The night before you are to be committed to the hereafter, I am plagued by dreams of your body writhing and twitching at the end of the rope. Several times I wake sweating, each time finding myself erect, and each time I grab the rosary strategically placed by my bedside and pray for the strength to fight those demons while I complete the act I am called upon to perform. Eventually, I abandon all efforts at further sleep and rise early. After attempting, with little success, to force down the special breakfast my wife has prepared for me, I dress myself meticulously, smoothing out my bands and hat, before sitting to read the Bible until it is time to leave the house. I place the thick, rough hemp rope in a canvas sack and make my way to the prison. As I pass through the town square, I notice that a crowd is already beginning to assemble around the sturdy wooden gallows at its centre.

Upon my arrival, I meet the local vicar, who has arrived to offer you the final absolution you have so far steadfastly refused. We enter from the bright, cold morning into the dank, dark prison, standing still for a moment to allow our eyes to adjust before asking the jailer to open your cell. I look upon your portly body, full, rounded breasts and long brown hair. Reverend Greaves speaks first, saying solemnly. “Good day, Constance. As you know it is your last morn here on Earth, and you have refused all offers of absolution for the abominable crimes against decency that wrought such plagues upon our crops. You are therefore destined to be buried in unconsecrated ground, and are certain to be condemned to the eternal fires of hell. It is too late to save your wretched, sinful body; but our Lord, who is eternally merciful, is even now willing to listen to your prayers and redeem your soul if you will only admit your crimes and repent of your sins.”

“You mean if I will admit that it is my fault that many good men from the front row of church desired my 'wretched, sinful' body, and that they bear no responsibility for their actions,” you say, with an edge of sarcasm that belies the tears in your voice. “Quite a few women as well, like his wife, for example,” you continue, smiling sadistically at me. Your vicious slander robs me of control, and I lean in, grabbing you under the chin.

“You lie damnably, you treacherous harlot!”, I hiss, “and our town will be much the better when this rope has closed that foul throat for ever.” I grab the rope from its canvas sack and wave it angrily in your face. You glower at me and at the reverend, and there is an embarrassing moment of silence.

“Well, if you refuse all offers of redemption, we may as well be on our way,” I say eventually, after regaining my composure. I summon the guards, who enter and hold you sternly by your pale, chubby arms as I take a second, thinner piece of hemp rope from the pocket of my pantaloons and bind your hands in front of you. I place the black cloak of a condemned criminal over your shoulders. As I tie it at the neck, your tear-stained countenance fixes me with a look that seems to combine wistful sadness with defiant determination. Satan has given you intense, seductive powers that even now tempt me away from the path of righteousness. I clench my fist under my jacket until my fingernails dig painfully into the palm of my hand in an attempt to discipline my weak, mortal flesh. We begin to walk slowly through the town, passing several villagers, some of whom throw stones or scream about what a vile hussy you are. One of the stones strikes you on the cheek, causing blood to flow down your face and off your chin, staining the black cloak. Others begin to pray for your soul. Prudence, the baker's wife, places her hands over the faces of her two children to avert their eyes from your corrupt flesh. In general, however, the streets are fairly quiet – the majority of the townsfolk are gathered in the square to witness the expulsion of your soul from your vile, seductive body.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (1)
 

As we enter the square, there is a chorus of cheers from some of the men of the village, while some of the women scream. As you lay eyes upon the scaffold, you shiver. I tighten my grip on my shoulder lest you should attempt to bolt, and continue to push you onwards towards the fearsome structure, the ladder already mounted against the crossbeam. At the foot of the ladder, I stop you and lift the thick rope, one end already fashioned into a noose, from its canvas sack. You begin to sob as your gaze flits from the rope to the sturdy crossbeam and back again, but I pay no regard to such distractions and slip the noose over your head. As you feel the rough hemp fibres slide over the skin of your face to your thick neck, you suddenly emit a piercing scream. “Oh God! Oh Jesus, have mercy on me, please forgive me for everything I've done wrong,” you babble.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (2) 

“Are you finally ready to admit your guilt, embrace the absolution that you have hitherto refused and avoid the eternal fires of hell,” interrupts Reverend Greaves. You nod furiously, and the Reverend takes your head, still noosed, in his hands, instructing you to repeat the prayers after him, although the rough, heavy touch of the rope has rendered you almost unable to speak through your tears. At the end of his speech, he places his hand on your head and asks you to kiss the cross around his neck, which you do, still weeping, the tears mingling with the blood running down your cheek from the impact of the stone.

As the priest steps to one side, I begin to carry out my task. First, I remove the cloak, exposing your blue shift dress underneath, your rotund body visible underneath in silhouette. I climb the ladder, the free end of the rope clasped in my hand, and begin to lead you like a dog on a leash, pulling on the rope to tighten the noose around your neck, thereby forcing you to ascend each successive step to relieve the pressure on your throat and allow yourself to continue to breathe – albeit temporarily. When you have ascended four steps, I throw the rope over the crossbeam and tie it off securely, before climbing onto the beam myself.

When I have completed the preparations, I nod to the town mayor, who steps to the front of the gallows with a large scroll in his hand. He unrolls the scroll, revealing ornate handwriting, and begins to declaim your sentence to the townsfolk. “Constance Goodwife,” he begins, “You stand convicted of witchcraft – the particulars of the offence being that you did consort with Satan and receive from him supernatural powers – powers that you did use to lead the men and women of the town of Lakeville to stray from the true path of righteousness into acts of obscenity. By doing so, you did bring upon this town the wrath of God, and led Him to bring the hails which destroyed many of its crops in August. You have been sentenced by the special Church court of 15^th November 1642 that your sinful body be offered up as a sacrifice to God: that you be hanged and strangled from the town gibbet until all breath be choked from your body.” You have continued to sob throughout his speech, but at the mention of this you let out an almost animal howl, bending over until your forehead touches one of the rungs of the ladder.

The mayor, who has ignored your sobbing, pauses for a moment, before turning to you and saying, “Constance Goodwife: do you have anything to say before you are delivered to the higher justice of Our Lord.” Between your wails, you blurt out half audibly, “Please...I swear I never consulted with no Devil...I swear I never did anything to anyone that they didn't ask me to do...” The town mayor nods up to me, and I grab the ladder and twist it forcefully. “I swear I never sed....” Your bare feet slip from their rung of the ladder and you are cut off in mid-sentence as the noose snaps tight around your throat. You try to scream but, your voicebox crushed by the pressure of the rope, all you can manage is a guttural squawk.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (2) 

At first, your bound hands try to hold on to the ladder but, as it falls away from underneath you, you realize this is useless, serving only to increase your weight and accelerate your inevitable strangulation. You drop the ladder and instead try vainly to bring your hands up to your neck to tear the vice-like noose from your windpipe. Your body swings back and forth under the crossbeam like a pendulum and rotates half-round and back, showing every member your voluptuous buttocks one second and your full, heavy breasts the next. Three-quarters of the crowd erupts into cheers, while the remainder half-bow their heads solemnly and appear to pray. Your legs kick wildly as the rope digs deep into the fat of your thick neck, constricting the air supply through your windpipe and locking your jaw almost shut, until the only sound you can produce is a deep, satanic growl. You shake your head furiously, throwing your long brown hair in all directions, in a desperate attempt to find an angle that will allow more air through your throat. There is none, and your frantic struggles succeed only in tightening the noose further.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (4) 

As your legs continue to buckle hopelessly in search of some means of support, your body thrashes, writhes and squirms like the snake that tempted Eve. Your breasts bounce furiously – even in death you continue to tempt the gaze of men, and I search for my rosary as I find myself becoming erect once again. Your face turns crimson and swells up around your pale, terrified eyes. Bloody drool dribbles down both your cheeks and drips from your chin onto your jumping breasts.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (5)

Gradually, the thrashing of your body dies to a twitch as your face turns from red to blue. With one final effort, you lift your head and stare into the crowd one last time, revealing your blue-grey eyes to be flecked with broken blood vessels and your tongue, locked to the roof of your mouth by the rope, has become swollen and almost black. Then your head collapses onto your chest and your body stirs no more, although your right leg continues to twitch for a minute or two. As your limp body continues to swing back and forth under the crossbeam, your bladder releases. Urine dribbles freely down both your legs and off your bare toes, leaving an extended stain on the stones beneath. Some of the women hold their noses in disgust while others, together with most of the men, laugh and jeer.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (6) 

Normally, once a hanging is concluded, the townsfolk disappear rather quickly to resume their daily toils; but in your case, the crowd seems hypnotized, remaining transfixed by your flaccid, swaying body in its urine-stained dress as it swings gently in the breeze, as if checking that the harlot really is dead and the evil truly exorcised.

The Hanging of a New England Harlot (7)

Eventually, after about half an hour, when the blue colour has faded from your cheeks to be replaced by a ghostly, serene white, the crowd begins to disperse. Your body is left hanging until the night, when I return to remove it - now ice cold, soaked through and stinking of stale piss, which stains my jacket as you collapse limply onto my shoulder.  Nevertheless, your soft flesh retains an undeniable tactile sensuality, and it is not difficult to see why you were such a powerful agent of Satan.