In the twilight of a late September evening in 1824, Old Albert Farly and his grandson, Hyacinth, rode along the south road from Montréal to Île Dupas. The chilly autumn air rushed swiftly across the river from the north, stirring the fallen rusty-brown foliage to swirl and dance across the path ahead of them and behind.
Only a few stubborn oak leaves clung to their high perches, as the rhythmic “clup, clup, clup” of the horse’s hooves maintained a calming cadence amidst the moan of the gusting breeze and the creaking limbs of the stark, bare trees.
Above the bony branches, dark and wispy strings of clouds raced southward, like tangled strands of gray hair blown before the bitter wind. And behind that lacy curtain, the black night sky sparkled with the cold glimmer of a million stars.
As the darkness closed in around them, Albert stopped the carriage to light the lantern. “I do not like to be on this road after dark, Pitou. Especially here in this place,” he grumbled. “We must hurry so we don’t miss the ferry.” And with that they were again on their way.
Hyacinth peered into the darkness, wondering aloud why this stretch of road was different from any other. “Oooh this is a very dangerous place to be in the night time, Bonhomme,” responded the old man. “Trust me, I know!” Albert fell silent and they rode on. “Clup, clup, clup, clup.”
Hyacinthe could not contain himself. “Why so, Pepére?” The old man drew a deep breath, and made the sign of the cross. “This place is haunted, Pitou,” he whispered. “This road is haunted by LaCorriveau! I have seen her myself.” Old Albert handed the reins over to Hyacinth, and then filled his pipe from his tobacco pouch. He lit the pipe, and as they rode along the dark path, he began to tell the story.
Verse II
“La Corriveau was a witch, they say; as evil as she was beautiful, and she was very beautiful, indeed. But to the gossip-women of Montréal she was known as a drunkard and a sorceress. Her name was Josette, and she was born on a farm in St. Vallier in the old days before the English came. From the time she was a young girl, la mort was always at her side.
One by one, each of her ten brothers and sisters died, until she alone remained. Two of her sisters drowned. Another fell down a well, and another was struck by a falling tree. One of her brothers fell down a steep hill and struck his head upon a rock. Another was trampled by a horse. A third died when their house caught fire. The rest died of strange sicknesses and fevers.
“Rumors began to spread about her among the farmers of St. Vallier. They began to suspect that the family was cursed, and that young Josette was the cause. How else was it possible that she alone survived among so many children? When she was sixteen, she married a farmer named Charles Bouchard. Soon he was dead. Could there be any doubt La Corriveau was to blame? Yet the authorities would not accuse her.
“Throughout her short but wicked life she had seven husbands, and murdered them all – with axes, and bludgeons and nooses, and a few, like Bouchard, by pouring molten lead into their ears as they slept. But no charges were ever entered against La Corriveau. Some say she used black magic to avoid the consequences of her crimes.”
The raw night air became colder as Old Albert recounted the tale. Hyacinthe thought he could see flickering feu follet, like tiny campfires dancing deep in the woods to his left and right, but they disappeared when he tried to look at them directly. His grandfather’s pipe glowed orange as the old man drew on the stem.
“When the English came, they finally caught her and brought her into Montréal for a trial,” Albert continued. “Although her father confessed at first, it was only to protect her. In the end La Corriveau was hanged for murder. As the story goes, she was so petite that the drop did not kill her, so she dangled there at the end of the noose for a long time, writhing and suffocating ever so slowly.
“But that was not the end of it. They took her tiny corpse and placed it in an iron cage which the forgeron had made for the purpose. A group of English soldiers were ordered to take the gruesome thing to Pointe Lévy and hang it up at the crossroads there, where it would be seen by all the travelers to and from Québec, and even from the city walls. Such a practice was never known here in the old times! But I’ve heard among the English such horrible desecrations were not uncommon.”
“Clup, clup, clup, clup.” The horse pulled them along through the dark woods. Albert drew on his pipe again. Hyacinth kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Well it seems the soldiers got a late start on their journey, because by sunset they had only made their way as far as Sorel. Perhaps unnerved by the darkness and their morbid burden, they somehow convinced themselves that they had come far enough, and decided to end their journey. We will soon come to the place where they stopped – just ahead there.”
As they approached the crossroads just south of Sorel, Albert took the reins from Hyacinth and slowed the wagon to a halt.
“Shouldn’t we keep going Pepére? We do not want to miss the ferry.”
A wry smile crossed Albert’s face. He continued. “This is the place, Pitou. This is where they hung up La Corriveau in her cage. See that old oak tree there? Just off the road? That is the place of La Corriveau. You can see, nothing grows below that branch!”
Hyacinth saw the patch of barren earth below the long low branch that leaned out from the trunk toward the crossroad. Then he saw the branch was itself dead, and much of its lifeless bark had fallen away. “We should go, Pepére,” he said. But the old man was determined to continue his story.
Verse III
“The soldiers took the heavy cage and hung it from that branch on an iron chain. Voir là. The marks of the chain are still visible. And so there she stayed, standing upright in death within the iron bars, her long hair obscuring her once beautiful face as her flesh rotted and fell from her drying bones.” Hyacinth shuddered at the thought of it. “I saw her myself,” his grandfather continued. “I was a young boy, not quite your age when I walked past La Corriveau for the first time on my way to Sorel. I have never been able to forget that monstrous sight. After that I always averted my eyes when I came to this place.”
“It did not sit well with the local habitants to have a rotting corpse hanging at the main crossroads of the village. It would not do for the women and children of the neighborhood to be fearful of walking along the river road. Soon people began to talk, and then to complain.” Hyacinth glanced again toward the gnarled, dead limb reaching toward them from the darkness. He imagined the gruesome display that once greeted travelers as they rounded the turn in the road, or came up from the river.
“You know my father was considered an important man, and he heard many complaints from the cultivateurs about the monstrosity that the English had set upon them. There was talk of demons visiting the place, and of voices in the woods – sometimes whispers, sometimes blood chilling screams. Others claimed La Corriveau herself would call out to them as they passed. Could nothing be done to rid the town of this affliction?
“I have told you what a courageous man my father was, and it will not surprise you to hear that he scoffed at these wild and fearful rumors. In fact, it was his practice to tip his hat to La Corriveau every time he passed by, and to wish her well. But one night, something happened that changed his attitude entirely.
“That night he was in the public house. It was after dark and getting late, and so he was preparing to leave for the landing, and home to the island. It was then that his old friend Jean-Baptiste Marsolet rushed in. His eyes were wide, and he charged to the bar, demanding whisky blanc, which he quickly drank. Turning to my father, he exclaimed, ‘Jacque, mon ami, you will not believe me when I tell you what I have just seen!’
“My father was curious and asked Marsolet what was troubling him. He had known Marsolet since they both were boys, and rarely saw him stirred to such discomposure. ‘Ç’est La Corriveau!’ Marsolet whispered. A hush fell over the public house, and the men who were there gathered around Marsolet, to hear better what he was about to say.
“ ‘As I was coming up the river road just now, to see Monsieur Valois about the cow he wants to sell, I heard a voice calling me from the woods. Softly at first, but then louder – Marssssssolet! Marssssssolet! By the time I got to the crossroad it was quite loud, like a scream! And then LaCorriveau was there and she turned to me! Oui, ç’est vrais! She turned to me in her cage and opened her eyes. I saw them! They were red like fire, and shot with blood! And her dead arms reached through the bars toward me, and her mouth opened wide and again she screamed my name – Marssssssolet! Come to me!’ ”
Hyacinth gasped out loud as his grandfather repeated the words of the hideous specter, causing the old man no small amount of amusement. “Pepére! The ferry!” the boy repeated earnestly, looking once again over his shoulder into the darkness of the woods. But Old Albert would not be deterred in the telling of his gruesome narration.
“As much as he wanted to believe his friend, my father dismissed his account,” Albert went on. “ ‘Are you certain you were not in your cups when you left your house mon ami?’ he asked. Marsolet grew angry, but eventually agreed to go with my father back to his farm, insisting, ‘Only if we go by the sawmill road. I will never pass that place again so long as I live.’ ”
“The next morning, my father determined something must be done about La Corriveau. He spent the day discussing the matter with several local men, and that night they took action. My father was the first to arrive at the crossroads with his torch and spade. He was soon joined by Michel Masson and Barnabe Dandonneau, landowners like himself, who also brought tools for digging, and by Henri Sicard, the local forgeron, who brought his implements for cutting iron.
“Together they recited the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria, and with that they headed into the woods toward the old oak tree. They set about their task quickly; not a word passed between them. Soon the heavy iron container was freed from its twisted gallows, and the four men dragged it, and its fetid contents, up this way toward the old graveyard.”
He motioned to the old churchyard, about twelve arpents beyond the intersection. “They decided the foul creature should not be laid to rest in sacred soil, and so they dug a deep pit just outside the churchyard wall, and deposited La Corriveau, cage and all, into the pit. As they hurriedly filled the makeshift grave, the corpse opened up its evil blood-red eyes and began to scream their names, cursing them for their deed. Soon the pit was filled with earth, and the hideous wails gradually ceased. The brave men, shaken and covered in sweat, retreated with haste, leaving the place unmarked, unspoken of, and with the passage of time, unremembered.”
Verse IV
Albert turned to his grandson, who fidgeted and glanced furtively left and right and left again. The night seemed to him even darker and colder than before. And for a moment he thought he might have heard a voice in the woods, only to realize it was just the “hoot” of an owl. “Do you think that is the end of the tale Pitou?” his grandfather asked. “If only that were the case. Mais non. That grim business did not end the matter at all.”
“Pepére, I think we should be going now. It’s getting very late and we will miss the ferry,” the boy replied quietly. “Let me tell you the final chapter of this macabre affair, Bonhomme. Then we will go home,” was Albert’s response. He paused a moment, taking a long draw on his pipe.
“Many years later, long after my father and mother left this earth, I was returning from some business in Montréal. It was a cold autumn night like this one, but not as dark because the moon was full and bright. As I rode along this very road toward Sorel, I heard many voices shouting from the woods between me and the river. When I looked there, I could see many fires, like a large encampment. And as I looked, the commotion grew ever louder.
“I stopped my horse, and climbed down from the carriage. When I got to the ditch I could see through the trees many people, and they seemed to be dancing! But there was something very strange. Although they looked like people, they were not people. I could not understand it then, and I cannot explain it now, but there was something frightfully disturbing about the way they cavorted around those fires, bending their bodies in unimaginable ways.
“In the center was a larger creature with no face at all on his head, drumming on a large iron pot with a hammer. Some of the others moved around him in a circle, but he kept his place, pounding ceaselessly on the iron pot, which rang like a bell into the night.
“The monsters leapt about, twisting and contorting, swaying to and fro’, waiving their limbs and raising a dreadful din. Then they seemed to know I was watching, for they began to call to me! They knew me! ‘Come join us, Albert! Come dance with us, Albert!’ they called to me. And they started to come up from the river toward me.”
Hyacinth could barely breathe, as a gripping fear rose up in him. His grandfather had recounted many strange and wonderful adventures to him before, but surely none so frightful as this! “Pepére, please! We have to leave this place!” he cried out. But Albert, lost in his memories, went on.
“Then behind me, from over there,” he pointed with the stem of his pipe toward the old dying oak. “I heard a strange noise, like metal on stone. ‘Tap, scratch. Tap, scratch. Tap, scratch.’ It grew louder and louder behind me, but so captivated was I by the dancing and the calls of the demons on the riverbank, that although I was terrified by its approach, I could not even look to see what it was.
“But then the terror of the waiting was over, and I felt two dry claws grasping at my shoulders! Startled, I turned and found myself face to face with La Corriveau! She was such a hideous sight, nothing more than a skeleton, with bits of putrid flesh hanging from the bones. But her scalp remained, and her hair hung in front of her bony sockets, which blazed with a blood-red fire.
“She tried to climb onto my back, clutching and grabbing at me. I attempted with all my might to push her away, but my hands could find no purchase in her slimy carcass. And the heavy weight of the cage pressed down on me, causing me to stumble backward. She fell upon me within the cage, her grisly face against mine, her noxious breath stinking as she whispered in my ear. ‘Dear, sweet Albert,’ she hissed, ‘Do me the pleasure of leading me to the dance with my friends, non?’
“I cried out and tried to escape, but the weight was too heavy. Soon I could feel her sharp fingers closing around my throat. ‘It was a Farly who put me in that pit, and I will not rest until a Farly lies in the ground with me!’ the witch cried out as she squeezed tighter and tighter until I lost all of my senses.
“When I awoke, it was morning, and I was lying over there, in the ditch. I do not know what saved me. Perhaps it was this little cross my father used to wear around his neck.” Albert pulled a tiny crucifix from his shirt to show Hyacinth. “My mother gave it to my father many years ago, and he wore it his whole life. Since he died, I have worn it as a reminder of him.”
Albert gave the reins a gentle shake and maneuvered the coach back onto the road. They made the left turn and headed down toward the river and the ferry landing. Hyacinth turned for a last look at the haunted place, happy to be heading away from it. “Clup, clup, clup, clup.”
As they reached the pier, they could see the old wooden ferry returning through the cold mist from the other side. The ferryman recognized the pair, calling out, “Bonsoir Monsieur Farly! Comment ça va?” “Ça va bien, Monsieur du Grenier! Ça va bien,” replied Albert. Hyacinth was not so sure.
