Witch Bottle by Helen Chappell “I’ve been waiting to show you this,” the man seated opposite me said as he opened a plastic bag and unwrapped broadsheets of newspaper. “I read your columns, and I thought it might interest you.” And he was right. I’d heard of witch bottles, but I’d never seen one before. Even though they turn up from time to time on the Shore, they’re exceedingly rare. He placed it on the table between us. It was an old, old wine bottle, the kind with a round belly and a long neck. I think they stopped making them about 300 years ago. Sometimes, one turns up in an antiques shop or a salvaged wreck, but one like this is almost unique. The cork was decomposing, but it still managed to hold the contents in the bottle, such as they were. About a cup of gray-yellow liquid with a handful of old hand- forged nails drifting in the bottom, all rusty, and bits of what might once have been some kind of plant. I’m just superstitious enough not to want to touch it, but I allowed the owner to turn it over and show it to me from all angles. “It’s a witch bottle,” I said. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never seen one before.”
“It’s probably been under our house since the original structure was put up, probably in the 1700s. At first, we didn’t know what it was, just that it was old, but we found an archeologist from Philadelphia who told us what it was and why.” “It was buried under the doorstep to keep witches from entering the house.” Lord, I’m smart, just a font of useless knowledge. “This is so cool.” I actually touched it. “Someone would pee in the bottle and add nails and fingernail clippings and whatever and bury it as a charm 9
