Showing posts with label witch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label witch. Show all posts

Friday, November 29, 2024

Southern Maryland’s Moll Dyer

Moll Dyer's Rock 

My “home zone” is Southern Maryland, which has been described by many as one of the most haunted areas in the country. Many tales have been shared around childhood campfires over the years. Stories that sent shivers down my spine even as flickering flames lent warmth to the telling.

Sotterly Plantation and Greenwell State Park are the source of many of these stories. Ghostly nuns, deceased soldiers of bygone eras and victims of not so accidental deaths are said to roam the buildings’ halls and surrounding fields. A short jaunt up the road (as the crow flies) is the site of the “blue dog” haunting where a mysterious ethereal canine is said to guard the remains of his murdered master as he has for centuries. Add in Point Lookout where the Union held Confederate prisoners in conditions that made Andersonville look like an island vacation and you can see why the area has the reputation it does.

Naturally, having grown up with these legends, they are in one manner or another, incorporated into my writing. None stir my imagination like the story of Moll Dyer, however, an accused witch from the late 1600s.   

Although the historical proof of her existence is minimal, we have a local county road named after her, and likewise a small stream. There’s the rock purported to be where she breathed her last. Most researchers miss the colonial letter describing her “countenance” in an unfavorable manner, but we’re mostly left with legends. Oral tradition- once the only historical record, and the basis of the old truism “where there’s smoke, there’s fire. How apt is that for a tale of this nature?

Although there are some small deviations to the legend, most oral traditions agree: Moll was an herbal healer and hermit. Most state her origin was Ireland, although she likely arrived on a passenger ship from England. She arrived on our shores single and unaccompanied and never married. She preferred the company of the Native Americans to her European neighbors. She dressed in a manner of lost affluence (threadbare clothes originally made from the finest materials). She froze to death on the coldest night of 1697 after a citizen’s mob burned her small cabin to the ground believing her a witch and the source of a blight on the land. She was found days later, draped over a large rock with one hand raised to the heavens. Some say in prayer; others say to curse the local citizenry. She was discovered by a young lad in search of his missing cow.

So then, who was Moll Dyer? I won’t fabricate a correlation between any segment of the legend and other past lives lived here. It’s unnecessary to make her story more real. Her tragedy speaks to its own truth and …perhaps that’s enough. My answer to the question is Moll’s truth, even if intangible. Moll Dyer is everyone who’s faced injustice or been mocked for being different; those scorned for their beliefs and tormented for living a life true to themselves. She is anyone condemned at the court of public opinion and castigated for their lack of popularity or political correctness. She’s the embodiment of Sarah Goode of Salem fame, Anne Frank, John the Baptist, Joan of Arc, Anne Boleyn, Rosa Parks and…well, the list goes on! Moll, the accused witch, could be the patron saint of them all.

I believe Moll Dyer would be proud of her legacy, and that she’d feel some measure of peace and exoneration from the tales being told of her today. She was once used as a cautionary tale- a warning to little children to behave, but no longer. Now we remember Moll whenever we’re bullied, accused without cause or feeling friendless. Perhaps she gives us a twinge of conscience when we are the ones doing the bullying? It warms my heart to think that some good is our final inheritance from the tragedy of Moll Dyer.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer, and a member of the Horror Writers' Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.



Tuesday, October 15, 2024

Organs for Sale

 The Witch's One Stop Shop is selling organs


The air was crisp and cool, signaling the arrival of autumn. The leaves had begun to turn to shades of fiery red and golden yellow, a beautiful backdrop for the second weekend of October in the early nineteen eighties. It was one of the last opportunities to sit around a campfire before winter’s chill set in. Jack’s father had recently built a firepit in the backyard, and a group of nine-year-old kids eagerly huddled around it, their faces lit up by the dancing flames. They roasted marshmallows on sticks and traded scary Halloween stories, trying to outdo each other with tales of ghosts and ghouls. Jack, a lanky boy with unruly jet-black hair, couldn’t resist sharing his classic story about the ghost that haunted the spooky house in the woods.

However, Steve, his short blond friend, quickly protested, declaring that they had all heard it countless times before. “Come on, Jack! You told this story a gazillion times already.”

But Jack persisted, determined to give them all goosebumps with his eerie storytelling skills. His face flushed with anger, and he was on the verge of snapping at Steve, but Claire, a tomboy who hated girly clothes and was known as the diplomat of their friend circle, stepped in. “Enough, you two!” she scolded the boys, shaking her head. “Steve, if you find Jack’s story boring, why don’t you tell a new story?”

“You tell a story, smarty-pants!” Steve retorted with a sneer. Despite his tendency to criticize others, he rarely had any original thoughts of his own to contribute. His sharp tongue was often used to deflect attention from his lack of creativity.

Claire’s voice quivered as she spoke, “Okay. I’m going to tell you what I saw yesterday.” She paused to take a deep breath before continuing, her eyes wide with fear of the memory. “Grandma and I went to the Witch’s One Stop Shop, you know, in that spooky house that used to be empty. And Marie’s mom, who works nearby, saw a ghost there when she was walking home late one night.” The words hung in the air, thick with tension.

“Come on, Claire, you didn’t see a ghost, did you?” Steve cackled.

Claire replied with a nervous tremor in her voice, “Of course not! It was in the middle of the afternoon. But I’ve seen something that scared the daylights out of me.”

“What did you see?” Jack asked, his interest peaking.

“When we went into the store, there was a sign that said used organs for sale. And when the woman came out of the back door, I could swear she was a real witch. She wore black clothes, her hair in a messy bun, and she wore a black eyepatch over her right eye.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a witch!” Charlie looked at Claire wide-eyed.

“No?” Claire snapped. “She had bloody gloves on, and she just took them off and threw them in the garbage.”

“Um…bloody gloves?” Jack shivered. “You mean…if, as you said, she’s selling organs…”

“What?” Steve whispered. “Like kidneys and livers and hearts kinda organs? Naw, it can’t be true!”

“I guess so...and what I saw made me think because I saw Marie’s mom leaving the store with a small package in her hand that was smeared with blood,” Claire said, wringing his fingers and taking a deep breath. “You guys know that Marie is very sick and waiting for the right organ donor who can give her a kidney, right?”

“Jack let out a heavy, sympathetic sigh. “Yes, poor Marie,” he muttered.

“I went to visit her the other day,” Claire continued. “Marie was asleep, but her mom insisted I wait for her to wake up. So, I sat in the living room and started reading the book I got for Marie. But I couldn’t help overhearing Marie’s parents talking in the kitchen. Her mom cried and said that there was still no match for Marie and asked Marie’s dad what they were going to do. But then her father got angry and shouted that if they couldn’t find a match soon, he’d have to buy a kidney on the black market. He said there are plenty of organs for sale; they just needed to find the right seller.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO



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