There is a lurking fear that some things are not “meant to be known,” that some inquiries are too dangerous for human minds to make.
Carl Sagan
From the Virginia Line south to Bogue Banks on the central North Carolina coast, the famed Outer Banks stretch 175 miles in a semicircular arc. Hatteras Island, a slender, 56-mile-long barrier island shaped like a bent check mark, is strategically situated in the middle of this gentle geographic curve. In 1953, the island became part of Cape Hatteras National Seashore, the first such recreational area established by the federal government.
Hundreds of thousands of people from around the world flock to Hatteras Island each year to enjoy the miles of unspoiled Atlantic beach and the numerous historic sites. Chief among the attractions is the spectacular Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, the tallest lighthouse in America. Just south of the lighthouse, the landscape of Hatteras changes dramatically. Unlike most other portions of the island, much of the southern third is well forested. This area is known as Cape Hatteras Woods. Located near the southern end of the woods is the community of Frisco, one of the eight historic village enclaves on the island that were excluded from Cape Hatteras National Seashore.
Until a post office was established in the village in 1898, Frisco was known as Trent. It was here that one of the many haunting tales of the Outer Banks evolved in the early part of the nineteenth century. At the time, this part of Dare County belonged to Hyde County. It was inhabited by hardy islanders whose livelihood came primarily from fishing and livestock production. Cattle owners in Trent allowed their stock to wander the forest and the strand, which featured three significant sand dunes known as Stowe’s Hills.
Absalum Clarke, who resided on the north side of Trent, was a wealthy man who owned one of the largest herds of livestock on Hatteras Island. At the other end of the village lived a hideous old woman by the name of Polly Poiner. Local gossip had it that she was a witch.
Because Clarke’s animals were a valuable commodity, he paid great attention to their well-being. When numerous head of his livestock fell ill, Clarke was deeply concerned. Particularly troubling to him was the debilitating disease that struck his horses. They contracted lampas, a condition that causes the roof of the mouth to become inflamed and to swell. Workers were forced to put the unfortunate animals down.
There seemed to be no explanation for the sudden rash of livestock deaths until the bewildered Clarke overheard villagers discussing the strange behavior of the wretched Polly Poiner. While Clarke’s horses and cows were dying in great pain, Polly’s demonic laughter had been heard echoing from her hut. About the village, there was talk that the woman had put a curse on the animals.
Although Clarke was outraged, he elected—whether out of fear or doubt—to avoid a confrontation with Polly. But then his favorite stallion died mysteriously one day near the shore of Pamlico Sound. The site was not far from where an elderly woman had been seen looking for mussels. That woman was Polly Poiner, who was easily identified because she was badly stooped by rheumatism.
Clarke could stand it no longer. He dispatched a messenger with a dire warning for Polly: If she caused any further harm to his livestock, he would break her neck.
Polly was not intimidated by the threat. Before the sun went down that very day, Clarke’s finest mare and her colt dropped dead. Once again, a witch-like cackle came from Polly’s hovel at the edge of Trent.
In an uncontrollable rage, Clarke vowed he would dispose of the witch. Acting as if he were possessed, he made his way to her abode late one night. Polly was hard at work at her spinning wheel. Slipping inside without being detected, Clarke savagely attacked the vile woman and broke her neck.
The following day, two local fishermen found Polly’s lifeless body. Although there were no eyewitnesses, all of the evidence pointed to Absalum Clarke. He was promptly arrested and jailed.
Clarke’s trial was held on the shore of Lake Mattamuskeet in the mainland village of Lake Landing, then the seat of Hyde County. Circumstantial evidence proved to be sufficient to convict him. His subsequent execution is believed to have been the only public hanging in the history of the county.
A ballad was written about the strange case many years ago. It goes, in part,
Oh that yaupon scrub and scraggly oak
Quivered on the dunes when Polly spoke.
A madman turned a trick quite neat,
But the noose hung high in Mattamuskeet.
Back in Trent, the villagers carefully avoided the witch’s former home.
Some years later, the property was acquired by an outsider who was unfamiliar with its history. When he learned of Polly’s evil nature and strange powers, the man quickly sold the site to a resident of nearby Ocracoke Island. When the new owner began to till the soil in Trent, a frightening thing occurred. An old rope came slithering out of one of the furrows and suddenly raised itself at one end. Terrified at what he saw, the poor fellow screamed, “The old witch, she’s still a-spinning!” He bolted away, leaving behind horse and plow, and never returned.
Since that time, this spot of Hatteras ground has been considered haunted. The few local folks who have mustered enough courage to cultivate the soil here have witnessed the same supernatural event: a rope that comes forth from the ground and loops itself into a hangman’s noose!