by Hans Holzer
“Gas—always have one burner—gas! Somebody is still disturbed about Jamie. I get the letters M. B. or B. M. I feel lots of people around. There is a to-do in court. Now someone walks around the outside that can’t be seen. Wants to come in by the window.
“It’s like a nightmare, very dark, can’t look out the window. I am a mess, and I’m going to fall if I let go. There’s a body laid in a casket in this room, but very few flowers; the name on the silver plaque reads Stevens or Stevenson; the curtains are drawn, it’s very dark, there are candles and a body in the casket.”
I asked Mrs. Meyers if she felt any restless spirits about the place still. “The restlessness is dimming,” she replied. “It was there in the past, but is much dimmer now, because a religious person lives here.”
Did she get any other impressions? “The police had something to do here, they wear long coats, the coffin contains a person in black.”
After we had left the apartment, I compared Mrs. Meyers’ impressions to the material in the 1954 story, which I had never shown or mentioned to her. There was a small son, and the description of the “older woman” fitted Mrs. Hopkins, as did the black cat. Mrs. Meyers’ statement, that “something was wrong with his finger...a wedding band!” recalled the fact that the couple had been living together as man and wife for years without being married, and had this fact not disturbed the ghost so much?
The gas explosion and the funeral following “Miss Flossie’s” suicide were factual. M. is Mrs. Hopkins’ initial and “M. B.” may have been “M. D.,” which is M. Daly, Mrs. Hopkins’ maiden name. “Someone walking on the outside” refers to the burglar episode. Police and the coffin make sense where suicide is involved.
Shortly after our séance, I received word that Mrs. Hopkins had passed on. Now perhaps she and “Miss Flossie” can become better acquainted.
* 40 The Ghosts at St. Mark’s
DESPITE THE FACT that most religious faiths, and their clergy, take a dim view of ghosts and hauntings, there are many recorded cases of supernormal goings-on in churches and cemeteries. One such place of worship is New York’s famed old St. Mark’s-In-the-Bowerie church, located at the corner of Second Avenue and Tenth Street.
Originally the site of a chapel erected in 1660 by Peter Stuyvesant for the Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam, it became the governor’s burial ground in 1672. The Stuyvesant vault was permanently sealed in 1953, when the last member of the family died. A century after the death of the governor, the family had adopted the Episcopalian faith, and a grandson, also named Peter Stuyvesant, gave the land and some cash to build on the same spot the present church of St. Mark’s. It was completed in 1799 and has been in service continuously since. No major repairs, additions, or changes were made in the building.
The surrounding neighborhood became one of the worst in New York, although it was once a highly respected one. But even in the confines of the Bowery, there is a legend that St. Mark’s is a haunted church.
I talked to the Reverend Richard E. McEvoy, Archdeacon of St. John’s, but for many years rector of St. Mark’s, about any apparitions he or others might have seen in the church. Legend, of course, has old Peter Stuyvesant rambling about now and then. The Reverend proved to be a keen observer, and quite neutral in the matter of ghosts. He himself had not seen anything unusual. But there was a man, a churchgoer, whom he had known for many years. This man always sat in a certain pew on the right side of the church.
Queried by the rector about his peculiar insistence on that seat, the man freely admitted it was because from there he could see “her”—the “her” being a female wraith who appeared in the church to listen to the sermon, and then disappeared again. At the spot he had chosen, he could always be next to her! I pressed the rector about any personal experiences. Finally he thought that he had seen something like a figure in white out of the corner of one eye, a figure that passed, and quickly disappeared. That was ten years ago.
St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowerie, New York
On the rector’s recommendation, I talked to Foreman Cole, the man who comes to wind the clock at regular intervals, and who has been in and around St. Mark’s for the past twenty-six years.
Mr. Cole proved to be a ready talker. Some years ago, Cole asked his friend Ray Bore, organist at a Roman Catholic church nearby, to have a look at the church organ. The church was quite empty at the time, which was 1 A.M.
Nevertheless, Cole saw “someone” in the balcony.
About fifteen years ago, Cole had another unusual experience. It was winter, and the church was closed to the public, for it was after 5 P.M. That evening it got dark early, but there was still some light left when Cole let himself into the building. Nobody was supposed to be in the church at that time, as Cole well knew, being familiar with the rector’s hours.
Nevertheless, to his amazement, he clearly saw a woman standing in the back of the church, near the entrance door, in the center aisle. Thinking that she was a late churchgoer who had been locked in by mistake, and worried that she might stumble in the semidarkness, he called out to her, “Wait, lady, don’t move till I turn the lights on.”
The haunted nave
Governor Peter Stuyvesant is buried in the vault.
A psychic photograph of the haunted nave
He took his eyes off her for a moment and quickly switched the lights on. But he found himself alone; she had vanished into thin air from her spot well within the nave of the church.
Unnerved, Cole ran to the entrance door and found it firmly locked. He then examined all the windows and found them equally well secured.
I asked Cole if there was anything peculiar about the woman’s appearance. He thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, there was. She seemed to ignore me, looked right through me, and did not respond to my words.”
Six weeks later, he had another supernormal experience. Again alone in the church, with all doors locked, he saw a man who looked to him like one of the Bowery derelicts outside. He wore shabby clothes, and did not seem to “belong” here. Quickly, Cole switched on the lights to examine his visitor. But he had vanished, exactly as the woman had before.
Cole has not seen any apparitions since, but some pretty strange noises have reached his ears. For one thing, there is frequent “banging” about the church, and “uncanny” feelings and chills in certain areas of the old church. On one occasion, Cole clearly heard someone coming up the stairs leading to the choir loft. Thinking it was the sexton, he decided to give him a scare, and hid to await the man at the end of the staircase. Only, nobody came. The steps were those of an unseen man!
Cole has no idea who the ghosts could be. He still takes care of the clock, and is reluctant to discuss his experiences with ordinary people, lest they think him mad. A man of forty-one, and quite healthy and realistic, Cole is sure of his memories.
Several days later, I asked Mary R. M., a singer and gifted psychic, to accompany me to the church and see if she could get any “impressions.” It turned out that my friend had been to the church once before, last November, when she was rehearsing nearby. At that time, she was sure the place was haunted. We sat in one of the right-hand pews, and waited. We were quite alone in the church; the time was three in the afternoon, and it was quite still. Within a minute or so, Mary told me she felt “a man with a cane walking down the middle aisle behind us.” Peter Stuyvesant, buried here, walked with a cane.
Then my friend pointed to the rear, and advised me that she “saw” a woman in wide skirts standing near the rear door of the church. She added: “I see a white shape floating away from that marble slab in the rear!”
So if you ever see someone dissolve into thin air at St. Mark’s—don’t be alarmed. It’s only a ghost!
* 41 The Clinton Court Ghosts
WHILE CASUALLY LEAFING through the pages of Tomorrow magazine, a periodical devoted to psychical research in which my byline appears on occasion, I noticed a short piece by Wainwright Evans, called “Ghost in Crinoline.” The ar
ticle, written in the spring of 1959, told of a spectral inhabitant at number 422½ West Forty-Sixth Street, in New York City. It seemed that Ruth Shaw, an artist who had for years lived in the rear section of the old building, which she had turned into a studio for herself, had spoken to Mr. Evans about her experiences. He had come to see her at Clinton Court, as the building was called. There was a charming iron gate through which you pass by the main house into a court. Beyond the court rose an arcaded rear section, three stories high and possessed of an outdoor staircase leading to the top. This portion dates back to 1809, or perhaps even before, and was at one time used as the coach house of Governor DeWitt Clinton.
Miss Shaw informed Evans about the legends around the place, and in her painstaking manner told him of her conversations with ninety-year-old Mr. Oates, a neighborhood druggist. An English coachman with a Danish wife once lived in the rooms above the stables. The first ghost ever to be seen at Clinton Court was that of “Old Moor,” a sailor hanged for mutiny at the Battery, and buried in Potter’s Field, which was only a short block away from the house. Today, this cemetery has disappeared beneath the teeming tenement houses of the middle Westside, Hell’s Kitchen’s outer approaches. But “Old Moor,” as it were, did not have far to go to haunt anyone. Clinton Court was the first big house in his path. The coachman’s wife saw the apparition, and while running away from “Old Moor,” fell down the stairs. This was the more unfortunate as she was expecting a child at the time. She died of the fall, but the child survived.
The irony of it was that soon the mother’s ghost was seen around the Court, too, usually hanging around the baby. Thus, Ghost Number 2 joined the cast at the Governor’s old house.
One of the grandchildren of the Clinton family, who had been told these stories, used to play “ghost” the way children nowadays play cops and robbers. This girl, named Margaret, used to put on old-fashioned clothes and run up and down the big stairs. One fine day, she tripped and fell down the stairs making the game grim reality. Many have seen the pale little girl; Miss Shaw was among them. She described her as wearing a white blouse, full sleeves, and a crinoline. On one occasion, she saw the girl ghost skipping down the stairs in plain daylight—skipping is the right word, for a ghost need not actually “walk,” but often floats just a little bit above ground, not quite touching it.
I thought it would be a good idea to give Miss Shaw a ring, but discovered there was no telephone at the address. Miss Shaw had moved away and even the local police sergeant could not tell me where the house was. The police assured me there was no such number as 422½ West Forty-Sixth Street. Fortunately, I have a low opinion of police intelligence, so my search continued. Perhaps a dozen times I walked by numbers 424 and 420 West Forty-Sixth Street before I discovered the strange archway at Number 420. I walked through it, somehow driven on by an inner feeling that I was on the right track. I was, for before me opened Clinton Court. It simply was tucked away in back of 420 and the new owners had neglected to put the 422½ number anywhere within sight. Now an expensive, remodeled apartment house, the original walls and arrangements were still intact.
On the wall facing the court, Number 420 proudly displayed a bronze plaque inscribed “Clinton Court—ca. 1840—Restored by the American Society for Preservation of Future Antiquities”! The rear building, where Miss Shaw’s studio used to be, was now empty. Apparently the carpenters had just finished fixing the floors and the apartment was up for rent. I thought that fortunate, for it meant we could get into the place without worrying about a tenant. But there was still the matter of finding out who the landlord was, and getting permission. It took me several weeks and much conversation, until I finally got permission to enter the place one warm evening in August 1960.
Clinton Court—the outside gate to the old carriage house
Clinton Court—the haunted courtyard
Meanwhile I had been told by the superintendent that an old crony by the name of Mrs. Butram lived next door, at Number 424, and that she might know something of interest. I found Mrs. Butram without difficulty. Having been warned that she kept a large number of pets, my nose led me to her door. For twenty-five years, she assured me, she had lived here, and had heard many a story about the ghost next door. She had never seen anything herself, but when I pressed her for details, she finally said—
“Well, they say it’s a young girl of about sixteen.... One of the horses they used to keep back there broke loose and frightened her. Ran down the stairs, and fell to her death. That’s what they say!”
I thanked Mrs. Butram, and went home. I called my good friend Mrs. Meyers, and asked her to accompany me to a haunted house, without telling her any more than that.
To my surprise, Mrs. Meyers told me on the phone that she thought she could see the place clairvoyantly that very instant.
“There is a pair of stairs outside of a house, and a woman in white, in a kind of backyard.”
This conversation took place on August 9, a week before Mrs. Meyers knew anything about the location or nature of our “case.”
About a week later, we arrived together at Clinton Court, and proceeded immediately into the ground-floor studio apartment of the former coach house. In subdued light, we sat quietly on the shabby, used-up furniture.
“Let me look around and see what I get,” Mrs. Meyers said, and rose. Slowly I followed her around the apartment, which lay in ghostly silence. Across the yard, the windows of the front section were ablaze with light and the yard itself was lit up by floodlights. But it was a quiet night. The sounds of Hell’s Kitchen did not intrude into our atmosphere, as if someone bent on granting us privacy for a little while were muffling them.
“I feel funny in the head, bloated...you understand I am her now...there are wooden steps from the right on the outside of the place—”
Mrs. Meyers pointed at the wall. “There, where the wall now is; they took them down, I’m sure.” On close inspection, I noticed traces of something that may have been a staircase.
“A woman in white, young, teenager, she’s a bride, she’s fallen down those steps on her wedding night, her head is battered in—”
Horror came over Mrs. Meyers’ face. Then she continued. “It is cold, the dress is so flimsy, flowing; she is disappointed, for someone has disappointed her.”
Deep in thought, Mrs. Meyers sat down in one of the chairs in a little room off the big, sunken living room that formed the main section of the studio apartment now, as the new owners had linked two apartments to make one bigger one.
“She has dark hair, blue eyes, light complexion, I’d say she’s in her middle teens and wears a pretty dress, almost like a nightgown, the kind they used to have seventy-five or a hundred years ago. But now I see her in a gingham or checkered dress with high neck, long sleeves, a white hat, she’s ready for a trip, only someone doesn’t come. There is crying, disappointment. Then there is a seafaring man also, with a blue hat with shiny visor, a blue coat. He’s a heavy-set man.”
I thought of “Old Moor.” Mrs. Meyers was getting her impressions all at the same time. Of course, she knew nothing of either the young girl ghost nor the sailor.
Now the medium told a lively tale of a young girl ready to marry a young man, but pursued by another, older man. “I can hear her scream!” She grabbed her own throat, and violently suppressed a scream, the kind of sound that might have invited an unwelcome audience to our séance!
“Avoiding the man, she rushes up the stairs, it is a slippery and cold day around Christmas. She’s carrying something heavy, maybe wood and coal, and it’s the eve of her marriage, but she’s pushed off the roof. There are two women, the oldest one had been berating the girl, and pushed her out against the fence, and over she went. It was cold and slippery and nobody’s fault. But instead of a wedding, there is a funeral.”
The medium was now in full trance. Again, a scream is suppressed, then the voice changes and another personality speaks through Mrs. Meyers. “Who are you?” I said, as I always do on
such occasions. Identification is a must when you communicate with ghosts.
Instead, the stranger said anxiously—“Mathew!”
“Who is Mathew?” I said.
“Why won’t he come, where is he? Why?”
“Who are you?”
“Bernice.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“What year is this?”
“Eighty.”
But then the anguish came to the fore again.
“Where is he, he has the ring...my head... Mathew, Mathew...she pushed me, she is in hell. I’m ready to go, I’m dressed, we’re going to father. I’m dressed....”
As she repeated her pleas, the voice gradually faded out. Then, just as suddenly as she had given way to the stranger, Mrs. Meyers’ own personality returned.
As we walked out of the gloomy studio apartment, I mused about the story that had come from Mrs. Meyers’ lips. Probably servant girls, I thought, and impossible to trace. Still, she got the young girl, her falling off the stairs, the stairs themselves, and the ghostly sailor. Clinton Court is still haunted all right!
I looked up at the reassuringly lighted modern apartments around the yard, and wondered if the ghosts knew the difference. If you ever happen to be in Hell’s Kitchen, step through the archway at 420 West Forty-Sixth Street into the yard, and if you’re real, real quiet, and a bit lucky, of course, perhaps you will meet the teen-age ghost in her white dress or crinoline—but beware of “Old Moor” and his language—you know what sailors are like!
* 42 Hungry Lucy
“June Havoc’s got a ghost in her townhouse,” Gail Benedict said gaily on the telephone. Gail was in public relations, and a devoted ghost-finder ever since I had been able to rid her sister’s apartment of a poltergeist the year before.