The Nissitissit Witch captures the essence of a bygone era and exemplifies how narrow-mindedness and ignorance can lead to tragedy and regret. Following rumors of witchcraft, curses, and the work of the Devil, panic and hysteria force a community to retreat and ultimately vanish. Set in the town of North Village (which is now Pepperell, Massachusetts) the story begins in the late nineteenth century and, with the author’s clever use of flashbacks, takes the reader further back in time. Ailing, old-timer Ebb recounts painful memories from both the Civil War and his childhood, trying to make sense of the trauma in his life. His return home is bittersweet, as he is controlled by an undeniable desire to enter the river’s mist and embark upon a remarkable, spiritual journey. Thereupon, he discovers his sacred connection to Sarah, who was raised by Native Americans and later developed an aversion to the ways of the white man. We enter Sarah’s mystical world as she struggles to assimilate into society. Her futile attempt to peacefully settle in North Village precedes an array of unusual encounters associated with her painful effort.
Author Rosemary Chaulk has taken her love for the land and developed it into a riveting tale of fear, passion, horror, and life-after-death. She presents her gripping tale as a lesson in the struggle for human survival and effectively illustrates how man can become his own worst enemy. Ms. Chaulk is an expert at feeding her readers just enough information to keep them hungry for more. You’ll be impressed by her uncanny ability to weave in and out of scenes with an extraordinary talent for pulling the reader into the story. The fascinating characters come alive, the plot thickens, and the ending will delight even the most discriminating reader. It will leave you spellbound.
CHAPTER ONE
“By the banks of the Nissitisset River at the north end of town,
are the ruins of a village that has slowly fallen down.” (1)
Dwelling in the mist of the Nissitissit River are the spirits of a tribe who had lived on its bank. They existed for more years than there are stars in the sky. Although the tribe had been slaughtered one hundred and sixty years ago, their spirits and their ancestors’ spirits are still active, as they are nearly as old as the valley itself. The tribe had survived on this land for five thousand years and had lived in harmony with nature; they had learned to respect the spirits of the mist.
Ebb knew that this was the day. He rose from bed early and put on his best clothes. His dreams of the mist during the night signaled that today would be his last. The tumor lodged in his stomach had just about drawn the life out of him. He knew what he had to do and where he had to go. As the sun was rising, Ebb set off down the road, fueled by the last bit of his strength. As he walked, he turned and took one final look at his house. He left his house behind for anyone who might need it. He had no descendants, having never married because of the dreams. How he hated those never-ending dreams! They had tortured him since the war. At first, the dreams were only about the war. After the war, the dreams were about the mist. In fact, every waking thought was about the mist. Although Ebb had been instilled with a fear of the mist before leaving North Village, he now found himself longing to be immersed in the mist. He turned from his modest, but well constructed house, which had been built with his own hands, upon returning from the Civil War. He faced the road again, but even the power of the mist could not keep Ebb’s mind from drifting back to the time when he left for war. How could a war so far away be responsible for so much death and suffering right here in New England? How did North Pepperell become a casualty of such a war?
During the Civil War, Ebb had been a lieutenant with the Massachusetts Sixth Regiment Infantry, which was comprised of tough farm boys from the area and rugged Irishmen from Lowell. Ebb’s mind suddenly flashed back to the day that he left for the war.
Ebb entered the house at about 9 p.m. on a cold January night. “Need more wood on the fire, Abel?”
“I would be grateful to ya, if you did. My knees are hurting from the cold.”
Ebb stocked the fire high, went out, and brought in more wood.
“I have something to say.”
“I have something to say.” They had both spoken at once.
“Okay, Ebb, you go first.”
“Abel, you have been like a father to me for these last forty-four years. I know you are aging and need help, but right now there is something I must do. A war between the states is inevitable. I feel that I must enlist. They are forming a militia in Lowell, and I’m gonna join. You have managed well with my labor in the fields, and I know there are men in the village willing to work for you while I am away.”
“Well, you seem to have my needs figured out, but what about you? God has spoken to me, and I decided to sell the property. I had this deed prepared - forty-four acres on the east slope. It’s good land and should provide good water. That’s one acre for every year you worked my fields.”