In 1711, a girl named Mary Dunbar arrived in Islandmagee, Co Antrim, to stay with relatives. Almost immediately, she began to accuse local women of possessing her by witchcraft. She had fits, during which three men could barely restrain her, regurgitated pins and buttons, and claimed the women had the power to make themselves tiny and crawl through her bedroom keyhole to torment her.

Witch fever took hold. It caused a sensation in the tight-knit Ulster-Scots, Presbyterian community. The eight women denied being witches, but Mary was believed. She was 18, pretty, educated and from a higher social class. Her victims fitted the witch template – deformed, lame, blind, claw-handed or scarred. This was a way to persecute old, ugly, awkward women – once accused, innocence was difficult to prove.

The scapegoated women were tried in nearby Carrickfergus in a mass witchcraft trial, highly unusual in the Irish context. Alibis were discounted because spectral evidence was accepted: as witches, the accused had the power to bilocate. No objective medical evidence was entered, and all were found guilty. 

They were tried under an Irish act from 1586 prohibiting witchcraft, which stipulated jail for a first offence. They were sentenced to a year’s imprisonment and four turns in the stocks – literally pilloried. Other jurisdictions, such as Scotland, would have imposed an automatic death sentence.

Six months later, a man – husband of one of the women and father of another – was also convicted of witchcraft. Men could be accused of witchcraft but it occurred in significantly smaller numbers – across Europe, 10 to 15pc of those executed for witchcraft were men.

Of course, those nine people were innocent, punished for a crime they couldn’t possibly have committed. The guilty verdicts should be overturned and their good names restored to them. That has happened elsewhere as a necessary act of restitution: Massachusetts law pardoned the Salem witches some 20 years ago, and the Scottish parliament is considering a pardon for that country’s witch hunts.

For now, at least the nine known as the Islandmagee witches (although some came from the surrounding area) are remembered publicly in their community. A plaque was unveiled last Tuesday in the Gobbins Visitor Centre by the local mayor, Alderman Noel Williams. And I was honoured to be there to witness this long overdue gesture.

My connection with the story loops back more than a decade, when I stumbled across a reference to the trial in one of those “On This Day In History” newspaper columns. It said on this day, March 31, eight women were convicted of witchcraft at the spring assizes in Carrickfergus in 1711. I can still taste my astonishment.

The story intrigued me, and I went to Islandmagee to research it. I wrote a novel inspired by the case, The House Where It Happened, published in 2014.

And that should have been that. Except it wasn’t. I couldn’t forget the Islandmagee witches, bothered by the way they were silenced twice over – at their trial when their innocence was denied, and by history which had all but eliminated them. At least there should be a plaque listing their names, I thought. It would prompt inquiries. Perhaps schools would teach the story.

So began a campaign spanning almost nine years, which finally resulted in a memorial thanks to stellar support from Alliance councillor Maeve Donnelly. Back in 2014, I persuaded members of the local authority to pass a motion supporting a plaque. The DUP and TUV opposed it and the UUP abstained, but Sinn Féin, the SDLP and Alliance carried it. I was invited to write the wording, and did so.

Nothing further happened. I kept asking why. It turned out there was resistance at local political level, along the lines of ‘how do we know they weren’t witches?’, and fears were even expressed that a plaque would become “a shrine to paganism”.

Years passed. I kept trying. I lobbied ministers, MPs, MLAs, councillors, tourism officials and civil servants. Councillor Donnelly’s intervention last year was the turning point in delivering the memorial. She understood how this would be a significant event, not just for the local area, but for Ireland – where selective silence pockmarks our history. All credit to Mid and East Antrim Borough Council for finally progressing with the initiative.

Recording those nine names in public in the area where they lived is important. It matters to remember their stories because we can learn from them: that every age has its witches, we simply call them by different names – asylum-seekers, Travellers, transgender, etc; that group fear and hysteria can ruin lives; and that if allegations are made, people deserve due process.

Unfortunately, history regards some lives as worth less than others. Those who recorded history benefited from their times, and inserted their world view into the account. But today we understand history must include the people penalised by their times – discarded by them.

The slur against Islandmagee’s so-called witches still stands. Overturning their convictions would send a powerful message that all lives have intrinsic value. Political will is required, with a case made for the royal prerogative of mercy, but that’s another day’s work.

Nobody can set aside the fact that nine people were treated abysmally. But even three centuries on, injustice should  be publicly acknowledged.

Their names were Janet Carson, Janet Latimer, Janet Liston, Janet Main, Janet Millar, Margaret Mitchell, Catherine McCalmond, Elizabeth Sellor and William Sellor. You were punished wrongly. You are innocent.