A Haunting in Gloucester

Warning: Suicide, death without gore.

Some stories were never meant to be told.

Gloucester, Massachusetts- June 1867

Hattie Sorley never intended for the game to go this far. It was customary for the adults to return after dark from The Feast Day of St. Peter. An early summer sea fog enveloped the coast moving inland, shrouding the city in an oppressive veil. Taking advantage of their caregiver Mrs. Engel’s predictable routine—a hearty supper, tea, a glass of Madeira, and an evening siesta, Hattie and her friends, Eliza, Beatrice, and Kat, slipped away to the second-floor study to scare the wits out of one another in a game they called “I am Going to Haunt You.”

The game had been introduced to Hattie by the Eastern Point lighthouse keeper, Bradford Crenshaw, a man of imposing height and unsettling disposition. A devil of a fellow, as the townspeople described him, Mr. Crenshaw claimed the game had cured nights of unbearable boredom while standing watch at the lighthouse with his assistant, Edward Sorley, Hattie’s uncle.

The rules were simple. One by one, each child took a turn trying to frighten the others with a ghost story or a carefully planned scare.

“I am going to haunt you.”

The room would fall silent.

Beatrice began with the story of waking at 3:00 a.m. to see an apparition of her uncle Nathanial outside, who fell at Devil's Den, Gettysburg, July 2, 1863.

“But it was not my uncle. The demon appeared as him so that we would let him in," she whispered.

Eliza followed with a small sack, explaining that inside was the soul of a local madman. She dared each one to open it.

Kat had her own twist of a haunting. She passed out blindfolds and told the girls they were to blindfold themselves and sit in a dark closet.

"My turn. I am going to haunt you," Hattie said.

"Sarah Greene."

There was silence. Darkness had fallen over the city.

Hattie told the story of the accused Witch of Gloucester, Sarah Greene, a tragic story of a young woman who drowned in 1852. Sarah was accused of setting Wonsons Wharf on fire, which ignited The Abigail Meriwether, a fishing schooner sending eight men to a watery grave.

“It was said that Sarah Greene had been practicing witchcraft at the docks to get revenge for her husbands' death in a fishing accident in 1850. She had supposedly started the blaze during an invocation by fire ritual. No one had known how a fire could spread so fast. Witnesses claimed they saw the mysterious dark-haired lady dressed in her black woolen cloak at the docks, looking out to sea while the ship burned."

"Hattie please stop," warned Kat.

"A barmaid who lost her husband on the Abigail Meriwether had gathered the men at the Central Wharf Saloon, and hunted down Sarah out to Rockport. Legend has it they cornered her on the jagged rocks that protrude into the harbor like a bony finger, and threw her off into the sea below," said Hattie.

The room went black.

At least for Hattie. For Hattie, there was no more.

After they found her lifeless body, the police interviewed each one of the children alone. No charges were filed. The girls only said that the room suddenly went black. They lit the candle after some difficulty finding fire and saw Hattie’s crumpled body. After lingering and trying to get her to wake up, they got scared and ran for Mrs. Engel.

The autopsy for Hattie Sorley showed death by cardiac arrhythmia. She was eleven.

Gloucester, Massachusetts - February 1889

Marcus Winters shut down his shoe repair shop on Pleasant Street early this Tuesday evening. The snow had begun to accumulate in the last hour and he thought hardly any foot traffic would dare venture the uphill street in downtown Gloucester.

The cobbler was going to pick up a manuscript from the antique shop on the way home to his second-story flat where he lived with his wife Gail. George Preston had run an antique shop on Main Street specializing in historical novelties, antique books, and manuscripts.

Marcus was also an amateur historian and had come in touch with an old Portuguese swordfish fisherman who had told him in his shop one day that he knew what had really happened on the day of the St. Peters Festival over twenty years ago. He would say no more. Marcus needed to meddle. Like so many others, Marcus went down a rabbit hole past the core of the Earth straight to Hell.

Marcus arrived just after 6:30 p.m. as Mr. Preston was escorting a patron out the door.

“We've gotten away without a northeaster this time around. I hope that this doesn’t amount to much. Not good for business!” said Mr. Preston.

Marcus waved and caught a nod from George as he entered the shop to survey any new novelties he had to offer. George came back in and hustled Marcus to the counter, disappeared behind a scarlet curtain and reappeared with the manuscript wrapped in a parchment paper and tied with silk string. The manuscript that had stirred the curiosity of the proud cobbler was one journal of Jonathan Greene, of Annisquam, Sarah’s father and reverend of the Annisquam First Baptist Church.

The manuscript among other artifacts, was salvaged in 1835 after the church burned down to its' foundation, luckily without the loss of life. Jonathan Greene lived a few more years and died of typhus in 1840.

Mrs. Winters had almost finished preparing supper for her arriving husband when she heard the familiar latch and creak from the door, and heard her name being called.

She called out to greet her husband yet upon turning her head slightly away from the stove top she noticed the door remained closed. Turning the flame down for Marcus’s favorite cod stew, she followed his usual track to the bathroom and then into the small bedroom. She was alone. Probably the wind she thought, and she knew that lately the lack of sleep had caused some distortions and perceptions of time. She had heard from her doctor that auditory hallucinations were common for people suffering from insomnia.

Suddenly, the door flew open. She jumped and felt shivers run up her spine to her neck. The teapot went off with a screeching hiss.

It was Marcus after all.

“Gail, you won’t believe this, but I have the manuscript. That cod stew smells delicious. Did you pick it up at Martins?"

She decided not to tell him anything about hearing his name. The last thing she needed was a stay at the new monstrous asylum, Danvers State Hospital.

“I am in here. I'm just looking for my favorite cup," she called out.

Marcus could not wait to read the manuscript and set it down on his worktable by the window. The wind could be faintly heard through the crack in the window. Marcus had meant to get it fixed but money was short this season. Lower yields of swordfish affected lower demand for services. Few cities in New England depended on one industry more than Gloucester. One could argue Lowell with its textiles, or Portland with its shipping, but Gloucester ran on the catch. By the turn of the century, immigrants came to Gloucester in larger numbers for the work. As a hard-nosed fishing community, it had its superstitions, especially on ships. Now a nightmare had come upon the region. Gloucester had a ghost story.

They had a pleasant supper, and Marcus spoke about work. Gail mentioned the neighbor’s cat who found its way to their door again for snacks. After dinner, Marcus retired to the study, poured himself a Chianti, and sat at his desk. Here was the journal of Jonathan Greene, father of Sarah Greene. He immediately was drawn to the entry before him.

-The Village of Annisquam, Gloucester, Massachusetts, the 6th Day of July 1834.

Sarah's condition continueth much the same. She said nothing as she sat on the stoop to watch the other children celebrate her birthday. The doctors had attributed her malaise to a possible infection of the brain. Still, it remains to be solved, how her mere presence would have caused the animals to make those sounds. I know deep in my heart that it would be impossible for her to be responsible for Mrs. Allister’s untimely death or why a woman of such merry and successful undertaking, would leave behind her family with a drink of absinth mixed with arsenic.

Marcus was so engrossed in his reading he didn’t even realize that Gail was standing behind him.

“If you are going to be married to Sarah this evening, I am going over to Mrs. Wolcott's for tea."

“I am sorry Gail, but I am not sure what has taken over me the last few weeks for I have become totally obsessed with the story of Sarah Greene. The fire of the Abigail Meriwether was never paid out. For years on account of negligence, there was no insurance claim and the suffering continued for another ten years before the owner of the ship ended his plight after an ale at the saloon with one bullet to his head."

“Sounds ghastly. You can play with your mysteries, and I am going to play chess," said Gail.

“Bring me some of her lemon biscuits."

But Marcus wouldn’t be needing those lemon biscuits. Shortly after Gail departed for an evening tea down the hall, Marcus had expired. The next-door neighbor Mr. Silveira had reported hearing a shriek and a loud thump. When his wife found his body by the window, Marcus’s mouth was drawn open locked in almost an impossible way. Due to the snow accumulation, the city coroners had difficulty getting the body removed until the next morning.

Newburyport, Massachusetts - October 1934

John Newson had only been working at The Newburyport Herald for two months when he received the call from his boss to pick up the Arthur Oker murder story in Rockport. Hard economic times have caused a drop in paper sales, and if there was one true formula for sales, it was murder.

The case had gone cold, and there was no suspect for the crime. On May 21, 1932, Arthur Oker, a Finnish immigrant was found bludgeoned to death in his tailor shop at 77 Main Street, Rockport. On Halloween the following year, a second murder occurred when Augusta Johnson, a churchgoer and Swedish immigrant was found murdered in her own home.

Unfortunately, on October 4, 1934, John Newson found some other clippings in the paper morgue on a most mysterious death in Gloucester in 1889 of a shoe cobbler in possession of a haunting manuscript. This led him down the rabbit hole to eventually publish an article on the Abigail Meriwether fire.

The Rockport Police found John’s body in Pigeons Cove. Locals knew that this was no coincidence, and to tell the story was a harbinger of something more sinister. Dread cast over Gloucester through the years like a suffocating blanket. Something had awakened the night of the fire, and the death of Sarah Greene.

Salem, Massachusetts - March 1986

David Nichols called a college radio station in Boston and told the tale of Sarah Greene. It began as a small shadow on his bedroom ceiling which morphed into a figure, black like the approaching storm clouds over the sea. He was found the next morning under his bed in his apartment in Salem, quite dead. Some say his hair had turned grey.

Boston, Massachusetts- August -October 1996

Reid Miller, Professor of American History at Boston University had settled down in his study with his Woodford Reserve. In the background, the Red Sox were playing the rubber game of a three-game series with Seattle. He received another phone call from his sister Joan frantically telling him to cease research at once.

"You want to research a true crime story? Ted Kaczynski the Unabomber! You want to be a plot on The X- Files? Leave it alone!"

"Joan there are no such things as curses. Sarah was not responsible. The ship owner had gambling debts. The Gloucester Engine Company had a report that was never published. They found traces of incendiaries. Witnesses at Wonsons Wharf saw two men leave the dock who looked as though they did not belong one hundred miles from a fishing wharf."

Joan feared the worst. Yet when morning came, Reid had called her to let her know he was going to be guest speaker at a conference at the Newton Marriott next Friday, and would not be able to watch her daughter. He had lived.

In October of the same year, as the New York Yankees topped the Atlanta Braves four games to two in the World Series, Reid’s book, A History of Gloucester hit the shelves with a full account of the story of Sarah Greene.

Joan had finished her tea and put down her signed copy. She thought about how it seemed that all Sarah wanted all these years was someone to tell the story with vindication. The curse was over. Her brother was alive and well and at this moment, Reid was giving his morning lecture for his Industrial Revolution in New England class on Commonwealth Avenue.

Wellesley, Massachusetts - October 28, 1996, 2:00 p.m.

Joan sat in her therapist’s office looking at wall prints of covers of The New Yorker. She opened up about her irrational fears.

“I feel like a fool. I tormented my brother since he decided to cover Sarah Greene in his book. He is the rational one in the family."

"The power of suggestion can play tricks," said the therapist.

"My Faith is in conflict. I have seen things," said Joan.

"We all have," said the therapist.

Waltham, Massachusetts -October 28, 1996, 2:19 p.m.

Thomas Gack approached a blonde woman at the new bar Illusions on Moody Street. Things were not going well for Thomas, and when he sensed that she was bored, he asked her if she had ever heard of the story of Sarah Greene.

 “I have been up to the rocks where Sarah was thrown off after the fire. It really makes for a good view. Want to take a drive?”

He struck out and then saw a brunette sitting alone in a booth by the rear entrance. He wondered why she would not sit near the bar.

Boston, Massachusetts - October 28, 1996, 2:10 p.m.

Reid Miller was just finishing his sandwich at Cafe' Panache on Newbury Street in Boston and overheard two women converse at the next table.

“Why dwell on this Sue? Matt knows you never cheated on him. No one talks about it anymore. Move on.”

“Diane, it is not that.” She stirred her coffee and looked up at Edvard Munch's The Scream print over her colleague’s shoulder.

“Sometimes just that the story is out there and hearing that me, Sue Murphy, cheated on my husband of twenty years, with my boss of all people mars me in sludge."

Reid dropped his spoon in his soup, jumped back in his chair and ran to the pay phone. He gazed at The Scream waiting for Joan to pick up.

Wellesley, Massachusetts - October 28, 1996, 3:30 p.m.

Joan was heading east after her appointment on Route 9 towards Newton where she would hop on Route 128 North to Gloucester to see her boyfriend Brad, while listening to her new favorite song, This is Your Night by Amber.

She had the radio cranked up so loud she never heard the horn from behind her. Someone was frantically blaring the horn to tell Joan something.

She looked in her rearview mirror and saw her ashen face, grey and elongated with black eyes. Her dark hair seemed to fill the entire back seat.

Witnesses described a red Honda swerving before colliding with a parked construction truck.

Waltham, Massachusetts October 28, 1996, 4:19 p.m.

Waltham Police were dispatched with EMS to Moody Street when a passerby called 911 to report a body floating in the Charles River by the Moody Street Bridge. Patrons at Illusions could only say they saw the man in a bomber jacket and jeans leave with a tall dark-haired woman, but oddly no two patrons gave the same description of the woman’s face.

Berlin, Germany - January 1997

Professor Friedrich Becker had thrown the last copies of A History of Gloucester in an abandoned warehouse near Alexanderplatz. He had been to Boston for his graduate work in American Studies at Northeastern University. No more copies went into print. The matter went to the parent publishing company in Germany.

“Schluss mit der Geschichte. Es ist vorbei. I met Reid Miller at a conference in Boston last September just before he published this book. He remembered our conversation about my connections with Holtzbrinck Publishing in Stuttgart. I am not a mystic, but I do believe that something is happening. If some paranormal force has been tapped by anyone reading or telling this story, even if it is suggestive hypnotism caused by mass hysteria, I will make sure these books burn," said Herr Becker.

“Where is he now Herr Becker?” asked Karl, his assistant.

“San Diego, California."

"Why was he spared?"

"Not clear. No one knows. He is a skeptic. The victims, not knowing what is real and what is an illusion, could have caused their own demise through their own actions."

The assistant cleared his throat.

"What is it, Karl? You look like a Geist".

"Mein Herr, last night I uploaded the story of Sarah Greene on that new world wide web. I thought she deserved a novel. I was unaware."

"Do you know what we have done Karl?" said the Professor.

The odor of decay filled the office.