Situated right at the edge of Salem Harbor in Massachusetts, a two-story wooden residence rises along the water. The timberwork, stained a deep hue, conjures the feel of early colonial architecture from the First Period. Its most striking feature is the profusion of gables—the sharp triangular segments where rooflines converge along the exterior. The overall look is formidable, almost spectral. It’s not hard to picture this house standing through the rough years of the nation’s infancy, bearing witness to both hardship and hope.
Indeed, this dwelling is no ordinary home. It first went up in 1668 for the sea captain John Turner, and later it became the home of American writer Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne—whose great-great-grandfather served as a stern judge in the Salem Witch Trials—felt such horror at that dark slice of American history and the part his family played in it that he penned a gothic novel set within a haunted, atmospheric house, exploring a family curse, inherited guilt, and the possibility of redemption. That book, which inspired my own debut, Wildwood, is The House of the Seven Gables.
History, as we know, has a knack for looping back. Perhaps for that reason the most shadowed chapters often surface again in literature. Hawthorne composed his tale in 1850, more than a century and a half after the Salem Witch Trials of 1691. Yet guilt over his ancestor’s involvement haunted him and compelled him to probe themes of human nature, greed, and societal decay through his fiction. The House of the Seven Gables traces the ill-fated Pyncheon clan. The avaricious Colonel Pyncheon accuses a man named Matthew Maule of witchcraft to seize his land. Maule, executed, curses the Pyncheon family, declaring that God will grant the Colonel “blood to drink.” The narrative then follows the Colonel’s descendants as they grapple with the curse’s consequences, discovering emancipation only when they choose love, honesty, and humility.
Today, we observe how fear of the “other” is wielded by those in power to sow division and tighten control. We witness the ruinous reach of unchecked greed upon people and the environment. And we witness the impulse to deny history.
Like Hawthorne, I have long been drawn to the darker episodes of history, to the actions people take when fear and despair prevail. As a child growing up in Massachusetts, I often spent autumn days in Salem, visiting the town and its surroundings. I vividly recall touring the Witch Dungeon Museum, watching a reenactment in which Abigail Williams accuses Sarah Good of witchcraft, tormenting her with the specter of black and yellow birds, followed by wax figures in the cellar that depict pivotal moments of the trials. Giles Corey, who refused to plead so that his lands would not be seized and who was subjected to pressing, effectively died beneath heavy stones. A woman broken and bruised in a cramped cell. A gallows scene. Those tableaux lodged themselves in my memory, seeping under my skin and never fully leaving.
I felt both repulsed and horrified, yet utterly curious. How could such things occur? What emotions must people have felt to believe in them or to enact them? Lies traded for land. Murder committed for wealth. Neighbors turned against neighbors.
Today, Salem remains a strange, beautiful, and wonderful place. The state and the town have taken steps to atone for the wrongs of the past centuries. In 1697, the Massachusetts General Court mandated a day of fasting and prayer to repent for the illegality of the trials. Later, in 1711, the colony enacted a reparations measure to the victims, including restoring the good names of the accused and compensating their families. And in 1957, the state delivered a formal apology, attributing the trials to mass hysteria.
Having recognized the hysteria, Salem now keeps the history alive through a curious blend of museums dedicated to the witch trials and the shops and festivals that celebrate the contemporary practice of witchcraft. Though modern witchcraft is largely decoupled from sorcery and evil, it emphasizes reverence for nature, folk traditions, and a moral compass summarized as “an it harm none, do what ye will.” Salem is a lively, thriving city, drawing visitors in the autumn season. Perched on a harbor, with a brick-paved pedestrian promenade and historic structures, Salem embodies quintessential New England with a sharp edge. It’s a delightful place to revel in the strange and the witchy, then cap the day with a lobster roll and a cold Sam Adams.
When I began crafting my debut novel Wildwood, a Vermont-set gothic mystery about a woman who inherits an estate and uncovers dark secrets beneath the floors and behind the walls, I knew I wanted the story to be chilling and captivating, yet to carry deeper motifs—a purpose for the haunting beyond mere spookiness. Wildwood unfolds as a dark tale, with whispers of a witch, set against the alluring yet formidable canvas of rural New England. It also delves into wealth and greed, inheritance and ancestral sin, and the unsettling question of who truly owns the land we inhabit. I believe these themes, and the cautions they carry, remain as relevant today as they were nearly two hundred years ago when Hawthorne penned The House of the Seven Gables.
Today, fear of the “other” is wielded by those in authority to divide and control. We witness the ruinous effects of greed on people and the environment. And we observe the persistence of efforts to erase history.
Finally, much like The House of the Seven Gables and the saga of Salem itself, my narrative centers on redemption—showing that individuals and places can rise from their darkest deeds when they acknowledge the past and deliberately choose love and empathy over wealth and power. It is, indeed, a fitting lesson for these uncertain and volatile times.
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Wildwood by Ashley Woo is available from Harper Perennial.
