tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18853201055507427932024-03-17T05:26:48.063-04:00NEW ENGLAND FOLKLOREPeter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.comBlogger699125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-44577618072237028652024-02-29T20:50:00.002-05:002024-02-29T20:52:42.808-05:00Cotton Mather and the Connecticut Triton<p><span style="font-size: large;">Many of you are probably familiar with Cotton Mather, the 17th century Puritan minister. Mather was born in Boston in 1663, and was the son of Increase Mather, the city’s leading minister. Cotton attended Harvard, entering at age eleven and a half, making him the youngest person to attend the university. (Thanks for that tidbit, Wikipedia!) Clearly, he was a smart person. After graduating, he followed in his father’s footsteps and became a minister, serving with him as co-pastor of Boston’s most prominent church. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">During the 1692 Salem witch trials, the colony’s political leaders asked Cotton Mather for his opinion on witchcraft. They wanted some guidance on what types of evidence were acceptable, and to know if witchcraft was even real. Mather replied that witchcraft was indeed real, and that execution was an appropriate punishment for the most dangerous witches. He did tell the judges to proceed with caution and be careful with the types of evidence they accepted, but he otherwise said the Salem trials were valid. He maintained this position even after most other people in Massachusetts realized no witches were being executed, just innocent people. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ultimately, nineteen people were executed during the Salem trials, one man was crushed to death during questioning, and several people died in jail. Some, or maybe many, of those deaths might have been avoided if Cotton Mather had given the magistrates a different opinion.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Cotton Mather was twenty-nine in 1692. </span><span>I had a lot to learn about life when I was twenty-nine, and it's pretty obvious that Cotton Mather did too. Luckily, no one was asking me to make life-or-death decisions, or maybe I would have screwed up like he did. Mather's</span><span> misjudgment about the Salem trials tainted his reputation for the rest of his life. He expected to become president of Harvard, like his father was, but that didn't happen. A shadow hung over him until he died, and still hangs over our memory of him today. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Despite Mather’s superstitious and ignorant beliefs about witches, he was also one of the best-educated people in Massachusetts and was very interested in science. In 1721, he even helped to start an inoculation campaign in Boston against smallpox, one of the first in the Western world. Most of Boston's physicians violently opposed the campaign, but it turned out to be a resounding success. It's odd to think of Mather as the voice of scientific reason, but in that situation he was.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mather also wrote dozens of letters to the Royal Society, England’s national academy of sciences, describing interesting phenomena in New England. Some of his letters discussed topics that today we might think of as appropriately scientific, like local New England wildlife (snakes, muskrats, moose), people suffering from unusual medical conditions, and earthquakes. Other letters covered somewhat stranger topics, such as prophetic dreams, ghosts, and a calf born with a human face. The boundaries between science, religion, and magic were poorly delineated at the time, and Cotton Mather was not alone in mixing these topics together. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfzZFsTAceERqzXRWsRpjHPAnOY92d2kUZWoi6LwsGYmPSDxLmRVUHsL34QK2Bsp-HWE3Blo3LVVzrh3yUCSXJA1BORaDTniD3iO9guxJI0Tq8anUBG7-BgE-3qSkrRi4jec-yhCo54mzBg83QYvC09Eo5KhQV6SG6-O0qTLRg1D3GLjivRhkerUjIto6/s600/BF0A2501-8F5A-443E-9757-DB37F1F51D11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="505" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfzZFsTAceERqzXRWsRpjHPAnOY92d2kUZWoi6LwsGYmPSDxLmRVUHsL34QK2Bsp-HWE3Blo3LVVzrh3yUCSXJA1BORaDTniD3iO9guxJI0Tq8anUBG7-BgE-3qSkrRi4jec-yhCo54mzBg83QYvC09Eo5KhQV6SG6-O0qTLRg1D3GLjivRhkerUjIto6/w336-h400/BF0A2501-8F5A-443E-9757-DB37F1F51D11.jpeg" width="336" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One letter, which he wrote in July of 1716, describes a triton, or what we might call a merman. In the letter, Mather writes that he doubted the existence of merfolks until learning about three men who had seen a triton off the coast of Connecticut. On February 22, 1716, the men had been sailing from Milford to Branford when they saw a “creature that seemed a man, lying on the top of a rock” close to the Branford shore. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">“… his head, and face, and neck, and shoulders, and arms, and elbows, and breast and back, all of a human shape, only his arms were little more than half the length of a man’s. He wanted not for hair, which was of a grayish color. However – <i>desinit in piscem</i> (Latin – “it ends in a fish”); his lower parts were those of a fish, and colored like a mackerel. His tail was forked, and he had two fins about a half foot above the tail. The whole animal was about five or six feet in length.” </span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's a very vivid and specific description. Was this a hoax played on Cotton Mather, or did the men actually see something strange on that rock? Or maybe they misidentified a large seal or some other creature? My mind tries to find a rational explanation, but here in the 21st century we're more skeptical about the existence of mermen and mermaids. People were still learning how the physical world worked back in the 17th century and were more willing to believe strange, half-human creatures lurked in the ocean.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It’s interesting that Cotton Mather considered the triton an animal, rather than a mythical being, a monster, or some kind of sea-demon. I suppose he was trying to be scientific, and not superstitious. I’m sure he would have liked to study the triton, but he did not get the opportunity. The men who saw the triton attempted to capture it, but it jumped off the rock and quickly swam away. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The truth about the Connecticut triton will never be known. Was there a scientific explanation, or a supernatural one? It's fun to speculate there might supernatural creatures like tritons. That type of speculation is less fun when those "supernatural" creatures are innocent people being accused of witchcraft. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-24964893561581444002024-01-23T20:26:00.002-05:002024-01-23T20:26:58.017-05:00Tales of A Tentacled Lake Monster: Fact or Fiction?<p><span style="font-size: large;">Does a tentacled, horned, snake-like monster haunt Nagog Pond in Littleton, Massachusetts? There aren't a lot of legends about lake monsters here in the Bay State, so I was excited when I first stumbled upon the possible Littleton lake monster a few years ago. It has been lurking in the back of my mind since then, and I finally decided to do a little more research. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nagog Pond is on the border of Littleton and Acton, and was formerly called Nagog Lake. It's a kettle hole pond, meaning it was formed thousands of years ago when the glaciers melted at the end of the last ice ice. Kettle hole ponds are so-called because they hold water just like a tea kettle. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've seen a few explanations for the name "Nagog," which is apparently derived from a word in one of the local Algonquin dialects. Some people say nagog means "corner," since the lake is in one corner of Littleton, and other say it is derived from "magog," which means water. As an FYI, Nagog is pronounced <i>NAY-gog</i>. Nagog Pond was used for fishing and recreational sailing in the past, and it now supplies drinking water to the nearby town of Concord. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNFu7HWGGvMN6MTbCEpfZQ1F89deZBupLneV8Wkv3Slf0hv-g0QKff00CaS0NPvt5YjTmkLAgE1C1TMt7_pmyz9URj3a-mlHeMgkh_lHUnNuX21yIzJIbCoKrkh_pND-eurDPFE5tqGooj-Z3-g8PPGbgiGzM_3uxw9_EYvGZmlVX4p1CVS9Uq2I1mGuw/s849/3DBB1AD7-1047-45F0-80E2-F7BCE2AE138F_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="849" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNFu7HWGGvMN6MTbCEpfZQ1F89deZBupLneV8Wkv3Slf0hv-g0QKff00CaS0NPvt5YjTmkLAgE1C1TMt7_pmyz9URj3a-mlHeMgkh_lHUnNuX21yIzJIbCoKrkh_pND-eurDPFE5tqGooj-Z3-g8PPGbgiGzM_3uxw9_EYvGZmlVX4p1CVS9Uq2I1mGuw/w400-h334/3DBB1AD7-1047-45F0-80E2-F7BCE2AE138F_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Illustration from Uriah Jewett and the Sea Serpent of Lake Mephemgagog (1917)</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">To understand the monster, you first need to know a little local history. Littleton was originally established in 1645 as Nashoba Plantation, a village for local Nipmuc and Pennacook Indians who had converted to Christianity. It was one of six so-called Praying Indian Villages that were created in Massachusetts by the Puritan minister John Eliot. The term "plantation" here does not refer to a large farm based on slave labor like you would find in the old American south, but instead to a farming settlement. The Praying Indians from Nashoba and the other villages were forcibly moved to Deer Island in Boston Harbor during King Philip's war by their English neighbors who thought they would join Philip (Metacomet) in his rebellion. Many of the Indians died from starvation and exposure on Deer Island, and the rest intermarried with English settlers or gradually joined other Indian groups after the war ended. All the Praying Indian villages eventually became English towns. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The last Indian to live in Nashoba was Wunnuhhew, also known as Sarah Doublet, who returned to the village after King Phillip's War. Doublet sold the remaining 500 acres of Nashoba in 1734 to cover the cost of her care when she was elderly. She died two years later. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sarah Doublet is one of the topics in John Hanson Mitchell's 1998 non-fiction book <i>Trespassing: An Inquiry into the Private Ownership of Land</i>. This is where the monster comes in. Mitchell's book is the only place I've found reference to the Nagog Pond monster. According to Mitchell, Sarah Doublet and the other Indians at Nashoba believed the pond was home to a large monster named Ap'cinic. Ap'cinic was a horned water-serpent, and also had tentacles that it used to probe the shoreline for prey. The creature seemed to have a particular appetite for human intestines. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"She knew the terror that flies by night, the fiery worm, the gnashing devils, and the legends of the tentacled, horned monster who would reach up out of the dark waters of Nagog at certain times and draw the entrails of passing villagers down into the depths." (Mitchell, <i>Trespassing</i>, p. 23)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mitchell talks about Ap'cinic's tentacles a few other times. An earthquake struck the area in the 1600s, and he describes the monster reacting to it: "... the waters of Nagog churned and roiled and swelled, and the horned water beast who lived most of his time unseen beneath the surface rose up and spirited his vicious hunting tentacles through the drying air." (Mitchell, <i>Trespassing</i>, p. 65) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At one point in the book, Mitchell encounters some teenagers illegally swimming in Nagog Pond. He tries to warn them away by telling them about Ap'cinic:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;">"It had these long tentacles, they say, and a huge gnashing beak and horns on its head. At night it would reach up and feel along the shore for people, fishermen, swimmers, things like that. If it caught you, it would either drag you down into the waters, or worse, slice you open and suck out your intestines."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The teenagers were quiet for a minute.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"You mean it would like eat you alive?" Tracy asked. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, suck out your inner body parts while you clung to a tree."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Cool," she said. (Mitchell, <i>Trespassing</i>, p. 154)</span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The teenagers are intrigued, but not too worried. After all, is the story about Ap'cinic even true? Was there ever a monster lurking in the pond? You may wonder the same thing yourself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>To be clear,<i> Trespassing</i> is marketed as a non-fiction book. It is about the history of Littleton, Massachusetts, about people who actually lived, and even about the dry business of town governance. </span><span>Town hearings about zoning are a key part of the book. Ap'cininc is only a very small part of <i>Trespassing</i>. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4G3gkC_8FeQkl-43iu29wPjl44O7sHTgy91EauTgBKYvVUQb7-P2iXvMdX1fB1aa9VdlPHx9l_J1khRXBzYb3FpLq8uC89Ge62XMze73vQcKwKVCXlRGcKzmyyFqwiGz32fKxlx84VQDI8Z99GFMPSbNdi4aYCmNSBJyy9MZ3LmdaAWpI_rJC7NIzUev/s3305/9D2AD733-F612-4E6A-AE99-6DDB25A2DB42.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3305" data-original-width="2864" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4G3gkC_8FeQkl-43iu29wPjl44O7sHTgy91EauTgBKYvVUQb7-P2iXvMdX1fB1aa9VdlPHx9l_J1khRXBzYb3FpLq8uC89Ge62XMze73vQcKwKVCXlRGcKzmyyFqwiGz32fKxlx84VQDI8Z99GFMPSbNdi4aYCmNSBJyy9MZ3LmdaAWpI_rJC7NIzUev/w346-h400/9D2AD733-F612-4E6A-AE99-6DDB25A2DB42.heic" width="346" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From <i>Native People of Southern New England, 1500 - 1650.</i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sarah Doublet (Wunnuhhew) really lived in Nashoba, but we don't know much about her life, and sadly Mitchell doesn't cite any sources for the legend of Ap'cinic. It's possible he made the story up. On the other hand, i</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>t's entirely possible that the Indians at Nashoba did believe a horned serpent lived in the pond. </span><span>Horned serpents were part of the Alonquin cosmology. The anthropologist Kathleen Brandon writes:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"Among the manitou known to the Ninnimissinuok (<i>i.e. New England Indians</i>) was the giant horned or antlered, under (water) world serpent, a being familiar to other Algonquian-speaking people as well. Images of this fearsome underwater dweller sometimes decorated amulets, bowls, and other objects." (Kathleen Bragdon, <i>Native People of Southern New England</i>, <i>1500 - 1650</i>, 1996, p.187)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So perhaps the Indians at Nashoba did believe a horned serpent lived in this particular pond, but John Hanson Mitchell doesn't present any concrete evidence they did. He doesn't explain where he found the name Ap'cinic, or why he thinks Ap'cinic had tentacles. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think the word "manitou" is key to understanding what's happening with Ap'cinic. Manitou means spiritual power, or anything that has a lot of spiritual power. My hunch is that Mitchell is responding to the spiritual power he feels around Nagog Pond, and he's trying to tell the reader what it feels like for him, and what he thought it felt like for the Indians who lived there hundreds of years ago. Mitchell has written several books about the history of Littleton, and has a deep awareness of its history and geology. Ap'cinic is the sensation Mitchell feels when he is near the pond. Ap'cinic is how Mitchell experiences the spirit of the place:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"Back at the car I stood on the road for a while looking up at the hill, simply feeling the sensation. Nothing happened, nothing seized me by the throat and dragged me back into the swamps to draw me, struggling, into the murky depths. And below me at the pond, I could not see the slimy gleam of the blind, searching tentacles of the Ap'cinic, feeling along the shores for victims." (Mitchell, <i>Trespassing</i>, p. 109)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you were to probe the depths of Nagog Pond with a camera, I don't think you would find any trace of a giant monster. But perhaps, if you were sitting in the woods by the lake on a still autumn night, with your phone silenced and your mind cleared from worries, you might catch a glimpse of Ap'cinic. Maybe it would look differently to you, and instead of a horned serpent you'd see a hairy humanoid wading along the shore, or a giant black bird flying overhead, or a strange glowing orb hovering above the water. Or maybe you'd just get the feeling of a sentient presence surrounding you. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The ancient Romans had a term for the spirit of a place: <i>genius loci</i>, or local spirit. Your belief in spirits as actual autonomous beings, or as a psychological metaphor, will depend on your intellectual temperament. But Ap'cinic may still hold a strange power, even if you think of him simply as a psychological experience:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"...a lake provides a ready-made metaphor for the Soul of the World, a symbol of the collective unconscious, an imaginative nexus where individual perception (or "misperception") and collective myth meet. Regardless of the actual characteristics of the lake, it is transformed by the Imagination into a reflection of the unconscious itself, becoming a dark, impenetrable, bottomless kingdom which does not yield up its dead. (Patrick Harpur, <i>Daimonic Reality. A Field Guide to the Otherworld.</i> 2003, p. 129)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That sounds intimidating, doesn't it? But perhaps less intimidating than a tentacled monster that wants to eat your intestines. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-57088187480506212492023-12-17T19:25:00.001-05:002023-12-17T19:26:52.955-05:00Spooky Holiday Reading: Merry Christmas, or Scary Christmas?<p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm sure you've heard the 1963 song, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." Andy Williams croons in his soothing voice,"...there'll be scary ghost stories, and tales of the glory of Christmases long, long ago." Although modern Americans tend to associate ghosts with Halloween, in Victorian England ghosts were associated with Christmas. I suppose this makes sense in some ways. After all, Christmas occurs at the darkest point of the year, which seems like a good time for ghosts to be out haunting. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the spirit of a spooky Christmas, here are four things you can read to get you in the holiday spirit. Two of them are even available free online, if you're feeling cash-strapped after holiday shopping. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1.<i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fright-Before-Christmas-Surviving-Yuletide/dp/1637480156/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2R2PHBMM4W285&keywords=the+fright+before+christmas+by+jeff+belanger&qid=1702832479&sprefix=the+fright+b%2Caps%2C195&sr=8-1">The Fright Before Christmas: Surviving Krampus and Other Yuletide Monsters</a></i> by Jeff Belanger</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This is the latest book by Jeff Belanger, a local author, paranormal investigator, and host of the <i>New England Legends</i> podcast and TV show on PBS and Amazon Prime. Full confession: the publisher sent me a copy of this book to review, and I've appeared on Jeff's podcast in the past. This is a great book for anyone interested in learning about the spooky folklore of Christmas. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiD9ViqVOw8ooBdwo0PcyRZgAtqur7TFgNFZ8B7TC61bT6TTg-DS0fixZMjUukrKVpPUe9ALnGLkuFNIJKtFIiGkNe5jrVSN1h13X0WgYifDU4y9H_c70G3XlLNtGz7PQsAqB_bgJt1OMybcT0JhFDZiLrJ_WTxkOVhqmAvu_6ptfbEu6FI5tP8R7hk56Mg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiD9ViqVOw8ooBdwo0PcyRZgAtqur7TFgNFZ8B7TC61bT6TTg-DS0fixZMjUukrKVpPUe9ALnGLkuFNIJKtFIiGkNe5jrVSN1h13X0WgYifDU4y9H_c70G3XlLNtGz7PQsAqB_bgJt1OMybcT0JhFDZiLrJ_WTxkOVhqmAvu_6ptfbEu6FI5tP8R7hk56Mg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me holding my copy of <i>Fright Before Christmas!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think by now most people are familiar with Krampus, the horned Austrian monster who terrorizes folks at this time of year, but Jeff also writes about many other strange Christmas creatures that are less well-known. For example, have you heard of Hans Von Trapp, the Cannibal Christmas Scarecrow of Alsace, France? Merry Christmas - but sleep with the lights on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">2. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/NOS4A2-Novel-Joe-Hill/dp/0062200585/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1702832630&sr=8-1">NOS4A2</a> by Joe Hill</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The protagonist of this novel by Joe Hill (Stephen King's son) is Vic McQueen, a psychic, ass-kicking, biker mama who grows up in Haverhill, Massachusetts (my hometown). The villain is a creepy vampire named Charles Talent Manx III. Imbecilic yet cunning, child-like yet predatory, Manx travels around the country in an old Rolls </span><span style="font-size: large;">Royce. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgACWahMvYBolZtbhlmaCGhClLBBxyDYDSoL7pgJfqHu4XtlPhSCal5-IwtdxaT9guVDxth0T2KzbyrtRBxT2oh5uco8nbFUabxjKJlfxx6ZWMYpz_ChNY4OH0UXUfJcDoSvJfVG4-LMd3ivE51v5z7UX-Wo6G-qBoyngDrT0q7KjxHVYVbRwBnpnwPqTwu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="258" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgACWahMvYBolZtbhlmaCGhClLBBxyDYDSoL7pgJfqHu4XtlPhSCal5-IwtdxaT9guVDxth0T2KzbyrtRBxT2oh5uco8nbFUabxjKJlfxx6ZWMYpz_ChNY4OH0UXUfJcDoSvJfVG4-LMd3ivE51v5z7UX-Wo6G-qBoyngDrT0q7KjxHVYVbRwBnpnwPqTwu=w268-h400" width="268" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Armed with gingerbread-scented laughing gas, Manx abducts small children and brings them to Christmasland, a creepy holiday-themed amusement park that exists just beyond the border of our reality. He and Vic battle it out in this book that will make you gasp out "Merry Christmas..." as you slip into a vampiric, gingerbread slumber.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">3.<a href="https://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/fiction/f.aspx">"The Festival"</a> by H.P. Lovecraft (free online)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One of my favorite stories by this Rhode Island master of weird horror. A young man visits his family's ancestral Massachusetts hometown to participate in its traditional winter solstice celebration for the first time. Although he's charmed by the town's Colonial-era architecture, he's unnerved by its residents' silent, expressionless demeanors. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKmHwDcny75ZkpzoncUAYSE0ukom0WK5FeGvgPknfXQjx68fCidlmJ095zuDYAQbsoMqTqWiG8UiR1hQvmYNkcUabaa1ypnSA8_-AbsqrCiDTIOSXS5_6ztCIivzw2Wtc2wAC8_vVssndueyix4egX0p5HldDEUt113s7ApZkMejlW4ZaDyGJvGcICKLDC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="390" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKmHwDcny75ZkpzoncUAYSE0ukom0WK5FeGvgPknfXQjx68fCidlmJ095zuDYAQbsoMqTqWiG8UiR1hQvmYNkcUabaa1ypnSA8_-AbsqrCiDTIOSXS5_6ztCIivzw2Wtc2wAC8_vVssndueyix4egX0p5HldDEUt113s7ApZkMejlW4ZaDyGJvGcICKLDC=w262-h400" width="262" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He's even more unnerved when he follows a crowd of celebrants into a church, then into its crypt, then down ancient stone steps deep into the earth... Is he really entering a subterranean realm, or just his own fetid subconscious? Either way, he discovers a fungus-filled, maggoty hellscape. You'll scream "Merry Christmas!" before losing your sanity. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">4.<i> <a href="https://gutenberg.ca/ebooks/jamesmr-collectedghoststories/jamesmr-collectedghoststories-00-h-dir/jamesmr-collectedghoststories-00-h.html">The Collected Ghost Stories of M.R. James</a></i> by M.R. James (free online)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If "The Festival" sounds too lurid for you, may I suggest the ghost stories of M.R. James? James was an Englishman and Anglican priest who wrote ghost stories every Christmas to entertain his friends. His stories often feature bookish academics or lonely clergymen visiting old historic sites and encountering supernatural evil. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBd6u5dAIkY2BN8HJOWH_8OF-NZ2AgJ26HiOShyT4b2ppttrUqh-z1V-3lUitkJYeq8m0U46xr2aOTKcGWAIL_DZ79dm7fCvTJzc2EQplTOs8USEb9V8o299MwQQJ_FNCXUQET7yGWax1hWR1ERcF6G1e9WHae_rxY-5EEfL2b9HI4FBGQ5fp66Bwp3hnt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="441" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBd6u5dAIkY2BN8HJOWH_8OF-NZ2AgJ26HiOShyT4b2ppttrUqh-z1V-3lUitkJYeq8m0U46xr2aOTKcGWAIL_DZ79dm7fCvTJzc2EQplTOs8USEb9V8o299MwQQJ_FNCXUQET7yGWax1hWR1ERcF6G1e9WHae_rxY-5EEfL2b9HI4FBGQ5fp66Bwp3hnt=w345-h400" width="345" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's all very proper and British. But while his stories are subtle and heavy on the atmosphere, they often end with shocking violence and death. Nothing says "Merry Christmas!" like an undead Satanic nobleman devouring your face. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Enjoy your holidays, and I hope all your horrors are confined to the printed page this December. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-8733270807019467592023-12-03T15:53:00.001-05:002023-12-03T15:53:44.065-05:00Haunted by the Nantucket Mermaid<p><span style="font-size: large;">This post is about a mermaid who has fascinated, and possibly haunted, people for centuries. But I want to start by talking about a human man: Ichabod Paddock. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ichabod Paddock was born around 1661 in Yarmouth, Massachusetts, and died around 1750. He's buried in Middleborough, Massachusetts. Paddock is remembered today for two things: his pioneering role in the Nantucket whaling industry, and his alleged extramarital affair with a mermaid. As a whaling pioneer, Ichabod came with his two brothers to Nantucket in 1690 and taught the islanders how to hunt whales. Their actions were instrumental in making Nantucket into the whaling capital of the world. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oddly, we have more details about his alleged (and probably legendary) affair with the mermaid than we do about his actual life as a whaler. The legend goes something like this. Once while on a whaling voyage, Ichabod was swallowed alive by a large, seemingly invulnerable whale nicknamed Crookjaw. The local whalers thought Crookjaw was somehow magical, and this was confirmed by what Ichabod found inside the creature's stomach. Rather than digestive fluids and half-eaten fish, Paddock found a cozy ship's cabin with lit lanterns, a luxurious featherbed, and a table. Two people - a beautiful, golden-haired mermaid and the Devil himself - were playing cards at the table when Ichabod arrived. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkq8A-iLxzVQJr5DDnALtnFXQVOlqv1dRw0Lae6MZeAqvwtqkIkh2YqbhGw7aSADWwjIF7EFp541-S6pwZydJUGyP1KJ0Ke1at-suLB92ahYnmHLm2rJMp5Y4IDw3PGF-AwlurdXuC7ShzxsPncOXd6DQ2XH8GFam4ec-b1g_YDBuJ7PLWWi5X7I1UyRW0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="704" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkq8A-iLxzVQJr5DDnALtnFXQVOlqv1dRw0Lae6MZeAqvwtqkIkh2YqbhGw7aSADWwjIF7EFp541-S6pwZydJUGyP1KJ0Ke1at-suLB92ahYnmHLm2rJMp5Y4IDw3PGF-AwlurdXuC7ShzxsPncOXd6DQ2XH8GFam4ec-b1g_YDBuJ7PLWWi5X7I1UyRW0=w332-h400" width="332" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Engraving from 1817 by John Paas</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The mermaid won the game, and the Devil angrily disappeared in a flash of sulfurous smoke. "What were you playing for?" Ichabod asked. "We were playing for you," the mermaid said, "and I'm glad I won." She took Ichabod by the hand and led him to the bed, where they made passionate love for hours. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ichabod eventually emerged from Crookjaw's mouth and swam back to his ship, but the next day he again commanded the crew to sail to the magical whale so he could enjoy more of the mermaid's loving embraces. After several hours he emerged from the whale and returned to his ship, only to sail back to Crookjaw and the mermaid the next day, and the next after that. Ichabod's passion for the beautiful mermaid was insatiable. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Eventually, news of Ichabod's strange extramarital affair reached his wife, Joanna. Ichabod was a formidable whaler, but Joanna was equally formidable in her own way. Since both Crookjaw and the mermaid were magical creatures, Joanna asked a local silversmith to craft a silver-tipped harpoon. At the time, silver was believed to have the power to harm magical creatures like witches, mermaids, and even invulnerable whales like Crookjaw. Vestiges of this belief still remain today, with the idea that werewolves and vampires can be killed with silver bullets. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Joanna presented the silver-tipped harpoon to Ichabod as a gift. He accepted it, and although he was a formidable whale-killer and mermaid-lover, he apparently wasn't bright enough to realize that silver could kill enchanted whales and the lustful mermaids who live in them. At the urging of his crew, Ichabod hurled the silver-tipped harpoon at Crookjaw, expecting it to bounce off the whale's impenetrable hide. Instead, it sunk deep into the body of Crookjaw, who died with a groan and a geyser of blood. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ichabod screamed in horror, incredulous at what he had done. What had happened to his beloved mermaid? When the crew butchered the whale's body, nothing was found inside its stomach except some long yellow seaweed that reminded them of a woman's hair. The beautiful mermaid was gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In 1710 Ichabod and his wife left Nantucket and returned to mainland Massachusetts, eventually having nine children. According to author Nathaniel Philbrick, little else is really known about the life of Ichabod Paddock. His legendary encounter with the mermaid has lived on, though, and is still surprisingly resonant with some people today. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For example, the book <i>The Ghosts of Nantucket: 23 True Accounts</i> (1984) contains the following story which a Nantucket woman told author Blue Balliett. The woman came from an old Nantucket family, and went to visit the Nantucket Whaling Museum with her sister who was visiting the island. While touring the museum, the woman became entranced by a painting of a young man. She had the strange feeling that she somehow knew him, and had been in an intimate relationship with him, similar to a marriage. She said:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><span>"I was held by a magnetism of some kind that was so strong I couldn't move. It wasn't that I was objectively interested in him, or thought I saw a family resemblance of some kind. It was rather that he had an iron grip on me." (Blue Balliett,</span><span> </span><span><span><i>The Ghosts of Nantucket: 23 True Accounts</i>, </span><span>(1984), p.62)</span></span></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The woman remained staring at the painting, immobilized, until her sister came and shook her arm, asking if something was wrong. This ended the trance.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4rKyqoSZMGDRl0sgFts7cqtUVgsFgySJNVWD8NryS7wSxDrBhFKYuJmMOm2p8DzUCi66_zU7DCqzNTDkAAKZDuHI6u6GMnMFZIsVCFvMyzFrJQVkqnW8g9LgE1pj3wssxOmA8O6JTbiFsa7uGL59Sm4fZy1w7DgDo9Fp6C2YKm-GqhU4soHyxhcxPf0Dv" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="633" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4rKyqoSZMGDRl0sgFts7cqtUVgsFgySJNVWD8NryS7wSxDrBhFKYuJmMOm2p8DzUCi66_zU7DCqzNTDkAAKZDuHI6u6GMnMFZIsVCFvMyzFrJQVkqnW8g9LgE1pj3wssxOmA8O6JTbiFsa7uGL59Sm4fZy1w7DgDo9Fp6C2YKm-GqhU4soHyxhcxPf0Dv=w298-h400" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> A <a href="https://publicdomainreview.org/essay/mermaids-and-tritons-in-the-age-of-reason/">mermaid illustration </a>from 1687</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The woman later went to visit her minister, and told him about her strange encounter with the painting. The minister explained that it was a portrait of Ichabod Paddock, who had fallen in love with a mermaid who was killed by a silver harpoon. The woman felt dizzy as she heard the story, because ever since she was a young child she'd had a weird "recurrent memory" that popped into her head like a daydream:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"It goes like this: I remember being in pitch darkness and having an excruciating pain in my side as I swim back and forth, back and forth, in black water. I also remember phosphorescence around me, the kind you see in the ocean on a dark night. I always thought it was peculiar, and I used to tell myself that maybe it was a memory of being inside the womb or something." </span><span style="font-size: large;">(Blue Balliett,</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span><i><span style="font-size: large;">The Ghosts of Nantucket: 23 True Accounts</span></i><span style="font-size: large;">, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">(1984), p.62)</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Her encounter with Ichabod's portrait seemed eerily meaningful to her as she listened to the minister talk. Were these daydreams memories of a past life? Was she somehow the mermaid, reincarnated in 20th century Nantucket? She wasn't sure, but for months afterward she had a craving (which she resisted) to revisit the museum to see the portrait, and would wake up in the middle of the night seeing Ichabod Paddock's face floating above her bed. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps it was just coincidence that this woman's unusual, recurring dream fit so well with the mermaid legend. That's what I thought, until I received an email from a young woman who is a member of the Paddock family, which still exists today. Like the woman in <i>The Ghosts of Nantucket</i>, she also feels a strange connection to the legendary mermaid, writing that "In my mythos, I am the mermaid who was given the opportunity to reincarnate because of winning half of Ichabod's soul." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">About two years later, I received an email from a man who was also a Paddock, telling me that his daughter felt a powerful connection to the mermaid legend, that she had a large mermaid tattoo on her back, and that she often dreamt of being a mermaid. I arranged to talk with him and his daughter, who it turned out was the young woman who had already emailed me. We had a nice conversation over Zoom, and I learned a lot about their family history and connection to the mermaid story. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't get the impression that either the young woman or her father literally believed she was the reincarnated mermaid, but rather that the mermaid was a source of family pride and artistic inspiration. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Unlike the woman quoted in </span><i><span>Ghosts of Nantucket</span></i><span>, this young woman didn't feel upset or scared by the legend. Neither did her father. They thought the the legend was an interesting part of their family's genealogy. I don't blame them. Many people descended from old New England families have witches in their family tree, but only a few have a mermaid.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mermaids aren't just cute cartoons, like Ariel in <i>The Little Mermaid</i>, or sexy fantasy figures, like you might see online. Mermaids are the modern iteration of ancient ocean spirits. They are elemental beings personifying the vast and unknowable waters that cover most of our planet. The ancient Greeks knew them as nereids and oceanids, the nymphs who lived in the seas and ocean. Nymphs were powerful godlike beings who were feared and petitioned for their blessings. Mermaids may also partly have their origin in stories about the Sirens, seductive female monsters that lured sailors to their doom. The seductive and possible devilish Nantucket mermaid certainly seems to share some traits with the Sirens. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You may not believe in mermaids, just like you may not believe in invulnerable magic whales like Crookjaw. But you can't deny the hold mermaids still have on our imagination. They may not be seen in the ocean as often as they once were, but they still haunt our dreams and subconscious. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-31492886108318486672023-11-20T20:12:00.003-05:002023-11-20T20:12:44.106-05:00Fowl or Fair: Thanksgiving Weather Magic<p><span style="font-size: large;">Thanksgiving is fast approaching. It's the holiday most closely associated with New England, having its origin in the old Puritan tradition of celebrating thanksgiving days. Many of the foods we associate with the holiday, like cranberries, pumpkins, and turkey, are also foods indigenous to New England. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>This is a New England-centric blog, and I like to post something about Thanksgiving each year. </span><span>So here, from 19th century Massachusetts, are some ways to predict on Thanksgiving what the weather will be during the upcoming winter:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Method #1 - Examine the feathers of your chickens. Do they seem particularly thick? If so, a hard winter is on its way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Method #2 - Examine the breastbones of your chickens (after you have cooked and eaten them, sadly). Do they seem particularly light in color? If so, you can expect a lot of snow. If they are dark, you won't get much snow at all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Method #3 - Look at the breastbone of your goose (again, after you have cooked and eaten them). Is it particularly dark? Yes? You can expect more rain than snow.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPcWdNsTp8c9wP_swmOFdvD95yJn9gw8lHFp9CzpATcLFxXjFSU0d0IzDajiYCFGUtrkIUcgu9UHu4HwGhAJ3F3aEevkd_Gw6qh3xT372F4YPsm-eNOMof5O0auB362FFKbvzrjsAHyHDvhUCfBFaMrt1GdqHp8BiuD6Znux5X1HQosMuLcUEFkeeNjI1/s715/17D042E9-E9D9-405A-8986-6C1502DBDA54.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="715" data-original-width="476" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPcWdNsTp8c9wP_swmOFdvD95yJn9gw8lHFp9CzpATcLFxXjFSU0d0IzDajiYCFGUtrkIUcgu9UHu4HwGhAJ3F3aEevkd_Gw6qh3xT372F4YPsm-eNOMof5O0auB362FFKbvzrjsAHyHDvhUCfBFaMrt1GdqHp8BiuD6Znux5X1HQosMuLcUEFkeeNjI1/w266-h400/17D042E9-E9D9-405A-8986-6C1502DBDA54.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>James Audubon, Wild Turkey, 1825</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On the surface, method #1 appears to be the most "scientific." It seems logical that chickens will grow heavier feathers if a cold winter is coming. But do chickens' bodies somehow intuit what the weather will be like in the future, and then grow extra feathers in response to it? Do they actually grow heavier feathers if the next few months will be cold? I don't know think that's true. Chickens do tend to molt in the fall, but I don't think their feathers grown back heavier if the future weather will be cold. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Method #2 seems more magical, and relies on similarity in color: white breastbone = white snow. Method #3 also relies on magical color similarity, but doesn't predict if heavy snow is coming, only the proportion of rain to snow. I guess this is because of the goose's affinity for water? I suppose eating both chicken and goose would give you the most accurate forecast, telling you if you'll get more snow than rain, and also how heavy the snow will be. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found these methods of predicting the weather in Clifton Johnson's 1897 book <i>What They Say in New England</i>. Interestingly, there's no weather prognostication centered on turkey bones. Turkeys have long been the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving feast, but the magic associated with turkeys is focused on the <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/search?q=wishbone">wishbone</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are other forms of folk magic based on fowl. For example, Fanny Bergren's 1896 book <i>Current Superstitions</i> contains this unusual piece of advice from Winn, Maine:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"Swallow a chicken's heart whole, and the first man you kiss afterwards will be your future husband." </span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Chicken hearts apparently had a lot of magical power, because elsewhere in the book Bergren notes the following:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"Swallow a chicken's heart whole and make a wish. It will come true." </span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't think people eat a lot of chicken hearts these days, and even if you do I don't recommend swallowing them whole. You won't get married and your wish won't come true if you choke to death on a chicken heart. Chew your food!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm vegetarian, so I'm not eating any of these birds next week. I couldn't find any weather magic involving pumpkins, potatoes or Tofurkey, so let know if you try any of these divinations. I want to be prepared for the winter weather! </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-46744288921583362612023-10-25T12:55:00.000-04:002023-10-25T12:55:09.214-04:00Black Agnes: Montpelier's Death-Cursed Statue<p><span style="font-size: large;">As I mentioned before, Tony and I recently traveled up to Montpelier, Vermont to see our old friend Brian. He showed us around Vermont's charming capital, and also showed us some of its spooky sights, including the infamous Black Agnes statue. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When we reached Montpelier, Brian immediately took us on a tour of Green Mount Cemetery. He is a Montpelier native, and had a lot of gossip and stories about the different folks buried in Green Mount. For example, he showed us a funerary statue of a young girl called "Little Margaret." Little Margaret's family commissioned a local sculptor to carve the statue after she died (apparently of <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/29912267/margaret-caroline-pitkin">spinal meningitis</a>), but refused to pay because one of the statue's shoes only had five buttons instead of six. The sculptor was about to apologize when he looked again at the photo of Little Margaret the family had given him to work from. One of her shoes was missing a button in the photo. The sculptor stormed back to Little Margaret's family, showed them the photo, and angrily collected his payment. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brian also told us that the road leading to Green Mount Cemetery has been the site of many deadly auto accidents. "When I was young, this road was routinely covered in human viscera," he said, morbidly joking. At least I hope he was joking. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTkKXE-ERm3AVBgh2mPCKr022f5Ld_sr69CyizczydoW0xq64J3CI2rXZf75CQ0Y7V_jrj-puO4L73mpt8GHlk7WFktwL5NFUxmVuViLrop2PIqfsrVlxzvevvw6V64gL7lCtENcRzV8umPSKMIbKBMhk1Swsy8wcaeerp_LLoCU6pl1vH35lFwH-7zbM/s4032/IMG_2129.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTkKXE-ERm3AVBgh2mPCKr022f5Ld_sr69CyizczydoW0xq64J3CI2rXZf75CQ0Y7V_jrj-puO4L73mpt8GHlk7WFktwL5NFUxmVuViLrop2PIqfsrVlxzvevvw6V64gL7lCtENcRzV8umPSKMIbKBMhk1Swsy8wcaeerp_LLoCU6pl1vH35lFwH-7zbM/w300-h400/IMG_2129.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Black Agnes statue</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Towards the end of the tour, we reached the grave of John Erastus Hubbard (1847 - 1899), a wealthy Vermont businessman. Hubbard's grave features a spectacular bronze sculpture of a robed figure titled Thanatos. This statue is more popularly known as Black Agnes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">According to legend, terrible luck comes to anyone who sits on Black Agnes's lap. Accounts differ as to what form the bad luck will take. Some say three unlucky things will occur to the person who sits on her lap, others say it will be an uncountable amount of bad luck. That doesn't sound good. Still another legend claims that anyone who sits on Black Agnes's lap will die within seven days, which is perhaps the worst luck of all. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Many years ago, three teenage boys went to Green Mount Cemetery during a full moon. They dared each other to sit on the statue's lap. Not wanting to look cowardly, each boy took a turn sitting on Black Agnes. They all laughed. It was just a dumb statue, after all. Nothing to be afraid of. But within a week, one fell and broke his arm, one was in a serious car accident, and the third boy drowned while canoeing on the Winooski River. Some people said these misfortunes were just coincidences, but others said it was the curse of Black Agnes. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxe0TO7dsI65Nuc-UIplPScPQ-7uTEE0PFk4EDBsiG2uJnFbdDMqwBE0k5ha7uHSu1CIAn9RKlAkgI4HgBkd4V1rby4Zo6eTTTcr_pyK2w7cd9Tf9fbr0nV5-greawx0j5BVWXd3XPS_CIL3fBkUHSuKU6YvFegbqRrzG9T1jm8-YbVe6RG0s3ZMkHPvQ6/s4032/IMG_2127.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxe0TO7dsI65Nuc-UIplPScPQ-7uTEE0PFk4EDBsiG2uJnFbdDMqwBE0k5ha7uHSu1CIAn9RKlAkgI4HgBkd4V1rby4Zo6eTTTcr_pyK2w7cd9Tf9fbr0nV5-greawx0j5BVWXd3XPS_CIL3fBkUHSuKU6YvFegbqRrzG9T1jm8-YbVe6RG0s3ZMkHPvQ6/w300-h400/IMG_2127.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, at least that's one legend. All the legends vary slightly, with some saying, for example, that you only suffer Black Agnes's wrath if you sit on her when the moon is full. Personally, I say why take the risk? Just don't sit on the statue, regardless of the moon phase. I don't recommend sitting or climbing on any cemetery statue. It is disrespectful to the dead, even if there isn't a death curse. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Brian told us that the Black Agnes legend didn't exist when he was a kid, and that it must be relatively recent. That could very well be the case - new legends arise and old ones disappear all the time. There are in fact other allegedly cursed statues named <a href="https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/black-agnes/">Black Agnes</a> around the United States. There is one in Washington, DC, which was originally a grave marker in Baltimore for a dead Civil War general in the Union Army named Felix Angus. It was apparently moved from Baltimore because too many fraternity and sorority pledges kept sitting on it as part of their rush process, daring each other to risk the death curse. It seems likely the Black Agnes legend traveled from the DC area to Montpelier, but I'm not sure how. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmwnton85zF1w3u_ht0MILuWOgtHahAeB1MmNKMUnzH50Dkuudbpd6K-QS0HOVivkfqQ3lZx2ZqtYh-gsRGMc0RwMEwkw4YgV2uc8KpHmcFvgl9oavfjRUE01bIYTtQDrWau4h1Ttn_7xybOTFMuEUfp7wmlXMhFf2NH_nLsl3CEiM_Q5wN4KoXpjkmHc/s4032/IMG_2128.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmwnton85zF1w3u_ht0MILuWOgtHahAeB1MmNKMUnzH50Dkuudbpd6K-QS0HOVivkfqQ3lZx2ZqtYh-gsRGMc0RwMEwkw4YgV2uc8KpHmcFvgl9oavfjRUE01bIYTtQDrWau4h1Ttn_7xybOTFMuEUfp7wmlXMhFf2NH_nLsl3CEiM_Q5wN4KoXpjkmHc/w300-h400/IMG_2128.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some folks, apparently in an attempt to debunk the Montpelier version of the legend, have pointed out that the statue is clearly of a male, so therefore the legend cannot be true. This argument doesn't hold up for me. It's 2023, and we all know that gender is a social construct. A statue of a male can easily be named Black Agnes. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpHUlw62cGEP3gdFzRJHDYajcRsUF8UvLnasHLPql_XwQUG1Ju-LFSSyy5gnltm0BYG-3B2-cJGdckOzoubzl7UEBX908XC9spvzdoiHfFqQKOz0SMf1j2BiIAc6Rki1v38GFHfhB0hcPxtJxJPxVBSg_hwICgt6WSPCJUghFvA5c52wB6bqMz0_7LVVS/s1728/Image%2010-25-23%20at%2012.25%20PM.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="1414" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpHUlw62cGEP3gdFzRJHDYajcRsUF8UvLnasHLPql_XwQUG1Ju-LFSSyy5gnltm0BYG-3B2-cJGdckOzoubzl7UEBX908XC9spvzdoiHfFqQKOz0SMf1j2BiIAc6Rki1v38GFHfhB0hcPxtJxJPxVBSg_hwICgt6WSPCJUghFvA5c52wB6bqMz0_7LVVS/w328-h400/Image%2010-25-23%20at%2012.25%20PM.jpeg" width="328" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Erastus Hubbard (1847 - 1899)</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">John Erastus Hubbard, upon whose grave Black Agnes sits, generated some controversy while he was alive. Hubbard came from a prominent Vermont family, and his wealthy aunt left a significant amount of money in her will to the city of Montpelier to build a library. Hubbard was unhappy about this, and managed to get his aunt's will overturned and inherit the money himself. Montpelier officials took him to court, and he eventually agreed to pay for the library. Upon his death, he left the majority of his fortune to Montpelier as well. However, this late generosity did not necessarily win him many fans among the city's citizens, some of whom noted that <a href="https://vermonthistory.org/journal/68/vt681_203.pdf">a terrible thunderstorm raged</a> through Montpelier the night Hubbard died, which they took as an omen indicating the state of his soul. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-2512114028685198752023-10-15T18:11:00.002-04:002023-10-15T18:11:25.495-04:00The Devil's Washbowl: Home of the Pigman?<p><span style="font-size: large;">Tony and I recently took a weekend trip up to Vermont. Our final destination was Montpelier to see an old friend, but we made a few stops along the way. Some people visit Vermont to see fall foliage and quaint towns. We wanted to see the Pigman!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Pigman is the resident monster of Northfield, Vermont, a cute little town best known as the home of Norwich University, the oldest private military college in the United States. But if you journey outside the charming downtown and into the dense woods, according to legend you might encounter the half-human, half-porcine horror known as the Pigman. He's said to lurk most frequently in an area known as the Devil's Washbowl, a densely wooded, rocky, and remote area. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Way back in 1971, a Northfield farmer's twenty-year old son disappeared from home. Perhaps he had run away to the big city, the police suggested. He was never found, but shortly after his disappearance various animals went missing around town as well: mostly dogs and cats. Were these things connected? </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxAGaV_6fxG5GW4mrloQj-kii3XUWkUXWeGQeZpEFOBMeuIUTRjSf3ENbkyhj3I_W01FiMgv_17GiKOc-1qS8osWzsxCGh54x8De7ecZMgbbD5_JjKLEqcUOZ_XcWsjZ7H_iPfS6oOoFisqCDPaZQSIQhyqbMGTZ1Y8U8cNbu9W7Bxhte1JHEbeS8j6hQm" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="583" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxAGaV_6fxG5GW4mrloQj-kii3XUWkUXWeGQeZpEFOBMeuIUTRjSf3ENbkyhj3I_W01FiMgv_17GiKOc-1qS8osWzsxCGh54x8De7ecZMgbbD5_JjKLEqcUOZ_XcWsjZ7H_iPfS6oOoFisqCDPaZQSIQhyqbMGTZ1Y8U8cNbu9W7Bxhte1JHEbeS8j6hQm=w400-h328" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One night a farmer heard something rummaging through his garbage cans. Thinking it was a raccoon, the farmer flicked on his outside light. It wasn't a raccoon. It was a naked man. His body was covered in short white hair, and he had the face of a pig. The man - creature? - ran off into the darkness. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A few weeks later, during a high-school dance, four students were smoking and drinking in a sand pit behind the school. As they talked, they saw something move towards them in the night. It was a naked man with the hideous face of a pig. Terrified, the four students ran into the school gymnasium and told their friends what they had seen. A group of students ran out to see the creature, but it had vanished, leaving behind only beaten-down undergrowth as proof it had been there. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Jeff Hatch was one of the students that rushed out to find the Pigman, and many years later he told Vermont author Joseph Citro about the creature. Citro included the legend in his book <i>Green Mountains, Dark Tales</i>, and in subsequent books, like <i>Weird New England</i> and <i>The Vermont Monster Guide</i>. According to Hatch, locals at first suspected the Pigman was living at a nearby pig farm (which makes sense), but many motorists that year reported seeing a strange white creature near the Devil's Washbowl, a stony hillside depression that a stream runs through. A young couple that had parked their car near the Devil's Washbowl for a romantic interlude also claimed the Pigman had attacked them, and the young man had the claw marks on his body to prove it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Small piles of bones and piles of hay, which seemed to have been used as bedding, were found in caves near the Devil's Washbowl, further lending credence to the idea it was the Pigman's lair. Jeff Hatch claims the police went to investigate, but never found anything. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some people want to see the Eiffel Tower or the Pyramids. Ever since reading this story, I've wanted to see the Devil's Washbowl, so we made it a stop on our Vermont trip. Devil's Washbowl Road is easy to find on Google maps, but when we visited it was not marked by any street signs. (It looked like they had been stolen by vandals.) It's a dirt road that wends its way along a steep, wooded hillside. There are a few houses and farms along the road, but mostly you're in the woods. Devil's Washbowl Road is pretty, but it also reminded me of the beginning of a horror movie, particularly as we were two city boys out of our element. </span></p><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JtR-GTZLADQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="JtR-GTZLADQ"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had asked Joseph Citro how to find the Washbowl itself, and he told me I would see it when the road passed over a culvert. After mistakenly thinking a small stream was it, we came to the actual Devil's Washbowl. Many geologic features in New England bear the Devil's name, often because they are rough and vaguely inhospitable to humans. This is one of them. A stream runs down a rocky hillside, empties into a rocky basin, and then disappears into the woods. I haven't found a specific legend explaining the origin of the Washbowl's name, but it does look like someplace where the Devil would wash his hands after committing a nefarious deed. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFVuFKs4S2tAuwfdoIwf6NeAd2cOj07zAsmgKc272zm48kFkvIxMgqu3rl3WLh3rA9IOxzyRiQizViPTG4SKsNDFUx080z7u4P8FQla4U0QBsolx4koe384Mczt0enTZUDMfoSb9QjRt2xuy8fQOwdwJdr16NWVkMJjK76p0ToihGgy66Emqk_WH3t-S5e" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFVuFKs4S2tAuwfdoIwf6NeAd2cOj07zAsmgKc272zm48kFkvIxMgqu3rl3WLh3rA9IOxzyRiQizViPTG4SKsNDFUx080z7u4P8FQla4U0QBsolx4koe384Mczt0enTZUDMfoSb9QjRt2xuy8fQOwdwJdr16NWVkMJjK76p0ToihGgy66Emqk_WH3t-S5e=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Would you go down there? We did not...</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We pulled over and got out of the car to take some photos. Other than the sound of rushing water, it was very quiet. I debated climbing down into the Washbowl itself to find one of the caves, but I (wisely) decided not to. My main concerns: breaking a leg, getting Lyme disease, touching poison ivy, getting eaten by the Pigman. Four good reasons to stay near the car. And then Tony noticed a good reason to get back in the car: a big piece of animal scat, relatively fresh. Was it from a bear, or maybe a coyote? Or perhaps it was from a half-man, half-pig, humanoid monster? We didn't stick around to find out. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GHE4sKaGUqU" width="320" youtube-src-id="GHE4sKaGUqU"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Jeff Hatch seemed to think the Pigman was actually the farmer's son who went missing in 1971, who somehow devolved after living in the woods. That's the original theory, and there are a few other theories circulating these days about the creature's origin. One suggests that he is the unholy offspring of a lonely farmer and a much beloved swine. I won't comment on that one, other than to say I don't think that's how biology works. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Another, more detailed story about the Pigman's origins seems to have appeared online around 2013. This story claims he was originally a teenager known as Sam Harris. On October 30, 1951, Sam went out to cause mischief in Northfield. The night before Halloween was called Picket Night in Northfield, and it was the designated night for kids to wax windows, egg cars, and throw toilet paper in trees. Sam left home that night but didn't return... until three years later. Sam appeared on his parents' front porch one night in 1954, naked, squealing and tossing bloody pig innards on the porch floor. The sight supposedly drove his mother to suicide (she threw herself into a pen full of ravenous hogs), and a teacher who tried to debunk the legend was found dead with the words "PICKET NIGHT" carved on her body. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfwR-6LW8jRDjH5APd67mffPr8185op8xztDaYiufdRejDccuzIi3SpMbYLqxTG8-hxqe9PUL-Bld5dq_TAVGDQvP1La1ICM-pB4gKMFAHCpi5cM5HNIbRM3tT-ilPRWX6aLn20BnMgAbvFTZFDVsdvVO_yRjiVE3E4Q6vfvZ5k0lNPcHRMMtfb80Gm7S/s4032/B74064D7-FD49-4C9C-B605-3CC6380178A5.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfwR-6LW8jRDjH5APd67mffPr8185op8xztDaYiufdRejDccuzIi3SpMbYLqxTG8-hxqe9PUL-Bld5dq_TAVGDQvP1La1ICM-pB4gKMFAHCpi5cM5HNIbRM3tT-ilPRWX6aLn20BnMgAbvFTZFDVsdvVO_yRjiVE3E4Q6vfvZ5k0lNPcHRMMtfb80Gm7S/w300-h400/B74064D7-FD49-4C9C-B605-3CC6380178A5.heic" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Still not going down there...</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In 2014, another addition to the legend <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/17fkks/the_pigman_of_northfield/">appeared online</a>, this time from horror author William Dalphin, who grew up in Northfield. Dalphin claims that in the 1980s, a group of teenagers camping near the Devil's Washbowl encountered the Pigman, who clubbed one boy on the head and dragged him off into the woods. The boy was never seen again, except possibly by one local man who said he had seen the teenager rummaging through his trash, wearing just a pair of torn jeans. His body was covered with short white hair and his eyes had a hollow expression. Dalphin intended his story as fiction, but it has since been cited as part of the actual legend. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Northfield is not the only place in the United States that is supposedly terrorized by a pigman. A bridge in Denton, Texas, is said to be the home of a <a href="https://dentonhaunts.wordpress.com/2011/10/01/the-pigman-of-bonnie-brae-bridge/">pig-headed madman</a> who menaces teenagers. He is either a local hunter transformed into a were-pig after being bitten by a feral hog, or he is the disfigured victim of gangsters who cut off his nose and sliced open his cheeks. Also haunting bridges are the the <a href="https://forums.forteana.org/index.php?threads/the-georgia-pig-man.25818/" target="_blank">Pigman of Hawkinsville</a>, Georgia, the <a href="https://www.newyorkhauntedhouses.com/real-haunt/pigman-road.html" target="_blank">Pigman of Angola, New York</a>, and the Pigman of Shelby County, Tennessee, who is said to <a href="https://lylerussell.net/2022/09/28/tn-gl-episode-9-the-shelby-forest-pig-man/" target="_blank">appear near the bridge</a> at night if you shout, "Pigman" three times. A <a href="https://weirdnj.com/stories/pig-lady-road/" target="_blank">similar legend</a> is told about Pig Lady Road in Hillsborough, New Jersey, where a monstrous Pig Lady appears if you say her name three times. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I enjoyed my trip to the Devil's Washbowl, even if it was a little creepy. Perhaps next year I could road-trip across the country, visiting assorted haunted Pig People locations? I suppose I could, but maybe that would be pushing my luck. I should probably count myself lucky I didn't see the Pigman on our trip to Northfield. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-1254244839113240022023-09-21T13:19:00.000-04:002023-09-21T13:19:42.606-04:00The Haunted Charlesgate: Ghosts, College Students, and Weird Engimas<p><span style="font-size: large;">Living someplace old and historic, like the Boston area, brings both perils and joys. Among its current perils is the decaying subway system, which has been well-documented elsewhere. To avoid the most hellish parts of the MBTA, lately my commute home from work has involved more walking. Which brings me to one of the joys of living in the Boston area: beautiful old architecture. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Most nights, I walk through parts of Back Bay on my way home. Among all the beautiful old brownstones and apartment buildings, one in particular stands out: the former Charlesgate Hotel, located at the corner of Beacon Street and Charlesgate East. The hotel was designed by John Pickering Putnam, a prominent local architect, and completed in the 1890s. Putnam apparently loved the building he created, and took up residence there with his own family. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI51LU2QErEBXLHfixAI37szvQhkxvWJ94FQ2fMxhvVSwDSCEkf-hEfSDHjGeOiqGnHojhKai213NkN-WqH4nHcL1Q93rOfCYMntNNyLW49TDXXmtHj762q853SQX4xl7E2yL-GyvanWLb1A9Mnqbiy33nKyO8Bljl7H6cIGb6B2WpbIC98geotpZ72OYT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI51LU2QErEBXLHfixAI37szvQhkxvWJ94FQ2fMxhvVSwDSCEkf-hEfSDHjGeOiqGnHojhKai213NkN-WqH4nHcL1Q93rOfCYMntNNyLW49TDXXmtHj762q853SQX4xl7E2yL-GyvanWLb1A9Mnqbiy33nKyO8Bljl7H6cIGb6B2WpbIC98geotpZ72OYT=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He died there on February 23, 1917 at the age of sixty. A legend claims it was suicide, but he really died of natural causes. Still, esotericists of a certain bent will notice he died on the 23rd, making his death an example of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/23_enigma">23 enigma</a>, the idea that the number 23 is considered strange, somewhat sinister, and connected to unusual phenomena. So maybe Putnam's death date was a precursor of the weirdness that was to come...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Charlesgate operated as a hotel until 1947, when it was sold to Boston University as a dorm. In 1981, it was sold to Emerson College, which also used it as a dorm until 1995. It was during those 14 years that the Charlesgate acquired its reputation as one of the most haunted buildings in Boston. Here are a few of the ghostly legends from that time..</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The building was said to be haunted by the ghost of Elsa Putnam, John Pickering Putnam's daughter, who died as a little girl when she was playing with a ball on an upper floor. The ball rolled into an open elevator shaft, and Elsa ran after it and fell to her doom. This story is not true - Elsa Putnam lived until the 1970s and had several children of her own - but many Emerson students still reported seeing her ghost. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Another legend claims that mobsters owned the building in the 1930s and murdered three people in the elevator. The ghosts of these gangland slaying victims were often seen wandering in the dormitory. Emerson s</span><span style="font-size: large;">tudents also claimed they saw the restless spirits of young women who had committed suicide in the building back when it housed female Boston University students. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A phantom "Man in Black" was also seen lurking around the elevator. No one was quite sure who he was, but students were afraid to encounter this black-clad ghost, particularly late at night. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6yfqSSgAUgxApDWm1P0K7u9OxMqMERImJfoex005gVl3Op1rPhmr_yNJXCRjMCcVSj5PA4VzxfptY1dGoByv1JNKYKOZ8j90lqGUQrBQzTL-SEdQKDRFsNftF1vPtuU3_cDbgJTVg1B6YBH5Vv-U6emCn9K8Sbht3PON_Bs9D9lJaJjvzoAnbt7GAeEt2" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6yfqSSgAUgxApDWm1P0K7u9OxMqMERImJfoex005gVl3Op1rPhmr_yNJXCRjMCcVSj5PA4VzxfptY1dGoByv1JNKYKOZ8j90lqGUQrBQzTL-SEdQKDRFsNftF1vPtuU3_cDbgJTVg1B6YBH5Vv-U6emCn9K8Sbht3PON_Bs9D9lJaJjvzoAnbt7GAeEt2=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Even when ghosts were not seen, Emerson students living in the Charlesgate experienced a variety of strange phenomena including unexplained cold spots, toilets flushing by themselves, and doors slamming shut. </span>Some students also claimed the hotel had once been the headquarters for a demonic cult. According to an article in a 1990 issue of<a href="https://archive.org/details/Fate0479199002LPMAT/page/n51/mode/2up"> <i>Fate</i> magazine</a>:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Also at one point, a good part of Charlesgate Hall's residents allegedly belonged to a demonic cult. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When Emerson College bought Charlesgate Hall as a dormitory in 1980, it was not completely filled by students. It was claimed that some members of the cult still lived there, and it was not unusual for students to walk by the open door of a room belonging to a cult member and find a group of them chanting."</span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, college is supposed to expose you to new experiences, isn't it? The same <i>Fate</i> article also claims that Emerson forbid students from using Ouija boards in the Charlesgate - and then goes </span><span style="font-size: large;">on to describe a group of them using one to contact spirits in the dorm. I guess college is also about defying authority.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Charlesgate's ghosts have been written about in many places: <i>The Berkeley Beaco</i>n (Emerson's student paper), <i>The Boston Phoenix</i>, Emerson's official <a href="https://today.emerson.edu/2019/10/29/was-the-charlesgate-dormitory-haunted/">newsite</a>, and various books about haunted locations in Boston. The building also appears in Scott Von Doviak's 2018 novel, <i>Charlesgate Confidential</i>, as do some of the ghost stories. The combination of a creepy old hotel, ghosts, and college students makes the Charlesgate an appealing subject for writers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Charlesgate is no longer a dormitory, but instead is filled with condos and apartments. I haven't heard of any ghosts appearing in the building since it became condos. Are any ghosts even there now? Maybe the ghosts were chased away during the renovations, or maybe they were conjured up by the Emerson students who lived there. College students tend to like ghost stories, and many local New England colleges are said to have haunted dormitories. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I mentioned the 23 enigma at the start of this post. Although the concept first appeared in works by William S. Burroughs, it was popularized by the author Robert Anton Wilson. Wilson didn't necessarily believe the 23 enigma was real, but rather that it showed how people have the ability to find patterns in random occurrences. Some people starting seeing the number 23 in all kinds of unexpected places once they learn about the enigma. The number is only meaningful, though, because they think it is significant. They are creating a pattern out of random data.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_LFuG-D-o-EFGWfyzOPsX_Xz2xrRreCjhQEN2xzT2qnvzJqR_BlV0_v1QTZxfDxjVfVHrPu3nHVnEa7sbw1YQer3xgCtZpXKTZGCUN8qrV2fjJ6Dny7wsQBLdSSa12LhFIvs9V6n3D5ScKhE2V5fN05WJ2vgvR6CnmDUZtmRPxG1yi0A5gidF-jXoOAib" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_LFuG-D-o-EFGWfyzOPsX_Xz2xrRreCjhQEN2xzT2qnvzJqR_BlV0_v1QTZxfDxjVfVHrPu3nHVnEa7sbw1YQer3xgCtZpXKTZGCUN8qrV2fjJ6Dny7wsQBLdSSa12LhFIvs9V6n3D5ScKhE2V5fN05WJ2vgvR6CnmDUZtmRPxG1yi0A5gidF-jXoOAib=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps the ghost stories at the Charlesgate are something similar. Students heard rumors the dorm is haunted, and then noticed lights flickering, strange cold spots, and weird noises at night. These all could have perfectly rational explanations - old buildings often have bad fuses, drafty windows, and frisky rodents - but students interpreted them as ghostly phenomena because they had heard the rumors. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This is, of course, all speculation on my part. The only way for me to know for certain would be to rent an apartment at the Charlesgate and see what happens. A one bedroom starts at $2,400/month, which is more than I have budgeted for ghost-hunting. Or then again, maybe I'm just scared that the legends are true? I don't want to encounter the Man in Black late at night, no matter what he is. </span></p><p><br /></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-55011480900684797242023-08-20T12:25:00.002-04:002023-08-21T20:33:59.861-04:00Beyond Skinwalker Ranch: Orbs, Pukwudgies, and Sacred Chants<p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't watch a lot of paranormal TV shows, but I felt compelled to watch <i>Beyond Skinwalker Ranch</i> when I heard they filmed an episode here in Massachusetts. Pukwudgies, glowing orbs, and people wandering around a bleak wintry New England swamp? Count me in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">First, a little background. Skinwalker Ranch is a ranch in Utah where people have supposedly witnessed many strange phenomena over the years, like UFOs, Bigfoot, cattle mutilations, glowing orbs, and electromagnetic disturbances. The ranch is named after a type of legendary shape-shifting Navaho shaman, the skinwalker. Skinwalker Ranch has been the subject of books, movies and TV shows, including the History Channel's <i>Secrets of Skinwalker Ranch</i>. <i>Beyond Skinwalker Ranch</i> is a spin-off of that show, where paranormal investigators visit places that are <i>not</i> Skinwalker Ranch.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhih4VJ_OSzk9MccICXn2iV3PZkonh1--8MUs4XqZr4XlaJvsDB19nA4S8jg3Aiep_mfwFp9pk8NbQCVEC-oyoI-mTNbvC-N9XVuXnCMUGMzf4-bPR1HXgmmzHkA_PSWXpcNGDWo28jAJuLN2HQL_P-MXiucJegYq_tbVqds_Tz1adm0ErlZbLC2T_bN6Dp/s772/AC69F6CB-DC4C-4C68-AE71-43184FE79292.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="674" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhih4VJ_OSzk9MccICXn2iV3PZkonh1--8MUs4XqZr4XlaJvsDB19nA4S8jg3Aiep_mfwFp9pk8NbQCVEC-oyoI-mTNbvC-N9XVuXnCMUGMzf4-bPR1HXgmmzHkA_PSWXpcNGDWo28jAJuLN2HQL_P-MXiucJegYq_tbVqds_Tz1adm0ErlZbLC2T_bN6Dp/w349-h400/AC69F6CB-DC4C-4C68-AE71-43184FE79292.jpeg" width="349" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An illustration of a pukwudgie from <i>Beyond Skinwalker Ranch</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On July 18<i>, Beyond Skinwalker Ranch</i> aired an episode where two investigators, Andy Bustamente and Paul Beban, visit the Bridgewater Triangle in Massachusetts to find similarities between the weird phenomena there and what goes on at Skinwalker Ranch. The Bridgewater Triangle is an area in southeastern Massachusetts where a lot of strange phenomena have been reported, and was given its name by cryptozoologist Loren Coleman in the 1970s. I'm not sure when they filmed the episode, but Bustamente and Beban wear winter coats and you can see their breath, so I'm guessing sometime last winter or fall? I'm a sucker for anything filmed in the New England woods, particularly when the leaves are down, so I was hooked. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Bustamente and Beban first visit three locations in the Triangle. The first is Skim Milk Bridge, an old Colonial-era stone bridge in West Bridgewater. The bridge was once part of a <a href="https://www.plymouthdeeds.org/sites/g/files/vyhlif4881/f/u60/skim_milk_bridge.pdf">busy commercial route</a>, but roads were rerouted and now it's part of a hiking trail in the woods. In 1916, a young woman went missing while canoeing, and her body was <a href="http://www.thebridgwatertrianglewithkristenevans.com/2011/01/comfort-bridge-solitude-stone.html">found under the bridge</a>. There have been rumors since that time that the bridge may be haunted, but blogger Kristen Evans contacted me after reading this post and said the body may have actually been discovered at another bridge. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Location number two is <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/search?q=anawan">Anawan Rock</a>, a large rock where Chief Anawan was captured by English colonists in 1676 during King Philip's War. Anawan was executed shortly thereafter. Much like Skim Milk Bridge, Anawan Rock is also said to be haunted. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, Bustamente and Beban wander into the Hockomock Swamp looking for pukwudgies, the small, hairy, magical humanoids that are said to lurk in the swamps and woods of New England. But before they head into the swamp, they talk with Raynham resident Bill Russo about his famous <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2014/07/movie-review-bridgewater-triangle.html">1990 encounter</a> with a pukwudgie. This is one of my favorite pukwudgie stories and is very creepy to hear. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtd49CjU4PUoCL0v7Y6BvJgTI8yg0TYE41TEv0DeXwltrYeue1c1kOT2drPxvT0oHCshaZ-w81oOlxOxRDUtuZ-4VAKiD2cBRiSG5KFzGYhLl6DuUaFVjYra_pZ4oyGT8Ubg2SON2rTkJz9c0OIUhVDxEHsT7YpAI48aLFfrOXkT6lUiHrS8jz0LUPmpU/s764/522B3694-1822-455B-B24A-A3A7222D1399.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="735" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtd49CjU4PUoCL0v7Y6BvJgTI8yg0TYE41TEv0DeXwltrYeue1c1kOT2drPxvT0oHCshaZ-w81oOlxOxRDUtuZ-4VAKiD2cBRiSG5KFzGYhLl6DuUaFVjYra_pZ4oyGT8Ubg2SON2rTkJz9c0OIUhVDxEHsT7YpAI48aLFfrOXkT6lUiHrS8jz0LUPmpU/w385-h400/522B3694-1822-455B-B24A-A3A7222D1399.jpeg" width="385" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy Bustamente in <i>Beyond Skinwalker Ranch</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Do the <i>Beyond Skinwalker</i> crew actually find anything? They don't find a pukwudgie, but while walking around the swamp at night they do find an animal den which their infrared equipment shows to be very warm. They also hear something walking around and snapping branches. The investigators say this is strange, but maybe it was just a fox or a raccoon walking back to its cozy den? All of Bustamente and Beban's equipment also malfunctions at one point, leaving them with no recorded data. "No data <i>is</i> data," someone says at the end of the show. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At another point, their equipment shows high levels of background radiation and their compasses all indicate that north is in different directions. I thought this was interesting, but a local resident who is with the two investigators expresses some concern about the high radiation. He raises a good point. Should people who live nearby be worried about radiation? No one answers the question, so I'm assuming they don't? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The highlight of the episode is that they see two glowing objects in the sky. UFOs? UAPs? Call them what you will. They see the first one at Anawan Rock. Bustamente and Beban discuss playing some kind of Algonquin chant to summon the spirits haunting the rock, but since they don't have one handy they instead play a recording of a Hebrew religious chant that was used in an earlier episode. As the chant plays, a glowing object flies above them through the night sky. They insist it is not a plane, and although I suppose it could be a drone I was willing to suspend my disbelief. The weirdness of the situation was very appealing to me. Playing a Hebrew chant at a rock haunted by Algonquin ghosts to summon a UFO? It doesn't quite make any sense but seems very appropriate somehow for 21st century America. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They see the other glowing object when they're out looking for pukwudgies. Again, it flies above them through the night sky, and this time one of the <i>Beyond Skinwalker</i> crew says the FAA shows no planes flying near them. This glowing object appears spontaneously without any Hebrew chanting. The crew doesn't get a pukwudgie, but does get another UFO, which is a good consolation prize. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Overall, I enjoyed the episode. It was great to see some local people and locations on the show, and I liked seeing the UFOs, whatever they were. Did <i>Beyond Skinwalker Ranch</i> find any definite evidence of weird paranormal phenomena? Not really, and I doubt anyone ever will. By it's very nature, the paranormal can't be pinned down, categorized, or satisfactorily explained. That would just make it normal, not paranormal. It's the little hints at an answer, and the mystery itself, that keeps us watching these shows, and lures us into the New England swamps and woods.</span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-90862301125564985402023-08-08T12:38:00.002-04:002023-08-08T12:38:36.936-04:00A Nantucket Ghost Story: The Man with the Long Chin<span style="font-size: large;">Nantucket is a playground for the very wealthy these days, but that has not always been the case. In the past, the island has been home to Native Americans, Puritans, Quakers, whalers, and an assortment of artists and eccentrics. Nantucket has a very long history, and a long history usually means ghost stories. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">After the whaling industry collapsed in the mid-19th century, Nantucket became sparsely populated. There wasn't a lot of economic development on the island, which meant that very few of the old historic houses were torn down to make room for new ones. Those old houses are now mostly vacation homes for the wealthy, but there may be some unexpected guests stopping by to visit, as the following story indicates. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-HpRNc3bRmsicf-ecuaVvgTSO6xE2NcoZfwWPAl80oAuQTGn8KD9KwW4kHeYMRGozcsk6QpMY-jgsrWeBkJZHUA44EMtKZYprcyNG8f5VlkF37fIpexeiRElloBPqZ7imiPAi_9IQRySXyRy-7SS47aexe0M7gIx8TOZwZ2LNk0YZUN3n8QtzcqYZtR1/s1200/HS-Oldest-House-History-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1200" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-HpRNc3bRmsicf-ecuaVvgTSO6xE2NcoZfwWPAl80oAuQTGn8KD9KwW4kHeYMRGozcsk6QpMY-jgsrWeBkJZHUA44EMtKZYprcyNG8f5VlkF37fIpexeiRElloBPqZ7imiPAi_9IQRySXyRy-7SS47aexe0M7gIx8TOZwZ2LNk0YZUN3n8QtzcqYZtR1/w400-h221/HS-Oldest-House-History-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <a href="https://nha.org/research/nantucket-history/histories-of-historic-sites/oldest-house-history/">oldest house</a> in Nantucket. </td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">It comes from Blue Balliett's 1984 book, <i>The Ghosts of Nantucket: 23 True Accounts</i>. I bought this at a used bookstore a few years ago, and really enjoy it. It's full of old-fashioned ghost stories, and also has some charming line drawings of old Nantucket houses. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Back in July of 1981, a seven-year old girl named Jesse and her parents were invited to a dinner party at an old house on India Street in Nantucket. The adults were having a great time at the party, but Jesse was the only child there and quickly became bored. To keep her entertained, one of the hosts suggested she take a tally of interesting items in the house: candlesticks, mirrors, brass doorknobs, etc. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The adults could hear her counting in a nearby room counting as they talked and ate dinner. But their dinner conversation was suddenly interrupted when Jesse ran into the dining room, terrified and exclaiming that she had seen a strange man in the house. Her parents and the hosts followed the frightened child into the room where she said she had seen the man, but there was no one there. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Jesse said the man had a very large chin and was wearing a strange, dark blue suit. He had tipped his hat to her and then vanished into thin air. Although she had been scared, Jesse said he seemed friendly. She emphasized repeatedly that he had a long face and very large chin. Since Jesse was safe and unhurt, the adults at the party didn't take her story very seriously. After all, children do have active imaginations. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKc0KTScvyp2MblelKCNWV4QNA_6ic2n9VizCE5NGFZGBCen-tkjA6tTOqUt2jT6U5K-pPQoQTT2hjo0Bq1LTAPNTUuIWjUpFsMV7Gzu0LCeECJYneBGso5tC3GJ6lO8HsySxGF-Ohn2m4Wcf3lHh105fFEr616AVfWkKCvWijxquTP7vzFvkVnQ4AIrhD/s500/s-l500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="465" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKc0KTScvyp2MblelKCNWV4QNA_6ic2n9VizCE5NGFZGBCen-tkjA6tTOqUt2jT6U5K-pPQoQTT2hjo0Bq1LTAPNTUuIWjUpFsMV7Gzu0LCeECJYneBGso5tC3GJ6lO8HsySxGF-Ohn2m4Wcf3lHh105fFEr616AVfWkKCvWijxquTP7vzFvkVnQ4AIrhD/w373-h400/s-l500.jpg" width="373" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.ebay.com/itm/255645301244">Vintage photo</a> from Ebay</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">A few weeks went by, and Jesse and her parents had mostly forgotten about her strange experience. One afternoon they were invited back to the old house on India Street, and the owners showed them something they had found in the attic. It was a line drawing that showed people attending a garden party at the house, probably from the 1940s or 1950s. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">When Jesse saw the drawing she said, "That's him! The man with the long chin." One of the people in the drawing was indeed a man with an unusually long chin. Some text on the back of the drawing identified everyone in it. The long-chinned man was William Hunt, a previous owner of the old house. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">After doing a little research, the current owners of the house learned that William Hunt had committed suicide in 1961, twenty years before he tipped his hat to Jesse. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is a very satisfying ghost story to me. It has an old house, someone encountering the supernatural, and proof at the end that the encounter was real. That proof is often a major aspect of classic ghost stories. For example, think of phantom hitchhiker stories. Someone always has to independently verify and identify the hitch-hiking ghost. "That girl hitchhiking was my daughter, and she died on this night twenty years ago on the way to her prom. You saw her ghost!" Or <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-telltale-seaweed.html">this story</a>, from Cape Cod: "That seaweed you found only grows on the bodies of people who drowned. You saw the sailor's ghost!" </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">In these older, classic ghost stories, someone who did not witness the paranormal encounter has to confirm it was authentic, or someone finds a piece of outside evidence (a piece of seaweed, a drawing, etc.) that confirms the encounter. It's what makes these stories satisfying. If this story just ended with Jesse telling everyone she had seen a long-chinned man it wouldn't quite feel the same. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-10443875914814914992023-07-09T11:54:00.001-04:002023-07-09T11:54:46.108-04:00The Glocester Ghoul: A Monster and A Pirate in Rhode Island<p><span style="font-size: large;">A while ago I was poking around on the Internet and saw articles about a monster called the Glocester Ghoul. I had never heard of this terrifying creature before, and of course wanted to find out more. This is what I learned...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The monster supposedly lurks in the woods and swamps of Glocester, Rhode Island, a small town in the northwestern part of the state. Here's a fun fact about Glocester. Its name used to be spelled "Gloucester," like the town in Massachusetts, but in 1806 its citizens decided to change the spelling to "Glocester" to avoid confusion with the Massachusetts port. The two towns are different in other ways, as well. Gloucester, MA is haunted by witches and sea-serpents. Glocester, RI, is haunted by a large scaly monster that roams through the woods: the Glocester Ghoul. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUcpJgmmCpZVjPnz2rz_bKN9IEGKxn0Qp3YJgYOwqDR14xT2eZUw_-lYIT8oV_YW7q6RvvqaikjN2JpxXd5Ydh-THFviY4-TpY6VVPbmSBSN_ygh3lFEbtopG4hDylZq6LCgm0Bzkk9HrhT7QlvODh1LQM7qD87nUIqOmDmHGojMkA17u92pXXxieZIsA/s525/46A703C9-F5C5-4E46-AE36-869D82988E02.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="525" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUcpJgmmCpZVjPnz2rz_bKN9IEGKxn0Qp3YJgYOwqDR14xT2eZUw_-lYIT8oV_YW7q6RvvqaikjN2JpxXd5Ydh-THFviY4-TpY6VVPbmSBSN_ygh3lFEbtopG4hDylZq6LCgm0Bzkk9HrhT7QlvODh1LQM7qD87nUIqOmDmHGojMkA17u92pXXxieZIsA/w400-h319/46A703C9-F5C5-4E46-AE36-869D82988E02.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Image from <a href="https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/30447912-home-of-the-glocester-ghoul-rhode-island-usa-crypt">TeePublic</a></i> </td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One of the earliest accounts of the monster was an article that appeared in various newspapers (including <i>The Boston Globe</i>) in January and February of 1896. Titled "Monster, Cow, or Ghost?," the article claims a Glocester man named Neil Hopkins encountered a monster while walking home from work one night:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"It seemed to be all a-fire; it had a hot breath," Hopkins told his neighbors. "There was a metallic sound, like the clanking of steel against steel... I could hear the dead branches and twigs crackling under the heavy tramp."</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately Hopkins only caught a brief glimpse of the creature before it ran off into the woods, but he said "it was as big as an elephant, and that he is certain it had no tail." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The article goes on to suggest the creature may have been the same one seen seen in 1839 by Albert Hicks and three other local men. They believed Captain Kidd had buried some of his treasure on a Glocester farm and were digging to find it, but their efforts were interrupted by the appearance of a monster. Hicks described the following:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"It was a large animal, with staring eyes as big as pewter bowls. The eyes looked like balls of fire. When it breathed as it went by flames came out of its mouth and nostrils... It was as big as a cow, with dark wings on each side like a bat's. It had spiral horns like a ram's, as big around as a stovepipe. Its feet were formed like a duck's... The body was covered with scales as big as clam shells, which made a rattling noise as the beast moved along..."</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's an impressive monster, even if it's only as big as a cow, and not an elephant, like Neil Hopkins said. It sounds like some kind of dragon, doesn't it? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Beyond the scaly monster, there are a few other interesting things about this story:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1. Treasure-digging was a common activity in the 18th and 19th centuries. People thought New England was full of buried treasure, and would get together with friends to try to find it. They never seemed to succeed, though, often saying they had been on the verge of finding the gold only to be scared off by a monstrous guardian of some kind, like <a href="http://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-demon-dog-and-ghostly-boy-of-hells.html">demonic dogs</a>, <a href="http://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2015/10/harry-main-and-black-cats-from-hell.html">sinister black cats</a>, and maybe even the <a href="http://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2021/03/treasure-digging-terror-and-devil-in.html">Devil</a> himself. Digging for Captain Kidd's treasure and encountering a monster would have been a familiar theme to a 19th century newspaper's readers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">2. Albert Hicks, who was digging with his friends for pirate treasure, ironically later became one of the last people in the United States to be executed as a pirate. Hicks was born in 1820 in Foster, Rhode Island, and was executed in New York in 1860 after killing three men on a small boat to steal their money. He dictated a confessional biography before his execution. In it, he claimed to have killed dozens (if not hundreds) of people as a pirate and highway robber. Hicks had a reputation as a teller of tall tales, so he may have exaggerated his victim count. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfDpRoXfQh8OJ3dXiZcFCT5aos-Hlttk7R1ugH-cXJKzqQNHyZlc7POlTm89teNQyIZ_EHj4kGfQ4-P_GWtkEpeh9yopqcXHr8c9RLOd6hBFie4GRxBOl7kyMSF2B_YmLXCwz3a5cyXGuv2x3JGrNVP2WwthKi6V5fqOvp5BaYXBIQMqRnvLb-28xcfKN/s1371/C63CF983-1626-49E5-9534-AD711B39CD82.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="1042" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfDpRoXfQh8OJ3dXiZcFCT5aos-Hlttk7R1ugH-cXJKzqQNHyZlc7POlTm89teNQyIZ_EHj4kGfQ4-P_GWtkEpeh9yopqcXHr8c9RLOd6hBFie4GRxBOl7kyMSF2B_YmLXCwz3a5cyXGuv2x3JGrNVP2WwthKi6V5fqOvp5BaYXBIQMqRnvLb-28xcfKN/w304-h400/C63CF983-1626-49E5-9534-AD711B39CD82.jpeg" width="304" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing of Albert Hicks from an 1860 newspaper (via Wikipedia).</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">3. Despite being fond of tall tales, there's one thing not found in Hicks's biography, <a href="https://archive.org/details/lifetrialconfess00hick"><i>The Life, Trial, Confession and Execution of Albert Hicks</i></a>, and that's a large scaly monster. Hicks does mention digging for treasure when he was young, but says nothing about encountering a monster. If he had encountered a monster I'm sure it would have been in there. So perhaps this story was created by someone else?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">According to folklorist Stephen Olbrys Gencarella, the story was written by a reporter for a New York newspaper, <i>The New York World</i>, where it was published on January 12, 1896. That reporter based their story on an earlier one that had appeared in <i>The Providence Journal</i> on May 5, 1889, which was titled "Glocester Gold Digging." The <i>Journal </i>article contains various Glocester legends, including one about six men who went digging for Captain Kidd's treasure on November 13, 1833. One of the men was indeed Albert Hicks, and the six men saw a creature that looked exactly like the one in <i>The New York World</i> article. The big difference between the two articles are that the men also see a meteor strike the earth before they see the monster, and it is other men who describe the monster, not Albert Hicks. Hicks only played a minor role, but <i>The New York World</i> reporter probably played it up to capitalize on Hick's notoriety. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One note about that meteor: the six men took the meteor as a good omen, and didn't seem to connect it with the appearance of the monster. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The story about the Glocester monster appeared in various newspapers in 1896, but then more or less disappeared for over a century. The story reappeared on the blog <a href="http://www.strange-new-england.com/2017/10/22/the-glocester-ghoul/">Strange New England</a> in 2019, where the monster was given the catchy name "The Glocester Ghoul." The name seems to have stuck, and I've seen the Glocester Ghoul mentioned a few places online. You can now even buy a Glocester Ghoul tee-shirt online:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUemheOjuw3vKb-_B9qiIQp3raL1KcUaFktOcTd20xAEIdK8fQztsmPKnbrwPj_Chktx9Sqvk8IH2AAl5HSi9pw05yzXiGkcpgKFAcnZyPaiB6aX7qAJyfLPFVJoy4_VzTAsG3VZ1n3j2pH9YKuqST3tnBQDiVJPP6iWyD2anLetmQgldc5Q5Q0c6z8nZ/s705/145B43E1-6CB3-4736-BCAA-4C4DC605CCCA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="705" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUemheOjuw3vKb-_B9qiIQp3raL1KcUaFktOcTd20xAEIdK8fQztsmPKnbrwPj_Chktx9Sqvk8IH2AAl5HSi9pw05yzXiGkcpgKFAcnZyPaiB6aX7qAJyfLPFVJoy4_VzTAsG3VZ1n3j2pH9YKuqST3tnBQDiVJPP6iWyD2anLetmQgldc5Q5Q0c6z8nZ/w400-h374/145B43E1-6CB3-4736-BCAA-4C4DC605CCCA.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From <a href="https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/30447912-home-of-the-glocester-ghoul-rhode-island-usa-crypt">TeePublic</a></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I feel like every state deserves a good monster, so hopefully knowledge of the Glocester Ghoul will spread. Is there really a large, scaly creature lurking in the woods and swamps of Glocester? Probably not, but I write that from the safety of my home on a sunny summer day. I might have a different opinion if I were out in the woods at night. I don't think anyone's allegedly seen the creature since the 1800s, but if you have drop a note in the comments. I'd be curious - and a little scared - to know more...</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I got a lot of my information from </span><span style="font-size: large;">Stephen Olbrys Gencarella's article "Lovecraft and the Folklore of Glocester's Dark Swamp," which appeared in <i>Lovecraft Annual</i>, No. 16 (2022), pp. 90 -127. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-68155767988201342072023-06-11T09:44:00.004-04:002023-07-09T12:01:16.752-04:00Strange and Stranger: Some American Fairy Encounters<p><span style="font-size: large;">I had the day off today, and spent some time organizing my books. As I was moving my musty tomes around I picked up <i>Fairies: Real Encounters with Little People</i> by Janet Bord, something I haven't looked at in a few years. Published in 1997, <i>Fairies</i> gives a nice overview of fairy lore and encounters from around the world. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Although much of the book deals with the Ireland and Great Britain, Bord does devote a chapter to fairies from other places. The chapter is evocatively titled "Dwarfs, mummies, and little green men: Little People around the world." Bord discusses some interesting fairy encounters from the United States in the chapter. Here are a few of my favorites, in increasing order of strangeness. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">STRANGE: In the 19th century, a young man in Snowhill, Maryland, was wooing a young woman who lived in the nearby town of Pocomoke. One night he discussed marriage with her, but they argued because she was not really keen on the idea. As he rode away from her house in his wagon, the man noticed something strange. A little man wearing a green plaid jacket and yellow necktie stood near the woods. The little man smiled but didn't speak, even when the young man tried to start a conversation. Unnerved, the young man whipped his horses and rode off. Even though the horses were galloping at a good speed, the little man in green ran after the wagon and caught up to it. He ran next to the wagon, smiling maniacally at the young man. The little man disappeared once the wagon left Pocomoke. The young man believed the strange occurrence was an omen, warning him away from the young woman. He stopped seeing her and eventually married someone else. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">STRANGER: In an undated encounter from the Morongo Valley of California, a man was driving his truck when a little green man ran into the road. He braked and came to a sudden stop. As he sat in the truck, trying to figure out what he had just seen, he heard a noise coming from underneath his truck. He got out and saw that the little green man was trying to remove a protective metal plate near the radiator. The man got back in his car, drove to a nearby friend's house, and wired the plate back in place. The next day he found the screws lying in the road where the little green man had removed them. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">STRANGEST: The weirdest story comes from Farmersville, Texas. In 1913, a boy named Silbie Latham and his two brothers were out cutting cotton when their dogs started barking wildly. The boys ran to see what was upsetting the dogs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">What they found was a little man about eighteen inches tall, and dark green in colour. He wasn't wearing any clothes, but his body looked like a rubber suit, including a hat that looked like a 'Mexican hat.' As the boys looked on, the dogs jumped on the little man and tore him to pieces. The boys saw that he had human-looking internal organs, and red blood. Afterwards, the dogs avoided the spot where the remains lay rotting in the sun, and they seemed frightened. Next day, when the boys went to the place again, there was nothing to be found, not even a bloodstain (Janet Bord, <i>Fairies: Real Encounters with Little People </i>(1997), p.71)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Many years later, in 1978, Silbie Latham told his story to a staff person at the Fort Worth Museum of Science and History. The staff person said that Latham clearly believed the story to be true, and rejected the staff person's suggestion that the little green man had just been a large frog. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's really an insane story, right? Things must be bigger and weirder down in Texas, because Bord does include a few stories from Massachusetts in the book, but they're not nearly as crazy as that one. For example, she discusses the Dover Demon, the infamous humanoid cryptid seen in Dover, Massachusetts on April 21 and April 22, 1977 by several teenagers. The first person to see the creature was Bill Baxter, age 17, who was driving down a wooded road with two friends. He saw a creature that looked like this:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8BUy1Ajr-xmYtfF9-gSljlD3lg1GNEZw6qa_emhz4lq7JzEek5N1oQLBVvpL2uvxQmHBB2suChWBfOu4uiT5WFdDfo1qJHQPXJmyQIPsQda1hLRiQm3k7M4AKzjQaFCtHWgQ8Jttdlrgen8Jhgv-cCBAYaxBzWnUXkkgPo5qTd0GL2aHD8wtKZX9Lg/s2943/E035DC9E-7CF2-4FDD-BE1B-5670DC41FA56.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2943" data-original-width="2943" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8BUy1Ajr-xmYtfF9-gSljlD3lg1GNEZw6qa_emhz4lq7JzEek5N1oQLBVvpL2uvxQmHBB2suChWBfOu4uiT5WFdDfo1qJHQPXJmyQIPsQda1hLRiQm3k7M4AKzjQaFCtHWgQ8Jttdlrgen8Jhgv-cCBAYaxBzWnUXkkgPo5qTd0GL2aHD8wtKZX9Lg/w400-h400/E035DC9E-7CF2-4FDD-BE1B-5670DC41FA56.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That drawing is the actual one Bill made that night. He claimed he saw a creature about the size of a baby, with long spindly limbs and fingers that wrapped round the rocks. Its eyes glowed bright orange in the car headlights. His two friends did not see the creature, but three other teenagers did, including John Baxter, age 15, who was walking home from his girlfriend's house. Baxter drew the following picture:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4vke6LEWXjirnb8XBJ22DtXCBks1_Keifky_26IsIJbzJ0Q_NUNawe9X2PAAr-DRrwD57l3fsWCkjjGHuELO_mg1IzgIEfSN1oXFeDPGMo013s-nDNnt95o2rfmaVR-yu3VSK0HLEvXIOWJQMuExOjdlIyMPS64bCqRm3Yt60vwlRSrIlvie1y-JMA/s451/95B7348C-649F-4800-8E1D-208EFB50E55A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="451" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4vke6LEWXjirnb8XBJ22DtXCBks1_Keifky_26IsIJbzJ0Q_NUNawe9X2PAAr-DRrwD57l3fsWCkjjGHuELO_mg1IzgIEfSN1oXFeDPGMo013s-nDNnt95o2rfmaVR-yu3VSK0HLEvXIOWJQMuExOjdlIyMPS64bCqRm3Yt60vwlRSrIlvie1y-JMA/w400-h349/95B7348C-649F-4800-8E1D-208EFB50E55A.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The creature was dubbed "The Dover Demon" by cryptozoologist Loren Coleman, and the name stuck. The Dover Demon has become pretty famous, and is one of those creatures that has never really been pigeon-holed or satisfactorily categorized. Was it one of the Little People, as Janet Bord suggests? Was it an extraterrestrial creature of some kind? Or was it all just a hoax? There's no clear answer, and no one saw the Dover Demon again. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Janet Bord includes a couple other encounters from Massachusetts, and unlike the Dover Demon they involve beings that are more obviously fairies. In the spring of 1974, teenaged Jane Woodruff was walking to high school in Lexington with a friend when they saw something - or rather someone - sitting in patch of weeds on the side of the road. It was a leprechaun.</span></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">'Did you see that?' we exclaimed in unison. Surprisingly enough, we both described the leprechaun the same way: green clothes, a long thin curved golden pipe between his lips and a flopped-over conical cap (Janet Bord, <i>Fairies: Real Encounters with Little People </i>(1997), p.73) </span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A year later, Woodruff and a friend named Orin saw hundreds of small fairies dancing in a field of blue wildflowers in the town of Ashby. The fairies were only around 5 inches tall. Although the thought of encountering hundreds of fairies is a little unnerving - what if they swarm you? - Woodruff's stories are very gentle compared to the others.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In <i>Fairies</i>, Bord evaluates the many possible theories about what fairies might be. For example, some people think they are really extraterrestrials, some think they are the remnants of an earlier and smaller human race, and others theorize they could perhaps be the spirits of the dead. Bord reviews all the different theories, and concludes that there's really no strong evidence for any of them. And yet people still continue to encounter them, in stranger and stranger ways. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-56932291782086533362023-05-14T20:13:00.000-04:002023-05-14T20:13:26.566-04:00The Possession of Martha Robinson<p><span style="font-size: large;">Today is a beautiful sunny day, but I'm sitting inside the house reading about demonic possession in colonial New England. I'm fascinated by the story of Martha Robinson, a young Bostonian who became possessed by the Devil in December of 1740. Well, at least people thought she was possessed. Long after the Salem witch trials had ended, people in New England still thought the Devil was trying to lead people astray...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Martha was the twenty-something daughter of Samuel and Mary Robinson. Her parents were members of the Old South Church, but Martha was ambivalent about religion until she heard the famous minister George Whitefield preach. Whitefield was an evangelist who preached to huge crowds across the American colonies in the 1700s, moving people with his emotional sermons. After hearing Whitefield preach in Boston, Martha decided to join the Old South Church. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipz_b_BHup5sTKLIzjk5gjK9dMqyW2PM7F4R7um_xSklpklkHOjfz8OjNzyMz6CeiMr9y9FZLy0UHNnR0i81Yr6dGaWLCnzwHS3Sfoff2y2FTRuAMu3lduEW1QabhTDuAU48UGZR8G0u-XbE5AS0yj4FrQJuDPMlklMcXYRc7WFgH4_8Zp1AxaT3MLYA/s432/96E756FF-EAB3-4D9F-A487-54EC1193F494.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="432" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipz_b_BHup5sTKLIzjk5gjK9dMqyW2PM7F4R7um_xSklpklkHOjfz8OjNzyMz6CeiMr9y9FZLy0UHNnR0i81Yr6dGaWLCnzwHS3Sfoff2y2FTRuAMu3lduEW1QabhTDuAU48UGZR8G0u-XbE5AS0yj4FrQJuDPMlklMcXYRc7WFgH4_8Zp1AxaT3MLYA/w400-h369/96E756FF-EAB3-4D9F-A487-54EC1193F494.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Blake, The Ghost of A Flea, 1819 - 1820</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Her move to godliness did not proceed according to plan. After joining the church, Martha went to hear a sermon by Gilbert Tennent, another traveling evangelist. She was impressed with his preaching, and arranged a private meeting with him. But as she began to talk with Tennent, she was suddenly filled with incredible anger:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"The Devil filled me with such rage and spite against [Tennent] that I could have torn him to pieces and I should have torn his clothes off if my friends had not held me."(quoted in D. Brenton Simons, <i>Witches, Rakes and Rogues. True Stories of Scam, Scandal, Murder, and Mayhem in Boston, 1630 - 1775</i>, 2005)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A shocked Tennent said Martha was possessed by the Devil, and immediately began to pray over her, with the assistance of other ministers who were present. Their prayers didn't work. After that encounter with Tennent, Martha frequently blasphemed, used obscenities, and sang nonsense songs. She, her family, and friends all believed she was possessed by the Devil.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our main source of information about the possession of Martha Robinson is the diary of Joseph Pitkin, a wealthy merchant from East Hartford, Connecticut. Pitkin was visiting Boston for business in March, 1741, and during that visit he was invited to meet Martha Robinson. She had heard that Pitkin was a devout Christian, and wanted to talk with him. Pitkin visited Martha twice during his 1741 visit, both times accompanied by local Bostonians. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Martha displayed a wide variety of behavior during Pitkin's two visits to her home. At times she was polite and pleasant, speaking cordially with Pitkin. She prayed with him. At other times she raged, screamed, and said "There is no God" and other blasphemous statements. Martha also told Pitkin of a strange occurrence the previous night. She and her aunt had heard the noise of a large goat bleating from the inn where Pitkin was staying. The eerie bleating was then swept away by a strong wind. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Joseph Pitkin went home to Connecticut, but returned to Boston in 1743, and once again visited Martha Robinson. She no longer acted strangely, and said she was no longer possessed by the Devil. Martha said that "God had gradually delivered her from that distress" (quoted in Simons, <i>Witches, Rakes, and Rogues</i>, 2005). She was apparently cured of her strange ailment. In 1746, she married a Charlestown man and settled into a more traditional life. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Was Martha Robinson really possessed by an evil spirit? As many historians have noted, Puritan New England was not a great place to be a young woman. Young women and girls were near the bottom of the social hierarchy, having little freedom or power. Their behavior was also restricted by social norms that said women should be modest, moderate-tempered, and well-behaved. Much like the allegedly bewitched girls in 1692 Salem, acting as if she was possessed may have given Martha an opportunity to misbehave, openly express anger at authority figures, and even question the existence of God, one of the foundations of New England society. She may have consciously faked her possession, or perhaps she was acting out the role unconsciously, simultaneous defying society's restrictions but also enacting the expected social behaviors of someone who was possessed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Joseph Pitkin's diary is available <a href="https://ctdigitalarchive.org/islandora/object/30002%3A22225590#page/1/mode/2up">online</a>, but I've based this blog post on material from D. Brenton Simons's excellent 2005 book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Witches-Rakes-Rogues-Stories-1630-1775/dp/1933212470/ref=sr_1_2?crid=J94XHXPZ7GG&keywords=d.Brenton+simons&qid=1684108752&sprefix=d.brenton+simons%2Caps%2C98&sr=8-2">Witches, Rakes and Rogues. True Stories of Scam, Scandal, Murder, and Mayhem in Boston, 1630 - 1775.</a> </i>It's a great book!</span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-5795255757769935372023-04-22T10:56:00.000-04:002023-04-22T10:56:02.998-04:00A Pukwudgie Sighting in Massachusetts<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes people write to me about strange experiences they've had. Just a few weeks ago, a woman I'll call Mary sent me an email about a weird encounter she had while walking a dog. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mary lives in Norwell, and was taking care of a friend's large Labrador retriever while the friend was traveling. The dog would wake Mary up every morning between 4 and 5 am to take it for a walk. Mary would usually bring the dog to a small nearby watershed - a patch of woods and swamp - for its morning perambulation. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mary and the dog went on these early morning walks for a few weeks without anything strange happening, but that changed on March 1. It was pitch black, and as they walked on a road near the watershed the dog stopped in its tracks and let out a low growl. Had it seen a raccoon, or maybe a coyote? Feeling nervous about being alone in the dark with a wild animal nearby, Mary looked around to see what startled the dog. It was not a raccoon, or a coyote. It was something much stranger. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SLQEYPDs0zS6g0NbM7AnPn7I0_gkJ3YPu4z-Okijr0kGt5qkntOxZVm5oDvyrUMmNbsaFXqae2yA0yEw1DXRWuwbL630Wl5oVnWWpIHjS0GOh6Hw9vWZlkcNrF7NFtsTK6zRo31Y6wV1VboM5R42KTAQSU4uljYc5c1HWTST4_jChgQf6yBxzBn9Yw/s617/8EE61049-127A-42ED-BE33-B9466E0FD291_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="617" data-original-width="528" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SLQEYPDs0zS6g0NbM7AnPn7I0_gkJ3YPu4z-Okijr0kGt5qkntOxZVm5oDvyrUMmNbsaFXqae2yA0yEw1DXRWuwbL630Wl5oVnWWpIHjS0GOh6Hw9vWZlkcNrF7NFtsTK6zRo31Y6wV1VboM5R42KTAQSU4uljYc5c1HWTST4_jChgQf6yBxzBn9Yw/w343-h400/8EE61049-127A-42ED-BE33-B9466E0FD291_1_201_a.jpeg" width="343" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Crouched near the woods was a small humanoid creature. It was covered in what looked like matted, black fur. Mary thought the creature stared at her with glowing green eyes, but isn't sure if she just imagined this detail. Whatever the creature was, it was something she had never seen before. She and the dog ran home. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few days later the dog went home to its owner, and Mary thought that was the end of her strange experience. But on the night of March 13, Mary heard some unusual sounds coming from outside her house. It sounded as though something were quietly but insistently tapping on the side of her house, or possibly on the window. At first Mary thought maybe her daughter had locked herself out of the house, but that was not the case - she was safely inside. Nervously, Mary's thoughts then turned to the small humanoid she had seen near the woods. Was it outside her house, tapping on the walls and windows?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next day she talked with some people at work about what had been happening, and one of them suggested she had encountered a <i>pukwudgie</i>. Pukwudgie is a one name for the small, hairy, magical humanoids that are said to live in the woods in New England. Basically, they are a type of fairy. Not a pretty, tutu-wearing fairy like Tinkerbell, but a scragglier, rough-around-the-edges fairy. They're the type of fairy you'd expect to see in the woods around here, which are rough, rocky, and filled with poison ivy. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pukwudgie is something of a modern term, at least in New England. The Native Americans in New England had other names for these beings, like makiawisug, mekumwasuck, or mikumweswack. Pukwudgie was originally a word used by the Ojibwa Indians of the Midwest to describe the small magical beings they encountered, but it has since became a popular word in New England, and particularly in Massachusetts. (You can read more about the history of the term pukwudgie <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2016/04/pukwudgies-in-freetown-some-fairy.html">here.</a>)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6KSEOnO1lp6ObglsomZKclnjCbN0iDdUBy_6f66spibFZiq0WVUAI1SkzQStG4kwBqqbKPA34F29RaIRSX3QSQ7M_de1A5nxN1SgSWhnQSi5SkuZ2pw52yDp_InFigO8p9nBDNZ8vmSrB6gJ_mFHhxL652PEJPSle4hv6Q9ihio7htRlWIAs6QIDSw/s710/A8E3BB92-36B5-4E62-8123-EADBE24352E8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="533" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6KSEOnO1lp6ObglsomZKclnjCbN0iDdUBy_6f66spibFZiq0WVUAI1SkzQStG4kwBqqbKPA34F29RaIRSX3QSQ7M_de1A5nxN1SgSWhnQSi5SkuZ2pw52yDp_InFigO8p9nBDNZ8vmSrB6gJ_mFHhxL652PEJPSle4hv6Q9ihio7htRlWIAs6QIDSw/w300-h400/A8E3BB92-36B5-4E62-8123-EADBE24352E8.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pukwudgies are believed to be mischievous at best, and malevolent at worst. Traditionally, the local Native Americans believed that the little people would help humans if treated with respect. That is not the case with pukwudgies, who supposedly like to shoot people with darts, lure them off cliffs, and in general lurk around and frighten anyone who encounters them. If I can speculate, perhaps this change in behavior is because most New Englanders don't know how to treat them with the respect they deserve? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mary's encounter is similar to several other well-known pukwudgie encounters. For example, in 1990 a Raynham, Massachusetts man named <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2014/07/movie-review-bridgewater-triangle.html">Bill Russo</a> was walking his dog late at night near some woods when he saw a small hairy humanoid creature, which tried to lure him into the woods. He declined the offer. And Christopher Balzano describes a very similar situation in his 2007 book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dark-Woods-Paranormal-Freetown-Massachusetts/dp/0764327992/ref=sr_1_1?crid=RP868PXJYN3&keywords=dark+woods+balzano&qid=1682175283&sprefix=dark+woods+balzano%2Caps%2C92&sr=8-1">Dark Woods: Cults, Crime and the Paranormal in the Freetown State Forest</a></i>. A woman named Joan was walking her dog in the Freetown State Forest when she noticed someone watching her. It was a small, grey-skinned humanoid with hairy arms and a hairy head, and it stared at her with deep green eyes. After encountering the pukwudgie in the woods, Joan noticed the pukwudgie lurking around her house several times. Apparently it had followed her home. Creepy!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">After I got the email from Mary, I asked Balzano if he had any advice for people who encounter pukwudgies, particularly if the pukwudgie seems to be lurking around their house. He said the best thing to do is just ignore them. Eventually, they'll go away and the strange phenomena will stop. That sounds like good advice to me. I think that the more attention you give to weird phenomena, the more of it you'll notice. You can just get sucked down the rabbit hole!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">In a subsequent email, Mary told he that she had some lucky things happen to her on the day she encountered the creature in the woods. So maybe seeing it had been a fortuitous event, even if it was spooky? In the end, the situation was oddly ambiguous, much like the pukwudgies themselves. </span></div>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-88342208600424891802023-03-29T12:35:00.002-04:002023-03-29T12:35:38.555-04:00A Visit to Medfield State Hospital: Charming and a Little Spooky<p><span style="font-size: large;">A few weeks ago Tony and I visited Medfield State Hospital, in charming Medfield, Massachusetts. Originally known as the Medfield Insane Asylum, the hospital is now a park open to the public. Intrigued? Read on. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Medfield State Hospital opened in 1896, and was one of the state's first hospitals to deal with long-term patients with mental disorders. It was designed in the "cottage style," according to an informational sign erected at the hospital, with more than 50 buildings spread across 1.4 square miles. Many of the buildings are still standing, although they are now boarded up and public cannot access them. Medfield State today looks a lot like a small, traditional New England liberal arts college - but with absolutely no people. It's both charming and maybe a little spooky. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSBR0u6D6msVYVsbN09dHj3wzw4dkb964HbcyhxA_QRLkarZ0etJ4jUa_V1E4KLD0Ip5LR9ZnG554MlC42G7YbnRcfgk35Jw5soP98cpNDLNRs0aVAAtXqXO-MjBbmR6BjCQCm1M-Uq0W2yjBgAZq65uok2IFSafiDM1U0lqM0UIdcMoZUlePl7XLa_Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSBR0u6D6msVYVsbN09dHj3wzw4dkb964HbcyhxA_QRLkarZ0etJ4jUa_V1E4KLD0Ip5LR9ZnG554MlC42G7YbnRcfgk35Jw5soP98cpNDLNRs0aVAAtXqXO-MjBbmR6BjCQCm1M-Uq0W2yjBgAZq65uok2IFSafiDM1U0lqM0UIdcMoZUlePl7XLa_Q=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tony and I visited on a cold, snowy day, and there weren't many other visitors. A few people were walking their dogs, but that was about it. The hospital was quite bustling in the past, however. During World War II, almost 2,300 people lived at Medfield State. The hospital finally closed in 1993. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the early part of the 20th century, the hospital was self-sufficient. Patients grew crops on hundreds of acres of farmland, and tended more than 1,000 cattle and 3,000 chickens. That's quite an operation! Medfield State Hospital even was able to supply food to the other state hospitals in eastern Massachusetts. Even today there is still quite a bit of open land at Medfield State, including a bluff overlooking the Charles River. It has a great view!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWrdsSi_l-8uC6ZZ9-byDlvm6jOG0U5wHfBkLHxKsA6LE1G4XDXPEtvspIOC2WlR9ZkaTZEAjOPgraK0fQhlD15PTivZyF-2NCvxBccFk5cYm0H-W97TrZVND89W3awhoevD0ZbLGsI5rRJ-2qYAzNHZRsb5I_2zViRms0cFuCGFRuscfGrgWIr-3l7g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWrdsSi_l-8uC6ZZ9-byDlvm6jOG0U5wHfBkLHxKsA6LE1G4XDXPEtvspIOC2WlR9ZkaTZEAjOPgraK0fQhlD15PTivZyF-2NCvxBccFk5cYm0H-W97TrZVND89W3awhoevD0ZbLGsI5rRJ-2qYAzNHZRsb5I_2zViRms0cFuCGFRuscfGrgWIr-3l7g=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEga2Z-QN9vkL2ezCXGMi6MvRbUYvsYbtbaR-t9HIE6QWg_Y7pxUYqXypV0X20MkdBXJDISSxlANUehGraKRbEuSvBSrT6q23tc4xC4eyFnVPRBrBJuXIesKg6Mxo7RENsfvLNuu7Z3Bgr-23CFwU7_I-y3SBRxF146EvCe5Zhr9ClF0oJtx0-qdCbXu-Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEga2Z-QN9vkL2ezCXGMi6MvRbUYvsYbtbaR-t9HIE6QWg_Y7pxUYqXypV0X20MkdBXJDISSxlANUehGraKRbEuSvBSrT6q23tc4xC4eyFnVPRBrBJuXIesKg6Mxo7RENsfvLNuu7Z3Bgr-23CFwU7_I-y3SBRxF146EvCe5Zhr9ClF0oJtx0-qdCbXu-Q=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You'd think there would be some weird legends associated with an abandoned insane asylum, but that's not really the case here. The only possible ghost story is quite recent. In 2017, the movie <i>The New Mutants</i> was filmed at Medfield State. Part of the X-Men series, <i>The New Mutants</i> tells the tale of five young mutants imprisoned in a spooky hospital. The movie wasn't released until 2020, and the director suggested <i>The New Mutants</i> might have been cursed by being filmed at the abandoned insane asylum. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='400' height='333' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzKX5jNFyvkIQwMrrtnKioLSxPVakxgqVpaswwRbC6a9a7GHujTJJ1nxehs9diVpzzjPFwN8iYDW9nYjUTJYw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The director, Richard Boone, told <i>The Boston Globe</i> the following on August 20, 2020:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was during the press push for the first trailer that Boone first spoke of “weird” things happening to crew members at Medfield State Hospital during filming. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Literally every single person on my crew — all my grips — all those people had weird things happen to them while they were there,” Boone told IGN of the abandoned state hospital, which also served as a filming location for “Shutter Island” in 2009. “I even told the behind-the-scenes crew to go interview everyone who had weird stuff happen to them for an extra on the Blu-ray.”</span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I would like a little more detail, but I don't want to buy the Blu-Ray. Not everyone was freaked out, though. Actor Anya Taylor-Joy said the following:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"I've shot in four abandoned mental institutions, so it's kind of a second home for me," Taylor-Joy said (<a href="https://abc7.com/the-new-mutants-marvel-maisie-williams-charlie-heaton/6386274/">ABC Seven.com</a>)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's a good attitude to have! Soon the hospital will be home to hundreds of people again. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The town of Medfield will be developing Medfield State into apartments and an arts center, which is probably a good use of the property. Maybe some more ghost stories will emerge once people start living there full time again?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRVCLFIU6fkg0XxOW25alflCEggbCItW33zgPFaYw_wlqA5kuzP5vFUJbLo7V6bc7ecyxQGgDrzgLZwN6xJIbq6cAzkOCSC6ZzS1OCMxsI0lUVTnGfBQTVoP6205dUM0qlc6hNXJBGKwk1PB0xWU44LvTZlyeuVZnAbbAvhpVPR-YDdMzFtqHq_eFayA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRVCLFIU6fkg0XxOW25alflCEggbCItW33zgPFaYw_wlqA5kuzP5vFUJbLo7V6bc7ecyxQGgDrzgLZwN6xJIbq6cAzkOCSC6ZzS1OCMxsI0lUVTnGfBQTVoP6205dUM0qlc6hNXJBGKwk1PB0xWU44LvTZlyeuVZnAbbAvhpVPR-YDdMzFtqHq_eFayA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-59258584883697787672023-03-15T20:27:00.001-04:002023-03-15T20:27:28.790-04:00HP Lovecraft and the Witch's Familiar<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">In 1648, the healer Margaret Jones became the first person executed for witchcraft in Massachusetts. She was accused of various things, like making her clients sick just so they would buy her medicine, but also of having a small demonic spirit that did her bidding. This demon, or familiar spirit, took the form of a small child. Her accusers said they saw it around her Charlestown home, and in her jail cell after she had been arrested. The familiar spirit supposedly suckled on Jones's blood for nourishment, a grotesque parody of the mother/child relationship. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The Devil also allegedly gave many other New Englanders accused of witchcraft familiar spirits (or familiars, for short). John Godfrey, who was accused of witchcraft four times between 1658 and 1669, was said to have a mysterious teat under his tongue, which he used to suckle his familiar spirit, which appeared large black bird. The testimony from the 1692 Salem witch trials is full of accounts of familiars in a bewildering variety of shapes: wolves, yellow birds, cats. Some were more monstrous, like the creature with a monkey's body, rooster's feet and human face that crept into John Louder's bedroom while he slept, or the three-foot tall humanoid ("all over hairy, all the face hairy") that supposedly did Sarah Osborn's bidding. Even in the late 19th century, people in Truro, Massachusetts told stories of a dune-dwelling witch who cursed local sailors and was attended to by a small black goat. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK80VP4G2uuzMHZIsVkDlLOd3tntVf2mQ0tW3Mdm-C6i2GsVmzdYIX_6EpeaYewMfFcWcI6G9fsVT9JEFZjGcwNUP_VAgFgc2TLhFUhq8jkX2I2V2QRYFYzhEmTPkx4Izog89EqdlpfJn0A4iBOXhweSeo7PEwuVPDABGBrc3-8ielqbJhzh9Rlj70Uw/s566/wh4.0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="566" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK80VP4G2uuzMHZIsVkDlLOd3tntVf2mQ0tW3Mdm-C6i2GsVmzdYIX_6EpeaYewMfFcWcI6G9fsVT9JEFZjGcwNUP_VAgFgc2TLhFUhq8jkX2I2V2QRYFYzhEmTPkx4Izog89EqdlpfJn0A4iBOXhweSeo7PEwuVPDABGBrc3-8ielqbJhzh9Rlj70Uw/w400-h330/wh4.0.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Brown Jenkin, from Dreams in the Witch House (2005)</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">There's something particularly nightmarish about the idea of the familiar spirit. Local witchcraft accounts and legends are full of horrific imagery, but to me there's something extra spooky about these small demons. In animal form, they possess a demonic intelligence and malevolence at odds with their mundane, or even cute, appearance. As monstrous hybrids, they're the type of thing that makes you wake up screaming. Familiars are like something from a horror movie or story. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">At least one local horror writer wrote about witches' familiars. Rhode Island native H.P. Lovecraft (1890 - 1937) often drew on New England folklore for his weird tales. Witches make appearances in several of his stories, and a very nasty familiar spirit appears in his 1932 story "The Dreams in the Witch House." The story describes what happens to hapless graduate student Walter Gilman when he moves into a house once inhabited by Keziah Mason, a 17th century witch. Keziah supposedly was served by a familiar named Brown Jenkin: </span></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Witnesses said it had long hair and the shape of a rat, but that its sharp-toothed, bearded face was evilly human while its paws were like tiny human hands. It took messages betwixt old Keziah and the devil, and was nursed on the witch’s blood—which it sucked like a vampire. Its voice was a kind of loathsome titter, and it could speak all languages. Of all the bizarre monstrosities in Gilman’s dreams, nothing filled him with greater panic and nausea than this blasphemous and diminutive hybrid...</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Brown Jenkin is a weird and ambiguous creature. Lovecraft is clearly using the classic image of the familiar from the 17th century witch trials, but he takes the concept much further. In the story, witchcraft is a form of advanced science. Keziah can travel through space and time via a hyperspace wormhole, and she wants to bring Walter Gilman with her to the center of the universe to meet Azathoth, the daemonic ruler of the world. The story is strange and unsettling mix of science fiction and folk horror. Sure, you can use the wormhole to visit alien planets, but there are also witches and books signed in human blood. So what is Brown Jenkin - an emissary from an alien world, or a servant of evil? Or maybe both? Even though Gilman manages to escape Keziah's clutches, Brown Jenkin manages to get the last laugh (or loathsome titter, to be more accurate). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">In addition to horror stories, Lovecraft also wrote poetry, much of it as scary as his fiction. Some if might even be scarier, like this poem simply called "The Familiars," from his sonnet collection <i>Fungi from Yuggoth</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>XXVI. The Familiars</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">John Whateley lived about a mile from town,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Up where the hills began to huddle thick;</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">We never thought his wits were very quick,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Seeing the way he let his farm run down.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">He used to waste his time on some queer books</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">He’d found around the attic of his place,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Till funny lines got creased into his face,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">And folks all said they didn’t like his looks.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">When he began those night-howls we declared</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">He’d better be locked up away from harm,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">So three men from the Aylesbury town farm</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Went for him—but came back alone and scared.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">They’d found him talking to two crouching things</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">That at their step flew off on great black wings.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">That's a pretty creepy poem, and the ending packs quite a wallop. Everyone thought John Whateley was insane, but (surprise!) he wasn't. In that poem and "The Dreams in the Witch House," Lovecraft imagines the witch's familiar in the modern world, where they're even more anomalous and frightening. Winged demons and human-faced rats belong in the semi-mythical past, not in </span>industrialized New England.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-g0TOi84Qe92WXIgZBX_WEVq5rLkIiMcnAv5yq5X7RTYGvZoAWtRvg3TpHjD2JT9AvEj5GFGY-n3YRlLHOcuGcVZUIvwl6Kp0g5ygAICLUp6FLAkqNhhSqMBDXyq6eh3mGaUsX3JeJ1abzEBfeeALKcmbZW8s_rq9YOG6wIyH_NS98yEum1zUWnY_ug/s600/0C558CA2-175B-445F-BD6F-7F60FC2F1916.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-g0TOi84Qe92WXIgZBX_WEVq5rLkIiMcnAv5yq5X7RTYGvZoAWtRvg3TpHjD2JT9AvEj5GFGY-n3YRlLHOcuGcVZUIvwl6Kp0g5ygAICLUp6FLAkqNhhSqMBDXyq6eh3mGaUsX3JeJ1abzEBfeeALKcmbZW8s_rq9YOG6wIyH_NS98yEum1zUWnY_ug/w400-h266/0C558CA2-175B-445F-BD6F-7F60FC2F1916.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A 16th century illustration of a witch and her familiars</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you believe in familiar spirits, you might wonder what happens to them after their witch dies. Do they go back to some infernal realm, or do they linger here in the physical realm? Here's another Lovecraft poem </span>from<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <i>Fungi</i> which might be about that very topic:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>XII. The Howler</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">They told me not to take the Briggs’ Hill path</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">That used to be the highroad through to Zoar,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">For Goody Watkins, hanged in seventeen-four,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Had left a certain monstrous aftermath.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Yet when I disobeyed, and had in view</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">The vine-hung cottage by the great rock slope,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">I could not think of elms or hempen rope,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">But wondered why the house still seemed so new.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Stopping a while to watch the fading day,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">I heard faint howls, as from a room upstairs,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">When through the ivied panes one sunset ray</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Struck in, and caught the howler unawares.</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">I glimpsed—and ran in frenzy from the place,</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">And from a four-pawed thing with human face.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">So what's scarier, Lovecraft's familiars or the familiars from local folklore and trial documents? It's hard for me to decide. I suppose the scariest thing is that people once took this all very literally and executed people for supposedly working with familiar spirits. I enjoy reading Lovecraft and learning about local witch legends, but am happy to be living in an era where familiar spirits remain fictional. </span></span></p><p></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-60885761403078442122023-02-26T14:46:00.000-05:002023-02-26T14:46:03.638-05:00Visiting the Gates of Hell in Newburyport<p><span style="font-size: large;">A couple weeks ago Tony and I drove up to Newburyport. It's always a pleasure to visit Newburyport - so charming! so historic! - but we weren't looking for charm or history. We were looking for the GATES OF HELL. Cue the ominous music...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitjNr_VsinxK8qJDFwFIyn_Q6kL7LGtEj8lg9PfOFBL8mm7WNaoFD_XCgBIQR3knNPk6KZui5qXFiloauk10Yb6cSpgO2F-IgGXxVK04kOmXb_pqx9ie8WpbXtwQRzqdJ5ROdumIQx8v5ppDZRG8n71h_56aEaT2Q6TNV4zZq9YlSaQ7-YbKuiHpMi7w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitjNr_VsinxK8qJDFwFIyn_Q6kL7LGtEj8lg9PfOFBL8mm7WNaoFD_XCgBIQR3knNPk6KZui5qXFiloauk10Yb6cSpgO2F-IgGXxVK04kOmXb_pqx9ie8WpbXtwQRzqdJ5ROdumIQx8v5ppDZRG8n71h_56aEaT2Q6TNV4zZq9YlSaQ7-YbKuiHpMi7w=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The gateway to Hell?</i></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The gates of Hell are supposedly located in Maudslay State Park, 450 acres of woods, meadows and gardens situated on the banks of the winding Merrimack River. The park used to be the private estate of the Moseley family, and takes its name from the family's ancestral home in England. The grounds once included two mansions, a castle, greenhouses, stables, and other buildings. Most of these structures are now long gone. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieERSiVT59vc_so95Vy2FnyT_e-CLApikO3CmZiid5egbDuWZi4mqKF3rbv2X4tWz_BCoEmSHChwgLW_EzkDg9Kr0K41AiZnM10WGwEepfUfi5RQSOSmEsDBF-RuduBbpMGGJ8BgfP6vqlU2EU9Pxppm58kylm3cFlHH5lzMkjhPsoXm1r5C8MyxozkA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieERSiVT59vc_so95Vy2FnyT_e-CLApikO3CmZiid5egbDuWZi4mqKF3rbv2X4tWz_BCoEmSHChwgLW_EzkDg9Kr0K41AiZnM10WGwEepfUfi5RQSOSmEsDBF-RuduBbpMGGJ8BgfP6vqlU2EU9Pxppm58kylm3cFlHH5lzMkjhPsoXm1r5C8MyxozkA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Moselelys sold their estate for $5 million dollars in 1985 to the state of Massachusetts, and the state turned it into a park. I've wandered through a lot of parks in eastern Massachusetts, and Maudslay is quite different than most. Most parks around here are woodsy and often quite rocky. That's not the case with Maudslay. Although parts of it are heavily wooded, the landscape is more manicured, with open fields and some ornamental gardens that are still maintained. We could definitely tell it used to be an estate. There are also some ruins scattered around as well. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was a very pleasant park, even on a cold windy day. But according to local legends the gateway to Hell is said to be located there. I'm not sure why this is. There aren't any shocking scandals surrounding the Moseley family - no murders, no rumors of witchcraft, nothing. Nothing really creepy seems to have happened in the park either to caused these legends. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSJAe5h45ac1hYRBadYCvBPYCN0kzPn6qZeWQtBEWvzQffL0AyVvqqxE04ruhcJEQyKTSi6w_qh637ybCfDklZijI3oISUfnfslbkoYN3UckYpQMUHfSZS-HAAeWSpOTRFsGjd1r3w5qltHnWnc9zsUzJnemDDKWhIDN6n7R0goGa1GVOoYlLLcctDEg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSJAe5h45ac1hYRBadYCvBPYCN0kzPn6qZeWQtBEWvzQffL0AyVvqqxE04ruhcJEQyKTSi6w_qh637ybCfDklZijI3oISUfnfslbkoYN3UckYpQMUHfSZS-HAAeWSpOTRFsGjd1r3w5qltHnWnc9zsUzJnemDDKWhIDN6n7R0goGa1GVOoYlLLcctDEg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Two structures in Maudslay State Park are alleged to be the gate into Hell. The first is the formal gate that once led into the estate. This is located right on Curzon Mill Road, just past the parking area if you drive towards the river. People who pass by this gate at night report seeing severed heads stuck on the spikes. Yikes. I've heard that adventurous young folks will park by the gate late at night, hoping (dreading?) to see the apparitions. Not being young or adventurous, we went there during the daytime. Happily we did not see any ghostly heads. Some people also report seeing the ghosts of small children playing in the park. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikdbwuTRV81L0rjTuwA59X0tLeSwM5V_OErn2WbQY_9RQFhZOtGgFo2WyslVBQrXFB8Vy8ZwLp4x0pSqpWM9x9XGVysZSvVBG64YC1c2mPacFuOru-KYEIbSNTAd3ENUwtVWArUKCZ1wIhWQ9Ya0umsadPQHUO2wQ3igEwIDImh6vBqA_ZgBZyoI51kw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1330" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikdbwuTRV81L0rjTuwA59X0tLeSwM5V_OErn2WbQY_9RQFhZOtGgFo2WyslVBQrXFB8Vy8ZwLp4x0pSqpWM9x9XGVysZSvVBG64YC1c2mPacFuOru-KYEIbSNTAd3ENUwtVWArUKCZ1wIhWQ9Ya0umsadPQHUO2wQ3igEwIDImh6vBqA_ZgBZyoI51kw=w248-h400" width="248" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or is this the gateway to Hell?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0My-a9jzbihx8v-Jt-FALaDAQDaHhAGCXtqyJnZNIc4isgoxzp6M_K8UYio0h8_yvIzb-g8NC5AmRj44ZegMnpKvHahrYTzt44n4rGFfG6JuxQit6ksX6EZ8Opm8jIt7qsYmNNjaPq9n4nw7ZPnuklPgwrgOMJ0JwI1j2TC2cKw2AslBoPCOpJslCbw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0My-a9jzbihx8v-Jt-FALaDAQDaHhAGCXtqyJnZNIc4isgoxzp6M_K8UYio0h8_yvIzb-g8NC5AmRj44ZegMnpKvHahrYTzt44n4rGFfG6JuxQit6ksX6EZ8Opm8jIt7qsYmNNjaPq9n4nw7ZPnuklPgwrgOMJ0JwI1j2TC2cKw2AslBoPCOpJslCbw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO9JcIjzGr28ffugWDFvPQkg1b3UTU2BLSE0nC_rgaS0BJnirJcV7UTTL6nLXcom39fKfOctxt74lajcW70pkwuTOe3M-qY8O0SQ21GlhPAdkiEmHX0LfCP8Gqx-i1P54fGGPgKouabIhBjOR_3xYRJyIFJ7z6psGePGYpKUD4crxmI-h8q5Vhu6GkbA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiO9JcIjzGr28ffugWDFvPQkg1b3UTU2BLSE0nC_rgaS0BJnirJcV7UTTL6nLXcom39fKfOctxt74lajcW70pkwuTOe3M-qY8O0SQ21GlhPAdkiEmHX0LfCP8Gqx-i1P54fGGPgKouabIhBjOR_3xYRJyIFJ7z6psGePGYpKUD4crxmI-h8q5Vhu6GkbA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The second structure that may be the gates of hell is a little spookier. Buried in the side of a small hillside is some kind of large underground room that was built in 1929. Was it a garage, perhaps? A large storage bunker? I don't know, but it's big, dark, and filled with graffiti. A large doorway, perhaps 15 - 20' high, leads into the underground room from the outside. It's definitely impressive, and maybe a little creepy. It was really dark inside, and very slippery since the floor was covered in ice. Again, happily we did not see any ghosts. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm not sure why either of these gates are the gates of Hell, instead of just being haunted gates. Do they lead to the underworld? Do demons come out at night? Or maybe the ghosts hang around before heading through the gates to the underworld? I just don't know. The legend is a little vague.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The legend about the gates of Hell seems to be pretty recent. The estate only became a park in 1985, so I'm guessing it only appeared since then. That's just speculation on my part. If you have any information about the history of this legend please share it. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbxT5AalTAXAJnSFK-jvsXuNOke6ek06oYxhbOqEhMJdU0B07Vv6B8jtdkXxJh4t0sUCShurnnQ9Ue8scrSM--qCbd4xxrHS24J6P5Ej5S05zEHXidg49aZT6CfaFDGJvGbu1--3mENQuongdi0RMggKgGwp-PUlSNlZxDLy7826TzX7Rq-L3fLix0XQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbxT5AalTAXAJnSFK-jvsXuNOke6ek06oYxhbOqEhMJdU0B07Vv6B8jtdkXxJh4t0sUCShurnnQ9Ue8scrSM--qCbd4xxrHS24J6P5Ej5S05zEHXidg49aZT6CfaFDGJvGbu1--3mENQuongdi0RMggKgGwp-PUlSNlZxDLy7826TzX7Rq-L3fLix0XQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have noticed that anomalous or weird structures often attract equally strange legends. A house that looks like its <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2018/05/the-ghostly-nuns-of-dudley-road.html">sinking into the earth</a>? Maybe it's because of Satanic rituals. A large iron cage around a grave? It must be intended to imprison <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-ghost-of-midnight-mary.html">a restless ghost</a>. A cemetery gate that <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2016/09/spider-gates-cemetery-portals-to-hell.html">looks like spiders</a>? Surely the cemetery must be haunted. I'll note that the Spider Gates cemetery may also contain a gateway to hell, so there are several convenient paths to Hell if you live in Massachusetts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You get the idea. There are rational explanations for all these things, just as there are rational explanations for the two gates in Maudslay. With the estate long gone, the formal gates and the giant underground chamber now seem a little weird, though. Their original purpose has been forgotten, so people make up new legends to explain why they're there. At least I hope that's what's happening. Otherwise, we've got two gates to Hell in one small park, and that's not good. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-76176578621775418922023-01-30T12:33:00.002-05:002023-01-30T12:33:46.392-05:00Haunted Houses and Terrifying Specters: Ghost (?) Stories from Weare, New Hampshire<p><span style="font-size: large;">There are a lot of ghost stories from New England, and one of my favorite types is what I call the "Scooby-Doo" ghost story. In these stories, the ghost is rationally explained away at the end. There is nothing supernatural in these stories, although people in them initially think there is. I call them Scooby-Doo stories because each episode of the <i>Scooby-Doo</i> ended with the ghostly terror being revealed as someone impersonating a ghost, not something supernatural. These stories are similar, but without all the greedy real estate developers and smugglers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You can find these Scooby-Doo ghost stories in a lot of the local town history books which were written in the 19th century. I found a bunch of them recently in William Little's <i>The History of Weare, New Hampshire, 1735 - 1888</i> (1888). In one story, an early settler named John Hodgdon was riding home to Weare on horseback one night when he saw something creepy in his cornfield. As the hair on his neck stood up, he saw a large white object appear on a small knoll in the field. It disappeared with an uncanny sound, only to reappear again. Hodgdon dismounted and walked through the dark field to the knoll, determined to discover what this ghostly object (or entity) was. He learned it was not a ghost, but was instead a large basket some of his workers had left in the cornfield. When the wind blew it rolled up the hill, and when the wind subsided it rolled back down. Mystery solved!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj01rk3YuBO4Mn7n7KFGg7AWx_gLyBgdZ0WmLGKqHxQVctUKQb3YkQn0C9Xw04VHGin1urmFv4n7sLkdbu6tp1TPZ12J2dlnLdz4YkYKQ0-HzJZziGPEnT0xihn3S9dtbrKdXVyCam2DZvLIXrtL4NH6km6N8FlI0MCROZKlNNp13x3SWQrdCfZguOY4Q/s4032/5C295A59-699E-442F-96E7-0A175158D9B4.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj01rk3YuBO4Mn7n7KFGg7AWx_gLyBgdZ0WmLGKqHxQVctUKQb3YkQn0C9Xw04VHGin1urmFv4n7sLkdbu6tp1TPZ12J2dlnLdz4YkYKQ0-HzJZziGPEnT0xihn3S9dtbrKdXVyCam2DZvLIXrtL4NH6km6N8FlI0MCROZKlNNp13x3SWQrdCfZguOY4Q/w300-h400/5C295A59-699E-442F-96E7-0A175158D9B4.heic" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>William Little, author of The History of Weare, New Hampshire</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In another tale, David and Betsy Purington lived in an old shanty, and "one winter were terribly troubled with ghosts." David Purington thought it was the spirit of his deceased father-in-law. One night, a neighbor came to visit the Puringtons. As they sat talking a strange rapping sound was heard from the attic loft above them. It grew louder and louder and louder. David screamed out for the ghost to desist, but the infernal rapping grew louder! Their neighbor was the only one brave enough to climb into the attic to confront the ghost. After climbing the rickety ladder, she saw a chicken whose legs and been frozen by the cold. It was unable to walk, and made a rapping sound as it tried to stand. "The hen was carried to the room below, and the ghost was laid." Mystery solved! Hopefully the hen recovered from being frozen. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In East Weare, there was another house that was supposedly haunted. A minister had once lived there, but after he moved away the house stood abandoned. People reported hearing strange noises and even seeing strange lights at night. Some brave schoolboys once approached the house during the day, but fled when they heard an eerie noise and heard the doorknob rattle. Eventually the apparitions stopped. When someone finally went into the haunted house, they saw a dead cat lying on the middle of the floor. Apparently the minister had left it behind when he moved and it had caused all the noise. Mystery solved! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Or is it? A cat doesn't create ghostly lights. And clearly people didn't take very good care of their animals then...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">William Little does include at least one ghost story in <i>The History of Weare</i> that's slightly ambiguous. A man name Mr. Eaton was out hunting raccoons one misty autumn night with some friends. Mr. Eaton paused to rest, when out of the mists emerged a terrifying ghost. "He could see the sunken eye-balls, the worm-eaten face, the shriveled hands, and he shook with terror." One of his friend arrived and Mr. Eaton explained what he had seen. The ghost was not visible to the friend. Many people in Weare believed Mr. Eaton had truly seen a ghost, but others suspected that he had just been drunk. So that mystery was perhaps not completely solved. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are a lot of books like <i>The History of Weare</i> out there, histories of New England towns written in the mid-to-late 19th century by people who lived in these places. New England had become a modern industrial area by this time, and you can sense the pride the authors feel in the progress their towns had made. At the same time, they're fascinated by the earlier, pre-industrialized way of life that is vanishing and the supernatural worldview that went with it. Maybe these rationalized ghost stories are the authors' way of straddling both worlds, of indulging the wonders and terrors of the past but also explaining them away with the light of reason. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-2134608530180140912023-01-02T12:14:00.000-05:002023-01-02T12:14:43.312-05:00Eli Wing's Ghostly Arm<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Eli Wing was born in Wayne, Maine sometime in the early 19th century. In the fall of 1837, Eli took a job at a sawmill in Chesterville. He had recently graduated from a nearby Methodist seminary and wanted to earn some money to attend law school. Unfortunately, fate had other plans for Eli.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One day the owner of the mill, Captain Bachelder, asked Eli to go down and clean the water wheel that powered the sawmill. It had been clogged by weeds and was slowing down the mill's work. Always eager to please, Eli did as he was asked. Since he was new at the job, Eli tried to clean the wheel as it was turning, which was a big mistake. His hand got caught in the turning wheel, and the powerful motion of the wheel tore his arm completely off.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">Bachelder and the others rushed to the trap door in the floor. Below them they saw Eli lying face down in a pool of bloody water; his arm was going around and around the wheel, spattering the mill with blood. (Helen Caldwell Cushman, <i>Along Thirty Mile River</i>, 2016)</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For a while it seemed like Eli would die, but he was taken to a physician and survived. He worked briefly as a portrait painter, and eventually did attend law school and become a lawyer. Despite only having one arm, he lived to the ripe old age of ninety and is buried in the Wing Family Cemetery in Wayne. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ94qJYF3cWptvo2UpTQ6-HcBdepZhrhKbrSOObPk32JKd2GATQKa200lP9zm2RATDQBJskIsl_RpY-BrHjXLSbR85LIfRCkpkh518UqD3NhDbb1zfDDEYwlPsGE0UPy7zlgV_SwDu-ZgLn4cL5V1ygRcfhk9si56fEKhQUAnwjyISZMaXc_j1hxSHg/s1024/Eli%20Wing%20ARM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQ94qJYF3cWptvo2UpTQ6-HcBdepZhrhKbrSOObPk32JKd2GATQKa200lP9zm2RATDQBJskIsl_RpY-BrHjXLSbR85LIfRCkpkh518UqD3NhDbb1zfDDEYwlPsGE0UPy7zlgV_SwDu-ZgLn4cL5V1ygRcfhk9si56fEKhQUAnwjyISZMaXc_j1hxSHg/w400-h400/Eli%20Wing%20ARM.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Eli's severed arm was not taken to the physician on that gruesome fall day. Instead, Captain Bachelder buried it by the river bank that after Eli had been carried off. While Eli went on to become a reputable member of the community, his arm did not. Instead, it became a disruptive spectral force. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A few days after Eli's accident, two of the Bachelder children went to the river to fetch water. They came back in tears, telling their parents that long white arm had emerged from the river and tried to pull them in. Captain Bachelder was skeptical.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But soon other people saw the arm near the river, including a man who said it poured cold water on him as he was trying to drink from the river. Business began to drop off at the sawmill because people were afraid of the ghostly arm, so Captain Bachelder dug it up and buried it in a stone wall, hoping to lay the arm to rest. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It didn't work. People across the area began to see the ghostly arm. It knocked on windows in the middle of the night, locked people in outhouses (and occasionally tipped them over), rang church bells, and knocked people's hats off their heads. Although some people even believe the arm had strangled a local woman, many others doubted this, and said the Eli's ghostly arm sometimes did good deeds, like punishing a farmer who stole gravestones or helping people who were outcasts. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Although the arm was allegedly taken from the wall and buried with Eli Wing after he died, there are some people who say it still haunts the woods and backroads. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I found this story in Helen Caldwell Cushman's book <i>Along Thirty Mile River: Maine Campfire Tales of the Strange and Supernatural</i> (2016). Caldwell Cushman lived most of her life in Maine, and collected local legends for newspaper articles and radio shows. She passed away in 1986. I first learned about her from Chris Packard, author of <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Maines-Rarest-Creatures-Chris-Packard/dp/1608937267/ref=sr_1_fkmr3_1?crid=2YTATEZ5FNXV3&keywords=Chris+packard+maine&qid=1672679094&sprefix=chris+packard+maine+%2Caps%2C80&sr=8-1-fkmr3">Mythical Creatures of Maine</a> </i>(2021).</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I really like the idea of someone's ghostly arm flying around causing trouble (and possibly doing some good deeds). It's just such a weird and compelling image! I tried to find more information about Eli Wing, but couldn't find any. Caldwell Cushman claims he was buried in the Wing Family Cemetery, but Find-A-Grave does not list an Eli Wing being buried there. Of course, their listing may not be complete, or perhaps Eli was just a nickname and he's buried under a different name. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">In some ways this reads just like a ghost story, but I also wonder if there was a local tradition of blaming pranks on the arm. If some teenagers tipped over an outhouse, did they deflect blame onto the arm? If someone knocked off someone's hat, did they claim the arm did it? It may have been a joke that local people understood, even if they didn't like it. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-68968211553710529592022-12-17T10:18:00.001-05:002022-12-17T10:18:33.383-05:00Christmas Chaos: Puritans, Saturnalia, and Lords of Misrule<p><span style="font-size: large;">On December 25, 1621, some young men in Plymouth, Massachusetts wanted to celebrate Christmas. Their celebration sounds pretty meager by modern standards – just playing a few ball games in the street. However, when William Bradford, Plymouth’s governor, saw what was happening he shut their little party down. He told them they shouldn't be celebrating Christmas, but he was willing to let them observe the day by praying piously indoors. They could not have any fun, however, particularly not in public.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsHXnA9Kj962M8XHD_ydp7Ga4832p7TP-rScRtAPwJVsd5p3mkqgVcsUFtdodJw-eP0p-zi_O2lCWgwyGanci2cCi_5v1UpqWntBWdsvB37YPuQZwDWBilVrY5epz1yk9LPCVn1g0iGON5JarpABNalzJqv9ypmU9AB1N86Wzlx05IjzYksncQPOElSg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="768" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsHXnA9Kj962M8XHD_ydp7Ga4832p7TP-rScRtAPwJVsd5p3mkqgVcsUFtdodJw-eP0p-zi_O2lCWgwyGanci2cCi_5v1UpqWntBWdsvB37YPuQZwDWBilVrY5epz1yk9LPCVn1g0iGON5JarpABNalzJqv9ypmU9AB1N86Wzlx05IjzYksncQPOElSg=w400-h249" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A still from Kranky Klaus (2003), a film by Cameron Jamie.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This sounds like a Grinchy move, and it was. Unlike Governor Bradford and many other Plymouth colonists, the game-players weren’t Puritans. They hadn’t realized how strongly the Puritans hated and feared Christmas. In 1659, the Massachusetts legislature even passed a bill banning Christmas - that's how much they hated the holiday. The bill was repealed in 1681 by Sir Edmund Andros, a much-despised governor appointed by the English king, but Christmas was still not widely celebrated in Massachusetts, or New England in general, until the mid-19th century. Schools and business remained open, and churches did not hold religious services on Christmas. A few people on the margins of New England society celebrated Christmas, but most didn't.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Puritans hated Christmas for two reasons. First, they thought it was just a pagan holiday that had become thinly Christianized. There’s probably some truth in that. The Bible does not indicate the date of Christ’s birth, so the early Church fathers decided it should be celebrated on December 25, a time when people across the Roman Empire were already celebrating various winter holidays like the Saturnalia and the birthday of Sol Invictus, the sun god. It made good political sense for the new religion to piggyback on already popular holidays.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqknNg2ufIT6MoqvwQa5Uk4CMcMxFB97yK2i3ATcw4vTF26GiWb5C3huBvHT4tlfBauF2nHNJY8hx3dRDk7ft8J-Yiz0S2bWAL7QVNq0DrPcmHthuflM2btZZl0-_7k-Uonq59m4SMvdOhyr7QPutya1B4Z8Zh65O-ksh8a0IjmoGgUJc6lClwgEN2XA" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1283" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqknNg2ufIT6MoqvwQa5Uk4CMcMxFB97yK2i3ATcw4vTF26GiWb5C3huBvHT4tlfBauF2nHNJY8hx3dRDk7ft8J-Yiz0S2bWAL7QVNq0DrPcmHthuflM2btZZl0-_7k-Uonq59m4SMvdOhyr7QPutya1B4Z8Zh65O-ksh8a0IjmoGgUJc6lClwgEN2XA=w398-h400" width="398" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saturnalia by Antoine Callet</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Puritans also hated Christmas because it was celebrated very differently in the 17th century than it is now. Christmas was a raucous and chaotic holiday that featured lots of drunken public revelry and social disorder. There is still some heavy drinking at Christmas these days, but in the 17th century Christmas was associated with large, drunken, disorderly mobs roaming through the streets and countryside. This can be traced back to the Roman Saturnalia, which celebrated the god Saturn, who had supposedly ruled over Earth’s Golden Age. During Saturn’s reign, everyone had been equal. There were no slaves and no masters, no kings and no subjects, no bosses and no employees. It was blissful and idyllic anarchy, with the Earth providing bountiful food so no one needed to work. These beliefs about the Golden Age were reflected in the Saturnalian celebrations holiday, with masters waiting on their slaves, men dressing as women, and much public drinking and ribaldry. All boundaries were dissolved. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Saturnalia was a season of misrule, a time when society’s rules were temporarily inverted or suspended. It was a release valve, a way for the lower classes to temporarily let off some steam and a way for the upper classes to buy some good will. After the Roman Empire collapsed, this pattern continued in Europe through the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance, but Christmas became the holiday of misrule, not Saturnalia. In many European towns and cities, prominent lower class men were appointed the Lord of Misrule by their fellows to preside over the holiday debauchery, leading crowds that mocked priests, noblemen, and the wealthy with impudence. Carolers, often drunk and in costume, demanded food and drink at wealthy homes. Once the celebrations ended, the Lord of Misrule stepped down and the old hierarchical relationships reasserted themselves until Christmas came around again. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5ArZKar_P8XfoZngsYBEsoyYsIyRjqWz4a-iLMlabVn8uEM3apqBMg1xy7f-nhDlvnnb8SXvfgxrEpM-099DwX4mVRTy6_buhcxkSATzTxAIk8G9M20WUK1uv2ItIYnfIBWY6t1rg1aZu0CDQUUkvbifs46wpvlnzIbF5bUt0RdFYs2rVZvtGoYqDAw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="645" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5ArZKar_P8XfoZngsYBEsoyYsIyRjqWz4a-iLMlabVn8uEM3apqBMg1xy7f-nhDlvnnb8SXvfgxrEpM-099DwX4mVRTy6_buhcxkSATzTxAIk8G9M20WUK1uv2ItIYnfIBWY6t1rg1aZu0CDQUUkvbifs46wpvlnzIbF5bUt0RdFYs2rVZvtGoYqDAw=w258-h400" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illustration from <i>Masks of Misrule</i> (1996) by Nigel Aldcroft Jackson</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The misrule of Christmas was antithetical to the Puritan values of hard-work, moderation, and self-control, but some modern Americans have recently have shown interest in bringing back a little of the old Christmas chaos. Some contemporary witches and occultists acknowledge a Lord of Misrule in their winter solstice rituals, and the Krampus, a monstrous Yule creature associated with misrule from northern Europe, has become increasingly popular, appearing on t-shirts, tree ornaments, and in movies. Krampus celebrations are a long-standing tradition in Germany and Austria, and some Americans are trying to bring it here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Idyllic holiday anarchy sounds like fun, but there was definitely a dark side to Christmas misrule. The threat of violence lurked beneath the surface, and vandalism sometimes occurred, even in Puritan New England. For example, a group of young men in Salem, Massachusetts harassed 72-year-old John Rowden on Christmas night in 1679. The men forcibly entered Rowden's home, caroled, and then demanded wine as payment for their performance. Rowden refused, and in retaliation the young men pelted his house with stones and branches for 90 minutes, knocked down a stone wall, and stole six pecks of apple from his cellar. Something similar happened in Deerfield, Massachusetts in 1794, when shopkeeper John Birge was awoken at 2:00 am on December 22 by a group of drunken men demanding entrance to his home. He refused, and the men broke his windows.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps if Rowden and Birge had played along, their property wouldn't have been damaged. Much like Halloween's trick-or-treat, if you gave out food, liquor or money at Christmas you and your home would escape unharmed. The threat of violent retaliation was an integral part of the holiday.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuAo2lTe1Irs2_xHk96JGAuF5kGXZfHqCXHuD4byK5TgOhfctAH8PXD5sTNBLLU3C8uaHfk_xd7vf47iYPuUM9DMrmj19y8XK-qIIyS_9p66Vp4WdYa1FIhKQ64VHkaVFqXx5CvJezD6Dq14DK05dEKxV7GPWyjzPl4MBWBUY0bHTTONwGcgec31LUIw" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="600" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuAo2lTe1Irs2_xHk96JGAuF5kGXZfHqCXHuD4byK5TgOhfctAH8PXD5sTNBLLU3C8uaHfk_xd7vf47iYPuUM9DMrmj19y8XK-qIIyS_9p66Vp4WdYa1FIhKQ64VHkaVFqXx5CvJezD6Dq14DK05dEKxV7GPWyjzPl4MBWBUY0bHTTONwGcgec31LUIw=w400-h248" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A still from Kranky Klaus (2003), a film by Cameron Jamie.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Back in 2007, I saw a short documentary by Cameron Jamie called <i>Kranky Klaus</i>, which follows a group of Krampuses as they roam around an Austrian town in a pre-Christmas celebration. The movie is unsettling. The Krampuses are aggressive and violent. They try to break into a pizza shop, and when a female employee stops them they push her into a snow bank. They enter a nightclub, where they knock over tables, wrestle patrons to the floor, and whip people. The Krampuses terrify a group of children, and then shove snow into pedestrians' faces in the street. No one stops them because it's a holiday tradition, but a lot of folks seem unhappy and terrified. You can watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pPdGt1aFTE&t=1351s"><i>Kranky Klaus</i> on YouTube</a> for yourself. What are your thoughts? Misrule and Christmas chaos sound like fun on paper, but the reality looks pretty scary.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I love weird old traditions, but I'm happy with the tamer, milder Christmas we now celebrate. The Puritan's anti-Christmas attitude wasn't defeated by misrule, but by 19th-century capitalism and a kinder, gentle approach to raising children. The prospect of happy children opening presents under a tree won out over the Puritan's "bah humbug" attitude, and over Christmas misrule as well. Feel free to celebrate Christmas (or not) as you see fit, but I'll be sitting by the tree, drinking eggnog, and listening to Mariah Carey, trying to find that happy medium between grumpy Puritan and kranky Krampus. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">My favorite book about the history of Christmas is Stephen Nissenbaum's <i>The Battle for Christmas: A Cultural History of America's Most Cherished Holiday.</i> I got much of this post's information from it. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-2509782202866815252022-12-05T20:06:00.001-05:002022-12-05T20:06:50.877-05:00Bewitched in the Woods: Old Rif and the Rabbit<p><span style="font-size: large;">A few weeks ago I went to the Boston Athenaeum and found lots of old witch stories in various in old New Hampshire history books. A few weeks ago I wrote about Mother Carr from Weare, New Hampshire. Here's another witch story I found, this time from the town of Windham. As the days grow shorter I find myself drawn more and more to these stories!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Many years ago, an enslaved Black man named Old Rif and a man named George Simpson were out hunting in the woods near Windham. After hunting for a while they became lost.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">The sun was sinking behind the western hills, and they came to a halt. At that moment they saw a rabbit standing upon its hind legs, looking at them; they tried to frighten it away, but it would not away at their bidding. Old Rif knew that the rabbit was bewitched, and he had heard that to shoot silver sleeve-buttons at a rabbit would destroy the witch. So he loaded his gun, putting in his silver sleeve-buttons, and shot the rabbit. The witch was instantly killed, their minds immediately became clear, the ground at once became familiar, the pathway was plain before them, and they readily and quickly found their way home. He (Old Rif) was said to be the last slave in New Hampshire, and died not far from 1842 (L.A. Morrison, <i>History of Windham in New Hampshire, 1719 - 1883 </i>(1883))</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are lots of interesting things about this story. First of all, there's Old Rif. He's a reminder that there was slavery in New England. I am not an expert on the history of New England slavery, but it seems that although the New Hampshire legislature banned slavery in 1789, it was not completely abolished until the 1850s. Was Old Rif really the last slave in New Hampshire? I will leave that to a better historian than me to determine. Regardless, Old Rif is clearly the hero of this story. He knows that he and George Simpson are bewitched, and he knows how to end it.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVl59adOca4iRegzYrp5hllaZ_XRB2uVVM6x5R-_ncJpNA4j836ET1OozaU-yPSjjTBWfWMxrHZMKV9hiHllKJP05JcD44uZLvYTglj6sXmFYDcGKI5v8hWrtNJxdMaDkJ_4H0Y3xH8AnOvD4NtXsR5ivThW0g6J3WQuwsyE6knht4mQvcuCFN-pz_Ug/s537/E72EBE08-6427-4A2B-BFE3-844047104AD8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="537" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVl59adOca4iRegzYrp5hllaZ_XRB2uVVM6x5R-_ncJpNA4j836ET1OozaU-yPSjjTBWfWMxrHZMKV9hiHllKJP05JcD44uZLvYTglj6sXmFYDcGKI5v8hWrtNJxdMaDkJ_4H0Y3xH8AnOvD4NtXsR5ivThW0g6J3WQuwsyE6knht4mQvcuCFN-pz_Ug/s320/E72EBE08-6427-4A2B-BFE3-844047104AD8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Young Hare, by Albrecht Durer</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He ends the witch's spell in a traditional way - by shooting a silver button at an animal that is actually a witch in bestial form. Silver bullets are familiar to modern readers from Hollywood werewolf movies, but any silver object would do the trick. If you don't have a bullet, use a button. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe the most famous story of a witch being shot with a silver button is the one about Peg Wesson from Gloucester, Massachusetts, who had taken the form of a crow to harass a group of soldiers. It's unclear in either story if the witch is possessing an actual animal, or if the witch has merely sent out their soul in the shape of an animal. Either way, the result of the silver button/bullet is the same - the animal is injured or killed, as is the witch. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the Peg Wesson story, Peg is only injured after a soldier shoots the crow with a silver button. But in this story about Old Rif, the witch dies as soon as the rabbit is shot. I wish there was more information about the witch in this story. Who were they? Did they just keel right over in their house? Did anyone find a silver button embedded in their corpse? I suppose we'll never know.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's a little strange that the witch is never identified in Old Rif's story, but the witch is almost never the main character in these stories. These stories are instructional tales, intended to tell the listener or reader how to fight witchcraft. The witch's identity didn't really matter to the person in Windham who first told this story. What did matter was instructing people how to stop a witch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I will end with a couple disclaimers. One, your neighbors are not evil witches hexing you. Two, please don't go around shooting random animals if you get lost in the woods. That little bunny just wants to eat some grass in peace. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-64947926869200952162022-11-22T20:51:00.000-05:002022-11-22T20:51:53.102-05:00The Tough Pie Crusts of Old New England<p><span style="font-size: large;">My family always eats the same meal every Thanksgiving, consisting of turkey, squash, potatoes, turnip, stuffing and cranberry sauce. Appetizers might vary, and Tony and I eat tofurkey, but the outline of the main meal remains the same. It's basically it's a lot of autumn vegetables boiled up and mashed. Delicious!</span></p><span style="font-size: large;">Thanksgiving has its roots in the old New England Puritan feast days, and it's surprising how closely my family's menu matches what people would have eaten three hundred years ago. I'm descended from relatively recent immigrants (I'm only second generation American on my father's side), but somehow this was the menu that my Quebecois grandmother learned to cook. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Dessert traditionally consists of the same three pies: squash, mincemeat, and apple. Again, these are the pies that my grandmother always made. Why squash instead of pumpkin? I have no idea. Thank God that the One Pie company still makes canned squash. When they stop we might need to abandon the squash pie for pumpkin.<br /><br />This year I'll be helping out by baking the squash and mincemeat pie. My mother always makes her pie crust with flour, oil and water. It makes a very delicate crust, but is hard to roll out. I make my crust with shortening, flour, and butter. It is not quite so flakey and delicate, but it is easier for me to handle. Now, do you want to hear about a really tough pie crust?<br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNxSYyRvWg2yo1av9R4MlNtMSnFvkscKM1i2RXrb2t4qh3yzky9r5MHD85I87kOssQmlf8Hu4LlJtPusoy1BXnBhaPTwnHcTqlgphcouC4x1p-6lLTe6oi6RuI4ZmOFcqTJQ8t-7WknMin/s1600/IMG_2203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNxSYyRvWg2yo1av9R4MlNtMSnFvkscKM1i2RXrb2t4qh3yzky9r5MHD85I87kOssQmlf8Hu4LlJtPusoy1BXnBhaPTwnHcTqlgphcouC4x1p-6lLTe6oi6RuI4ZmOFcqTJQ8t-7WknMin/s400/IMG_2203.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />I can hear you asking, "What does all this have to do with New England folklore?"<br /><br />Pie is very, very old form of food. There are recipes for pie-like dishes from ancient Rome and Egypt. In Medieval England, pies usually contained a mix of sweet and savory ingredients. Mix together some fish, some fowl, some game, some vegetables and some fruit and voila! A pie. Although the ingredients have changed over time, the basic concept has remained the same: food baked inside a pastry crust. <br /><br />The pie crusts of old were generally not the tender, flaky delights that we experience today. Whether it's butter, oil or shortening, fat is inexpensive to buy these days. In the past that was not the case, and many people made their pie crusts just from flour and water with no fat added. Fat adds tenderness to the pastry, so these fat-free crusts were quite tough.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">You may think I exaggerate the toughness, but it was noted by several authors. In the 1500s this type of dough was called "strong dough." The English cookbook author Hannah Glasse included the following instructions in 1747's <i>The Art of Cookery</i>: "First make a good standing crust, let the Wall and Bottom be very thick..." If I'm not misinterpreting her, it sounds like the crust can stand up on it's own like Play-Doh. Yikes! </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The Swedish minister Israel Acrelius lived in Delaware during the middle of the 18th century, and experienced some tough pie crusts firsthand. He wrote in 1759 that the crust "of a house pie, in country places ... is not broken even if a wagon wheel goes over it." Acrelius was probably exaggerating a little, but you get the picture.<br /><br />The pie crusts in Colonial New England were as tough as those in Delaware, if not tougher. Rye grows better in our climate than wheat, so rye flour was the most commonly used flour here. Have you ever baked with rye flour? It is much, much harder than wheat flour, so imagine making a fat-free rye flour pie crust. It was probably like edible ceramic.<br /><br />A sturdy rye pie crust appears in Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel <i>Oldtown Folks</i> (1869), which is set in late 1700s Massachusetts. Two abandoned children find shelter for the night at the home of a friendly farmer. In the morning he sends them on their way with kindly words, and a pie:<br /></span><div><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">Sol added to these words a minced pie, with a rye crust of peculiarly solid texture, adapted to resist any of the incidents of time and travel, which had been set out as part of his last night's supper. </span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">The crust was so hard that it could be carried without a pan. Now that's a strong crust.<br /><br />The hard crust does explain one thing that has always puzzled me. Housewives in pre-Industrial New England made dozens and dozens of pies in the weeks leading up Thanksgiving, and a cook prided herself on the number and variety of pies she could produce. Although some of these pies were eaten at Thanksgiving, the majority were stored in the root cellar for the winter. I always wondered if people had dozens and dozens of pie pans in their houses, but apparently they didn't. They probably just turned the pie out of its baking pan and stuck it on the shelf. The crust was so hard it would hold its shape for months. I wonder how the flavor held up?<br /><br />In his 1877 book <i>Being A Boy</i>, Massachusetts-born writer Charles Dudley Warner talks about how a boy could steal pie from the root cellar by hiding it under his coat: <br /></span><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-size: large;">And yet this boy would have buttoned under his jacket an entire round pumpkin-pie. And the pie was so well made and so dry that it was not injured in the least, and it never hurt the boy's clothes a bit more than if it had been inside of him instead of outside; and this boy would retire to a secluded place and eat it with another boy, being never suspected because he was not in the cellar long enough to eat a pie, and he never appeared to have one about him.</span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">So Warner is writing about a pie so solid and so dry that someone could stuff it in their shirt without it leaking. Wow! </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Traditional New England menus are great, but let's praise innovation where we can. I don't think anyone wants to go back to eating rock solid pie crust, no matter how portable it is.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />If you want to learn more about traditional New England pies, I recommend James Baker's <i>Thanksgiving: The Biography of An American Holiday</i> and Keith Stavely and Kathleen Fitzgerald's <i>America's Founding Food: The Story of New England Cooking</i>. I got most of my information from those two books, which are great! This post is an updated version of one I wrote on this topic way back in 2015. </span></div></div>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-23111046326518403372022-11-12T18:33:00.002-05:002022-11-13T16:12:19.346-05:00Mother Carr, the Witch of Weare: Turn Your Clothes Inside Out<p><span style="font-size: large;">A few weekends ago I went to the library and randomly looked through the histories of some New Hampshire towns, hoping to find interesting stories about witchcraft and ghosts. Many 19th century town histories include those local legends, and I was happy to find several stories I had not read before. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some of those stories were about Mother Carr. She lived in Weare, New Hampshire in the early 1800s, and many people suspected her of being a witch. There are several accounts of her allegedly bewitching her neighbors, including this one.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjDjjy0uuqwUJqWBeOFog0t8muIEfktKKJvDF5yo6YO8bw-X0kUEIK_pX89Tk879dh1OYIZ31myyeIs1PRYhw-GiRdondPzWhiu2_3EIY2TNxHsGvsGF2td7ITl739zpJKQq4iL-9MXqOxC-6hwygb3yleV4QOMEh1QOGVMAJ0q02BUnYxGq0NPf9kQ/s785/33DD05DA-E8A5-4C99-B57E-3174C5170B8D.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="785" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjDjjy0uuqwUJqWBeOFog0t8muIEfktKKJvDF5yo6YO8bw-X0kUEIK_pX89Tk879dh1OYIZ31myyeIs1PRYhw-GiRdondPzWhiu2_3EIY2TNxHsGvsGF2td7ITl739zpJKQq4iL-9MXqOxC-6hwygb3yleV4QOMEh1QOGVMAJ0q02BUnYxGq0NPf9kQ/w400-h253/33DD05DA-E8A5-4C99-B57E-3174C5170B8D.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antique postcard of Weare, NH from Wikipedia</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One summer day some of Mother Carr's neighbors went berry-picking in the woods. It was a very successful trip. They returned carrying buckets that overflowed with ripe juicy berries. When Mother Carr saw all the delicious berries she asked if she could have some, but her neighbors refused. She stomped off angrily, telling them they would regret their stinginess. (Cue the ominous music...)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A few weeks later, the same group of neighbors went into the woods to pick berries again. And once again, they filled their buckets with plump, juicy berries. But as they began to make their way back to Weare they became lost. They wandered around for hours, unable to find the path that led home. No matter how hard they tried they couldn't find their way out of the woods, even though they had been there many times before. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly, one of the berry-pickers remembered Mother Carr's angry words, and realized she had cursed them. They would never find their way home as long as they were under her spell! Someone suggested that if they turned their clothes inside out the spell would be broken. It sounded foolish, but everyone was afraid of being stuck in the woods overnight, so they turned their coats, shirts, pants and skirts inside out. To their amazement, it worked. Although they were tired and bedraggled, they were able to find their way out of the woods.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsonmagqLWnDTLJagEPjZbgMwfhNsH5LCdCCyU8loLxigZQh3n2m1u5S4iy5S7XQ1CJPyEtrcm26N6lkn9sSklwYkjqpZDrWeUVRz1SgWkcmuC0n6jkHnVLY8Q4_Y3inqYBOJngJ9bvUdzNXEQ0m8MtsVTe7c7aLsbA0y-9S8lF6tRtwTZbKSxFybUA/s679/A9410ECA-E34D-4D55-9A9F-FB77F852F2AF.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="679" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPsonmagqLWnDTLJagEPjZbgMwfhNsH5LCdCCyU8loLxigZQh3n2m1u5S4iy5S7XQ1CJPyEtrcm26N6lkn9sSklwYkjqpZDrWeUVRz1SgWkcmuC0n6jkHnVLY8Q4_Y3inqYBOJngJ9bvUdzNXEQ0m8MtsVTe7c7aLsbA0y-9S8lF6tRtwTZbKSxFybUA/w400-h260/A9410ECA-E34D-4D55-9A9F-FB77F852F2AF.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antique postcard of Weare, NH from Wikipedia</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That is the end of the story. It might sound alien to a modern reader, but turning your clothes inside out is a very old form of folk magic. However, it was most often used to prevent fairies from leading you astray, not witches. As the 17th century English poet Richard Corbet wrote in his poem "Iter Boreale":</span></p><p></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;">As in a conjurers circle, William found</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A menes for our deliverance: Turne your cloakes,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Quoth hee, for Puck is busy in these oakes:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If ever yee at Bosworth will be found,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then turne your cloakes, for this is Fayry-ground.</span></p></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Special thanks to <a href="http://www.strangehistory.net/2016/07/12/34564/">Beachcombing's Bizarre History Blog </a>for posting this piece of poetry! I am not 100% sure of the metaphysics behind this folklore, but I think turning your clothes inside out is supposed to confuse the fairies, which makes them stop hexing you. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But why would people in New Hampshire do this when they were lost in the woods? When the English Puritans came to New England they didn't bring much fairy folklore with them, but they did bring a lot of witch lore. Instead of blaming misfortunes on fairies they blamed them on unpopular neighbors (like Mother Carr) they thought were witches. Practices that were once used to protect against fairies were used to protect against witchcraft. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found this story in William Little's 1888 book <i>The History of Weare, New Hampshire, 1735 - 1888</i>. These old history books are amazing. You never know what you'll find!</span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-54274314762670484132022-10-23T13:43:00.000-04:002022-10-23T13:43:55.821-04:00The Spookiest States: Vermont and Maine Lead the Pack<p><span style="font-size: large;">People often ask me if New England is weirder or scarier than other parts of the country. I’ve been asked this by podcasters, other writers, and even personal friends. It would be easy for me to respond with a joke about scary Massachusetts drivers, our weird infatuation with Dunkin Donuts, or the frightening price of housing. But I generally avoid going for the easy laugh and try to answer the question sincerely.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Certainly, it seems that New England has a reputation in popular culture as a strange place. I usually mention that the world’s three most famous horror writers all came from New England. Edgar Allen Poe (1809 – 1849) was born in Boston, and although he left as a child he returned when he was 16 to work and enlisted in the army. He didn’t remain in Boston long, and although he thought the Bostonian literary establishment was uptight he still published his first book with the byline “a Bostonian.” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The second writer is H.P. Lovecraft (1890 – 1937), who was born in Providence and spent most of his life there. Lovecraft incorporated lots of New England history and legends into his fiction. He definitely understood the weird appeal of the region’s moldering Puritan cemeteries, old coastal towns, and dark woods. Lastly, there is the legendary Stephen King (b. 1947), who was born in Maine and still lives there. Many of his novels, including classics like <i>Salem’s Lot</i> and <i>Pet Sematary</i>, are set in Maine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I like to think there's something unique about New England which inspired these three influential writers. Certainly, New England has some strange history due to the Puritan colonists who came in the 1600s. They brought over their beliefs in witches, ghosts and the Devil, but not the more charming folklore like fairies. That definitely shaped our region's culture. And like most of the United States, our region has its history of violence, racism and genocide. Perhaps all these things, combined with a sometimes strange and dramatic landscape and our long dark winters, helped inspire Poe, Lovecraft, and King. (The author Faye Ringel explores these themes in her book 1995 book <i>New England’s Gothic Literature</i>.)</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoSfFy4RWaNw8Z5wJSK6wo7MdslpjBNro4CvLQWh4gSUjwetrgJx4XtdIa9AajN7iIMWyX2_eFDZpyBPpn52cmvySVz55vgaV5dwUcsrQyrPuJOLJ2P7MY-RurhdrUAA-pbs6aWU4K5_spXo1IZmen-UMRMXPuLEODoktaYRgYqO53FkVpq6fDdLpxyw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoSfFy4RWaNw8Z5wJSK6wo7MdslpjBNro4CvLQWh4gSUjwetrgJx4XtdIa9AajN7iIMWyX2_eFDZpyBPpn52cmvySVz55vgaV5dwUcsrQyrPuJOLJ2P7MY-RurhdrUAA-pbs6aWU4K5_spXo1IZmen-UMRMXPuLEODoktaYRgYqO53FkVpq6fDdLpxyw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But does this really mean New England is weirder or scarier than other parts of the country? And how would you even go about measuring these things regionally? I wouldn't know how to even start, but someone has tried. Cycling Frog, a THC and CBD company in Seattle, compiled a <a href="https://cyclingfrog.com/blogs/news/americas-scariest-states-revealed">ranked list of the scariest states in the country</a>. Vermont ranked number one, Maine came in second, and Connecticut placed fifth. Not too bad for such a small part of the United States!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The other New England states are apparently not as spooky. New Hampshire was 14, Rhode Island 19, and Massachusetts was way down the list at 35. I feel ashamed as a Massachusetts native that we ranked so low. Massholes, we need to try harder to be spooky.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Upon reading this list two questions came to my mind. How did they rank the states, and why did a CBD/THC company do this? Sadly, I can only answer the first one. Cycling Frog looked at how many of the following each state had:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1. Serial killers (from <a href="http://murderpedia.org">murderpedia.org</a>)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">2. Haunted locations (from <a href="https://frightfind.com/state-frights/">frightfind.com</a>)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">3. UFO sightings (from <a href="https://nuforc.org/webreports/ndxloc.html">National UFO Reporting Center</a>)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">4. Ghosts (from <a href="https://www.ghostsofamerica.com">ghostsofamerica.com</a>)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">5. Top 100 horror films set there (from <a href="https://www.imdb.com/list/ls045017156/">IMDb.com</a>)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">To measure equitably across states, they wanted to show how many of each phenomena the states have per 100,000 people. For example, Texas had the most number of serial killers with 890 (!), but it has a very large population. This means that Delaware, which has a much smaller population, actually has the highest number of serial killers per person, with 41 serial killers per 100,000 inhabitants. According to Cycling Frog, this makes Delaware the most murderous state. (Note: Massholes, we do NOT need to try harder at being serial killers.)</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivv5fgR8JWB711WevEuIF02nvI-0tEVZh_Ib0T06JHzbL2ccLfnpOzlgNyuzP9dMoMaWMN0AnlHjStQsTVukVk4PYE6MyT6KaQEHQZPNnVUT7rUcndWV-lkKgAdfopelO4wd-sN0ZfYUaQa9j8WzM7ArCtBWpcRe4dauR7F1NXppbKyYP2VePAqA7eIw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivv5fgR8JWB711WevEuIF02nvI-0tEVZh_Ib0T06JHzbL2ccLfnpOzlgNyuzP9dMoMaWMN0AnlHjStQsTVukVk4PYE6MyT6KaQEHQZPNnVUT7rUcndWV-lkKgAdfopelO4wd-sN0ZfYUaQa9j8WzM7ArCtBWpcRe4dauR7F1NXppbKyYP2VePAqA7eIw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Vermont was ranked the scariest because it had the highest number of UFO sightings <i>and</i> haunted places per person, and also had a high number of ghost sightings as well. That's pretty impressive, which is why they think Vermont is the scariest state. But is it? When I think of Vermont, I tend to think of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream, rolling green hills, and peaceful hippies. Maybe all that peace and love is just a cover for the true horrors of Vermont. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let's face it, I don't think this survey is statistically valid, but it is fun to think about as we approach Halloween. Apparently if you live in Vermont, Maine or Connecticut you're ensured a spooky Halloween. The rest of us may just have to console ourselves by eating extra candy corn and Twix. </span></p>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1885320105550742793.post-27178066421381839012022-10-03T20:07:00.002-04:002022-10-03T20:07:23.011-04:00Dreams in the Witch House: Lore, Familiars, and the Devil's Book<span style="font-size: large;">This week I've been reading "The Dreams in the Witch House," H.P. Lovecraft's classic 1932 tale of witches, creepy little monsters, and non-Euclidean calculus. This is one of those Lovecraft stories I come back to repeatedly, and re-reading it this time I was struck by how Lovecraft incorporates real New England folklore and history into it. Much of the story is focused on how one becomes a witch, something that was central to the 17th century Puritan witch trials. There is also a particularly creepy familiar spirit in it. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Here's a basic plot summary, but you can also read the story yourself <a href="https://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/dwh.aspx">here</a>. Walter Gilman is a college student at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, where he is studying mathematics and folklore. Gilman is convinced there is a connection between advanced mathematics and the old New England witch stories, and his research leads him to rent a room in a squalid boarding house that was built in 1600s known as the Witch House.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Gilman's room was once the abode of Keziah Mason, who was arrested for witchcraft during the Salem witch trials. Under questioning, Mason told Judge John Hathorne that certain lines and angles could be used to move "through the walls of space to other spaces beyond," and then later disappeared from her locked jail cell. Strange geometric curves and angles were found drawn on the cell's walls with "some red, sticky fluid." Centuries later, Keziah Mason is said to haunt the Witch House where she once lived, appearing there at night with Brown Jenkin, a human-faced rat that serves as her familiar spirit. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hIzF0kcgyrYHGwo6g9krvUWU4OlDlnFGuIt8eScaeKKpvqAGIBXGSWHJoGOYG0sz20GDcFKis5JM-zBBpcsX7wXYwLtHbM9p5Q15JKy7Kh6tQH3EqO-bKoCy8dFClfZTVKoD9zUiECZJDPYVtlw69g0OJJUVWRZMLp_ok-Cb1OVX77_OTUJOpfDDJQ/s849/842804CF-6B18-4435-B3A8-D007F965B5C6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hIzF0kcgyrYHGwo6g9krvUWU4OlDlnFGuIt8eScaeKKpvqAGIBXGSWHJoGOYG0sz20GDcFKis5JM-zBBpcsX7wXYwLtHbM9p5Q15JKy7Kh6tQH3EqO-bKoCy8dFClfZTVKoD9zUiECZJDPYVtlw69g0OJJUVWRZMLp_ok-Cb1OVX77_OTUJOpfDDJQ/w283-h400/842804CF-6B18-4435-B3A8-D007F965B5C6.jpeg" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Brown_Jenkin_by_Muzski.jpg"><i>Muzski - muzski.deviantart.com, CC BY-SA 3.0</i></a>.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Gilman thinks Mason knew the secret of traveling through other dimensions. Soon in his sleep he dreams that he can too, inspired by his study of mathematics and the strange angles of the walls and ceiling in his room. In his dreams, he flies through "limitless abysses of inexplicably coloured twilight and bafflingly disordered sound; abysses whose material and gravitational properties, and whose relation to his own entity, he could not even begin to explain." He dreams that he visits other planets, including a world whose heavy gravity almost crushes him, and one where he sees a vast city and strange non-humanoid beings. In his journeys he also sees Keziah Mason and Brown Jenkin, who seem to be following him around the universe in his dreams. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Spoiler alert: Walter Gilman is not dreaming. He really is traveling through the universe and other dimensions, and Mason and Brown Jenkin really are following him. Since he has intuitively and unconsciously mastered the art of extra-dimensional travel, they recognize him as a fellow witch, and want him to be fully initiated into the dark mysteries of witchcraft: </span></div><div><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">He must meet the Black Man, and go with them all to the throne of Azathoth at the centre of ultimate Chaos. That was what she said. He must sign in his own blood the book of Azathoth and take a new secret name now that his independent delvings had gone so far. What kept him from going with her and Brown Jenkin and the other to the throne of Chaos where the thin flutes pipe mindlessly was the fact that he had seen the name “Azathoth” in the Necronomicon, and knew it stood for a primal evil too horrible for description.</span></blockquote></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, and they want him to sacrifice a human infant as well. I won't give away the ending, but it's one of the gorier and gruesome endings to a Lovecraft story. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">H.P. Lovecraft loved New England and its history, and incorporates lots of local references into "The Dreams in the Witch House." John Hathorne (mentioned above) was a real Salem witch trials judge and an ancestor of Nathaniel Hawthorne; the infamous Cotton Mather is mentioned as well. Walter Gilman's hometown is Haverhill, Massachusetts, the same as me! One of his mathematics instructors at Miskatonic University is Professor Upham, a name possibly inspired by Charles Upham, the historian who wrote <i>Salem Witchcraft </i>(1867), one of the first important studies of the Salem trials. And there actually are several buildings in Massachusetts called the Witch House, including the most <a href="https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2011/10/salem-witch-house-and-jonathan-corwin.html">famous one in Salem</a>. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaQOUAkRum6dw7XPW6zK8yYl3ma3__cjD0t-LEtKQli12lyyyou7MfYhv9URJmG8h5zigqMV_v2th33Ji2LkVODfP1w-ahQdD1HVV6DrbRzICLClbSOVwcTxd0kDqWY7vRoHt9PGjW99o9Ut_ue5FgzSNX5SHE3Dn73JJ03OQ7NL-kfayyJ7Uz4sK4w/s656/A6F73A87-7DC9-4D95-AED4-797935BF4EFA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="622" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaQOUAkRum6dw7XPW6zK8yYl3ma3__cjD0t-LEtKQli12lyyyou7MfYhv9URJmG8h5zigqMV_v2th33Ji2LkVODfP1w-ahQdD1HVV6DrbRzICLClbSOVwcTxd0kDqWY7vRoHt9PGjW99o9Ut_ue5FgzSNX5SHE3Dn73JJ03OQ7NL-kfayyJ7Uz4sK4w/w379-h400/A6F73A87-7DC9-4D95-AED4-797935BF4EFA.jpeg" width="379" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original 1933 illustration from <i>Weird Tales</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The crux of the story is whether Gilman will become fully initiated into witchcraft. Will he sign his name into the Black Man's book using his own blood? Lovecraft pulled this concept directly from records of the New England witchcraft trials. The Black Man was a Puritan term for the Devil, and he and his book were mentioned in many witchcraft trials. The book was a Satanic parody of the Bible and of the covenants that Puritans signed when they joined churches. According to the Puritans, signing your name in the Black Man's book made you a witch. Lovecraft made up the part about sacrificing an infant, though. That does not appear in any New England witch trials, although certainly witches were accused of harming babies and children. The Puritans also believed that the Devil would baptize his witches after they signed the book, which doesn't appear in Lovecraft's story. It's probably just too tame for a horror story. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Brown Jenkin, Keziah Mason's familiar spirit, is very similar to the familiars found in New England witch trials. The Puritan's claimed that the Devil gave witches small demons, called familiar spirits, to do their bidding. In return, the witches just had to feed them with their blood. The trials of the Salem witch trials mention familiar spirits who appeared in a variety of forms, including birds, cats, and wolves. Like Brown Jenkin, some appeared as monstrous hybrids. For example, Bridget Bishop was accused of having a familiar that looked like a monkey with rooster feet and a human face, and Sarah Osborne's familiar was supposedly a small humanoid covered in hair. Lovecraft's Brown Jenkin would fit right in with these two.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">One interesting thing I noticed on re-reading "The Dreams in the Witch House" is that Keziah Mason and Brown Jenkin are trying to help and protect Walter Gilman during his trips through space and time, even though he doesn't realize it. For example, when he finds himself on a planet with heavy gravity they show him how to travel back to Earth. It's only when he refuses to sign the book that they become hostile towards him. He's not acting the way a witch should!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"The Dreams in the Witch House" has been filmed at least three times, once in 2005 as part of the Masters of Horror anthology TV series, and also as a low-budget movie earlier this year, at last according to Amazon Prime. A version of "The Dreams in the Witch House" will also air later this month as an episode of Guillermo del Toro's new anthology Netflix show <i>Cabinet of Curiosities</i>. I hope they include all the weird New England witch references in it!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">*****</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you want to read more about New England witches, please check out my book, Witches and Warlocks of Massachusetts. It's available wherever books are sold online and is perfect October reading!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA69wm7XyeKMj1cX4zg-Vr_NCrokXrE01Q0phNJg-vBRgpsv0tFgoSLU1N6cVhB925zgKOkUfTmB5LH2BR4ANwv-gDBbZlsapsj27qPk-2bLTfs4fuJBMCYz8YVRTXodPJtmokSxyIvctSrU1nXoRuHBptII_6t-kFH_ZPA6H_PZcovLaimMic3DobbQ/s3024/035995D9-4A54-4C7D-8C7F-01AA26C772A7.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA69wm7XyeKMj1cX4zg-Vr_NCrokXrE01Q0phNJg-vBRgpsv0tFgoSLU1N6cVhB925zgKOkUfTmB5LH2BR4ANwv-gDBbZlsapsj27qPk-2bLTfs4fuJBMCYz8YVRTXodPJtmokSxyIvctSrU1nXoRuHBptII_6t-kFH_ZPA6H_PZcovLaimMic3DobbQ/w400-h400/035995D9-4A54-4C7D-8C7F-01AA26C772A7.heic" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Peter Muisehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05939949561996555115noreply@blogger.com0