The Witch They Missed & For the Daughters Who Came After
This week's Folklore Friday we are leaving the creatures of the deep behind and journeying to the shores of colonial New England, where fear and superstition were about to unleash one of the darkest chapters in American history. The year was 1692, and in the small Puritan communities surrounding Salem, Massachusetts, an accusation of witchcraft could cost a woman her life. The fear in this story did not come from the sea. It came from the shore, and it fell on the women who lived there.
There was a time when a woman could be condemned for a storm she never summoned, an illness she never caused, or a shadow someone swore they saw in the night. Deeply held religious beliefs and centuries-old superstitions turned ordinary neighbors into suspected servants of the Devil. But beyond the accusations and executions lies another story, one of survival, remembrance, and the women whose names refused to disappear.
For Puritan settlers, the Devil was a terrifyingly real presence, believed capable of corrupting souls, spreading illness, and bringing misfortune. When young girls in Salem Village began suffering mysterious fits, suspicion turned toward witchcraft. Accusations spread, fueled by religious fear, personal grudges, and the belief that witches could send invisible spirits to torment their victims.
What made a woman suspicious? Sometimes remarkably little. A widow living independently, a poor woman begging for food, or an outspoken neighbor could attract unwanted attention. Women passed down knowledge of medicinal herbs, household remedies, and caring for the sick. While these skills were common, traditional healing sometimes overlapped with folk beliefs about charms and supernatural powers. Even a birthmark could be interpreted as a witch's mark. Once accused, proving innocence could become nearly impossible.
Along New England's coastline, sailors carried centuries-old superstitions across the Atlantic. A century earlier in Scotland, where thousands faced accusations during some of Europe's most brutal witch hunts, women had been blamed for conjuring storms against King James VI and his bride, Anne of Denmark. The belief that witches could command the winds would also surface in accusations against Mary Bradbury of Salisbury, Massachusetts.
Years earlier, a ship carrying butter purchased from Mary encountered a violent storm that shattered its mast and claimed fifteen horses. Weeks later, the butter spoiled, and sailors blamed witchcraft. One even claimed to have witnessed a mysterious female apparition aboard the vessel. These misfortunes became testimony against Mary, who was convicted and sentenced to hang. But with help from friends, she escaped imprisonment, and the sentence was never carried out. The woman accused of commanding the sea had escaped the gallows.
Rebecca Nurse, Mary Easty, and Sarah Cloyce were sisters, all accused of witchcraft. Rebecca, a respected elderly woman, was executed despite neighbors defending her innocence. Mary pleaded for fairer trials, hoping to prevent more innocent lives from being lost. Her words went unheeded, and she too was hanged. Sarah survived months of imprisonment and was eventually freed. She lived for years afterward, surviving a history that had taken both of her sisters. We cannot know every sorrow she endured, but her story reminds us that Salem's tragedy did not end when the executions stopped. Families continued living with the losses, preserving memories and fighting to restore the names of those wronged.
More than three centuries later, another woman's story was still waiting to be made right. Elizabeth Johnson Jr., convicted of witchcraft in 1693, remained legally condemned long after others had been exonerated. In 2022, through the efforts of Massachusetts eighth-grade students and their supporters, her name was finally cleared. After 329 years, a new generation had helped correct an injustice.
Perhaps that is Salem's most extraordinary legacy. Some women left their names in history books; others left only fragments of their lives behind. Yet their stories continue through those who preserve them, the lessons we carry forward, and the daughters still to come.
And somewhere between history and folklore lives our Salem Siren, the witch they missed. Not a figure from historical records, but an imagined woman who slipped beyond the accusations and into the wild Atlantic, where no court could command the tide.
For the women who came before us. May their stories never be lost to the sea.
With love and a little sea magic,
Mountains & Mermaids
