A Haunting in Gloucester

Warning: Mention of suicide and some depictions of death without gore.

Some stories were never meant to be told.

Gloucester, Massachusetts 1867

Hattie Sorley never intended for the game to go this far. It was customary for the adults to return before twilight from the Feast Day of St. Peter at the local Catholic church. Taking advantage of their caregiver, Mrs. Engel’s predictable routine—a hearty supper, Dutch India’s finest tea, a glass of Madeira, her favorite ottoman, and an irresistible evening siesta—Hattie and her friends, Eliza, Glenda, 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 lighthouse keeper, Mr. Crenshaw, a man of imposing height and unsettling disposition. A devil of a fellow, as the townspeople often described him, Mr. Crenshaw claimed the game had cured many long nights of unbearable boredom while standing watch at the lighthouse with his partner, Mr. Sorley, Hattie’s uncle.

Its rules were deceptively 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.

Then the storyteller would lean forward and whisper,

“Let me tell you something that will really haunt you.”

Glenda began with the story of waking at 3:00 a.m. to see an apparition of her uncle Nathanial out on the grass, who died in a fishing accident in 1855.

“But it was not really my uncle. It appeared as such so that we would let him in." she whispered.

Eliza followed by pulling out a small sack. She told the circle that inside was the soul of a local madman.

Beatrice began with 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.

Sit tight my friends, I have a story that will truly haunt you.” said Hattie.

Hattie began with a story of the accused witch of Gloucester, a tragic story of a young woman who was run out of town after she was accused of setting the Wonsons Wharf on fire, which ignited The Abigail Merriwether, a fishing schooner sending 12 men to a watery grave.

“Adults do not ever tell of this tale.”

“It was said that Sarah Greene had been practicing witchcraft at the docks trying to get her husband back from the watery grave at sea and had started a terrible fire.” Noone had known how a fire could spread so fast. Witnesses claimed they saw the mysterious dark-haired lady dressed in her black robe at the docks, looking out into the sea.

“When it became obvious that the town was after her, she went hiding in Rockport. Mrs. Margaret Waters of 18 Main Street who lost her husband Arthur on the Abigail Merriwether had gathered the men from The Merry Saloon and went out to Rockport to kill her.” Legend has it they cornered her on the jutted rocks that protruded into the harbor like a bony finger, and they pushed her off into the tide and she drifted off to sea and drowned," Hattie said.

The room went black.

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

When they found her lifeless small body, The deputy 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.

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

Gloucester Massachustts 1889

Marcus Wintrop had shut down his shoe repair shop on Pleasant Street early this Tuesday evening for the snow had picked up accumulation in the last two hours and hardly any foot traffic would dare venture the upsloping curving street in downtown Gloucester.

This cobbler had it in him that on this evening he was going to pick up that 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 specializing in historical novelties and antique books and manuscripts from New England historical archives. Marcus was also an amateur historian and had come in touch with an old 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 fetival over 20 years ago and why very little was spoken of it for such a tradgey of the untimely death of a young child.

Marcus arrived just after 6:30 as George was escorting a patron out the door.

“We've gotten away without a Nor’easter this time around. I sure do hope that this doesn’t accumulate too much. Not good for business!”

Marcus waved hello and caught a nod from George still with his customer. He made his way in 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 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 Babtist Church.

The manuscript among other artifacts and memories were salvaged in 1840 after the church burned down most of its foundation luckily without the loss of life. Jonathan Greene lived a few more years and succumbed to typhus in 1848.

Mrs. Winthrop had hardly finished preparing supper for her arriving husband when she heard the familiar latch and creak from the door and heard

“Gail” She heard.

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 has caused some distortions and perceptions of time. She had heard from her doctor that auditory hallucinations were common for people suffering from insomnia.

At that point the door flew open with pronounced strength. She jumped and felt shivers run up her spine to her neck. The tea pot went off with a screeching hiss.

It was Marcus after all.

“ Darling you won’t believe this but I have the manuscript and not for but a dollar. That cod stew smells delicious; did you pick it up at Martins?

She decided not to tell him anything about this. The last thing she needed was a stay at that new monstrous hospital down in Danvers.

“I am in here.” Just looking for my favorite cup I can’t seem to find it.

Marcus could not wait to read the manuscript and set it down on his worktable by the window facing the street. Snow had picked up and 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. The heartbeat of Cape Ann was the fishing industry. Very few towns in the local New England area depended on one industry more than Gloucester. Perhaps one can argue Providence with its textiles or Maine with its shipping, but Cape Ann ran on the catch. Many families had generations of fisherman, and its fine skills and trade were passed on from father to son. By the turn of the century there was a large population of Portuguese fisherman in Gloucester.

They had a pleasant supper, and Marcus spoke of the shop. Gail spoke of the neighbor’s cat that once again found its way to her door for extra snacks as usual. After dinner Marcus followed into the study area, poured himself a good Chianti, and took his manuscript to the desk. He unraveled it slowly. It was beautiful. The journal entries of Jonathan Greene, father of Sarah Greene, The First Baptist Church of Annisquam.

He immediately was drawn to the entry before him

Annisquam Gloucester Massachusetts the 6th Day of July 1830.

My daughter continueth much the same. Not a word was spoken as she set herself 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 the root cause of 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. Wolcotts for tea. “

“I am sorry Gail, but I am not sure what has taken over me the last few weeks for I admit I have become totally obsessed with the story of Sarah Greene. I read that the fire of the Abigail Merriwether 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 Merry 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 1934

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

The case had gone cold, and there was no clear 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. Then on Halloween the following year, a second murder occurred when Augusta Johnson, a churchgoer and Swedish immigrant was found murdered in her own home.

Then 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 which led him the most unfortunate decision to also publish an article on the Abigail Merriwether fire. The Newburyport police found John’s body under a bridge. It was believed to be suicide.

More than sixty years had passed with many unsolved deaths of locals who were foolish enough to tell the story.

Salem, Massachusetts 1986

David Nichols called a college radio station in Boston and told the tale of the Mary Celeste and was found the next morning under his bed in his one-bedroom apartment in Salem, quite dead. Some say his hair had turned grey.

Boston, Massachusetts 1996

Reid Miller, a History professor at Boston University had settled down with his Woodford Reserve. In the background, the Red Sox were playing the rubber game of a three game series with Detroit. He received one last phone call for the evening from his sister Joan frantically telling him to cease research at once.

"You want a research a true crime story? Ted Kaczynski the Unabomber! You want to be next weeks story on the X Files? Leave it alone".

Joan don’t tell me you believe that the story is haunted. Stories are not haunted. Places are haunted but not by ghosts, but by memories. The ship owner had gambling debts. The Gloucester Fire Brigade 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 on the 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.

At 2:00 p.m. it was time for Joan's weekly counseling session in Wellesley. Sitting in her therapist’s office looking at bright prints of magazine covers such as The New Yorker, she opened up about being privy to rumors and superstitions.

“I feel like a fool. I tormented my brother for two months since he decided to cover Sara Greene in his book. I would like to think I was part of the hysteria, the mass delusion that the mere retelling of her crime could cause death.

At that same time Tommy looking for a hook-up approached a woman at the new bar Illusions on Moody Street in Waltham. Things were not going well for Tommy, and when he sensed that she was bored, he asked her if she had ever heard of the story of Sarah Greene. Tommy believed he was a good storyteller.

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

He struck out and moved to the next woman he saw sitting alone in a booth by the rear entrance.

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

“Why dwell on it still 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 the Edvard Munch 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 22 years, with my boss of all people mars me in sludge”.

Reid dropped his spoon in his soup and jumped back in his chair and ran to the pay phone.

In Wellesley, Joan was heading east after her appointment on Route 9 towards Newton where she would hop on Route 95 North to drive up to Woburn to see her boyfriend Brad while listening to her favorite station Kiss FM.

“This is your night, dancing free until the morning light, together forever this your night…”

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 head on with a construction truck. Death was instant.

Waltham Police around the same time 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 a man around 30 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 1997.

Professor Holden had thrown the last copies of The History of Gloucester in the abandoned wine cellar off Alexander Platz. He had been to Boston for his graduate work in American Studies at Northeastern University. No more copies went into print at the request of the author.

“Schluss mit der Geschichte. Es ist vorbei” "I met Reid Miller at a conference in a suburb of Boston in 1996 just before he published this book."

“Where is he now Professor Holden?” Asked his assistant.

“ Not sure. Some say after his stay at Mass. General he went to San Diego and is teaching at some community college. “

"Why was he spared?"

"Not clear. No one knows. Best the book be banned".

The Assistant cleared his throat. "Sir, last night I uploaded the story of Sarah Greene on this new thing called the World Wide Web. I was unaware why you were so fascinated with the story".