by Hans Holzer
He wanted spiritual guidance, now that he was at death’s door. The term Friend is the official name for what we now call a Quaker.
Was there someone he wanted us to send for? “William Proser...my brother...in England.”
“Were you born in England?”
“No. William.”
“He is your brother?”
“All—men—are brothers.”
He seemed to have trouble speaking. I started to explain what our mission was and that we wanted to help him find the elusive peace he so longed for.
“Name some of your fellow officers in the regiment,” I then requested.
“Erich Gerhardt,” the voice said. “Lieutenant Gerhardt.”
“Was he in the cavalry? What regiment?”
“My—cavalry—Twenty-first—”
“What year did you serve together? What year are we in now?”
“Seventy-four.”
“Where are you stationed?”
Sybil was completely immersed in the past now, with her face no longer hers; instead, we were watching a man in deep agony, struggling to speak again. Murray Burnett had his fingers at his lips, his eyes focused on the medium. It was clear he had never witnessed anything like it, and the extraordinary scene before him was bound to leave a deep and lasting impression, as indeed it did.
But the question went unanswered. Instead, Sybil was suddenly back again, or part of her, anyway. She seemed strangely distraught, however.
“Hands are asleep,” she murmured, and I quickly placed her back into the hypnotic state so that the personality of Captain Ross might continue his testimony.
“Get me out, get me out,” Sybil screamed now, “my hands...my hands are asleep....”
I realized that the severed hand or hands of the Colonial soldier had left a strong imprint. Quickly I suggested that she go back into trance. I then recalled her to her own self, suggesting at the same time that no memory of the trance remain in her conscious mind.
Pearls of sweat stood on Sybil’s forehead as she opened her eyes. But she was in the clear. Nothing of the preceding hour had remained in her memory. After a moment of heavy silence, we rose. It was time to return to the city, but Murray did not care. He knew that his producer, Ted Reinhart, would stall for time by playing a tape, if need be. The Robinsons offered us a quick cup of coffee, which tasted even more delicious than it must have been, under the circumstances. Everybody was very tense and I thought how wise it had been of Mrs. Robinson to keep the children away from the séance.
Hurriedly, we picked up our gear and drove back to the station. It took us about one-fifth of the time it had taken us to come out. Murray Burnett showed his skill behind the wheel as he literally flew along the expressway. Traffic was light at this hour and we managed to get back just as the announcer said, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Murray Burnett and his guests....”
As if nothing had happened, we strode onto the platform and did a full hour of light banter. By the time we left Philadelphia to return to New York, though, Sybil was exhausted. When we staggered out of our coaches in New York, it was well past one in the morning. The silence of the night was a welcome relief from the turbulent atmosphere of the early evening.
The following day I started to research the material obtained in the Robinson homestead.
To begin with, the Robinsons were able to trace previous ownership back only to 1841, although the local historical society assured her that it was built in 1732. The early records are often sketchy or no longer in existence because so many wars—both of foreign origin and Indian—have been fought around the area, not counting fire and just plain carelessness.
The Robinsons were the ninth family to own the place since the Civil War period. Prior to that the only thing known for certain was that it was a Quaker meeting house and this fit in with the references Sybil had made in trance.
But what about Ross?
The gentleman had claimed that he was Captain John Ross, and the year, at the beginning of our conversation, was 1764.
In W. C. Ford’s British Officers Serving in America 1754–1774, I found, on page 88, that there was a certain Captain John Ross, commissioned November 8, 1764. This man of course was a Tory, that is, he would have fought on the side of the British. Now the Revolutionary War started only in April 1775, and the man had expressed a dislike for the British and admiration for the “thirteen,” the American colonies. Had he somehow switched sides during the intervening year? If he was a German mercenary, this would not have been at all surprising. Many of these men, often brought here against their desire, either left the British armies or even switched sides. Later on he referred to the date 1774, and Sybil had said it was important. At that time the war was already brewing even though no overt acts had happened. But the atmosphere in this area was tense. It was the seat of the Continental Congress, and skirmishes between Tories and Revolutionaries were not uncommon, although they were on a smaller or even individual level. What traumatic experience had happened to Captain Ross at that time? Did he lose his hands then?
* * *
I needed additional proof for his identity, of course. The name John Ross is fairly common. A John Ross was Betsy Ross’s husband. He was guarding munitions on the Philadelphia waterfront one night in 1776 when the munitions and Ross blew up. Another John Ross was a purchasing agent for the Continental Army, and he used much of his own money in the process. Although Robert Morris later tried to help him get his money back, he never really did, and only a year ago his descendants petitioned Congress for payment of this ancient debt of honor. Neither of these was our man, I felt, especially so as I recalled his German accent and the claim that he was born in a little place called Verruck in Holstein. That place name really had me stumped, but with the help of a librarian at the New York Public Library I got hold of some German source books. There is a tiny hamlet near Oldesloe, Holstein, called Viertbruch. An English-speaking person would pronounce this more like “Vertbrook.” Although it is not on any ordinary map, it is listed in Mueller’s Grosses Deutsches Wortbuch, published in Wuppertal in 1958, on page 1008.
Proser, his brother’s name, is a German name. Why had he adopted an English name? Perhaps he had spent many years in England and felt it more expedient. He also mentioned belonging to the 21st Cavalry Regiment. The Captain John Ross I found in the records served in the 31st, not the 21st. On the other hand, there is, curiously enough, another Ross, first name David, listed for the 21st Regiment for the period in question, 1774.
I could not trace the superior named Albright or Albrecht, not knowing whether this was someone German or English. Since the first name given us by the communicator was unclear, I can’t even be sure if the Philip Albright, a captain in the Pennsylvania Rifles 1776–77, according to F. B. Heitman, Historical Register of the Continental Army during the War of the Revolution, is this man. This Philip Albright was a rebel, and if he was only a captain in 1776 he could not have been John Ross commanding officer in 1774, unless he had changed sides, of course.
The stairs where footfalls keep reverberating
I was more successful with the fellow officer Lieutenant “Gerhardt,” who also served in “his” 21st Regiment, Ross had claimed. Spellings of names at that period are pretty free, of course, and as I only heard the names without any indication as to proper spelling, we must make allowances for differences in the letters of these names. I did trace a Brevet Lieutenant Gerard (first name not given) of the Dragoons, a cavalry regiment, who served in the Pulaski Legion from September 3, 1778 to 1782.
Is this our man? Did he change sides after the Revolutionary War started in earnest? He could have been a regimental comrade of John Ross in 1774 and prior. The source for this man’s data is F. B. Heitman’s Historical Register of the Continental Army, Volume 1775–83, page 189. The Pulaski Legion was not restricted to Polish volunteers who fought for the new republic, but it accepted voluntary help from any quarters, even former Britishers or mercenaries so lo
ng as they wanted to fight for a free America. Many Germans also served in that legion.
* * *
The Colonel Moss who was “bad” might have been Colonel Mosses Allen, a Tory, who was from this area and who died February 8, 1779. He is listed in Saffell’s Records of the Revolutionary War.
It was a confusing period in our history, and men changed their minds and sides as the need of the times demanded. Had the unfortunate soldier whom we had found trapped here in this erstwhile Quaker meeting house been one of those who wanted to get out from under, first to join what he considered “the good boys,” and then, repelled by the continuing bloodshed, could he not even accept their war? Had he become religiously aware through his Quaker contacts and had he been made a pacifist by them? Very likely, if one is to judge the words of the colonial soldier from the year 1774 as an indication. His plea for peace sounds almost as if it could be spoken today.
* * *
Captain John Ross was not an important historical figure, nor was he embroiled in an event of great significance in the overall development of the United States of America. But this very anonymity made him a good subject for our psychometric experiment. Sybil Leek surely could not have known of Captain Ross, his comrades, and the Quaker connections of the old house on Byberry Road. It was her psychic sense that probed into the impressions left behind by history as it passed through and onward relentlessly, coating the house on Byberry Road with an indelible layer of human emotions and conflict.
* * *
I sincerely hope we managed to “decommission” Captain Ross in the process of our contact, to give him that much-desired “peace and silence” at last.
* 49 The House on Plant Avenue
PLANT AVENUE IS a charming suburban boulevard running through one of the better sectors of Webster Groves, Missouri, in itself a better-than-average small town, near St. Louis. Plant Avenue is not known for anything in particular except perhaps that it does have some plants, mainly very old trees that give it a coolness other streets lack, even in the heat of summer when this part of the country can be mighty unpleasant.
Webster Groves wasn’t much of a landmark either until Life magazine published an article on its high school activities, and then it had a short-lived flurry of excitement as the “typical” American upper-middle-class town with all its vices and virtues. But now the town has settled back to being just one of many such towns and the people along Plant Avenue sigh with relief that the notoriety has ebbed. They are not the kind that enjoy being in the headlines and the less one pays attention to them, the happier they are.
In the three hundred block of Plant Avenue there are mainly large bungalow type houses standing in wide plots and surrounded by shrubbery and trees. One of these houses is a two-story wood and brick structure of uncertain style, but definitely distinguished looking in its own peculiar way. The roof suggests old English influences and the wide windows downstairs are perhaps southern, but the overall impression is that of a home built by an individualist who wanted it his way and only his way. It does not look like any other house on the block, yet fits in perfectly and harmoniously. The house is somewhat set back and there is a garden around it, giving it privacy. From the street one walks up a front lawn, then up a few stairs and into the house. The downstairs contains a large living room, a day room and a kitchen with a rear exit directly into the garden. From the living room, there is a winding staircase to the upper floor where the bedrooms are located.
The house was built in the final years of the last century by a man of strange character. The neighborhood knew little enough about this Mr. Gehm. His business was the circus and he seems to have dealt with various circus performers and represented them in some way. He was not a good mixer and kept mainly to himself and ultimately died in the house he had built for himself.
This much was known around the neighborhood, but to tell the truth, people don’t much care what you do so long as you don’t bother them, and the real estate agent who took on the house after Mr. Gehm passed away was more concerned with its wiring and condition than Mr. Gehm’s unusual occupation. As the house had a certain nobility about it, perhaps due to the German background of its builder, it seemed a good bet for resale and so it turned out to be.
In 1956 the house passed into the hands of Mr. and Mrs. S. L. Furry, who had been married twenty years at the time, and had two young daughters, now long married also.
Mrs. Furry’s ancestry was mainly English and she worked for the Washington University Medical school in St. Louis, having been a major in psychology in college.
Thus she found herself more than shaken when she discovered some peculiarities about the house they had moved into—such as being awakened, night after night at precisely 2 A.M. with a feeling of having been shaken awake. On one occasion, she clearly heard a heavy hammer hit the headboard of her bed, turned on the lights only to discover everything intact where she was sure she would find splinters and a heavy indentation. Soon this was amplified by the sound of something beating against the windows at night. “It sounds just like a heavy bird,” Mrs. Furry thought, and shuddered. There was nothing visible that could have caused the sounds.
One morning she discovered one of the heavy wall sconces, downstairs, on the floor. Yet it had been securely fastened to the wall the night before. On examination she discovered no logical reason for how the piece could have fallen.
By now she realized that the footsteps she kept hearing weren’t simply caused by overwrought nerves due to fatigue or simply her imagination. The footsteps went up and down the stairs, day and night, as if someone were scurrying about looking for something and not finding it. They always ended on the upstairs landing.
At first, she did not wish to discuss these matters with her husband because she knew him to be a practical man who would simply not believe her. And a woman is always vulnerable when it comes to reporting the psychic. But eventually he noticed her concern and the problem was brought out into the open. He readily remarked he had heard nothing to disturb his sleep and advised his wife to forget it.
But shortly after, he sheepishly admitted at the breakfast table that he, too, had heard some odd noises. “Of course, there must be a logical explanation,” he added quickly. “It is very likely only the contraction and expansion of the old house. Lots of old houses do that.” He seemed satisfied with this explanation, but Mrs. Furry was not. She still heard those scurrying footfalls and they did not sound to her like a house contracting.
Eventually, Mr. Furry did not insist on his explanation, but had no better one to offer and decided to shrug the whole thing off. One night he was awakened in the bedroom adjoining his wife’s boudoir because of something strange: he then noticed a filmy, white shape go through the door into the hall and proceed into their little girl’s room. He jumped out of bed and looked into the room, but could see nothing. “Must have been the reflection of car lights from the street,” he concluded. But it never happened again, and cars kept passing the house at all hours.
The years went on and the Furry’s got somewhat used to their strange house. They had put so much money and work into it, not to say love, that they were reluctant to let a ghost dislodge them. But they did become alarmed when their three-year-old child kept asking at breakfast, “Who is the lady dressed in black who comes into my room at night?” As no lady in black had been to the house at any time, this of course upset the parents.
“What lady?” Mrs. Furry demanded to know.
“The lady,” the three-year-old insisted. “She’s got a little boy by the hand.”
Some time later, the child complained about the lady in black again. “She spanks me with a broom, but it doesn’t hurt,” she said. Mrs. Furry did not know what to do. Clearly there was something in the house the real estate people had failed to tell her about. After nine years, they found a better house—one more suitable to their needs—and moved. Again, the house on Plant Avenue was for sale. It wasn’t long until a new tenant for the handsome
house appeared.
In the middle of November 1965, the Walshes rented the house and moved in with two of their three children, ten-year-old Wendy and twenty-year-old Sandy. They had of course not been told anything about the experiences of the previous owners and they found the house pleasant and quiet, at least at first.
A short time after moving in, Mrs. Walsh was preparing dinner in the kitchen. She was alone except for her dog. The time was 6:30. Suddenly, she noticed the dog cringe with abject fear. This puzzled her and she wondered what the cause was. Looking up, she noticed a white cloud, roughly the shape and height of a human being, float in through the open door leading into the living room. The whole thing only lasted a moment but she had never seen anything like it.
“A ghost!” she thought immediately, for that was exactly what is looked like. Clare Walsh is not a simpleminded believer in the supernatural. She has a master’s degree in biochemistry and did research professionally for five years. But what she saw was, indeed a ghost! She wasn’t frightened. In fact, she felt rather good, for her sneaking suspicion had been confirmed. On the day she first set foot into the house, when they had not yet taken it, she had had a deep feeling that there was a presence there. She dismissed it as being a romantic notion at the time, but evidently her intuition had been correct. With a sigh Mrs. Walsh accepted her psychic talents. This wasn’t the first time that they had shown themselves.
At the time her husband’s ship was torpedoed, she dreamed the whole incident in detail. When she was a child, her aunt died, and she saw her aunt’s apparition before anyone in the family knew she had passed on. Since then she had developed a good deal of telepathy, especially with her daughters.
She dismissed the apparition she had seen in the kitchen, especially since nothing similar followed. But the nights seemed strangely active. At night, the house came to life. Noises of human activity seemed to fill the halls and rooms and in the darkness Mrs. Wash felt unseen presences roaming about her house at will. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling but she decided to brave it our and wait for some kind of opening wedge, whereby she could find out more about the background of her house. In February 1966, her neighbors next door invited them to dinner.