I love digging into the original court transcripts and the town’s ledgers—they’re surprisingly clear about the names, the dates, and the little details that modern retellings often gloss over. The numbers line up: 20 people were executed, 7 hanged, 7 pressed, 2 died of disease, and a handful were imprisoned. What most sensational stories add is the dramatic flair: the spectral evidence, the “witch light” in the woods, the idea that a single accusation could bring down an entire community. Those elements were real to some, but they’re also amplified by later writers and movies looking for a ghostly plot. So the core facts are solid, but the mythos around them is much taller than the original records would suggest.

Exactly, and it’s fascinating how the court’s own notes are so matter‑of‑fact, almost clinical. I often find myself flipping between those dusty ledgers and the more dramatic prose in novels, and the contrast is like watching a sunrise in the dark and then a full‑blown daylight. It reminds me that history can be both stark and mythic, and the line between them is what makes the story so compelling.

I love how the cold ledger feels almost clinical, while the novels give it a fiery glow. It’s a good reminder that the truth is often sharper and less romantic than the legends we hear.

It’s like a clear winter day cutting through a foggy tale—makes the facts stay sharp and the myths stay just that, myths.