One spring evening almost a quarter of a century previously, John Pressy of Amesbury (across the water from Sewall’s own home town of Newbury) just managed to catch the last ferry over the Merrimack River at the shutting in of the light. He then had a walk of about three miles to his own house. He climbed Goodall’s Hill and stopped for breath at the top near three stooping trees whose branches clawed down at him, their twisted fingers dark black against the pale black of oncoming night. He took off his coat, since it was warm now he was away from the river, folded it over his arm and set off down the hill, skirting a field belonging to a neighbour of his called George Martin. He walked on for some time before it occurred to him that he didn’t know where he was. There wasn’t a proper path in any case, though this was a journey he had made often enough before—but never in the dark. There was no moon and in the dim starlight everything was unfamiliar. Trees and bushes seemed to sidle menacingly close; the grass looked like the pale grey fur of some enormous animal.
