Idol & Window
By Joseph A. Citro
THE SILVER IDOL
During the so-called “French and Indian War,” Rogers's Rangers' less-than-heroic surprise attack on the Abenaki village of St. Francis was, quite literally, a cursed campaign.
Events began late in October 1759 when Robert Rogers led his elite force of commandos north from Crown Point on a secret retaliatory expedition.
The Rangers, 140 in all, were thoroughly experienced in Indian warfare, and were familiar with almost every hardship the wilderness imposed. But none could have been prepared for what was to come as they followed Major Rogers northward for 22 days.
At length, under cover of darkness, they quietly surrounded the cluster of primitive huts and European-style dwellings centered around a Catholic chapel. These were occupied primarily by women, children, and the elderly.
As the sun rose, the rangers attacked. Hearing the barrage of lethal gunfire, surprised villagers rushed outside only to be cut down in their tracks. Some, hoping to escape, plunged into the river and were picked off by sharpshooters. Men and women, the infants and the aged, all were slaughtered with equal savagery. Some, the lucky ones, were murdered while they slept.
The butchery continued into the church where the priest tried to protect a scattering of terrified villagers. He was murdered along with them.
Then all was quiet but for the moans of the dying. The victors began looting the chapel, stripping the altar and stealing gold, jewels, and anything that looked valuable. Their most precious acquisition was an 8-pound silver statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
But something happened.
The looters froze as an unearthly voice spoke from somewhere amid smoldering rubble and the piles of corpses. The exact words, uttered in English, were not recorded. Nor do we know exactly who spoke them. But in substance, a curse was placed on the invaders. It went something like this: "The Great Spirit will scatter darkness in your path. Hunger will walk before you and Death will strike your tail. Your wives will weep, for the dead will not return."
The invaders paid little attention, demonstrating their scorn by flinging the Host to the ground and torching the chapel. Then they burned the rest of the village.
But supernatural events had already begun. As the rangers started to leave, the bell in the blazing chapel began to ring. Immobile with dread, they listened to the slow, measured strokes until the flaming belfry collapsed and the bell clanged to the ground and was silent.
Several men carrying the idol with them headed south through Vermont. Snows and freezing temperatures made progress difficult. Fear of pursuing Indians kept them from stopping long enough to acquire game. Hunger set in – just as the ominous voice had predicted.
No doubt they considered abandoning the heavy silver statue, but greed overrode self-preservation – at least at first. But conditions grew worse. Bits of their plunder were cast off to lighten their load. The statue was passed from hand to hand as one by one the men fell away from exhaustion or death.
Half-crazed with hunger and fatigue, only eight emaciated survivors made it all the way to the Connecticut River. Detecting no sign of other survivors, the men concluded they were the only ones to make it back. In reality, they had somehow missed the spot where they were supposed to rendezvous with their comrades.
Frightened and disheartened, they continued on their formidable trek, but history has lost their trail. Most likely they headed east into the White Mountains. But maybe one or two doubled back, forging west into the mountains of Vermont.
Full of despair, the survivors staggered on for days without sustenance. Some fell by the wayside. Others plodded, crept, and at last they crawled on their bellies until madness possessed them in the frozen isolation of the impenetrable mountains.
The inevitable end wasn't long in coming.
Our unhappy tale concludes with insanity, cannibalism, and lonely death. Perhaps the last of the raiders perished miserably with the words of the curse ringing in his ears, for indeed darkness had scattered their path; hunger had walked before them, and a grisly Death had struck down every last man.
And we can be sure that somewhere along their fatal trek a discarded silver statue – carefully hidden or blasphemously hurled away – awaits some treasure hunter or unwary hiker.
But whoever finds it had better think twice before picking it up.
The Magical Window
I’ve been working on this story for a while now. I discovered it in July of 2020, but quickly had to abandon my research and investigation because of the Covid pandemic. With elderly and compromised individuals living on the premises in question, site visits and in-person interviews had to be delayed indefinitely.
I hope one day to pick it up again because this story has really stuck with me. It is a bewildering tale, the like of which I had never before encountered. I see it as unique, charming even. It’s like a reversal of the traditional “haunted house” tale. I share it now as a story-in-progress. If I’m not able to return to the site and collect all the details, at least this brief telling will give some future collector a starting point.
Let me begin by giving credit where credit is due. Writer and editor Steve Aikenhead from Weathersfield, Vermont – a town of fewer than 3000 people – has taken it upon himself to collect as much local history and folklore as possible in a series of elegant little books called Weathersfield Tales. My friend Lorraine Zigman gave me Book 2; that’s where I found this story. It was written in 1987 by witness and occupant Shelli Snide.
Ms. Snide recounts a legend associated with the historic home on Wellwood Orchard Road, which is situated somewhere on that mysterious, intangible boundary between Weathersfield and Springfield, Vermont.
That house sits on another mysterious boundary as well, as we shall see.
Ms. Snide once lived in the house in question. Over the years, many occupants have reported seeing an uncanny and unusual sight, but only when looking out through one seemingly magical window.
She starts by admitting that she had never believed the story.
But beliefs can change. She wrote: “One evening I was alone in the house waiting for a friend to come pick me up. We were going partying. I was sitting at the table looking out the window when I heard a horse running around behind the house. I thought, ‘Oh, no! I'm going to have to go chase that stupid horse, and how can you do that in high heels? This will not be fun.’”
She got up and hurried to the window to look out. Sure enough, she saw a horse dash by just a few feet in front of her. And it had a rider.
"Oh, my God!" she said. "It's the Indian!"
She saw him well enough to describe. “He had been dark in color. He had worn buckskin, but not very much else.” Oddly, being of a sympathetic nature, she remembers thinking, It’s late September; he might be cold.
Though she may have been gawking unabashedly at him, he paid her no attention at all, just kept riding until horse and rider soon vanished down the road.
Afterwards she learned that seeing an Indian on horseback riding around the house was not a unique experience. It was a ghostly phenomenon that many people in her family had witnessed. And here’s the kicker: always when looking out through that one particular window!
Shelli Snide concluded her account with a disappointing revelation: “The next owners replaced the window, and the Indian was never seen again.” In fact, she believes the window was boarded over because of the Indian. Well, maybe.
#
My good friend Peter Levesque was as captivated by the story as I am. He launched a web search in an attempt to locate Ms. Snide. And he soon found her, now living in a distant state. Via email communication, she told Peter the exact location of the house and identified the present owner. She even secured permission for us to visit the site. Unfortunately, she lived too far away to join us.
Alas, the trail ends in the dooryard of the house. Peter and I visited, met with the owner, learned the house is in a branch of the same family, and saw where the window had been boarded up.
We also discovered there is a good deal more to the story that can only be revealed by talking to elderly historians. If I can gather all the details, this will make a fine expanded chapter for an upcoming book.
Meanwhile, I am left to ponder what we might really be dealing with: is the house situated on a mysterious border between then and now? Is this a ghost story? A time-slip tale? Or are we looking at a portal to the past? A magic window that functions as a time machine? Or could it be some brand-new and unexplored paranormal puzzle?
Time will tell.
Stay tuned…
Joseph A. Citro is a Vermont author and folklorist known for collecting New England’s ghost stories, legends, and strange-but-true lore. His most recent book is The Vermont Ghost Experience, available at local bookstores or wherever books are sold. You can also ask your local library to order it for your enjoyment and the enjoyment of other library patrons. In Passing Strange, Citro shares folklore with a curious eye, a storyteller’s warmth, and just enough mystery to make you look twice on the ride home.