by Hans Holzer
No longer a scoffer, he talked to others in the building, and was able to add one more episode to the La Farge case. It seems a lady was passing No. 51 one bleak afternoon when she noticed an odd-looking gentleman in opera clothes standing in front of the building. For no reason at all, the woman exclaimed, “My, you’re a funny-looking man!”
The gentleman in the opera cloak looked at her in rage. “Madam—how dare you!”
And with that, he went directly thought the building—the wall of the building, that is!
Passers-by revived the lady.
* * *
Now there is a modern apartment building at 51 West Tenth Street. Is John La Farge still roaming its ugly modern corridors? Last night, I went into the Church of the Ascension, gazed at the marvelous altar painting, and prayed a little that he shouldn’t have to.
* 38 The Hauntings at Seven Oaks
ELEANOR SMALL IS A charming woman in her late forties who dabbles in real estate and business. She comes from a very good family which once had considerable wealth, and is what is loosely termed “social” today. She wasn’t the kind of person one would suspect of having any interest in the supernatural.
One evening, as we were discussing other matters, the conversation got around to ghosts. To my amazement, Eleanor was fascinated by the topic; so much so, that I could not help asking her if by chance she knew of a haunted house somewhere for me to investigate!
“Indeed I do,” was the reply, and this is how I first heard about Seven Oaks. In Mamaroneck, New York, up in posh Westchester County, there stood until very recently a magnificent colonial mansion known as Seven Oaks. Situated near the edge of Long Island Sound, it was one of the show places of the East. Just as did so many fine old mansions, this one gave way to a “development,” and now there are a number of small, insignificant, ugly modern houses dotting the grounds of the large estate.
During the Battle of Orient Point, one of the bloodier engagements of the Revolutionary War, the mansion was British-held, and American soldiers, especially the wounded, were often smuggled out to Long Island Sound via an “underground railway,” passing through the mansion.
“When I was a young girl,” Eleanor said, “I spent many years with my mother and my stepfather at Seven Oaks, which we then owned. I was always fascinated by the many secret passageways which honeycombed the house.”
The entrance was from the library; some books would slide back, and a slender wooden staircase appeared. Gaslight jets had been installed in the nineteenth century to light these old passages. A butler working for Eleanor’s parents stumbled onto them by chance.
“When did you first hear about ghosts?” I asked.
“We moved into the house about June 1932. Right away, a neighbor by the name of Mabel Merker told us that the place was haunted. Of course, we paid no attention to her.”
“Of course.” I nodded wryly.
“But it wasn’t too long before Mother changed her mind about that.”
“You mean she saw the ghost?”
Eleanor nodded. “Regularly, practically every night.” Eleanor’s mother had described her as a woman of about forty-five, with long blond hair and sweet expression on her face. One of these apparitions had its comic aspects, too.
“Mother had her private bathroom, which connected directly with her bedroom. One night, after all doors had been locked and Mother knew there was no one about any more, she retired for the night. Entering the bathroom from her bedroom, she left the connecting door open in the knowledge that her privacy could not possibly be disturbed! Suddenly, looking up, she saw, back in her room, the ghost standing and beckoning to her in the bathroom, as if she wanted to tell her something of utmost urgency. There was such an expression of sadness and frustration on the wraith’s face, Mother could never forget it.”
“But what did she do?” I asked.
“She approached the apparition, but when she got halfway across the room, the ghost just evaporated into thin air.”
“And this was in good light, and the apparition was not shadowy or vaporous?”
“Oh no, it looked just like someone of flesh and blood—until that last moment when she dissolved before Mother’s eyes.”
“Was your mother very upset?”
“Only at first. Later she got used to the idea of having a ghost around. Once she saw her up on the second floor, in the master bedroom. There she was standing in front of the two beds. Mother wondered what she could do to help her, but the ghost again vanished.”
“Did she ever hear her talk or make any kind of noise?” I asked.
“Not talk, but noise—well, at the time Mother moved into the house, the previous owner, Mrs. Warren, still maintained a few things of her own in a closet in the house, and she was in the habit of returning there occasionally to pick some of them up, a few at a time. One evening Mother heard some footsteps, but thought them to be Mrs. Warren’s.
“The next day, however, she found out that no one had been to the house. Our family dog frequently barked loudly and strongly before the fireplace, at something or someone we could not see, but evidently he could.”
“Did anyone else see the ghost?”
“The servants constantly complained of being pulled from their beds, in the servants’ quarters, by unseen hands. It was as if someone wanted their attention, but there never was anyone there when the lights were turned on.”
“She probably wanted to talk to someone, as ghosts often do!” I said. Communication and inability to be heard or seen by the people of flesh and blood is the main agony of a wraith.
“That must be so,” Eleanor nodded, “because there was another incident some years later that seems to confirm it. My stepfather’s son and his seventeen-year-old bride came to live at Seven Oaks. The girl was part Indian, and extremely sensitive. They were given a room on the top floor of the old mansion, with a double bed in the center.
“One night they retired early, and the son was already in bed, while his wife stood nearby in the room. Suddenly, as she looked on with horror, she saw her husband bodily pulled out of bed by unseen hands. His struggle was in vain.
“The next morning, the young couple left Seven Oaks, never to return.”
* 39 The Central Park West Ghost
MRS. M. DALY HOPKINS was a lady of impeccable taste, and gracious surroundings meant a great deal to her and her husband. Consequently, when they decided to look for a new apartment, they directed their steps toward Central Park West, which in the thirties had become one of New York’s more desirable residential areas.
As they were walking up the tree-lined street, they noticed a man in working overalls hanging up a sign on a building, reading “Apartment for Rent.” The man turned out to be the superintendent of one of three identical gray five-story buildings on the corner of 107th Street and Central Park West.
Mrs. Hopkins, who reported her uncanny experiences in a story entitled “Ten Years with a Ghost,”* was overjoyed. The location was perfect; now if only the apartment suited them! With hearts beating a trifle faster, the Hopkinses approached the building.
The apartment for rent was on the top floor, that is, it occupied the southeast corner of the fifth floor of the building, and it contained a total of eight rooms. This seemed ideal to the Hopkinses, who needed plenty of space for themselves, their small son, and his nurse.
It seemed the former tenants had just moved out, after living in the apartment for many years. Most of the people in the building, the superintendent added, had been there a long time. By November of the same year, the Hopkins family was settled in the new apartment.
Nothing unusual happened during the first few weeks of their stay, except that on a number of occasions Mrs. Hopkins heard her housekeeper cry out, as if surprised by someone or something!
Finally, the middle-aged woman came to Mrs. Hopkins, and said: “Something’s strange about this place. I often feel someone standing behind me, and yet, when I turn around, there is nobody there!”
Mrs. Hopkins, naturally, tried to talk her out of her apprehensions, but to no avail. For two years Annie, the housekeeper, tolerated the “unseen visitor.” Then she quit. She just could not go on like this, she explained. “Somebody keeps turning my doorknob. I am not a superstitious person, but I do believe you have a ghost here.”
Mrs. Hopkins wondered why no one else in the apartment noticed anything unusual. After Annie left, Josephine was hired, and slept in the apartment. Before long, Josephine, too, kept exclaiming in surprise, just as Annie had done for so long.
Finally, Josephine came to see Mrs. Hopkins and asked if she could talk to her. Mrs. Hopkins sat back to listen.
“This apartment is haunted,” Josephine said.
Mrs. Hopkins was not surprised. She admitted openly now that there was an “unseen guest” at the apartment, but she loved the apartment too much to give it up. “We’ll just have to live with that ghost!” she replied. Josephine laughed, and said it was all right with her, too.
She felt the ghost was female, and from that day on, for seven-and-a-half years, Josephine would speak aloud to the ghost on many occasions, addressing her always as “Miss Flossie” and asking the unquiet spirit to tell her what was troubling her so much. Finally, one morning, Josephine came into Mrs. Hopkins’ room and told her that she knew why “Miss Flossie” could not find rest.
“Miss Flossie killed herself, Ma’am,” she said quietly.
Josephine never actually saw the ghost, for “no matter how quick I turn, the ghost is even quicker” to disappear. But as is the case so often with children, the Hopkinses’ small son did see her. The boy was then just four years old.
He had been asleep for several hours that particular night, when Mrs. Hopkins heard him call out for her. Since the “nanna” was out for the evening, Mrs. Hopkins rushed to his side. The boy said a “lady visitor waked me up when she kissed me.” Mrs. Hopkins insisted that she and her husband were the only ones at home. The boy insisted that he had seen this woman, and that she looked like “one of those dolls little girls play with.”
Mrs. Hopkins calmed her boy, and after he had returned to sleep, she went to her husband and brought him up to date on this entire ghost business. He didn’t like it at all. But somehow the household settled down to routine again, and it was several years before another manifestation occurred, or was noticed, at least.
One night, while her son was in boarding school and her husband out of town on business, Mrs. Hopkins found herself all alone in the apartment. The “nanna” had returned to England. It was a quiet, rainy night, and Mrs. Hopkins did not feel unduly nervous, especially as “Miss Flossie” had not been active for so long.
Sometime after going to bed, Mrs. Hopkins was awakened by someone calling her name. “Mrs. Hop-kins! Mrs. Hop-kins!” There was a sense of urgency about the voice, which seemed to be no different from that of someone close by. Mrs. Hopkins responded immediately. “Yes, what is it?” Fully awake now, she noticed by her clock that the time was 1 A.M. Suddenly she became aware of an entirely different sound. Overhead, on the roof, there were footsteps, and somehow she knew it was a burglar. Jumping from bed, Mrs. Hopkins examined the hall door. The three locks were all off. She tried to telephone the superintendent, but found the line had been cut! Without a moment’s hesitation, she retraced her steps to the bedroom, and locked herself in the room.
The next morning, the superintendent informed Mrs. Hopkins that the two other houses in the block had their top floor apartments burglarized during the night, but her apartment had somehow been spared! Mrs. Hopkins smiled wanly. How could she explain that a ghost had saved her that night?
One evening Mrs. Hopkins and her husband returned from the theater and found a small black kitten crying on the front doorstep of the house. She felt pity for the kitten, and took it into the apartment, locking it into the maid’s room for the night. At first they thought it was a neighbor’s cat, but nobody came to claim it, and in the end they kept it.
The cat behaved strangely right from the start. Dashing through the apartment with fur disarranged, she seemed terrified of something. Josephine assured Mrs. Hopkins that the ghost hated the kitten, and would kill it before long.
A week later, Mrs. Hopkins sat alone in a comfortable chair, reading. It was evening, and the kitten was curled up, sleeping peacefully nearby. Suddenly the cat looked toward the doorway leading into the hall. Getting up, she seemed to see someone enter the room, pass in front of Mrs. Hopkins, and finally stand directly behind her. The cat seemed terrified. Finally, Mrs. Hopkins said, “Kitty, don’t be afraid of Miss Flossie.” The cat relaxed, but not Mrs. Hopkins, who felt a terrible chill.
When her husband returned, she insisted they give up the apartment. The ghost had become too much for her. No sooner said than done, and two weeks later, they were living at the other end of town.
One night at dinner Mr. Hopkins mentioned that he had just learned more about their former apartment from one of the old tenants he had accidentally met. At the time when they rented the place, the superintendent told them the previous tenants had moved out “ten minutes before.” What he had neglected to tell them, however, was how. The Hopkinses had come there ten minutes after the funeral. The wife of the former tenant had committed suicide in the living room. Mrs. Hopkins’ curiosity was aroused. She went to see a Mrs. Foran, who lived at the old place directly below where their apartment had been.
“What sort of woman was this lady who died here?” she asked her.
Well, it seemed that the couple had been living elsewhere before their marriage without benefit of clergy. After they got married, they moved to this place, to make a fresh start.
But the wife was still unhappy. During the three years of their tenancy, she imagined the neighbors were gossiping about her. Actually, the neighbors knew nothing of their past, and cared less. “But,” Mrs. Foran added as an afterthought, “she didn’t belong here.”
“Why not?” wondered Mrs. Hopkins.
“Because she had bleached hair, that’s why!” replied Mrs. Foran.
Mrs. Hopkins couldn’t help smiling, because she realized how right Josephine had been in calling the spook “Miss Flossie.”
In July 1960, I decided to pay “Miss Flossie” a visit. I first located Mrs. Hopkins in Newmarket, Canada. My request for information was answered by Mrs. Hopkins’ sister, Helena Daly.
“Since my sister is very handicapped following a stroke,” she wrote, “I shall be pleased to give you the information you wish, as I lived there with them for a short time, but did not meet the ghost.
“The location is at 471 Central Park West, northwest corner of 106th Street, a top-floor apartment with windows facing south and also east, overlooking Central Park.
“Wishing you every success, yours truly, Helena M. Daly.”
I located the house all right, even though it was at 107th Street. The apartment on the top floor was locked. I located a ground-floor tenant who knew the name of the family now living in it. The name was Hernandez, but that didn’t get me into the apartment by a long shot. Three letters remained unanswered. The rent collector gave me the name of the superintendent. He didn’t have a key either. The entire neighborhood had changed greatly in character since the Hopkinses lived there. The whole area, and of course the building at 471 Central Park West, was now populated by Spanish-speaking Puerto Ricans.
Weeks went by. All my efforts to contact the Hernandez family proved fruitless. There was no telephone, and they never seemed to be home when I called. Finally, I decided to send a letter announcing my forthcoming visit three days hence at 1:30 in the afternoon, and would they please be in, as I had the permission of their landlord to see them.
I was determined to hold a séance outside their very doorstep, if necessary, hoping that my sensitive, Mrs. Meyers, would somehow catch at least part of the vibratory element and atmosphere of the place. I also invited a Mr. Lawrence, a newspaper writer, to come along as a witness.
> To my surprise, the séance on the doorstep was unnecessary. When the three of us arrived at the apartment, somewhat out of breath after climbing four flights of stairs on a hot summer day, the door was immediately opened by a nicely-dressed young man who introduced himself as Mr. Hernandez, owner of the flat. He led us through the large apartment into the living room at the corner of the building, the very room I was most interested in.
Mr. Hernandez spoke excellent English. He explained that he was a furniture repairman employed by one of the large hotels, and that he and his family—we saw a young wife and child—lived in the apartment. They had never seen nor heard anything unusual. He did not believe in “vibrations” or the supernatural, but had no objection to our sitting down and gathering what impressions we could. I had maintained in my letters all along that “a famous literary figure” had once occupied his apartment and we wanted to visit the rooms for that reason, as I was doing an article on this person. It doesn’t pay to tell the person whose apartment you want to visit that it’s his ghost you’re after.
Mrs. Meyers sat down on the comfortable couch near the window, and the rest of us took seats around her. Her first impressions of the room came through immediately.
“I hear a woman’s voice calling Jamie or Janie.... There is an older woman, kind of emaciated looking, with gray hair, long nose, wide eyes, bushy eyebrows. Then there is a black cat. Something is upsetting Jamie. There’s a squeaking rocking chair, a man with a booming voice, reciting lines, heavy-set, he wears a cutaway coat...man is heavy in the middle, has a mustache, standup collar with wings, dark tie...there’s something wrong with his finger...a wedding band? A remark about a wedding band?”
Mrs. Meyers looked around the carefully furnished, spotlessly clean room, and continued. “A small boy, about twelve. Someone here used to live with the dead for a very long time, treated as if they were alive. Just stay here, never go out, if I go out, he is not going to come back again, so I’ll remain here! I look from the window and see him coming out of the carriage. We have dinner every night.” Suddenly, Mrs. Meyers started to inhale rapidly, and an expression of fear crept upon her face.