The World of Lore

by Aaron Mahnke

  That wasn’t all McMillin would build, though. He was far from done.

  John S. McMillin was an uncommon man. He was born in 1855 and attended DePauw University in Indiana back when it was called Asbury University. There he joined the Sigma Chi fraternity and helped guide the young organization to form a Grand Council and Executive Committee at the national level. As a result, he was elected the very first Sigma Chi Grand Consul. In addition to his fraternity connections, McMillin was a Freemason, reaching the thirty-second degree (out of thirty-three). He was prominent in business and politics, and even counted as a friend Teddy Roosevelt, who frequently visited and stayed in the hotel.

  McMillin had four children, and nearly the entire family considered themselves devout Methodists. Only one child, they say, left the family faith, and in doing so he might very well have locked himself out of the McMillin story forever.

  You see, all of those worlds of interest, as different from one another as they were, coexisted inside the mind of John McMillin. So when the time came to plan an eternal resting place for him and his family, each element had influence on those designs. The result, as you might have guessed, was the eerie stone edifice located deep in the forest.

  THE MAUSOLEUM

  The structure really is a thing to behold. Once you’ve read about it, you’ll want to visit some websites to see the true beauty of what McMillin built.

  When it was first constructed, the forest around it was far less thickly wooded, and visitors could see Afterglow Beach off to the northwest, perhaps giving the structure its name. It was designed to be a tholos, a circular Mycenaean temple, and was crafted from local limestone and cement.

  But what’s really fascinating is the large number of secret messages and hidden meanings that were built into the structure, some relating to the Knights Templar, and others reflecting McMillin’s values as a Methodist and a Mason. For example, approaching the mausoleum requires traveling up three separate sets of stairs, and each set has its own meaning. There are three steps in the first flight of stairs, and they are said to represent the three ages of man. The second set contains five steps, representing the five senses. And the third set contains seven steps, which stand for the seven liberal arts and sciences.

  Around the table are seven pillars that hold up the arches above. Oddly, one of the seven pillars is broken—the westernmost one—but it was intentional. Only a small portion can be seen on the base and protruding from the archway above. This break is said to be a reminder that death never lets us finish our work.

  There’s room around the table for seven chairs, but the spot that should hold the seventh—closest to the broken pillar, in fact—is missing. Some say it was never there to begin with, and that it’s meant to represent the son who walked away from McMillin’s Methodist faith.

  Depending on who you are, if eternity is a gathering at the table, not finding a seat with your family would be a ruthless punishment indeed.

  HAUNTINGS

  These are all fantastic architectural details, but what can’t be documented in any photograph of the mausoleum is the long list of reported sightings, all of which started sometime in the mid-1950s.

  The mausoleum was built with no dome on top, although the plan had originally been to construct one. The dome would have been expensive, amounting to about 40 percent of the total budget, and so it was scrapped near the end to save cash. Even still, visitors on rainy days have frequently reported that they feel no rain on them while inside the ring of stone pillars. Some people have spoken of cold spots near the table, while others have heard voices, even when no one else was around.

  Those daring enough to actually sit on one of the chairs—keeping in mind that they are tiny little tombs containing the remains of the McMillin family—say that they felt very uneasy doing so, and more than one person has reported the sensation of hands pushing them off.

  A frequent account is of seeing strange lights at night, including blue lights that seem to hover above the chairs. Some visitors have also reported seeing the members of the McMillin family themselves on nights with a full moon, seated around the table laughing and talking.

  The mausoleum isn’t the only place with uncanny activity, though.

  Originally John McMillin built the family home right beside the Hotel de Haro, and his longtime secretary, Ada Beane, had a cottage on the other side of the hotel. Later, the Roche Hotel was built around the old hotel, and the other buildings were combined into the structure. Beane’s cottage, for example, became the current dining room and hotel gift shop.

  That hotel restaurant has been the focus of quite a bit of the odd activity. The resort’s restaurant manager has reported that on more than one occasion he has closed up shop, turned off the lights, and headed for the door, only to look back over his shoulder and see that a candle on one of the tables had reignited. When he walked back in and blew it out, all of the kitchen hood fans turned on at once.

  Other appliances have been known to turn on as well. Employees over the years have reported stoves, blenders, and toasters switching themselves on and off. The storeroom door has been known to open and close by itself. Furniture in the back room has even been found rearranged in the morning with no explanation.

  The gift shop, located in another part of the old cottage, has also been home to spooky activity. One former employee once watched as several glass shelves cracked and shattered one by one, all without anyone touching them.

  In the hotel itself, there are rumors of ghosts. The second floor is reported to be haunted by what has been described as a middle-aged woman wearing a long dress. Employees have told the owners that they frequently hear the sound of rustling clothing in rooms where no one else should be.

  Is it the ghost woman’s dress they hear?

  LEFTOVERS

  It’s funny how the people who live around us have a way of making an impression on us. We feel them when they’re here, like the gravitational pull of another planet, but sometimes we even feel them when they’re gone. After their death they leave behind memories, treasured gifts or belongings, or perhaps a worn spot on a favorite piece of furniture.

  Ghosts are a concept almost as old as time. The people we love are here for a while, and then they’re gone, and humans have always struggled to understand what happens to them after death. Maybe ghost stories are a way for us to grapple with our own loneliness and loss. Perhaps they’re our way of bolstering ourselves against our own impending death. We must go somewhere, right? Are we ready? Will we be forgotten?

  John McMillin believed with all his heart that his life needed to be remembered, and that his body and those of his family deserved a resting place equal to their position in life. The Afterglow Vista stands as proof of one man’s faith in something beyond the veil.

  And that light over the limestone seats that some people report having seen since the 1950s? Well, it turns out there just might be an explanation, depending on what you’re willing to believe.

  Remember how the building that houses the hotel’s gift shop and dining room used to be the home of Ada Beane, McMillin’s longtime secretary? Along with being a key figure in the day-to-day business of the company, she also helped as a governess to the McMillin children. She was practically part of the family.

  So when Beane died before McMillin, it was obviously an emotional loss. Rumors persist to this day that her death was suicide, but official records list nothing more than natural causes. Regardless, the family lost someone dear when she passed away.

  After her death, her body was cremated and the ashes placed in a mason jar, and that jar somehow made it onto the mantel in the office of Paul McMillin, John’s youngest son. It wasn’t until the mid-1950s that the resort manager learned from Paul—still alive and working for the company—that she was there. And that’s when they moved her.

  Where did they take her remains? Why, to join the others. Her ashes were added to the copper urn in one of the seats around the stone table in the mausoleum,
putting her back where she belongs, among friends as dear to her as family.

  But Beane might not have been too pleased about that decision. Perhaps, after looking over the family and estate for all those years, being moved to the cold, dark tomb didn’t settle well with her. It was only after the move that people began to see lights and hear voices there. At the same time, the pranks and unusual activity started up inside the hotel.

  Coincidence? Or the actions of an upset woman who would rather spend her eternity away from the tourists and cold rain of the Afterglow Vista?

  Can you blame her?

  HOME SWEET HOME.

  For most of us, those words are about as true as they get. The place we call home can easily become the center of our universe and is often the source of our feelings of security and peace. Most people who tell you stories about their childhood home do so with wide eyes and a wistful smile. Home is, as they say, where the heart is.

  Our home is the place where we experience life. We fill each room with our laughter. We chase our passions. We make plans for the future. You might remember holidays in the living room, or breakfast conversations, or exploring the attic on a winter day. These homes—in one sense nothing more than buildings that we dwell in—somehow become a part of us.

  But life isn’t always roses and laughter. Sometimes the things we experience are difficult, or painful, or both. Sometimes people do things that leave a lasting mark, like an echo that carries on through the years. And on occasion these dark moments are even experienced within our home.

  From Macbeth to American Horror Story, from the work of Shirley Jackson to that of Stephen King, it has been made abundantly clear just how much power a home can have over our lives. Maybe it’s the tragedy or the memories. Maybe it’s the dark acts committed in the shadows. Or maybe it’s the secrets, both metaphorical and literal, buried beneath the foundation. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t take a popular novelist or even a historian to point out the simple truth: there’s no place like home.

  And considering what’s been known to happen there, that might be a good thing.

  ABOVE AND BELOW

  When Christopher and Elizabeth Crawley built their home in the New South Wales town of Junee, in southeastern Australia, they envisioned a normal, happy future for themselves. Christopher had caught wind of the impending construction of the Great Southern Railway Line through Junee, and so he’d erected the Railway Hotel across from the station. And it paid off.

  In 1884, they finished construction on their home, which they called the Monte Cristo. It wasn’t a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it did have nine rooms, a stable for his prized racehorse, a dairy barn, and a separate ballroom—although that eventually became the servants’ quarters.

  But life wasn’t idyllic for the Crawley family. While carrying one of the little Crawley girls, their nanny dropped her down the stairs, and she died from the injuries she sustained. The nanny claimed that an unseen force had reached out and knocked the child from her arms. Whatever the cause, the Crawleys had to go through the ordeal of burying a child—something no parent should have to endure.

  In 1910, Mr. Crawley’s starched shirt collars began to rub the skin on his neck raw. The abscess became gangrenous, and in December of that year he died as a result of a heart attack, brought on, they say, by the wound.

  After her husband’s death, Elizabeth—already known to be a harsh, disciplined woman—went into a state of mourning that lasted the rest of her life. She converted one of the upstairs rooms into a chapel and spent much of her time there. According to local lore, she left the house on only two occasions before her death in 1933.

  Other tragedies found their way into Monte Cristo. A pregnant maid committed suicide by jumping from the top story of the house. She bled to death on the front steps. Morris, the stable boy, burned to death in a fire. And in 1961, the caretaker of the house was shot and killed by a local who had been inspired by the recent Hitchcock film Psycho.

  Today, many young children feel anxious near the stairs. A dark stain has been seen on the front steps of the house, but it seems to fade in and out of view over time. The figure of a young woman in a white gown has been witnessed passing before the windows of the front balcony, and some believe it’s the spirit of the pregnant maid, repeating her final moments over and over. Others claim to have seen a young boy wandering around near the site of the coach house.

  A few visitors to the house have encountered the figure of an older man in the upstairs hallway, and most have assumed it to be Mr. Crawley. But it’s his wife, Elizabeth, who is most commonly seen, almost as if she hasn’t fully let go of her home yet. She has been reported to appear in the dining room, where she has ordered people to leave the room. Others have seen her ghostly figure in the chapel upstairs, dressed in black as if in mourning for a lost loved one.

  Across the world in the state of Kentucky, another home became the scene of tragedy and pain. The names have slipped from history, but in Allen County, one of the families living there in the early 1860s owned a number of slaves. According to the local stories, most of the slaves lived in their own quarters on the property, but the husband kept chains in the basement of the family home for times when he wanted to discipline one or two.

  When the Civil War broke out, word began to spread among the slaves of the South that it would be better to escape and run north, and so plans were made in the slave quarters over many weeks. Finally the night came, and the entire group of slaves left the homestead and headed north. All of them, that is, except for the two still chained up in the basement of their owner’s home.

  Whether because he heard the noise of their escape or because he was out on his usual evening rounds, the man soon discovered that his slaves were gone. The stories describe how he spent hours that night on horseback with his gun, riding north and looking for his runaway slaves. But they were never discovered.

  Instead, the man returned home empty-handed and full of rage. Fueled by his anger, he descended into the basement, where he shot and killed both captive men, and later he buried the bodies there in the cellar. Months later, the man was called into service with the Confederate Army, and he died in battle.

  His widow never opened the cellar door again. In fact, even though it was in the middle of the house, she had it boarded up. There’s a lot of symbolism in that single action, if you’re looking for that sort of thing. I think she just wanted to make sure no one ever found the bodies her husband had buried beneath the dirt floor down there.

  Years later, when she fell ill and passed away, the house was sold to distant relatives. When the new family began to move in, they opened the cellar and discovered that it reeked with a powerful odor. They vented the space and cleaned it as best they could, but the smell never went away.

  It wasn’t long before their children began to tell them about hearing sounds at night that seemed to come from the cellar. The parents dismissed it as childhood fantasies, but the stories continued.

  One night, many months later, the husband and wife were both pulled from sleep by strange sounds. She stayed in bed, while he went down to investigate. From their room she heard a loud cry and then a crash. She leapt out of bed and ran to the cellar door. Opening it, she found her husband lying dead on the dirt floor at the bottom of the cellar stairs, his neck broken and twisted.

  There are many stories like these, but they all teach the same bitter lesson: sometimes our homes attract tragedy. Sometimes we create it ourselves.

  FAMILY TIES

  When Daniel Benton built his small red cape-style home in Tolland, Connecticut, I doubt he imagined it would still be standing today. It’s not enormous like some of the plantation homes one might find in the South, but for a house built in 1720, it was comfortable. And in complete contrast to our modern, mobile life in the twenty-first century, it stayed in the Benton family until 1932. That’s more than 210 years, for those of you who are counting, and that’s a very long time.

&nbs
p; The family grew, and by the 1770s, Daniel Benton had three grown grandsons who lived in the house with him. One of them, Elisha, had taken an interest in a young woman in town named Jemima Barrows. She was the daughter of a cabinetmaker, and in a social station below that of the Bentons, and so Elisha’s family looked down on the romance. They did everything they could to discourage them, but Elisha and Jemima were stubborn.

  In 1775, an alarm was raised in Lexington, Massachusetts, that was heard across the countryside thanks to riders like Paul Revere. Colonists from all across New England came to join the fight, and among them were the three Benton grandchildren. While Daniel Benton was sad to see his grandchildren go off to war, he felt some relief, too, knowing that the separation just might be the thing Elisha needed to take his mind off the young woman. It is thought by historians that Daniel hoped the war might bring an end to their relationship forever. He was only partly right.

  A year later, in 1776, all three of the Benton brothers were captured by British forces and taken to Long Island, where they were imprisoned on ships in Wallabout Bay, now home to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. These prison ships were notorious for their unsanitary conditions and the diseases that ran wild among the inmates. It was even thought that the British soldiers working the ships actually handed out food and bedding that was contaminated with smallpox.