By Daniela Sfara
Imagine walking past a stone wall along an unassuming, narrow cobblestone street. You notice the balconies with laundry hung to dry, swaying gently in the breeze; the terracotta pots bursting with fragrant, vibrant flowers; and you catch snippets of family chatter drifting from an open doorway. You marvel at the simplicity, entirely unaware that for centuries, travellers paused here, making gestures to protect themselves from invisible eyes. The air gives no sign of it, yet history clings to every threshold, and the secrets hidden within these walls are waiting to be heard.
Some come to Italy to marvel at the history, the architecture, the sights, the food, the wine. Others come to uncover another history—one that has lived quietly in villages for centuries—the whispers of Italy that still rise beneath the stones as you walk, in the moonlight that captures your selfie perfectly and tells stories you never imagined. This is the hidden occult history of Italy.
Wander through Rome, and you may marvel at the Colosseum, the Pantheon, or the Sistine Chapel. Perhaps you’ve walked along the Old Appian Way, descended into crypts, or lingered at the Campidoglio and the Musei Capitolini. Even if only in passing, you’ve likely heard the tale of Romulus and Remus—the twins suckled by a she-wolf, their quarrel birthing the city itself. A story that is called a legend, yet carries the weight of a nation’s symbol. But Rome’s myths are just the doorway. Beyond the Eternal City, Italy holds stories even older, whispered not in marble but in mountain villages, vineyards, and valleys.
In the Ligurian mountains lies Triora, a charming hamlet listed among the top 100 most beautiful villages in Italy. It is indeed beautiful—so much so that the streets carry my favorite fragrance, that of freshly baked bread at every turn. But pane di Triora (bread of Triora) is not your typical traditional artisan bread. This village also carries the weight of sorrow. In the late 1500s, Triora became Italy’s own Salem. Women were accused of witchcraft, blamed for famine and misfortune, accused of causing illness and suffering to those they fed that not-so-lovely traditional bread, and were held in trials that subjected them to brutal torture and death. Walking Triora’s narrow streets today, you feel the echoes of those accusations. The population greatly declined, and the town has not buried its past; instead, it tells it openly at the Museo di Triora, through annual festivals and guided walks through the old trial sites that remind visitors these women were not mythical figures, but real people caught in a storm of fear and superstition. Villagers today speak with both sorrow and pride: sorrow for what was lost, pride in surviving and remembering the past. It’s perhaps for this reason that Triora is known as the “witch town.”
Drive three hours to Piemonte, and you’ll hear whispers of the masche still lingering. Ask a nonna in Val di Susa about them, and she may lower her voice as she recalls stories of enigmatic female figures who could be both benevolent—offering natural remedies—and malevolent, capable of causing misfortune and foretelling events. These masche were said to slip unseen through the night, influencing crops, love, and health. To outsiders, they were witches. To locals, they were something more complicated: women with knowledge to be feared, but also quietly respected. Even now, families keep small protections—amulets of iron, coarse salt, a sprig of rosemary, a hidden charm—tokens against forces that remain unspoken but not forgotten. Some tales say they were captured and sentenced to death by exasperated villagers, while other versions claim they disappeared into thin air, dissolving into the wind like true spirits.
This quietly known history, familiar mostly only to locals, becomes almost invisible to the thousands of travelers who stroll through these villages, stopping at gift shops to pick up a small fragment of truth—perhaps a red horn to hang in the car, a tiny hand-gesture charm tucked into a purse, or a trinket on a keychain. Most know these are meant to ward off evil, yet few grasp the depth of the forces these tokens were designed to protect against. The villagers, however, watch knowingly as you browse and purchase, silently aware that you have no idea of the unseen dangers that shaped the town’s rituals and safeguards over centuries.
In Sicily, where this belief takes on yet another form, the malocchio, or evil eye, is not just an old superstition—it is still part of daily life. Taxi drivers hang cornicelli, red horn-shaped amulets, from their mirrors. Mothers tie red ribbons on infants’ wrists to guard against envy. Compliment any baby, and you may notice its mother or grandmother instinctively caressing its head. In that quiet touch, unseen by anyone else, she silently recites protective words in her mind, warding off potential evil and carrying forward centuries of living tradition.
Herbal remedies, whispered prayers, and blessings remain prominent in households. Centuries ago, Sicilian women accused of witchcraft were punished harshly, some even burned at the stake. Yet the essence of what they practiced survives—not as something exotic, but as part of the rhythm of ordinary days.
If you think these ancient stories of malevolent witches live only in the places I’ve shared, allow me to enlighten you. A mystical group from Friuli was accused of being witches in the late 16th century. Florence and Venice have also experienced glimpses of their own inquisitorial histories and esoteric traditions.
Among the oldest and most vivid stories of witchcraft in Italy is that of Benevento, in Campania—a town where moonlight has always held a different rhythm. Benevento, the city of witches, was said to host the streghe beneath the great walnut tree. There, under the silver light, they danced in secret, whispered incantations, and worked with herbs and unseen forces. Their knowledge was rooted in the earth: how to cure a fever, ease a birth, or protect a home.
Seems rather innocent, doesn’t it?
These witches, known as Janare from Irpinia, were also believed to cast spells, visit men in dreams, and even steal livestock, gathering under the Walnut of Saturday—Noce del Sabato—for the sabba (the witches’ sabbath), a ritual of black magic. The name Janara may derive from “Dianara” (follower of the goddess Diana), but their spells were far from any good action you’d expect from a follower of any goddess.
They were accused of causing sleep paralysis, inducing nightmares, riding mares to death and braiding their manes, and causing great harm to children, both born and unborn. Outsiders feared them, church authorities condemned them, yet in Benevento, the stories never died.
The walnut tree, despite being removed in the 7th century, continues to carry legends suggesting a new tree has grown in its place. The legend, steeped in ancient pagan beliefs and layered over centuries of myth, remains woven into Benevento’s cultural fabric, with the festival La Notte delle Streghe, where locals carry forward herbal lore and protective charms as though the walnut tree still stands.
And if you’ve wondered about the inspiration behind Benevento’s local and famous Strega liqueur, think no further.
Despite centuries of demonization—transforming ancient goddesses into infernal figures—the story of the Janare endures and is a living testament to the mysterious, powerful currents that still linger beneath Benevento’s moonlit nights.
And if you’re in Puglia, you will find another form of enchantment living in the everyday. La pizzica, the frenzied local folk dance, is tied to the legend of tarantismo, when people believed the bite of a tarantula plunged its victim into a trance. Music, rhythm, and wild movement were the cure—a ritual meant to exorcise the poison and free the afflicted.
To dance the pizzica was not entertainment, but survival—a cathartic rite passed through centuries. Today, it is performed in piazze, its origins half remembered by some and unfamiliar to many, its energy still fierce—a bridge between ancient fear and collective joy.
And this isn’t confined to one region. From the mountain towns of Abruzzo to Calabria’s villages, from the countryside of Emilia-Romagna to Lazio’s outskirts, the same threads run through: bonfires lit to cleanse and protect, chants to safeguard crops, charms hidden in walls, whispered blessings over bread or wine. Outsiders may call it folklore. For those who live it, it is simply what has always been done.
What makes these stories powerful is not just their strangeness; it is their connection. They tie people to the land, to ancestors, to fears and hopes passed through centuries. They remind us that life has always been uncertain, and people have always sought ways to navigate that uncertainty—sometimes through prayer, sometimes through ritual, sometimes through a mix of both.
And while the witch trials and accusations of the past are no longer part of daily life, the gestures endure. Herbalists in rural areas still prepare remedies based on knowledge older than written records. Families still mark seasonal changes with quiet rituals. A farmer may bless his tools before sowing. A nonna may mutter a protective phrase before a walk to the mercato. To many, these may be thought of as simple customs. To those who practice them, they are real acts of care and protection.
Travel through these towns today and you may not see witches dancing under walnut trees or masche gliding through mountain mist. But you will notice other signs if you pay attention: the charm above a doorway, the way someone touches the corner of a table before sitting, or crosses themselves not just at church but before stepping into the unknown. These are not performances. They are habits rooted in centuries of belief.
And if you lean in, you will begin to understand: Italy’s folk history is not a relic of the past. It is a living story, stitched into kitchens and gardens, alleyways and piazze. It is a whisper in the shadows, a trace in stone, a memory in gestures. It reminds us that the line between what is seen and unseen, rational and irrational, sacred and profane, is thinner than we often admit.
So when you hear about Triora’s trials, Piemonte’s masche, Sicily’s charms, Benevento’s witches, or Puglia’s pizzica, don’t think of them as museum pieces or dusty tales. Think of them as part of a living fabric that continues to shape Italy. They are history, yes—but they are also present. They are folklore as well as faith. They are warnings, protections, lessons, connections.
Italy’s folk history endures because it is human. It speaks to fear, resilience, devotion, and the endless search for meaning. And if you allow yourself to see, you may find that these stories are not distant at all. They are here, living in the stones beneath your feet, hidden in plain sight, guiding you to notice that the past and present are never as far apart as they seem. – VV
