He'd told me that it was to rain, soon. Although I do not know the man, I still remember his face well. The old timer obviously hadn't aged well, as his beard was shaggy and knotted in places. His face had been slightly distraught, when he'd told me this, as well.

My first thought was simply that he was mad. It wasn't uncommon in this day and age to find someone who was so.

T'was the year of our Lord, 1695. I was currently taking up residence in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, who had just grown in size after the absorption of the Plymouth Colony, some four years prior. The New World was in a state of loss, left in shambles by a number of madmen who'd allowed their own prejudices and paranoia to destroy their sense of self-reason. They'd hung and burnt many in what had come to be known as the Salem Witch Trials.

My name is Richard LeBair, and I was but little more than a weary traveler, although a well-known skeptic, in those hard times.

Word of witches and devils had traveled the countryside like the plague, reaching even back to Mother England, herself. I'd not traveled to a single village that prostitutes and whores had not found themselves accused of the black arts, or some other damned thing.

On the date in question, October 30th, I'd found myself in a small pub, enjoying a fine ale for the eve. I'd just returned from a long journey to Old Hampshire, and was now merely interested in my ale and a good night's sleep. I'd drank until my eyes watered, paid the barkeep, and stumbled onto the streets, where the Harvest Festival preparations were being made.

"Good Eve, Richard! How is my favorite bar patron?" A man's voice rang out. It had only taken a wink before I'd recognized the voice, and groaned in disgust. T'was Jonathon Paisley, a man that I'd detested for years, out to oversee the preparations of the Harvest Festival.

I watched as he trotted up, as pompous as ever, followed, like usual, by Father Kimbell.

"Good Eve, Jonathon. Father. I see the decorations are almost complete. I would've thought that with all the talk of witches and goblins, that the festival would've surely been cancelled, this season." I smirked, quite snobbishly.

Father Kimbell frowned at my skepticism, but remained silent. I could feel Paisley smiling down at me. That hypocrite. How smug.

"Now, now, Mr. LeBair. You should show more respect in sight of recent events. Who are we to decide whether or not witches or spooks exist in this world? A hasty decision can often become a costly one." He teased, obviously amused by my drunken state.

"Yeah, right. Witches and Werewolves are little more than poppycock. Stories that are told to little boys and girls to make them behave. The day you find a real witch is the same day Father Kimbell, here, takes confession from a savage." I sneered, fighting the urge to vomit. Father Kimbell didn't seem to share my amusement with the conversation.

"Well, whatever, whatever. You will be joining us for tomorrow's festivities, will you not?" The old fart asked me, before throwing an arm over my shoulder. He knew I couldn't stand when he touched me.

"I'm afraid not. I'll be needing my rest after the sail back from England." I growled, pushing his arm from my shoulder. "Perhaps next year. Now, if you will, I must be heading back to my home for the eve."

"Be weary, Mr. LeBair." Father Kimbell called to me, as I staggered away from the two. "God knows you."

Ha! Right! God knows me? Was that meant as a threat, or a pleasure? Bah, I chose to forget it and move on. I still had to find a prostitute for the night, but was damn well not going to say that in front of them.

I'd entered an alleyway, where the colony's best whores could always be found. Hidden amongst the darkened stone of the buildings, I walked down the line of whores, looking for the one lucky enough to spend the night with me.

"Why, hello, love. How about this fine-quality merchandise?" A slightly overweight and grotesque excuse for a whore asked, from a nearby corner of the alley.

"Oh, dear God, no. Get away from me, you sow." I cringed, the sight not doing a thing for my upset stomach.

"Fine, then, limp dick. You wouldn't know class if you saw it." She wretched, and returned to her nest.

"The only class you need is in beauty school, you old harpy." I muttered, pressing on.

As I rounded the corner, I thought I'd seen everything that the alley had to offer me. Where there had been a number of whores, there were now none. This was when she'd caught my eye. She was far too beautiful to be a whore, which is why at first, I thought her to be a lost noblewoman. Her clothing was not that of a noblewoman, though. Her eyes met mine, and the pain in my stomach seemed to fade.

"Hello, there, Sir." Her soft melodic voice pierced through the silence, followed by a sweet smile that could melt any man's heart. "Can I interest you in my services?"

Dear, Lord. I knew that with this heavenly creature, I wouldn't be able to speak to her for stuttering. I hadn't a thing to say.

"Well? Cat got your tongue, love?" She giggled, before approaching me.

"Y-Yes. I mean, no. How much?" I asked, lost in her dark locks of hair and fair blue eyes.

Silent, she closed the gap between us, and pursed her lips together, in a pout. Her hand rested upon my chest, then slowly moved to straighten my collar. I felt as though her eyes were going to pierce through me.

"For a strong, handsome gentleman like yourself?" She smiled, again, and I felt weak. "Cheap." She whispered in my ear, before kissing my neck, softly.

I'd followed her to a place she'd already obtained. It was a finely dressed room, of clearly wealthy design. Why a woman this beautiful, and obviously this rich, would be selling her body on the streets was beyond me, but I'd learned long ago not to question things that were in my favor.

Slowly, and full of grace, she almost hovered in her stroll to the second-story window, overlooking the busy street of the colony. I watched her from the middle of the room.

"Hallow's Eve. They're preparing for the Harvest Festival, you know?" She said, as she opened the window and looked down at the streets, below. "Too bad it's going to rain."

I can't say that I completely focused on her words, as much as I did the beauty and elegance of her voice. I'd never seen a whore with such grace and passion before, and if you asked me now, I'd bet that she sensed that.

"Come here." She called to me, without looking in my direction. Slowly, I approached her.

Silently, her hands lifted to her head, undoing the carefully-made bun that her hair was in. Her long, dark hair fell to her shoulders, and I caught a whiff of something that smelt both intoxicating and slightly foul. To my surprise, she never turned to me, but simply began to undress. Within moments, the silken fabrics that made her dress had fallen from her body, leaving her nude and petite figure exposed, before me.

"Many of the people are still in fear, believing that tomorrow night will bring real witches and ghosts to roam our countryside. The witch trials have stirred up a terror from deep within these people." She whispered. Slowly, she turned to me, and once again, I felt her eyes peering into mine. "Do you believe that, Sir?"