by Hans Holzer
The haunted prison at Fort McNair where Mrs. Surrat was held
I doubt that it would be easy to visit Fort McNair for any except official reasons, such as perhaps an historical investigation. But for better or for worse the building in question is located on the northeast corner of the tennis courts and Fort McNair itself is in Washington, D.C., at the corner of Fourth and P Streets and easy to reach from the center of the city.
CHAPTER SIX
This House is Haunted
PROBABLY NO OTHER word picture has had a more profound influence on people’s imagination than the idea of a truly haunted house. After all, a haunted house is not a home the way people like to think of a home. Sharing it with someone who happens to be dead can be very upsetting, both to the flesh-and-blood inhabitants of the house and the ghost who happens to be stuck in it.
Most people think of a haunted house as something sinister, threatening, and altogether undesirable. In Ireland, calling someone’s house haunted can bring a very substantial lawsuit for defamation of character—of the house’s character, that is. In America, on the other hand, such a reputation, deserved or not, generally enhances the value of the property.
WHAT EXACTLY IS A HAUNTED HOUSE?
It can be a house, apartment, or an abode of any kind where people live, eat, and sleep. What distinguishes a haunted home from all others is the fact that one (or more) of the previous tenants or owners has not quite left the premises, and considers herself or himself fully in residence.
These are neither aliens from afar nor are they monsters but simply folks like you who used to live there, died, and somehow got trapped into not being able to leave for better places—the other side of life, or what religion likes to call Heaven, though there really is no such place in the sense that religion describes it. Even the devil gets short shrift in parapsychology. But the next dimension, a world as real as this one, does exist, and people live in it. These are the people who passed over without problems. Those who experienced some sort of trouble and did not pass over are the ones we call earthbound spirits or ghosts.
With haunted houses, the emphasis, and thus the emotional bond, is the house, not the people living in it. The house can contain either pleasant memories or, more often, traumatic ones, which prevented the transition from occurring at the time of physical death in the first place.
Ghosts may appear or make themselves heard in any spot that had meaning for them when they were living, and particularly during the time of their death. Thus, a ghost does not necessarily need a house in which to manifest. But a truly haunted house does need a ghost or ghosts to qualify for the expression, unless of course we are talking about psychic impressions from the past only. Of this, more later.
* * *
Thanks to movies and television, haunted houses are inevitably portrayed as sinister-looking, dilapidated places, manor houses, castles—anything but a clean, up-to-date apartment on Park Avenue. The truth is that for a haunting to occur, the appearance, age, or nature of the house is totally immaterial, if you will pardon the pun. Thus, there are bona fide haunted houses all over the world, of any age, from ancient castles to recently built skyscrapers, from rural hideaways to modern night clubs.
What they all have in common is the presence of an earthbound spirit, a ghost, unable to break free of the emotional turmoil of his or her physical passing.
Usually there are certain phenomena associated with a haunting, such as cold spots or the “feel” of a human presence, though the presence remains unseen. These phenomena are not manufactured by the resident ghost but are the natural by-products of its presence and owe their impact purely to electromagnetic reactions to the presence of a human being in the etheric body or aura, which is, after all, a strong electromagnetic field itself.
FINALLY, SHOULD YOU BE AFRAID OF GHOSTS?
No, not even if you’re a kid. Be afraid of television programs espousing violence and drugs instead.
Ghosts are so caught up in their own confusion and misery, they are not about to harm you. They are not in the business of frightening people either. But, in certain cases on record, the resident ghost has put in appearances or caused phenomena, with the intent of ridding the house of the new tenants.
Just as some folks call in a “Ghost Hunter” to rid the house of these unwanted pests, the ghosts fight back by making the new tenants feel uncomfortable. After all, they were there first.
Unfortunately, for both house owner or tenant and ghost, there is a terrible lack of knowledge regarding the qualifications a true investigator of the paranormal must have. Charlatans abound, claiming expertise masquerading as curiosity; they “look around” the haunted premises with Geiger counters and electronic instruments such as oscilloscopes and proclaim the presence of ghosts just because their instruments show fluctuations. Real, academically trained parapsychologists don’t do this; they work with trained, reputable sensitive psychics with good track records. Television programs introduce such pseudo-investigators as “renowned parapsychologists,” which they are not. In fact, they have day jobs as waiters and clerks. One particularly obnoxious “investigator” goes around accompanied by his psychic-reader wife, a former priest, and a former police officer—looking for demons and the devil’s hoof prints in haunted houses that would require only the visit of a trained psychical researcher, perhaps with a good trance medium, to resolve the problem.
One needs neither the likes of “demonologists” or “vampyrists” to come to grips with an unwanted haunting. Common sense will prevail when you realize you are faced only with a past event and someone—a human being—in trouble at the time of passing.
People have come to me for counsel and help when they could not understand the nature of their haunting. Frequently, I have visited them, often in the company of a good psychic, and managed to answer many questions.
FEAR IS THE ABSENCE OF INFORMATION
Haunted houses know neither barriers in time nor space, nor distance. Some of these can be visited, at least on the outside, since a road is never (or hardly ever) private. Many, however, are private houses, and it would take a great deal of ingenuity to persuade the owner to let you in. Some sites, like the Queen Mary, or a haunted garden, such as Versailles and Trianon, may charge nominal admission because of their status as tourist attractions, not because they have ghosts “on the payroll.” In some cases, the ghost is gone but an imprint remains, and you might still feel something of it. In other cases, the ghost has never left.
* 34
The Bank Street Ghost
ON JUNE 26, 1957, I picked up a copy of the New York Times, that most unghostly of all newspapers, and soon was reading Meyer Berger’s column, “About New York.” That column wasn’t about houses or people this particular day. It was about ghosts.
Specifically, Mr. Berger gave a vivid description of a house at 11 Bank Street, in Greenwich Village, where a “rather friendly” ghost had apparently settled to share the appointments with the flesh-and-blood occupants. The latter were Dr. Harvey Slatin, an engineer, and his wife, Yeffe Kimball, who is of Osage Indian descent and well known as a painter.
The house in which they lived was then 125 years old, made of red brick, and still in excellent condition.
Digging into the past of their home, the Slatins established that a Mrs. Maccario had run the house as a nineteen-room boarding establishment for years before selling it to them. However, Mrs. Maccario wasn’t of much help when questioned. She knew nothing of her predecessors.
After the Slatins had acquired the house and the other tenants had finally left, they did the house over. The downstairs became one long living room, extending from front to back, and adorned by a fireplace and a number of good paintings and ceramics. In the back part of this room, the Slatins placed a heavy wooden table. The rear door led to a small garden, and a narrow staircase led to the second floor.
The Slatins were essentially “uptown” people, far removed from any Bohemian notions or connotations. What
attracted them about Greenwich Village was essentially its quiet charm and artistic environment. They gathered around them friends of similar inclinations, and many an evening was spent “just sitting around,” enjoying the tranquil mood of the house.
During these quiet moments, they often thought they heard a woman’s footsteps on the staircase, sometimes crossing the upper floors, sometimes a sound like a light hammering. Strangely enough, the sounds were heard more often in the daytime than at night, a habit most unbecoming a traditional haunt. The Slatins were never frightened by this. They simply went to investigate what might have caused the noises, but never found any visible evidence. There was no “rational” explanation for them, either. One Sunday in January of 1957, they decided to clock the noises, and found that the ghostly goings-on lasted all day; during these hours, they would run upstairs to trap the trespasser—only to find empty rooms and corridors. Calling out to the unseen brought no reply, either. An English carpenter by the name of Arthur Brodie was as well adjusted to reality as are the Slatins, but he also heard the footsteps. His explanation that “one hears all sorts of noises in old houses” did not help matters any. Sadie, the maid, heard the noises too, and after an initial period of panic, got accustomed to them as if they were part of the house’s routine—which indeed they were!
One morning in February, Arthur Brodie was working in a room on the top floor, hammering away at the ceiling. He was standing on a stepladder that allowed him to just about touch the ceiling. Suddenly, plaster and dust showered down on his head, and something heavy fell and hit the floor below. Mrs. Slatin in her first-floor bedroom heard the thump. Before she could investigate the source of the loud noise, there was Brodie at her door, saying: “It’s me, Ma’am, Brodie. I’m leaving the job! I’ve found the body!” But he was being facetious. What he actually found was a black-painted metal container about twice the size of a coffee can. On it there was a partially faded label, reading: “The last remains of Elizabeth Bullock, deceased. Cremated January 21, 1931.” The label also bore the imprint of the United States Crematory Company, Ltd., Middle Village, Borough of Queens, New York, and stamped on the top of the can was the number—37251. This can is in the Slatins’ house to this very day.
Mrs. Slatin, whose Indian forebears made her accept the supernatural without undue alarm or even amazement, quietly took the find and called her husband at his office. Together with Brodie, Dr. Slatin searched the hole in the ceiling, but found only dusty rafters.
Curiously, the ceiling that had hidden the container dated back at least to 1880, which was long before Elizabeth Bullock had died. One day, the frail woman crossed Hudson Street, a few blocks from the Slatin residence. A motorist going at full speed saw her too late, and she was run over. Helpful hands carried her to a nearby drugstore, while other by-standers called for an ambulance. But help arrived too late for Mrs. Bullock. She died at the drugstore before any medical help arrived. But strangely enough, when Dr. Slatin looked through the records, he found that Mrs. Bullock had never lived at 11 Bank Street at all!
Still, Mrs. Bullock’s ashes were found in that house. How to explain that? In the crematory’s books, her home address was listed at 113 Perry Street. Dr. Slatin called on Charles Dominick, the undertaker in the case. His place of business had been on West 11th Street, not far from Bank Street. Unfortunately, Mr. Dominick had since died.
The Slatins then tried to locate the woman’s relatives, if any. The trail led nowhere. It was as if the ghost of the deceased wanted to protect her secret. When the search seemed hopeless, the Slatins put the container with Mrs. Bullock’s ashes on the piano in the large living room, feeling somehow that Mrs. Bullock’s ghost might prefer that place of honor to being cooped up in the attic. They got so used to it that even Sadie, the maid, saw nothing extraordinary in dusting it right along with the rest of the furniture and bric-a-brac.
The house of the “Little Old Lady” Ghost on Bank Street
Her ashes after their discovery in the attic
Still, the Slatins hoped that someone would claim the ashes sooner or later. Meanwhile, they considered themselves the custodians of Mrs. Bullock’s last remains. And apparently they had done right by Elizabeth, for the footsteps and disturbing noises stopped abruptly when the can was found and placed on the piano in the living room.
One more strange touch was told by Yeffe Kimball to the late Meyer Berger. It seems that several weeks before the ashes of Mrs. Bullock were discovered, someone rang the doorbell and inquired about rooms. Mrs. Slatin recalls that it was a well-dressed young man, and that she told him they would not be ready for some time, but that she would take his name in order to notify him when they were. The young man left a card, and Mrs. Slatin still recalls vividly the name on it. It was E. C. Bullock. Incidentally, the young man never did return.
It seems odd that Mrs. Slatin was not more nonplussed by the strange coincidence of the Bullock name on the container and card, but, as I have already stated, Mrs. Slatin is quite familiar with the incursions from the nether world that are far more common than most of us would like to think. To her, it seemed something odd, yes, but also something that no doubt would “work itself out.” She was neither disturbed nor elated over the continued presence in her living room of Mrs. Bullock’s ashes. Mrs. Slatin is gifted with psychic talents, and therefore not afraid of the invisible. She takes the unseen visitors as casually as the flesh-and-blood ones, and that is perhaps the natural way to look at it, after all.
Greenwich Village has so many haunted or allegedly haunted houses that a case like the Slatins’ does not necessarily attract too much attention from the local people. Until Meyer Berger’s interview appeared in the Times, not many people outside of the Slatins’ immediate circle of friends knew about the situation.
Mr. Berger, who was an expert on Manhattan folklore, knew the Slatins, and also knew about ghosts. He approached the subject sympathetically, and the Slatins were pleased. They had settled down to living comfortably in their ghost house, and since the noises had stopped, they gave the matter no further thought.
I came across the story in the Times in June of 1957, and immediately decided to follow up on it. I don’t know whether my friend and medium, Mrs. Ethel Meyers, also read the article; it is possible that she did. At any rate, I told her nothing more than that a haunted house existed in the Village and she agreed to come with me to investigate it. I then called the Slatins and, after some delay, managed to arrange for a séance to take place on July 17, 1957, at 9:30 P.M. Present were two friends of the Slatins, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Meyer Berger, the Slatins, Mrs. Meyers, and myself.
Immediately upon entering the house and sitting down at the table, around which we had grouped ourselves, Mrs. Meyers went into trance. Just as she “went under” and was still in that borderline condition where clairvoyance touches true trance, she described the presence of a little woman who walked slowly, being paralysed on one side, and had a heart condition. “She’s Betty,” Mrs. Meyers murmured, as she went under. Now the personality of Betty started to use the vocal apparatus of the medium.
Our medium continued in her trance state: “He didn’t want me in the family plot—my brother—I wasn’t even married in their eyes....But I was married before God...Edward Bullock....I want a Christian burial in the shades of the Cross—any place where the cross is—but not with them!” This was said with so much hatred and emotion that I tried to persuade the departed Betty to desist, or at least to explain her reasons for not wishing to join her family in the cemetery.
“I didn’t marry in the faith,” she said, and mentioned that her brother was Eddie, that they came from Pleasantville, New York, and that her mother’s maiden name was Elizabeth McCuller. “I’m at rest now,” she added in a quieter mood.
How did her ashes come to be found in the attic of a house that she never even lived in? “I went with Eddie,” Betty replied. “There was a family fight...my husband went with Eddie...steal the ashes... pay for no burial...h
e came back and took them from Eddie...hide ashes...Charles knew it...made a roof over the house...ashes came through the roof...so Eddie can’t find them...”
I asked were there any children?
“Eddie and Gracie. Gracie died as a baby, and Eddie now lives in California. Charlie protects me!” she added, referring to her husband.
At this point I asked the departed what was the point of staying on in this house now? Why not go on into the great world beyond, where she belonged? But evidently the ghost didn’t feel that way at all! “I want a cross over my head...have two lives to live now...and I like being with you!” she said, bowing toward Mrs. Slatin. Mrs. Slatin smiled. She didn’t mind in the least having a ghost as a boarder. “What about burial in your family plot?” That would seem the best, I suggested. The ghost became vehement.
“Ma never forgave me. I can never go with her and rest. I don’t care much. When she’s forgiven me, maybe it’ll be all right...only where there’s a green tree cross—and where there’s no more fighting over the bones...I want only to be set free, and there should be peace...I never had anything to do with them.... Just because I loved a man out of the faith, and so they took my bones and fought over them, and then they put them up in this place, and let them smoulder up there, so nobody could touch them...foolish me! When they’re mixed up with the Papal State....”
Did her husband hide the ashes all by himself?
“There was a Peabody, too. He helped him.”
Who cremated her?
“It was Charles’ wish, and it wasn’t Eddie’s and therefore, they quarreled. Charlie was a Presbyterian...and he would have put me in his Church, but I could not offend them all. They put it beyond my reach through the roof; still hot...they stole it from the crematory.”