Inside Salem: Haunted History

From the car window, Salem looked almost disappointingly normal.

It was pretty, of course. It had the small streets, old buildings, and very American little-town feeling I had expected. But nothing about it seemed particularly dark. There were no haunted pumpkins laying around or a ghostly woman standing beside a graveyard. There was really no obvious sign that we had entered one of the most famously haunted cities in the United States.

It was just Salem, Massachusetts. 

As soon as my sister and I got out of the car, we started noticing all of the different stores. There were wands in the windows, signs advertising spells and physic readings, and enough witch-themed goods to make it impossible to forget where we were. Salem clearly knew what people came looking for, and to me, it seemed quite touristy on purpose.

Right in the middle of a little street, we came across a woman offering palm readings. She was dressed in a long purple dress, with an exaggerated gold and red necklace. Her whole appearance was extremely dramatic, which made complete sense in Salem. It probably wouldn't if it was anywhere else. She looked exactly like the kind of person who would stop you on the street and claim to know your future. She asked if we wanted “insight into the secrets hidden beneath the surface.” 

My sister and I looked at each other. I couldn't help but smile. Did she just say “secrets hidden beneath the surface?” Classic tourist trap. Still, we had time and a few leftover dollars, so why not? It seemed like the kind of thing you do in Salem simply because you are there. We were naturally curious, and it sounded fun. 

I sat down already prepared to hear something general and find a way to make it fit in my life. If she told me I worried too much, she would be correct, but she would also be correct about half the teenage population. If she said I had a difficult decision ahead of me, I could probably supply five. 

She took my hand and started talking.

Surprisingly, some details were oddly specific. Specific enough that I listened a little more carefully than I had initially planned to.

Then she mentioned a couch. Behind the couch, she said, there was mold. A lot of mold. It was quickly spreading, and I needed to look into it immediately because it was taking over. 

What? I stared at her. A couch? Out of all the things I had expected someone in Salem to discover by looking at my hand, a mold problem was not very high on the list.

Still, I found an explanation almost immediately. Obviously, she meant it as a metaphor. The couch represented comfort, the mold was some problem I was ignoring, and the fact that it was spreading meant I needed to confront it before it took over my life.

Easy enough. Solved.

I started to think to myself how these kinds of things are always just a huge scam. This was exactly just one of those mysterious life lessons that could mean almost anything if you thought about it long enough. The fact that the woman seemed completely serious was certainly part of the act, which made the situation humorous in my opinion. I thanked her once she was done and said I would look into it (I would not.)

We left the store because our walking tour was about to begin. 

Our guide looked like he was in his early thirties. He had that look on the face of someone who had told stories many times and knew exactly when to pause, create suspense, lower his voice, and which details would keep a group of people interested in listening to what he was saying. 

He led us through the city until we reached a narrow alley beside what is now Rockfellas restaurant. The group gathered around him. My sister stood next to me. Then he began telling us about a young woman who had decided to get married in a blue dress. Her name, according to the local legend, was Sarah. She fell in love with a sailor, right-hand man of the sea captain. But the problem was that her hand had already been promised to the sea captain himself, who knew nothing about this hidden love. For this reason, Sarah and the captain's assistant planned to marry in secret while the captain was away. She chose a beautiful blue dress for the wedding, which would happen exactly on the alley we were standing on. The captain was supposed to be at sea. He was not supposed to return in time.

But then the weather changed.

Our guide described heavy clouds gathering over the water and a terrible thunderstorm rolling across the sea. The conditions became too dangerous for the ship to continue. It had to turn back toward Salem. The captain was coming home early. 

Standing in the alley, I could picture two scenes happening at once. On land, Sarah was putting on her gorgeous blue dress and preparing to marry the sailor. Out at sea, the sky was getting darker, waves were hitting the ship, and the storm was sending the captain toward her.

She thought she still had time.

Sarah arrived in her blue, long dress. She was ready to marry the man she loved. Then the captain returned and discovered the whole plan. He stormed through the wedding and started attacking the young man as well as the other people that were in the ceremony. When the captain prepared to attack the groom, he accidentally struck Sarah with a wooden plank instead. Blood began to spill onto the floor and the girl's beautiful clothes. Believing she was dead, the captain and a minister hid her body inside a wall.

The guide paused before telling us what happened next.

They heard screaming.

Sarah had still been alive when they sealed her inside.

I couldn't help but feel chills down my spine. I could picture it too clearly. The wall right behind me looked harmless, but the thought of a person waking up behind it, unable to move, and screaming for people who had already decided she was dead was terrifying. 

The blue dress made the story worse. It was supposed to be her wedding dress, something chosen for a happy day. Instead, it became the detail people would use to recognize her ghost. Our guide told us that the Woman in Blue had become one of Salem's best-known local spirits. He said we could speak to locals around the city, especially employees at the Rockfellas, and many would have some kind of story about her.

Some claimed they had seen a woman wearing blue. Others heard doors slam when nobody else appeared to be there. He told us that people using the restaurant bathroom had heard stall doors bang shut on their own or/and feminine screams. 

The restaurant has collected its own stories about the Lady in Blue over decades, and a painting of her hangs inside. Some say that an even darker figure called the Man in Black, believed to be the minister who helped the captain, sometimes shows up as well. 

When the guide finally began walking again, I followed the group out of the alley. Part of my mind stayed behind. Whether the ghost stories were true or not, our guide said that there were genuine actual records of the marriage and history of Sarah, the captain, the minister, and the young man in the town's archives.

Salem was becoming darker and more interesting with every stop. I wanted to keep going. 

At another location, the guide began talking about the witch trials themselves. The mood changed. The Woman in Blue was a local ghost story, told with suspense and details that probably escalated over time. The trials, however, involved numerous recorded accusations, proof of court proceedings, and people who perished. 

Before visiting Salem, I knew the basic story. In 1692, women were accused of witchcraft, panic spread, and innocent people were executed. It was the kind of historical summary that fitted way too easily in a few sentences. But standing there made those sentences feel shamefully small.

More than 200 people were accused during the crises. Nineteen were hanged. Giles Corey was pressed to death beneath stones after refusing to enter a plea, and others died in jail. The accusations spread through a community already tense from religious conflict, disease, and fear. 

One of the stories I later returned to was Rebecca Nurse's. She was seventy-one years old and respected in her community. When she was accused of witchcraft, neighbors signed a petition defending her character. At her trial, the jury found her not guilty. For a moment, it seemed over. Then people in the courtroom started protesting. The jury reconsidered. Part of the case turned on something Nurse had said about another accused woman. Her words were taken as evidence that the two were connected through witchcraft. Nurse later explained that she had only meant they were both accused prisoners. She was hard of hearing and had not understood the question she was supposed to answer. 

The verdict changed to guilty. She was hanged on July 19, 1692.

That story made me so angry because the mistake seems so preventable. Ask her again. Make sure she heard. Let her explain what she meant before deciding that your version of her words matter more than hers. 

I care so much about being understood. If somebody gets the wrong idea about something I have said, I always want to explain it properly. Part of me believes that if I can explain something clearly enough, the other person will eventually understand. Rebecca Nurse's story forces me to imagine what happens when nobody wants to understand.

The trials also accepted spectral evidence. An accuser could claim that a person's spirit or apparition had appeared and harmed them. The accused then had to defend themselves against something nobody else could see.

I kept thinking how nonsensical a conversation would go if someone tried to say something:

Me: I was not there.

Jury: Your spirit was.

Me: I did not hurt anybody.

Jury: Someone says they saw you.

Where could the conversation go from there? Any normal defense became almost useless. You could explain what your actual body had been doing, but your invisible double could apparently be accused of anything. 

As we stood in Salem, I tried to imagine the fear of realizing that the truth might not be enough to save you.

Then we saw the Witch House.

Despite the name, it was not the home of an accused witch. It belonged to Jonathan Corwin, one of the judges involved in the proceedings. Corwin could leave the questioning and return home. He could step through his own doorway and continue with his life. The people appearing before him did not know whether they would ever return to theirs. 

Nearby, we also saw the famous bronze statue of Samantha from the television show Bewitched. Our guide explained that several Salem residents had been angry when it was installed in 2005. They believed a cheerful statue of a fictional witch made light of the people who died during the witch trials. Some thought that a statue like that was also mocking present-day practitioners of witchcraft. 

Strangely enough, I enjoyed all of the witch shops around me. My sister and I had voluntarily sat down for palm readings. Salem's playful, strange atmosphere was part of what had drawn us into the city in the first place. I did not stop enjoying it. But I certainly became aware of the uncomfortable contrast. In Salem, the word witch can appear on a souvenir, describe a television character, or represent an accusation that once destroyed a real person's life.

The tour continued. 

Eventually, we stopped in front of a mansion, and the guide began talking. The house was the Ropes Mansion, built in the late 1720s. It later appeared as Allison's house in the movie Hocus Pocus, although its real history was already dark enough without a film crew. 

In 1839, Abigail Ropes stood too close to a fireplace. Her dress caught fire. She did not die immediately. She lived for three more weeks before dying from her burns. 

I remember the guide continuing with the history of the mansion and the strange fires connected with it. Another fire damaged the house during renovations in 1894, and the building burned again in 2009 before being restored. 

While he was talking about all of this, one of the men in our tour group suddenly laughed. It was not small, it was evil. I don't really have a better way to describe it. It was out of nowhere, and the timing could not have been worse, so I looked straight at my sister. I had no idea what he found funny. But now I found it funny too because my sister had noticed exactly what I had, and looking at her made the whole thing worse.

At the same time, my eyes widened because, for a few seconds, the most unsettling person in Salem was standing in our own tour group.

Then the guide pulled my attention back to the mansion. Local ghost stories describe Abigail (or Nabby) appearing in an upstairs window, still in her nightgown she died in. Visitors have also reported cries, doors moving, and the feeling of being touched when no one is close to them. 

After hearing that, I looked at the windows. I did not see any figure behind the glass. I did not see anything move. But I checked. That is what the tour did to me.

I was still skeptical. I had not suddenly become someone who believed every ghost story. But skepticism did not stop the stories from working. It did not stop me from imagining a blue dress disappearing around a corner, a bathroom door slamming, or a face watching from the second floor.

The last stop of the tour was The Merchant, a hotel inside the old Joshua Ward House. Our guide stopped in front of the building and told us that it stood on the same land where George Corwin, the sheriff involved in the Salem witch trials, once lived. Then he explained that some guests and visitors had reported feeling invisible hands close around their necks. Not someone touching their shoulder. Not a strange sound from the hallway. Hands around their necks. 

According to the stories, people would suddenly feel pressure against their throats, as if a man were standing over them and squeezing hard enough to make them struggle for air. The spirit is often believed to be Corwin himself, who became known in Salem's ghost stories as “the Strangler.” 

By the end of the tour, Salem no longer felt like the city I had first seen through the car window. The streets had not changed. The buildings had not moved. But now there were stories attached to them. The wall stayed with me. So did the wedding. Sarah getting ready for a morning that was supposed to belong to her, while the weather out at sea changed everything. The trials stayed with me differently. I kept thinking about the injustices that were committed.

And I still remember the man laughing. And the man in the hotel.

When I think back to looking at Salem from the car, I can remember how pretty it seemed. I just can't quite see it that way on its own anymore. Now, when I picture the places we walked through, the stories are there too. 

The palm reading was another part of the visit. This part was certainly the least scary one. Sure, there was that weird couch warning, but I'd already decided what it was truly about, if it even meant anything at all, anyways. 

Just to get into the narrative, it was something I was ignoring. Something is growing bigger into a problem. One of those warnings that you could truly fit almost anything. 

I'd thought about it, explained it to myself, and moved on. 

Later in the day, my mother called.

She told me I wasn't going to believe what happened. There was a serious problem at our house in Lagoa Santa. She was worried it might be affecting the dogs’ health, maybe other people's health as well. 

Then she explained what they'd found. 

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

I remembered the woman reading my palm. How specific she'd been. How she told me to check immediately. And I remember myself sitting there, instantly deciding it was a metaphor.

My mother was talking about mold. 

A lot of mold. 

Behind the couch.