I tried to find comfort in her untroubled belief that she was innocent of any mischief. She behaved as well as she always had. She tended to our mother with such loving care; I could see no evil in her actions. I prayed that no one else knew of what she was doing, but my fears grew when she received the letter sending her to Montreal, and my heart was filled with dread when I thought of them sneaking out to the wood to chant and dance. I was determined to watch her, and follow again when she crept out-which she did after ten o’clock on Hallows Eve.
Alas, I cannot write further on this, now. The stench of rotten fish has filled my head, He reaches for me with both claws. I am so very cold all the time now.
27 November 1793
It must be finished. I see the dark demon all the time. He whispers in my ear over Mother’s gentle voice, hissing that I am a sneak and a coward. He says I will join him. I can bear this no longer.
The night of October 31 was still and clear. It was easy to follow them quietly as they returned to same place in the woods. They formed their circle around the fire. After they sang and chanted, Anna bade them to undress, which, to my utter mortification, they did! And they danced and sang with abandon, loud enough to disguise the sounds of footsteps in the surrounding woods. I know I should have stopped them before they began, but I didn’t because I was weak. How I wish, now, that I had strength. If I could have stopped them, I might have saved them…
Their circle was burst upon by a group of angry men. They lit torches after they overpowered the poor girls; I recognized all of their faces, although I hardly knew them for their horrid expressions. They showed no Mercy as they bound those girls’ hands with heavy rope, and gagged their cries with wads of cloth, then forced them to run naked behind the horses through the woods, down the path to Blaney Street. Then, those men of God threw the girls from the seawall onto the sand, for the tide was out.
Nothing in my life prepared me for what they did next.
Churchwarden Higgins was waiting at the bottom of the seawall, shovel in hand. He had dug seven deep pits in the muck of low tide, but the sea was rising. They dropped my Mary, still bound and gagged and naked, and then the others—each in their own pit. Then Mr. Higgins filled mud and sand into the holes around each of them until they were buried up to their necks.
It was Reverend Hughes who removed all their gags.
I cannot get their cries out of my head. Mary’s haunts me the most. Nor can I escape the laughter of the men when they cried for mercy. Reverend Hughes stood over them, with his arms raised as if at the pulpit. He condemned them to Hell. Exile was too good for their evil deeds. He proclaimed an Eternity of Suffering upon each of them. Death, he swore, would come with the rising water, and they would suffer. The Devil would take their souls. He proclaimed they had ruined their eternity, and that they would all die knowing their families were to be shunned for allowing the practice of Witchcraft against his strict orders.
Then they all laughed as the poor girls sobbed. They congratulated one and another, and passed a flask while the girls begged for their lives at their feet. Before they left, they spat and made their water on the girls’ heads. Then, they climbed up the wall, mounted their horses and rode away up Derby Street.
I knew I had to get to Mary before the tide came in. I crawled down the slippery rock wall, but before I could get to her, the demon appeared above their heads. It was much larger than it appears to me now, and it floated over the water which had come in barely a yard from where they were buried.
“Who begs for their lives on this night?” It spoke in a voice so terrible that I fell down on the sand. The voice was not loud, no, it was more like a dark whisper in my head. Their cries for mercy became screams of terror.
“Who would let me save them?” it hissed.
“No! No!”, “Mercy, no!”, “Not you!”, “Dear Lord save us!” they all shrieked at once.
“I have been summoned,” it breathed, “and I am here. Who will accept me to save their own life?”
It reached out its claws toward them. I buried my face in my arms, for I could not bear this new horror upon my terror of watching the rising water close in on my sister.
“If you will not accept me, you all will die. But, I will not come in vain, I will have my prize. What will you give me?” it asked.
Cries of, “Mercy!”, “Leave us!”, “Save us Lord!” came from those wretched girls.
“I will lessen your suffering,” it whispered, “Whom do you offer in your stead?”
“Them!”, “The men!”, “Those who buried us!”, “Them!”, “Them!”, “Them!”, “Them!” they answered all at once.
“So you all decide, so it will be done!” it roared, and as it flew up, a mountain of seawater rose with it, then fell upon them all. The huge wave crashed over the rotten pier and flooded into the alley. I was thrown back on the wall, which I hung onto with all my strength.
When the water drew back, all that was left of my dear sister Mary, of Anna, Abigail, Lucy, Rebecca, Margaret and of Sarah, were their seaweed covered heads.
* * *
THE SALEM MERCURY
Friday November 29, 1793
Salem. Another Death Follows Dreadful Drownings at Blaney Street.
Another tragic death follows in the same area of the catastrophic drownings of ten men at Salem Harbor. Miss Virginia Younge has fallen to her death from the seawall at the end of Blaney Street, after sunset on Wednesday, November 27th.She was the beloved daughter of Capt. Edward Wm. Younge, Privateer, deceased at sea June, 1788, and Widow Lenore Younge. Her fall was un-witnessed. The Sheriff has not released any information as to why the poor woman was wandering around that area, as she is not connected in any way to the fishing industry, nor is she acquainted with any such person who may have had reason to be there. He cautions all citizens to ‘Beware’ and ‘Not to Trespass.’ The Blaney Street seawall and the old wharf has been ‘Restricted’ since the dreadful October 31st accident.
This leaves Widow Younge quite on her own as her eldest daughter Mary is among the missing as one of the seven young women of the First Church Mission to Montreal. Alms to Widow Younge, along with offerings of food and warm bedding may be left upon the poor woman’s door on Palfrey Street. All signs point to a long and cold winter for this unfortunate, who will suffer without the loving care of either daughter.
THE SALEM MERCURY
Friday January 3, 1794
Salem. Harper’s Round Table Tavern Burns to Ground After Midnight of the New Year.
Wretched events which overshadowed Salem since October 31 of last year have continued, despite a universal desire for a new year less fraught with disaster. Sadly, 1794 has begun with the loss of a respected, and long-standing establishment on Derby Street.
Harper’s Round Table Tavern burned to the ground shortly after midnight on January 1st. Fortunately, life was spared, as were surrounding structures, with the only casualty being the tavern itself. Hired hand, Job Tookey, stated the fire began with a tipped oil lamp which set a large meeting table aflame. The fire quickly engulfed the room, then the entire tavern. Injuries were limited to tavern keeper Samuel Harper, who suffered severe burns to his face and hands. He is currently under treatment in the care of Dr. Joseph Warren, who expects, despite disfiguring scars, a full recovery with time.
THE SALEM MERCURY
Friday June 13, 1794
Salem. Construction Ceased at Blaney Street Wharf. 4th Crew Quits.
All new construction for the Blaney Street wharf has indefinitely ceased after the fourth crew of workmen quit on the spot. There have been hushed stories of sightings of floating bodies in the water, and whispered rumor that the area at the end of Blaney Street is cursed. There are eerie sounds of women’s cries at low tide. Foreman of the latest crew, George Hobbes, had come forward with an unsettling observation:
“It’s haunted, plain and simple!” stated he after making the sign of the cross, “You hear lasses crying, begging. You see their faces s
ometimes, but when you look again, it’s rocks or rotted posts covered with seaweed. I tell you, I’m never going back again. Terrible things keep happening. They shouldn’t build nothing over there ever again. Just well enough to leave it alone.”
THE SALEM MERCURY
Tuesday September 9, 1794
Mystery. Local Women Officially Declared Missing, Presumed Dead
Sheriff Bailey Bartlett has officially confirmed the dreaded suspicion that the First Church Mission to Montreal, comprised of seven young women from Salem, had never arrived to Montreal. Anna Abbott, Lucy Jacobs, Rebecca Parker, Abigail Reed, Margaret and Sarah Williams, and Mary Younge are now missing and presumed dead. The mission was dispatched by order of Reverend Roger Hughes in November, 1793. To add to the mystery, there is no actual record of any First Church Mission in Montreal, which is why all investigation to their disappearance had stalled from the time the families requested an inquiry. As of now, it is unknown to where the young women were actually destined, for the Reverend Roger Hughes is deceased, and cannot provide insight. A review of his records and diaries made no mention of any such mission.
This revelation confirmed many suspicions that the mission was a guise for a corrupt, diabolical intention of Reverend Hughes and the nine men found dead beside him. The families of the missing women have since bitterly broken from the First Church, and have either joined separate congregations, or have moved away from Salem, altogether.
The last known location of the missing women was Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where the stage coach was to have met a second stage, headed north to Montreal.
Augustus M. Kilbride was the driver that left Salem on November 1st, 1793. He was extensively interviewed by Sheriff Bartlett, and was found innocent of all mischief. Mr. Kilbride said his horses ran like they were being whipped by the Devil, and the stage carried light, although it was full. They arrived in Portsmouth in two days’ time, a record as far as he was aware. He noted that the entire trip was enshrouded in a cold fog, and he was happy to arrive at their destination in such haste. The women disembarked from the coach at night, and never said a word of thanks, which he felt no surprise because they never said a word to him at any point during the trip. The last Mr. Kilbride ever saw of the seven young women, was when they stepped off at the watering trough at Portsmouth center. He assumed they walked on, to the Portsmouth Inn, three blocks north of the trough, because it appeared they were headed in that direction. John Blake, owner of Blake Stage and Stables, confirms Mr. Kilbride and his horses stayed from November 3rd through the 5th, when the horses were rested well enough to travel south.
.
1929
a Spirited party
Laurie Moran
Poppy pushed the mashed peas around on her dinner plate and sighed. To her right, her mother picked away at a piece of chicken, her eyes never looking down at her plate; she directed her concerned gaze across the table at her husband. To her left, Poppy’s father read the evening newspaper and chain-smoked cigarettes. His dinner, a roasted thigh, a mound of creamy white potatoes, and a smaller pile of mushy peas, was untouched, but the green glass ashtray next to it was threatening to overflow onto the white eyelet tablecloth. The scene at breakfast that morning had been the same: Father barely touching his eggs, staring at the early paper with quiet resentment, a cigarette burning to a cylinder of ash hanging between his fingers.
Mother pushed away her dinner plate, got up, smoothed the front of her blue gingham house dress, and rounded the table as Father put down the paper to light a new cigarette off the smoldering end of a spent one. Picking up the ashtray, Mother went into the kitchen, while Poppy stared at the clock on the dining room wall and continued to mash her peas.
“I saw Mr. Rockefeller’s statement in the morning edition. He said he’s still buying stock. Maybe it’s not as bad as all that,” Mother said as she placed the clean tray below Father’s right hand. He grumbled and flicked ash into it.
“At least eat something, John. Starving yourself isn’t going to solve any financial crisis.”
“I’m not hungry. Wrap it up for later.”
Having spread her peas over the plate enough to make them appear mostly eaten, Poppy took her chance to speak. “May we go to the Halloween party tonight? Please?”
“Poppy, your father is upset. It isn’t a good time for a party. Go do your schoolwork. You’re excused from the table.”
Poppy peered pleadingly at her father. “Daddy? Please?”
Looking up from the paper at last, her father met her gaze. For a moment, she could see his face soften, and Poppy thought she had swayed him. She gave him an expectant smile, but his face hardened. “You heard your mother. Don’t talk back,” he said, returning his nose to the newspaper.
“Please! All of the kids are going and—”
He slammed his hands down on the table, crushing his paper shield.
“Penelope!” he roared, “Enough!”
Poppy lowered her eyes, pushed back her chair, and gathered the dirty dishes off the table. Mother wrapped up Father’s uneaten meal and left the kitchen without a word. Poppy washed and brooded, and then dried and schemed. Some wealthy folks that owned a big house on the Common were having a party for the local children, and she’d been thinking about it all week. There’d be apple bobbing and dessert—Poppy hoped for spice cake—and Bobby Walker said that there’d be free games from the Parker Brothers as favors. Poppy doubted that, she didn’t think the Parkers would give away what they could sell, but she didn’t want to be the only kid in Salem that missed out if they did.
After the last dish was spotless and dry, and safely in the cupboard, Poppy went upstairs to her room. She lay belly down on the floor and pressed her ear against a board, waiting. At seven, the old grandfather clock in the hall began to chime, and she heard someone in the parlor stir and cross the room. Then a voice crackled through the house: “Good evening from WNAC radio, home of the Boston Red Sox, broadcasting from Shepard Store on Tremont Street. Also visit our other location in Providence. Shepard Stores: Where you always shop with confidence. Join me in welcoming Charles Hector and The Polar Bears to kick off this evenings’ programming with ‘The WNAC Radio March.’”
As the lively upbeat of the band began, Poppy sprang to her feet. Those Polar Bears would keep her parents’ attention long enough for her to set her plan in motion. She tiptoed into the hallway and stealthily pulled out an old, white sheet from the linen closet. Then she crossed to her mother’s sewing nook in the corner next to the stairwell, pulling up the top of the bench seat for a blue rectangle of tailors’ chalk and a pair of shears. She wrapped the chalk and scissors up into the sheet, tied the ends, and threw the newly made bindle over her shoulder. In a moment of foresight, she made one more trip to the closet, grabbing a pillowcase. She shoved it into the bindle, and then very quietly shut the door again.
She inched down the stairs, carefully, one step at a time, listening for sounds of movement in the parlor. WNAC’s house band was still blaring away in their steady upbeat rhythm, drowning out all other noise in the house. Poppy snuck to the kitchen door, eased it open, slipped through, and softly closed it. She crouched and crept around the side of the house, so as not to be seen through the windows, and when she made it to the front, she pulled herself up to a full run through the neighborhood until she got to Lafayette Street.
The streetcar trundled by down the center of the street, and for a moment, Poppy thought she might catch it, and get to the party faster, until she realized she hadn’t raided her piggy bank for the five-cent fare before she left the house. She had walked the streets of Salem alone often in the daytime: to and from school, of course, and out for Mother when the pantry was getting bare. She’d never walked alone through town in the dark before, and now familiar landmarks took on strange proportions in the slanted shadows of streetlight. The lingering warmth of the afternoon sun had vanished into the October evening, and a cold ocean breeze blew dead leaves around Poppy’s
feet. She crunched through them down the sidewalk, pulling the sleeves of her cardigan down so she could shove her balled up fists inside for warmth. She pushed herself to walk at the full speed of her gait, fantasizing about the brightly lit mansion decorated with cornstalks and pumpkins, the air inside scented with sweet treats, and full of her jubilant classmates. Poppy thought, For the trouble I’ll face when my parents find I’ve snuck out, this had better be the best party ever. Bobby Walker claimed it would be, but Bobby claimed a lot of things that didn’t seem possible.
When she had mentioned to Bobby about her father’s recent obsession with the newspaper, his nose stuck deep into it morning and night with a new intensity, Bobby concocted the most horrible story.
“Your father’s a businessman,” he had said, “and men who are involved with the banks like that are in trouble. The banks have run out of money. If you went right now and asked for all the money in your account, they wouldn’t give it to you, because it’s gone. In New York, businessmen have been jumping off the skyscrapers because they can’t face it. They’re ruined and they can’t go on, so splat on the sidewalk. I bet your pop will be next. Splat!”
One Night in Salem Page 13
