Crystal Ward Kent

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The Seacoast Region of Maine and New Hampshire––beaches, shopping, lobster––the perfect vacation spot. But on certain nights, when the wind blows in from the sea and the moon drifts behind the clouds like the “ghostly galleon” of poetry, we feel something different. Tree branches rattle like skeletal bones, a shutter bangs, leaves scuttle down old streets. One wonders: Is there more to the shadows of the night and the creak of a stair?

In the early 1600s permanent settlements sprang up along the banks of the Piscataqua, and there has been a lot of living and dying here since then. In some cases, the spirits of those who have died seem to live on, lingering between our world and the next.

Portsmouth, N.H., is known for its historic homes, many dating from the 1700s and 1800s, and a few from even earlier. As we might expect, several of the homes claim ghostly residents. At the John Paul Jones House on State Street, it is reported that a ghostly figure often appears. He looks toward the river from the dressing-room window, scanning the harbor. Speculation claims that the figure must be Jones himself, who was most at home at sea aboard his famed ship Ranger.

Down the road, on Middle Street, is the Rundlett-May House, built in 1807. This home is haunted by a playful spirit who enjoys turning the gas off and on, and moving objects. The ghost’s identity is a mystery--so far.

Off Sagamore Road sprawls the Old South Cemetery. Row upon row of headstones fill this city of the dead, many of them dating from the early eighteenth century and before. The stones are crooked, tilted at crazy angles, their limestone or slate surfaces worn nearly smooth by time and weather, the names almost obliterated.

One of these marks the grave of the family of John and Lewis Lear. To all outward appearances, the stone is no different from any other, except for one fact––it glows. Every night, clear or overcast, summer or winter, the stone gives off a faint luminescence. The locals, used to it, speak fondly of the unusual stone, and its existence is common knowledge among the neighborhood children, who dare each other to visit it on Halloween.

Those with a logical turn of mind have proposed various theories for why the stone glows, citing the material the stone is made from, or a reflection bouncing from a streetlight to the nearby pond, and so on. But “otherworldly” possibilities also come to mind, since the stone is well removed from artificial light, and is in the old section of the cemetery, which has other ghostly ties. “Ghost writer” William O. Thomson, a native New Englander and former history professor at Salem State College, reports that joggers have frequently encountered an old salt lingering in the area. Sporting a full beard and pipe, and clad in a sou’wester, he is believed to be the apparition of Captain Jeffrey Monroe, who died in the late 1800s. During his lifetime, Moore frequently visited his infant son’s grave, which is nearby. Sightings of the captain usually occur when the cemetery crew trims the trees and bushes. According to Thomson, ghosts do not like change.

Meanwhile, the stone glows silently on. On nights when the the evening is utterly still, and the cemetery is bathed in cold moonlight, even skeptics have felt a chill when confronted with the tomb of John and Lewis Lear.

Island Ghosts

Wind-swept and sea-pummeled, the Isles of Shoals sit six miles off the coast of Portsmouth in the Atlantic Ocean. Their colorful history includes pirates, a violent murder, a famous hotel with equally famous guests, a lovely poetess and, of course, abundant shipwrecks and storm stories. It is no surprise, then, that their history also includes ghosts.

The notorious pirate Blackbeard––whose real name was William Teach––was known to have visited the Isles of Shoals as he prowled up and down the Atlantic coast. It has long been rumored that he may have left buried treasure behind. Legend also has it that he left his wife on the island when he fled abruptly to avoid capture. She eventually died of starvation, but supposedly never stopped believing he would return. Her ghost, the Lady in Red, haunts Smuttynose, endlessly searching the horizon for a ship that never comes. Visitors claim to hear her weeping, her frail voice nearly lost in the cry of the gulls and the crash of the sea.

Over on Star Island, the spirit of Nancy Underhill stands forlornly on a point of land. Nancy was swept away to her death by a large wave, and ever since has haunted the area where she died.

Not to be outdone, Appledore Island claims the ghost of Philip Babb, a tavern keeper who was murdered in the 1600s. When encountered, he supposedly draws his sword and waves it about. Nathaniel Hawthorne, who was a guest at the Appledore House hotel, described old Babb as a dreadful creature, his slashed throat still visible. So beware of Babb’s Cove, where the ghost’s treasure supposedly lies.

White Island is home to another lost soul, a tall, slender woman with long blond hair, who haunts a rocky ledge. Mrs. Scott died of exposure while waiting for her husband to return from a fishing trip. She never knew that he was lost at sea, and still waits for his boat to appear and rescue her.

A Phantom Ship

Maine’s rocky coast is home to many shipwrecks, and also at least one ghost ship. On Thanksgiving night in 1842, the good ship Isadore sailed out of Kennebunkport with a load of lumber, bound for New Orleans. As it left port, the wind picked up out of the northeast, and snow began to fall. By the time the crew marked Boon Island Light, about seven miles southeast of Kennebunkport, the storm had intensified. Winds were blowing a gale from the northeast, then switched to the east-southeast; twenty- to thirty-foot breakers rose from the sea, and the snow was blinding. The next morning, the doomed ship was seen breaking up in Avery’s Cove in York, six miles west of Boon Island. The bodies of the captain and crew washed ashore later that day.

Ten years after the wreck of the Isadore, a phantom ship was spotted just offshore of Boon Island and Avery’s Cove. Since then, the ship has been sighted numerous times. It sails silently, gliding effortlessly through the waves, and always disappears as it enters Avery’s Cove. Over the years, fishermen have tried to approach the ship, but it always seems to evaporate when they draw near. Is the Isadore a real apparition or a phantasm of sea smoke? No one knows for sure, but there are enough claims to have seen her that the story has some credibility.

Witches Walking among Us

If you take a stroll in Hampton, N.H., in the moonlight, among the rustling fall leaves, you may come face-to-face with an old woman, hunched over and wearing a shawl, a cane in her hand. If you do meet this old woman, greet her politely and hurry on, because she might be the ghost of Goody Cole, the famous witch.

Goodwife Eunice “Goody” Cole is no legend. She lived and died in Hampton in the late 1600s, and is the only woman ever convicted of witchcraft in the state of New Hampshire. She was not sentenced to hang, like the famous witches of Salem, Mass., in 1692, but she was hated by her fellow townspeople and jailed on numerous occasions.

Eunice Cole came to live in Hampton with her husband William in 1640. Their home was in an isolated part of town, and Goody was not a good neighbor. She was frequently accused of slander, and was described as being malicious and vengeful. Goody and her husband were brought to court often for bad behavior.

In those superstitious times, unexplained occurrences or bad fortune were often blamed on witches. Bad weather, crop failure, diseased animals, even unexpected deaths were blamed on those considered in league with the Devil. The years of bad blood between Goody Cole and her neighbors took their toll, and eventually the town of Hampton accused her of being a witch. In 1656, she was charged with witchcraft in a Boston court (New Hampshire being part of Massachusetts at that time) on the basis of affidavits provided by her neighbors that credited her with “strange acts,” including causing the death of animals. She was convicted, but instead of receiving the death penalty she was flogged and sentenced to life in prison.

In 1658, Goody Cole was released to take care of her ill husband, but was soon accused again of practicing the “dark arts.” In 1673, she was tried again when Hampton residents claimed she had caused their farm animals to sicken and die, and that mysterious shapes and lights had been seen at her home.

Goody also faced the more sinister charge of causing the death of eight townspeople as they sailed from Hampton to the Isles of Shoals in 1657. She supposedly cursed them as they passed her home. At the time of their drowning, however, she was still serving her first jail sentence in Boston. Nonetheless, this incident was immortalized in John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem, “The Wreck of the Rivermouth”:

“Fie on the witch,” cried a merry girl
As they rounded the point where Goody Cole
Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl
A bent and bleary-eyed poor old soul.
“Oho,” she muttered, “ye’re brave today,
But I hear the little waves laugh and say
The broth will be cold that waits at home
For it’s one to go, but another to come.”

Goody was found innocent of witchcraft at her second trial, but for the rest of her life she was hated by the townsfolk. In 1680 she died, and her legend began. Stories have it that upon her death, several Hampton residents stole her body and drove a stake through her corpse before burying it in an unmarked grave. A house built near the spot was supposedly haunted, and tales spread of residents seeing an old woman wearing a shawl and outdated clothing, who inquired about the fate of old Hampton families. The woman disappeared as suddenly as she came.

In 1938, perhaps to make amends for wrongs done centuries earlier, the residents of Hampton passed a resolution that denounced Goody Cole’s trials and restored her citizenship. In 1963, a stone memorial was erected near Hampton’s Meetinghouse Green, commemorating the town’s famous witch.

But even after these public displays of regret, the ghost sightings still occur––something to remember if you walk alone in Hampton after nightfall. Should you hear the tap-tap-tap of a cane on stone, and see an old woman approach, remember Goody Cole.

A Mystery Remains

My own encounter with a possible ghost took place at the historic MacPhaedris-Warner House on Daniel Street in Portsmouth. I worked there one summer years ago as a tour guide. As required at that time, all the female guides wore Colonial dress with white mob caps. That summer, a famous watercolor artist visited regularly to paint various aspects of the home.

One day, the artist had been working in the garden for most of the afternoon, painting not only the grounds but also the back view of the home. Just before closing, he joined us in the summer kitchen to unwind. “Who was up in the cupola today?” he inquired. We looked at each other, but everyone shook their heads “no.”

“Come on, I saw a woman in a mob cap,” the artist said, clearly puzzled. “I waved, and she waved back.” At this point, Phyllis, the senior guide, clutched her heart, and said, “Oh, my God!” Betsy, my younger colleague, and I exchanged excited looks. No one had been up there. Visitors were not taken to the third floor, the old servants quarters, much less to the cupola above that. The day had been busy, and none of us had time or reason to venture beyond our regular tour route.

Betsy and I rushed pell mell for the stairs, with Phyllis’s plea for us not to go up there echoing in our ears. The artist still sat nonplussed in the kitchen. As we rounded the steps to the third floor, we saw that the door was open. All looked as usual, and we continued on to the cupola. Sure enough, the door to those stairs was also open. We went up, but saw nothing. Whoever or whatever had been there had not left a trace.

The artist was not a fanciful soul, and clearly was not playing a joke. A trick of light might have suggested a white mob cap, but the fact that he waved and the apparition waved back gave us all pause. I never encountered any other spirits while at the house, but I can say this: My father is the caretaker for the home. On occasion, I have visited it in the silent hours of night as we have investigated a wayward bat or trapped squirrel. Upon stepping into the house, we overwhelmingly sensed the weight of centuries of souls. This house knew three hundred years of life. Here, generations lived and died, laughed and loved, wept and mourned––and they left their imprint within these walls. In that sense, their spirits truly remain.