Is Colonial Cottage haunted with the ghosts of witches past?

By CRAIG JOHNSON, Special to The Valley Breeze

The Colonial Cottage, as it is known, has stood to the east of the village of Arnold Mills for most of three centuries. With the painstaking (and panes-taking) care evidenced by its current proprietors, may its ancient windows look out on a fourth.

Well known for its festive displays at all seasons, it is at Halloween that the house seems to take on a spirit all its own. And quite literally, some believe.

It is, of course, a popular stop on the Trick-or-Treat itinerary, but how many of those visiting ghouls and goblins are aware of the dark history connected, albeit from a distance, with this great old place?

I would preface my tale by offering the biased opinion that one of the least admirable traits of our species is that of demonizing the unknown, of attributing all kinds of terribleness to things or persons we simply do not understand. For such is fodder for all sorts of fears and superstitions. Some are silly at best, but there are those with deadly consequences when taken too seriously.

Sad has been the fate of many of those considered "different," possessing of strange powers, or simply not in line with the conventions of the community around them. To many poor souls throughout the ages, it has been serious business indeed to be singled out as a wizard, a warlock, a witch.

The year was 1692. A terrible drought and recurring bouts of smallpox had the poor farming community of Salem, Mass., (now Danvers) fearing for its own survival. Much of nearby Boston had recently burned to the ground. The bloodbath of King Phillip's war was fresh in the minds of many. To the simple folk of Salem, evil dwelt in the swamps, the woods, the dark corners of the unknown. The devil was real and certainly to blame for their miseries.

To one group of teenage girls in Salem, this specter of evil was too tantalizingly exciting. No one knows why exactly, but these girls started twisting themselves into contortions and screaming, claiming their "affliction" to be the work of the devil himself. This, of course, soon gained the group considerable attention and newfound celebrity.

Unfortunately, when pressed by the fearful community for details of their story, the girls furthered their charade by proceeding to name those in that very community who they now "knew" to be working for the devil. The fact that this "knowledge" was derived strictly from "spectral evidence," which only the girls could see, did not discount its validity in the eyes of a community primed in fear.

Thus began that horror of American history referred to as the Salem Witch Trials. Before it was over, dozens of innocent people would be accused, tried and imprisoned, 19 of them executed as witches.

One of those "afflicted" girls was Mary Walcott, daughter of Captain Jonathon and Deliverance. Mary's accusations were to be greatly feared in the spring of 1692.

It seems one of her tricks was to bite her own wrist, leaving teeth marks, while claiming it to be the work of a witch, who only she (very conveniently) could identify. Of course, it suggests an almost unbelievable level of gullibility to think that anyone would fall for this, but such was the level of fearfulness at the time.

On evidence such as this, lives were destroyed. Rebecca Nurse, a beloved elder of the village, charitable and deeply devout, dared to criticize the girls hurtful actions. The "afflicted" accusers, as they were called, retaliated by naming the 71-year-old as a witch. She was soon hanged on Gallow's Hill.

Eighty-year-old Giles Cory, speaking in defense of his wife Martha, was himself accused and sentenced by the magistrates to be pressed to death beneath a stack of rocks, simply for refusing to dignify such nonsense with a plea one way or the other.

In time, however, the accusers went too far in finding witches in too may high places. After pointing the finger at the judge's mother-in-law, and then the governor's wife, well, some degree of sanity returned the people of Salem to their senses, but not before a huge amount of grief was brought to bear.

In the years following, all of Salem tried to put it behind them, most notably the judges, the Puritan clergy, and the accusers who caused it to begin with. Not so easy for those victims and their families who would forever curse the names of those responsible for the horror.

And then there were those whose guilt by association would haunt them for years to come. Even Nathaniel Hawthorne, 100 years after the fact, would add a "w" to his name to distance himself from his ancestor, John Hathorne, the Salem magistrate who had condemned so many innocent "witches" to death.

One of those likely haunted by his family reputation was a William Walcott, brother to Mary, the infamous wrist-biter who had ruined so many lives. Though born just at the height of the hysteria (1691 or 1692, depending on the account), and certainly innocent of any malice incurred by Mary or father Jonathan, who supported her claims in court, the young Walcott would grow up bearing his share of the shame and intense animosity that must have been directed toward his family.

Is it any wonder that poor William chose to live out his days somewhere other than the village of his ancestors?

In the years following King Phillip's War, the area then known as Attleboro Gore (now Cumberland) once again opened up for white settlement. This area had for thousands of years been territory of the Wampanoags for hunting and fishing. One can imagine the spirits of the Sinnichiteconett (whence the "Sneech" of the brook, pond and road by that name) were not thrilled with this invasion of their sacred places. But whether or not that might account for any unexplained events happening since, I would not venture.

Sometime in the 1720s, William Walcott must have thought this place far enough away from the ugliness of his family's past in Salem. He purchased a tract of land on the Abbott Run and soon established himself at the sawmill operation required to supply the needs of a new community. He built a house nearby and started the family that would figure so prominently in the history of the village of Arnold Mills.

But here is where our story must stray from the historical to the stuff of legend, having no factual documentation whatsoever to substantiate its claims, and maintaining only the faintest breath of veracity as passed on through the memories of storytellers of old Arnold Mills. (Proper historians might wish to terminate this reading right here and now.)

But first must be introduced an important character of our tale, for character it must be called. As creatures of the dark and spectres of the night can be regarded as living, breathing things, so we must consider the low-lying spot of wetlands to the east of William Walcott's acreage. Later known as the Fog Mill pond for its strange habit of shrouding itself in the densest of mists, the hollow at this particular bend of Bishop's Brook would play a major part in the events of Mr. Walcott's life.

It was a warm night in October. Walcott was returning from errand along the cart path that would later be called Sneech Pond Road. Whether to collect payment for lumber past due or to inspect his neighbor's new barn is not known, neither being relevant to our story.

But as Walcott neared the fog-shrouded hollow, he heard a most distressing sound. Hearing it to be the moaning of a human voice, he of course, determined to investigate.

And what happened next can only be explained by looking into the furthest reaches of the human psyche. (And even at that, those proper historians may have to stretch a bit.)

But, once inside the mist, thick as fog, Walcott fell to the ground, clutching his throat and gasping for air, trying desperately to release the hold of the rope he was certain he felt tightening around his neck.

No sooner had this sensation ceased when, lying on his back in the damp, his lungs strained to expand beneath the weight of the pile of rocks he was sure had suddenly been placed over his chest.

And with these sensations and vivid to the mind's eye, came the faces of Rebecca Nurse, the revered grandmother of Salem hanged by his sister's accusations. This was soon followed by the grimaced face of poor old Giles Cory, pressed to death for the crime of stubbornness. The muck and mire of the water's edge seemed to rise around him. He breathed the fetidness of something evil. Time stopped.

Poor Walcott lay there stunned, but in time was able to right himself and head back down the road. It was not until halfway home that he felt the pain in his left wrist.

He entered the house, saying nothing to his wife and children, and sat by the fire with his supper stewing in the pot on the crane. It was a while before he noticed the teeth marks deep into his wrist, a trickle of blood dropping to the floor.

Nothing was ever said of this, except of course to that one individual of each generation who might keep the tale alive. And, as far as we know, events such as this have never occurred since at the old Fog Mill pond.

The dark memories of another place and time put behind them, (as they should be,) the Walcotts went on to populate the village. The old house above the Fog Mill pond has been attributed to sons Benjamin and Captain John, even to father William himself. (William's first house disappeared years ago.)

Whatever its lineage, at Halloween this great old place attracts those looking for a scare or two, and all in harmless fun of the season.

And is that not the task at hand for Halloween? For sensible people to mock the powers of darkness, to make fun of, to ridicule the worst of our humanness, to expose the demons of fear, suspicion and hatred for the insupportable follies that they are?

So this Halloween, as for all others, I hope that all the ghouls and goblins who visit this old relic in Arnold Mills will do their best to exorcize whatever dark and narrow thoughts they might have and bring only joy to this place.

Is Colonial Cottage haunted? Whether or not, who would dare to say. But, just to be safe, and especially if a mist hangs heavy, one might want to quicken their pace when passing by the low-lying wetlands nearby, lest one disturb any lingering spirits in the mire of the old Fog Mill pond.