During this adventure we got lost and turned around half a dozen times reading conflicting information on other blogs. So before I go any further here is how to get there: First locate Historic Cemetery #45 (Also called the Hopkins Mills Cemetery) at the beginning of Danielson Pike. Go to the very end of the cemetery and you’ll find a trail head with a few parking spaces. Take this path to the river (not that far away… certainly less than a mile) and voila! You should see the ruins there. SUPER EASY.
The History:
Foster RI is a pretty rural place, even today. It has a certain rugged beauty and this apparently is nothing new. It was incorporated in 1781 after separating from Scituate and for the next hundred or so years it was considered a rather rough place to live. Indeed, there was a factory here that was the soul of this village. It was the Rams Tail Woolen Mill, powered by the river. Of course at this time in history working the mills would have been a brutal existence and there would have been a lot of unmarried girls and children working the machinery and probably a good deal of accidents and possible deaths but strangely it’s none of these that have led to the area getting a haunted reputation. Instead this may date back to 1822 when former owner Peleg Walker had to hand over his ownership of the factory due to debts. Instead of complying he decided to lock himself in the factory on his last night and slit his own throat. They say his ghost haunted the grounds for many years afterwards – with the factory machinery starting up on their own as well as a litany of other complaints. The factory ran until 1850 before closing and was set ablaze by arsonists in 1873 – some say to rid it of it’s ghosts. But if that was the intention it did not work. If anything it just added to the frustrated energy felt here.
The Factory is little more than a bit of a foundation and a rock wall aside the stream now. Everything that is left has been taken over by the forest and it seems strange to think this was once a bustling center. I sat on a rock in the stream and enjoyed the summer day here feeling like I was in the middle of the ruins in the Jungle Book. It was calm, peaceful, and refreshing. I didn’t see any ghosts, nor feel anyone’s disembodied torment, but I don’t disbelieve the stories others tell. A place so rich in history probably does have a few spirits still lingering around.
Bonus Destination: Nearby Haunted Bridge
If you take a very quick walk down Daniel’s Pike you’ll find a bridge, under the bridge was a once popular swimming hole that claimed several lives with it’s mucky quicksand-like bottom. Just a little ways up stream Betsey Grayson drowned in 1860 after toppling into the river while fetching a bucket of water. Some attribute the ghost along the river’s edge to her, others say it’s a different drowning victim. Either way the place is eerie calm. Both the bridge and the Rams Tail Factory Ruins were super quiet when we visited. Quiet and except for the child’s mask lying on the ground – quite abandoned. It was an interesting little jaunt into yet another little corner of historic New England.
Yet another summer has rolled around which means it’s time to go antiquing! And I don’t mean the stuffy sort of antiquing one might expect from Rhode Island. I am not in the market for a 15th century chair or some fine china I’m afraid to breathe on. I do have enough spare change for a good haunted doll though…
And so we found not an antique store but an antique mall. Antique malls are usually large buildings (in this case a 17th century mill) which rent out booths on consignment meaning it’s halfway between antiquing at a little shop and halfway between rummaging through the town yard sale. You never know what you’re going to find! Or for what price. I was in.
Better still this place has a reputation for being haunted – and I mean with this many antiques that seemed like a guarantee more than a speculation but it wasn’t the antiques that were supposed to be causing the unrest. Unusual activity here was said by some locals to be the wandering spirits linked to the shocking murder of Mary Eddy who was bludgeoned to death in 1903 on her way home from working at the mill. The killer was Earl Jacques, another worker at the mill, whose mother claimed he was mentally slow and did not fully grasp his actions. The motive was to get Eddy’s paycheck for the week. Jacques was convicted and received the death penalty for his crimes while Mary Eddy’s fiancée was so distraught over her murder he committed suicide in a house nearby. Since then his ghost is seen on that property while Mary Eddy is said to wander up and down Pig Road where she was murdered and Jacques stays put in the antique store. Quite the story!
I loved the ambiance of the place even before we stepped inside. By the outside it looks grumpy and old. You can see how the cement used on the outside is beginning to crumble from advanced age exposing the rocks within. Nearby in the parking lot there is a river and a structure which I am guessing probably once hosted a big water wheel. Historic accounts of the town say there’s an inordinate amount of factory accidents, drownings, and people run over by horses or cars that has led to this section gaining it’s haunted reputation.
I didn’t know about all that when I walked in. Perhaps I was too distracted by the giant sock monkey being hugged by a Kraken-esque tentacle. Yup, we’d stumbled onto another winner. Right behind that was a cache of great vinyl records – most classic rock from the 60’s-80’s. Usually when I come into a place like this and there’s a record collection it’s 90% dollar records that no one has ever heard of (or just blatantly doesn’t want – I’m looking at you Bill Cosby albums.)
This place was massive and just seemed to go on and on. I was in love with the old architecture and the uniqueness of each booth. There was just everything here – including a bottle of arsenic that gave instructions of what to do in case of accidental poisoning. Somehow I don’t think milk and butter do a hell of a lot but hey, if it worked for grandma…
My travel companion kept entertained finding increasingly scary Santas spread like confetti through the entire store. As fun as that was I had my eyes on the less Christmasy dolls. There was a huge case of trolls… did you know they made PUPPY TROLLS? And they’re just as terrifying as they sound. Even worse was a doll that looked like it might be able to crawl on its own and another in a case with half its head missing – scalped? Lobotomized? One can’t be too sure. Always fun were the usual bassinets full of random doll parts just waiting for some young Frankenstein to come waltzing in. “Ah yes, this’ll do…”
An even more funny image to me was a plastic reindeer situated atop all the cases just looking out over the store. It was missing one foot and seemed… happy about that. And of course there was always a few items here and there to remind us of what racist fucks we’ve been in the past. A mammie doll here, an “Indian Joe” drumming figure there, and can’t forget the odd Chinamen… Still, there was MUCH less of this than in Maine which is what I’m used to.
Did you know that Mr. Potatohead once had a companion, Oscar Orange? I guess he must not have sold as well. Another bizarre find was the entire cast of the Wizard of Oz as cows. At the end of the day neither one of us came home with anything but we both wanted to return at a later date because you just never know…
I would like to think I know a little bit more about New England history having done all these travels but that’s not to say I am not still routinely surprised or deeply disturbed. Nine Men’s Misery was on of those delightful WTF moments. It was something I had never heard of and neither had my travel companion until he spent one too many hours in Barnes and Noble and came home with yet another book on local oddities. It peeked his interest so we went.
So what is Nine Men’s Misery? And what’s up with the super dramatic title? WELL… it is yet another little gem we don’t teach our school children even though it’s historically significant (serving as the US’s oldest monument to veterans.) Legend says it marks the spot were nine men were skinned alive. So now that I’ve got your interest the story goes thusly:
In the beginning the colonists and local Wampanoag indigenous people got along as good as you could have expected from two completely separate cultures. The first settlers in the area actually got a lot of help surviving from the locals but tensions built over several generations when we just kept bringing over more white people. And taking more land. And trying to convert the “savages.” You know, being the world’s worst fucking neighbors. ANYWAY… Despite all this the colonists actually were on good standing with some of the indigenous peoples still (“praying Indians” who had been converted) and really this was a year-long war in which those indigenous allies and the English were pitted against the larger population that had enough of our shit. A lot of shady and crazy things happened in this year (1675-76) to spurn legends, ghost stories, and an unending trauma to the area. Nine Men’s Misery is just but one.
The story starts when colonialist Captain Michael Pierce brought sixty of his men and thirty “praying Indians” into the area in search of the tribe responsible for burning several Rhode Island towns to the ground as well as attacking Plymouth Massachusetts. They found the guilty party but were led straight into a trap. They were greatly outnumbered and almost everyone was slaughtered – fifty of Pierce’s men and all thirty of the “praying Indians.” Only ten colonialists survived the battle and fled into the swampy woods. Eventually they’d also be tracked down, cornered, ritualistically tortured, and finally killed, leaving only one survivor. It was a complete victory for the natives. The bodies of the nine colonist soldiers were eventually found skinned like deer and chopped up into many pieces – hence the name Nine Men’s Misery.
The monument marks a mass grave where the remains were buried. It was erected by monks who ran a local monastery in the early 1900’s. A plaque was additionally added in the 1927 and the bones of the fallen were eventually returned after being found within the old monastery in the 60’s where they’d been apparently stored after an early archeological dig. WHOOPS. Guess these men can’t get any peace, even in death.
With this all being said these blood soaked grounds are eerily peaceful, maybe because of the paths so tenderly created by the monastery (which is now a beautiful library.) Even so it’s supposed to be haunted with the sounds of screaming and the quick hoofbeats of horses echoing through the hollow. Even a small girl is supposed to be found here – although there’s no real explanation as to why. She may have died at a mill that once stood near the site but there doesn’t appear to be any specific legends around her. The nearby library also suffices as a unearthly home for one of the monks who died so many generations ago.
Now that the history is out of the way I’ll tell you where this monument is and what I thought of it. First you must find the town library, still called the Monastery, and drive around it. On a one way street towards the back of the property you’ll find parking spots near a trail. The trails are obvious but unmarked. There are maps at the library if you ask politely. We however just stumbled blindly until we came to a path diverging off and onto hill that just didn’t look right. Sure enough it led right to Nine Men’s Misery.
The spot where the monument sits is eerily quiet… but it’s also in these gorgeous lush woods and wetlands. So it’s hard to imagine something so horrible happening here. In fact had I not known about it I would have found this whole little nature walk to be quite a pleasant adventure.
Believe it or not we didn’t go to Foster Rhode Island to go cemetery hopping but when in Rome…
Historic Cemetery #45 (Also called the Hopkin’s Mills Lot)
The first cemetery we came across was adjacent to the Ramshead Trail we wanted to walk down and just a stone’s throw away from a purportedly haunted bridge. So why not wander through the cemetery as well? It was a fairly decently sized cemetery, well maintained, with most of its stones from the mid 1800’s. There wasn’t any particularly interesting stones or monuments about but I did enjoy reading some of the names – like the last name Willowby (HOW ADORABLE IS THAT?) or the first name Zilpha. Mostly it was just a ton of Hopkins though.
Since it’s near a bunch of ruins which were once a bustling little town there are a lot of ghost stories around this cemetery. The specter of Betsey Grayson has made her rounds on the nearby bridge, as well as the ghost of an old man who vanishes alongside the road, and the vision of a small girl picking flowers. Today however was hot and sunny and although I was loving the beauty and serenity of such a wild place I didn’t feel at all uneasy or see anything from beyond the veil. Perhaps that is an adventure best suited for the night.
Historic Cemetery Number 27 (Also called the Hopkins Tucker Lot)
We actually went out to find this cemetery on purpose. You see my navigator and myself were playing “whose ADD will lead us to the weirdest location” and so he picked random spots and I drove. I don’t know why he picked this little lot, situated ever so cozily in between a bunch of houses on a narrow dirt road. He was taking it out of a book about hauntings so I’m guessing… it’s haunted. That being said I have no idea who by. It was cute, maybe slightly spooky in how decayed it looked. There were only about 30 stones, unremarkable, but nestled sweetly between lovingly built stone walls and a little iron gate.
UPDATE: Having gotten my paws on said book I learned this cemetery is haunted by an old woman, Aunt Lonnie Davis, who lived nearby whose last wishes were that her house be completely demolished after her death – claiming she would come back to haunt anyone who left so much as two boards still nailed together. Legend says out of curiosity someone did indeed leave just two boards nailed together and now she’s seen sitting on the cemetery wall… a cemetery which she is not actually buried in. Strange.
Historic Cemetery 26 – (Also called the Hopkins-Ide Lot)
This last cemetery was an adventure! I don’t know why we went there but it has to be one of my all time favorites. Getting there was a challenge – especially in a Prius. The locals were already aware of a Prius driven by someone with vibrantly orange hair circling the area like a vulture going up and down and up and down the same roads. It was just one of those days and finding this last destination was no different. Pretty sure we scared the tar out of a woman walking her baby in a pram who probably thought we were stalking her down a long dirt road with seemingly VERY few houses.
The directions were to “go down the lane directly across from electric pole 15.” And with directions like that how could we possibly get lost, right? Well… it was a very long and very thin dirt road which the Prius was none-too-happy about traversing and was even less happy to be repeatedly turning around in the few driveways we found. The problems started with the electrical poles. My navigator didn’t realize they were numbered – and being a city dweller who doesn’t make a habit of such excursions, why would he? So I showed him the numbers and we started to count starting with the first pole #5… We drove quite a ways and found pole #15 sitting alone in the middle of nowhere, nothing but woods to be seen around it. We then got into a discussion about what “lane” could possibly mean. A road’s a road but what is a lane? Neither of us knew.
So we kept driving, occasionally turning around when we thought we’d gone too far only to turn around again. Eventually, after passing the woman and baby three times, (at which point it’s a bit awkward to roll down the window and ask, “So is there a cemetery on this road?”) we finally came to Crowfoot Farm. They were the first driveway I’d seen in what seemed like miles and they had the pure gumption to have a farm stand way out here selling eggs “on Saturdays and Sundays – first come, first serve.” WOW. I used to try to sell eggs on a main road and failed, the fact that they sounded like they were selling out way out here made me immediately love these people. But we weren’t here to see a farm, as fun as that is, we were here looking for a cemetery which as luck would have it was directly across the road from their driveway.
A tiny sign peeked out from the woods reading Historic Cemetery 45 and just beyond there was indeed a lane. Now this “lane” was actually just a path for occasional cars. It had tire tracks but was mostly weeds and grass, was even narrower than the road (if that was even possible) and more terrifyingly still it was down a small but steep hill. I had nowhere to park aside the road so I was forced to turn the Prius onto this little lane and pray we wouldn’t get stuck. It has all the strength of a great grandmother, especially in reverse, and up hills.
I was obviously nervous about the car but the fact this place was so far out in the middle of nowhere really intrigued me. We couldn’t see the cemetery from the road and didn’t know how far we’d have to walk the “lane” before getting there. Luckily it was only a short jaunt, it was just blocked by trees, and there out in no man’s land, almost completely forgotten, was the most beautiful little cemetery I’d ever seen.
Long gone were the well mowed lawns that surrounded the stones, instead ferns and weeds jutted up from a thick pile of dead leaves. The stones were antiquated, and although most were only from the mid 1800’s they were worn and often sunken into the ground. Most were long since illegible. I got the distinct feeling we’d stumbled into some special secret realm no one else knew about but believe it or not someone else had been here. Sticking out like a sore thumb there were two brand new wooden benches, just chilling, no memorial tags, no explanation, just a couple benches minding their own business. And it made me fall in love with the place even more.
I was taken in by a couple of stones – one with a particularly unique Cherub’s head, and another that seemed more like a scroll than a stone with so much writing on it. My navigator meanwhile disappeared to the other side and when we came back together he noted the oldest stone he found was from 1805. According to Find A Grave this place had, “175 burials with 70 inscriptions from 1797 to 1937.” Most notable to my companion were the many Civil War burials, each still brandishing a flag and a metal marker and some with inscriptions that told stories about dying in battle or in battlefield hospitals hundreds of miles from home. It was sobering.
We quietly wandered off after this with a deep memory and fondness for this place – well, that is, except for the Prius who was still parked on that little slope, it’s little Prius butt sticking almost straight in the air and looking towards the road. I said a little prayer before backing out of that spot and it must have worked because we made it.
Being as it’s the beginning of the season and I am still struggling to lose my quarantine weight we decided to find something fun but on the easier side to do. This was an old haunt of my travel companion, but he hadn’t been in years so his memory of which paths and whatnot to take was… more or less like a corrupted file in his brain.
It was an easy little place to find and used to be free but now it has a suggested donation box. If I remember right, it was $7 per adult, $3 per child, to be collected in an honor box as we went in. Nothing too bad. There were a few buildings here, a barn and what I think was an information center, but he was determined to hit the trails so we went off behind the barn and past the little picnic table where a group of young women who work there were chatting merrily. They welcomed us as we made our way to a path that wasn’t quite visible from there.
And then we started to walk. It was a sweet little place with what seemed a lot of flat hiking trails, some with wooden trellises, and plenty of trees. Despite it looking quite populous from the onset there weren’t any people here. I joked I better see some cool birds being a bird sanctuary and all. That’s when a blue jay flew down and my companion pointed, “There’s a bird!”
A blue jay? That’s not going to be what I write home about. They’re everywhere and they’re assholes to boot, frequently showing up at neighborhood bird feeders to terrorize all the other birds. I even had one stealing cat food at one point. From the cat. I guess they’re pretty if you’ve never seen one… and until you hear the godawful noise that comes from their little beaks. I snapped a photo for giggles but in typical blue jay fashion the whole thing just looked like a big old blur.
We saw a finch of some sort not long after – again my camera decided to focus on the branches instead of the bird beyond – and then we came to a little pond where we met what had to be the friendliest teenage Canadian goose I’ve ever met. He swam up to us with those big baby eyes but looking otherwise like an adult. Probably looking for treats. Sorry bub, no treats here, but you sure are a cutie and what gorgeous pics you take!
We ambled on, into the mugginess and heat, and began to take trail after trail like a deeply confused and highly caffeinated squirrel. I just went along, knowing my companion was looking for something but having no idea what that something was. Useless little facts like these often get lost on these adventures and who am I to say that isn’t part of the fun.
I was doing pretty well but since gaining an extra 30 pounds I overheat like a tiny European car trying to make it up a mountain. Sadly for me I didn’t have a gallon of cold water to combat human vapor lock. I did however have a far better prepared hiking partner who did have water and was now looking back at me huffing and puffing a bit concerned. So embarrassing. With several breaks I was able to make it with what I could have done in half an hour and without breaking a sweat a couple years ago. SIGH. Meanwhile the commotion was scaring off a number of deer at different points, and one birder. I love birders and that look their eyes all scream, “WHY ARE YOU SCARING AWAY MY BIRDS?” They’re perfect introverts, that’s what they are. We continued on, politely, and somewhat quietly.
I had no idea that what my travel companion was looking for was a trail that scrambles straight up a bunch of rocks. So, when I was absolutely tuckered out we finally found it and I pushed my sorry ass to get up there. I haven’t scrambled in a long time. I used to love it, but the rocks were out in the open and away from the shade of the trees and I was dying under the burning sun like a vampire. We took a moment to stare at “The Island’s largest property – that used to be owned by Nicholas Cage!” which was situated below. It was an old looking mansion with a big lawn that looked oddly reminiscent of a cemetery complete with the statue of a weeping woman. Weird. Did see a bird from there – a bird of prey of some sort – probably a hawk. I didn’t have my long-distance lens because I didn’t know I would be doing bird portraits today. Also, that lens weighs like thirty pounds and works best with a tripod which would have added clunky to the heavy.
We continued to scrabble and the view got increasingly pretty and increasingly terrifying as we were now traipsing like goats on a cliff’s edge that looked straight down. One little slip and we’d probably end up dead in the field below. That kept me moving. Carefully. In bellbottoms. Because that’s what all the mountain climbers are wearing these days. During this process he kept looking back at me, assuring me it was close, and asking if I was alright. We’re almost there, just keep on going…
Finally, we got to the lookout, the end of the trail. I think it was called Hanging Rock Point. Or something Hanging Rock anyway. I asked where the hanging rock was and he said we were standing on it. OKaaaaay… It was a gorgeous view. To one side was a big, beautiful wheat field, below were a few Gothic looking trees, and beyond a road wound around us. Beyond that was the ocean. Not bad! I took a shoe selfie and we chilled a bit before trying to back track and find the car – only afterwards having realized there was a map at the entrance. After this we were off to get burritos which were lovely six hours later after my heat stroke settled and the nausea dissipated enough to eat them. Got to love having a half-functional body!
I should also remark that on our way to said burrito place we passed the Hanging Rock so I pulled over into the beach parking lot to take a look and yes, yes it does indeed hang over the road. Also by the end of our little jaunt our bird sighting were thus: One blue jay, several finches, several robins, one very friendly Canada goose, one hawk, one heron, and one woodpecker.
After visiting the cemetery and general store we were all ready to check out the three antique stores, The Town Trader, The Old Post Office Antiques, and Old Stone Mill Antiques and Treasures, that exist right next to each other in the reportedly highly haunted little village of Chepachet RI. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day. The sky was bright and blue, the weather was fair, and everyone was in a good mood after coming out of a long winter.
I am used to going “antiquing” in Maine where I can find dirt cheap treasures in mounds of rusted junk piles. So far my visits to Rhode Island antique stores were far more refined and expensive so I figured Chepachet would be no exception but it really was. These antique stores all sold a variety of goodies for exceptionally reasonable prices. Everything from old cast iron pans, creepy probably possessed clown dolls, old paintings, furniture, and random little piles of vinyl records. And they were all located in very old buildings which were a delight to poke around. The Old Stone Mill antique store had the most to offer as far as ambiance with its exposed post and beams, wooden floors, and masonry. Clearly this was once the heart of this whole area and you could feel the history emanating from it.
On this particular day I didn’t end up coming home with anything although I had strongly considered a cast iron “pancake ball” pan as my travel companion called it. It was Swedish and I was unfamiliar with the particular word on the label but I’d like to hope it translates as pancake balls because that’s hilarious. He did end up going home with an old copy of a Julia Childs cookbook which we’d later flip through and see if ANY of the recipes were devoid of butter. Clearly we’re both easily entertained. And nostalgic of growing up on a steady diet of PBS.
And speaking of food – we were able to walk a little ways down the street and eat lunch at the Black Forest Café which was the best way to round out the afternoon. I had a turkey and gouda sandwich and my companion had a Rueben. We both behaved ourselves and didn’t get a slice of cheese cake or any of the other delicious looking goodies at the dessert counter.
I admit it was the Chepachet Cemetery which initially drew us in but after that there was the entire center of this little village was was supposed to be just as haunted and even better it was mostly antique shops that were said to be “very affordable” according to the reviews online. How could we resist?
But before we even got that far we checked out Brown’s and Hopkin’s: the US’s “oldest consecutively run general store.” It started its life as a residence and hattery in 1799 but switched over to a general store with new owners in 1809 which it has stayed until this day.
As you can see the outside of it still screams general store and the inside has a warm and inviting feeling of stepping into the past. It has the sweet worn hardwood floors of a life well lived and I was delighted to find it still had a penny candy counter. In fact the whole place was just adorable with two floors of random country chic products from homemade soaps to farm décor. As always I loved the variety of cast iron items and ended up with a little cast iron hare magnet. My companion gleefully bought some amusing tea towels and we both had fun guessing who the historical figures the little felted dolls were supposed to represent.
And to top of the experience the staff here were as cheerful as the day was sunny. It was al together a great experience even without meeting the ghosts that are supposed to haunt the property. It was only a hop and a skip to the antique stores which made it all the better.
I know I am a little late starting out this year with my adventuring but truth be told I did attempt to go out a few weeks ago – sadly that destination ended up as such a clusterfuck I didn’t write about it (or even have photos to show off as my camera randomly decided the memory card was not readable.) Some days are just hard like that – and you find yourself arriving at a closed sandwich shop after the GPS sends you backtracking for half an hour after already driving for two and a half. And then you find out just how badly out of shape you are as you huff, puff, and puke trying to reach the end of a very short hike, and to top it all off you end up locked in a park after hours because you couldn’t get your ass back to the car in time. I didn’t want to ward people off from this otherwise lovely location so we decided we’d go back at a different time and try again.
Which brings me to my last little adventure which was MUCH more pleasant! We had decided a leisurely stroll through the village of Chepachet Rhode Island was a better option for the beginning of this year’s blog. The drive was reasonable, the destinations were super easy to find, and it was a gorgeous spring day.
We started with Acotes Hill Cemetery (alternately called Chepachet cemetery and/or Rhode Island Historical Cemetery Glocester #23) which is said to be quite haunted. Or at least that’s what the book we found it in claimed. It was named after a mystery man who was buried here in an unmarked grave. He was just travelling through town when he booked a room at the Kimball Hotel. This is ultimately where he died of a mysterious fatal wound and a fall down the stairs. There doesn’t seem to be any indication that his death was ever investigated as a murder though it sounds like it probably was. This may just be because justice for “half-breeds” (people of both white and indigenous descent) was hard to come across in those days – and maybe that’s why his ghost is said to sometimes haunt these hills.
The cemetery is surprisingly vast and so indicative of burial grounds here in New England. At it’s center there is what was likely the groundskeeper’s house in the past just in front of an old dug crypt. The stones are scattered over a series of rolling hills and a few share the shade a handful of creepy gnarled trees. It’s something from a Stephen king novel.
I noticed when I was there the stones were very chronologically mixed up. Usually cemeteries are somewhat organized by broad age categories and I was told this was an old cemetery so I looked for the slate stones that would have been the markers for Revolutionary War era individuals but alas, I found none. This confusing set of circumstances ended up being because this cemetery is actually a gathering place of many other cemeteries in the area which had been disinterred and moved here.
The monuments here were more or less the usual series of boring marble stones although a few did catch my attention. A large angel looks over the grounds from the back and nearby a bronze of the Virgin Mary cradling a dying Jesus is situated in a corner. I didn’t really know what to make of it.
In any event it was a nice place for a little walk and a great way to start when exploring this sweet little corner of New England. To add to its charm it was also the site of a tiny “armed but bloodless” uprising between the People’s Rights faction and the Law and Order party in 1842. The leader of the People’s Rights Thomas Wilson Dorr surrendered peacefully but was still tried and sentenced to life imprisonment for treason. However public sentiments were so strongly in favor of his cause that he only languished there for a few years before being released and he now enjoys a monument here in the cemetery.
New England is the place to live if you’re into horror. The reason is pretty simple – we have a long and strange history that revels in the terrifying. From our first white settlers we’ve have been a deeply superstitious bunch and this is pretty apparent in the case of Mercy Brown.
Mercy Brown was a young woman in Exeter Rhode Island who died at the tender age of 19 in 1892. She was the latest victim of consumption, a disease that was ravaging a good deal of her family and the surrounding community. Today we know tuberculosis is caused by a highly contagious bacterial infection of the lungs but back in Mercy’s day this wasn’t well understood and locals believed that it was the wrath of the dead – specifically that diseased corpses were raising from their graves as vampires. It was a belief born to the fact that consumption was a wasting disease that took months or sometimes years to kill a person who by the end would frequently look like a shuffling emaciated corpse coughing up blood.
The Brown family previously had lost their matriarch, Mercy’s mother, as well as her sister and herself. When the family’s only son was also hopelessly ill drastic decisions were made. After gaining permission from the community the mother and her two daughters were exhumed so their bodies could be examined for signs of vampirism. Mercy, who was likely held above ground in a local crypt for those two cold months, showed remarkably little decomposition (likely due to being frozen and/or kept in fridge-like temps.) This was seen as proof that she was the vampire responsible for the continuing deaths.
The crypt in question still lies to the far left of the cemetery.
From here things got a bit gruesome. In an attempt to save her brother’s life and stop her own post-death rampage the community removed her heart and lungs, cooked them on a pyre, and when nothing but ash remained they were ground up and fed to her brother. Sadly this folk ritual had no effect and he followed his sister to the grave just a few months later.
These incidences were recorded in the newspapers at the time and were thought to have influenced horror writers of the day – mainly HP Lovecraft but also potentially Bram Stoker. There had been at least eighteen other cases of vampire exhumations in New England’s newspaper reports which suggests there were probably a lot more that went unrecorded, a fact that has been reinforced by recent archeological finds of other strange burials, some being kept down with bricks, others with their bones and skulls being made into a grim cross. However Mercy is fondly remembered here as “The Last American Vampire” for she was the most recently recorded. This ritual is still practiced in some rural regions of Romania and possibly a handful of other countries even today despite laws being made against it.
The grave where her heartless body rests has been visited by all sorts of strange folk including myself and my travel companion. She rests in the Chestnut Hill Cemetery behind the Baptist Church in Exeter Rhode Island. Her grave can be seen from the entrance to the cemetery and lies underneath an evergreen tree. It’s a small white marble stone in her family’s plot that’s hard to miss because other visitors have left pennies and other little trinkets. There’s supposed to also be a little guest book in a Tupperware tub but I didn’t see that – it might have been picked up because of Covid precautions. I was however amused by two Disney princess band-aids stuck to the stone as I left my own penny.
After escaping the velociraptors in the Enchanted Forest we continued our adventuring to yet another abandoned amusement park in Rhode Island. This one was more familiar to my travel companion as he was here in the mid 1990’s before it was abandoned making happy childhood memories. Curranty it’s been transformed into a regular park. Most of the rides were taken apart and sold or thrown away but some structures still remain on the grounds, now accompanied by little plaques!
Actually the park is very pretty even without the added allure of a decaying amusement park. It sits next to the ocean and there’s a lot of open space to run around and enjoy. Upon entering we were greeted with the remains of an old gondola ride – cables and pulleys reaching for the sky, rusted in place. It was pretty dramatic.
As I walked along a fledgling screech owl flopped to the ground at my feet. I was a little stunned, didn’t know if the tiny beast was OK, and started to walk towards him when he gave me that familiar look that I am accustomed to seeing from a cat, the one that says, “I MEANT TO DO THAT! Don’t look at me!” And with that he made a very klutzy return to the air. It was an event that only took a few seconds but it delighted me.
People were fishing on the docks, several children were flying kites on the grass, and we were moseying about reading the plaques. Apparently this place was where the first presidential phone call was administered in a very public setting. The whole story was recounted on this plaque: (or not as the photo doesn’t want to upload…)
But as interesting as that history we were here to poke around the weird structures. By now we couldn’t even figure out what they were anymore. Weeds and vegetation had taken its toll and it just wasn’t obvious anymore without the help of the plaques. Still my travel companion wanted to see the caves which were reportedly a little teenage escape back in the day… hidden from the rest of the park they would take the Gondola ride up there and jump off to meet clandestinely.
So we made our way up there and there was indeed a little rocky alcove with a few caves. Clearly teenagers were still living it up in the area as there was the usual scattering of broken glass, used condoms, and F*ck Tr*mp graffiti. Ah, the passion and the angst. I goddamn love you little delinquents.
We scrambled about the rocks going deeper and deeper into the woods before deciding to head back. It was a fun little escape and this park endeared me to it. We got to see some creepy trees, the haunted house, and what remains of the swing before we left. It was a good time all around and the perfect fall day to attend such a place.
