Sweet Hollow Road. Click to view large or order prints

The legends and stories of a woman named Mary are found scattered all over Sweet Hollow Road and Mount Misery. I’ve spoken to people who were teens in the sixties, and some of the stories were around then, and undoubtedly, some are much, much older. There’s Mary’s grave in Sweet Hollow Cemetery, which once had the words “Life, How Short” inscribed over its gates. There are actually a few Mary’s graves in that cemetery, if you get to poking around. The story is well-known. Go to the grave and stand before the tombstone, shine your flashlight on it, say Mary three times and Mary will appear to you. Or Mary will strike you dead on the spot. Or you will die before the sun comes up. There are many variations, and not only in this graveyard, but in graveyards all over Long Island, and in fact, all over the world.

Sweet Hollow Cemetery on Sweet Hollow Road. Click to view large or order prints

As a child, my sister taught me that if you stared in a mirror without blinking and repeated out loud “I don’t believe in Bloody Mary,” over and over again, you would eventually see her, which of course is an optical illusion much more effective if you are female. Another variation of the same story.

People point to one or another tombstone with no words but Mary carved on them, and believe this must be the Mary’s grave of legend. Sadly, if you look nearby you’ll usually see a family tombstone, with the children listed, and the dates Mary died, along with her family. It was once a very common practice. No real mystery there about a tombstone with only a single name.

The stories pile up: Mary can sometimes be seen standing next to her tombstone. Mary is buried across the road from the graveyard, a suicide victim, not eligible to be buried in hallowed ground, and can sometimes be seen standing just inside the forest, watching. Mary is spotted sometimes, walking along the side of the road in her white dress. Mary darts out in front of cars and disappears. Mary sometimes flags you down and asks for a ride home, and when you reach the graveyard she tells you to stop, and says this is where she lives. When you look again to the passenger seat she is gone.

There are several Mary and the car stories in fact, which typically portrays Mary as an innocent, the lady in white. Mary and her husband were newlyweds going down Sweet Hollow Road when they were both killed in a car crash. Mary wanders the road in her wedding dress, looking for her husband, and her husband’s phantom headlights can be seen scouring the road for Mary. In another tale, Mary was a teenager whose boyfriend suspected her of cheating. In a fit of anger, while they drove through Sweet Hollow, he opened her door and pushed her out. Mary lived, but before she could crawl off to safety, another car ran over here like a bump in the road, killed her and kept on driving. Her spirit walks along the roadside now, looking for her jealous boyfriend and the driver who killed her.

Unfortunately, for those who need to believe that one or more of these stories are true, all of them can be found as urban legends throughout the country. What the urban legends about Mary make up for in quantity, they lack in originality.

Mary of Sweet Hollow Road (Amber D’Amato, model). Click to view large

And what would a colonial era area be without a witchcraft legend? Mary treated the children of the area who had contracted smallpox, and unfortunately, several of them died. The locals as a result, accused Mary of witchcraft, and stoned her to death. Children playing in Sweet Hollow from time to time feel her tender hands stroking their hair. Other tales are less specific, only that she was accused of being a witch and was hung, some say in Sweet Hollow itself, others in Huntington. This is of course easily shot down, as the town records for the era are in existence, and does refer to a couple of accusations of witchcraft, which resulted in no hangings or stonings, and none involved a Mary from the Sweet Hollow area.

The first question to ask to get to the truth of the legend is why Mary? All these events didn’t happen here, and certainly not by a women named Mary. But most legends have some grain of truth about them, and at some point there might have been a Mary who lived along Sweet Hollow Road, and perhaps something happened so memorable and so horrifying, that she’s become a magnet for urban legends, which stick to her name like glue.

Or perhaps it wasn’t horrifying after all. As a child in the midwest, I heard the story of Black Annie, who wandered the alleys in our hometown at night, looking for children who were out where they shouldn’t be. If she caught you, she’d rush towards you screeching “my children, my children,” in her delusions, believing you to be one of her children who were lost to her long ago. Some stories claimed that the walls of her house were papered with the skin of the children she found after dark.

In truth, the tale is believed to have originated in the British isles, and refers to a nun, hence the black clothing, who used to care for leper children. She lived in a cave so as not to spread the disease should she contract it, and the walls of her cave were covered with tokens that grateful children had given her.

So you see, in time, even the best among us can become horror stories, especially if parents can tell the tales to keep their children from wandering where they shouldn’t be.

Many of our urban legends and ghost stories were brought over by immigrants from other countries. And it’s likely that this happened with Mary, and also that some of the tales are much older than one would suppose.

Here’s a basic question which no one seems to ask, why the name Mary? Why is this name associated with legends and mysteries? In fact it’s a practice which goes way back, all the way to the Good Book, the Bible, to the story of the virginal Mary at the well. Mary had just drawn water from the well when the angel Gabriel appeared to her and told her that she was to give birth. Some might say that lie has begat countless lies about Mary since then. Others might be more considerate and say legend rather than lie. And of course, there are others who simply believe.

Some might point to that other Mary, the Magdalene, as the source of mysteries attached to the various Marys. There’s a great body of evidence that this Mary was much aligned by the disciples, apostles and the authors of the various books of the Bible. The oldest tales have her afflicted with demons, something which wouldn’t be her fault after all, which gradually metamorphosed into Mary being a prostitute. Just like our Mary, her tale seems to have changed over time, and not for the better.

Of course, one can’t count out the fact that Mary was one of the most popular names throughout the ages. In the 19th century, it was hard to swing a dead cat, black or otherwise without belting a woman named Mary.

As I wrote about the story of Mary Hatchet at Head of the Harbor, legends about women named Mary are especially common around wells and springs. In Ireland, a lot of the cures and miracles that are associated with the cult of Mary are attributed to Saint Brigid, who actually predates Christianity, whose shrines are typically found at wells and springs, and whose pagan origins became entwined and replaced with the worship to Mary the virgin. In fact springs are considered sacred in most ancient cultures, from the people who built Stonehenge and who turned Glastonbury into the mystery it is today, to the native Americans. In a suburb of London a couple centuries back, there was a popular legend about a Mary remarkably similar to the Mary of American folklore, who was said to haunt a well.

That people coming to these shores brought folk-tales and legends with them isn’t even a matter for debate. Neither is the fact that they then began to associate these stories with landmarks near their new homes. Wells and springs were dangerous places, particularly when the wildlife on Long Island was likely to kill and eat you. After all, animals typically used the same springs as humans, so children were particularly vulnerable to these dangers. Tell a child to stay away from the spring because there might be wolves and they’ll go there every chance they get. Tell them that Mary might be there and they’ll think twice.

There was a spring in Sweet Hollow, around the intersection of Chichester Road and Sweet Hollow Road. It was called Mountain Mist Springs, and the water from there was used in the early 20th century, bottled and shipped to Montauk to treat soldiers returning from the Spanish American War suffering from yellow fever. Certainly the spring was known of much earlier, and being a spring, it was likely considered a dangerous, and quite possibly a haunted place. Certainly the kind of place that a mother would warn children to stay away from, even employing what are affectionately called mommy lies to keep them away.

Which brings us to a couple of the most gruesome tales told about Mary of Sweet Hollow Road.

It was near this spot that according to one legend, a house once stood where Mary and her family lived. As the tale is told, the house caught fire and Mary burned alive in the blaze. On lonely nights you can still hear her screams. And it is entirely possible that this story is true. A look through newspapers of the 19th century find many articles about fire in Sweet Hollow. It was remote, under populated, and as a result, fire and rescue services were basically non-existent. There are however, no articles that I’m aware of which refer to a woman named Mary perishing in any of the blazes, though I did find one of an elderly gentleman who was burned alive.

But the story can’t end there, as the stories are never told the same way twice. Mary became an arsonist, who set the blaze in which she died, as well as her family. It wasn’t her home, but an insane asylum which Mary had been committed to, and the other patients and the staff burned alive as well.

To begin with, as I’ve pointed out in the first article in this series, there is almost no possibility that there was an institution here during that time. There wasn’t a population to support it, there was no money allotted to it, and the infrastructure wasn’t there. Think about it – the reason given for it being located on Mount Misery is that it was remote, and so neighbors wouldn’t be upset by the screams of the patients. Being remote, there weren’t enough people needing mental care – which was almost non-existent at the time anyway, to warrant the service. Some say it was for patients from New York City, but most of Long Island was farmland or wilderness at the time. They certainly didn’t need to come all the way to Mannetto Hills to find a suitably isolated location.

So Mary was never a patient in the mental institution on Mount Misery, nor a worker, nor did she set the fire that killed all the inmates and the staff. Which means she couldn’t have laughed as she burned alive, and therefore her laughter and the patient screams can’t be heard on Mount Misery. Nor can you occasionally catch the scent of burned wood and flesh, unless it’s from a different ghastly fire.

And that different ghastly fire wasn’t the second institution, built after the inferno that was supposed to have swallowed up the first one. Once you get past the colonial era, you’re in well-documented history. And there is no documentation of a mental institution in the area in the 19th or 20th centuries either. At least none that has come to light, and it would have to be hidden in a very dark corner of history to have remained hidden all this time. After all, if such a tragedy existed, there would be a documentary on PBS – Tragedy at Sweet Hollow.

One of the first asylums on Long Island was built in Amityville, and that structure did catch fire once. But not with wholesale death and destruction. And of course, that fire was well-reported, even in the New York Times. As are several other fires in mental institutions in the New York City area. This was a constant fear, and at times it did happen, sometimes with the loss of human life. It just never happened on Mount Misery, nor along Sweet Hollow Road. Which also brings into the doubt the integrity of all those ghost hunters out here who have EVPs of people being burned alive on Mount Misery.

Sweet Hollow School on Sweet Hollow Road. Click to view large or order prints

“But,” dear reader you might ask, “what about the schoolhouse fire?”

Which brings us back to the intersection of Sweet Hollow and Chichester roads.

Just up Sweet Hollow Road from this intersection is the old West Hills school. The old West Hills school house was built in the 18th century, and as the population of the area in the 17th century was dismally low, it’s unlikely that there was an earlier one, lost to history. According to the grand-daughter of Lemuel Carll, when the old school building was partially burned in the 1880′s, she walked to Melville school. Once repaired, the building was used as a school until 1912.

There are two main legends about this school. In the first, Mary is at her home at the intersection when her father, the school teacher returns from a hard day of work. She notices he has a funny smell about him, which he said was from smoke. When she asks why, he relates to her that, more or less, he got fed up with the noisy little rugrats, went outside the school, locked the door from the outside and torched the place. Then presumably danced his little happy dance as all the hapless creatures inside were toasted like marshmallows. Understandably horrified – as she was never a teacher herself, otherwise she might have been more understanding – Mary retreats to her room and hangs herself in shame. And since there are those who can never have Mary being a victim, in some telling of the tale, Mary was the school marm and set the blaze herself.

In another version, the father dispatches the students one by one with an axe, which is certainly a more hands on approach. And of course, in another, it was Mary wielding the axe.

That bloody hatchet.

Sweet Hollow is a short road, but a long enough road for Mary to make the leap from the innocent lady in white to the ruthless killer garbed in black, Mary Hatchet.

You find the full range of Mary’s emotions in these stories. There’s Mary the victim, where Mary was molested by her father, or sodomized by her boyfriend, and she takes her revenge with a hatchet to the skulls of her transgressors. In some tales, there were two sodomites, and as a result, she takes two lives every year beyond the grave, which of course is poppycock as two people yearly dispatched with hatchets to the head would surely attract people’s attention in the liberal news media. And yet I’ve seen no CNN trucks parked alongside Sweet Hollow road with film crews scouring the area. Film crews abound of course, usually consisting of amateurs with sometimes startlingly professional equipment, the results usually finding their way to YouTube.

And there’s the insane Mary as well, with Mary cleaving the brains of her entire family for no other reason other than she wanted to. Or perhaps it was those pesky voices in her head. These stories can be found all over Long Island as well, nay, all over the country. Anyone out there remember the truly atrocious southern rock band of the seventies, Molly Hatchet? Same story, only a prostitute in New Orleans, and Molly is of course a derivative of Mary. And the whole prostitute premise harkens back to the Magdalene.

Luckily enough, Mary Hatchet is a historical figure. Often depicted in drawings, engravings and photographs wearing a black, Victorian style dress and wielding a hatchet, Mary was quite a popular figure early in the twentieth century. She was one of the symbols of the Women’s Temperance Christian Union, who campaigned tirelessly to have the old demon alcohol prohibited. Which she eventually accomplished. These organizations often met secretly, and to avoid people disrupting their meetings, they never gave out the address. Only that the meeting would be held at Mary Hatchet’s house, hence the large number of Mary Hatchet’s houses found in folklore all over the country.

And for those of us who might enjoy a bit of the sauce now and then, plenty of reason to make up mean stories about the woman.

Unfortunately, this image of Mary the crazed, axe-wielding lunatic is likely to be the one we’re stuck with for some time to come. For coming this fall to a theater near you, Blood Night, The Legend of Mary Hatchet brings the legend of Sweet Hollow road to the masses. Of course it’s not the legend of Sweet Hollow Road, to borrow a particularly catchy phrase I read recently, “any more than masturbating to Posh Spice makes you David Beckham.” It’s just an excuse to swill a few buckets of gore and gallons of blood across the big screen. It’s billed as stemming from the real Long Island legend of Mary Hatchet, though in truth it bears little resemblance to any of the stories. No doubt many people will fall for the illusion the film’s marketing is trying to spin, that the events, or at least some of the events actually took place. Already people are googling Mary Hatchet and Mary Mattock to find the true story. For good measure they even toss in Kings Park Psychiatric Institute into the film, re-christianed as the more scathing Kings Park Lunatic Asylum.

If they look hard enough, they’ll find there is no true story, only a rich body of legend. Hopefully they’ll find the much simpler tales, told for the sake of a good story, which captures the feel of the place, if not the history. There are plenty of Mary stories to choose from, and if your tastes run to the gruesome, you’ll find plenty to your liking.

But my favorite is much simpler. Mary is seen wandering the woods along Sweet Hollow Road. No reason why, no horror or gore, just a ghost moving through the trees. Which is why I like the simplest story the best. I’ve hiked most of the trails on Mount Misery, Sweet Hollow and West Hills, in summer, winter, spring and fall, and in day and night. I’ve stood over Mary’s grave and said her name three times. I’ve called for her in the woods. And so far she’s not shown herself. I’m not saying she’s not there, just that so far, I’m still alive, and still walking the woods alone.

Why does Mary still wander the woods of Mount Misery and Sweet Hollow? Because she is called to. She’s summoned by countless fear seekers, ghost hunters and curious teenagers each year, and no doubt will be this Halloween as well, and for many more to come. I have no doubt that from time to time, when someone calls, she’s there. There is something about us that needs the supernatural. And as long as we need Mary, she will come.

Snowy sunset over Sweet Hollow. Click to view large or order prints

Dearest Miss Bronwen,

I never had the opportunity to finish telling you about the legends of Mount Misery and Sweet Hollow Road, and I knew you would spend the rest of your life wondering about them no doubt. So I’m taking this opportunity to flesh out the details so to speak. Forgive the typos and grammatical errors, which ordinarily you would have handled quite summarily.

You know the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen on Mount Misery? This winter when I hiked up there alone during the snow – you know how I hate going up that hill at the best of times. But when I got to the top and was going down the trail I found I was following a footprint. A single footprint. Somehow, a one legged person had made it up there, and without benefit of cane or crutch. For as long as I cared to follow it there was that single footprint. I still can’t explain that one …

___________________________________________

“Mount Misery is the tallest point on Long Island and a place where several towns intersect. ”
Bill Knell

Now Bill Knell – I’m sure you remember Bill Knell from the first part of our story – Bill Knell makes this point not once, but twice, and that provides a clue to his wackiness. As I said before, he calls the entire area, from Manetto Hill Road on the West, to Route 110 on the east, Jericho Turnpike on the north to Old Country Road on the south, Mount Misery. Jayne’s Hill, which is distinct from Mount Misery is the highest point on Long Island. If you climb down the western flank of Jayne’s Hill you hit Sweet Hollow Road. Actually you hit a fence. But if you take the right trail, you hit the road. Crossing Sweet Hollow Road, the landscape rises to a point nearly as high as Jayne’s Hill, and encompasses a number of houses, as well as the western part of West Hills County Park. This section is Mount Misery. I did finally find it labelled as such on a Coast Guard Survey map of 1836-40.

Another error in his story is the claim that Mount Misery wasn’t suited for farming. Taking his theory that Mount Misery encompasses the whole Jayne’s Hill/West Hills/Sweet Hollow area, it can be easily proven that this area was once rich in farms and agriculture. In fact, if you climb to the top of the large hill directly across from the cemetery on Sweet Hollow Road, where we hiked in the first part of this article, you’ll find evidence of an irrigation system which one ran water from the highlands to the hollow below.

Now for much of the early part of the twentieth century and before, this area was known by another name, which explains another subset of the myths of Mount Misery, that which claims the area was sacred or taboo to the early native Americans of the area. The name it was known by was Manetto, a concept which stretches back at least to the early part of the 19th century. Historians now discredit the idea that Mount Misery was the Mannetto of the native Americans, but for much of its history, the two were certainly associated with each other.

Even geologists seem to have confused the two. Consider this, from Charles Merguerian and J.E. Sanders “Pleistocene Geology of Long Island’s North Shore,” utterly fascinating reading by the way, quoting an earlier manuscript … “The Mannetto gravel was named from the Mannetto Hills (West Hills), on the crest of which just west of Melville some of the best exposures of this gravel on the island were found.”

Mount Misery in snow. Click to view large or order prints

It’s worth noting, which I shall do now, that the crest of the hill just west of Melville is where the southern section of Mount Misery Road meets Old Country Road.

Which might also explain why early maps, and indeed even today, part of the road on the western slopes of Mount Misery is called Manetto Hill Road.

If you follow the elevation of Mount Misery down and to the south, you indeed come to the site of Moscopas, once considered a sacred swamp. In a land deed for the Bethpage Purchase, dated 1695 transferring ownership of the area to Thomas Powell, and signed by, among others, Sowwamacus, Moscopas is described as a “hole of dirt and water.” It’s also worth noting that native Americans at the time didn’t consider the concept of owning land to be the same as what the white folks did. To them, it was more like renting, allowing them the use of the land, along with the native Americans, and also meant that the colonists would assist them in their defense, if necessary. This deed spells out that the native Americans reserve the “liberty of hunting and gathering huckleberries.”

Now Manetto Hill was certainly considered sacred. According to Daniel Tredwell, writing in 1853, Mannetto HIll was the home of the great spirit Manitou, and in fact it was originally called Manitou Hill. He goes on to claim that Manitou HIll was the radiating point of several native American traditions. The most famous story, is that during a great drought, the chief climbed to the top of Manitou on the instruction of the spirits, who told him to shoot an arrow from the heights and where the arrow landed, they would find water. Which according to the story, is just what he did. And where the arrow landed, water sprung up from the ground, which became known as Moscopas.

We know where Moscopas was. It was filled in for the construction of the H.B. Mattlin Middle School, at the corner of Manetto Hill Road and Washington Avenue in Plainview, the site of the actual swamp being where the athletic field is now. During the early years of the school, it would frequently flood by water seeping up from the ground, which many joked was the native American’s revenge for filling in Moscopas.

It’s generally agreed by most historians, that Manetto Hill was actually where it is located now, in the village of Plainview. In fact, the high point, where it is assumed the chief shot his arrow from is located where the water tower is now. Which makes more sense. Granted, it would still take a helluva pull on a bow to get an arrow from there to Moscopas. But not nearly as much as from the high point of Mount Misery.

So my guess is that most of the legends associated with Mount Misery that relates to the native Americans, were transferred there by mistake. Much as the stories about the military hospital that probably refers to Edgewood was mistakenly attributed to Mount Misery.

Crows on Mount Misery. Click to view large or order prints

Knell isn’t alone in his identification of Mount Misery over a wide, geographic area, which is a clue about how he gets off track. He appears to get much of his information from the author of the Mothman Prophecies himself, John A. Keel.

If the legends of the Mothman and men In black have a father, it is Keel. Keel’s history as an author began in the 1950s with a book on the mysteries of India. Returning to the states he became immersed in the study of UFOs and all things paranormal. By 1967 he had abandoned the idea that UFOs were extraterrestrials, and instead began forming a construct that they were a form of invisible intelligence that manifests itself in whatever manner the visitee happens to believe. His concept, which isn’t easy to understand and even harder to explain, attempts to tie everything from fairies to vampires to the mysterious sightings on Mt. Misery to this invisible intelligence. He came up with the term “utlraterrestrials,” and pushed forth the idea that they are actually of this world, but an advanced civilization living here among us.

Now to me, the concept that Melville could be a hotbed of an advanced civilization seems a bit of a reach, though the bacon cheeseburger at the Sweet Hollow Diner is indeed out of this world.

Keel states that the local expert on Mt. Misery in the sixties was a local D.J. named Jaye P. Baro, who not only spun discs on the radio but chased after them in the skies over Melville too. According to Keel, Jaye managed to get a photo of a moving black object, of something that resembled a human, with a disfigured face and long, wild black hair, dressed all in black. It ran away into the bushes, and Baro and her accomplice ran in the opposite direction. The photo was published in Beyond magazine in July 1969, with another article on the mysteries of Mt. Misery.

Keel also reports that the sightings seem to have begun, or at least reports of them since 1966. He also appears to give the report of the first mothman sighting in the area, attributed to unidentified “neckers.” He claims that many saucer and cigar shaped objects have been seen there, and this while Bill Clinton was still not inhaling, so Clinton is cleared on the cigar shaped objects there.

Okay, so I have to admit that I’m a bit skeptical about Beyond and other magazines which were popular in the sixties, who seemed to really only need a witness willing to make a claim to take a subject seriously and present it as fact. Also, much of Keel’s work has been thrown into question by people who have investigated his writings, and noticed that certain tales seem to change over time with his telling of them.

A slightly more believable source would be the New York Sun, which printed a letter by one Mr. M.H. Smith. In the letter, he wrote of a winged, human form that performed acrobatics in the skies about Coney Island from 1877-1880. According to the New York Times in September of 1880, many reputable persons saw him flying off toward New Jersey, dressed all in black sporting bat wings, and appeared to be swimming through the sky whilst wearing a cruel and determined expression. But to throw a bit of cold water on the tale, it is also said that he was flying at around 1,000 feet, and one wonders how his expression could be so clearly seen at that height?

Of course the internet is rife with reports of people going into the woods at Mt. Misery at night and spotting the mothman, all in black with huge wings and glowing red eyes. My first inclination is to say “too much weed.” But I’m also reminded of a story back from southern Illinois where I grew up. A group had come down from Chicago to go deer hunting, and came into town to visit the game warden with the albino deer they had shot, which had curious black markings on it. I imagine the wardens eyes rolled at the description, and wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see the cow that they had bagged in the back of their truck.

Simply put, most Long Islanders aren’t used to the woods at night. I’ve been on Mt. Misery at night, and it’s very dark, and if you go down the trails and not just the wide path at the end of the northern section of the road, it’s easy to get turned around. And it’s easy to panic. To one not accustomed to the woods and the creatures that live there, it’s not surprising that one might not expect to see a large bird.

Particularly in the 1960s in the area of West Virginia where the Mothman Prophecies take place, the Sandhill Crane was quite often spotted, and those buggers can have a wingspan of about seven feet and an impressive shriek. Even owls can have quite an expansive wingspan, and at night, to someone already on edge and unfamiliar with the critters, it’s easy to see how someone can make a mistake. To have an owl light from a tree near you in the dark, the sound of the wings flapping and the shadow passing over you can be a frightening experience, and it’s easy to see how young people tanked up on beer might wet themselves trying to get away. Of course there is the red, glowing eyes issue, but even that can be explained by headlights or flashlights in many occasions.

Snow in Sweet Hollow. Click to view large or order prints

And there’s the theory that the Mothman is the Thunderbird of the native Americans. But the native American’s didn’t need supernatural explanations to explain natural phenomena. Their deities were often totally natural creatures, but also endowed with supernatural or mystical qualities.

I remember the mid to late sixties, when a lot of these stories seem to have sprung up. The Twilight Zone and Outer Limits had just gone off the air, but had made an impression on popular culture. Godzilla and his son, Ghidorah, Mothra and others were rampaging through the cinema, and of course there was the whole space program and the race to the moon, along with the underlying fear of the Ruskies getting up there and putting nuclear weapons in space.

Rural areas have frequently been beset by strange lights in the skies and strange creatures on the ground. The area where I grew up had it’s own shaggy haired, bigfoot style monster, and I can recall mysterious lights in the skies that one evening kept the local police force quite busy. I remember one afternoon as a child, looking up into the sky, and I swear this is true, saw a rocket directly above me. Which might not be so odd after all, as there have been rumors that my area of southern Illinois was home to nuclear missile silos, which might have been used for testing. In short, there were odd things afoot for real, and when a populace is already stimulated to believe in such things, it doesn’t take much to set them off.

The men in black stories are so poorly documented, and so strange as to be laughable. Keel’s experts and witnesses, and Knell’s as well since he seems to draw exclusively from Keel, have all seem to have disappeared without a trace, and when you do find references to them the reference invariably leads back to Keel. He does refer to articles in various magazines, most of which he had connections to, which carried then the same reputation for authenticity that supermarket tabloids do today. Of course, that the sources have disappeared is only further proof for those who see a conspiracy in keeping this evidence supressed. And who knows? Perhaps they’re right. But unless the government or the M.I.B.s themselves open up the archives, we’ll never know.

In the end, the tales of UFOs, the mothman and M.I.B.s on Mount Misery and the Sweet Hollow Road area fall into the realm of legends, or good stories well told. The film version of the Mothman Prophecies is itself a testimony to how Keel and Knell have no hesitation to play loose and fast with the truth. Knell, supposedly an advisor on the film, speaks of how it barely resembles the book, and one wonders why Keel would have allowed a work supposedly so carefully researched to be turned into what can only be called a complete work of fiction, based loosely on certain historic events. The reason of course, is that it’s entertainment, supposed to heighten the pulse and stimulate the imagination.

A walk through the forest of Mount Misery at night will certainly do that. And perhaps if you go, you’ll see something that can’t be explained. There’s certainly enough circumstantial and anecdotal evidence to suggest that something strange has gone on in this area for a long time. But like the flying object of the same name, whatever extraterrestrial or ultraterrestial life lurks on Mount Misery will for now remain, unidentified.

______________

There are more stories of course, still more Mary stories, the mysterious black dog, the man carrying the basket of human heads, but those will have to wait for a later day.

Till then I hope this finds you and yours very well, and I remain …

Yours
T

Mount Misery, West Hills County Park, Melville, Town of Huntington, Suffolk County, Long Island, New York

“So why have I lived my whole life on Long Island, less than twenty minutes from here, and have never heard of Mount Misery, if it’s supposed to be such a paranormal hotspot?” Miss Bronwen asked, looking out over the valley below. “I’ve heard of West Hills County Park, I’ve even heard of Sweet Hollow Road, but I never heard any mention of this place until you started prattling on about it.”

We were sitting atop the southern end of Mt. Misery, having entered the nature preserve across the cemetery on Sweet Hollow Road and then heading up. This is the less frequented area of West Hills County Park, south of Northern State Parkway. The sun was setting on the afternoon before Halloween, and the autumnal leaves were taking on red and golden hues, and it was hard to believe as we looked out over what appeared to be wilderness, that we were looking out over one of the busiest highways on Long Island. The view from here is sudden and surprising, the trees hiding the numerous houses of the well to do, the park below us, the valley below seeming to be nothing but unbroken forest, rising again in the distance as Walt Whitman’s West Hills.

“In short,” I replied after giving it some thought, “blame it on the internet. According to legend, Mt. Misery and Sweet Hollow Road have been haunted as long as anyone can remember. Supposedly the native Americans who lived around here considered Mt. Misery no man’s land. They spoke of strange lights which appeared on it, livestock disappearing on its slopes, as well as mysterious creatures spotted in the woods. Which might explain why they had no hesitation about trading it to the early settlers here. The old Indian path which is now Old Country Road was one of their main thoroughfares, and the ridge of Mt. Misery begins to rise just to the north of that. When the settlers found they had to cross it, at least according to legend, they had a hard go of it, as you saw from just hiking up here. You can imagine how tough it would be with a wagon, or carrying supplies, hence the name Mount Misery.”

“So the settlers would make it back to their cabin and logon to Facebook and chat with their native American brethren then about how haunted it was? What does a bunch of pre-colonial era legends have to do with the internet?” Miss Bronwen asked with a smirk.

“Duh?” I responded. “Facebook is a new phenomenon. It would have been MySpace, or Usenet before that.”

Bronwen laughed and leaned back on her elbows to watch the last sliver of sunlight wash the slopes of Jayne’s Hill, the highest spot on Long Island, a short ways in the distance.

I continued, “It all seems to begin and end with Bill Knell.”

“Who in the hell is Bill Knell?” she asked.

“Glad you asked,” I replied. “He used to own a site called ‘The UFO Guy,’ and has written on a variety of bizarre topics which can be found online. And one of those is Mt. Misery. His claims include a couple of insane asylums built early on someplace on Mt. Misery, as well as a military hospital, built inthe 1940s on the mount as well. In addition to that he claims it’s a hotspot of UFO activity, Men in Black and even the mothman of the Mothman Prophecies fame.”

“You mean that dreadful Richard Gere flick?” she asked.

“That’s the one, though to be honest I kind of liked it. Okay, so they changed the historical details, the decade of the story and added ficticious characters, but it was still a decent little film. I mean for Richard Gere at least. But I digress.”

I continued, “The movie is of course based on the book by John Keel, and the mothman who gets short shrift in the book is supposedly a regular on Mt. Misery. I seem to recall having read some connection between Keel’s writing and Mt. Misery, but then again, I would have read it online, and much of what you read there about the place is just Knell’s stuff endlessly rehashed. Including my own I might add.”

Miss Bronwen zipped up her jacket and stood up, stretching. “So does he offer any evidence to back up his claims?”

“Not really,” I replied. “He cites sources, but those are notoriously difficult to pin down. Much of what he writes appears to be rehashing of old legends, and perhaps – how to say this delicately – slight adjustments to geography and a jumbling of various Long Island locations. For instance, he considers this line of hills which stretch from south of Old Country Road, hell, south of the expressway I believe, to Jericho Turnpike in the north, and from Walt Whitman Road or Route 110 to Manetto Hills Road to be Mt. Misery. And displaying a staggering lack of knowledge about the area’s geography, he claims that area is only a mile across in any direction, when in fact it’s more like five miles.”

“So when people talk about Mount Misery, they aren’t talking about this particular hill,” she said, gesturing at the area around us. “Instead they are talking about this whole area?”

“Not typically, no. Usually people refer to the valley down there as Sweet Hollow, which itself isn’t exactly correct, and the highlands to the west of it as Mount Misery. But Knell certainly does. And for the sake of argument, I’ll buy that. After all, an earlier settler coming out of the plains and seeing a ridge of hills wouldn’t necessarily know the geography well enough to know what he was facing. All that would have been important to him was “ugh, big damn hill to get over.” Further confusing the issue, he speaks of Mount Misery being a main route used to cross through the area, but he certainly can’t mean Mt. Misery Road, as many people think. It’s definitely not shown on DeWitt’s map of 1802, but I do believe it’s on the Traveler’s Map of 1847, which seems to show both it and Sweet Hollow Road. But it really only shows the northern most section.”

“Mt. Misery Road stretches from the end of Chichester Road to the north, down to Old Country Road to the south, but it’s cut in half like a snake by Northern State Parkway. If we were to hike down the trail to the west, we’d come out at the top end of the southern section, which is a water facility for Suffolk County and a day camp for children. When it starts up on the other side of the parkway, it’s a dirt road for hikers and horses only for about a third of a mile, before it’s once again paved. But I believe it was only a continuous road from the 19th century till the Parkway came in, and I’m guessing the section that is a dirt track never was paved. Right where the dirt track turns to pavement, at the infamous 666 log, there’s a trail which goes to the east. That trail, winds through the woods a bit and picks up another dirt track, which is the culmination of Gwynne Road, which of course is paved from Sweet Hollow Road over to 110. And that I believe is the original road, the dirt trail from the Gwynne Road/Sweet Hollow intersection, and from that trail north on today’s Mt. Misery Road, up to Chichester. At least that’s what appears to be shown on the Traveler’s Map of 1847.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t going to be the most exciting story you’ve ever told me?” Miss Bronwen asked, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re guessing right,” I replied. “Oddly, I started hiking here because of the wild stories, but it’s the history of the place which has proven to be the most interesting mystery. Knell specifically states that Mount Misery is the highest point on Long Island, and says Jayne’s Hill is the highest spot. But this area certainly isn’t one big hill. Jayne’s Hill, which used to be called Oakley’s Hill by the earliest settlers, not Mount Misery I might add, and is officially known as High Hill, is part of West Hills. Just across Sweet Hollow Road from there is another high point, nearly as high as Jayne’s Hill. And as that goes on over to Mt. Misery Road, it’s my guess that might by Mount Misery itself. Sweet Hollow, West Hills and Jayne’s Hill are labelled on the map, but not Mount Misery though. So that kind of pokes a hole in Knell’s theory that this whole area was Mount Misery. It seems obvious that from the beginning, these were all considered separate places. It also shows, that where we are now, and where the trail comes out on Mt. Misery Road is part of Manetto Hills. In fact, the water plant up there, which is on Mt. Misery Road proper, is distinctly labelled Manetto Hills, at least legally. It’s also worth mentioning, for all those EVP fans out there, that the water tower up there has a cell phone tower on it, which renders EVPs pretty much useless.”

“What are EVPs?” Miss Bronwen asked. “It sounds very official.”

“Electronic voice phenomenon. Or at least a phenomenon if you believe is such things, and it’s important to remember in this case, at the center of the word believe is lie. Supposedly they pick up the voice of the dead, extra terrestrials and the odd random spirit. And who knows? Maybe they do. Unfortunately, we know they also pick up signals from cell towers, C.B. radios and even baby monitors. In other words, in an electronic rich area like Long Island, it’s not unusual to pick up hard to explain voices and signals on a recording device. Perhaps what is most unusual is not to pick up such things.”

“The map,” Miss Bronwen said, guiding me back on track, “you digressed again.”

“Oh yes. What’s equally curious about that map is that it shows Sweet Hollow being to the east of West Hills, whereas it’s currently, and as far as I know always been, to the west of West Hills. But I believe they just have the natural features wrong, as both Sweet Hollow and Mount Misery Roads seem to be in the right place otherwise. The Coyler house on the road there was built about 1819 by Walt Whitman’s father, so we know the road was in existence by then, even if it was just a farm road. But we don’t know how well travelled or developed those roads were. In fact, when Whitman visited the house in 1850, they reached it by hiking ‘across lots,’ rather than taking the roads from Jericho Turnpike. Most of the existing residences from that time, especially those built by the Whitman family, are further east of Mount Misery proper, in what would be the West Hills area. And of course that’s where Route 110 eventually became the dominant north/south highway in the area. As far as Mt. Misery being a major crossroads, I just don’t see it. And then there’s the military hospital …”

“Ha! I did a Google search on Mt. Misery before we came here and who should come up but you,” Miss Bronwen called out triumphantly. “Are you saying now that your claim to fame is based on bogus information?”

“I believe so,” I replied. “According to Knell’s story, the hospital was built to care for the wounded from World War II, but there wasn’t enough of a demand. It was closed down, but then reopened mysteriously in the fifties. He supposedly spoke to a fellow who was stationed in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, took sick and was sent to the hospital on Mount Misery. Most of his time was spent in a fog, then he suddenly recovered, and as he left the facilities he saw a sign which said “area 5.” Back in North Carolina he was told area 5 was for psychological warfare testing, and not to ask any more questions. Of course the fellow is never named, and that’s the only story he offers as evidence. He goes on to say after the hospital was closed, voices were heard coming from it, as well as lights being spotted inside. Supposedly in the seventies some teenagers broke in and fell down an elevator shaft, and were seriously injured. And after that it was torn down.”

“But?” Miss Bronwen asked, leaving the question hanging in the air.

“But I can’t find any evidence that there was ever a hospital here,” I continued. “It’s certainly not apparent on overhead photos of the area from the fifties through the eighties. It wasn’t supposed to be all that large, but there aren’t many places here that it could have existed. I’ve only spoken to a couple of locals who have heard of it, and they heard of it of course, off the internet. The only other independent mention of it that I know of was supposed to be from a project on West Hills County Park, carried out by a boy scout. Supposedly he found some oblique references to ‘the hospital’ in the papers of the family that donated the land for the park. But I never saw that report.”

“And the other locals you’ve asked?” Miss Bronwen asked.

“Never heard of it,” I replied. “Including several people who lived in the area all their lives. Knell and others attribute this to the fact that it’s supposed to be a secret, and that the locals don’t want people snooping around. The Scooby Doo theory if you will. ‘We would have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for those darned kids!’ And it makes the whole thing seem quite eerie. The more people you ask, the higher the wall of silence becomes. Until you start to realize, it’s not a conspiracy. It’s just that the story probably isn’t true.”

Mount Misery, West Hills County Park, Melville, Long Island

Click to view larger or see more images of Mt. Misery and Sweet Hollow Road

Miss Bronwen nodded, “And so the whole military hospital story is a fabrication?”

“I believe so,” I replied. “The 1947 Huntington Town Planners Map shows no hospital. And since that was just after the end of the war, I would expect it to be on there, if it in fact existed. However, John Leita from Long Island Oddities told me his theory on it, which makes a lot of sense to me. He believes the hospital was actually Edgewood which was located in Deer Park. It was built in the forties, used as a military hospital in World War II, for the treatment of traumatized soldiers afterwards, and closed up in the seventies. I mean after all, how would a soldier from North Carolina, unfamiliar with the area, be able to identify Mount Misery as the location he was transferred to? Unless it was called Mount Misery Hospital or some such nonsense – and there are certainly no indications there was ever a hospital or asylum with that in its name – and unless he saw the street sign, which is unlikely as he never left his room, how would he be able to identify it as such?”

“So maybe the story has an element of truth, just the wrong location?” she asked.

“Exactly. Now why Bill Knell wouldn’t know this I can’t say. Supposedly he knows where on Mt. Misery the hospital stood, and even stated the steps leading to the hospital are still there. I mean I spent god knows how many days looking for those steps out here, as well as other people. And no one that I’ve heard of has ever found anything.”

“And the location you found which is listed on Google as being a possible site of the Mt. Misery Military Hospital?” she asked with a smirk.

I groaned. “Okay, so it’s not the hospital. I’m more than willing to say that now. As you can see, the woods in this area is very thick. There are very few areas cleared out and large enough to have housed a facility like that. At least which doesn’t already have some other structure standing on it now. When I first started looking for it, I looked at Google Earth and the satellite shots. And that location is one of the few places that I could see where it might have been. And if you look closely, you can make out a foundation there. Of course, if you actually go there, you find the vegetation is so thick you can’t make it to where the foundation is. And I’m familiar with what happens in a rural area when a house or building is torn down – I’m from the midwest after all, farm country. And I’d be willing to put money, that at some point there was a rather large structure where that clearing is now. And it’s located on the trail which I believe would have been the mail route where Gwynne Road meets Mt. Misery Road. If you look at aerial photos of the place all the way back to the fifties, it’s been vacant all that time. Though oddly enough, even in the photos from the fifties, you can still make out that there had been a foundation there.”

“Maybe that was the older asylum that people talk about?” she asked.

“That’s pretty unlikely,” I answered. “According to the legends, the first asylum was built in the 1700s, which is almost certainly poppycock. A second asylum was supposedly built sometime later, but I find it hard to believe that foundations would be visible from either the eighteenth or nineteenth century. And if it was here in the twentieth century, or even the late nineteenth century, there would be records of it.”

“Why do you say the asylum story is poppycock, other than you like using that word?” she asked.

“Okay, so the legend is that back in the 1700s there was a lunatic asylum built on Mount Misery. As the care for the insane was so poor, actually brutal, the story goes that it was built here, far from towns and villages so the screams of the patients wouldn’t bother the locals. It was burned down by one of the inmates, the infamous Mary, with all the patients and workers inside. Some time later it was rebuilt, and once again burned down, and once more quite often blamed on the hapless Mary, though we presume a different Mary this time.”

“Mary certainly was resilient,” Miss Bronwen said with a grin.

“She’s the legend who will not die here,” I replied. “In the early 1700s, this area was part of the British colonies of course. Psychiatric care was in its infancy, and asylums were rare. Had there been one here, it would have been quite unique, and would no doubt have been documented. Typically, people cared for the mentally ill at home. It’s entirely possible that there was an early farmer in the area who had one or more members of his family who suffered from mental illnesses. And perhaps, as according to the legend, the house burned down, killing all who lived there. Most myths and legends spring from some grain of truth after all. But you have to remember, during this time there was very few people living in the area. I believe in about 1800, there were only 45 residents in the area. Huntington was still small as well. New York City was a few days ride away, and of course the difficulty of getting people up Mt. Misery has already been spoken of. There simply wasn’t the population here to warrant an asylum, and it was too far away from the population centers, with too poor of roads to make it feasible to send patients here.”

Mount Misery. Click to view large or buy print

“So there was no sanitarium on Mount Misery?” she asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

“There I believe you might be hitting on another truth. The word sanitarium. People tend to associate the word sanitarium with asylums for the insane, but in the past, this wasn’t the case at all. A sanitarium was simply a place which housed people with chronic, or often, contagious diseases. And the seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were rife with epidemics of one sort or another. Cholera was a big one, scarlet fever, typhoid, influenza, all were great killers, and all spread quickly. Here’s a story. Back home there was this big old abandoned house out in the country. And according to the stories, it used to be an asylum. But eventually someone asked the right person, and found it it was in fact once used as a sanitarium for cholera patients. The family who lived there were stricken by the disease, and were quarantined. As it was a large house with lots of rooms, when other people in the area took ill with the disease, they were sent to that house as well for quarantine. Eventually, all the inmates either die or recover and were released. And as the buildings were viewed as being diseased, they were often burned.”

“And I suppose it wouldn’t be unheard of for the buildings to be burned with the patients still inside, if someone in the area was afraid of the disease spreading,” she said with a shudder.

“Christ, I never thought of that,” I replied. “Aren’t you the macabre one? But you’re certainly right. And it would fit in with the legends. Of course I don’t know of any evidence of that happening here. That’s the problem with the story of the asylums on Mt. Misery, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence one way or another. There’s a comprehensive list of sanitariums in operation as of 1914 and there are none listed in the area. So if there was a sanitarium here, it wasn’t very large, under 20 patients, and certainly not state or public funded. A quarantine house perhaps, but nothing more.”

“What about cemeteries and death records?” she asked.

“Good point. If you look at the records of Melville Cemetery on Sweet Hollow Road you do find clusters of deaths during certain periods. And one giveaway for epidemics is to look for multiple deaths among babies, infants and the very old. You find several babies and children dying in and around 1881 for instance, or 1935-36, but probably not enough to warrant a sanitarium strictly for epidemic purposes. Still, what you have to remember, is we’re dealing with legends and myths. And it only takes a grain of truth to give birth to these. One large family, quarantined in their house with some deadly disease, one of the family members forgets to blow out a lamp, the house burns down, and a hundred years later the story is transformed into an insane asylum, with one of the inmates burning the place down with all the inmates and workers burned to death.”

“And no historic records of asylums in the area? What about poor houses?” Miss Bronwen asked.

“Between 1650 and 1799 there are only three public asylums, or almshouses on record in the state of New York that I’ve found. Two in New York City and one in Albany. Between 1800 and the end of that century, the only public almshouses and asylums nearby that I can find nearby is one in Amityville, and the Jones Institute, which I believe was around Hicksville. According to its census of the time, the Jones Institute was for accomodation of the poor that came from Oyster Bay and North Hempstead. They had ‘four idiots’ – one male, three female, and three who were blind. And incidently, when it was in full swing, it only had four employees. So a large asylum with lots of workers is certainly a myth. I did find mention that some of the communities of the area moved the poor or those who were considered ‘idiots’ into farms in rural communities, and it’s possible that some of them might have found their way to farms in the Mount Misery area. But that’s certainly not an asylum, and as I said, I can find no record of this happening. Just to the south and west, between Old Country Road and Round Swamp Road, which is only a few miles from here, was the Nassau County Sanitarium, which was a tuberculosis ward. And that would be in Knell’s definition of Mount Misery. But that dates from the 1930s, and it certainly never burned down. Still, perhaps that somehow became the nucleus for the asylum on Mount Misery? Also in Half Hollow, which is just south of here, near Long Swamp was the almshouse of the area, but that’s too far away to be considered Mount Misery. As I said, who knows?”

Mount Misery, Manetto Hills, Melville, New York, Halloween, 2008

Miss Brownwen stood up and stretched, her arms reaching up towards the darkening sky.

“It’s getting dark,” she said. “And even if there were no asylums, no loonies burned alive, no mothmen and no UFOs, I don’t really want to go down that hill in the pitch black.”

I stood up as well and picked up our knapsack.

“I suppose you’re right, but can you really think of any place more romantic to be on Halloween, than the haunted South Woods of Mount Misery?”

Miss Bronwen grinned and started back for the trail.

“Well, they say misery loves company,” she said.