Ghosts We Summon: The Repeating Ritual of Blame

In the quiet depth of night, when reason sleeps and shadows stretch across rooms and minds alike, a curious pattern surfaces. It moves silently, patiently, over centuries, beginning with a whisper that morphs into a rumor. Rumor soon solidifies into a diagnosis, and before long, society itself is set upon chasing shadows. Viewed from a broad enough perspective, these cycles of fear reveal themselves as predictable—almost elemental—as if fear existed alongside fire or water, waiting only for the perfect conditions to ignite.

The Salem witch trials, Parental Alienation Syndrome and Satanic Ritual Abuse share a profound and disturbing commonality. Though distant from one another by centuries, each phenomenon was birthed by the same human frailty: a compulsive need to assign blame when complexity threatens to overwhelm society’s understanding.

In 1692 Salem, a strict, fragile colony struggled under mounting economic stress, disease, and societal anxiety. Uncertainty gripped every heart, and where uncertainty exists, fear swiftly follows. This fear erupted violently when accusations flew wildly against women and girls alleged to have danced with devils, conjured spirits, or blighted crops. Primed by sermons steeped in eternal damnation, the community needed no tangible proof—mere accusations and spectral evidence were sufficient to condemn.

Salem was not an aberration; it was the logical culmination of a society constructed around obedience, suspicion of female agency, and fear of knowledge existing outside rigid religious frameworks. Accusations swiftly turned into spectacle, and spectacle became a form of social currency.

Almost three centuries later, in the 1980s, a new iteration of the same ancient fear swept America: the Satanic Panic. Driven by sensational claims of secret cults abusing children in satanic rituals, society plunged headlong into hysteria. Daycare scandals—such as those involving McMartin and Little Rascals—were driven not by credible evidence but by visceral dread over losing control. Amid societal changes—women entering the workforce, declining maternal surveillance, and a shifting geopolitical landscape—the collective psyche sought new villains to scapegoat.

Children, ever-sensitive to cultural anxieties, became conduits through which adult fears were enacted. Therapists, often poorly trained, began coercively extracting elaborate and horrifying stories from children—tales of ritualistic abuse lacking any factual corroboration. Figures such as Rebecca Brown, whose sensational accounts were later debunked and whose credentials were called into question, gained notoriety by fueling these unfounded claims. False memories were not simply accepted; they were actively created. Courts convicted innocent caregivers, disproportionately women or nonconforming men, on the basis of these fabricated narratives.

The echoes of Salem were unmistakable. Again, the target was the independent woman, the unconventional caregiver, the figure who defied social norms. Accusations remained devastatingly vague yet irrefutable, driven by authoritative certainty rather than evidence.

During this period emerged Parental Alienation Syndrome (PAS), a controversial concept coined by psychiatrist Richard Gardner in the 1980s. PAS, much like spectral evidence, emerged not from empirical science but from a need for simplistic explanations within chaotic custody battles. Gardner's theory posited that when a child rejected a parent—usually the father—it was due to manipulative influence by the other parent, typically the mother.

Gardner’s seductive yet flawed narrative portrayed the rejecting child not as potentially fleeing genuine abuse, but as a brainwashed victim of maternal deceit. PAS swiftly became a judicial weapon, silencing children's voices and criminalizing mothers. Often, credible allegations of abuse were dismissed outright under this simplistic diagnostic umbrella.

To truly grasp the impact, it is vital to acknowledge the deep cultural distrust of female authority—especially maternal authority. PAS, like its historical counterparts, was built upon assumptions that women fabricate, children are unreliable, and fathers are unjustly victimized. Under a guise of impartiality, courtrooms became mechanisms of trauma and injustice.

Dismissing these events as isolated historical curiosities would overlook their deeper, systemic nature. These phenomena reveal patterns embedded in Western culture: a consistent reaction whenever ambiguity threatens rigid social orders. In each case, when intuitive, empathetic, and complex ways of understanding were replaced by rigid, reductionist logic, vital human qualities—such as empathy and imagination—were lost. Institutions, unable or unwilling to embrace complexity, reacted with force.

In every instance, women stood at the epicenter: accused, disbelieved, demonized, and disciplined. In Salem, nonconforming women faced execution. In the 1980s, daycare providers faced imprisonment for imaginary crimes. In contemporary courts, women alleging abuse risk losing custody for appearing too emotional, too convincing, or too closely bonded with their children.

These phenomena are not individual system failures. They reflect an enduring archetype: the mother stripped of credibility, the child rendered voiceless, and institutions masquerading as protectors while causing harm. The Scarlet Letter on repeat.

Driving these panics was not only fear but also financial and professional incentives. Industries arose around diagnosing and treating imaginary abuses. Experts profited from books, workshops, and courtroom appearances. Sensational media fed the panic, amplifying rather than scrutinizing claims. Meanwhile, genuine suffering—of abused children or falsely accused caregivers—remained unaddressed.

At the core of these episodes lies society's chronic refusal to embrace complexity. It's simpler to label a mother hysterical than investigate her claims. Easier to declare a child brainwashed than confront disturbing realities. Easier to invent conspiracies about ritualistic abuse than acknowledge that most harm occurs within families and homes.

Stepping back, the pattern becomes clear—not to foster cynicism, but to invite clarity. These panics persist, resurfacing with new names such as QAnon, conspiracy-driven parenting movements, or fresh moral panics. Yet their structure remains unchanged: fear of female autonomy, anxiety over vulnerable children, and institutional dread of losing societal control.

Ultimately, the question remains constant: who is permitted to be believed?

When power defines truth rather than evidence, belief becomes weaponized. Those wielding this weapon rarely represent the truly vulnerable. Instead, they claim divine mandate, moral righteousness, or national interest. History repeatedly shows their primary interest is self-preservation, not justice.

If redemption exists within this grim cycle, it lies in the deliberate, radical act of listening—especially to voices historically silenced: mothers, children, women who challenge accepted narratives.

These individuals are not the source of the problem. They are truth-tellers.

Unless society learns to truly hear them, the cycle will recur, endlessly victimizing new generations under the false belief that this time, innocence is protected. But ghosts never vanish entirely. They adapt, evolving to haunt us anew whenever we forget how easily we summoned them into existence in the first place.