The evening is growing dark and my cough is worsening so I must stoke my fire, drink more of my nostrum and sleep.

September 28th, 1692.  Hoarehound and garlic nostrum made a poor breakfast, but I do not feel like eating.  My throat is dry and swollen.  My tonsils, swollen, dangle like an old man’s testicles.  My cough disturbed my night as much as the winds blowing the smoke of my fire into my cave to choke me.  There were noises in the night.  The hoot owl’s screech, the howling of coyotes and cracking of dry twigs under the feet of animals in the nearby woods.  At least I hope it was the footsteps of animals which I heard.  If it be footsteps of man, then maybe I am discovered.  If it be the noises of malicious spirits then I am doomed, but I care not to think long on that.  Dorcas is capable of that, though maybe she will leave me to the bears and wolves or to nature itself since the harshness of Winter is difficult to survive out here alone.  I feel like I am dying.  If I give up the ghost, better this than going back to Salem to be tried as a witch and to suffer what they would do to me.  Best I let nature take its course and slip into whatever  other world awaits me.  Which judgement is the worst after all?