The Witch, The Devil, and The Horseman

By Tom Schneider

"CHILLING HISTORICAL HORROR"

"Wildly imaginative"

 

Three early American gothic tales, including America's last witch trial in 1730, the birth of the Jersey Devil in 1735, and the true origin of the Headless Horseman in 1776. 

 

In 1730 Ben Franklin published a story about a witch trial in Mount Holly, in The Pennsylvania Gazette. But did he tell the complete story, or was it a coverup of more sinister and frightening events? Emmet, an aspiring reporter, takes his first assignment for Franklin's Pennsylvania Gazette and travels to New Jersey to discover the truth about the impending trial. His investigation of what Franklin views as a farce takes a dark and dangerous turn when he discovers someone wants the truth and him buried.

 

In 1735 Emmet returns to New Jersey on assignment for Ben Franklin's Pennsylvania Gazette. Searching for dirt on Franklin's rival, Titan Leeds, Emmet digs up more than he bargained for as he learns of the demon's birth. When one of the birth's witnesses is an old friend, Emmet returns to Mount Holly where he will have to confront the Leeds Devil, his own demons, and his broken promise to a forlorn love.

 

America wasn't the only thing birthed in 1776. The year also gave rise to the brutal terror of the Headless Hessian. Elijah sets off from Philadelphia to the village of North Tarrytown. There, his path leads to a showdown with the murderous horseman on All Hallows Eve, and his deeds give birth to a legend.

 

"Schneider has breathed new life into an old legend with creative flair in this chilling historical horror." - SPR
 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: UltraRogue Publishing
• Release date: May 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223110385

Book preview

When I look out my window

Many sights to see

And when I look in my window

So many different people to be

That it's strange, so strange

It's very strange to me

---

You've got to pick up every stitch (Gonna be)

You've got to pick up every stitch (Gonna be, gonna be)

You've got to pick up every stitch

Oh no, must be the season of the witch

Donovan, Season of the Witch

Chapter 1

August, 1730

---

10:00 PM, Mount Holly, NJ

The door of the wigwam crashes open and an overweight man stumbles out into the darkness, with his shirt torn open, his hat in his hand, pants falling down, and a shoe missing. He looks up at the night sky in a panic. A mix of stars and clouds rush by. The mist from the creek hovers above the ground like a veil. Disoriented, he runs in a circle before the dizzying feeling in his head causes him to drop and sit on the ground. He rubs his forehead as a wave of nausea comes over him, and he vomits.

He wipes his mouth with his arm and looks up as a sheep appears in front of him. The sheep brays at him, but he can’t hear anything other than the sound of waves crashing in his head. The animal comes closer. It is yelling at him. He can hear it. Over and over, louder and louder. He sees the spit spraying from its mouth. Then it speaks in plain English.

The beasts of the field will honor Me, the jackals and the ostriches, because I provide water in the wilderness and rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people.

He scrambles to his feet, fighting the heavy pull of gravity, and walks backward in fright, away from the beast. His heel catches a log behind him. His momentum takes him off his feet, and he lands on the ground beside a pig. It looks at him and the creature’s head rotates in circles, its body floats over him. The boar grunts and snarls, drool flails from its teeth.

Grasping at the dirt, he rises and flees, his gaze still affixed on the levitating hog. He turns his head in time to slam into a sapling in front of him. The branch splits the skin on his forehead and sends him back to the ground. Stars swirl around him. The trees move with life and reach for him as he scratches the ground with his hands and gets to his feet. He runs through the woods to the trail that brought him there and heads over the Mount, back toward town.

A woman comes out of the wigwam with only a blanket over her shoulders. She raises her hands to her mouth and makes the call of a coyote in the direction of the Mount. She laughs and goes back to the wigwam. The door slams shut and the cackling laughter of the women inside escapes through the smoke hole atop the shelter.

The man arrives at his home and makes a commotion, fumbling with the door, and wakes his wife from her sleep. She runs to the door in her shift as he rushes in with his shirt half torn off and blood smeared across his forehead.

Holy mackerel, what in God’s name has got into you? What happened to your head?

Witches, Sarah. Witches. They cast a spell on me. Made their animals fly and speak. They’re possessed. Evil. It’s the work of the Devil. The ram was reciting psalms. It said everyone will honor him. It used the words of Isaiah. Then a boar flew at me, threatening me.

Witches? What are you talking about? Where were you?

They forced me into their wigwam.

Wigwam? Indians forced you? What were you doing with Indians?

No, witches. One looks like an Indian. Maybe she is, but they’re both witches, I know that. They cast a spell on me. Watch out. I don’t know what I’ll do.

Come here, let me look at your head in the candlelight.

I have to lie down.

He went to the bed, and she opened the front door to have a look. He yells for her to stay inside and close it. She sees only the empty night, shuts the door, and locks it.

She tends to his head, wipes the blood off, and gets back into bed. Sarah watches him lay staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide in fright.

What were you doing with Indian women in their wigwam? she asks.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, clutching the blanket.

Chapter 2

Saturday, October 1, 1730

---

10:00 AM, Philadelphia, Pa

Emmet was reading the front-page story of the Pennsylvania Gazette while walking down Drinker Street. He had already read them when he set their type, but now he was skimming it again for errors that made it to print.

Sales were slow, and he was wallowing in his own bitterness as he found laying out trays of type tedious. Character by character, every sentence painfully arranged, filling the galleys. What really bothered him was that he knew he could write stories just as well, or better than Franklin himself.

He wanted to be a writer. Someone else could arrange the trays of type. Typesetting was boring. There was a world growing all around, outside of the print shop. He wanted to explore it and write about it.

He looked for a chance to prove himself with a story assignment. Franklin promised he’d get a chance, but he was growing impatient. He knew that since Franklin bought the print shop the year before, he could give him an assignment if he wanted to. He would not get locked away in the print shop his whole life.

His foot caught a broom stick discarded by the boy sweeping the bakery and he stumbled, losing the stack of papers from his hand. He nearly hit the cobblestones and cursed profusely. He picked up the scattered papers, and he looked for the boy to berate. Not seeing him, he kicked the broom and continued walking.

When he got back to the shop, he poured himself a mug of coffee from the silver coffeepot. The job had its rewards; he thought. Particularly since Franklin got the idea of selling coffee out of the print shop. He always had a drink, and it brought in people to break up the work. Sometimes even a pretty young lady.

He thought his day was about to get worse when Franklin said he needed to speak with him. From his tone, he wondered what he could have done wrong.

I want you to join me for dinner at the tavern. I have an assignment for you, Franklin said.

An assignment? What is it?

We’re going to meet a man that’s come from Mount Holly, across the river in New Jersey. There’s some kind of hysteria about witches over there amongst the superstitious fools. He’ll fill us in on the details and if it warrants it, I’ll send you over there for a few days to get to the bottom of it and write the story.

Witches?

Yes, I know. Maybe you can shed the light of reason on these wood-folk.

Yes, sir.

12:30 PM, The Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, Pa

They met Bill Pike at the Tun Tavern, on the corner of King Street and Tun Alley. They were to learn more about the events occurring in New Jersey and enjoy a few ales—the best in Philadelphia, according to Franklin. The tavern’s food was gaining a reputation as well since Peggy Mullan introduced her famous Red-Hot Beefsteak.

Bill Pike was a short and stout man with a bald head. He presented the facts as he knew them. He told of witness stories that claim the witches had cast spells over both men and animals. One woman told of her husband being under a spell for days, afraid to leave his home. Another spoke of sheep reciting psalms. There was talk of a trial happening in coming days to judge the guilt of the women. He wasn’t sure what the punishment was if they were guilty.

You don’t believe there’s any truth to them being witches, do you? Franklin asked Mr. Pike.

I know there’s been a few women that put me in a spell for a couple days. If all of them were witches, then we have a big problem on our hands, he said with a big smile, and laughed.

Yes, indeed, Franklin added.

The three of them laughed. But in the back of his mind, Emmet wondered if there was something to the claims. Franklin thought the story was ridiculous and mocked the residents of New Jersey.

The damn-fool country folk are more superstitious than a tribe of Indians, he said. Emmet, go there and learn the truth to dispel these delusions. And take a stack of papers with you to the Three Tuns Tavern. It’s time we extend our distribution there. Look up a man named Samuel Bryant. He is the proprietor. Make a friend of him and promise him more papers each week, at the normal rate of course.

Anything else? Emmet asked.

Sam is a good man. A little cheap. He may try to chisel you down, Bill added.

On their way back to the print shop, Franklin told Emmet, The Leeds family lives not far from Mount Holly. They put out an almanac each year. Titan Leeds is the writer now, and William Bradford publishes it. Titan is another fool led by superstition. And he spreads his nonsense without competition. I think we should publish an almanac. But that’s for another day.

Franklin had Emmet venture to Mr. Grace’s house and use the Junto Club’s meeting room. In there, they had started the group’s own book lending library, and they had assembled quite a few. Franklin suggested Emmet look for anything that might include anything about witches.

The Grace residence was a beautiful home, and Emmet had never seen so many books. He felt privileged to handle such a collection. He was finally on an assignment.

Emmet ambled around the perimeter dragging his finger across the spines, reading the titles as he passed. He found a pamphlet that included a single page about the Salem witch trial. He reasoned it was just as well. His story would be a first-hand account rather than rely on past writings.

He welcomed the chance to get out of Philadelphia for a few days and to prove himself. He had never been to Mount Holly, but he heard it was a growing town, surrounded by friendly Indians, and it had a modern tavern and inn that he could stay at.

Chapter 3

Monday, October 2, 1730

---

1:00 PM, Village of Chestertown, NJ

They traveled alongside the cemetery, through the mud, up Meetinghouse Lane to the top of the hill. There stood the stone Friends Meetinghouse. Emmet remembered as a small boy hearing that the original log meetinghouse burned down.

A cool wind sent a chill down the back of Emmet’s neck, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of impending doom. He signaled the driver and got out and use the necessary behind the meetinghouse by the cemetery. He was jittery, traveling to a new area and on his first writing assignment. Not sure he’d make it the rest of the way to Mount Holly without stopping.

A crow sat atop the necessary as he went in. It continued to squawk the entire time as he sat on the wooden bench. He kicked the door a few times to scare it away, but the bird didn’t move. It only squawked louder in protest. Emmet realized he was a mere visitor in the crow’s territory.

On his way back to the carriage, he stopped and stared at a group of Lenni-Lenape Indians walking down King Street. The driver noticed him staring and offered, There’s two different springs around here that draw them in. You better get used to it out here. They’re still all over the place. Not as many as a few years ago but still quite a lot.

Oh, doesn’t bother me any. Just curious is all, Emmet said.

Curious. That’s what killed the cat, friend. I’d advise you to be careful trusting any of them.

4:00 PM, Mount Holly, NJ

Mount Holly was known as Bridgetown because of the many bridges crossing the Rancocas Creek. It sits on the land bought by Walter Reeves from the Lenape Indians in 1677. Reeves and his sons built a dam on the creek to create a raceway to power a gristmill and sawmill, finishing it in 1723.

The Three Tuns Tavern stood on Pine and Mill Street, built by Samuel Bryant in 1723 as well. The raceway proved to create a boon for herring every spring and guaranteed a healthy supply of dried fish for the tavern patrons all year long. The tavern was known for its fish and the applejack made by Samuel Bryant.

On the right side of the tavern was a pass-through for carriages to protect passengers from the elements when arriving at the side door. Overhead were a few boarding rooms. A balcony ran across the front for the second-floor rooms, which overlooked Mill Street and up Pine toward the creek.

It was late afternoon when Emmet finally