A Wizard Goes to Salem

As much as I’d like to claim Hocus Pocus wasn’t the extent of my knowledge of this somehow surprisingly magical suburb, I’d never considered what was hiding behind controversial witch trial tales boasting various degrees of truthfulness, and the supposed sea of Halloween tourists I had beat to the cobblestone streets filled to the brim with thinly veiled esoteric supply shops and the best damn oysters I’ve ever consumed.

It was cold. Very cold. A few strange leftover souls were wandering alongside me following my leave of the large coffee shop maintained by suspicious but friendly caretakers disguised as baristas. Kids who grew up around here, or Harry Potter fans traveling here in search of a more imaginative place to call home.

It feels… tacky. It also feels rude to be so honest about one of the only places in America to successfully wear a mystical tragedy on their sleeve whilst having historical backbone enough to whisper quizzical references to passersby with nonchalance, like, “The national guard started here, buddy,” or “We’re not just broomsticks and chocolate toads. We also have Satanists.”

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It won’t strike me until hours later that deep down Salem is just another town that people live in, one with a hidden identity curtained by magnificent and colorful stilt-legged homes peering over foot traffic as delicate and watchful sentries. It was waiting to reveal to me its secret; an authentic refuge for the carriers of our craft and home to practicing ceremonial magicians.

The coastal air is chilling. I seek refuge in the first store on Essex that’s still open and has a pentagram visible from the street. I grab a charm to christen the home my wife and I just closed on back in Dallas. I pass potions and try to discern if there is any herbal significance to their various assertions: “love”, “wealth, “joy”, and the eternally popular “banishment”.

An abnormally confident individual thought it appropriate to clad himself in Emo bracelets, robes, and smeared eyeliner before taking a picture and slapping it on the cover of a self-published book; a book that has apparently failed to sell given the amount lining the shelves. All hope was lost.

And yet, I persevered to the back of the store, where I spot more tomes. I scan for Crowley and find a decent amount of material. The green paperback glow of Regardie’s “A Garden of Pomegranates” jumps out at me, followed shortly by Dion Fortune, Madame Blavatsky, and DuQuette. I don’t know it yet, but I’ve grabbed enough books to force a purchase of a suitcase on my previously backpack-only excursion to Boston.

I wrap up after diligently culling my list of titles down to what I thought was a manageable size and head to counter and hand off my haul for safekeeping with the kindly indifferent cashier. I get distracted by large boxes of Thoth tarot cascading the wall. My deck is showing signs of overuse, and I’ve always wanted an obnoxiously large version to gaze into anyway, so that’s a no brainer. Magical materialism takes hold once again.

At checkout I am approached by another employee, a gentle man with hair as long as mine, who speaks to me of the Golden Dawn. He is the first practicing ceremonial magician in my own Magickal lineage I have ever met. We talk about the trials and tribulations of figuring out how to be a dedicated magician in times such as now.

With a smile I move to the next street, attempting to show the locals, homeless or otherwise, respect to the best my abilities with facilitate. There is a smaller place not far from this one with an herb bar and an interesting library of modern practical magic on how to make candles and incense. A woman and her daughter pick out herbs near the back. I get a lot of looks involving something to do with me; I am apparently an anomaly in these parts.

The next shop is near the peer where I spot an oyster spot I’ll hit up that night. I enter to an intimidating lone witch with the softest voice I’ve ever heard letting me know I have permission to peruse. Immediately I spot the cauldron where you can pull a card that a local witch has blessed with a hand-written reading. I’ve forgotten the question I asked, and the answer I received. The altar statuettes of various deities were tempting, but I left the store with a single book by Susan & Chic Cicero.

The last stop before dinner was accidentally beside the Witch Trial Memorial. Ashamed, I’ll admit I was expected to be underwhelmed, and even though I would have gone to the museum had I gotten off the plane earlier, I considered it an afterthought, though I would discover shortly how spiritually sobering history can be. I decide to take a look after stepping foot in the shop.

The greeters are a fearsome duo of a nervous man and the explicit figurines in the corner of the doorway. Now comfortable in publicly displaying my magical background, I mention to him how rare it to find a book selection as great as Salem. He is not from around there and new to ceremonial practice, but appreciates the craftsmanship of the owner’s talismans and Golden Dawn accurate weapons guarded by glass upstairs.

I buy a copy of Living Thelema (which I still haven’t finished), and Enochian Vision Magick (which I haven’t had the chance to open yet), and bolt for the door towards the memorial.

From the outside looking in, it is all a bit grim. Stones jutting out from the sides of a low concrete wall, each with a name, a date, and a cause of death. But there is a beauty in the offerings sprinkling them. The most famous names with the most gruesome recorded deaths had more than others, but not one was forgotten. I get the sense a local coven comes regularly to pay respects.

Not to witches, or really any spiritual practitioner, but to the reminder of what happens when independent connection with the universe is feared, hunted, and killed by misunderstanders.