Ghosts of History: Bridget Bishop

Welcome, wanderer... To Salem, where shadows cling to cobblestones, and whispers linger longer than the wind. I am Bridget Bishop — aye, the first to hang. They called me witch... for apples, lace, and laughter. Come, see the place where fear wore robes and judged with rope. But do not fear me — Only remember: Truth drowned here beneath superstition’s tide. Tread lightly... the past still stirs beneath your feet.

Who are you?

I was flesh once — woman, wife, tavern keeper. A touch of lace on my sleeves, a boldness on my tongue. They called me witch, but I was only guilty of living loudly. They brought me to Gallows Hill, with prayers on their lips and blood on their hands. Now I walk these nights unseen, a shade beneath the apple trees I once grew. I am Bridget Bishop — First to fall in Salem’s sorrowful folly. Not a witch... but a warning.

What was so offensive about your lifestyle?

I wore scarlet when others wore gray, ran a tavern where laughter flowed with cider, and spoke plainly in a town that prized silence in its women—I tended my apple trees, mended lace, and married more than once, which made me suspect, as if grief and survival were sins. I lived without apology, and that was my crime; they saw independence as rebellion, boldness as blasphemy, and a woman who owned property as a threat to their trembling order. In Salem, a confident woman was more feared than the devil himself—and so they named me witch to make the world right again, by hanging it crooked.

What do you mean by "first to fall"?

I mean I was the first they led to Gallows Hill, the first name etched in terror when the frenzy began—June 10th, 1692, they made an example of me, as if my death might satisfy the hunger they mistook for justice. But it only fed the fire. I was the first to feel the rope bite while the town held its breath, the first whose silence beneath the scaffold echoed louder than any sermon. Others followed—nineteen hanged, one crushed, many broken—but I was the first stone cast in that dark flood. 'First to fall' means I was their beginning, not their end.

Where are you from?

I was born in England, in Norwich they say, though time has worn the memory thin—but it was across the ocean where I was truly made, in the hard soil of New England, in Salem, where I planted trees and buried husbands, where I built a life with rough hands and a sharper tongue. I am from the cracked boards of the tavern floor, from the orchard’s quiet bloom, from the fire in women’s eyes that frightened men in collars. I am from the gallows too, now—rooted in the place that feared me most, bound not by birth, but by the curse of unjust death.

How did you get here?

By ship and by fate. I crossed the wide, cold sea from England, chasing a new life, as many did — Not knowing it would end in gallows and gravel. I married, I mourned, I married again. I stitched lace, poured cider, tended orchards, lived bold in a town that feared bold women. Salem didn’t summon me. I came on my own feet, but it was fear and fire that rooted me here forever. I came seeking freedom. I found judgment.

What was life like in Salem?

It was a place of tight-laced prayers and tighter whispers, where the Sabbath ruled and suspicion bloomed like mold in the corners of every home; life there meant minding your tongue, your dress, your neighbors' glances—lest they think your orchard thrived too well, or your words carried too much fire. I kept a tavern, wore red, spoke freely, and for that they watched me like wolves in pews. Beneath its Puritan calm, Salem boiled with envy, grief, and dread dressed up as righteousness, and when the devil needed a face, they painted it with mine. Life in Salem was survival—until it wasn’t.

How did you die?

By rope and righteous hands, they said. Atop Gallows Hill, beneath a gray June sky in 1692, they tied my wrists, prayed with trembling lips, and let me drop. Not for poison, nor devil’s pact, but for being a woman too proud, too different — For red bodices and apple orchards, for speaking when others stayed silent. They called it justice. I call it fear with a noose. So I died — But I do not rest.