This story is dedicated to the children on the hill: Albert, Craig, Mildred, Andrea, Anthony, Jonathan and one unnamed baby boy.

Tiny Tears from Limbo Hill

Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. (Mark 10:14)

Prologue

“Lord, be pleased to bless this grave, and set your holy angel to watch over it; through Christ our Lord.” Muffled sobs of mourners mixed with the monotonous drone of the priest's voice. “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Our Father…”

Rays of golden morning sun glinted off the edge of the tiny white casket around which they had gathered. The party stood atop a gentle slope in an area of the cemetery set apart for infants and small children, a handful of which had been laid to rest here since 1929, the most recent just five years earlier.

“…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Lord, You consoled Martha and Mary in their distress; draw near to us who mourn for Jonathan, and dry the tears of those who weep. We pray to the Lord. Lord have mercy.”

The crowd responded in a murmur. “Lord, have mercy.”

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

“Amen.”

“May he rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

The priest addressed the living. “May the love of God and the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ console you and gently wipe every tear from your eyes.”

“Amen.”

He made the sign of the cross, saying, “May Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

#

Flowers bursting with color still covered the tiny plot the following day, their fragrance filled the nostrils of a lone figure who knelt before it. Teardrops slid down delicate cheeks and landed upon soft earth. In the echoes of her mind, a mother-in-law's chastisement replayed over and over. He can't enter the Kingdom of Heaven because of you. He's forever deprived of the Beatific Vision. He'll never see the face of God because of you.

A familiar sound interrupted the young girl's mental anguish. Startled, she looked around, but saw no one. She stood up and surveyed the area until satisfied nobody lurked there. But still she heard the unmistakable sound. Somewhere a baby cried. Her gaze fell to the flower-covered grave at her feet. The crying grew louder. She threw hands up to block her ears but could not banish the sound. In despair she turned and ran from the place.

I

“Paranormal Research Institute, Harry Alexander speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hello, Mr. Alexander. My name is Anthony R—. I wonder if you might be able to help my wife.”

“What seems to be the trouble? Is she experiencing paranormal phenomena?”

“Well, I don't know exactly. She's been through a lot lately. I mean, we've recently buried our little boy.”

“Wow. I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. It's been hard on both of us, but Diane is especially upset. You see, we hadn't baptized him—she was waiting for her sister to arrive from California—and, well, Jonathan died suddenly, in his sleep, and I'm afraid my mother has given my wife quite a guilt trip, telling her he can't go to Heaven and all that. I've asked her to stop such talk, but . . .” His voice trailed off, then returned. “Anyway, Diane came home yesterday hysterical from a visit to his grave; said she could hear him crying.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yeah, I want her to go to a support group for grieving parents or maybe even a psychiatrist, but she won't do it. She's afraid what people will think. That maybe she's crazy or something.”

I tried to reassure him. “That's a common fear, one which psychiatrists expect and address very early on. I do know a few I can recommend.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alexander, but I'm actually hoping you can just help convince her Jonathan is not crying in that cemetery.”

“Well, I can bring a medium out to determine whether or not there's a presence.”

“What? You don't seriously believe there is, do you?”

“It's possible. Unlikely, but possible.”

“Wait a minute. What do we do if your—what do you call it—medium, what if your medium somehow convinces Diane our baby is some kind of earthbound spirit? What do we do then?”

“If that turns out to be the case, we'll bring in a rescue circle to help his little soul cross over.”

“Cross over? Uh, this is all sounding way too hokey for me. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Alexander.”

“Wait now, don't hang up. Chances are very good that Diane is simply experiencing traumatic stress. If so, our findings will help set her mind at ease. On the other hand, if we discover a soul in need of help, you owe it to your son to let us do whatever we can.”

II

Mr. R— reluctantly gave in to my persuasion and agreed to bring us to his son's grave site in Hudson, Massachusetts. I contacted Rosalyn Davenport, a medium affiliated with One Small Candle, a group dedicated to helping spirits move on. I told her about baby Jonathan.

“Consider my calendar cleared, Sweetie. Do you want me to get a team together?

“I don't think we need to drag a whole group of folks out there just yet. The boy's spirit may not even be present. At this point I'd like your help finding out.”

“All righty. You just let me know when.”

I knew I could count on her.

On an overcast day we parked across the street from the cemetery entrance where Mr. and Mrs. R— met us. They appeared to be in their thirties; Anthony a muscular man, Diane rather petite. Their dark complexions led me to believe they were of Mediterranean descent. (They turned out to be Portuguese.) Diane was a pretty girl but sad; red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks revealed she'd been crying recently. Anthony held out a hand. “Thank you for coming. Our son's grave is way in the back, up on a hill.”

We followed the couple and finally came within sight of a small white statue, the Virgin Mary standing with face tilted and arms spread as if embracing the little ones. Rosalyn grabbed hold of my arm, her voice a whisper. “There's something here.”

“You can tell already?”

“Oh yes, a strong presence.”

At the foot of the tiny grave, Diane turned to face me, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. “Can you hear it?”

I exchanged glances with Anthony. “I don't hear anything, Ma'am.”

“I do,” Rosalyn said. “Clear as a bell, a baby crying. Can't you hear it?” Anthony scowled, this was exactly what he'd said he feared would happen. Apparently he couldn't hear anything either.

Diane cried harder. “It's my baby!” Anthony put an arm around her and pulled her to his chest, while glaring at me.

Feeling rather uncomfortable, I turned to Rosalyn. “Why is he here?”

“Because of her,” she replied, indicating the embracing couple. Probably the worst thing she could have said, it caused a fresh wave of grief to come over the poor woman.

“Your mother is right,” Diane wailed. “I've kept our baby out of Heaven and he can never see God!”

“What?” Rosalyn knitted her eyebrows, then began shaking her head. “No. That's not it at all. You haven't kept him out of Heaven, you've simply kept him here. He's crying because you're distraught. Your grief is what's holding him back. He can't move on until you let him go.”

Diane lifted her puffy face from Anthony's chest and looked at Rosalyn. “How am I supposed to let him go?”

A man answered, “Have faith.” We all turned toward the sound of this new voice. As if on cue a dark-haired young priest had come walking up around the hill. “Trust in the wisdom and mercy of God.”

Diane took a deep breath and tried to explain. “But my baby wasn't baptized. He can't go to Heaven.”

The priest held up a hand. “Wait; don't be so quick to judge. Jesus said, 'Suffer the children to come to me'. He never said, 'but only those who've been baptized'. Come, let us pray.” He stepped up and stood next to the couple at the foot of the grave, raised his arms and lifted his voice to Heaven. “Father of all consolation, from whom nothing is hidden, you know the faith of these parents who mourn the death of their child. May they find comfort in knowing that he is entrusted to your loving care.”

“Amen.”

As if God Himself were answering, a ray of sunshine peeked through the clouds. Rosalyn asked, “Do you hear that?”

“What?” I asked. I'd expected, "Did you see that?" meaning the sunlight.

“It stopped.”

Diane looked all around, then up to the brightening sky. “He's not crying anymore.”

Anthony and I exchanged glances once again. I had never heard anything, but the women were in agreement; the infant's crying had ceased. The priest smiled warmly, then departed saying, “May the peace of the Lord be with you always.”

Diane and Anthony responded trancelike, “And also with you.”

As we said goodbye and parted ways it relieved me greatly to see Diane had stopped crying as well. Perhaps mother and child both found peace that day.

Epilogue

In 1984, at the time of this case, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome had yet to be identified, and although its cause remains unknown, little Jonathan R— was almost certainly one of its victims.

The fate of unbaptized babies has long been the subject of much debate in Catholic circles. Diane's mother-in-law had grown up with the teaching that although they didn't suffer in Purgatory (as was formerly taught) they remained in a place called "Limbo" where they could never know God's love. Currently the Pope is considering dropping the idea of "Limbo" from the theology, in favor of the belief that these Holy Innocents do indeed have a place in Heaven.

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Night of the Lights

“Remember this date,” the old watchman told his young replacement. “August 30, "The Night of the Lights". It's best if you don't look at 'em, but in thirty-three years I've never been able to turn away. We'll just lock the doors and stay inside the building no matter what happens out there.”

“What are the lights?” the younger man asked.

“No one knows, but they're hypnotic and they're deadly. The last fella to have this job made the mistake of going out after 'em. He was found face-down in the grass with a musket ball in his back.”

“A musket ball?”

“Yep. That was back in '56.”

“So, where do these mysterious lights come from?”

“No one knows that, either. I suspect the cemetery out back. Some of those stones date from the early 1700's, which may account for the musket ball, but I've only actually seen 'em out front where they float across the field and disappear into the ground. The urge to go out there and chase after 'em is mighty powerful, but don't give in to it, whate'r you do.” With these words he locked the door.

Two faces stared out the windows of the Walker Building into the darkness. Below them the small city of Marlborough slept.

As they waited in silence four flickering flames appeared on the hill and began moving slowly through the air. Picking up speed, they changed direction and began moving down the hill away from the building and toward the street. All of a sudden they stopped, fell to the ground and were seen no more.

The young man, James Rundell, broke for the door. Don Cowan, the older man, anticipating the move, restrained him. “Hold on, fella! Don't go out there; it ain't safe!”

The young man soon recovered his composure. He wiped sweat from his brow, panting to catch his breath. “I couldn't help myself.”

“I know, I know,” the old man assured him. “I'm retiring and moving to Florida, so next year you're on your own. Remember this date and do whate'r it takes to protect yourself.”

♦   ♦   ♦

One year later. . .

“Are you getting this?”

“I am! I am!”

“Hold the thing steady!”

“I'm doin' the best I can considering I'm cuffed to this radiator.”

“Yeah, but it couldn't be helped.”

“There they go! They're turnin'!”

“Try to keep 'em in focus!”

“I am! I am! Wait—they're gone.”

“Keep at it a minute, just in case there's anything else.”

The two men saw nothing more. Finally the young watchman removed the handcuffs with which he had chained himself to the radiator. Then he released his likewise bound friend. “There's a VCR in the other room. Let's see what we've got.”

They stared at the TV set as four lights paraded across the screen and disappeared.

“They look sorta like candles,” observed one.

“I think they're orbs,” replied the other.

“What are orbs?”

“Ghosts or spirits, or maybe the energy they use. They've been photographed plenty of times, but I've never seen one on video. I'm going to send it to the Paranormal Research Institute in Boston and see what they think. Maybe they'll want to do an investigation.”

“They'll probably think it's a hoax.”

♦   ♦   ♦

“I think it's a hoax.”

“Let me see the letter again.”

I handed it to my associate, John Everett, with whom I had just watched the video.

Dear Sir or Madam,

Please find enclosed a videotape shot by my friend, Bob, at the Walker Building in Marlborough where I work as a night watchman. No one around here seems to know what these strange lights are, but they can be seen moving across the front lawn every year on August 30. I saw them myself for the first time last year and so was ready for them this year when they made their annual appearance.

There is a very old cemetery behind the building and they may originate from there, but it is uncertain just where they come from or indeed where they go. As you can see from the tape, they just disappear.

We would be very interested to have you come out to investigate and maybe help us explain just what we're seeing.

Sincerely,

(signed) James Rundell
(signed) Robert Spencer

“What do you think?” I asked when he'd finished reading.

“Well, I'm not ready to call it a hoax, just yet. I mean, these two aren't trying to convince us they have something supernatural, they're asking us to check it out. Maybe they're just attention-seekers, but they've given us a definite date; I don't see why we shouldn't look into it.”

“You're right. If they were just putting us on, they wouldn't wait almost a full year to have their fun. They would have said it was a more frequent occurrence. Also, they admit freely that they don't know what it is.”

“Well, we've got some time, maybe our friend Sarah Sreenan will take a look at it, she knows a lot about weird lights and other such phenomena.”

♦   ♦   ♦

As expected, Sarah was more than happy to come out and help us. John and I waited while she read the letter and watched the short video. “Well,” she said when it was over, “legends av Oirlan' tell us aboyt Jack wi' 'is lantern, who'd appear ter travelers an' lead dem into de bogs, from whaich they'd ne'er escape. Woe ter they dat followed auld Jack!”

“But Jack o'Lantern didn't follow a regular schedule, did he?” John asked. “I mean, seeing him was more of a random thing, right?”

Sarah nodded. “Thar's also somethin' called de Will o' de Wisp, said ter be lights carried by elves who're animated by souls ov de dead; men, weemen, an' chil'ren.” She shook her head as if she'd already discounted that theory. “But dohs usually move aboyt randomly, especially de wee ones, who tend ter run al' over. These look more like de Canwylls Corph av a Teulu.”

“A what?” asked John and I together.

“A Teulu is a phantasmic funeral procession an' Canwylls Corph are Corpse Candles, phosphorescent flames dat usually appear in late summer. They've an 'ypnotizin' affect an' make mortals folly wha ever they lead an' so are called "Ignis Fatuus" or "Foolish Fire".”

“But, shouldn't a funeral procession be going toward the cemetery?” I asked.

“Ye'd tink it wud,” she agreed. “Let me look into it a bit an' see waaat oi find.”

Sarah left us with assurances that she would accompany us to Marlborough on our investigation and I penned a letter to James Rundell, the night watchman, telling him to expect us August 30 next.

♦   ♦   ♦

We arrived about an hour before sunset on the appointed day and James Rundell in his uniform met us in front of the building. “Good evening, James, I'm Harry Alexander of the PRI and these are my assistants John Everett and Sarah Sreenan. Where should we set up?”

“Please call me Jim,” he said, shaking hands. “This is my friend, Bob Spencer, who shot the video.” More handshaking ensued. “I have to warn you,” Jim said, “that these lights are dangerous. There's a legend about a night watchman being hypnotized by them. He ran out into the night after 'em. The next morning people found him dead from a musket ball in the back.”

Sarah said, “Aye, gettin' caught up in a Teulu would be unpleasant an' might be fierce, but oi doubt anythin' would shoot at us.”

“They show up every year?” John asked.

“So I'm told. Since 1956, maybe even before that.”

Sarah produced a fishbowl and asked Jim to fill it about half way with water, which he promptly did. She took a small round loaf of bread and cut a hole in the top. She placed a white candle into the hole and set the bread to float in the bowl of water.

“What's that for?” asked Bob.

“Whaen it gets close ter time for de Teulu ter make its appearance, we light de candle. Dis 'ill make de entire scene visible ter us, not jist de flickerin' lights dat you've seen before.”

John and I set up microphones and recording devices around the area outside the building. We didn't entertain high hopes of hearing anything, but we figured it couldn't hurt. When everything was ready we settled down to wait. Jim locked the doors for our safety. At about 11:30 she lit the candle, saying:

May we see by dis here light
De phantoms of de night.

We actually heard them before we saw them.

“We have learned that you savages are not to be trusted. You will be marched to Boston to stand trial for your treachery.”

“But, Captain Moseley, Sir, many of these people are not fit to march, certainly not the 28 miles to Boston.”

“You have your orders, Sergeant. Now get them moving!”

Then we saw them. Armed soldiers in Puritan dress, sporting black shirts with wide white collars, and the distinctive, tall, wide-brimmed hat with a buckle in front, flanked about fifteen Indians who stood in columns of two.

“There are the lights!” Bob exclaimed. They shone over the heads of some of the Indians, two men and a woman holding a baby. Slowly they moved with the procession across the lawn. Suddenly that little group broke away from the others and began running down the hill.

“There they go!” cried Jim.

“Shoot them!” shouted the man we took to be Captain Moseley. Soldiers pointed their guns and fired.

Jim whispered, “Musketballs.” The Indians fell.

“Bury them right here!” ordered the captain. Some of the soldiers began to dig. “Tie the rest of them by their necks and get them moving!”

“Captain Moseley, Sir, there's an infant still alive.”

“Put it in the hole with its mother.”

“I will not, Sir!”

Captain Moseley raised his own weapon fired. “Now, put it in the hole.”

The other man stared in disbelief. “The Devil may take you, Captain.”

With that the images disappeared and everything was quiet. Sarah blew out the candle and we sat a moment in silence. Finally, John said, “I'd like to come back in the daytime and excavate the spot where that grave might be.”

“I'll arrange to get permission,” whispered Jim who continued to stare out the window at nothing.

♦   ♦   ♦

He called the office the next day. “As long as we repair the lawn we are welcome to dig, but only with hand tools, and we have to notify the authorities immediately if we discover any human remains.”

Sarah wasn't interested in digging for bodies, but John and I returned to meet up with Bob and Jim. It wasn't long before we found something. It turned out to be a water pipe. John looked up at me. “How much you willing to bet whoever laid this pipe found those bones?”

Jim contacted the office of the water registrar who informed him that the pipe had been put there in 1951. Showing a keen sense of sleuthing, he found a man at the Senior Center who had been involved with the project. “I remember that,” the old man said. “Strange experience, finding human bones. We called the cops who came in and determined that the bones had been there too long to classify the site as a crime scene. They bundled 'em up and took 'em away. I was very careful about my digging after that.”

Jim next went to the police station where he was allowed to look through the old archives. He discovered that the bones had been delivered to the R. S. Peabody Foundation at Phillips Acadamy. On the phone he told me about his conversation with them. “They told me there's a Federal law that states: All Native American remains held in repositories must be returned to the place of their disinterment and reburied.”

“I think it's great that you were able to track down and find those remains.”

“Wait, there's more. They also told me that they can only be turned over to an Indian chief.”

“Let me make some calls. Somebody I know must know a chief. Meanwhile, contact the Cemetery Department and see what you can do about finding a reburial site, chances are they won't let us reinter them on the front lawn of your building.”

Sure enough, one of my contacts knew a shaman, or medicine man, who put me in touch with Chief Natachaman of the Nipmuc tribe. I told the chief about our discovery and that we were seeking permission to rebury the bones. He agreed to receive them from the Peabody Foundation and preside over the ceremony.

Jim called with good news. “I've got permission to use the Old Common Burial Ground, which is behind the building and not far from the original site. They said I had to have a suitable container to bury the bones in, but I found a funeral home willing to donate a burial vault.”

“We're in good shape, then.” I went on to tell him about my conversation with Chief Natachaman.

♦   ♦   ♦

We assembled at the cemetery where we met Chief Natachaman, a big man with bronze skin and high cheekbones. He wore a buckskin shirt and moccasins, but a felt hat, not the feathered headress I'd been expecting. His countenance was solemn as we introduced ourselves. The chief was accompanied by a medicine man who wore brightly colored clothing and beads of purple and red. The two Indians carefully placed the container which held the bones into the new grave. Chief Natachaman said a short prayer in his native tongue which he explained was for the restless spirits to find peace. “I told them we were burying them so they could begin their journey anew. I asked them to forgive not only those who caused them harm, but also those who had disturbed their long rest.” After the burial, Chief Natachaman placed four candles in the ground at the corners of the mound “to light their way home.”

Jim tells me there have been no strange sightings in the years since we held that little ceremony. I like to think this means the spirits have finally found peace and that we were witness to the last "Night of the Lights".

Notes

For the real story of these Indians including a picture of the stone that marks their grave in Marlborough, click here.

Sarah's Irish accent courtesy of whoohoo.co.uk Irish Translator.

References

Arden, Harvey. “Who Owns Our Past?” National Geographic, vol. 175 no. 3, March 1989, p. 376.

Buczek, John. "The Four Nipmucs of Marlborough: As told by Gary Brown of the Marlborough Historical Commission". Website.

Leach, Douglas Edward. Flintlock and Tomahawk: New England in King Philip's War. 1958. Reprint, New York: Norton, 1966.

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The Tormented Souls of Tewksbury

On impulse Jeanie Montano turned her bike from the main path, the one she usually took through these woods, and followed the smaller trail to the right. She had no fear of getting lost. Paved roadways bordered this small wooded area on two sides and farmland stretched along another. The fourth abutted the grounds of the Tewksbury State Hospital and Infirmary. The massive three and a half story red brick building that dominated the hill was still visible through the towering pines.

To avoid a fallen log, she briefly left the path, but in doing so her front tire struck an object and jerked violently to the right. The bike went over and Jeanie crashed to the ground. Luckily, she wasn't seriously injured, a thick carpet of pine needles cushioned her fall. Upon opening her eyes, she gasped at the object which came into focus, a small metal circle about three inches tall with a cross in the middle. She lifted herself onto an elbow to have a closer look. It was a bit rusty; she could barely make out a number on the cross: 102. Glancing around she noticed many similar markers littering the ground. She refocused her attention on the one directly in front of her and reached out a hand to touch it.

The scene disappeared when Jeanie took her hand away. She stood up and, without even brushing herself off, walked a few feet to another encircled cross. She bent down and put her fingers on the number 431.

Jeanie could hardly believe the visions coming through. She moved to another cross, 47, and put her hand on it.

Jeanie's scream echoed through the woods as she pulled her hand back and scrambled away. Blind with fright, she grabbed her bike and pedalled as fast as she could, not slowing down until she'd made it home. Exhausted, she flung herself on her bed and sobbed until sleep gave her respite. Thankfully, she did not dream.

♦   ♦   ♦

She awoke, somewhat refreshed and feeling better, a few hours later and immediately called her sister, Jennifer. “I know I've ridiculed you in the past for your claims about being able to converse with the dead, but you've got to come with me to this place.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“In the woods behind the State Hospital I found hundreds of these little grave markers. Every time I touched one I got a vision...yeah, me. You've got to come with me and see what you can pick up.”

Jen agreed and that afternoon both women took a trip to the pine woods. Even before they'd entered Jen claimed to be getting powerful vibes. “Well, I can tell you're not pulling my leg at least. There's definitely something here.” The wind whispered through the pines.

As they approached the site of the burials, Jen covered her ears and shouted at Jeanie. “What have you done?! There aren't hundreds of them, there are thousands! And they're all screaming! We have to get out of here!”

In the next instant the girls were running back toward the car. Once they'd reached it and stopped they took a moment to catch their breath. Jeanie confronted Jen. “I thought you could communicate with the dead.”

“Communicating with them is one thing.” She lifted an arm and pointed in the direction from which they'd come. “All they're doing is screaming. I don't know if it's out of fear, pain, anger or what. Anyway, I couldn't possibly deal with so many of them. Believe me, they are legion in those woods. We need professional help.”

“Professional help from who?”

“The Paranormal Research Institute. I'll call them. I know they'll help.”

♦   ♦   ♦

That was how we got involved. My name is Harry Alexander, president of the Boston chapter of the PRI, an international organization dedicated to investigating supernatural phenomena. Normally I would have conducted a preliminary examination of the premises before assembling an entire team, but Jennifer Montano convinced me that the area was teeming with earthbound souls. What was needed was a rescue circle to help those poor departed find peace.

So I put together a team of ten of the finest psychics in the business and explained the situation as we made our way north to the town of Tewksbury, about thirty minutes away.

We met the girls on Livingston Street at the edge of the woods and introductions were made all around. The group of psychics I had brought with me were: Scott Elkins, Steven Noah, Susan Caudill, Hugh Spencer, Paula Conrad, Rosie McMahon, Christine Blackwell, Linda Sorensen, Rosyln Davenport and Graham Douglas, who headed up the team.

Jen asked how we would be able to make ourselves heard once the screaming began. Graham fielded that question. “Aeschylus said, 'Soft speech is to distempered wrath medicinal.' That is the approach we should take.”

We hadn't gone very far into the woods when we were confronted by a man who held up his hands to stop us. “Whoa. Who are you people? This isn't a tourist attraction; it's state property. No trespassing.”

I said, “We're here to help.”

“Help how?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“These woods are inhabited by restless spirits. We've come in an effort to release them.”

“You mean the patients?”

“Yes.” I was surprised that he actually believed me. “You know about them?”

“Of course I do. I used to be president of the board of trustees for this hospital.”

“You?” I'm afraid I could not hide my shock. “Did you authorize the anonymous burials?”

“Hell no! I didn't authorize any such thing. In fact I'm trying to drum up support for a restoration committee that will make an effort to identify as many of them as possible.”

“Do you know how many are buried here?”

“No; Unfortunately the records from the first thirty-seven years of the hospital's operation have been completely lost. But between 1891 and 1930 there were 9,369 interred here, all but five anonymously.”

Someone in the party said, “That's disgraceful.” I don't know who verbalized the comment but I couldn't have agreed more.

“They were paupers.” The man shrugged. “Many of them immigrants with no money and no family to claim them. An epidemic of tuberculosis, diphtheria or influenza would sweep through the ward and kill so many that the bodies literally piled up and needed to be dealt with. They were buried together in trenches. It is a disgrace which is why I'm trying to do something about it. But I can't do it alone.”

“I commend you on your efforts to identify the bodies. We've come to do what we can for their souls. You'll allow us to do that, won't you?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “You're not just curious tourists. Did you know in the early days of asylums they were open to the public? People would pay a fee to view the patients in their cells—exactly like a zoo.”

“That's disgraceful.” The same voice as before.

Our group moved deeper into the woods. I didn't hear anything myself, but some of the others began looking around and up into the trees as if trying to find the source of some noise. Jen grabbed my arm. “They know we're here.”

I heard it then. A crescendo of blood-curdling screams. I was reminded of the monkey cages I'd visited as a child. I couldn't believe the racket and I'm not even a medium. I had never before heard voices from the "other side".

With hand signals Graham directed us to form a circle. We joined hands and followed his lead in softly repeating the words, “We're here to help” over and over again.

At one point I closed my eyes. The vision that came to me filled me with horror and pity. I saw people in straight waistcoats struggling to get free. People strapped to cots and chained to benches wearing iron manacles and shackles. People being pelted with pressurized water and people being dragged kicking and screaming toward operating tables where surgeons stood waiting. It looked more like a place of torture than a medical facility. I tried to concentrate on reciting those four little words.

I lost track of the number of times we repeated the phrase, but after a few moments the woods fell silent. Even the birds were quiet.

Graham spoke to the sky. “We're here to help but we need your help, too. We don't know why you're here.”

A woman's voice shattered the silence when she shrieked. “Nobody knows who we are!”

Graham responded simply and quietly. “Tell us your names.”

We waited. The woods remained eerily silent.

Jeanie broke from the circle and ran over to one of the crosses. She knelt down next to it and placed her hand upon it. She called out to the group, “Edward Haggerty, 1893.” She touched the marker next to it and nearly shouted, “William Thornycroft, 1895.”

We disbursed through the woods, touching crosses and recording in our investigative notebooks the names and dates that came almost instantly to our minds. We realized it would take several trips to cover the entire area and locate all the grave markers, some of which were almost completely hidden by undergrowth.

It took thirteen of us five days and I'm not entirely sure we found them all, but I'm told the woods are quiet now. Once we've compiled our list, the trustees have agreed to have a plaque made in remembrance of the "Tormented Souls of Tewksbury".

Notes

For information on the efforts to restore the Tewksbury State Cemetery, see Danvers State Memorial Committee

For an article by Scott S. Greenberger that appeared in the Boston Globe see State is pressed on forgotten graves.

References

Jiminez, Mary Ann. The Changing Faces of Madness: Early American Attitudes and Treatment of the Insane. Published for Brandeis University Press by University Press of New England, Hanover and London, 1987.

Whitaker, Robert. Mad in America: Bad Science, Bad Medicine, and the Enduring Mistreatment of the Mentally Ill. Perseus Publishing, Cambridge, MA. 2002.

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