The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
— John Milton, Paradise Lost

March 22, 1835
Old Goodman Brown came forth from the woods, illuminated faintly by the moon. He had heard cries of agony and despair, clearly a man’s. Leaning heavily upon his wooden curved cane, he beheld an almost identical version of himself. Carved out of similar flesh, just years younger. The man whom old goodman Brown observed stood alone, hugged chokingly tight by pine trees. He appeared to be conversing with someone, or something. Old goodman Brown was unsure, not because he stood afar, but because he could not behold the other fellow.
“Goody Cloyse? Of course, I know of her. That old woman taught me my catechism!” said the young man, conveying a world of seriousness in this simple comment. Evidently, the youth seemed to be making a case for the pious old lady. As old Goodman Brown pranced around the man to see whom he might be addressing, he pondered over the name of Goody Cloyse. It rang a bell in his ancient mind. Upon coming around full circle, he understood twofold. The countenance before his eyes was talking to himself. There was no human there alongside him to touch, see, or smell. Only briefly did the wind gush up some dry leaves, and only for a short instance did the old man think of looking at a figure. A second traveler about fifty years old holding onto a black staff, which twisted and wriggled, like a living serpent. It must’ve been a trick on his eyes, as there seemed nothing but emptiness upon second inspection. But alas, old goodman Brown also wrapped his mind around to remember goody Cloyse, the Quaker woman he had lashed through the streets of Salem decades ago. How come this man knew of her? How was he aware of old Goodman Brown’s biggest achievement? Years ago, he had caught the wretch in the process of creating magical flying ointment out of baby fat and herbs. Her punishment had been just, and sanctioned by God. Her name banished into the fiery depths of hell. Old Goodman Brown’s train of thought was abruptly interrupted when his spitting image dashed forward. With a speed uncommon to the race of honest men and good Christians he vanished in the thicket of the forest. Old Goodman Brown could hear him shout: “Devil! Where is thoust taking my Faith?”
Soon after, the old man caught up to his observation. The latter’s cry of grief, rage, and terror pierced the night as he exclaimed his pleas for his tormentor to not burn his lover. “There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil! For to thee is this world given,” whined he. Old Goodman Brown marveled at this, for he was unsure whether to approach or stay away. Had this fellow been cursed by God? Or even worse, was this unlucky man haunted by the devil? Surely, neither could be true. The townspeople of Salem were good, free citizens. At least, free of moral stain…