Ghosts

by Hans Holzer

  Sybil, in trance, told us that the girl had gone, but that Alfred had no intention of leaving. He was waiting for her now. I asked for the name of his commanding officer and was told it was Napier. This we knew already. But who was the next in rank?

  “Lieutenant William Watkins.”

  “What about the commanding general?”

  He did not know.

  He had been born in Hawthorne, just like Lucy, he told Sybil. I had been able to trace this Hawthorne to a place not far away in Westchester County.

  There were people all over, Sybil said in trance, and they were falling down. They were ill.

  “Send Alfred to join his Lucy,” I commanded, and Sybil in a low voice told the stubborn ghost to go.

  After an interlude of table tipping, in which several characters from the nether world made their auditory appearance, she returned to trance. Sybil in trance was near the river again, among the sick.

  But no Lucy Ryan. Lucy’s gone, she said.

  “The smell makes me sick,” Sybil said, and you could see stark horror in her sensitive face.

  “Dirty people, rags, people in uniform too, with dirty trousers. There is a big house across the river.”

  “Whose house is it?”

  “Mr. Dawson’s. Doctor Dawson. Dr. James Dawson...Lee Point. Must go there. Feel sick. Rocks and trees, just the house across the river.”

  “What year is this?”

  “Ninety-two.”

  She then described Dr. Dawson’s house as having three windows on the left, two on the right, and five above, and said that it was called Lee Point—Hawthorne. It sounded a little like Hawgton to me, but I can’t be sure.

  Over the river, she said. She described a “round thing on post” in front of the house, like a shell. For messages, she thought.

  “What is the name of the country we’re in?” I asked.

  “Vinelands. Vinelands.”

  I decided to change the subject back to Hungry Lucy. How did she get sick?

  “She didn’t get any food, and then she got cold, by the river.

  “...Nobody helped them there. Let them die. Buried them in a pit.”

  “What is the name of the river?”

  “Mo...Mo-something.”

  “Do you see anyone else still around?”

  “Lots of people with black faces, black shapes.”

  The plague, I thought, and how little the doctors could do in those days to stem it.

  I asked about the man in charge and she said “Napier” and I wondered who would be left in command after Napier left, and the answer this time was, “Clinton ...old fool. Georgie.”

  There were a Henry Clinton and a George Clinton, fairly contemporary with each other.

  “What happened after that?”

  “Napier died.”

  “Any other officers around?”

  “Little Boy Richardson...Lieutenant.”

  “What regiment?”

  “Burgoyne.”

  Sybil, entranced, started to hiss and whistle. “Signals,” she murmured. “As the men go away, they whistle.”

  I decided the time had come to bring Sybil out of trance. She felt none the worse for it, and asked for something to drink. Hungry, like Lucy, she wasn’t.

  We began to evaluate the information just obtained. Dr. James Dawson may very well have lived. The A.M.A. membership directories aren’t that old. I found the mention of Lee Point and Hawthorne interesting, inasmuch as the two locations are quite close. Lee, of course, would be Fort Lee, and there is a “point” or promontory in the river at that spot.

  The town of Vinelands does exist in New Jersey, but the river beginning with “Mo-” may be the Mohawk. That Burgoyne was a general in the British army during the Revolution is well known.

  So there you have it. Sybil Leek knows very little, if anything, about the New Jersey and Westchester countryside, having only recently come to America. Even I, then a New York resident for 27 years, had never heard of Hawthorne before. Yet there it is on the way to Pleasantville, New York.

  The proof of the ghostly pudding, however, was not the regimental roster, but the state of affairs at June Havoc’s house.

  A later report had it that Lucy, Alfred, or whoever was responsible had quieted down considerably.

  They were down, but not out.

  I tactfully explained to June Havoc that feeling sorry for a hungry ghost makes things tough for a parapsycholo-gist. The emotional pull of a genuine attachment, no matter how unconscious it may be, can provide the energies necessary to prolong the stay of the ghost.

  Gradually, as June Havoc—wanting a peaceful house especially at 3 A.M.—allowed practical sense to outweigh sentimentality, the shades of Hungry Lucy and her soldier-boy faded into the distant past, whence they came.

  * 43 The House Ghost of Bergenville

  ABOUT A YEAR ago, Mrs. Ethel Meyers, who has frequently accompanied me on ghost-hunting expeditions, heard from friends living in Bergen County, New Jersey, about some unusual happenings at their very old house. They are busy people of considerable prominence in the theater, but eventually the “safari for ghost” was organized, and Mr. B., the master of the house, picked us up in his car and drove us to Bergen County. The house turned out to be a beautifully preserved pre-Revolutionary house set within an enclosure of tall trees and lawns.

  The building had been started in 1704, I later learned, and the oldest portion was the right wing; the central portion was added in the latter part of the eighteenth century, and the final, frontal portion was built from old materials about fifty years ago, carefully preserving the original style of the house. The present owners had acquired it about a year ago from a family who had been in possession for several generations. The house was then empty, and the B.s refurbished it completely in excellent taste with antiques of the period.

  After they moved into the house, they slept for a few days on a mattress on the enclosed porch, which skirted the west wing of the house. Their furniture had not yet arrived, and they didn’t mind roughing it for a short while. It was summer, and not too cool.

  In the middle of the night, Mrs. B. suddenly awoke with the uncanny feeling that there was someone else in the house, besides her husband and herself. She got up and walked toward the corridor-like extension of the enclosed porch running along the back of the house. There she clearly distinguished the figure of a man, seemingly white, with a beard, wearing what she described as “something ruffly white.” She had the odd sensation that this man belonged to a much earlier period than the present. The light was good enough to see the man clearly for about five minutes, in which she was torn between fear of the intruder and curiosity. Finally, she approached him, and saw him literally dissolve before her very eyes! At the same time, she had the odd sensation that the stranger came to look them over, wondering what they were doing in his house! Mrs. B., a celebrated actress and choreographer, is not a scoffer, nor is she easily susceptible. Ghosts to her are something one can discuss intelligently. Since her husband shared this view, they inquired of the former owner about any possible hauntings.

  “I’ve never heard of any or seen any,” Mr. S. told them, “but my daughter-in-law has never been able to sleep in the oldest part of the house. Said there was too much going on there. Also, one of the neighbors claims he saw something.”

  Mr. S. wasn’t going to endanger his recent real-estate transaction with too many ghostly tales. The B.s thanked him and settled down to life in their colonial house.

  But they soon learned that theirs was a busy place indeed. Both are artistic and very intuitive, and they soon became aware of the presence of unseen forces.

  One night Mrs. B. was alone at home, spending the evening in the upper story of the house. There was nobody downstairs. Suddenly she heard the downstairs front door open and shut. There was no mistaking the very characteristic and complex sound of the opening of this ancient lock! Next, she heard footsteps, and sighed with relief. Apparently her husband had
returned much earlier than expected. Quickly, she rushed down the stairs to welcome him. There was nobody there. There was no one in front of the door. All she found was the cat in a strangely excited state!

  Sometime after, Mr. B. came home. For his wife these were anxious hours of waiting. He calmed her as best he could, having reservations about the whole incident. Soon these doubts were to be dispelled completely.

  This time Mrs. B. was away and Mr. B. was alone in the downstairs part of the house. The maid was asleep in her room, the B.s’ child fast asleep upstairs. It was a peaceful evening, and Mr. B. decided to have a snack. He found himself in the kitchen, which is located at the western end of the downstairs part of the house, when he suddenly heard a car drive up. Next, there were the distinct sounds of the front door opening and closing again. As he rushed to the front door, he heard the dog bark furiously. But again, there was no one either inside or outside the house!

  Mr. B., a star and director, and as rational a man as could be, wondered if he had imagined these things. But he knew he had not. What he had heard were clearly the noises of an arrival. While he was still trying to sort out the meaning of all this, another strange thing happened.

  A few evenings later, he found himself alone in the downstairs living room, when he heard carriage wheels outside grind to a halt. He turned his head toward the door, wondering who it might be at this hour. The light was subdued, but good enough to read by. He didn’t have to wait long. A short, husky man walked into the room through the closed door; then, without paying attention to Mr. B., turned and walked out into the oldest part of the house, again through a closed door!

  “What did he look like to you?” I asked.

  “He seemed dotted, as if he were made of thick, solid dots, and he wore a long coat, the kind they used to wear around 1800. He probably was the same man my wife encountered.”

  “You think he is connected with the oldest part of the house?”

  “Yes, I think so. About a year ago I played some very old lute music, the kind popular in the eighteenth century, in there—and something happened to the atmosphere in the room. As if someone were listening quietly and peacefully.”

  But it wasn’t always as peaceful in there. A day before our arrival, Mrs. B. had lain down, trying to relax. But she could not stay in the old room. “There was someone there,” she said simply.

  The B.s weren’t the only ones to hear and see ghosts. Last summer, two friends of the B.s were visiting them, and everybody was seated in the living room, when in plain view of all, the screen door to the porch opened and closed again by its own volition! Needless to add, the friends didn’t stay long.

  Only a day before our visit, another friend had tried to use the small washroom in the oldest part of the house. Suddenly, he felt chills coming on and rushed out of the room, telling Mrs. B. that “someone was looking at him.”

  At this point, dinner was ready, and a most delicious repast it was. Afterwards we accompanied the B.s into the oldest part of their house, a low-ceilinged room dating back to the year 1704. Two candles provided the only light. Mrs. Meyers got into a comfortable chair, and gradually drifted into trance.

  “Marie...Catherine...who calls?” she mumbled.

  “Who is it?” I inquired.

  “Pop...live peacefully...love....”

  “What is your name?” I wanted to know.

  “Achabrunn....”

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but a German family named Achenbach had built the house and owned it for several generations. Much later still, I found out that one of the children of the builder had been called Marian.

  I continued my interrogation.

  “Who rules this country?”

  “The Anglish. George.”

  “What year is this?”

  “Fifty-six. Seventeen fifty-six.”

  “When did you stay here?”

  “Always. Pop. My house. You stay with me.”

  Then the ghost spoke haltingly of his family, his children, of which he had nine, three of whom had gone away.

  “What can we do for you?” I said, hoping to find the reason for the many disturbances.

  “Yonder over side hill, hillock, three buried...flowers there.”

  “Do you mean,” I said, “that we should put flowers on these graves?”

  The medium seemed excited.

  “Ach Gott, ja, machs gut.” With this the medium crossed herself.

  “What is your name?” I asked again.

  “Oterich...Oblich....” The medium seemed hesitant as if the ghost were searching his memory for his own name. Later, I found that the name given was pretty close to that of another family having a homestead next door.

  The ghost continued.

  “She lady...I not good. I very stout heart, I look up to good-blood lady, I make her good...Kathrish, holy lady, I worship lady...they rest on hill too, with three....”

  After the séance, I found a book entitled Pre-Revolutionary Dutch Houses in Northern New Jersey and New York. It was here that I discovered the tradition that a poor shepherd from Saxony married a woman above his station, and built this very house. The year 1756 was correct.

  But back to my interrogation. “Why don’t you rest on the hillock?”

  “I take care of...four...hillock...Petrish, Ladian, Annia, Kathrish....”

  Then, as if taking cognizance of us, he added—“To care for you, that’s all I want.”

  Mrs. B. nodded and said softly, “You’re always welcome here.”

  Afterward, I found that there were indeed some graves on the hill beyond the house. The medium now pointed toward the rear of the house, and said, “Gate...we put intruders there, he won’t get up any more. Gray Fox made trouble, Indian man, I keep him right there.”

  “Are there any passages?”

  “Yeah. Go dig through. When Indian come, they no find.”

  “Where?”

  “North hillock, still stone floor there, ends here.”

  From Mr. B. I learned that underground passages are known to exist between this house and the so-called “Slave House,” across the road.

  The ghost then revealed that his wife’s father, an Englishman, had built the passage, and that stores were kept in it along with Indian bones.

  “Where were you born?” I inquired.

  “Here. Bergenville.”

  Bergenville proved to be the old name of the township.

  I then delicately told him that this was 1960. He seemed puzzled, to say the least.

  “In 1756 I was sixty-five years old. I am not 204 years older?”

  At this point, the ghost recognized the women’s clothing the medium was wearing, and tore at them. I explained how we were able to “talk” to him. He seemed pacified.

  “You’ll accept my maize, my wine, my whiskey....”

  I discovered that maize and wine staples were the mainstays of the area at that period. I also found that Indian wars on a small scale were still common in this area in the middle 1700s. Moreover, the ghost referred to the “gate” as being in the rear of the house. This proved to be correct, for what is now the back of the house was then its front, facing the road.

  Suddenly the ghost withdrew and after a moment another person, a woman, took over the medium. She complained bitterly that the Indians had taken one of her children, whose names she kept rattling off. Then she too withdrew, and Mrs. Meyers returned to her own body, none the worse for her experiences, none of which, incidentally, she remembered.

  Shortly afterward, we returned to New York. It was as if we had just come from another world. Leaving the poplar-lined road behind us, we gradually re-entered the world of gasoline and dirt that is the modern city.

  Nothing further has been reported from the house in Bergen County, but I am sure the ghost, whom Mrs. B. had asked to stay as long as he wished, is still there. There is of course now no further need to bang doors, to call attention to his lonely self. They know he is there with them.

&nb
sp; * 44 The Riverside Ghost

  PLEASE HELP ME find out what this is all about,” pleaded the stranger on the telephone. “I’m being attacked by a ghost!” The caller turned out to be a young jeweler, Edward Karalanian of Paris, now living in an old apartment building on Riverside Drive.

  For the past two years, he had lived there with his mother; occasionally he had heard footsteps where no one could have walked. Five or six times he would wake up in the middle of the night to find several strangers in his room. They seemed to him people in conversation, and disappeared as he challenged them on fully awakening.

  In one case, he saw a man coming toward him, and threw a pillow at the invader. To his horror, the pillow did not go through the ghostly form, but slid off it and fell to the floor, as the spook vanished!

  The man obviously wanted to attack him; there was murder in his eyes—and Mr. Karalanian was frightened by it all. Although his mother could see nothing, he was able to describe the intruder as a man wearing a white “uniform” like a cook, with a hat like a cook, and that his face was mean and cruel.

  On March 9, I organized a séance at the apartment, at which a teacher at Adelphi College, Mr. Dersarkissian, and three young ladies were also present; Mrs. Ethel Meyers was the medium.

  Although she knew nothing of the case, Mrs. Meyers immediately described a man and woman arguing in the apartment and said there were structural changes, which Mr. Karalanian confirmed.

  “Someone is being strangled...the man goes away... now a woman falls and her head is crushed...they want to hide something from the family.” Mrs. Meyers then stated that someone had gone out through the twelfth floor window, after being strangled, and that the year was about 1910.

  In trance, the discarnate victim, Lizzy, took over her voice and cried pitifully for help. Albert, Mrs. Meyers’ control, added that this was a maid who had been killed by a hired man on the wife’s orders. Apparently, the girl had an affair with the husband, named Henry. The murderer was a laborer working in a butcher’s shop, by the name of Maggio. The family’s name was Brady, or O’Brady; the wife was Anne.