Witch Bottle: Helen Chappell

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

against evil entering the house.”

My companion nodded. Since he’s a respectable businessman from the Western Shore, I’m letting him remain anonymous lest his weekend home on the lower shore is overrun with nighthawks and other metal detector predators.

“We did some research when we were updating the place, and we think the original kitchen dates to the early 1700s, so the people who originally built the house must have buried it there.”

“It’s a thing, a charm, a spell that came over from England,” I spouted. “Apparently, they’re not uncommon over there when people do upgrades and find them in the cellar.” I thought for a moment. “I could see somebody from England coming over here and it would have seemed like a wild place, maybe full of magic and evil spells and neighbors and natives and Africans who meant you no good.” For obvious reasons, I didn’t add.

“You’d think by the 18th century, people would be over that superstitious nonsense,” he commented. He is a man of science, so he was getting a whole education in local history and culture and folklore.

“Stay around here long enough and you’ll run into people who still believe in witches and spells and all kinds of devilment. It’s no surprise that people will believe any-

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thing, if you know how they were raised. Most of ’em won’t admit it, but it’s there. Maybe it’s wearing new clothes, but it’s the same old hoo-ha with a new name.” It’s true. In my decades of covering the waterfront, I have encountered a lot of people who will believe anything, no matter how much it defies logic or science or even common sense. I had an aunt who swore up and down the moon landing was staged and it changed the weather, and that’s just in my own family. And my father was a surgeon, so we’re not exactly swamp people.

So, I mustered up my courage and carefully turned the witch bottle around on the table. I am so clumsy, I know if I handled it, it would smash all over the floor of one of my favorite Easton restaurants. And probably release a curse on me that would just be the latest in a long line of karmic mishaps, knowing my luck. So, I smashed my ego down, put on my armchair archeologist’s hat and examined the object at hand. I spun it in place, afraid to lift it up. The vile liquid swished, 200-odd years of nastiness. No self-respecting witch, let alone Wiccan, would touch it.

The glass was rough, probably from being buried so long, and cold to the touch. The stuff inside was just plain nasty, and it just had a cold, nasty vibe that I didn’t

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like. But I have a good imagination, maybe too good.

“I wonder if it kept the witches away,” I mused. “We had a couple of witch trials and incidents around here, so people did believe. . .”

“I was just surprised that we dug it up without breaking it. My wife was planting bulbs around the old kitchen doorway and hit something hard. Thought it was a pipe or a rock or something.” He shook his head. “Took it down to the college and they got us in touch with an archeologist at Penn. And we got the whole story. Or as much of it as we’ll ever know. I wonder what they were thinking?”

“What will you do with it now?” I asked, peering into the murky depths as if I could see the past in antique urine. “I bet a lot of museums or historical societies would love to have it.”

What I thought but did not say was that the thing was so creepy I wouldn’t have had it on a silver platter.

My companion grinned and shook his head. “Oh, we’re putting it right back where we found it. Some things aren’t meant to be messed with. Maybe the people who own that house in a hundred years will find it all over again.” years will find it all over again.”

Helen Chappell is the creator of the Sam and Hollis mystery series and the Oysterback stories, as well as The Chesapeake Book of the Dead. Under her pen names, Rebecca Baldwin and Caroline Brooks, she has published a number of historical novels.