You rarely know who or what has unseen eyes on you during a casual stroll in the forest. In this case, it’s a half dozen turkeys, more curious than afraid. At least, theirs are the only eyes I’m aware of. I’ve walked the loop at Hemphill Woods before, admired the age-old wall stones carefully crafted to hold horizontal fence rails. Today’s late afternoon hike also deliberately includes a bushwhack on the pathless west parcel. I’m out here now, finding the progress slow and uncomfortable. It’s still “summer” in early October but hints of fall’s looming desolation are present: brittle brown stalks of goldenrod, a low baleful sun. Animal sign is all around. Disquieting.
Lurid
sulphur fungus,
“Chicken of
the Woods”,
looks like
something
out of H. P.
Lovecraft.
The borderlands between Windham, Scotland, and Hampton (it was all Windham once) have been farmed since long before American independence, and this part of the Quiet Corner is prone to eeriness. Deep history. The Windham Inn has a notable and mischievous poltergeist. Many say the benign spirits of Edwin and Nellie Teale can be felt along the pathways of Trail Wood. And in fact, that’s why I’m here. These dark ridges and thickets along the Little River are the site of our most famous ghost story.
Teen-aged Elisabeth “Betsy” Shaw was hung in December,1745 for the murder of her new-born baby (Or was it November of 1744? Records contradict each other). The infant, with his alive and distraught mother, was found dead that June after an apparent birth in the woods somewhere very near this spot. Many insist Betsy now haunts Plains Road in a white dress, down toward the Shetucket where the gallows stood. But unspoken questions drift about this sad and gruesome tale like river fog. Was Betsy intellectually deficient? Was it rape or incest? Was her own father responsible? Or her grandfather??? Was it murder at all – or just tragedy? We do know this: A jury of 16 compassionless men made Betsy the first official execution in Windham County.
Legend says the mother and baby were discovered at Cohantic ledges, just a half-mile west of here. I ran across a somewhat divergent tale, heard about a curious aural phenomenon from a local hunter I know, who suggested mating foxes or screech owls might be responsible, and immediately felt the need to embark on my own investigation. The woods in and around Joshua’s Trust’s Hemphill Preserve in Scotland are still and somber today, and the road is out of sight. Mourning doves fall silent as night comes on. It’s getting creepy. Nervous deer are shadows in the deepening dusk. And now I too hear it, and my hair stands on end. It’s not the wind groaning in the ancient oaks and hickories. It’s not the turkeys gobbling in the thick understory, or some other creature’s vocalizations. Indeed, it is the forlorn sound, unmistakable, of a newborn baby crying.
Happy Halloween,
George Jacobi