It was February 1698, and disease was sweeping through Leonardtown, a small village in southern Maryland. Locals knew whom to blame: They set fire to the hut of Moll Dyer, a single woman living alone on the edge of town who had been deemed a witch.
She escaped the enraged citizens, only to die in the frozen wilderness. Her body was found clinging to a rock, on which her knees and hands supposedly left impressions.
Ms. Dyer, arguably, inspired one of the most famous fictional witches in American pop culture: the one at the center of the 1999 horror film “The Blair Witch Project.” Although the film never explicitly mentioned Ms. Dyer’s fate, it is widely believed to have been based on her story. Ingeniously marketed as found footage, the hit film also endowed Maryland with a haunted reputation.
Ms. Dyer is one of seven people who were tried and convicted of witchcraft in Maryland in the 17th and 18th centuries. Only one was executed: Rebecca Fowler, a widow who was hanged in 1685 after a servant accused her of witchcraft. But all had their reputations sullied for centuries.
Now, the Maryland delegate Heather A. Bagnall, who represents a patch of the state north of Annapolis, has introduced a resolution in the general assembly to exonerate them all. The proposed resolution, which had an initial committee hearing on March 10, has been criticized as out of step with Marylanders’ priorities, but Ms. Bagnall bristled at any suggestion that the measure was frivolous. In an interview, she said she was partly motivated by the demise of Roe v. Wade, which was struck down by the Supreme Court in 2022, and by the anti-abortion measures passed in states like Texas.
“I’ve got a real appetite for it, and the more I talk about it, the more people realize, ‘No, this is serious,’” Ms. Bagnall said. “This is not just like a flight of fancy. It’s relevant today.”
She compared the campaigns against witches to those against transgender rights and racial diversity initiatives, which have recently come under sustained assault.
At the initial hearing last week, Ms. Bagnall was joined by witch-exoneration advocates, including an Episcopalian priest. Afterward, her staff was thrilled but unsure of just when the measure might come up for a full vote. It could be months, even years.
Daniel Myrick, who co-directed “The Blair Witch Project,” said he supported her effort. “We are a flawed nation, and were born out of doing some incredibly cruel things,” he said in an interview. Better “symbolic” reckoning, as he put it, than none at all — and better late than never.
“It’s a social justice issue,” said Elizabeth Pugliese-Shaw, a family law attorney in the Washington, D.C., suburbs. “These people should never have been accused.” She became interested in witch exoneration after learning that other states had done so: In 2022, Massachusetts cleared Elizabeth Johnson Jr., whose conviction was the last to remain standing from the notorious Salem Witch Trials. Connecticut followed with its own witch exonerations in 2023.
Perhaps most notably, Scotland apologized for its witchcraft trials that led to the torture and execution of thousands of women from the 16th to the 18th centuries. “Anyone who didn’t fit the mold of what people expected would be targeted,” said Marlisa Ross, who recently staged a play about the victims of the Scottish witch hunt in Glasgow. Much like Ms. Bagnall, Dr. Ross said she saw a parallel between the witchcraft panic and the rising social animosities today. “It was a way to make everybody have a common enemy,” she said.
In the Puritan colonies of New England, witchcraft was a catchall accusation leveled against women for a variety of reasons: lack of a husband, personality quirks, an interest in herbal medicine or childbirth.
“The accusations are usually against outsiders within the community,” said Daniel T. Howlett, who is completing his doctoral studies in religion and disability in the American colonies at George Mason University in Virginia. Mr. Howlett is related to Mary Bradbury, who was convicted of witchcraft in the Salem trials. “Being a witch meant that you’d signed a covenant with the devil in most European traditions,” he said.
Often, women were simply convenient scapegoats. Beth M. Caruso, who led the exoneration effort in Connecticut, has written three novels about the state’s witch trials. Her interest was piqued after she learned of the plight of Alse Young, believed to be the first woman hanged for witchcraft in the American colonies in 1647. Much like Ms. Dyer, Ms. Young was blamed for a disease outbreak. “Where she lived was right next door to a cluster of child deaths,” Ms. Caruso said. “So then it made total sense as to why she was accused.”
The current cultural moment may be particularly auspicious. Witches have been enjoying something of a revival, and not only because of “Wicked,” the hit musical film starring Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo. The “witchtok” hashtag on TikTok has millions of posts, as users flock to witchcraft’s moody aesthetic, as well as to its emphasis on alternative healing and nature-centered spirituality.
“Part of the draw for us to witchcraft is the acceptance and celebration of our personal identities, bodies, bodily autonomy, a love of our planet and, in many cases, healing from past religious traumas,” Devin Hunter, who runs the website Modern Witch, wrote in an email. “For example, many of us are women, members of the LGBTQIA+ community, and are members of other underserved communities. Like us, those convicted and tried for witchcraft were often vulnerable people living on the fringes of society.”
(In some countries and regions, women continue to be prosecuted for witchcraft.)
Today, the legend of Moll Dyer still permeates Leonardtown, a tidy waterside enclave where a horse-drawn carriage might pass a hip cocktail lounge. The rock, the one where Ms. Dyer supposedly met her end, is covered by glass — touching it is said to enrage Ms. Dyer’s spirit and bring bad luck. A cat cafe on the town’s main strip is called “Meow Dyer,” an apparent reference to the accused witch’s name. Since 2021, a weekend in late February has been devoted to celebrating Ms. Dyer’s memory. This year, the events included “paranormal investigations,” ax throwing and a cocktail contest.
Historical markers on the road to Leonardtown proclaim Maryland’s legacy as a haven of religious tolerance. Nevertheless, only three years after it became a colony, Maryland adopted an anti-witchcraft law that England had passed in 1604. But Ms. Bagnall is not bothered by the fact that centuries have passed since the injustices were committed under that law. “It’s never the wrong time to do the right thing,” she said.
