by Hans Holzer
Where was your home before, I asked.
“Lived close by,” she answered, and as if to impress upon us again her identity, added—“Bullock!”
Throughout the séance, the ghost had spoken with a strong Irish brogue. The medium’s background is not Irish, and I have a fine ear for authenticity of language, perhaps because I speak seven of them, and can recognize many more. This was not the kind of brogue a clever actor puts on. This was a real one.
As the entranced medium served the cause of Mrs. Bullock, I was reminded of the time I first heard the tape recordings of what became later known as Bridie Murphy. I remember the evening when the author of The Search for Bridie Murphy, Morey Bernstein, let me and a small group of fellow researchers in on an exciting case he had recently been working on. The voice on the tape, too, had an authentic Irish brogue, and a flavor no actor, no matter how brilliant, could fully imitate!
Now the medium seemed limp—as the ghost of Elizabeth Bullock withdrew. A moment later, Mrs. Meyers awoke, none the worse for having been the link between two worlds.
After the séance, I suggested to Mrs. Slatin that the can containing the ashes be buried in her garden, beneath the tree I saw through the back window. But Mrs. Slatin wasn’t sure. She felt that her ghost was just as happy to stay on the piano.
I then turned my attention to Mrs. Slatin herself, since she admitted to being psychic. A gifted painter, Yeffe Kimball knew that Mrs. Meyers had made the right contact when she heard her describe the little lady with the limp at the beginning of the séance; she herself had often “seen” the ghost with her “psychic eye,” and had developed a friendship for her. It was not an unhappy ghost, she contended, and particularly now that her secret was out—why deprive Elizabeth Bullock of “her family”? Why indeed?
The house is still there on Bank Street, and the can of ashes still graces the piano. Whether the E. C. Bullock who called on the Slatins in 1957 was the Eddie whom the ghost claimed as her son, I can’t tell. My efforts to locate him in California proved as fruitless as the earlier attempts to locate any other kin.
So the Slatins continue to live happily in their lovely, quiet house in the Village, with Elizabeth Bullock as their star boarder. Though I doubt the census taker will want to register her.
* 35
The Whistling Ghost
ONE OF MY DEAR FRIENDS is the celebrated clairvoyant Florence Sternfels of Edgewater, New Jersey, a lady who has assisted many a police department in the apprehension of criminals or lost persons. Her real ambition, however, was to assist serious scientists to find out what makes her “different,” where that power she has—“the forces,” as she calls them—comes from. Many times in the past she had volunteered her time to sit with investigators, something few professional mediums will do.
I had not seen Florence in over a year when one day the telephone rang, and her slightly creaky voice wished me a cheery hello. It seemed that a highly respected psychiatrist in nearby Croton, New York, had decided to experiment with Florence’s psychic powers. Would I come along? She wanted me there to make sure “everything was on the up-and-up.” I agreed to come, and the following day Dr. Kahn himself called me, and arrangements were made for a young couple, the Hendersons, to pick me up in their car and drive me out to Croton.
When we arrived at the sumptuous Kahn house near the Hudson River, some thirty persons, mostly neighbors and friends of the doctor’s, had already assembled. None of them was known to Florence, of course, and few knew anything about the purpose of her visit. But the doctor was such a well-known community leader and teacher that they had come in great expectation.
The house was a remodeled older house, with an upstairs and a large garden going all the way down to the river.
Florence did not disappoint the good doctor. Seated at the head of an oval, next to me, she rapidly called out facts and names about people in the room, their relatives and friends, deceased or otherwise, and found quick response and acknowledgment. Startling information, like “a five-year-old child has died, and the mother, who is paralyzed in the legs, is present.” She certainly was. “Anyone here lost a collie dog?” Yes, someone had, three weeks before. Florence was a big success.
When it was all over, the crowd broke up and I had a chance to talk to our hostess, the doctor’s young wife. She seemed deeply interested in psychic matters, just as was her husband; but while it was strictly a scientific curiosity with Dr. Kahn, his wife seemed to be intuitive and was given to “impressions” herself. “You know, I think we’ve got a ghost,” she said, looking at me as if she had just said the most ordinary thing in the world.
We walked over to a quiet corner, and I asked her what were her reasons for this extraordinary statement—unusual for the wife of a prominent psychiatrist. She assured me it was no hallucination.
“He’s a whistling ghost,” she confided, “always whistling the same song, about four bars of it—a happy tune. I guess he must be a happy ghost!”
“When did all this start?” I asked.
“During the past five years I’ve heard him about twenty times,” Mrs. Kahn replied. “Always the same tune.”
“And your husband, does he hear it, too?”
She shook her head.
“But he hears raps. Usually in our bedroom, and late at night. They always come in threes. My husband hears it, gets up, and asks who is it, but of course there is nobody there, so he gets no answer.
“Last winter, around three in the morning, we were awakened by a heavy knocking sound on the front door. When we got to the door and opened it, there was no one in sight. The path leading up to the road was empty, too, and believe me, no one could have come down that path and not be still visible by the time we got to the door!”
“And the whistling—where do you hear it usually?”
“Always in the living room—here,” Mrs. Kahn replied, pointing at the high-ceilinged, wood-paneled room, with its glass wall facing the garden.
“You see, this living room used to be a stage...the house was once a summer theater, and we reconverted the stage area into this room. Come to think of it, I also heard that whistling in the bedroom that was used by the former owner of the house, the man who built both the theater and the house.”
“What about this man? Who was he?”
“Clifford Harmon. He was murdered by the Nazis during World War II when he got trapped in France. The house is quite old, has many secret passageways—as a matter of fact, only three weeks ago, I dreamed I should enter one of the passages!”
“You dreamed this?” I said. “Did anything ever come of it, though?”
Mrs. Kahn nodded. “The next morning, I decided to do just what I had done in my dream during the night. I entered the passage I had seen myself enter in the dream, and then I came across some musty old photographs.”
I looked at the pictures. They showed various actors of both sexes, in the costumes of an earlier period. Who knows what personal tragedy or joy the people in these photographs had experienced in this very room? I returned the stack of pictures to Mrs. Kahn.
“Are you mediumistic?” I asked Mrs. Kahn. It seemed to me that she was the catalyst in this house.
“Well, perhaps a little. I am certainly clairvoyant. Some time ago, I wrote to my parents in Miami, and for some unknown reason, addressed the letter to 3251 South 23rd Lane. There was no such address as far as I knew, and the letter was returned to me in a few days. Later, my parents wrote to me telling me they had just bought a house at 3251 South 23rd Lane.”
At this point, the doctor joined the conversation, and we talked about Harmon.
“He’s left much unfinished business over here, I’m sure,” the doctor said. “He had big plans for building and improvements of his property, and, of course, there were a number of girls he was interested in.”
I had heard enough. The classic pattern of the haunted house was all there. The ghost, the unfinished business, the willing owners. I offered to hold a “resc
ue circle” type of séance, to make contact with the “whistling ghost.”
We decided to hold the séance on August 3, 1960, and that I would bring along Mrs. Meyers, since this called for a trance medium, while Florence, who had originally brought me to this house, was a clairvoyant and psychometrist. A psychometrist gets “impressions” by holding objects that belong to a certain person.
Again, the transportation was provided by Mrs. Henderson, whose husband could not come along this time. On this occasion there was no curious crowd in the large living room when we arrived. Only the house guests of the Kahns, consisting of a Mr. and Mrs. Bower and their daughter, augmented the circle we formed as soon as the doctor had arrived from a late call. As always, before sliding into trance, Mrs. Meyers gave us her psychic impressions; before going into the full trance it is necessary to make the desired contact.
“Some names, said Mrs. Meyers, “a Robert, a Delia, a Harold, and the name Banks...Oh...and then a Hart.” She seemed unsure of the proper spelling.
At this very moment, both Mrs. Kahn and I distinctly heard the sound of heavy breathing. It seemed to emanate from somewhere above and behind the sitters. “Melish and Goldfarb!” Mrs. Meyers mumbled, getting more and more into a somnambulant state. “That’s strange!” Dr. Kahn interjected. “There was a man named Elish here, some fifteen years ago...and a Mr. Goldwag, recently!”
“Mary...something—Ann,” the medium now said. Later, after the séance, Dr. Kahn told me that Harmon’s private secretary, who had had full charge of the big estate, was a woman named—Mary Brasnahan...
Now Mrs. Meyers described a broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair, who, she said, became gray at a very early age. “He wears a double-breasted, dark blue coat, and has a tiny mustache. His initials are R. H.” Then she added, “I see handwriting...papers...signatures...and there is another, younger man, smaller, with light brown hair—and he is concerned with some papers that belong in files. His initials are J. B. I think the first man is the boss, this one is the clerk.” Then she added suddenly, “Deborah!”
At this point Mrs. Meyers herself pulled back, and said: “I feel a twitch in my arm; apparently this isn’t for publication!” But she continued and described other people whom she “felt” around the house; a Gertrude, for instance, and a bald-headed man with a reddish complexion, rather stout, whom she called B. B. “He has to do with the settlements on Deborah and the other girls.”
Mrs. Meyers knew of course nothing about Harmon’s alleged reputation as a bit of a ladies’ man.
“That’s funny,” she suddenly commented, “I see two women dressed in very old-fashioned clothes, much earlier than their own period.”
I had not mentioned a word to Mrs. Meyers about the theatrical usage which the house had once been put to. Evidently she received the impressions of two actresses.
“Bob...he’s being called by a woman.”
At this point, full trance set in, and the medium’s own personality vanished to allow the ghost to speak to us directly, if he so chose. After a moment Albert, the medium’s control, came and announced that the ghost would speak to us. Then he withdrew, and within seconds a strange face replaced the usual benign expression of Mrs. Meyer’s face. This was a shrewd, yet dignified man. His voice, at first faint, grew in strength as the seconds ticked off.
“So...so it goes... Sing a Song of Sixpence... all over now....”
Excitedly Mrs. Kahn grabbed my arm and whispered into my ear: “That’s the name of the song he always whistled...I couldn’t think of it before.” Through my mind went the words of the old nursery rhyme—
Sing a Song of Sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and Twenty Blackbirds,
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing
Isn’t that a dainty dish
To set before the King?
Like a wartime password, our ghost had identified himself through the medium.
Why did Harmon pick this song as his tune? Perhaps the gay lilt, the carefree air that goes with it, perhaps a sentimental reason. Mrs. Kahn was aglow with excitement.
The communicator then continued to speak: “All right, he won’t come anymore. She isn’t here...when you’re dead, you’re alive.”
I thought it was time to ask a few questions of my own. “Why are you here?”
“Pleasant and unpleasant memories. My own thoughts keep me...happy, loved her. One happiness—he stands in the way. She didn’t get what was hers. Jimmy may get it for her. He stands in the way!”
“Why do you come to this house?”
“To meet with her. It was our meeting place in the flesh. We still commune in spirit though she’s still with you, and I return. We can meet. It is my house. My thought-child.”
What he was trying to say, I thought, is that in her dream state, she has contact with him. Most unusual, even for a ghost! I began to wonder who “she” was. It was worth a try.
“Is her name Deborah?” I ventured. But the reaction was so violent our ghost slipped away. Albert took over the medium and requested that no more painfully personal questions be asked of the ghost. He also explained that our friend was indeed the owner of the house, the other man seen by the medium, his secretary, but the raps the doctor had heard had been caused by another person, the man who is after the owner’s lady love.
Presently the ghost returned, and confirmed this.
“I whistle to call her. He does the rappings, to rob....”
“Is there any unfinished business you want to tell us about?” That should not be too personal, I figured.
“None worth returning for, only love.”
“Is there anything under the house?” I wondered....
“There is a small tunnel, but it is depleted now.” At this, I looked searchingly toward the doctor, who nodded, and later told me that such a tunnel did indeed exist.
“What is your name?”
“Bob. I only whistle and sing for happiness.”
Before I could question him further, the gentleman slipped out again, and once more Albert, the control, took over:
“This man died violently at the hands of a firing squad,” he commented, “near a place he thinks is Austerlitz...but is not sure. As for the estate, the other woman had the larger share.”
There was nothing more after that, so I requested that the séance be concluded.
After the medium had returned to her own body, we discussed the experience, and Dr. Kahn remarked that he was not sure about the name Harmon had used among his friends. It seemed absurd to think that Clifford, his official first name, would not be followed by something more familiar—like, for instance, Bob. But there was no certainty.
“Did the Nazis really kill him?” I asked. There was total silence in the big room now. You could have heard a pin drop, and the Bowers, who had never been to any séances before, just sat there with their hands at their chins, wide-eyed and full of excitement. Albert, through his “instrument,” as he called his medium, took his time to answer me.
“I’m afraid so. But I don’t think it was a firing squad that killed him. He was beaten to death!” I looked with horror at Dr. Kahn, trying to get confirmation, but he only shrugged his shoulders.
Actually, nobody knows exactly how Harmon died, he revealed later. The fact is that the Nazis murdered him during the war. Could he have meant Auschwitz instead of Austerlitz?
I didn’t feel like pursuing the subject any further. With Albert’s assistance, we ended the séance, bringing the medium out of her trance state as quickly as possible.
The lights, which had been subdued during the sitting, were now allowed to be turned back on again. Mrs. Meyers recalled very little of what had transpired, mostly events and phrases at the onset and very end of her trance condition, but nothing that happened in the middle portion, when her trance state was at its deepest.
It was now midnight, and time to return to New
York. As I said good night to my mediumistic friend, I expressed my hope that all would now be quiet at Croton.
This was wishful thinking.
The following morning, Mrs. Kahn telephoned me long distance. Far from being quiet—the manifestations had increased around the house.
“What exactly happened?” I inquired. Mrs. Kahn bubbled over with excitement.
“We went to bed shortly after you left,” she replied, “and all seemed so peaceful. Then, at 3 A.M., suddenly the bedroom lights went on by themselves. There is only one switch. Neither my husband nor I had gotten out of bed to turn on that switch. Nevertheless, when I took a look at the switch, it was turned down, as if by human hands!”
“Amazing,” I conceded.
“Oh, but that isn’t all,” she continued. “Exactly one hour later, at 4 o’clock, the same thing happened again. By the way, do you remember the drapery covering the bedroom wall? There isn’t a door or window nearby. Besides, they were all shut. No possible air current could have moved those draperies. All the same, I saw the draperies move by their own accord, plainly and visibly.”
“I suppose he wants to let you know he’s still there!” I said, rather meekly. Ghosts can be persistent at times. But Mrs. Kahn had more to tell me.
“Our house guest, Mrs. Bower, has the room that used to be Harmon’s bedroom. Well, this morning she was dressing in front of the big closet. Suddenly she saw the door to the room open slowly, and then, with enormous force, pin her into the closet! There was nobody outside the room, of course.”
“Anything else?” I asked quietly.
“Not really. Only, I had a dream last night. It was about a man in a blue suit. You remember Mrs. Meyers saw a man in a blue suit, too. Only with me, he said, ‘Miller.’ Said it several times, to make sure I got it. I also dreamed of a woman in a blue dress, with two small children, who was in danger somehow. But Miller stood out the strongest.”