A warm welcome in Salem from women and witches

Pulling up at Marblehead’s Harbor Light Inn, my oldest friend and I wasted no time securing two counter seats at the Tavern tucked inside. A Christmas tree twinkled incongruously as we planned the hallowed pilgrimage most travelers reserve for spooky season: the next day we’d make the twenty-minute drive to Salem, the scene of the infamous witch trials of 1692. Peeling ourselves away from this glorious little seaside B&B, replete with canopy beds and resplendent fireplaces, would be harder than expected. “Excuse the smell! We’ve been baking all day,” said general manager Carolyn as we caught a waft of banana bread.

The Witch City crawls with have-a-go Harry Potters on and around Halloween, tales of executions and mass hysteria, Puritanism and ghoulish specters belying its cutesy colonial vibe. Broomstick-brandishing tourists sweat through polyester, snapping selfies in the Old Burying Point Cemetery and the Halloween museum. Come October they gain fresh momentum, pinballing between events at the Haunted Happenings festival. An exhaustive program of costume balls, psychic fairs and marketplaces lures a yearly influx of spook-seekers who dig deep into robe pockets, lining up to buy crystal balls and undergo psychic readings. 

Sofie and I had vowed to venture there one day while deep in our own teenage phase of occultism, fascinated by the lore that shrouds Rebecca Nurse and her fellow accused. We’d explore the art-filled Peabody Essex museum, enjoy the fall foliage, maybe have our cards read. We’d heard November was a good time to visit, once shopkeepers and museum managers had swept away the candy wrappers. We couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome: a coven of women and witches crafting us a full itinerary.

“Pardon me, but did I hear you say you’re heading to the Salem Witch Museum?” enquired a local at the next table, breaking off her chat with a friend.

“Long way from home!”

We joked that it didn’t feel like it; reclining in an eighteenth-century New England-style mansion was coming alarmingly naturally. Over crab cakes and red wine, we detailed our cross-Atlantic search for the supernatural. I mentioned that I’d visited Massachusetts once before as a kid (ironic for a J.K. Rowling fan, I’d spent half the trip sheltering from strong winds in a cupboard under the stairs). Our new friends Janet and Marcia insisted that this time, we’d see it all.

“We’ve known Holly forever. She opened the museum back in the Seventies. Let us call her.”

Waking up to the smell of baking cookies, I dialed up the gas fireplace, sank into a wingback chair and dialed Holly Mulhill’s number. The Salem Witch Museum founder indeed lived close by, inviting us for tea at her own wood-paneled mansion by the water. We walked off a spoiling breakfast of English muffins and fresh fruit, stopping in at art galleries, trinket shops and Maddie’s Sail Loft, a salty sailor’s institution known for its mashed potatoes and heavy pour. Our witch hunt was devolving into a study of pure indulgence, and we hardly minded.

“Come in! I’m sorry, my house is a nick nack nightmare.”

Holly led Sofie and me through her pristine home to a poofy sofa where we settled to bother her with every question we could think of.

“I’m gonna start on a low note! A couple of weeks ago, the media ran a pretty scathing headline: ‘Salem Witch Museum is the second most popular tourist trap in the world!’ Now, I’m turning that around. A lot of people think they are coming to get spooked, but we’re telling the history of the place.

“Here’s your homework.”

Holly handed me a stack of leaflets and papers. “There’s an interview with me in there, somewhere.”

“So why did you open the museum in the first place?” Sofie wondered, as I pictured her aged thirteen, scribbling down spells that would help us win the heart of her dreamy next-door neighbor. 

“My father owned the building the Witch Museum is housed in. He came home one day and said to my mother, ‘Honey I bought a church today! If it doesn’t turn into a museum, we’ll start a new religion.’ He needed a place to place and store his collection of antique cars.”

“But you had other ideas?” Sofie’s eyes widened. I thought about the last time I’d gone to visit her. She’d laughed hysterically upon finding a long-forgotten cow’s tongue at the back of her freezer, in search of ice cream. “For a hex,” she’d shrugged.

“Well, the building had a fire,” Holly went on. “He said to his daughter and her late husband that they should tell the story of witches in the area… and well, we bit.

“We had a brilliant team of people working with us to build it. Such a big building… it took forever to heat or cool. I’d open the windows in the morning, but pregnant women were fainting by 1 p.m.. We had no AC for the first year.

“Honestly, Salem’s justice system failures almost eclipse the naval history, and other beautiful things about this place, and the people. It’s very special.”

Holly’s sentiments echoed those of our new friends from the Tavern. “We’re giddy about living here,” Marcia had shared. A love of alchemy had brought us to Marblehead, but the strength of the female community was proving to be the most powerful transmutation.

“Let me call Tina. She’ll show you around today.”

By lunchtime, we’d circled Holly’s adorably hokey (let’s call it kitsch) museum, with a renewed love and appreciation for its origin story. The same creepy wax figures stared back at us from the same two exhibitions exploring stereotypes associated with witchcraft.

There was something perfect about the experience being frozen in time. Sofie reveled in the corniness exactly as I had back in 2005, our sense of humor largely unchanged. Executive director Tina Jordan showed us around, sharing newspaper articles from decades past. 

“We’re still reeling from Halloween. It is crazy — crazy! These streets are full. We catch our breath, and then it’s Christmas,” she laughed a little feverishly.

“Have you made a broom yet? The Witchery is awesome. I know the witches who work there. I’ll text them.”

Yet another welcome detour took us to a beautiful workshop space dedicated to book binding and broom making. A weekly event schedule detailed Ouija board building, ghost photography, pentacle wreath making, and a “moon witch” ritual. 

“Do you know much about broom lore?” began the workshop leader. I shook my head, not needing to look to know Sofie was nodding sagely.

“We make cobweb brooms for modern-day witches, using them for ritual and ceremony. They’re not just for physical cleaning. They symbolize the sweeping of negative energies. Feminists in the room will note that they’re a symbol of domesticity. Linked to witchcraft, they become a symbol of female empowerment. You can imagine why that caused problems. Oh, and the sexual connotations are always fun.”

We chose broom handles in unfinished ash, and took turns tying bundles of broom corn tight. Adding pendants, dried flowers, charms and bones, we heard stories of Salem and its modern-day witches, noting down shops still operated by Wiccans selling herbs, charms, talismans and tchotchkes. Pentagram was the place to meet psychic mediums, connecting us with our beloved dead, or perhaps even scarier, ourselves. “The witches over there are wonderful,” came the assurance, not that we’d needed any.

Instantly sensing my profession, my tarot reader warned that a life of frequent travel would leave little time to nurture strong connections. While Sofie drove us back to Marblehead, I texted the women who’d unwittingly shaped the course of our treasured weekend. We met in Salem the next day, sharing stories over lunch at the iconic Hawthorne Hotel. 

“Once they let me stay here with a bird, a rabbit and a dog!” Marcia declared. We should have guessed she’d travel with familiars. We’d arrived in Massachusetts seeking spectral mysteries, but discovered it’s the women making profound magic.