Moonlight was streaming in the windows, and his eyes soon adjusted to it. He watched the woman. What a beauty she was, with that golden hair piled on top of her head. She put a handkerchief up to her eyes and seemed to be crying. The man, tall with dark, curly hair and a beard, was talking to her. Suddenly, it was as if a dial had been turned up on a radio, for he could hear their conversation as clearly as if they were right beside him.
“Bettie, do you know who Narcissus fell in love with when he looked in the pool?”
“He fell in love with his own beauty. But what are you trying to say?”
“It is foolish for any man to talk to you about marriage. You are like Narcissus. You are unable to love anyone. You are completely absorbed in your own pleasure, collecting meaningless objects, and, most of all, your looks.”
“Harrison, do you really believe the cruel things you are saying about me?”
“I’ve come to know you too well, Bettie.”
“I won’t listen to this. You are hateful!” And with her chin stubbornly tilted upward and eyes straight ahead, she began playing the piano.
The man paced back and forth for a few minutes with an angry look on his face. And then he was gone. There was a crashing chord as the woman struck the keys violently. She dropped her head on her arms on the piano, and O’Donohoe heard her sobbing.
He was about to leave as quietly as possible when the lady wiped her eyes, arose from the piano bench, and looked in his direction. For a moment he almost panicked and ran, for he thought a sound had betrayed him. She walked over toward some shelves filled with art objects. What an unusual dress she was wearing, O’Donohoe thought, but how it became her. It must be a costume out of the 1800s. Now she was not far from where he was concealed behind a Chinese screen. Standing in front of the shelves, with her back to him, she reached up with her right hand and, taking something off the shelf, held it in front of her. What in heaven’s name was she looking at? She turned around, and once more he was struck by her beauty.
She held an exquisite fan in her hands.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest one of all . . .” she began to recite in low, melodic tones. With the fan beside her own lovely face, she stared into the mirror.
The fan fell from her hand. Even as O’Donohoe gazed, fascinated, her lovely face seemed to fade, and then to disappear.
By morning the experience seemed more like a dream to O’Donohoe. The regular caretaker, Ross, returned early and stopped by the villa for a few minutes. When he eventually came to the carriage house, he was filled with excitement.
“Terry, you won’t be able to believe it, but early this morning a valuable fan was taken from Miss Bettie’s collection, and it was found on the floor. Can you imagine that?”
“No.”
“Someone must have a strange sense of humor.”
“I suppose so.”
“The cleaning lady found it when she was vacuuming this morning. Didn’t you hear her call?”
“No. I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Terry, why do you have such a strange expression on your face? You look as if you aren’t telling me everything. If something happened last night over at the villa, you need to say so, because I’m responsible.”
“Responsible?”
“Yes, responsible. I’m responsible for Miss Bettie’s house. Now tell me what happened.”
Terry told him how he had woken up when he heard the storm and the dog barking, how he thought someone was breaking into the mansion, and how, still not sure but that it might be burglars, he had cautiously entered the house and seen the couple in the Gold Room. When he got to the part about Miss Bettie carrying the fan over to the mirror, his voice began to tremble. Ross was greatly excited.
“What did you think of her? Isn’t she gorgeous? How did she look when you saw her last night?”
“Golden hair on top of her head, tall, great figure.”
“She’s a real beauty, all right. There’s not a woman alive who can match Miss Bettie.”
“Don, there isn’t any way I would check on that house again at night. It’s haunted, and by more than one ghost. There was a man, dark, handsome . . .”
Ross interrupted in some agitation. “And did she seem to care for him?”
“Great heavens, man. How should I know? We’re talking about a ghost, don’t you understand?”
But Don Ross didn’t really seem to be listening. He was examining his face intently in the mirror. Then he searched the dark, curly hair and beard for gray. “How strange he is,” thought O’Donohoe, as he watched him. He had just met Ross a few weeks ago. Maybe after he had known him longer . . . but O’Donohoe wasn’t really sure he wanted to.
“I don’t think we need to mention anything about your experience in the villa.” Ross patted him on the shoulder. “It will be our secret,” he said as O’Donohoe left.
Ross looked at his watch. One o’clock in the afternoon, and he was already eager for the time to pass. He knew that if the dog barked, he would go. Suppose she was only a vision. She was the most beautiful, romantic-looking woman he had ever seen. He would never leave her.
Ashton Villa and nearby historic buildings attract tourists the year around. The villa is not open for public tours but is available for rental. Visit www.galvestonhistory.org/attractions/architectural-heritage/ashton-villa or call the Galveston Historical Foundation at (409) 765-3402.
Historic preservation and the lure of the Gulf Coast have made Galveston as glamorous a place today as it was in the late 1800s, when Miss Bettie lived in the villa.
THE NORTH ROOM
RED BROOK INN, OLD MYSTIC, CONNECTICUT
THE CRARY HOMESTEAD, MYSTIC, CT
There will always be houses that we pass on the road and say to ourselves, if I had a real home to go back to it would look like that and the presences of some of the people who once lived in that house would still be there. They would watch over me. The two brothers were about to stay in that sort of place.
Historic Haley Tavern circa 1740, and the Crary Homestead, built about thirty years later, are nestled on seven acres of wooded countryside on a hillside overlooking Route 184 and Welles Road. Albert Clodig and his brother, John, drove through the wooded New England countryside on a road just outside of Mystic. “That’s the Crary house,” said Albert. “I was drawn to it from the moment I saw its picture.” A winding drive led up to the large center chimney farmhouse. It was a warm New England red, set back from the road on pastureland enclosed by stone walls.
“When was the Crary Homestead built?” asked John.
“In 1756, during the day of the adventurer Aaron Burr in this country. But with your love of music, you will probably say to yourself, ‘Ah, I shall be sleeping in a house built the same year the great Austrian composer, Mozart, was born.’”
“I shall do just that when we are warmer,” agreed Albert, “for I find this weather quite cold for March and am looking forward to a blazing fire within.”
“And bread and pie baked in a brick oven,” said John. “Did I mention that?”
“We are so glad to see you,” said Ms. Keyes. She turned to Verne Sasek, her late husband, and asked, “Would you take them up to the North Room, dear?”
“I’m eager to see Mystic and look forward to our two days here before my concert in Manhattan,” said John. A professional organist, he was on his way to the city to give a recital at St. Thomas Church but Albert had prevailed upon him to visit Mystic instead of going directly to New York. “You tell me this place is unique,” said John. “Well, I know I don’t take enough time to enjoy my life,” he admitted. “Often I simply go from one place to another, never experiencing what the places I’m in are really like.”
This experience in itself, will be different, he thought as he entered the Crary house.
A large fireplace cast an amber glow over the room as they entered. Looking around him he thought of old paintings he had seen. There were stenciled floors and iron doo
r latches. Period furniture and lighting devices and New England glass and pewter all captured the spirit of a bygone day. How the rooms of the past had corners filled with dark, somber shadows that both surrounded the people and added dimension to them.
“And when do you cook over the embers on the hearth?” John asked Ms. Keyes.
“Usually during the holiday season,” she replied. “You must come back to visit us.”
“I shall,” he said, staring into the flames. “But now we must retire; Albert and I have much to tour tomorrow. The Mystic Seaport Museum, an aquarium, and historic houses that belonged to some early sea captains.” The Clodigs went to their room. There were toilet articles on a washstand and bureau common in the late 1800s, and a large four-poster bed with a thick down mattress stood beside a narrow slate blue door.
Since the March night was unseasonably cold, the Clodigs had requested that a fire be lit in their bedroom. Watching the hypnotic flicker of the orange flames, they soon nodded over their reading and fell asleep. Albert says he does not believe in ghosts but he recalls that cold Thursday night well. Sometime just after midnight he suddenly woke to see a figure standing in the corner of the room.
“Looking straight in that direction, I saw a woman with white hair and a dark shawl wrapped around her standing in the corner staring at us. For some odd reason, I just thought she belonged there.”
The way he described the apparition was to call it “a pleasantry.” “I didn’t really think of it as a ghost,” he said. For a few minutes the woman stood there, her hands folded in front of her, calmly gazing toward the bed. Then she disappeared. When Albert Clodig looked over at his brother, he saw that he was still asleep, so he did not wake him, but it was more than an hour before he went back to sleep himself. Nor was Albert the only guest to see this mysterious lady, whose clothing and demeanor give the impression of a lady from the past.
Ms. Keyes herself has felt the presence of this person in the North Room. She describes one occasion when she and her daughter were unpacking boxes upstairs and she had the distinct feeling that a third person was there in the room with them.
“My daughter looked up and said, ‘Mother, I don’t think we are alone in here.’ I didn’t think we were either, but I was reluctant to admit it. More than one guest who stayed in the North Room has come to breakfast and told us that we have a presence in there, but no one has ever been frightened. In fact, a gentleman said, ‘You have a friendly spirit in that room I slept in,’ and then he sat down before the crackling fire and, unperturbed, he devoured a hearty country breakfast!
“None of the supernatural events, however, quite surpass a memorable birthday party I held here. The sea captain whom I bought the house from was getting ready to remarry,” says Ruth Keyes. “His wife had died after a three-month illness—throat cancer—and eight months later he married his wife’s best friend, who was also widowed. She did not want to live in the Crary Homestead, so he sold it to me and he moved into his second wife’s home.”
Ms. Keyes made the historic Crary Homestead part of her B&B complex, redecorating a suite of rooms for reunions, wedding receptions, and other private functions. About five years after his second marriage, the former owner was about to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday and, aware of his affection for his home of many years, his wife called Ruth Keyes. She said that it was her desire to celebrate the occasion with a birthday party for him at the Crary Homestead.
“We made an appointment for her to come over so that we might plan the party, and I left the Haley Tavern to go with her to the Crary Homestead,” says Ruth. “She wanted to plan the arrangement of the buffet, the bar, and the room for the cake and gifts. But the moment we opened the front door there was a terrible odor . . . like dead meat. It permeated the whole house. ‘It wasn’t there this morning when I left,’ I said in consternation. My own living quarters were in the house and there had been no odor earlier.
“I immediately asked my handyman to go check it. He came up to the tavern later that day and said, ‘Ms. Keyes, there isn’t any odor there!’ About a week afterward the lady came back so that we might discuss the final details about the food for the buffet dinner, the number of bartenders, and when the cake would be delivered. Once more the dreadful odor greeted us!
“I hope it doesn’t smell like this when the guests arrive,” the lady said nervously.
“That night I watched an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. The subject was supernatural odors. The odor accompanying the story was described as resembling the ‘odor of dead meat.’ When I told some friends they said, ‘Ah, that’s the ghost of his first wife! She doesn’t want the second wife there.’ Now I really began to worry. The birthday celebrant was very distinguished and the party guests included a banker, a state senator, and important people from the Mystic Seaport Museum. I could just imagine the good name of the Crary Homestead being ruined by a ghost that smelled worse than a dozen dead skunks!
“On the night of the party the wife set out with her unsuspecting husband for a destination he thought was to be his favorite restaurant. It was located on the same road as we are. Meanwhile everyone was gathering here to honor him at the Crary Homestead. It was almost time for the guest of honor to arrive and fifty or sixty people were here. Now the couple came in, and, to his delighted surprise, he was surrounded by the smiling faces of his friends. All was well.
“Meanwhile, a friend of mine went through the back room to go outside to have a cigarette. The second wife came back to check on things; he saw her through the window. After finishing his cigarette my gentleman friend walked through the same room and experienced an almost electric jolt of horror. The nauseous odor was back! My friend is a scientist, the head of the biology department at a well-known university and not known for imagining things. He hurriedly aired the room and went back to join the guests. That disaster had been averted by another that was on the way,” says Ruth Keyes, continuing her story.
“The presents had been opened, and it was time to cut the birthday cake. It was made by a person in town famed for baking excellent cakes. It was his favorite, a lovely, moist carrot cake. Everyone stood in a circle, offering birthday toasts, and waited for his wife to cut it. As she tried to cut the first slice, the entire cake fell apart. Underneath the icing was nothing but a pile of crumbs!”
A sweet revenge?
It would seem that the spirit of the first wife prevailed at last!
Red Brook Inn is a short drive from Old Mystic attractions such as the Mystic Seaport Museum, the Marinelife Aquarium, the Nautilus Memorial, historic sea captains’ homes, and two large casinos. It has since been closed to visitors, but anyone is free to drive by the historic red Colonial rimmed by stone walls; it is located at 2800 Gold Star Highway; Mystic, Connecticut 06355.
THE GOVERNOR’S HAUNTED MANSION
WOODBURN, DOVER, DELAWARE
Woodburn, the Delaware Governor’s House, is home to three ghosts.
When Governor Charles L. Terry of Delaware selected as an executive mansion an eighteenth-century Dover house, it appealed to him and his wife as a stately, serene old home. It was also one of the finest examples of Federal architecture in America. Woodburn was built in 1790 by John Hillyard on a tract given to his great-grandfather by William Penn. The brick is a soft, mellow mauve; the windows are large, and the fanlight over the front door sparkles in the sunlight. It is surrounded by tall pines and trim English boxwoods.
Governor Terry did not concern himself with stories that the house was haunted. But there is at least one person who forever believed in the apparitions of Woodburn and in the ghost stories—especially the one about the hanging of a slave-catcher. In his seventies when speaking with the author, Albert Pennington Cooper was one of the craftsmen who performed restorative work on the 205-year-old mansion.
One October afternoon, when he and his helper, Troy, were almost ready to leave, a storm came up suddenly.
Here is how Cooper told the story.
On
e moment we had plenty of light, but within the half hour it was as dark outside as if it were night. The wind was blowing so fiercely and the branches waving so violently, I thought some of those big trees were going to go. Then rain came down so hard and so heavy that for a while, it was pelting the house like buckshot.
We didn’t know whether a tornado was going by or just a bad storm. We would have been drenched if we had tried to make a run for the trucks. So Troy and I sat down inside to wait for it to pass over. The next thing we knew, there was the sound of voices. Strong vibrations shook the whole house. You might have thought that it was from the storm, but when Troy and I looked at each other, I knew he didn’t think the racket was wind or rain. Neither did I. It was like an angry undertone of voices, and above it I heard a shriller sound, more like a woman screaming than a man shouting.
“Troy, I’m going to find out what’s in that basement,” I said. I started down the stairs with my flashlight aimed ahead of me. The noise grew louder. Right behind me came Troy, with a hammer in his hand. Whatever was down there, he was ready for it. At that moment the voices suddenly became quieter, and we began to hear the sound of hurrying footsteps from below.
When we reached the basement, it was brighter than I had expected. In fact, I dropped the flashlight to my side, for we didn’t need the light. What could be illuminating the basement so I don’t know. Strange figures moved in the room. Have you ever seen cloud forms that resemble people? We all have, but not like these.
I wondered if Troy saw them, too. “What do you see, Troy?” I whispered, and I don’t know why I whispered except that all around me, everything was now dead silence. The forms were shifting expressively, and at the same time, they were becoming more distinct. They were taking on the substance and shape of men and women!
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