by Hans Holzer
The story of the bells that ring without due cause also is embroidered in this account.
Once, so a story goes, a skeptic leaped up and caught hold of the wires as they started to ring. He was lifted off the floor but the ringing kept on. To keep superstitious servants, the house was entirely rewired, and this apparently did the trick.
Of course, accounts of this kind are usually anonymous, but as a parapsychologist I do not accept reports no matter how sincere or authentic they sound unless I can speak personally to the one to whom the event has occurred.
When I started to assemble material for this book, I wondered what had happened at the Octagon since 1963. From time to time I keep reading accounts of the hauntings that used to be, but nothing startling or particularly new had been added. It became clear to me that most of these newspaper articles were in fact based on earlier pieces and that the writers spent their time in the research libraries rather than in the Octagon. In April of 1969 I contacted The American Institute of Architects again, requesting permission to revisit the Octagon, quietly and discreetly but with a medium. The new executive director, William H. Scheick, replied courteously in the negative: “The Octagon is now undergoing a complete renovation and will be closed to visitors until this work is completed. We hope the Octagon will be ready for visitors in early 1970. I am sorry that you and your guest will not be able to see the building when you are in Washington.”
But Mr. Scheick had not reckoned with the persistence and flexibility of an erstwhile ghost hunter. I telephoned him and after we had become somewhat better acquainted, he turned me over to a research staff member who requested that I let him remain anonymous. For the purpose of this account, then, I will refer to him simply as a research assistant. He was kind enough to accompany us on a tour of the Octagon, when we managed to come to Washington, despite the fact that the house was in repair or, rather, disrepair.
The date was May 6, 1969; the day was hot and humid, as so many days in May are in Washington. With me was my good friend Ethel Johnson Meyers, whom I had brought to Washington for the purpose of investigating several houses, and Mrs. Nicole Jackson, a friend who had kindly offered to drive us around. I can’t swear that Mrs. Meyers had not read the account of my earlier investigation of the Octagon. We never discussed it particularly, and I doubt very much that she had any great interest in matters of this kind, since she lives in New York City and rarely goes to Washington. But the possibility exists that she had read the chapter, brief as it is, in my earlier book. As we will see in the following pages, it really didn’t matter whether she had or had not. To her, primary impressions were always the thing, and I know of no instance where she referred back to anything she had done before or read before.
* * *
When we arrived at the Octagon, we first met with the research assistant. He received us courteously and first showed us the museum he had installed in the library. We then proceeded through the garden to the Octagon building itself, which is connected with the library building by a short path. Entering the building from the rear rather than the imposing front entrance as I had in 1963, we became immediately aware of the extensive work that was going on inside the old building. Needless to say, I regretted it, but I also realized the necessity of safeguarding the old structure. Hammering of undetermined origin and workmen scurrying back and forth were not particularly conducive to any psychic work, but we had not choice. From noon to 1 o’clock was the agreed-upon time for us, and I hoped that we could at least learn something during this brief period. I urged Ethel to find her own bearings the way she always does, and the three of us followed her, hoping to catch what might come from her lips clairvoyantly or perhaps even in trance.
Immediately inside the building, Ethel touched me, and I tried to edge closer to catch what came from her. She was quite herself and the impressions were nothing more than clairvoyant descriptions of what raced through her mind. We were standing in the room to the left of the staircase when I caught the name “Alice.”
“What about Alice?” I asked. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know. It just hit me.”
“I won’t tell you any more than that you should try to find your way around this general area we are in now, and upstairs as far as you feel like.”
“Oh yes, my goodness, there’s so many, they won’t stay still long enough. There’s one that has quite a jaw—I don’t see the top of the face yet; just a long jaw.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Is this an imprint from the past or is this a person?”
“From the past.”
“Go over to this bannister here, and touch the bannister and see whether this helps you establish contact.”
“I see a horse face.”
“Is this part of his character or a physical impairment?”
“Physical impairment.”
“What is his connection with this house?”
“I just see him here, as if he’s going to walk out that door. Might have a high hat on, also. I keep hearing, ‘Alice. Alice.’ As if somebody’s calling.”
“Are there several layers in this house, then?”
“I would say there are several layers.”
“Is there anything about this area we’re standing in that is in any way interesting to you?” We were now in front of the fatal banister.
“Well, this is much more vivid. This is fear.”
She seemed visibly agitated now, gripping the banister with both hands. Gently, I pried her loose and led her up a few steps, then down again, carefully watching her every move lest she join the hapless Tayloe girls. She stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs and began to describe a man she sensed near the staircase—a phantom man, that is. Connected with this male ghost, however, was another person, Ethel indicated.
“Someone has been carried down these steps after an illness, and out of here. That’s not the man, however. It seems to be a woman.”
“What sort of illness?”
“I don’t know. I just see the people carrying her down—like on a stretcher, a body, a sick person.”
“Was this person alive at the time when she was carried down?”
“Alive, but very far gone.”
“From where did she come?”
“I think from down here.” Ethel pointed toward the spot beneath the bannister. “There is also a Will, but during this time I don’t think Will is alive, when this happens. I also find the long-faced man walking around. I can see through him.”
“Is he connected with the person on the stretcher?”
“I would say so, because he follows it.” Then she added, “Someone comes here who is still alive from that. Moved around.”
“A presence, you mean?” She nodded. “This man with the horse face—what sort of clothes did he wear?”
“A formal suit with a long coat. Turn of the century or the twenties?”
“The nineteen-twenties?”
“Somewhere in here, yes.”
“And the person on the stretcher—do you see her?”
“No, she’s covered up. It is the woman I still see in here.”
“Why don’t you go up those stairs, to about the first landing.”
“I am afraid of that, for some reason or other.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Did something happen in that area?”
“I don’t know. I’m just getting a feeling as if I don’t want to go. But I’ll go anyway.”
“See whether you get any more impressions in doing that!”
“I’m getting a cerebral heaviness, in the back of the head.”
“Was somebody hurt there?”
“I would say. Or—stricken.”
“What is the connection? Take one or two steps only, and see whether you feel anything further in doing this. You’re now walking up the stairs to the first landing.”
“Oh, my head. Whew!”
>
“You feel—?”
“Numb.”
“We’re not going further than the first landing. If it is too difficult, don’t do it.”
“No. I’ll take it for what it is.” Suddenly, she turned. “Don’t push me!”
“Somebody’s trying to push you?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t feel like testing the matter. “All right, come back here. Let us stand back of the first landing.”
“I get a George, too. And Wood, and something else. I’m holding onto my head, that hurts, very badly.”
“Do you know who is this connected with, the injury to the head?”
“It sounds like Jacques.”
“Is he connected with this house in any official capacity?”
“Well, this is a definite ghost. He’s laughing at me. I don’t like it!”
“Can you get any name for this person?”
“Again I get Jacques.”
“Did anything tragic ever happen here?”
“I would say so. I get two individuals here—the long-faced man, and a shorter-faced man who is much younger.”
“Are they of the same period?”
“No.”
“Where does the woman on the stretcher fit in?”
“In between, or earlier.”
“What is this tragic event? What happened here?”
“I can hardly get anything. It feels like my brains are gone.”
“Where do you think it happened? In what part of the building?”
“Here, of course, here.”
“Did somebody die here? Did somebody get hurt?”
“According to my head, I don’t know how anybody got through this. It is like blown off. I can’t feel it at all. I have to put my hand up to find it.”
“Are the presences still here?”
Instead of replying, Ethel put up her hands, as if warding off an unseen attack. “Oh, no!”
“Why did you just move like this? Did you feel anyone present?”
“Yes—as if somebody was trying to get hold of me, and I don’t want that. I don’t know how long I can take the head business, right here...”
“All right, we’ll go down. Tell them, whoever might be present, that if they have to say something, they should say it. Whatever information they have to pass on, we are willing to listen. Whatever problem they might have.”
Ethel seemed to struggle again, as if she were being possessed.
“There’s something foreign here, and I can’t make out what is being said.”
“A foreign language?”
“Yes.”
“What language is it?”
“I’m not sure; it’s hard to hear. It sounds more Latin than anything else.”
“A Latin language? Is there anything about this house that makes it different from any other house?”
“There’s a lot of foreign influence around it.”
“Was it used in any way other than as a dwelling?”
“There were séances in this place.”
“Who do you think held them?”
“Mary.”
“Who is this Mary?”
“She parted her hair in the middle. Heavy girl. I’ve got to put my hand up, always to my head, it hurts so.”
“Do you get the names of the people involved in this horrible accident, or whatever it is that you describe, this painful thing?”
“That has to be Mary who’s taken down the steps. I think it’s this one.”
“The tragedy you talk about, the pain...”
“It seems like it should be here, but it could have been somewhere else. I don’t understand. There are two layers here.”
“There may be many layers.”
“There are so many people around here, it’s so hard to keep them separate.”
“Do you get the impression of people coming and going? Is there anything special about the house in any way?”
“I would say there is. The highest people in the land have lived here. I’m positively torn by the many things. Someone married here with the name of Alice. That has nothing to do with the head.”
“Alice is another layer?”
“That’s right.”
“Mary has the injury to her head. Is the marriage of Alice later or earlier?”
“Much later.” Then she added. “This house is terribly psychic, as it were—it is as if I have been able to find the easiest possible connections with a lot of people through what has been done here, psychically. There’s a psychic circle around this place. From the past.”
“Do you feel that these manifestations are still continuing?”
“I would say there are, yes. I don’t know what all this rebuilding is doing to it, particularly when the painting starts. Has Lincoln had anything to do with this house? I feel that I see him here.”
“What would be his connection with the house?”
“Nothing at all, but he’s been here.”
“Why would he be here?”
“I see an imprint of him.”
“As a visitor?”
“I would say, yes. Some other high people have been here, too.”
“As high as he?”
“That’s right.”
“Before him or after him?”
“After.”
“What about before? Has anybody been as high as he here?”
“I would say so.” Ethel, somewhat sheepishly, continued. “The man with the long face, he looks like Wilson!”
At that I raised my eyebrows. The mention of President Lincoln, and now Wilson, was perhaps a little too much name-dropping. On the other hand, it immediately occurred to me that both of these dignitaries must have been present at the Octagon at one time or other in their careers. Even though the Octagon was not used as a second White House after the disastrous War of 1812, it had frequently been used as a major reception hall for official or semiofficial functions. We do not have any record as to President Lincoln’s presence or, for that matter, Wilson’s but it is highly likely that both of these men visited and spent time at the Octagon. If these occasions included some festivities, an emotional imprint might very well have remained behind in the atmosphere and Ethel would, of course, pick that up. Thus her mention of Lincoln and Wilson wasn’t quite as outlandish as I had at first thought.
* * *
For several minutes now I had noticed a somewhat disdainful smile on the research assistant’s face. I decided to discontinue questioning Ethel, especially as it was close to 1 o’clock now and I knew that the assistant wanted to go to lunch.
I wondered whether any of the foregoing material made any sense to him. Frankly, I didn’t have much hope that it did, since he had been honest enough to communicate his lack of faith in the kind of work I was doing. But he had been kind enough to come along, so the very least I could do was use his services such as they might turn out to be.
The name Alice meant nothing to him, but then he was tuned in on the history of the Octagon rather than Washington history in general. Later, at the Wilson House I realized that Ethel was in some peculiar way catapulting her psychic readings. It appeared that Alice meant a good deal in the history of President Wilson.
What about Lincoln? The assistant shook his head.
“The family left the house about 1854, and I guess Lincoln was a Congressman then. He could have been here, but...”
“You’re not sure?”
“I mean, he’s not on the list that we have of people who have been here. I have no knowledge of it.”
Colonel Tayloe died in 1854, and the house was owned by the family until after 1900 when the Institute bought it. But it was not occupied by the Tayloe family after the Colonel’s death. I wondered why.
As to the names of the Tayloes’ daughters, the research assistant wasn’t very helpful either. He did have the names of some of the daughters, but he couldn’t put his hands on them right now. He did not remember Mary. But, on reflection, there might have been.
I turned to Ethel. It was clear to me that the noise of the returning workmen, who had just finished their lunch hour, and the general tone of the conversation did not help to relax her. I thanked the assistant for his presence, and we left the building. But before we had walked more than a few steps, Ethel stopped suddenly and turned to me and said, “Somebody was murdered here, or badly wounded at least.” She felt it was the woman on the stretcher. She was not completely sure that death had been due to murder, but it was certainly of a violent kind. I pointed at a portrait on the wall; the picture was that of Colonel Tayloe. Did Ethel recognize the man in the picture, I asked, without of course indicating who he was. Perhaps she knew anyway. She nodded immediately.
“That’s the man. I saw him.”
He was one of the men she had seen walking about with a peculiar tall hat. She was quite sure. The face somehow had stuck in her mind. Ethel then pointed at another portrait. It was a photograph of Mrs. Wilson. She too had been at the Octagon. Ethel felt the presence.
“Would this be 1958?” she asked somewhat unsure. The date seemed possible.
In evaluating Ethel’s performance, I kept in mind that she had rarely if ever been wrong in pinpointing presences in haunted houses. Under the circumstances, of course, there was no possibility of Ethel going into full trance. Her contact with the entities was at the very best on the surface. Nevertheless, if three lady ghosts mentioned by Jacqueline Lawrence in her article had been present, then Ethel would surely have felt, seen, or otherwise indicated them. I am quite sure that Ethel never saw the article in the Washington Post. I am also equally sure that had she seen it, it would have made no difference to her, for she is a dedicated and honest medium. In the building itself she found her way to the psychic “hot spot” without my help, or in any way relying on my guidance. Had she been there before it would have made no difference, since the renovation had completely altered the impression and layout of the downstairs. I myself was hard put to find my way around, even though I had been to the Octagon on two previous occasions.
Thus, Ethel Johnson Meyers tended to confirm the original contention published by me in 1965. One girl ghost and one male ghost, daughter and father, would be the logical inhabitants of the Octagon at this time. Whether or not the entities themselves are aware of their plight is a moot question.