Support Circle for the Persecuted Witch
Who doesn’t want an evil woodchuck as a familiar?
When a spirit summons you, of course you obey.
So, on a fine October morning in Rhode Island, where leaves of red and orange and yellow flit to the ground like newly fallen snow, a coven of witches of varying age shuffled through the main doors of the oldest church in town, where the stone and box pews had stood since the early 1700s.
The women cast their gazes about with narrowed eyes, a few scoffing at the religious scenes in the many beautiful stained glass windows. Some of the women looked downtrodden, others angry, and others darted bitter glances at each other.
Wooden chairs were arranged in a loose circle in one of the transepts to the side of the main room of pews, near where the statue of the Virgin Mary observed them with silent trepidation. Upon a table lay a tray of various snacks beside flickering candles of golden flame.
A portly woman said, “And to think, many a fool would swear some witches can’t so much as set foot upon holy ground.”
Another woman said, “Fools indeed.”
The eldest among them grumbled, pulling her shawl closed. “Fools for certain, since they might at least light some fires.”
A woman of dark skin and black hair inclined her head and seated herself in one of the wooden chairs in the circle. She wore linen robes of modest cut and gestured to the rest. “Good ladies, please take a seat. I am Sylvia Tory, known to some as the Witch of Ministerial Woods, though I grant I have escaped the persecutions ye have endured. I bid ye a most hearty welcome. Pray, be seated, and take such refreshment as ye will.”
The others sat, facing one another, except one who went straight to the snack table and began eating her way through the refreshments.
Sylvia said in a soft, melodic voice, “I thank ye all for attending this gathering of much persecuted witches. All the torches and pitchforks are most inequitable indeed. A spirit did visit me and charged unto me that I should convene this support circle.”
The woman at the snack table snorted loudly. She wore men’s clothes, with mousy brown hair and glimmering brown eyes in her pale face. “Spirit or none, I came for the free biscuits, is all.” She stuffed another into her mouth.
Sylvia smiled, her voice smooth as chocolate. “Of course, Dolly Cole. Ye are still most welcome here, Foster Witch. Ye may simply listen, should that be the wish. I know well the courage it takes to gather here this day. Now then, who would care to begin?”
Silence followed. Chairs creaked. Bodies shifted. Dolly kept eating.
Sylvia turned her attention to a middle aged woman seated stiffly at the edge of the circle. “Would ye start, Tuggie?”
Tuggie smirked, and then shrugged. She was tall and gaunt as famine, her skin black as night the same as Sylvia’s. Her cheekbones were cut sharp, and her face sat fixed between permanent irritation and fear. A purple turban wrapped her head, with many little ponytails sticking out. She said, “My name be Tuggie Bannock.”
In unison, save for Dolly who was chewing, the group of women all replied, “Hello, Tuggie.”
Next to her was a monstrous great woodchuck that squatted on the floor by her side. The creature’s brown eyes gleamed dark and menacing as he looked sharp about the room, licking one claw slowly, as if in warning. Tuggie stroked the creature with a long, bony hand and yellow nails curling into cruel talons.
“This here moonack,” Tuggie said, jerking her chin toward him, “be my familiar. He done give me a powerful fright one time, come bustin’ in my cottage door like de Debbil hisself on judgment day. But now, Obia, he keep watch over me. Ain’t nobody cross me while Obia stand guard.”
Obia rubbed his head on her leg, and she pet him more.
Her voice turned low. “De trouble on me, it come from de misery here ’bouts. Ain’t no matter how I try, I can’t brew no potion right, nor set no proper hex to working. Dey always go crooked or turn foolish. So dem other witches,” she looked around the circle, “laugh and scorn, and say I ain’t worth a pinch of grave dust.”
Obia leaned on her in comfort, setting his brown, furry face upon her thigh.
She continued, “You reckon how it be, born wit de power in you, but yet cain’t bring it forth proper? Like fire what won’t burn, or knife what won’t cut.” She frowned.
Dolly paused mid chew. “I know you! You tried to hex that tinker, didn’t you? And it went all wrong, it did.”
Tuggie gave a short, bitter snort. “All wrong, you say? Humph. At least me roof still stand and ain’t been put to torch and cinders.”
Dolly’s brown eyes flashed with anger, and a thin curl of smoke rose from her pale skin. “Those vile townsfolk killed my daughter, they did, and all while I was the good witch and healing them. Never did I do no scrap of harm and they called me a vampire or bad witch and burned my home. It aint right!”
Sympathetic nods moved around the circle of witches
Sylvia said, “I thank ye, Dolly. It’s most certainly not fair how we are persecuted. Tuggie?”
Tuggie’s hands jerked as she spoke again, vexed and restless. “Worse than wrong, it was. Dat brew call for a rabbit’s foot, it did, ’mongst other wicked things. But lord, de little creatures are quick as sin. Couldn’t catch one, not for plea nor promise. So I goes down to de trader and buys one of dem colored rabbit feet charms, all dyed up bright, thinkin’ it’d be good enough.”
She spat aside in disgust. “Turned dat entire cauldron brew as blue as the sea. Ruined clean through. Nothin’ left but mockery.”
“That must have been most troubling,” Sylvia murmured.
Heads around the circle all nodded in empathy. A ruined brew was a ruined day.
Tuggie nodded sharply, tugging hard at one of her little pigtails, while Obia bobbed his head as though the woodchuck were agreeing. “Oh, it vexed me sore it did,” she muttered, “Grave dust and other ingredients ain’t just lying around. Took me weeks to collect it all.”
Dolly snorted. “Aye, nearly as vexing as losing your home and child. You poor thing.” She rolled her eyes.
Tuggie snapped, “I was enslaved, madam,” she said, voice rising. “Don’t you set light by me trouble.”
Sylvia tilted her head. “Dolly, we are here to be supportive.”
Dolly glowered and shoved a cookie into her mouth.
A woman with dark, shiny black hair cleared her throat. “I am Mercy Brown.”
“Hello, Mercy,” they all replied.
“At least you actually are witches,” Mercy said quietly pushing black hair from her face. “I’m no such thing. But those idiots branded me a witch no matter, accusing me of draining my brother’s life force.”
“Bunch of fools they be,” said Tuggie, Obia nodding with her.
Dolly spewed crumbs, “Yeah, I mean, why harm one’s kin when persecutors present themselves so freely?”
Mercy nodded. “Just so.”
Sylvia inclined her head, then turned to the elderly woman perched upon a pincushion laid in her chair. “Would ye prefer another seat, dear?”
“I am not a deer,” the old woman snapped. “Though I do turn myself into a chicken.”
“Of course,” Sylvia said. “Ye are the Hopkinton’s Hag, correct?”
The old lady pursed her lips. “I prefer my right name, Granny Mott.”
The group said, “Hello, Granny Mott.”
Granny adjusted her shawl, her skin thin as paper, gray hair drifting loose from her bun. “I am sorely weary of being chased and pelted whilst in chicken form. Can a hen not have a moment’s peace from the fools?”
“That does sound dreadful indeed,” Sylvia said. “How does it sit with ye spirit?”
Granny scowled. “What a foolish question! Of course it leaves me wretched. While I may be wearing feathers sometimes, my patience still runs human. They throw stones, shoot at me, and even shot me with a silver button. A button! Who behaves so?”
Dolly licked crumbs from her fingers. “Townsfolk. A nasty lot, all of them. Sour as old gin. Never you fear. I have a horrible curse in store for them. They’ll pay for killing my daughter.” Her eyes flashed as she stared at each woman in turn, chewing her brownie very slowly.
The others shifted.
Sylvia smiled with strained patience. “I thank ye, Dolly. Would ye care to share more now?”
Dolly popped another biscuit into her mouth. “Told you already. I’m here for the hash, and nothing more.”
Sylvia sighed. “So be it. Anyone else?”
The others glanced about, but none spoke.
After a moment, Sylvia said, “Then we shall conclude our support group for today. I thank all ye lovely witches for coming at the bidden call of a goodly spirit to share. Pray, enjoy the refreshments.” Her arm gestured to the table where Dolly stood reaching for another snack.
Mercy shook black hair over one shoulder. “I brought port-soaked chocolate truffles. You simply must try them.” Her eyes twinkled.
Eyes widened among the gathering witches in anticipation of such a delectable treat.
Sylvia rose and moved with the crowd to the table. “Good heavens. You have outdone yourself, Mercy.” She placed one of the chocolate treats upon her tongue, her eyes half closing in ecstasy.
Everyone else did the same, Granny Mott taking hers back to her seat.
Mercy watched them as they devoured the truffles, sitting demurely in her seat.
She waited.
And waited.
Until Sylvia’s eyes widened and she staggered into the statue of the Virgin Mary before collapsing.
Until Dolly slowed her chewing and fell over the table, saying in a gasping breath, “You are a… a…witch….?”
Until Granny Mott began slipping from her chair, the half eaten truffle falling to the stones as realization dawned across her aged face.
A loud crack sounded. Smoke and ozone drifted out. In Granny’s place stood a large white hen.
The hen squawked in fury at Mercy, and then fled for the door in a flurry of white feathers.
Mercy smiled after it, then stood as all the other witches fell to the floor with gasps of fear and confusion.
Her vampire fangs extended, gleaming in the candle light. “No. Not a witch, though the fools misbranded me as such. I did, however, kill my brother. Drained him of blood though, which, I suppose, is a type of life force.”
She walked through the bodies strewn across the floor. “And, you know what, our neighbors pulled me out of my casket to burn my heart, which they believed contained some evil spirit. As though such a crude act could end a vampire. As you plainly see, I am quite recovered.” Her smile widened, fangs gleaming in the dim light of the church.
Tuggie’s woodchuck stood guard over her poisoned body that was stiff now with paralysis, snarling at Mercy.
Mercy looked at the creature that valiantly guarded the witch. To the woodchuck she said, “All the fools here would swear vampires can’t so much as set foot upon holy ground.” She laughed wickedly.
Obia snarled and began dragging Tuggie’s body toward the church door, to safety.
Mercy watched in silence, unwilling to fight the monstrous vicious familiar. She said, “I shall find you both yet, Granny and Tuggie. Just you see. But I have plenty here for a nice repast as it stands.”
The candle flames flickered as a cold wind swept into the church.
Mercy knelt beside Sylvia, brushing hair from the witch’s face as a mother might soothe a child. “I,” said Mercy Brown, tracing a finger down Sylvia’s throat, “have always preferred my meals to be warm and communal.”
Sylvia’s eyes darted in terror, her body unmoving. The others lay paralyzed but conscious as well; a spider’s prey stung and waiting to be eaten.
“You know, dear lady, a spirit did visit you,” Mercy said softly. “It told you to gather all these wonderful women here.”
Sylvia stared.
“That same spirit also came to me and told me where you all would be. Together, at last.”
The vampire’s gaze lifted to the cross above the Virgin, then slowly lowered, as though peering far into the depths of the burning Earth. “One must take care, you see, to know from where a spirit does come.”
She gave another small, wicked laugh as the church doors slammed shut with a ringing clang.
Author’s Note
I wrote this speculative fiction short story based on the local folklore in Rhode Island, as a response to a ‘call’ for local folklore pieces by Vanessa Perry with the Substack: Mythmount Press.
I based this story specifically around the lore about witches and vampires reported to have lived in southern Rhode Island, between Narragansett and Westerly and nearby areas (Rhode Island isn’t very big). I researched the lore on several websites and in books that had collected the various tales and myths together. References are below.
Then I decided to do a slight twist in the piece and create a speculative urban fantasy story based on the lore of these women.
The first creative license I took was putting them all together, in the same room, though in the lore they spanned nearly 200 years from the early 1700s to the late 1800s. But, it was supposed vampires and witches, and I thought “Well of course they found a way to survive long enough to all sit in one room together.”
Another example of a creative license was that Tuggie had a scary run in with a vicious moonack (woodchuck or groundhog) she called the “Debbil hisself”. I made the woodchuck her familiar.
Because, hey, who doesn’t want an evil woodchuck as a familiar, right?
(I wonder… if we put the evil woodchuck and the honey badger in a fight ring, who would win?)
I did have ‘spirits’ talking to them. Because, they are witches after-all. It’s important to note that in past centuries: if you heard voices, nobody questioned the validity of that. They completely knew you must be hearing real voices. You were not thrown into an insane asylum for that. The only questioned raised, was from who those voices came: God or Satan?
While I did take some creative liberties, such as those, I also wove in as much of the factual lore as I could too, even if adjusted to suit my story plot.
References
CChan Smutko. (2022, October 6). Spooky stories: The legend of Dolly Cole. The Good 5 Cent Cigar. Retrieved from https://rhodycigar.com/2022/10/06/spooky-stories-the-legend-of-dolly-cole/
Depot, M. (2026). An outside perspective: Remembering Sylvia Tory, the Witch of Ministerial Woods. The Independent. Retrieved from https://www.independentri.com/arts_and_living/article_d1afac46-a14f-45ed-8b9a-8f71af5f673a.html
Earle, A. M. (1898). Tuggie Bannock’s Moonack. In In Old Narragansette: Romances and realities. Charles Scribner’s Sons. Retrieved from https://www.mirrorservice.org/sites/ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/7/1/8/7/71873/71873/h/71873/h.htm#Page_63
Muise, P. (2013, January). Tuggie Bannock: African magic in Rhode Island. New England Folklore. Retrieved from https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2013/01/tuggie-bannock-african-magic-in-rhode.html
Reilly McGreen, M. E. (2010). Witches, wenches and wild women of Rhode Island. The History Press.
Rhode Island Historical Preservation Commission. (1970). Historic and architectural resources of South Kingstown, Rhode Island: A preliminary report. Retrieved from https://preservation.ri.gov/sites/g/files/xkgbur406/files/pdfs_zips_downloads/survey_pdfs/south_kingstown.pdf