Schlosser S. E. - Spooky Massachusetts: tales of hauntings, strange happenings, and other local lore

S. E. Schlosser has been telling stories since she was a child, when games of lets pretend quickly built themselves into full-length tales acted out with friends. A graduate of Houghton College, the Institute of Childrens Literature, and Rutgers University, she created and maintains the award-winning Web site Americanfolklore.net, where she shares a wealth of stories from all fifty states, some dating back to the origins of America. Sandy spends much of her time answering questions from visitors to the site. Many of her favorite e-mails come from other folklorists who delight in practicing the old tradition of who can tell the tallest tale.

Artist Paul Hoffman trained in painting and printmaking, with his first extensive illustration work on assignment in Egypt, drawing ancient wall reliefs for the University of Chicago. His work graces books of many genreschildrens titles, textbooks, short story collections, natural history volumes, and numerous cookbooks. For Spooky Massachusetts, he employed a scratchboard technique and an active imagination.

NEW BEDFORD

I turned left out of my business parking lot on Friday evening instead of right, heading toward the highway. I was making the three-hour trip to my friend Sarahs house, where I planned to spend the weekend. Sarah was recently divorced and appreciated company whenever she could get it. Since my husband was away on a business trip, I had called Sarah and invited myself to her place. She was delighted to accept my spur-of-the-moment invitation.

As I traveled down the dark, wet highway, I kept feeling chills, as though something bad were going to happen or someone were watching me. I kept looking in the rearview mirror and glancing into the back seat. No one was there. Dont be ridiculous, I told myself, wishing fervently that I was home in my bed instead of driving on a dark, rainy highway. There was almost no traffic on the road, so I kept going, knowing that I would soon reach New Bedford.

I turned off the highway and started traveling down the local roads that led to Sarahs house. At exactly 9:52 p.m. according to the clock on my dashboard, I drew alongside the town cemetery. As I drove down the street, I saw a strange light glowing among the tombstones. Curious, I stopped the car to take a look, and I saw a figure movinga glowing female figure, walking slowly, as if she carried a heavy weight. A ghost, I thought in alarm.

As I sat frozen, my car idling, the ghost seemed to hear the sound of the engine, and she looked up. I gasped in fear. She had the twisted face of a demon, with glowing red eyes and short pointed teeth. I screamed as she leapt toward the car, her clawed hands reaching toward me. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and the car leapt forward. For a few terrible moments, she ran among the tombstones, keeping pace with the car. Then she fell behind.

In the rearview mirror, I saw the ghost grow taller and taller, until she was as large as a tree. Red light swirled around her like mist. She pointed after me, her mouth moving, though I could not make out her words. I jerked my attention back to the road, afraid what might happen if I let my car run off the street.

I made it to Sarahs house in record time and flung myself out of the car, pounding on her door frantically and looking behind me to see if the demon-faced woman had followed me. Sarah came running to the door and let me in. I ran past her into the safety of the house and fell with a gasp into a chair.

Jane, whats wrong? Sarah asked, shutting the door behind me and sinking down into the chair next to mine.

I couldnt speak for a few moments. There was a huge knot in my chest that grew so tight I gasped for breath whenever I pictured the face of the woman in the cemetery. Sarah was going to think I had lost my mind, but I had to tell someone what had happened or the knot in my chest would strangle me. After several false starts, I managed to choke out my story. Sarah gasped and asked, The phantom? Was it walking in the cemetery when you saw it?

DEATH OMEN

I nodded, puzzled by her question.

It must have been the witch, Sarah said, wringing her hands.

The witch? I asked.

They say that the ghost of an accused witch haunts the cemetery, Sarah said. Shes considered a death omen. People see her when something terrible is about to happen to them or someone they know.

Ordinarily, I would have laughed at such a superstition, but the appearance of the phantom had shaken me.

After a few minutes conversation and a cup of hot cocoa, I felt calm enough to retrieve my luggage from the car, though I foolishly begged Sarah to come with me, since the thought of facing the darkness alone made my hands shake. As it was, I froze on the doorstep, the red eyes and crazed face of the witchs ghost looming in my mind until Sarah gave me an impatient push from behind. Then I hurried down the steps and unlocked the sedan. Moments later, we were back inside, laughing a little at my fear and haste. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed as I unpacked my few things, eagerly outlining the events she had planned for the weekend.

It was nearly midnight when the front doorbell rang. Sarah and I stared at each other in surprise. Who could be coming to the door at this time of night? Before my eyes flashed once again the leering form of the phantom witch, said to appear just before a disaster. My hands started to shake so much that I dropped the hairbrush I was holding. Sarah swallowed and then shook her head. You said it yourself, she said, in a far-too-calm voice, It was just superstitious nonsense.

Tossing her head bravely, she marched out of the room and down the stairs. I trailed behind her and stood on the bottom step as she opened the door to find the tall figure of a policeman. The look on his face was a mixture of pained duty and compassion; his words brief and to the point. Sarahs parents had been involved in a car accident that evening and had both been killed instantly. The time of death? 9:52 p.m.

NORTHAMPTON

It had been a day of Ds, Peter mused to himself as he turned his car onto the twisty, tree-lined, isolated side road he used as a shortcut whenever he was late driving home. Dreary, dark, and drizzling were the first three that came to mind.

A dreary, dark, and drizzling dusk, Peter said aloud, liking the way the words rolled off his tongue. He peered through the swishing windshield wipers that were swiping ineffectively at the raindrops dotting his windshield. The wipers seemed to be creating a nasty smudge on the passenger side of the car, he noticed with a wry smile. Of course. Didnt they always?

His headlights barely pierced the gloomy avenue as he drove through the dimming daylight. Suddenly, his engine started to knockone, two, three timesand then stalled abruptly. A bright orange warning light flared on his dashboard, and Peter almost said another D word but hastily bit back the curse. His wife, Mandy, was trying to break him of his habitual swearing.

Youre as bad as the other Peter Rugg, Mandy had told him the previous week, shaking her finger at him in mock anger as she referenced his historical namesake.