The Beast of Barrington: the Bay State's First Bigfoot?

Recently, I've seen a few posts claiming that something called the "Beast of Barrington" was the first Bigfoot ever seen in Massachusetts. This idea has even started to find its way into a few books, like John O'Connor's The Secret History of Bigfoot: Field Notes on a North American Monster (2024). 

According to some online sources, the Beast was captured in the western Massachusetts town of Great Barrington in 1765, placed into a cage, and shown to an audience in Cambridge. Maybe the people who captured the creature wanted the professors at Harvard to see it? It's not clear.

What did the Beast look like? Well, according (again) to online sources, it was a bearlike humanoid with a head like a gorilla. That sounds pretty scary to me, and very memorable. You'd think a creature that like would be much better known! The description is also a little strange, because Europeans and Americans didn't really use the word gorilla until the 1840s... 

A 15th century engraving by Martin Shongauer

You can see why I found the story interesting, and also why I wanted to find the original source. My friend David Goudsward helped me find it: the July 4, 1765 edition of The Massachusetts Gazette and Boston News-Letter. 

The Beast in described in an article titled “A Description of an Uncommon Animal Found at or near Great-Barrington.” The author writes that the Beast was being displayed in a cage in Cambridge, where “all whose curiosity lead them, may have a sight of this uncommon creature.” It was supposedly captured by armed men in Great Barrington, where it had allegedly broken into houses in search of food. Strangely for an animal, the creature also had stolen silver, linens, and other “white or glittering” objects, which it seized with its “obscene paws.” I like the phrase "obscene paws." It's very creepy!

Stealing silverware and linens sounds like something a person would do, not an animal, and the article goes on to describe what sounds like a person wearing a costume. “This animal has a power of metamorphosing itself into various forms, such as blackness of face, much resembling that of an artificial mask, also upon a near view, it has been observed to be vested with a kind of robe, having the appearance of the hide of some huge bear. This vestment seemed to be the production of art, rather than nature.” 

I'm going to pull out some key words: "artificial mask," "robe," and "production of art, rather than nature." The article's author is using sarcasm and humor, but he's clearly describing someone wearing a costume. The Beast of Barrington wasn't a Bigfoot or a mysterious animal, it was just someone dressed as a monster or wild man, and exhibited to make money from spectators. 

 Painting of a wild man by Albrecht Durer

To make the point even clearer, the same article in The Massachusetts Gazette describes another fake wild man who appeared in Boston around the same time. This one came from Georgia and seemed to have had a criminal record, because after only “two public exhibitions, he was discovered by several that had seen the effects of his voracious appetite in other parts… Whereupon yesterday morning early he thought proper to remove to some place where he was less known, and set out for Providence, with his companion, a Black lady, who attended him from Georgia.” 

Again, although the author is being sarcastic, he's clearly writing about a human who's pretending to be a monster. It's someone performing for an audience - preferably an unwitting one. 

Although The Beast of Barrington isn't the Bay State's first Bigfoot sighting, it is an early account of a fake wild man, which is just as interesting, because there's a long history of fake wild men in Massachusetts. For example, on April 1, 1839, The Boston Times published an article claiming that a wild man captured in Mississippi was going to be exhibited in Boston. The hairy wild man supposedly was over eight-feet-tall with a powerfully-built frame, clawed doglike legs, and hair like a horse's mane.  

Thousands of people waited in line on April 1 to see this terrifying creature, but when they entered the room where he was held they saw only a mannequin with a sign reading "April Fool." Most audience members took the hoax in stride, but a small group of angry young men stormed the newspaper's offices and yelled at the editor. 

In the summer of 1861, concerned citizens reported a wild man roaming through the woods between North Adams, Massachusetts and Stamford, Vermont. He was heard shrieking at night, and people who saw him said he was terrifingly ugly. In fact, an armed posse of Vermont men tried to capture him, but the wild man “so frightened his pursuers by his hideous appearance that they could not shoot straight and he escaped harm” (Bangor, Maine, Daily Whig and Courier, August 19, 1861, quoted in Arment, The Historical Bigfoot). 

When the creature was finally captured, hundreds of curious people lined up to see the monster that had filled them with terror. They saw a strange, almost ape-like being with vacant, glassy eyes and an extremely long beard. Was it a man, or an animal?

In reality, it was just a Williams College student “who assumed the gorilla guise in a frolic which might have cost him his life” at the end of a hunting rifle. The whole thing had been a prank.

The Wild Men of Borneo (Syracuse University Library)

Wild men were also big attractions in sideshows and circuses. The famous showman P.T. Barnum showcased a variety of fake wild men in his circuses and museums, including the What-is-it (played by a series of performers wearing furry costumes) and the Wild Men of Borneo, who were two very short but very strong brothers from the Midwest. The Wild Men of Borneo lived in Somerville, Massachusetts for a while, and spent the final years of their lives in Waltham, with one passing away in 1905 and the other in 1912. 

Fake wild men continued to appear in Massachusetts during the 20th and 21st centuries, although now they're more likely to be called fake Bigfoots. For example, in 1976, an Agawam teenager created a sensation when he put on giant plywood feet and created mysterious tracks in the snow. And during the Snowmageddon winter of 2015, a Somerville man donned a Yeti costume and gained fame as the Boston Yeti. The Boston Yeti returned to the spotlight again this year in January, lured by the heavy snow. 

Hoaxes aren't as exciting as a real wild man or Bigfoot, but they're still interesting. They illustrate what people think - or hope - is lurking out there in the dark woods. Clearly, people think a large, hairy humanoid might be hiding somewhere in Massachusetts. The Beast of Barrington wasn't real, and neither was the Boston Yeti, but maybe someday a real Bigfoot will be captured and fulfill our wild-man dreams.  

The Spirit of Paw Wah Pond

Paw Wah Pond is an eight-acre saltwater pond located in Orleans on Cape Cod. It’s not an ordinary pond – a local legend says it is watched over by a spirit that lives in its depths. 

Even the town historical society used to acknowledge this legend. Near the pond once stood a historical marker upon which was written: “Pau Wah Pond, named for Pau Wah, Chief of the Potonamequoits who drowned herein after Chief Quanset refused marriage to his daughter Wild Dove. Fable says - Cast a pinch of tobacco in the pond and Pau Wah gives you good fishing.” Unfortunately, the marker was destroyed in a storm and was never replaced. 

Photo by Richard Burlton, courtesy of Unsplash.

The name "Paw Wah" can be spelled several different ways, and there are a couple variations of the legend as well. The writer Elizabeth Reynard included one in her book The Narrow Land: Folk Chronicles of Old Cape Cod (1934). According to Reynard, many centuries ago a local Indian chieftain named Pau Wah fell in love with Wild Dove, the daughter of Quansett, who was chief of another local tribe. One cold winter day Pau Wah went to Quansett with offerings of furs, wampum shells, and other valuables and asked to marry Wild Dove. 

Quansett looked at the offerings. He looked at Pau Wah. Then he refused the offer, saying his daughter was worth more than anything Pau Wah could ever give him. Pau Wah stormed off, angry and humiliated. 

Days later he returned to Quansett’s village, this time with a band of warriors, intent on stealing Wild Dove by force. Pau Wah and his warriors fought fiercely, but they were defeated by Quansett and the men in his tribe. 

Pau Wah fled alone into the snowy woods, accompanied only by his faithful dog. He had been humiliated in battle and knew that he was now a pariah. No one would come to help him. He ran for hours, until he came at last to an isolated frozen pond. Here, he thought, he would be safe from his enemies.

Pau Wah built a wigwam on the frozen pond, and then cut a hole in the ice to fish. Unfortunately, in his duress he forgot one crucial thing. He neglected to give an offering to Niba-nahbeezik, the spirit who controls lakes, rivers, and ponds, as one should always do. Niba-nahbeezik was offended by Pau Wah’s oversight, and vengefully made the ice under his wigwam collapse. Pau Wah, his wigwam, and his dog all sank instantly to the bottom of the cold, icy pond. 

Pau Wah sank too quickly to realize what happened – and apparently too quickly to die. He and his dog are supposedly still alive, and they live in their wigwam at the bottom of the pond. Pau Wah spends his days controlling the pond’s fish, and wishing he had some tobacco to smoke. Therefore, if anyone goes fishing at Paw Wah pond, they should throw some tobacco into it as a gift and say “Pau Wah, Pau Wah, Pau Wah, give me fish and I give you tobacco.”

The name Pau Wah (or Paw Wah) is probably a variant of the Algonquian word powwow, which means shaman or sorcerer. (Powwow is also used these days to refer to a Native American gathering with ceremonial dances.) If Pau Wah was actually a powwow, his magical prowess might explain why he is still alive under the pond. It might also explain why Niba-nahbeezik was so offended. As a shaman, Pau Wah should have known not to forget an offering. It might have seemed like a deliberate snub to the spirit. 

A local historian named W. Sears Nickerson offered up a slightly different version of the legend. According to Nickerson, Pau Wah was actually a powwow named Pompmo, who was the son of Pekswat, a well-known chieftain. Pompmo never tried to abduct Wild Dove and did not flee into the woods. Instead, he successfully wooed and married an unnamed woman, had children, and lived to an old age. 

Pompmo met his death the same way, though. He and wife lived on the shores of a saltwater pond. One cold winter, Pompmo and his wife moved their wigwam onto its frozen surface so they could fish through the ice. According to Nickerson: 

“…Cape Cod salt water ice has a reputation for being treacherous, and one stormy night with a sweeping, high tide accompanied by a warm rain, a regular January thaw set in and caught him napping. When morning broke, every vestige of ice was gone from the pond, and old Pompmo, his wigwam, and his wife were nevermore to be seen in this life” (Delores Bird Carpenter, Early Encounters: Native Americans and Europeans in New England. From the Papers of W. Sears Nickerson, 1994).

Pompmo’s spirit became restless and bored in the afterlife, so he came back to the pond where he lived so much of his life. If you want to catch any fish in his pond, you should toss some tobacco into the water and say, “Paw Waw, Paw Waw, I give you tobacco. You give me some fish?”

Are either of these stories true? Is it even an authentic Native American legend, or was it made up by white folks? There are a lot of fake Native American legends out there, unfortunately, and this could be one of them. Still, I do like the story, particularly as we've had a lot of cold weather recently. 

I’m not sure if the legend is true, but if you go fishing at Paw Wah pond you may want to bring some tobacco, just in case. Don’t throw in a cigarette or cigar, which might kill the fish. Just a tiny pinch of plain, organic, untreated tobacco will do. Maybe Pau Wah, or Pompmo, or even Niba-nahbeezik himself will accept your offering and send you some fish.

*********

A special thank-you for my friend David Goudsward for sharing the Nickerson information with me!

Does A Witch's Ghost Haunt This Cemetery?

I love visiting cemeteries, as long-time readers of this blog know. They're beautiful, peaceful, and relaxing spaces filled with sculpture and art. As an added bonus many of them have strange legends attached to them. Recently, Tony and I visited Lowell Cemetery in Lowell, Massachusetts. It's a gorgeous cemetery, and there's a weird legend attached to it. And the weird legend is connected to Halloween!

Lowell Cemetery opened in 1841 as a private, non-sectarian cemetery. Its layout and design was inspired by Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, which was the first "garden cemetery" in the United States. 

Before Mount Auburn, cemeteries were primarily functional. They were places to bury and memorialize the dead, but they weren't designed with aesthetics in mind. Old cemeteries are basically just rows of graves; newer garden cemeteries usually have beautiful plantings, gently curving paths, and landscape features like chapels, ponds, and fountains. 

Lowell Cemetery is definitely a garden cemetery. According to the cemetery's website, Lowell did not have any public parks in 1841, so the cemetery filled that role for many years. People would come to stroll, watch birds, and absorb the sylvan atmosphere. It still fills that role, even today. There were definitely a few families strolling around when Tony and I visited. 

"That's all great, but tell me about the spooky stuff," I can hear you say. Well, here it is. According to a local legend, a witch is buried in the cemetery, and she comes alive every year around Halloween. 

The witch is supposedly buried under this monument:

It's called the Clara Bonny monument, and here are some facts about Clara Bonney. She was born on June 19, 1855 to a prominent local judge. She married Charle Sumner Lilley, a lawyer and protege of her father. She died on July 19, 1894, possibly from sepsis caused by the birth of her daughter. 

Clara's family was extremely distraught by her death, so they commissioned a spectacular monument for her. It included a bronze sculpture titled "New Life" by Frank Elwell, the head of the sculpture department at the Metropolitan Museum. Her mother, father, and husband would all eventually be buried there as well.

The sculpture is very dramatic and quite unusual, because the breasts of the woman depicted are almost exposed. It's a really low-cut dress, particularly for a cemetery. Strange-looking monuments often have legends attached to them, and that's the case here. 

I told you the facts about Clara Bonney, but a local legend says Clara Bonney was executed for witchcraft. Every year in October, the statue's dress drops lower and lower each day, until on Halloween night her breasts are exposed. And then... 

Well, I'm not really sure what happens. One online source said that after her breasts are exposed, Witch Bonney's ghost stalks the streets of Lowell, wreaking vengeance on the descendants of the people who executed her. Other sources say her spirit is free to wander through the cemetery on Halloween night, but leave out the vengeance part. In general, the focus is on the dress creeping lower and Witch Bonney's spirit emerging from the grave. What the ghost does once it's free is less important. 

There's a large stone lion near Clara Bonney's monument, and according to some people the lion guard's Clara's grave. Does the lion keep the living safe from her, or her safe from the living? I'm not sure, but the lion is the gravestone for James Ayer, a 19th century medicine manufacturer. 

No one has been executed for witchcraft in Massachusetts since 1692, so it should be obvious that Clara Bonny wasn't really executed as a witch. This is one of many spurious witch legends in Massachusetts, but I think that's okay. Stories like this help people remember the 17th century witchcraft trials, and help them feel connected to their home town. I don't think there's anything wrong with a witchy legend, particularly at Halloween, as long as people don't take it too seriously.

Speaking of witchy things, visitors to Clara Bonney's grave often leave little offerings for her, like coins, rocks, or flowers. I forgot to bring a coin, so I just poured out some water on the ground. Hopefully it was acceptable. 

I didn't notice anything strange or creepy at Lowell Cemetery, until just as we were about to leave. As I took one last photo of Clara Bonney's grave, my iPhone's camera malfunctioned. The photo showed nothing but a gray light (see above). Maybe it was just because my phone is old, or maybe it was something more? This has only happened to me a few times before, usually at places with a reputation for being haunted...

Happy Halloween!

Book Review: Wicked Strange by Jeff Belanger

Is New England one the weirdest parts of the United States? With all the strange stories and legends we have, sometimes it seems that way,  

It's hard to measure weirdness, but New England is certainly one of the oldest parts of the country. The first English colonists arrived in the early 1600s, bringing folklore about witches, ghosts, and the Devil with them. To put that in perspective, consider this: some of those early Pilgrims and Puritans would have once been Queen Elizabeth's subjects, and could have seen the first performances of Shakespeare's plays. Not that the Puritans approved of theater, but maybe a few of them snuck in a matinee or two...

Those stories about ghosts, witches and the Devil lingered here long after the Puritan church disappeared. They're still remembered in place names, old legends, and even urban folklore. Other weird stories arose over time as well. Some incorporated elements from the local Algonquin cultures, others came from the mass media or more recent immigrant groups. 

Today, four-hundred years after the Pilgrims set foot on Cape Cod, New England is just chock-full of weird legends and folklore. It's not surprising that Poe, Lovecraft, and King, the three greatest American horror writers, were all born here. 

There are more stories and legends here than can fit into one book, and authors have been collecting them for years. Many local town histories from the 19th century included chapters about ghosts and witches, which were often described as "something our ancestors believed in, but we don't now." Some broader collections of New England folklore appeared then as well. For example, in 1884, Charles Godfrey Leland wrote Algonquin Legends of New England, while Charles Skinner included dozens of New England legends in Myths and Legends of Our Own Land (1896). 

Those authors may have garbled some of the details, but 20th century folklorists like Richard Dorson tried to do better in books like Jonathan Draws the Longbow (1946). Later authors, like Vermont's Joseph Citro, followed in this same vein while keeping their books entertaining. After all, what's the point of telling a ghost story if it's not spooky?

Happily, a new collection of New England legends has just come out. It's called Wicked Strange: Your Guide to Ghosts, Monsters, Oddities and Urban Legends from New England. The publisher sent me a free review copy, and I'm glad they did, because it's a great book. 

The author is Jeff Belanger, who is well-known in the paranormal scene. He's written other books, like Weird Massachusetts and The Fright Before Christmas, and has worked on TV shows like Ghost Adventures and Paranormal Challenge, and co-hosts The New England Legends podcast. In other words, he knows his stuff! The book has beautiful photos by Frank Grace, which add to the weirdness. 

Here are three reasons I like this book:

It Covers All Six States: Wicked Strange includes over 100 short chapters on different topics, evenly divided among the six New England states. Little Rhode Island gets as much coverage as Maine, and the division by state lets you find stories closest to you, which is useful. This past weekend, Tony and I visited a nearby haunted site after reading about it in Wicked Strange. 

Topical Variety: There are some different ways to write about local legends. You can focus on one topic, like I did with Witches and Warlocks of Massachusetts, or you can write about a variety of topics. That's the approach that Jeff Belanger takes in Wicked Strange. He covers some of the classic topics, like America's Stonehenge in New Hampshire, Montpelier's Black Agnes, and Boston's Great Molasses Flood, but also less well-known ones like the Woonsocket werewolf, the Devil's Baked Beans in Lyndeborough, New Hampshire, or the Hoodoo Hearse of Holden, Maine. The book covers haunted locations, cryptids, weird crimes, and a lot of uncategorizable weird happenings.

Beautiful Photography: Frank Grace's photos are beautiful and unsettling. They make the subjects look as strange as the stories that are told about them. The press release for the book says, "Frank has been photographing weird and wonderful New England for the last thirteen years." Thirteen is sometimes considered unlucky, but that's not the case here!

I'm glad to add Wicked Strange to my library, and I think you'll enjoy it, too. 

Books Bound in Human Skin, and Their New England Connections

The other day, I went down an Internet rabbit hole reading about books bound in human skin. You know, just your average light summer reading. I usually associate human-skin-covered books with horror movies and novels, but there are some real ones out there in the world. 

Interestingly, quite a few of these books are connected to New England, even though there aren't that many of them out there in the world. Megan Rosenbloom, a UCLA librarian, is an expert on "anthropodermic bibliopegy," which is Latin for "binding books in human skin." In a New York Times interview last year, she estimated there are only 51 books on Earth allegedly bound in human skin. She and some colleagues have verified that 18 of them are authentic. Fourteen are fake and actually bound in animal leather. The remaining 19 books still need to be tested. (New York Times, April 19, 2024, "Books Bound in Human Skin: An Ethical Quandary at the Library")

A book once believed to be bound in human skin. From the Wellcome Collection. 

A few of the 51 books are connected to people from New England. One such book is The Highwayman, a confessional autobiography by convicted criminal James Allen. The full title of the book is quite long: Narrative of the Life of James Allen, alias Jonas Pierce, alias James H. York, alias Burley Grove, the Highwayman, Being His Death-bed Confession to the Warden of the Massachusetts State Prison. I love those old-fashioned, don't you?

Allen died from tuberculosis in a Charlestown, Massachusetts prison in 1837. He was only 27, but had lived a life full of criminal exploits, which he dictated to the warden as he lay dying. Per Allen's instructions, after his death the book he dictated was bound in Allen's skin and given to James Fenno, the one man who had fought back when Allen tried to rob him. The Highwayman remained in Fenno's family for many years until it was donated to the Boston Athenaeum, where it remains today. I saw the book once when it was on display. It's small, gray, and unassuming. You'd never guess it was covered in human skin. 

The Highwayman. Image from Atlas Obscura. 

Two libraries in Cincinnati, Ohio also have copies of a book bound in human skin. The book is Poems of Various Subjects, Religious and Moral by Boston poet Phyllis Wheatley. Wheatley is famous for being the first published Black poet in North America; she died from pneumonia in 1784 at the age of 31. Poems of Various Subjects was quite popular when it was published in London in 1773, but it's unclear why these two copies were covered in skin and who it came from. 

Image from the Preservation Lab Blog.

The Wellcome Collection, a museum and library in London, owns a small notebook with silver clasps supposedly bound in the skin of Crispus Attucks, the Indigenous/Black man killed by British soldiers in 1770 at the Boston Massacre. The book was created around 1780. A handwritten label on it reads: "The cover of this book is made of Tanned Skin from the Negro whose Execution caused the War of Independence." 

Reading about this book made me very uncomfortable. It's one thing for James Allen to bind The Highwayman in his own skin, but it's another thing entirely for someone, probably a white Englishman, to bind a book in the skin of an Indigenous/Black man killed in a political uprising. It reeks of oppression and exoticization. Happily, testing has shown that this book is not bound in Crispus Attucks's skin, or in any human skin at all. It's bound in leather from an animal, probably a horse, camel, or goat. In other words, it's a fake. 

Some scholars have pointed out that the skin of marginalized people was often used in anthropodermic bibliopegy. That's certainly the case with the copy of Des Destinees de L'Ame (Destinies of the Soul) owned by Harvard. The book, written in 1879 by Arsène Houssaye, and was covered in human skin by Ludovic Bouland, a French doctor, using the skin of a woman who died in a psychiatric hospital. A handwritten note by Bouland says "a book about the human soul deserved to have a human covering." Creepy.

In 2024, Harvard decided the skin on Des Destinees had not been given with consent; they removed it and placed it in storage. The university is still determining the best way to dispose of it. 

Havard is not the only university with a book like this. Brown has four anthropodermic books in its collection, including two copies of Dance of Death (featuring prints by Hans Holbein) and Vesalius's De Humani Corporis Fabrica Libri Septem (On the Fabric of the Human Body in Seven Books). Testing has proven the books are indeed bound in human skin, but Brown does not know whose it is. They have been taken out of circulation, but remain intact. 

The fourth book at Brown is a copy of Adolphe Belot's 1870 novel, Mademoiselle Giraud, My Wife, a steamy novel about a lesbian love affair. A letter from Samuel Loveman, dated November 10, 1936, accompanies the book. (Loveman was a bookseller and close friend of Rhode Island horror writer H.P. Lovecraft.) It's addressed to W. Easton Loutitt, the university's archivist at the time, and says that "[we] are assured by our consignee that this book is of unquestioned authenticity so far as the human skin binding is concerned." Once again, it's not clear who the skin came from. 

When I was younger, I was more enthusiastic for morbid curiosities like these anthropodermic books. I probably would have bought one if I could. As I've gotten older, my enthusiasm has waned a little bit. Yes, they're products of a different time when people held different ideas about the human body, but now that I'm almost 60 I find myself identifying more with the people whose skin was used to cover the books, and less with the people who did the binding.