When I write about witches, whether real or imagined, I always feel a little bit like I’m reaching backward through time. With House of Spells and Secrets, I felt the tide of Chesapeake Bay tugging at the shore. I heard the air there hum with old stories. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the whispers of the women who once walked the marshy edges of the land. At least I imagine I can.
I’ve been reading about the so-called witches of the Chesapeake lately, and their stories have stayed with me. These were ordinary women—herbalists, midwives, caretakers, wives—who somehow became symbols of fear and suspicion. Their names are part of the landscape of the Bay, woven through the reeds, creeks, and fog. It’s a hauntingly beautiful and tragic image.
Everyone knows about Salem, but fewer people talk about the Chesapeake colonies. Maryland’s witchcraft laws were among the earliest in America. One of the first women accused was Rebecca Fowler, who was executed after a servant claimed she cursed him.
Imagine living your life quietly, tending to your home, and then suddenly being accused of witchcraft because someone’s crops failed or an illness struck. The fear of being misunderstood, of being too different, still resonates today.
And then there’s Moll Dyer, who I think is the most famous witch of Maryland. Local lore says she was driven from her home on a freezing night by her neighbors and found dead in the woods, her hand pressed to a stone. That stone still exists, and legend says her palm print remains. Haunting.
I think of her often. Of what it must have felt like to be alone, hunted, and yet still leaving her mark on the world, quite literally carved into stone. I find something fiercely human in that, don’t you?
A woman named Grace Sherwood lived across the Bay in Virginia. She was called the “Witch of Pungo.” She was a healer and farmer accused of transforming into a cat and casting spells on livestock. What?! Her neighbors turned on her, and in 1706 she was bound and thrown into a river to see if she would sink (innocent) or float (guilty).
Of course, she floated.
Somehow, she also survived. She eventually reclaimed her land and lived a full life. Today, a statue of her stands in Virginia Beach, and she’s remembered with more admiration than condemnation.
There’s something about Grace that I love. Her quiet resilience and her refusal to disappear are so admirable. She endured the cruelty of her time and became a symbol of persistence. I like to think she smiled at the absurdity of it all, even as the world tried to weigh her down.
When I was writing House of Spells and Secrets, I kept thinking about women like Rebecca, Moll, and Grace. I thought about their lives, their pain, and how their names became legend. My story takes place on the Chesapeake Bay, and its heart beats with that same rhythm. It’s about the connection between women, legacy, and the places that hold our secrets.
In House of Spells and Secrets, Swallow Hall is nearly alive. It breathes with memory. Its magic is subtle, woven into the walls, the bloodlines, and the quiet moments when a character stands still and listens. I imagine Moll Dyer would have understood that kind of magic.
What these women remind me of is this: power often frightens those who don’t understand it. And sometimes, power is nothing more than intuition, healing, or a gentle kind of knowing. I want that kind of power. I think I have it. And thankfully, I won’t be hanged or burned at the stake or drowned because of it.
I’ve planned a new page in my grimoire for these women…the witches of Chesapeake Bay. Like the Connors sisters, they aren’t the cauldron stirring, broomstick kind or witches, but the real women who lived, loved, and endured. I will write their names in ink, circle them with saltwater blue, and every time I look at my grimoire, I will whisper my thanks.
If you’d like to honor them too, light a candle and trace your finger along a map of the Chesapeake. Follow one of its rivers or inlets and imagine them walking there, gathering herbs, humming to themselves, whispering to the wind.
Maybe what we’re really doing is listening for echoes.
Because I believe the water remembers…and so should we.
Until next time,
© 2026 Melissa Bourbon