacon
And we have denied it.

A New Vow

Young Villager
(to all)
Then hear a vow—not to perfection, but to courage: we will examine our hearts by day, not by the forest’s night. We will name sin where it is, and mercy where it longs to be. We will refuse the ease of suspicion.

Villager Two
(hoarse)
We will fail, and still return to the light.

Old Widow
We will bury the dead and not become them.

All look to Faith. She nods, tears bright, fierce as stars.

Faith
So let it be.

Button

As if in answer, the last of the free-falling ribbons drifts into the circle and lands across Faith’s lantern—blushing pink, refusing ash. She lifts it, ties it at her throat without trembling. The forest does not vanish; it waits. But the light at its edge holds.

From far off, a cock crows—impossibly, at night. The villagers startle, then laugh—first one, then two, then many—fragile, human, not triumphant, but alive.

Lights hold on the ring of lanterns at the forest’s mouth. Beyond, blackness breathes and recedes, like a tide forced to wait.

Blackout.

Scene 5 — The Ledger of the Lost

Setting: The Salem meetinghouse and graveyard, many decades after Goodman Brown’s death. Wooden pews worn thin, walls cracked. Outside the windows, the forest looms closer, its treeline gnawing at the village edge. New faces fill the pews: grandchildren of those who once gathered in the midnight circle. Faith is long gone. Time has smudged memory into half-truth, half-legend. At the front of the hall lies a heavy, dust-laden ledger — the church records. The minister of this generation, Reverend Samuel, presides over a gathering to “set Salem’s story straight.”*

Lights: Muted daylight through warped glass. As secrets surface, the light dims toward dusk, and by the end, only lanterns and moonlight illuminate the stage.

Sound: A persistent wind rattling shutters. At moments of revelation, the toll of a church bell echoes, though no one is seen to ring it.

The Assembly

The villagers settle uneasily on benches. Reverend Samuel stands behind the pulpit, ledger open before him. Beside him are Elder Martha, stooped but sharp-eyed, and Thomas, a restless young villager. Abigail, a woman of middle years, holds her child close, as though shielding him from the air itself.

Reverend Samuel
We gather to put silence to rest. Too long hath Salem spoken in whispers. Tonight we shall read the truth of Goodman Brown, that his shadow trouble us no longer.

Elder Martha
(shaking her head)
Truth in books is ink on paper. Truth in lives is the weight men carry in their sleep.

Thomas
(urgent, defiant)
Then let us carry it no more! My father spoke of nights he could not sleep, hearing the whisper of that cursed man. I would know if it was dream, or devil, or both.

The congregation murmurs, some nodding, others crossing themselves. Reverend Samuel opens the ledger with a heavy sigh, pages brittle beneath his fingers.

The Record

Reverend Samuel
(reading)
“Goodman Brown: not listed among the departed. His name writ not in the book of the dead, but among those marked Taken by the Forest.”

Gasps ripple through the room. Abigail clutches her child tighter.

Abigail
Taken… not buried? Then whose grave do we pray over each year?

Elder Martha
Perhaps a grave to ease our minds, not our souls.

Thomas
(half-laugh, half-fear)
Then he lives still? Or his curse does.

Reverend Samuel
No man lives past his hour. But records bear weight, and this record says he was claimed, not commended.

The Division

The congregation stirs into factions. Some cry for prayer, others for fire to cleanse the record itself.

Villager One
Burn the ledger! Let his name vanish, and with it his curse.

Villager Two
And what then? Shall forgetting undo the deeds of men? Nay, it is memory that binds us.

Thomas
Memory? Or chains? Goodman Brown chained us with his suspicion. Trust no one, he said, and so we have not, for three generations!

Elder Martha
(voice sharp)
And was he wrong? Look into thine own hearts. Have we not carried secrets, deceits, envy? Goodman Brown’s curse was not born of air. It was born of truth too sharp to bear.

The crowd falls to murmurs again. Reverend Samuel slams the ledger shut, but dust billows like smoke, carrying with it the faint flutter of a pink ribbon from its pages. It drifts to the floor. Silence. All eyes fix on it.

The Apparition

The wind rises, shutters banging. Lantern flames gutter. From the walls and windows, faint shapes emerge — the ghostly villagers of the past, their faces both familiar and strange. Among them, Goodman Brown, older than death, his eyes burning with the same suspicion. The congregation cowers. Abigail’s child points at him, wide-eyed.

Child
Is he the devil?

Goodman Brown
(voice low, cutting through)
Nay. I am only thy neighbor.

Thomas
(crying out)
Why haunt us? Thou art dead!

Goodman Brown
Dead, yet not dismissed. For ye keep me alive each time ye doubt, each time ye mistrust thy brother. Trust no one. That was my word, and it became thine.

Reverend Samuel
(standing firm, though trembling)
If thou art curse, we cast thee out. If thou art memory, we cleanse thee.

Goodman Brown
And if I am neither? If I am but truth itself — that all hearts bear stain, and faith is but ribbon and ash?

Faith’s Voice

From the shadows, faint but clear, another voice: Faith’s. Soft, aching, resolute.

Faith’s Voice
Goodman… thou wert wrong.

The specter of Faith appears beside him, ribbons glowing faintly in her hair. She looks upon him with sorrow, not fear.

Faith
Trust was broken, aye. Yet love endures beyond it. Thou didst choose to see only sin, and so thou wert blind to grace.

Goodman Brown falters, his form flickering like smoke. The villagers gasp, some weeping. Thomas steps forward, courage burning in his youth.

Thomas
If trust be folly, then I will be a fool. Better a fool with love than a prophet with nothing.

The Final Twist

The congregation begins to repeat his words, softly at first, then louder.

Villagers
Better a fool with love than a prophet with nothing.

Goodman Brown shrinks with each repetition, his figure dissolving into shadows. Yet as he fades, the ledger bursts open on its own, pages riffling, names glowing faintly. Not just his name, but dozens — each one marked Taken by the Forest. The congregation gasps.

Elder Martha
(voice cracking)
It was never only him. The forest keeps all we feared to name.

Reverend Samuel
Then we are all haunted. Not by one man, but by the doubt we gave life to.

The ghosts swell behind them, a crowd of faces, then slowly dissolve as if released. The ribbon on the floor glows once more, then burns to ash without flame. The ledger snaps shut. Silence falls.

Closing Tableau

The congregation stands together, shaken but not broken. Thomas lifts the child onto his shoulder; the boy laughs nervously, the first innocent sound of the night. Reverend Samuel rests a hand on the ledger, heavy but no longer afraid. The wind dies. Moonlight streams through the warped glass, bathing them in pale silver.

Faith’s Voice
(soft, echoing)
Look to heaven. Trust… once more.

The stage darkens except for the window of moonlight. The villagers remain in its glow, faces lifted. Beyond the glass, the forest looms eternal — waiting, watching — but held back, for now, by their fragile choice to trust again.

Blackout.

Epilogue

Chorus again, standing among the villagers, half-shadow, half-light. The ledger rests closed at center stage, ribbons scattered like ashes.

Chorus
So ends not one man’s tale, but Salem’s.
A curse begun in doubt, carried by fear,
And broken only by the fragile folly of trust.
Goodman Brown is gone, yet lingers still —
Not in the grave, nor in the ledger,
But in each heart that chooses suspicion over grace.
What seems an ending is only a question:
What forest do we feed, in darkness or in light?

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