The Connecticut Witch Trials: America's First (And Forgotten) Hunts

Everyone knows about Salem. The Massachusetts witch trials of 1692 are seared into American consciousness—films, plays, and history classes ensure we remember. But forty years before Salem, Connecticut was executing witches. Between 1647 and 1663, Connecticut hanged at least eleven people for witchcraft. These earlier trials have been largely forgotten, overshadowed by Salem's dramatic intensity. Why? Salem was concentrated—twenty people executed in a few months, creating a spectacular crisis. Connecticut's witch trials were spread over decades, individual cases rather than mass hysteria. Salem had dramatic teenage accusers and a clear beginning-middle-end narrative. Connecticut's trials emerged gradually from community tensions and legal proceedings. But Connecticut's forgotten witch trials tell us something important: America's witch-hunting began not with Salem's famous hysteria, but with quieter, sustained persecution of women who didn't conform. The first person executed for witchcraft in America was Alse Young of Windsor, Connecticut, hanged on May 26, 1647. We know almost nothing about her—no trial records survive, no detailed accounts of her supposed crimes. History has erased her thoroughly. We don't know why she was accused, what she allegedly did, or whether she proclaimed innocence or confessed. We know only that the colony decided she was a witch, and they killed her for it. This erasure is its own kind of violence. Alse Young was the first, yet she's barely a footnote. Her life, her story, her voice—all silenced by the noose and then by historical amnesia. Over the next sixteen years, Connecticut executed at least ten more people: Mary Johnson (1650), John and Joan Carrington (1651), Lydia Gilbert (1654), and others. Most were women. Most were in their 30s-50s. Most had made enemies, had unusual behavior, or were economically vulnerable. Mary Johnson's case is particularly well-documented. She was a servant who confessed to witchcraft—likely coerced, though records claim it was voluntary. She described making a compact with the Devil, who helped her with household work and made light labor heavy. She confessed to using magic to murder a child (the child actually died of natural causes). The General Court of Connecticut concluded: 'She is guilty of familiarity with the Devil.' She was hanged. But here's the truly disturbing part: after her confession but before execution, Mary became pregnant in prison. The execution was delayed until after she gave birth so that the child wouldn't be killed for the mother's crimes. Mary nursed her baby in chains, then was taken to the gallows and hanged, leaving her infant orphaned. The baby's fate is unknown. Connecticut's trials reveal the mechanics of witch accusations more clearly than Salem's mass hysteria. They show how witchcraft charges emerged from mundane disputes: property disagreements, petty arguments, economic competition, and personal grudges. Katherine Harrison's case exemplifies this. A wealthy widow in Wethersfield, Harrison was repeatedly accused of witchcraft by neighbors who resented her independence and prosperity. The accusations included: her cows produced too much milk (suspiciously abundant), she appeared at night outside people's windows (probably sleeplessness or gossip), and she was argumentative and didn't defer to men (definitely true, and good for her). Harrison was tried multiple times between 1668-1670. Juries couldn't agree on a verdict—evidence was circumstantial, and some jurors were skeptical. Eventually, authorities ordered her to leave Connecticut entirely. She lost her home and property simply because neighbors didn't like her. It was economic persecution dressed as spiritual concern. Connecticut's trials also show the role of clerical authority. Ministers like Samuel Stone and Thomas Hooker preached about witchcraft as a real, present danger. Their sermons created an atmosphere where accusations seemed reasonable, where neighbors watched each other for signs of demonic influence, where women's behavior was scrutinized for evidence of evil. The trials finally ended not because Connecticut developed enlightened tolerance, but because they became inconvenient. Accusations were disrupting communities, wealthy people were being targeted, and authorities worried about false accusations. Like most witch hunts, they ended through exhaustion, not justice. Today, Hartford has a small memorial to Connecticut's witch trial victims—a modest plaque easy to miss. Most Connecticut residents don't know their state executed witches before Salem. The history is there, but barely remembered. Study Connecticut's forgotten witch trials, young witch. They teach us that persecution doesn't require hysteria—it can be bureaucratic, gradual, normalized. That injustice becomes invisible when it happens slowly, one case at a time rather than dramatically all at once. They teach us that wealth and independence make women threatening. Katherine Harrison wasn't killed, but her prosperity was stolen and she was exiled. The message: women who don't need men are dangerous. They teach us that historical amnesia is selective. We remember spectacular injustices (Salem) while forgetting sustained persecution (Connecticut). Both matter. Both deserve remembering. They teach us that firsts matter: Alse Young, first person executed for witchcraft in America, deserves to be remembered as much as the twenty who died in Salem. We say her name: Alse Young. We say their names: Mary Johnson, John and Joan Carrington, Lydia Gilbert, and all the others. We refuse to let them be forgotten. We are still here. They tried to hang us all. They failed.