Lovers Leap

(*note* Story contains mention of ghosts and death as well as evil spirits.)

They call it Purgatory Chasm—a name that sounds like a warning. Seventy feet of granite split open above the rough waters of Narragansett Bay, where the mist never quite lifts and the air always smells faintly of salt and rust. It sits just beyond Second Beach, at the edge locals call Surfer’s End for its wild waves and unpredictable surf.

For all its beauty, Purgatory Chasm has always carried a darkness. Its name isn’t just poetic—it’s earned. The drop between its granite walls has claimed its share of lives, and if the stories are to be believed, it isn’t finished yet.

I’d just finished taking photos at the overlook. The place was quiet, peaceful even. A small footbridge connects both sides of the chasm, its chain-link fence sagging beneath the weight of dozens of rusted padlocks left by lovers who wanted to make something last. It’s sentimental, but ugly too—the metal is tearing away from the poles, the links turning orange with corrosion. I can’t help wondering how many of those couples are still together.

The trail back is rugged and uneven. As I reach the small parking lot off Purgatory Road, I notice a car full of teenage boys nearby—one vaping, another rummaging through the trunk. I hear their music start up as I unlock my car and, God help me, catch myself thinking “damn kids.” Funny how I’ve become that cranky woman at the ripe old age of forty-three.

Still, I remember being their age here—hanging out on these cliffs, sneaking beers, smoking weed, yelling nonsense into the void just to hear the echo. For some reason, “Viagra!” was our word of choice. I couldn’t tell you why. Don’t judge me—you were a dumb teenager once too. (If anyone wants to meet up and yell into the void again, I’m game.)

Anyway, this trip wasn’t just nostalgia. It started because of a thrift-store find—a worn paperback called Rhode Island Curiosities. While flipping through, I came across a section titled “What the Devil,” about a Native spirit named Hobbomoko said to haunt these cliffs.

The story went like this: a Native girl, fleeing after killing an Englishman in Wickford, was cornered by another settler. Desperate, she called to Hobbomoko—a sometimes mischievous, sometimes merciful deity—for help. But the spirit took the shape of her pursuer, seized her, and leapt toward the water, letting her fall to her death. Where he landed, the rock split, leaving deep hoof marks in the stone—Devil’s Foot Rock. Supposedly, that’s how the chasm got its name.

Only, the tale actually belongs to a similar landmark in Massachusetts. Still, wrong story or not, the darkness fits here. And that brings us to a different legend—one that belongs wholly to this place.

The story of the Newport heiress who never left.

Have I got your attention now?

Good. Let’s begin.

There’s a reason this place is called Purgatory Chasm, and it’s not just because its entrance is right off Purgatory Road. This isn’t just a geological split—it’s a wound. And it bleeds time.

They say if you come here at dusk, when the wind carries the tang of salt and the fog rolls low, you can hear her.

The voice.

Always the same phrase, whispered just above the wind:

“Prove it. Prove your devotion.”

Most people turn back at that. But some linger. They swear they see her across the gap—a woman in a long, flowing dress, her hair streaming like torn silk. She’s beautiful, or would be, if she weren’t so impossibly still. Then comes the sound that freezes every muscle: a scream—sudden, sharp—and then the echo of water below.

And silence.

They call her the Heiress. And they say she’s been jumping since 1848.

She’d been part of the Newport summer set—the glittering crowd that arrived from Providence and Boston each June in lacquered carriages, trailing gossip and linen trunks. Her family’s villa on Bellevue Avenue wasn’t the grandest, but it was grand enough for her to be seen at the Reading Room, champagne glass poised, laughter delicate and practiced. On bright afternoons, she was spotted walking the Bellevue Avenue heading toward the Atlantic Hotel for social hour, with the breeze in her hair and the whole town watching. The town was on a grand rise from farming to wealthy gold prospectors set to bring their riches and completely revamp the former port city.

She had everything a young woman could want—except enough attention.

The story goes she met a suitor, handsome and reckless, from a family with just enough fortune to count. He adored her; she tolerated him. One afternoon, standing at the chasm, she teased him: “If you love me, prove it. Jump.”

And he did.

He made the leap, landing safely on the far side. Then he looked back, met her eyes, and said only, “Goodbye.”

She was devastated. Humiliated. And for someone raised to believe the world bent to her will, that humiliation was unbearable.

Because there was never just a girl and a boy on that cliff. There was something else watching.

The Wampanoag once spoke of Hobbomoko, the spirit of balance and mischief. To some, he was a god of the underworld, tied to death and fate. To others, he was simply a correction—the force that leveled arrogance and restored order. When the colonists came, they called him a devil. But Hobbomoko was never evil. He punished imbalance.

And the heiress, who thought love was obedience and devotion could be commanded, had tipped the scales too far.

So he whispered to her—through the wind, through her lover’s voice, maybe even through her own vanity. He made her believe it was her idea to demand proof. And when she was denied, when her power meant nothing, he took her. Not her body—her soul.

He stretched that moment of heartbreak into eternity.

Now she falls forever. Commands forever. Despairs forever.

That’s why the place is called Purgatory—it isn’t a metaphor. It's a fact.

When visitors hear her voice, they’re not hearing a ghost. They’re hearing the loop—a punishment written by a god who never left. Hobbomoko doesn’t need to appear. His balance was perfect the first time.

Today, the air tastes like rain and iron, strong winds whipping through the wooded area protecting the cliffs as the skies above prepare for a storm. A group of teenage boys walk the path, laughing, until one stops.

“Wait,” he says. “Do you hear that?”

The wind dies. For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then, soft as breath:

“Prove it.”

They look at one another. Someone calls out, half-joking, “Hello?”

A figure stirs across the gap—white fabric fluttering. A woman. One boy lifts his phone, hits record—but the screen goes black. The air grows cold. The kind of cold that feels like grief.

Then the scream.

Short. Final.

They run, stumbling down the path, shouting over each other.

“No way!”

“Did you see that?”

“What the hell was that?”

Back at the car, the one with the phone checks the video. There’s nothing to see—only sound. A whisper, soft and almost tender:

“Prove it… please.”

The voice isn’t mocking anymore. It’s pleading.

And somewhere deep beneath the granite, a low laugh

answers—ancient, satisfied, and fading.

Because Hobbomoko is still here. Patient as stone.

He doesn’t need worship or fear—only balance.

And as long as the chasm stays open, his lesson will keep running, again and again.

After all, Purgatory was never meant to end.