by Hans Holzer
“Come on, tell me about it.”
“No.”
“How do I know you can do those things?” I said, using the teasing method now. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
A snort came from Sybil’s lips. “Webb of intrigue.”
“What did you say? Would you mind repeating it?”
“Webb, Webb, W-E-B-B.”
“Is that your name?”
“Webb, Webb, Webb.”
“Why are you here?”
“I need friends.”
“Well, you’ve got them.”
“Need friends. I’m lonely. I need to sing.”
“Are you a singer?”
“I sing music; music is good.”
“Why are you in this particular house?”
“I have a right to be here.”
“Tell us why. What does it mean to you?”
“Money, friendship.”
“Whose friendship?”
“Where is Wade? Wade, to drink with. People drive me mad.”
“What is it that troubles you?” I asked, as softly as I could.
“I won’t tell anyone. No help from anyone. There is no help.”
“Trust me.”
“I’ll drink another glass.”
“I’ve come all the way from New York to help you.”
“New York—I’ll go to New York and watch the people, shows, singing.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. Nobody wants people like me.”
“That isn’t true, for I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have the feeling of friendship toward you. Why do you think we’ve come here?”
“Curiosity. There is a reason behind everything. Who are you?”
I explained who I was and that I’d come to try and understand him and if possible set him free from his earthly ties. He had difficulty understanding what I was talking about.
“I want to help you.”
“Late.”
“Please let me help you.”
“Webb.”
“Yes, I heard the name,” I acknowledged.
“It means nothing.”
“I believe there was an actor by that name.”
Sybil started to sob now. “Acting, acting all my life.”
“What about this house: why are you here?”
“I like it.”
“What does it mean to you?”
“What does it mean to me? Lots of money here. Friends. Friends who look after me.”
“Do I know them?”
“A newspaperman; I hate newspapermen. Nosey bastards. Let’s have a drink. Why don’t we have some music?”
“What do you do here all day long?”
“I’m here to drink, look around for a friend or two. I’d like to know a few people. Get some work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Contracts. Contracts must be somehow fulfilled.”
“Contracts with whom?”
“There’s a man called Meadows. Harry Meadows.”
“Do you have a contract with him?”
“No good.”
“What were you supposed to do?”
“Sign away the house.”
“What sort of business is he in?”
“Don’t know what to tell you.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“He came here. Sixty-four.”
“I’d like to help you find peace, Mr. Webb,” I said seriously.
The entity laughed somewhat bitterly. “Mr. Webb.”
“How else would you want me to call you?”
“Mr. Webb—it’s finished.”
“Perhaps I can help you.”
“Who cares, Cathy.”
“Who’s Cathy?”
“Where am I, I am lost.”
I assured the entity that he was not lost but merely speaking through the medium of another person. Webb obviously had no idea that such things as trance mediumship were possible. He was, of course, quite shocked to find himself in the body of Sybil Leek, even temporarily. I calmed him down and again offered to help. What was it that troubled him most?
“I can’t do anything now. I am drunk, I want to sing.”
Patiently I explained what his true status was. What he was experiencing were memories from his past; the future was quite different.
“I want to say a lot, but nobody listens.”
“I am listening.”
“I’m in trouble. Money, drink, Helen,”
“What about Helen?”
“I’m peculiar.”
“That’s your own private affair, and nobody’s criticizing you for being peculiar. Also you are very talented.”
“Yes.” One could tell that he liked the idea of being acclaimed even after his death.
“Now tell me about Helen. Is she in one of your wills?”
“She’s dead, you idiot. I wouldn’t leave anything to a dead woman. She was after my money.”
“What was Helen’s full name?”
“Helen T. Meadows.”
“How old were you on your last birthday?”
“We don’t have birthdays here.”
“Ahah,” I said, “but then you know where you are and what you are.”
“I do,” the entity said, stretching the oo sound with an inimitable comic effect. Anyone who has ever heard Clifton Webb speak on screen or stage would have recognized the sound.
“You know then that you’re over there. Good. Then at least we don’t have to pretend with each other that I don’t know and you don’t know.”
“I’m tired.”
“Was there any other person who knew you and Helen?”
“Cathy, Cathy was a little thing that came around.”
“Was there a male friend you might remember by name?”
There was distrust in Sybil’s voice when the entity answered. “You’re a newspaperman.”
“I’m not here as a journalist but primarily to help you. Does the name Conrad mean anything to you?” I’d been told by friends of the late Clifton Webb to ask this. I myself had no idea who this Conrad was or is.
“Hmmm,” the entity replied, acknowledging the question. “Initial V, V for Victory.” At the same time, Sybil took hold of a chain she used as a belt and made an unmistakable gesture as if she were about to strangle someone with it.
“Who was Conrad? Are you trying to show me something?”
Unexpectedly Sybil broke into sobbing again. “Damn you, leave me alone.”
The sobbing got heavier and heavier. I decided it was time to release the entity. “Go in peace then; go in peace and never be drawn back to this house where you’ve had such unhappy experiences. Go and join the loved ones awaiting you on the other side of life. Good-bye, Mr. Webb. Go in peace. Leave this instrument now and let her return to her own body without any memory of what has come through her entranced lips.”
A few moments later Sybil awoke, startled, rubbing her eyes and trying to figure out where she was for a moment. “I do feel a bit peculiar,” Sybil said, slightly shaken. “Maybe I will have a glass of wine.”
After everyone had recovered from the tense attention given to Sybil’s trance performance, I invited discussion of what had just transpired. Those who had known Clifton Webb in life volunteered the information that at times Sybil’s face had looked somewhat like Webb’s, at least to the extent that a woman’s face can look like a man’s. Her voice, too, had reminded them of the actor’s voice—especially in the middle of the session when the trance seemed to have been deepest. As for the names mentioned, Rupert Allen explained that the “Cathy” Sybil had named was a secretary whom Webb had employed for only a week. Also, the Helen Meadows mentioned was probably Helen Mathews, a long-time secretary and assistant of the late actor. There had been a great deal of discussion about a will in which the assistant figured. Quite possibly, Webb and Miss Mathews had been at odds toward the end of his life. As for his wanting to sing, Rupert Allen reminded us that long before Cl
ifton Webb had become a famous actor he had been one of the top song-and-dance men on Broadway, had appeared in many musicals and musical revues and had always loved the musical theater. The mannerisms and some of the phrases, Mr. Allen confirmed, were very much in the style of Clifton Webb, as was his negative reaction to the idea of having a newspaperman present.
There had been no near relatives living at the time of Webb’s death. Under the circumstances the estate, including the house, would go to whomever he had chosen in his will. Was there a second will that had never been found? Was it this need to show the world that a second will existed that kept Clifton Webb tied to his former home?
After the memorable séance with Sybil Leek, I inquired of the owners from time to time whether all was quiet. For a while it was. But then reports of Mr. Webb’s reappearance reached me. I realized, if course, that the producer’s wife herself, being phychic to a great extent, was supplying some of the energies necessary for Webb to manifest himself in this manner. But I was equally sure that she did not do so consciously. If anything, she wanted a quiet house. But the apparition of Webb and perhaps of Grace Moore, if indeed it was she in the garden, managed to convince Mrs. C. of the reality of psychic phenomena. She no longer feared to discuss her experiences in public. At first her friends looked at her askance, but gradually they came to accept the sincerity and objectivity of her testimony. Others who had never previously mentioned any unusual experiences admitted they had felt chills and uncanny feelings in various parts of the house while visiting the place.
Clifton Webb continues to maintain a foothold in the house, for better or for worse. Perhaps he likes the attention, or perhaps he’s merely looking for that other will. At any rate, he no longer seems to delight in surprising the current owners of the house. After all, they know who he is and what he’s up to. Mr. Webb always knew the value of a good entrance. In time, I am sure, he will also know how to make his exit.
* 31
The Haunted Rocking Chair at Ash Lawn
NOT ONLY HOUSES are haunted, even furniture can be the recipient of ghostly attention. Not very far from Castle Hill, Virginia is one of America’s most important historical buildings, the country home once owned by James Monroe, where he and Thomas Jefferson often exchanged conversation and also may have made some very big political decisions in their time. Today this is a modest appearing cottage, rather than a big manor house, and it is well kept. It may be visited by tourists at certain hours, since it is considered an historical shrine. If any of my readers are in the area and feel like visiting Ash Lawn, I would suggest they do not mention ghosts too openly with the guides or caretakers.
Actually the ghostly goings-on center around a certain wooden rocking chair in the main room. This has been seen to rock without benefit of human hands. I don’t know how many people have actually seen the chair rock, but Mrs. J. Massey, who lived in the area for many years, has said to me when I visited the place, “I will tell anyone and I have no objection to its being known, that I’ve seen not once but time and time again the rocking chair rocking exactly as though someone were in it. My brother John has seen it too. Whenever we touched it it would stop rocking.”
This house, though small and cozy, nevertheless was James Monroe’s favorite house even after he moved to the bigger place which became his stately home later on in his career. At Ash Lawn he could get away from his affairs of state, away from public attention, to discuss matters of great concern with his friend Thomas Jefferson who lived only two miles away at Monticello.
Who is the ghost in the rocking chair? Perhaps it is only a spirit, not an earthbound ghost, a spirit who has become so attached to his former home and refuge from the affairs of state, that he still likes to sit now and then in his own rocking chair thinking things over.
Ash Lawn—Monroe’s cottage in Virginia
The haunted chair at Ash Lawn
* 32
A Visit with Carole Lombard’s Ghost
In 1967 I first heard of a haunted house where the late Carole Lombard had lived. Adriana S. was by vocation a poet and writer, but she made her living in various ways, usually as a housekeeper. In the late forties she had been engaged as such by a motion picture producer of some renown. She supervised the staff, a job she performed very well indeed, being an excellent organizer. Carefully inspecting the house before agreeing to take the position, she had found it one of those quiet elegant houses in the best part of Hollywood that could harbor nothing but good. Confidently, Adriana took the job.
A day or two after her arrival, when she was fast asleep in her room, she found herself aroused in the middle of the night by someone shaking her. Fully awake, she realized that she was being shaken by the shoulder. She sat up in bed, but there was no one to be seen. Even though she could not with her ordinary sight distinguish any human being in the room, her psychic sense told her immediately that there was someone standing next to her bed. Relaxing for a moment and closing her eyes, Adriana tried to tune in on the unseen entity. Immediately she saw, standing next to her bed, a tall, slim woman with blonde hair down to her shoulders. What made the apparition or psychic impression the more upsetting to Adriana was the fact that the woman was bathed in blood and quite obviously suffering.
Adriana realized that she had been contacted by a ghostly entity but could not get herself to accept the reality of the phenomenon, and hopefully ascribed it to an upset stomach, or to the new surroundings and the strains of having just moved in. At the same time, she prayed for the restless one. But six or seven days later the same thing happened again. This time Adriana was able to see the ghost more clearly. She was impressed with the great beauty of the woman she saw and decided to talk about her experience with her employers in the morning. The producer’s wife listened very quietly to the description of the ghostly visitor, then nodded. When Adriana mentioned that the apparition had been wearing a light suit covered with blood, the lady of the house drew back in surprise. It was only then that Adriana learned that the house had once been Carole Lombard’s and that the late movie star had lived in it very happily with Clark Gable. Carole Lombard had died tragically in an airplane accident during World War II, when her plane, en route to the East where she was going to do some USO shows, hit a mountain during a storm. At the time, she was wearing a light-colored suit.
Several years afterward I investigated the house in the company of an actress who is very psychic. It so happened that the house now belonged to her doctor, a lady by the name of Doris A. In trance, my actress friend was able to make contact with the spirit of Carole Lombard. What kept her coming back to the house where she once lived was a feeling of regret for having left Clark Gable, and also the fact that she and Gable had had a quarrel just before her death. Luckily, we were able to pacify the restless spirit, and presumably the house is now peaceful.
* 33
Mrs. Surratt’s Ghost at Fort McNair
Fort McNair is one of the oldest military posts in the United States and has had many other names. First it was known as the Arsenal, then called the Washington Arsenal, and in 1826 a penitentiary was built on its grounds, which was a grim place indeed. Because of disease, President Lincoln ordered the penitentiary closed in 1862, but as soon as Lincoln had been murdered, the penitentiary was back in business again.
Among the conspirators accused of having murdered President Lincoln, the one innocent person was Mrs. Mary Surratt, whose sole crime consisted of having run a boarding house where her son had met with some of the conspirators. But as I have shown in a separate investigation of the boarding house in Clifton, Maryland, her son John Surratt was actually a double-agent, so the irony is even greater. She was the first woman hanged in the United States, and today historians are fully convinced that she was totally innocent. The trial itself was conducted in a most undemocratic manner, and it is clear in retrospect that the conspirators never had a chance. But the real power behind the Lincoln assassination, who might have been one of his own political associates, want
ed to make sure no one was left who knew anything about the plot, and so Mary Surratt had to be sacrificed.
There is a small, ordinary looking building called Building 21 at Fort McNair, not far from what is now a pleasant tennis court. It was in this building that Mary Surratt was imprisoned and to this day sobs are being heard in the early hours of the morning by a number of people being quartered in the building. The penitentiary stands no more and the land itself is now part of the tennis court. Next to Building 21 is an even smaller house, which serves as quarters for a number of officers. When I visited the post a few years ago, the Deputy Post Commander was quartered there. Building 20 contains five apartments, which have been remodeled a few years ago. The ceilings have been lowered, the original wooden floors have been replaced with asbestos tile. Unexplained fires occurred there in the 1960s. The execution of the conspirators, including Mrs. Mary Surratt, took place just a few yards from where Building 21 now stands. The graves of the hanged conspirators were in what is now the tennis court, but the coffins were removed a few years after the trial and there are no longer any bodies in the ground.
Captain X.—and his name must remain secret for obvious reasons—had lived in apartment number 5 for several years prior to my interviewing him. He has not heard the sobbing of Mary Surratt but he has heard a strange sound, like high wind.
However, Captain and Mrs. C. occupied quarters on the third floor of Building 20 for several years until 1972. This building, incidentally, is the only part of the former penitentiary still standing. The C.s’ apartment consisted of the entire third floor and it was on this floor that the conspirators, including John Wilkes Booth, who was already dead, were tried and sentenced to die by hanging. Mary Surratt’s cell was also located on the third floor of the building. Mrs. C. has had ESP experiences before, but she was not quite prepared for what occurred to her when she moved onto the post at Fort McNair.
“My experiences in our apartment at Fort McNair were quite unlike any other I have ever known.
“On several occasions, very late at night, someone could be heard walking above, yet we were on the top floor.” One night the walking became quite heavy, and a window in the room which had been Mrs. Surratt’s cell was continually being rattled, as if someone were trying to get in or out, and there seemed to be a definite presence in the house. This happened in April, as did the trial of the conspirators.