My Delightfully Haunting Salem Ancestors with S.A. Sizemore #Horror #ParanormalThriller




Several of my ancestors are buried at Charter Street Cemetery. It is the second-oldest European American burying ground in the United States, clocking in at three hundred and eighty-nine years, and, perhaps, the most haunted place in Salem, Massachusetts. During my ancestors’ time, it was referred to as The Burying Point because it sat perched on a rise overlooking the South River. 

One of the cemetery’s ghosts is a classic Lady in White who wanders along the southern perimeter wall. Perhaps she is searching for her grave which may have washed out to sea during a particularly bad storm. 

There’s also a house built right on the edge of the cemetery with its large sitting room windows facing out toward the headstones. Anyone visiting would have felt as if they were having tea with the dead. Nathaniel Hawthorne found it so interesting he wrote a short story about it, bestowing upon it the nickname Grimshawe House.

 

Grimshawe House next to Charter Street Cemetery © 2025 S.A. Sizemore

Then there’s the memorial for those who were unjustly executed during the Salem Witch Trials. That sits at the north end of the cemetery. My family, of course, were involved in the trials. They weren’t the innocent victims, though. My folks were the ones who sent at least a dozen souls to the gallows and ruined countless other lives by getting them locked up in prison for months on end.

I should feel uncomfortable standing there, but I don’t, because I know how to properly pay my respects.

For a short window of time early in the morning Charter Street Cemetery is quiet. At dawn, the only things running around are the squirrels looking for some acorns that may have fallen onto one of the decomposed granite paths.

Once the cemetery opens at ten a.m., tourists meander through the narrow pathways until closing time at four p.m. Most are not entirely sure what they are looking at. Some even try to touch the ancient stones before a docent tells them not to. Others whisper that they think it’s part of a movie set. 

I try to keep my mouth shut and yearn for some quiet while I visit the graves of my distant cousins, aunts and uncles, and my tenth great-grandparents.

Every night, especially when the weather is nice, the witch trials memorial becomes the star of the show. Its rectangular park, surrounded by a stacked granite stone wall, fills with people from dusk until about eleven p.m. Walking tour guides, one after another, bustle in, tell stories, and move onto their next location. Some groups are small. Others fill the memorial with dozens and dozens of people.
 


Salem Witch Trials Memorial © 2025 S.A. Sizemore

In August 2025 my ancestors made sure I could have some quiet time with them. Perhaps, in their weird way, it was a different kind of ghostly interaction.

A family of skunks had taken up residence under the house at the edge of the cemetery, the one with the graves outside its sitting room. Most nights this marauding band of black and white, and potentially smelly, mammals scurried through the headstones and weren’t to be seen for the rest of the evening. 

But when I got to town, this family of nocturnal sulfur sprayers decided to get up-close and personal. Instead of darting into the shadows, one of them made a beeline right into the grassy center of the Witch Trials Memorial. I heard a tour guide say this was the first time they had ever seen one there. Of course, it was.

I grew up with skunks in my back yard, so I knew how to give them space and make sure a violent olfactory altercation didn’t not occur. The tours, however, weren’t about to chance it. They all stayed at the entrance to the memorial avoiding the skunk. 

Meanwhile I got to have night after night of quiet contemplation with my ancestors. 

Coincidence? Maybe. 

The skunks became their own kind of haunting, inciting fear and trepidation in all who saw them, except for me.

 

Charter Street Cemetery © 2025 S.A. Sizemore

So, what did I experience while I stood on the edge of the cemetery all by myself for several nights? I felt nothing but calm and peace. Even when the tree limbs danced under the security lights and cast odd shadows, nothing made me feel uncomfortable about the space I was in. To be honest, it was more like a family reunion where everyone wanted to just sit around and hang with me while I wished them well. 

There were a few odd sounds. On a couple of occasions I thought I heard something like a stone hitting a headstone, but it was probably just acorns falling from several of the cemetery’s ancient oak trees that time of year.

It wasn’t until I got home, that I made a discovery.

I took my DSLR camera with me to Salem and was shooting in RAW format so I could more easily adjust the color and lighting later on. (RAW is a digital photo file that isn’t processed or compressed, so you get a lot more data from the camera’s sensors.) What I found when I started reviewing the photos was quite startling. In multiple images there were two anomalies, one greenish yellow and one blue. They looked like small birds flying between the headstones. My first thought was lens flare, but it was the strangest lens flare I had ever seen. My camera, which I’ve been using for a long time, had never captured anything like it before. 

When I showed it to a friend who’s a photographer, he was also startled by the images. He agreed that it was probably an unusual lens flare. But he also said of all the types of lens flare to show up, it was interesting that this particular one looked like angels darting around the cemetery. 

I’ll let you be the judge. Here’s one of the photos.

 

Charter Street Cemetery Angels © 2025 S.A. Sizemore

Another spectral moment occurred as I visited the property of my 11th great-uncle, Deacon Nathaniel Ingersoll, in what was once Salem Village and is now Danvers. Nathaniel was the patriarch of the family and many of his sisters’ children lived right around him. He and several of his nephews filed multiple complaints against their neighbors in 1692 which helped fuel the witch panic. Nathaniel’s wife, Hannah, is also my blood relation. Her sister, Margery Collins Williams, was my tenth great-grandmother and part of a group of women called upon to examine the accused for a “witch’s mark”.

While I visited the property in Danvers, I took several videos. In most of them, you can hear a small breeze and every once in a while a car drives by. You can also hear me talking from time to time as I explain where we are. In the last video you can hear what sounds like whispering. Then, there is a loud bang. I don’t recall hearing such a noise at the time we were recording, and I probably would have said something about it.

 

The Ingersoll Ordinary © 2025 S.A. Sizemore

After turning up the volume and listening to the recording several times, I decided to have others hear it, as well. We all started agreeing on what we heard. Two distinct voices, one female and one male, seem to say two sentences.

“My niece is there,” says a woman in a hushed voice.

Then an older male voice says, “Let me work,” followed by something that sounds like a hammer hitting a board.

Both voices have rhotic New England accents, meaning they pronounce their “Rs” fully, very much like my North Shore ancestors would have.

My final spectral encounter happened as I walked down what used to be Ingersoll Lane (now Daniels Street) in Salem. While I was speaking about my eighth great-grandmother, my wife watched a small feather waft past my head and hit me on my left shoulder. I kind of brushed it off as if it was nothing… until it happened again a few moments later as we walked further toward the edge of the South River. 
 


The corner of Daniels and Essex Streets in Salem. © 2026 S.A. Sizemore

The significance of feathers to this particular ancestor? Elizabeth’s occupation was a muff (hand warmer) and tippet (scarf) maker. She just happened to adorn her fashion accessories with feathers, which was a bit unusual in the 18th century.

At that point I finally said out loud, “Hello, Great-grandma.” 

Of course, my encounter with her is going to end up in one of my books. 

Want to learn more about my hauntingly delightful Salem ancestors? 

Check out my new multi-award-winning book series that starts this September with Whispers of the Pale Witch. It’s a story four hundred years in the making.

Shall we begin?
BeckettCoven.com


Whispers of the Pale Witch 
Beckett Coven Series
Book One
S.A. Sizemore

Genre: Horror/Paranormal Thriller
Publisher: Rowan Prose Publishing
Date of Publication: September 29, 2026
ISBN: 978-1-961967-99-1
ASIN: B0FTBTKG9J
Number of pages: 398
Word Count: 98,000
Cover Artist: Kelly Moran

Tagline: Shall we begin?

Book Description: 

Some secrets should just stay buried. 

After the sudden death of her great-aunt, Kylie Beckett lands her dream job as a forensic photographer in the small seaside town where she was born. But once there, a series of murders and the theft of a dangerous relic force Kylie to uncover the dark truth about her ancestors. 

With the help of newfound family, she learns to harness unconscious powers to stop the vengeful and unstable Pale Witch before she unleashes a demonic spirit on Salem, Massachusetts once again. 

Shall we begin?

Excerpt 2 from Chapter 3

Elizabeth was distracted. This is just so damn overwhelming, she thought as she studied Kylie’s face.

The last time they were both on this porch, Elizabeth held her small toddler hand and tried not to cry as they hugged goodbye. Now, Kylie Beckett was a grown woman standing in the doorway some twenty years later. Elizabeth waited decades for this moment, but it felt unexpectedly awkward and strange.

Kylie had the same caramel complexion and bright smile of her African American father, along with a feminine version of his athletic build. Her mother’s Anglo-Saxon features were also apparent in her soft reddish-brown hair and intense amber eyes. She looked rather androgynous without any makeup or earrings. Her t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers were more appropriate for Southern California this time of year than the coming New England autumn.

The rain poured down hard on the porch roof.

“You can come inside if you like.” Kylie motioned for her to move forward.

Elizabeth glanced past the front door towards the cellar. A pained look flashed over her eyes. “It was me.” She touched a tiny bronze cylinder hanging from a chain around her neck. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t completely honest. I was the one who found Hester after the heart attack. I haven't been able to step foot in the house since.”

There was an awkward pause between them.

Kylie was thrown upon meeting Elizabeth. After their phone conversations, she had pictured someone quite different. Instead of the frumpy, busy-body white woman she imagined her to be, Elizabeth was by far one of the most strikingly beautiful women she’d ever met. It was strange, though. She felt familiar, like a childhood friend, not just a recent acquaintance.

“I meant to be here when you arrived.” Elizabeth tapped some raindrops from her umbrella again. “My assistant only just told me you called. We had a very busy Friday afternoon.” She pointed to the left of the doorframe. “The switch for the porch light is on the wall just by the coat hook.”

Kylie leaned over to flick it on. The porch became bathed in a warm glow as if the house was coming back to life. A moth tapped on the ceiling lamp after missing its warmth.

“When do you start your new job?” Elizabeth asked.

“Monday.” Kylie brightened. “Thank you so much for the introduction. I’m really looking forward to it.”

A warm smile crept across her mouth as Elizabeth noticed the tiny, white seashell on a black cord around Kylie’s neck. More emotions rose inside her.

“I'm sorry.” Kylie rubbed her eyes. She didn’t want to seem inhospitable, but she was very tired. “It took a few days to get here, and I still need to pull some stuff out of the car before I get to bed.”

“Of course. Of course.” Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, no worries.” Kylie peered out at the rain and then back at Elizabeth’s impressive heels and expensive suit. She waved her hand. “I've got it. Just bringing in a couple of things.” She paused for extra emphasis as she said, “I really do appreciate everything you've done for me over the last few weeks.”

Elizabeth thought her heart was going to break right there and then. Her fingers fumbled around in her vest pocket and fished out a white business card. She handed it to Kylie. “Here’s my contact info again in case you need anything. I'll have my assistant set up a time for us to talk. Maybe The Roof on Sunday for brunch?” She opened her umbrella, but the showers magically abated as she descended the porch steps.

“Sounds fun.” Kylie nodded in agreement, not having a clue what The Roof was.

“And we can discuss the lawsuit,” Elizabeth said as she walked down the path.

“W-wait, what?” Kylie stuttered. “What lawsuit?”

“I emailed you about it.” Elizabeth turned slightly. “Beulah Prudaetor is contesting your aunt's trust. But don't worry. She can't take this place from you. I'll make sure of that.”

“But...” Kylie moved forward and wrapped a hand around the white porch post. She looked past Elizabeth at the neighborhood beyond. She liked this place. Loved its quirkiness. Hester’s house already felt like home, even though she’d only been there for a few minutes.

The stress on Kylie’s face drew Elizabeth back to the porch. “Please don't worry about it right now. Go in and get a good night's rest.” Then, she broke her promise and said what she had planned to hold back. “You look so much like your father and so very much like your mother.”

“You knew them?” Kylie asked while startled and curious by the sudden compliment. “You knew my mother? I never did.”

“I know.” Elizabeth pushed down her emotions and patted Kylie's hand. “You get settled in. There will be plenty to talk about and lots of time in which to do it...now that you’re back.”

Before Kylie could see her cry, Elizabeth walked out to the rain-soaked street. She got into her brand-new, white, electric sedan and drove off.

Kylie was alone again on the porch.

The rain paused long enough for her to run out to her hatchback and bring in a few boxes. Before going inside, she picked up the business card she had set down on the porch railing and read it aloud, “Elizabeth Ingersoll, Esq.”

There was so much to focus on in such a short time. Kylie hadn’t noticed the surname until now. Ingersoll was her mother's last name.

“Elizabeth is family.”

 

 

 


About the Author:

Drawn to playwriting from an early age, S.A. Sizemore began writing professionally while studying English and theater arts in college. After producing several plays regionally in Southern California, Sizemore pivoted to the themed entertainment industry. Whispers of the Pale Witch is the first installment of the Beckett Coven series inspired by Sizemore’s ancestral connection to the Salem Witch Trials. She is a full member of the Dramatists Guild of America, proud member of the LGBTQ+ community, European and Cherokee/Chickahominy decent, and resides in California with her wife and two dogs, Agatha and Harry.









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