Young Goodman Brown: Alternate Ending

Hey! So, a few weeks ago my English class got to do a super fun project, which was choosing a short story we read this past semester and rewriting the ending differently. One of the requirements was to attempt to write with a similar "voice," or style of writing as the original author, so that the story would still read smoothly as though all of it was penned by one author. So, for anyone who has read "Young Goodman Brown," hope you enjoy the twist on the conclusion of this classic short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne. If, however, you have not read "Young Goodman Brown," I definitely recommend it! It doesn't take super long to get through, and the symbolism and descriptions that Hawthorne uses are very interesting. Again, I am most grateful to my wonderful English teacher who corrected the rough draft, and made completing this project both fun and challenging. I'm also really hoping that this turned out well, although this is definitely not as good as Hawthorne's writing. So....enjoy! (hopefully ;-)  )  p.s. (The first sentence or two are Hawthorne's, not mine. I had to begin with a few words from the original story so that my teacher would know where the original left off and the alternate ending began).

He staggered against the rock, and felt it chill and damp; while a hanging twig, that had been all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew. What an awful dream had come upon him! He forced his body upright, and with a great deal of effort collected his thoughts enough to make his way out of the forest by the same path that his mind had traveled so sinfully earlier. How long had he been asleep? Minutes? Hours? Try as he might, he had no sense of what time of night it was, how long he had been away, or how he had taken leave of consciousness during his walk. Only one thought remained clear in his mind: he must return to his Faith at once; he must see that she is safe after all.

As he walked briskly up the road, his senses heightened, a slight breeze which, under ordinary circumstances, he would have never thought to pose a threat, swept across the trees above him, stirring the leaves as a whirlpool stirs the sea, causing evil whispers to escape into the air which seemed to quickly elevate into a violent hiss all around him. He couldn’t escape this night fast enough and his heart gave a glad jump of joyous relief when his house finally came into view. Oh, to be safe in his warm bed again! Oh, to see his beloved wife’s face! Goodman Brown leapt swiftly over the last few paces to his front door, which opened into darkness deeper than the night sky. Sweet Faith must be asleep, the dear. He made his way carefully down the hall toward his bedroom, halting twice for almost stumbling over rugs and furniture. His right hand ran along the wall as he neared the bedroom, and soon the edge of a doorframe came under his palm. He reached for the doorknob, but as he touched it the door pushed freely open, and he tip-toed quietly inside. The moon’s ghastly glow came through a lone window in the far wall, and shined directly onto a vacant bed.

“Faith?” He shouted anxiously. “Faith!”

 His heart thudded harder and his voice trembled more with each call of her name. He yelled for his beloved in every room of the house and out the door into the ever-oppressive night, but she was nowhere to be found. Surely he was still dreaming. Yes, he would simply lie down and rest, and when he awoke in the morning, this terrible nightmare would finally be over. He went to his bed, pulling the covers tightly around himself in an attempt to keep out the icy feeling that had penetrated both his skin and his chest, and fell into a fitful sleep, his only comfort being the hope of seeing his Faith once again.

His eyes fluttered drowsily open as rays of sunlight shone through the window onto Goodman Brown’s face the next morning. As he turned over, his heart was struck with sudden panic that he was still alone in the bed, and he sat up quickly, searching his surroundings for any sign of his wife, and again called her name. Over and over he called, but the only reply given was his own voice echoing throughout the empty walls of the house. He reluctantly ran out of his secure home, still wearing the previous day’s clothes which were now wrinkled, dirty and torn, and continued into Salem Village, glancing anxiously about himself.

The sky overhead was ironically bright, and pushed glaring light against his eyes as if trying to hinder his gait. Everywhere he looked, droves of people were running about frantically, a few crying uncontrollably while the rest shouted the names of loved ones. Running up to an older woman sitting on a nearby bench, he pleaded that she tell him what had caused this commotion.

“What on Earth happened?” He demanded, but the woman began to sob and could not speak.

“I beg of you, please tell me!” he yelled fearfully, his voice breaking.

“They’re- they’re gone.” She croaked.

 “Who?” He pressed sharply, “Who is gone?”

“Friends, family, neighbors; dozens of them, gone!”

He could hardly take in what he was hearing. It wasn’t just Faith; a whole bundle of the townspeople had simply disappeared. He gasped. It couldn’t be!

“And isn’t it terrible,” the woman continued, “The Reverend and Deacon are missing, too! Who can we look to in a time like this? What will become of our congregation?”

Goodman Brown stood as a statue, stunned by the news, as the cruel world seemed to press in all around him. What he had seen the previous night hadn’t been a dream, but a grim, evil reality. His Faith was truly gone. He tried to make his way back home, but his wobbly knees would not permit his traveling more than a few yards. He collapsed to the cold, unrelenting ground in heaving sobs, muttering: “Faith, Faith.” with every shaking breath, and laid there for hours before being carried home by neighbors.

Weeks, then months, passed after that horrible morning, and never were the lost ones found. Many presumed their loved ones to be dead, and held services despite the absence of a body, as they had no sign of their being alive otherwise, and gradually Salem Village’s inhabitants returned to a state of near-normalcy, while many formed tales and legends about the morning when so many had disappeared, most of which revealed the town’s belief in a common enemy: Indians.

“Make sure to keep a rifle handy.” was advice frequently given among community members. “Never know when the savages might be about.”

However, although this was the most accepted idea, no one ever knew for certain or had evidence of any kind that might aid in proving it as fact, and the mystery lived on for all. For all, that is, except Goodman Brown.

He became a slave to his own fears; locked inside his house which, despite its now dusty, unkempt atmosphere and lonely space, was seemingly far safer than the outside world would ever be again. Countless villagers came by to check on him, but the only answer their knocks received was a dreadful shout from within, warning: “Stay away! I don’t want you here, now leave me be!”
            “Poor fellow,” They would often say, “Driven mad by the loss of his wife.”

            But it wasn’t long before their pity was replaced with annoyance and their compassion turned to frustration, and soon they began to resent his unresponsiveness to their friendly attempts. His life continued to be resigned solely to his home, and he rarely set foot outside its walls apart from an annual venture, on the anniversary of his Faith’s conversion, when he would stroll to the head of the forest path and stand, sometimes for over an hour, with eyes that traveled down the trail, yet pierced backwards through time so much further as he revisited his haunting memories. No one else ever understood what fascination the woods held for him, or why he had shut himself into a hermit’s existence, refusing to move beyond the mysterious incident of years before, but Goodman Brown knew. He was not just the only witness of a horrendous ritual. He was the lone survivor of the devil’s company.