Ghosts

by Hans Holzer

  “Miss Thomas,” I said, “will you add your own experiences to this plethora of information?”

  “Gladly,” the Women’s Editor of the Star-News replied. “There were three of us, all newspaper women, who decided a few weeks ago to go down to the trestle and not see anything.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’d made up our minds not to be influenced by all the publicity Joe Baldwin’s ghost was getting.”

  “What happened?”

  “When we got to the track, dogs were baying as if disturbed by something in the atmosphere. We parked on the dirt road that runs parallel to the track, and waited. After a while, the light appeared. It had a yellow glow. Then, suddenly, there were two lights, one larger than the other, swaying in the night sky.

  “The lights turned reddish after a while. There was no correlation with car lights at all. I thought at first it was a train bearing down on us, that’s how big the lights appeared. Just as suddenly the lights disappeared. One light described an arc to the left of the track, landing in the grass.”

  “Just as those old tales say Joe’s lantern did, eh?”

  “It seems so, although it is hard to believe.”

  “What else did you notice?”

  “I had a feeling that I was not alone.”

  And there you have it. Mass hysteria? Self-hypnosis? Suggestion? Could all these people make up similar stories?

  Although the Maco Light is unique in its specific aspects, there are other lights that have been observed at spots where tragedies have occurred. There are reports of apparitions in Colorado taking the form of concentrated energy, or light globes. I don’t doubt that the human personality is a form of energy that cannot be destroyed, only transmuted. The man who heard the sound of a train, the psychic chill several people experienced, the flame within the light, the two lights clearly distinguished by the newspaper women—possibly Joe’s lantern and the headlight of the onrushing train—all these add up to a case.

  That evening, at Bogden Hall, before an audience of some five hundred people of all ages, I stated my conviction that the track at Maco Station was, indeed, haunted. I explained that the shock of sudden death might have caused Joe Baldwin’s etheric self to become glued to the spot of the tragedy, re-enacting the final moments over and over again.

  I don’t think we are dealing here with an “etheric impression” registered on the atmosphere and not possessing a life of its own. The phantom reacts differently with various people and seems to me a true ghost, capable of attempting communication with the living, but not fully aware of his own status or of the futility of his efforts.

  I was, and am, convinced of the veracity of the phenomenon and, by comparing it to other “weaving lights” in other areas, can only conclude that the basic folklore is on the right track, except that Joe isn’t likely to be looking for his head—he is rather trying to keep an imaginary train from running into his uncoupled car, which of course exists now only in his thought world.

  And until someone tells Joe all’s well on the line now, he will continue to wave his light. I tried to say the right words for such occasions, but I was somewhat hampered by the fact that I did not have Mrs. Ethel Meyers, my favorite medium, with me; then, too, the Wilmington people did not like the idea of having their town ghost go to his reward and leave the trestle just another second-rate railroad track.

  The folks living alongside it, though, wouldn’t have minded one bit. They can do without Joe Baldwin and his somewhat motley admirers.

  Suddenly the thought struck me that we had no proof that a Joe Baldwin had ever really existed in this area. The next morning I went to the Wilmington Public Library and started to dig into the files and historical sources dealing with the area a hundred years ago. Bill Mitcham and I started to read all the newspapers from 1866 onwards, but after a while we gave up. Instead, I had a hunch which, eventually, paid off. If Joe Baldwin was physically fit to work on the railroad in so hazardous a job as that of a train man, he must have been well enough to be in the Armed Forces at one time or another.

  I started to search the Regimental Records from 1867 on backwards. Finally I found in volume V, page 602, of a work called North Carolina Regiments, published in 1901, the following entry:

  Joseph Baldwin, Company F, 26th N.C.T., badly wounded in the thigh. Battle of Gettysburg. July 1, 1863.

  It was the only Joseph Baldwin listed in the area, or, for that matter, the state.

  I also inquired about the old Catholic cemetery. It was, indeed, near the railroad track, but had been out of use for many years. Only oldsters still remembered its existence. Baldwin may have been Catholic, as are many residents of the area. Time did not permit me to look among the dilapidated tombstones for a grave bearing the name of Joe Baldwin.

  But it would be interesting to find it and see if all of Joe Baldwin lies buried in sacred ground!

  * 118

  The Woman On the Train (Switzerland)

  THE NIGHT TRAIN gave one more shrill whistle, then pulled out of Vienna’s spanking new Western Station. By the next morning, it would be in Zurich, Switzerland. One could make the same journey in an hour by air, but then how many mountains and lakes can one look at from 10,000 feet up? So there are always enough people who prefer the night train, enough at any rate to make the train continue as it has for all these years. It is a good train, as trains go, far cleaner and better than American trains. The sleepers are comfortable and the dining cars serve good food, and the soup does not come up and meet you half way to your face the way it does on the rickety American diners these days.

  Now the train was running at a faster pace, leaving Vienna’s sprawling suburbs behind. After it passed Huetteldorf-Hacking, the so-called Vorbahnhof, or advance station, for Vienna proper, it became an express train and the clickety-clack of the rails turned into a smoother, faster ride. Travellers could now settle back into their cushioned seats and enjoy the ride. True, the landscape would not be interesting until after Tulln, but by then darkness would be setting in. But the early morning glory of seeing the mountains out of the train windows around 6 A.M., would amply compensate for the dark portions of the voyage. The Zurich Express wasn’t as glamorous as the famed Orient Express but it was no less classy, and the railroad made every effort to keep their clientele from leaving for the airlines. Even to the extent of placing perfume containers into the washrooms and flowers in the compartments. Let the Penn-Central try that!

  One of the travelers beginning to relax was a diminutive redhead with large, dark eyes and the unmistakable air of show business about her. She was well dressed, to be sure, but in a manner and style just a trifle too showy for the ordinary Vienna hausfrau or even the elegant lady of the world. There was nothing cheap about her clothes or manner, but she seemed rather self-assured, too much so to be just another wife or sister traveling to Zurich by herself. Her luggage took up almost all of the available space, leaving very little for any other traveler if she had shared her compartment. As it was, she was alone, luckily, and having the sleeping compartment all to herself contributed immeasurably to her sense of comfort at this moment.

  Rita Atlanta used the fading moments of the day to reflect on the weeks past. She had just ended a successful engagement in Vienna, two months of full houses in the nightclub where she was employed with her specialty act. Her specialty? Rita is a striptease dancer, one of the best in this somewhat “old-fashioned” field in this day of extremes—like topless dancers and bottomless chorines. But Rita, despite the fact she takes her clothes off in public, is a lady. She was once married to an American officer of high rank who had met her in Germany. Far from asking her to give up her occupation, he insisted she continue with it. It did not sit well with the general, but the enlisted men loved it, and her performances were always sellouts. Ultimately, her husband passed away and Rita began to divide her year between her European engagements and her comfortable trailer stationed near Boston. Her son was growing up and going to sc
hool and Rita’s life was pretty orderly and peaceful. She came from a good Austrian family and grew up among people to whom the horrors of war and occupation were only too familiar.

  Somehow she had forgotten about those horrible years and only now and then did something remind her about them as she traveled across Europe now.

  Since childhood Rita had shown a remarkable degree of extrasensory powers. She was aware of the death of a relative long before it became known and she knew when someone would soon pass away by merely looking at him. This ability she found far from welcome, but it stayed with her, like it or not. Then, when she moved into a trailer near Boston, she soon discovered that she had also inherited a ghost. She was repeatedly awakened at three in the morning by the specter of a large man in a wide-brimmed hat, staring at her from the foot of her bed. Later, it was discovered that a man had been run over nearby by a car.

  Show business people like to talk about the unknown and she often found herself regaling her friends in the dressing rooms with her experiences. Many a friendship was formed by her because of her special “gift,” and though she viewed all this with mixed emotions, she knew she had to live with it all her life.

  Now that her summer season had ended and she could look forward to a good engagement in the fall, she had decided to take some time off and visit a friend of many years in her home at Locarno, Switzerland. Susan West had been ill two years prior to this visit, but a successful operation for cancer had apparently halted the spread of the disease and she had been declared cured. Thus her friend welcomed the idea of Rita’s visit, as she had never felt better in her life.

  Outside the train window the landscape started to become more interesting even as the light faded. The hills of the Wachau Valley clearly etched themselves against the skyline and the Danube nearly gave one the feeling of a truly romantic journey. Rita turned the overhead lights low and settled back for a while. Then the monotonous sound of the rails affected her and she felt herself tiring. She undressed and got into bed, turning the overhead lights out and the bedside lamp on. But she was not quite ready for sleep. To begin with, in her profession one does not go off to sleep until very late at night, and the habit pattern had made early bedtimes very difficult for her. Then, too, the brisk October air outside made her feel alive and she decided to read a little before turning the lights off.

  She had bought some magazines at the Western Station and now she went through them, always hoping to find perhaps a picture or mention of herself somewhere—an occupational habit most show business people have.

  After about twenty minutes of this, she felt sleep reaching out to her, and dropped the magazines. Then she turned off the light and prepared herself for sleep. Within a few minutes, she was fast asleep.

  All of a sudden, she woke up. Outside, it was quite dark now and the train was very quiet. She had no idea how long she had slept, but it must have been several hours by the way she felt. Still, she was wide awake and began to wonder why she had suddenly awakened. She turned her head and looked away from the bed into the compartment. Even though there was no moon, enough light from reflected surfaces streamed into the window to let her see the outlines of everything in the small room. There, in front of her bed, was a woman she had never seen before in her life, kneeling on the floor before her!

  With a jerk, she sat up and stared at the figure. Stunned by the intrusion, all she could think of was how the woman could have gotten into her room. The woman was kneeling, with her hands raised over her head, looking upward. Rita saw her face, the face of a dark complexioned woman with dark hair, perhaps of Mexican or Latin ancestry. The woman’s expression was one of sheer terror as if something horrible was about to be done to her!

  Rita found herself scared out of her wits, her heart pounding to her teeth, and yet unable to move. Then she started to find her way to the light switch to turn on the lights. It took her several seconds, which seemed like hours to her, to find the switch and turn it.

  When the light flooded the compartment, the apparition was gone. Quickly Rita tried the door, but it was locked securely, just as she had left it prior to retiring. There was no way in which the woman could have gotten into the compartment, if she had been of flesh and blood. But Rita knew from her previous experience in the trailer that she was not confronted with a human being: “do trains harbor ghosts too?” she wondered, and then the thought hit her that this had something to do with her friend Susan.

  It did not seem to make sense, but she could not shake the feeling that the ghostly woman was someone connected with her friend, who had come to warn her of impending doom for Susan.

  Perhaps it is a ghost, someone killed in this compartment, she tried to reason, but to no avail. Her inner voice told her it was not.

  The entire incident cast a sad spell over her otherwise pleasant trip, but eventually she went back to sleep and arrived in Zurich somewhat more composed.

  She changed trains and took the train to Bellinzona where her friend and prospective hostess was to meet her and take her the rest of the way to a little town outside of Locarno, where she lived. When she saw Susan in Bellinzona, Rita’s fears vanished. Her friend looked radiant and quite obviously was in good health. In fact, she looked years younger than the last time she had seen her. She had changed her hair to red and it looked well on her. The two women embraced and the bright southern sun quickly made Rita forget the horrible experience on the train to Zurich.

  They traveled together now to Locarno, and to while away the time, or perhaps out of an inner compulsion to be reassured somehow, Rita told Susan about the apparition on the train. But she did not mention her own inner fears that it had some foreboding concerning her friend.

  “I hope it has nothing to do with me,” Susan said, as if reading her thoughts, however. Rita immediately assured her that it didn’t, and couldn’t.

  “How could a ghost on a train have any possible connection with you here in Locarno?” she reasoned, but her friend was not relaxed.

  “I don’t know,” she said and then they changed the subject. Soon afterward they arrived at her apartment in Tenero, near Locarno, and the afternoon and evening was spent talking over old times and plans for the future. When it was time to go to sleep, Rita was given a bed in her friend’s living room. Her hostess slept in the bedroom of the apartment.

  The place was pretty and new and Rita immediately took a liking to it. She was looking forward to her visit now, and the experience on the train went even further into the background.

  She read for a while, as was her custom, then she turned the light out and lay quietly in the dark, waiting for sleep to come and blot out her conscious thoughts.

  As she was slowly drifting off to sleep, deliberately avoiding any recollections or reflections upon her experience on the train, she felt herself surrounded by an unseen presence. She blamed her unfamiliarity with her surroundings, the long journey, the excitement of the trip for her nervousness. But it did not help much, the feeling of an ominous presence in the room persisted.

  After a while, it seemed to her as if someone were watching her from all over that room, someone she could not actually see but whom her keen senses felt very much present. She wasn’t even sure whether it was one person or several, because the feeling seemed to drift over her from all sides.

  It was a very bad night and she hardly slept at all, but she did not wish to alarm her hostess, so she said nothing of it at breakfast the next morning. Instead, at the first opportunity, she went into town and bought sleeping pills, the strongest she could get.

  That night, she was drowsy almost at once, due to the drug in the pills. She still felt the presence however, just as strongly as the first night. Only, because she had taken the pills, she did not care.

  Two days after her arrival, she met Mrs. Recalcati, a neighbor of Susan’s. Somehow the conversation turned to the psychic world and ghosts in particular, and to her surprise Rita discovered that the lady was not at all hostile toward the possibili
ty that such things did indeed exist.

  Encouraged by this open-minded attitude, Rita confided in the neighbor, telling her of her ghostly encounter on the train and of the uncanny sensations in the apartment afterwards.

  “I have the feeling Susan is going to die,” she added, somehow unable to hold back her dreary thoughts.

  The neighbor woman was at first horrified, but then she nodded. “Susan hasn’t been well of late,” she remarked and Rita shuddered. She had only seen the radiant joy of the reunion of two old friends after many years.

  The five days allotted to her visit passed quickly. She returned to Vienna and her own apartment. It was good to spend a night in a room without an unseen presence staring at one from out of the dark.

  For the first two days, she just rested—rested from a vacation. Then she confided in a close friend, Elfie Hartl, what had occurred on the train and in Locarno.

  Soon after, she returned to America for her usual Christmas holiday with her son, and again discussed what had happened with the boy and some of her American friends. But after that, the matter was dropped and not discussed again. Rita was busy living her daily life and the less she had to do with psychic matters, the better from her own point of view.

  This was not entirely possible, as the ghostly manifestations in her trailer never ceased. But she had taken her 3 A.M. “visitor” for granted by now and was not unduly disturbed by him any longer. After all, he was dead and she knew that it did not concern herself or anyone close to her. If he wanted to visit her trailer for some strange reason, that was all right with her. She had often thought of changing her residence or moving the trailer elsewhere, but it was a lot of trouble to go to on account of a ghost. Besides, she had made friends in the trailer camp and her boy was in school nearby.