Maine

Bucksport

Witch Ghost

When Salem, Massachusetts, began trying and killing their witches, the tall, distinguished resident of Bucksport, in present-day Maine, listened
closely to every traveler who spoke of the hearings. Listened to the reports of animals sacrifices. Of copulation with the devil. Or missing children
and hymnals defaced with blood and wells pitting up frogs and rats. Hearing these tales, Colonel bucks concluded that witches must be
everywhere- when in his own, small town. With paranoia as his only guide, he kept an eye on the woman of Bucksport. Eventually, he singled out
a ninety-two-year-old widow, Comfort Aynesworth, a recluse, and began asking about her.

At the local tavern one night, huddled with men hoping to curry the wealthy man's favor, Buck's asked about the woman. The blacksmith said that
the wrinkled old woman had several goats and pigs, in which form the devil often walked the earth. He'd also seen her talk to her cat. The town
crier suggested that for all they knew, the old woman had killed her husband in an evil rite. The innkeeper added that on still nights, he could hear
the woman singing in a strange tongue. It would have been Gaelic, for she was from Ireland, or it could have been backwards- English, the mark
of a slave of Satan. Which was all the colonel needed to hear.

The next day, at a town meeting, Colonel Bucks demanded that the woman be arrested and charged with practicing witchcraft. The order was
given, and the old woman was put on trial. As the townspeople sat in smug self-righteous silence, Comfort's hoarse ranting convinced the judge
and jury that she was guilty, and she was sentenced to be hanged. As she was carried from the courtroom, the frantic old woman swung her
head back and pinned the colonel with furious eyes. "Your lies have offended the Almighty! He will help me take your life and leave my mark upon
your grave!" Comfort's blasphemy shocked the courtroom, and as she was led away, screaming oaths, Colonel Bucks resolved to have nothing
further to do with the woman, not even to attend her execution. His job was nearly done. All that remained was for him to pray- for her, and for
himself.

Now, on the following day, the day Comfort Aynesworth was to be hanged, Colonel Bucks sat in his bedroom, reading from his Bible. The
household staff had been told not to disturb him, and he felt very much alone as a late autumn wind blew outside. The trees creaked, shutters
rattled, and the dry timbers of his home cracked and popped. He started as, somewhere along the corridor, the wind slammed a door shut.

Bundled in a robe, his feet in old slippers, Colonel Bucks read until the light filtering through the shutters faded. The time of Comfort's execution
had come and gone. Her curse- and it was a witch's curse, for who else would take the Lord's name in vain? - seemed more tragic than ominous.
He didn't understand why she hadn't seized the moment to repent. It wouldn't have altered her fate on earth, but it might have drawn compassion
from the God she instead chose to profane.

As darkness settled upon Bucksport, the sounds of the house seemed louder, the rustling of the trees like a great shroud. He felt a sudden chill.
Comfort had said that the Almighty would avenge her. But had she meant his God, or hers? He wondered if any other woman in town had been
acting strangely. Candle in hand, he walked to the bedroom door. As he turned the knob and opened the door, the flame sputtered and died.
Colonel Buck stood in the doorway, in the thick shadows of twilight, wondering where the breeze could have come from. He heard the floorboards
groan and felt another chill. Setting the candle on a carved oak chest, the colonel went back tot he nightstand, plucked a match from a silver
ewer, and turned back to the doorway. And stood stone-still as an icy breeze rushed against him, carrying with it a smell like rotted leaves. He
bent forward and squinted down the hallway, for he thought something and moved in the dark.

There was a figure walking toward him, but it wasn't the housekeeper. The colonel backed away. "Who's there? Who is it?" The intruder did not
answer and, reaching behind him, the colonel struck the match on the nightstand. The newcomer was a woman, and she was approaching
sideways. "Who is it?" As he watched her in the flickering light, he realized that she wasn't walking sideways, but that her head was facing away,
turned completely to the left. Her feet were bare and she wore a plain, white dress. The dress of the hanged.

He began to walking back, toward the bed, through his eyes never left the woman. Neither her gown nor her hair moved in the awful breeze, and
her feet hardly seemed to touch the floor, yet she moved quickly. Transfixed in mounting terror, Colonel Bucks watched as she reached the door
and twisted so that her feet were facing to the right- though she continued to move ahead. Colonel Bucks might have been startled by that, had
he noticed, but he was staring at her face, which was now upon him. The newcomer's head was tilted to one side, the neck bulging on the other,
just above a fat blue band which encircled the white flesh. Her eyes were shut, mouth agape, nostril flared, as though frozen with shock. Now
there was no mistaking that the intruder was Comfort Aynesworth.

He backed against the nightstand, gasping and dropping the match. It burned for a moment on the hardwood floor before dying. "Please," he
managed to croak before his throat froze again. He dragged a hand across his eyes, trying to rub away the apparition. But even in the dark he
could feel her presence, could smell the choking odor of death. He looked out again. The figure was just a few feet away now, and Colonel Bucks
sat on the nightstand, knocking over the ewer, throwing his across across his chest in an effort to shield himself.

"Go away!" The specter's thin arm rose, pointed at Colonel Bucks. "Come… with… me…," a woman's voice whispered, through the lips of the
specter hadn't moved. He shook his head violently. The arm lowered from the frightened man to the match. "Burn… and… die." Like a wave,
sulphurous heat washed over him, backing the colonel against the wall. His clothes dampened, his mouth burned, his heartbeat quickened. He
screamed, shaking and squeezing his eyes shut. Hot tears boiled up behind his lids, forcing them open. When he looked, the dead face of
Comfort Aynesworth was inches from his, the stench of decay causing him to retch. "Die… and… I… shall… be… with… you. Always." The
colonel barely heard her. Screaming as the heat burned deep inside him, he fell onto the bed. Late the following morning, when the housekeeper
came to check on him, she found the colonel feverish. He was unable to keep down food or drink, and the physician was summoned. Colonel
bucks was bled, but that failed to break his fever.

The colonel's strength waned quickly, and shortly after dictating a new will, Colonel Bucks died of consumption. As his new will stipulated, the
colonel was buried beneath a tombstone of solid marble, one which could not be marred in any way. Yet on the morning after the funeral, the
imprint of a foot was clearly visible on the headstone. None of the abrasives used by the caretaker could remove it. When his family tried to chip it
away, the chisel would cut only inside the imprint.

Colonel bucks' family ordered another marker placed on the grave, but overnight a footprint appeared on that one was well. A third more expensive
tombstone was purchased but it too, was defaced by the same slender footprint. But the colonel's heirs finally gave up trying to fix it. The defaced
headstone stands there still, marked by the woman who wasn't a witch, or was she?

Jeff, R. The Spirits of America. New York: First Pocket Books, 1990.