Quillton Tales
There are many valleys in Central Massachusetts. Some of these valleys have names, histories, defining moments. Many do not. Many are just Central Massachusetts and, despite their seeming insignificance, they are nevertheless steeped in lore.
There is a strange phenomenon in that part of Massachusetts – that which dies may not be dead and that which lives may already be dead.
Quillton – most specifically the old farmhouse on Black Tupelo Road and the simple parcel of land upon which it stands – is the vortex of tales of appearances unbound by time, of disembodied screams, of forlorn moaning, of the crying of babes.
There is thunder on a cloudless day. There is birdsong where there are no birds, growls of wildcat and bear while the woods are still. And there is always the howling – sometimes viscous and near at hand, other times pained and borne on the wind from afar.
What began in 1676 is still going on . . . today.