January 12, 2025 • 13 mins
When the famous artist Rachel Elsher unknowingly breaks a protection spell on the Witch’s Rock in Bristol, CT, she must team up with an immortal ally to save herself from an ancient evil warlock.
Written by Izzie Cava
Narrated by Izzie Cava
Composed by Simon Jones
Logo Design by Dana Gee
Instagram: @epilogue_audio
TikTok: @epilogue_audio
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
Welcome to Epilogue, where I tell you folk tales and legends, then fabricate my own counterpart
(00:10):
from those root yarns.
I am that devil at the crossroads, making your dreams come true for just a little while,
but you can call me Izzy Cobble.
If you've ever driven down a forested road in a small town, you may have passed quaint
little houses, all in a row, or road signs warning drivers about the dangers of deer
(00:31):
and ice, the kind of roads that are adorable in the daytime and the spring, but in the
dark.
They seem to harbor ghosts in every shadow.
In Bristol, Connecticut, there aren't any ghosts hiding along the roadside, but there
may be some witches.
On what is known today as Witches Rock Road, there is a cluster of rocks by the side of
(00:52):
the road that are believed to have been cursed by a coven of vengeful witches.
The majority of the hysteria surrounding this spot occurred between 1800 and 1810, a little
over a hundred years after the witch trials in Salem put fourteen innocent women to death.
Being a largely puritanical state, Connecticut was also subjected to its own paranoia surrounding
(01:12):
witchcraft.
Even so, that particular rock formation was the site of many unexplainable happenings.
Some were relatively minor.
A man named Elijah Gaylord was said to have been hexed by a witch, so that every time
his cart passed the rock, the harness would fall off his oxen, and they would not stop
walking until they reached the end of that road, heedless of Elijah's protests.
(01:37):
Other occurrences were stranger.
Marilla Truman was a young woman who lived nearby the rock and had an aunt who was believed
to have been a witch.
The story goes that Marilla was afflicted with invisible pins pricking her all over,
and Marilla's father, Truman Norton, didn't know how to save her.
He called their neighbor, Seth Stiles, who somehow had the ability to see the pins, so
(02:00):
he removed them and cast them into the fireplace.
The next day, Marilla's aunt was found burnt to a crisp.
Another version of the tale is that Marilla's aunt enchanted the girl and rode her like
a horse to Albany, then forced Marilla to watch her coven perform satanic rituals.
That story ends after Marilla underwent an exorcism, and her aunt was never heard from
(02:22):
again.
But the strangest case is tied to a man named King, who went to Bristol to study ministry.
Shortly after he arrived, a young woman went to the head of the church, Elder Wildman,
complaining that she was being tormented by witches.
Elder Wildman invited her to live in his house so that he could better protect her, but soon,
he too was supposedly tormented by these witches.
(02:45):
Their agony only ceased when King left out, leading many to believe that King may have
been a witch himself.
After he left, Bristol returned to an uneasy normal, and those rocks were not disturbed
again for a long time after.
And now for her epilogue.
Rachel Elcher was widely considered to have been one of the most haunting visual artists
(03:06):
to have ever graced the page with a pen.
Her art has been featured in galleries, cult classic films, and beloved graphic novels,
and her impressive decades-long career has been laced with a fair amount of awards recognition.
Her most popular collection is a series of illustrations she did for a set of reprinted
Gothic horror novels.
Her images of such beasts as Frankenstein's monster, Count Dracula, the Invisible Man,
(03:29):
Dr. Jekyll, and Dorian Gray were so captivating that her first editions of those works were
last sold at auction for fifteen thousand dollars.
She's remembered for being quiet and introspective.
A thoughtful woman who always had a kind word for her students, peers, collaborators, and
even critics, though there were few.
Rachel Elcher passed away peacefully in 2016 in her New Hampshire home.
(03:52):
Her daughter donated much of her previously unpublished work to various museums and charities
up and down the East Coast.
But Rachel made her daughter promise that she would never show her illustrations of the
Witch's Rock to anyone.
Until now.
Rachel was born and raised in Bristol, Connecticut, and she'd lived on nearby Old Orchard Road,
(04:12):
meaning that she passed the Rock twice a day, two in from the bus stop, and then again on
the walk she took every evening.
That was a habit she'd picked up as a teenager and carried with her throughout her life.
She would take a sketchbook and walk around her neighborhood, stopping occasionally to
doodle if she saw something interesting, and in an interview she called this practice a
kind of meditation.
(04:33):
In one such stroll she took on a chilly October evening in 1982.
She was 16 years old, when a fog rolled in that was a delight to this budding artist with
a fascination with the macabre.
It was an evening like every other.
But as she approached the Rock, the mist rose, and suddenly she didn't feel she was walking
alone anymore.
(04:53):
At first they were little more than shadows, a trick of the distant streetlight, but the
closer she got, the clearer she could see the women dancing around the Rock.
They moved in jerking motions that followed some unholy rhythm, and their faces were
made grotesque by the force in which they screamed the words that Rachel could not hear.
Though Rachel was afraid, she was curious too.
(05:14):
But just when she was close enough to touch them, the wind shifted and the witches vanished.
The moon shone brightly, and for the first time in all her years in Bristol she saw silvery
sigils on the Rock.
They seemed to have been carved hundreds of years ago, but were just now catching the
moonlight in such a way as to be visible.
Rachel stepped up to the Rock to get a closer look, when something crunched beneath her
(05:37):
feet.
It looked like an old beer bottle, but the color of the glass was unlike any beer she
could think of.
It was then that the air shifted, and she couldn't say why, but something was terribly wrong.
A man laughed in her ear, but when she turned, she was all alone.
The cymbals had begun fading when the glass broke, but she was able to capture a rough
(05:59):
sketch of them before hurrying home.
On her way to the bus stop the next morning, she saw that the Rock was unmarked.
But there was shattered glass and rusty nails all around its base.
Again, she assumed it was just roadside litter and went about her day.
Rachel had the feeling that she was being followed, but when she looked around, no one
(06:20):
was paying attention to her.
No one at all.
She heard that laugh again, right in her ear, always when she stopped focusing on the world
and was on the verge of daydreaming.
She also experienced the sensation of being pricked throughout the day.
At first it was like goosebumps, then sharper.
Like she'd sat on a pin or the tag of her clothes was cutting her the wrong way.
(06:42):
Then the pain deepened and worsened without leaving a mark or tearing her flesh.
On her way home that very same day, the zippers on her backpack burst as she passed the witches'
rock, spilling her supplies everywhere.
She gathered them best she could and continued her pain-trudge home, but was stopped by Mr.
Stiles, a kindly man who had lived in the house next to hers for as long as Rachel could
(07:05):
remember.
He was the subject of many of Rachel's earlier drawings.
And the funny thing was, if you lined up all the pictures she ever drew of Mr. Stiles,
you would see her skill improve, but you would never see Mr. Stiles change.
Never even gaining so much is a smile line.
From his porch, he saw her clutching at her ruined school bag and offered to lend her
(07:25):
a rucksack until she'd get a new one.
She gratefully accepted, and he told her to wait outside while he gathered it.
That was when she noticed one of those symbols from the rock was carved on his front door,
underneath an iron horseshoe.
She asked him about it, and he joyfully launched into a lesson about witch marks.
It was a tradition that originated in Europe, where their own set of witch trials had condemned
(07:48):
so many to the fire and the rivers.
These traditions emigrated to the States, where carvings are still found in 17th century
New England homes, often on places that led air into the house, known as portals, to keep
evil witches and demons out by trapping them in unending shapes like a pentacle or a daisy
wheel.
Other means of warding off witches included iron horseshoes being nailed near portals,
(08:11):
or hanging glass spheres called witch balls in the windows to entice and entrap the forces
of evil.
Another popular protection was the witch bottle, thought to be prepared by healers and quote
unquote white witches, by collecting DNA, or essence, from the victim of a witch's eye,
which would be placed into a bottle that was sealed with nails or needles, and left on
the furthest corner of the property to attract and impale the witch who would cast the curse.
(08:37):
Another theory is that the witch's essence was placed into the bottle, and the bottle
was then ritualistically boiled and burned, and needles and thorns were placed into the
bottle to physically torment the spirit that the bottle was targeting.
That night, Rachel's parents left the house in a hurry.
A distant cousin had gone missing from a care facility in Massachusetts, so they asked Mr.
(08:57):
Stiles to look in on Rachel while they were away.
He left her alone for a few hours, seeing her sketch and draw in the lighted window
of her bedroom.
He would occasionally peer at her through the hag stone, but he saw nothing, so he went
about his night, until he looked up at her, and she was gone from the window.
But it was not empty.
(09:17):
Mr. Stiles hadn't seen him for nearly two hundred years, but for both of them.
It was like not a moment had passed.
Except King was different now.
No one could mistake him for a holy man.
His features were too sharp, his smile too wide, his flesh too gray, and his laugh.
That awful sound could come from no hallowed source.
Mr. Stiles ran into Rachel's house and found her convulsing on the floor, screaming and
(09:41):
clutching torn sketchbook pages to her chest.
King was in each of them.
In some of them he was only a smudge, but in others, she'd captured every wretched detail
of that dread warlock's face.
But Rachel was a bright girl.
She'd started drawing the witches marks on the edges of the paper, leaving King's image
unfinished on those pages.
Lacking in an open hearth, Mr. Stiles ran to the backyard with a gallant gasoline and
(10:06):
lit the Elcher's charcoal grill.
Then he started removing each of the needles that only he could see through the hag stone.
He worked as carefully and as quickly as he could, burning them all up on the open flame.
As it was happening, Rachel could have sworn she heard a distant scream from far away that
echoed after her own had faded, like the sound of a woman in terrible agony.
(10:28):
And the fire died, and the scream was gone.
Mr. Stiles took a sharpie from Rachel's desk and drew the witch marks up and down her arms,
then told her to follow him to the witches rock.
The last thing he took was a lump of chalk from a neighbor's driveway.
On their way to the rock, he told her that there had been a coven of witches in Bristol,
but they were not seeking to punish the town.
(10:50):
They were trying to protect it, to expel King, an evil warlock, direct from hell, who was
bent on tormenting the souls of those who had unwittingly summoned him with their violence.
The coven bound him to the rock and hexed his allies, like his friend Elijah Gaylord
and his lover, Marilla Truman.
The witches had been successful in casting their protection spell, and the spell had
(11:10):
remained unbroken until Rachel had shattered the witch's bottle they'd used to bind him.
The mist had risen since the needles had burned.
Mr. Stiles lent Rachel the hagstone so she could see that horrible shadow, that figure
of King.
Perched to top the rock, laughing at them.
Then Mr. Stiles gave her a lump of chalk and commanded Rachel to redraw the sigils as she
(11:32):
had seen them the night before, the same symbols scrawled up her arms.
As Rachel worked, a pain unlike any other ripped through her body as King fought her
for every stroke of the chalk.
But Mr. Stiles was every bit as formidable, summoning a light that Rachel would never
be able to recall the source of, and casting it through spheres of colored glass that were
(11:53):
somehow all around the rock.
Rachel had never seen them before, and she would never see them again.
But it seemed in that moment as if they'd always been there.
The same way that Toadstools or Moss might have been.
The light distracted King long enough per Mr. Stiles to pin an iron charm on the outside
of Rachel's jacket.
Then the pain was gone from Rachel, and King directed the full force of his torment at the
(12:14):
kindly immortal, nearly ending Mr. Stiles' long, long life.
But as Rachel drew more of the symbols, the shadows around her began to shift and move,
almost as if to dance.
The witches were back, chanting and screaming words that hurt King to hear.
Words that never reached Rachel's ears.
Then as she drew the final line, the sigils glowed silver and vanished, taking the mists,
(12:39):
the witches, and screaming King with them.
Rachel never had any problems when she walked by the witches' rock again, but she had nightmares
about King until the end of her days.
Her illustrations from that time in her life were so dark, she destroyed most of them, for
fear that anyone who saw King's face would go insane.
She kept the iron pin that Mr. Stiles had given her until the end of her days, and passed
(13:02):
it to her daughter when she felt it was time.
Rachel's daughter showed me what illustration she could find, kindly inviting me into her
home, the house with a horseshoe above the door, and a witch-ball in every window.
That's the end of today's tale.
I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed telling you.
Please remember to like, share, and tell all your friends.
(13:25):
See me next time for more fabricated folktales on epilogue.
Welcome to Epilogue, where I tell you folk tales and legends, then fabricate my own counterpart
(00:10):
from those root yarns.
I am that devil at the crossroads, making your dreams come true for just a little while,
but you can call me Izzy Cobble.
If you've ever driven down a forested road in a small town, you may have passed quaint
little houses, all in a row, or road signs warning drivers about the dangers of deer
(00:31):
and ice, the kind of roads that are adorable in the daytime and the spring, but in the
dark.
They seem to harbor ghosts in every shadow.
In Bristol, Connecticut, there aren't any ghosts hiding along the roadside, but there
may be some witches.
On what is known today as Witches Rock Road, there is a cluster of rocks by the side of
(00:52):
the road that are believed to have been cursed by a coven of vengeful witches.
The majority of the hysteria surrounding this spot occurred between 1800 and 1810, a little
over a hundred years after the witch trials in Salem put fourteen innocent women to death.
Being a largely puritanical state, Connecticut was also subjected to its own paranoia surrounding
(01:12):
witchcraft.
Even so, that particular rock formation was the site of many unexplainable happenings.
Some were relatively minor.
A man named Elijah Gaylord was said to have been hexed by a witch, so that every time
his cart passed the rock, the harness would fall off his oxen, and they would not stop
walking until they reached the end of that road, heedless of Elijah's protests.
(01:37):
Other occurrences were stranger.
Marilla Truman was a young woman who lived nearby the rock and had an aunt who was believed
to have been a witch.
The story goes that Marilla was afflicted with invisible pins pricking her all over,
and Marilla's father, Truman Norton, didn't know how to save her.
He called their neighbor, Seth Stiles, who somehow had the ability to see the pins, so
(02:00):
he removed them and cast them into the fireplace.
The next day, Marilla's aunt was found burnt to a crisp.
Another version of the tale is that Marilla's aunt enchanted the girl and rode her like
a horse to Albany, then forced Marilla to watch her coven perform satanic rituals.
That story ends after Marilla underwent an exorcism, and her aunt was never heard from
(02:22):
again.
But the strangest case is tied to a man named King, who went to Bristol to study ministry.
Shortly after he arrived, a young woman went to the head of the church, Elder Wildman,
complaining that she was being tormented by witches.
Elder Wildman invited her to live in his house so that he could better protect her, but soon,
he too was supposedly tormented by these witches.
(02:45):
Their agony only ceased when King left out, leading many to believe that King may have
been a witch himself.
After he left, Bristol returned to an uneasy normal, and those rocks were not disturbed
again for a long time after.
And now for her epilogue.
Rachel Elcher was widely considered to have been one of the most haunting visual artists
(03:06):
to have ever graced the page with a pen.
Her art has been featured in galleries, cult classic films, and beloved graphic novels,
and her impressive decades-long career has been laced with a fair amount of awards recognition.
Her most popular collection is a series of illustrations she did for a set of reprinted
Gothic horror novels.
Her images of such beasts as Frankenstein's monster, Count Dracula, the Invisible Man,
(03:29):
Dr. Jekyll, and Dorian Gray were so captivating that her first editions of those works were
last sold at auction for fifteen thousand dollars.
She's remembered for being quiet and introspective.
A thoughtful woman who always had a kind word for her students, peers, collaborators, and
even critics, though there were few.
Rachel Elcher passed away peacefully in 2016 in her New Hampshire home.
(03:52):
Her daughter donated much of her previously unpublished work to various museums and charities
up and down the East Coast.
But Rachel made her daughter promise that she would never show her illustrations of the
Witch's Rock to anyone.
Until now.
Rachel was born and raised in Bristol, Connecticut, and she'd lived on nearby Old Orchard Road,
(04:12):
meaning that she passed the Rock twice a day, two in from the bus stop, and then again on
the walk she took every evening.
That was a habit she'd picked up as a teenager and carried with her throughout her life.
She would take a sketchbook and walk around her neighborhood, stopping occasionally to
doodle if she saw something interesting, and in an interview she called this practice a
kind of meditation.
(04:33):
In one such stroll she took on a chilly October evening in 1982.
She was 16 years old, when a fog rolled in that was a delight to this budding artist with
a fascination with the macabre.
It was an evening like every other.
But as she approached the Rock, the mist rose, and suddenly she didn't feel she was walking
alone anymore.
(04:53):
At first they were little more than shadows, a trick of the distant streetlight, but the
closer she got, the clearer she could see the women dancing around the Rock.
They moved in jerking motions that followed some unholy rhythm, and their faces were
made grotesque by the force in which they screamed the words that Rachel could not hear.
Though Rachel was afraid, she was curious too.
(05:14):
But just when she was close enough to touch them, the wind shifted and the witches vanished.
The moon shone brightly, and for the first time in all her years in Bristol she saw silvery
sigils on the Rock.
They seemed to have been carved hundreds of years ago, but were just now catching the
moonlight in such a way as to be visible.
Rachel stepped up to the Rock to get a closer look, when something crunched beneath her
(05:37):
feet.
It looked like an old beer bottle, but the color of the glass was unlike any beer she
could think of.
It was then that the air shifted, and she couldn't say why, but something was terribly wrong.
A man laughed in her ear, but when she turned, she was all alone.
The cymbals had begun fading when the glass broke, but she was able to capture a rough
(05:59):
sketch of them before hurrying home.
On her way to the bus stop the next morning, she saw that the Rock was unmarked.
But there was shattered glass and rusty nails all around its base.
Again, she assumed it was just roadside litter and went about her day.
Rachel had the feeling that she was being followed, but when she looked around, no one
(06:20):
was paying attention to her.
No one at all.
She heard that laugh again, right in her ear, always when she stopped focusing on the world
and was on the verge of daydreaming.
She also experienced the sensation of being pricked throughout the day.
At first it was like goosebumps, then sharper.
Like she'd sat on a pin or the tag of her clothes was cutting her the wrong way.
(06:42):
Then the pain deepened and worsened without leaving a mark or tearing her flesh.
On her way home that very same day, the zippers on her backpack burst as she passed the witches'
rock, spilling her supplies everywhere.
She gathered them best she could and continued her pain-trudge home, but was stopped by Mr.
Stiles, a kindly man who had lived in the house next to hers for as long as Rachel could
(07:05):
remember.
He was the subject of many of Rachel's earlier drawings.
And the funny thing was, if you lined up all the pictures she ever drew of Mr. Stiles,
you would see her skill improve, but you would never see Mr. Stiles change.
Never even gaining so much is a smile line.
From his porch, he saw her clutching at her ruined school bag and offered to lend her
(07:25):
a rucksack until she'd get a new one.
She gratefully accepted, and he told her to wait outside while he gathered it.
That was when she noticed one of those symbols from the rock was carved on his front door,
underneath an iron horseshoe.
She asked him about it, and he joyfully launched into a lesson about witch marks.
It was a tradition that originated in Europe, where their own set of witch trials had condemned
(07:48):
so many to the fire and the rivers.
These traditions emigrated to the States, where carvings are still found in 17th century
New England homes, often on places that led air into the house, known as portals, to keep
evil witches and demons out by trapping them in unending shapes like a pentacle or a daisy
wheel.
Other means of warding off witches included iron horseshoes being nailed near portals,
(08:11):
or hanging glass spheres called witch balls in the windows to entice and entrap the forces
of evil.
Another popular protection was the witch bottle, thought to be prepared by healers and quote
unquote white witches, by collecting DNA, or essence, from the victim of a witch's eye,
which would be placed into a bottle that was sealed with nails or needles, and left on
the furthest corner of the property to attract and impale the witch who would cast the curse.
(08:37):
Another theory is that the witch's essence was placed into the bottle, and the bottle
was then ritualistically boiled and burned, and needles and thorns were placed into the
bottle to physically torment the spirit that the bottle was targeting.
That night, Rachel's parents left the house in a hurry.
A distant cousin had gone missing from a care facility in Massachusetts, so they asked Mr.
(08:57):
Stiles to look in on Rachel while they were away.
He left her alone for a few hours, seeing her sketch and draw in the lighted window
of her bedroom.
He would occasionally peer at her through the hag stone, but he saw nothing, so he went
about his night, until he looked up at her, and she was gone from the window.
But it was not empty.
(09:17):
Mr. Stiles hadn't seen him for nearly two hundred years, but for both of them.
It was like not a moment had passed.
Except King was different now.
No one could mistake him for a holy man.
His features were too sharp, his smile too wide, his flesh too gray, and his laugh.
That awful sound could come from no hallowed source.
Mr. Stiles ran into Rachel's house and found her convulsing on the floor, screaming and
(09:41):
clutching torn sketchbook pages to her chest.
King was in each of them.
In some of them he was only a smudge, but in others, she'd captured every wretched detail
of that dread warlock's face.
But Rachel was a bright girl.
She'd started drawing the witches marks on the edges of the paper, leaving King's image
unfinished on those pages.
Lacking in an open hearth, Mr. Stiles ran to the backyard with a gallant gasoline and
(10:06):
lit the Elcher's charcoal grill.
Then he started removing each of the needles that only he could see through the hag stone.
He worked as carefully and as quickly as he could, burning them all up on the open flame.
As it was happening, Rachel could have sworn she heard a distant scream from far away that
echoed after her own had faded, like the sound of a woman in terrible agony.
(10:28):
And the fire died, and the scream was gone.
Mr. Stiles took a sharpie from Rachel's desk and drew the witch marks up and down her arms,
then told her to follow him to the witches rock.
The last thing he took was a lump of chalk from a neighbor's driveway.
On their way to the rock, he told her that there had been a coven of witches in Bristol,
but they were not seeking to punish the town.
(10:50):
They were trying to protect it, to expel King, an evil warlock, direct from hell, who was
bent on tormenting the souls of those who had unwittingly summoned him with their violence.
The coven bound him to the rock and hexed his allies, like his friend Elijah Gaylord
and his lover, Marilla Truman.
The witches had been successful in casting their protection spell, and the spell had
(11:10):
remained unbroken until Rachel had shattered the witch's bottle they'd used to bind him.
The mist had risen since the needles had burned.
Mr. Stiles lent Rachel the hagstone so she could see that horrible shadow, that figure
of King.
Perched to top the rock, laughing at them.
Then Mr. Stiles gave her a lump of chalk and commanded Rachel to redraw the sigils as she
(11:32):
had seen them the night before, the same symbols scrawled up her arms.
As Rachel worked, a pain unlike any other ripped through her body as King fought her
for every stroke of the chalk.
But Mr. Stiles was every bit as formidable, summoning a light that Rachel would never
be able to recall the source of, and casting it through spheres of colored glass that were
(11:53):
somehow all around the rock.
Rachel had never seen them before, and she would never see them again.
But it seemed in that moment as if they'd always been there.
The same way that Toadstools or Moss might have been.
The light distracted King long enough per Mr. Stiles to pin an iron charm on the outside
of Rachel's jacket.
Then the pain was gone from Rachel, and King directed the full force of his torment at the
(12:14):
kindly immortal, nearly ending Mr. Stiles' long, long life.
But as Rachel drew more of the symbols, the shadows around her began to shift and move,
almost as if to dance.
The witches were back, chanting and screaming words that hurt King to hear.
Words that never reached Rachel's ears.
Then as she drew the final line, the sigils glowed silver and vanished, taking the mists,
(12:39):
the witches, and screaming King with them.
Rachel never had any problems when she walked by the witches' rock again, but she had nightmares
about King until the end of her days.
Her illustrations from that time in her life were so dark, she destroyed most of them, for
fear that anyone who saw King's face would go insane.
She kept the iron pin that Mr. Stiles had given her until the end of her days, and passed
(13:02):
it to her daughter when she felt it was time.
Rachel's daughter showed me what illustration she could find, kindly inviting me into her
home, the house with a horseshoe above the door, and a witch-ball in every window.
That's the end of today's tale.
I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed telling you.
Please remember to like, share, and tell all your friends.
(13:25):
See me next time for more fabricated folktales on epilogue.
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