A short time after this incident, one of our camping neighbors and his wife were filling their water bottles at our outside faucet. We had, by this time, made friends with all the campers and they knew they were welcome to our water so long as they remembered to turn the faucet off. As they were filling the bottles, they looked up to see “the boy” near the spring house and seemingly headed toward their cabin. He was oblivious to his surroundings and didn’t seem to see them at all. They didn’t speak to him as they thought he was a friend of ours and felt, I suppose, a little awkward about taking water when we weren’t home. However, when Grace pointed out that he was heading toward their cabin, Dick jumped into his car and made it to his property in record time.
The path the boy was taking led through an open field. In spite of this fact, there was no sign of him. Grace went to the upstairs window of their red, barn-shaped cabin from which you could see for miles. Dick covered every inch of the camping area in his car. Neither of them found any sign of the boy. Dick is a lieutenant in the police department of a city near Buffalo and a trained observer. Neither of them had known about the previous sighting.
Strangely enough, though the couple saw the boy at the same time, their descriptions of his clothes were different. Dick swore he wore jeans while Grace was just as sure his slacks were chinos. This is the first time since the encounter with the “black man” that we realized that descriptions of psychic phenomena often vary even if seen at the same time.
Looking back, I can see a gradual build-up of power. What kind of power? Again, I must confess, I don’t know. I only know we became increasingly aware of “something”. I told Phil how we felt and was prepared for his derision. I was surprised to find, although he didn’t fully appreciate what was happening, still he didn’t make fun of our feelings.
How were Phil and I getting along? Not too well, I’m afraid. He seldom came home but spent the week nights at my mother and father’s house and only some weekends with us. It was almost as though he didn’t have a family. In fact, it was getting so the kids and I were just as well pleased when he stayed away. His presence always caused tension in the house and things were much more peaceful when he wasn’t there. I don’t know if he felt the strangeness in the house. We had reached the point where vital communications had broken down.
Due to the pressure the kids and I were feeling in the house, I no longer had the energy to indulge his tantrums and, I guess, he resented it. He had always been a drinker but now the saloon had become more important than his home. The kids and I were under abnormal pressure and it took abnormal strength to withstand it. I had no energy left to try to save my disintegrating marriage. Sadly, I had begun to cease caring.
In addition to our other problems, our financial situation was going steadily downhill and nothing we did seemed to help. The house was not to blame for this difficulty. Phil was bringing home less and less money and his explanations didn’t always make sense. My trust in him began eroding.
On two different occasions I tried working. The first job didn’t pay enough and was really out of my line. The job was with an Olean department store and I worked as an assistant to the bookkeeper and a relief saleslady. I’m afraid I’ll never make a salesperson. Before a month was up, I had quit.
The second job was with the County Board of Cooperational Educational Services (B.O.C.E.S) and I enjoyed it. I had to give that one up, though, when my neck started to bother me. The whiplash I had suffered in my auto accident in 1971 came back with a vengeance. Though I had periods of remission sometimes lasting three or four weeks, one morning I’d wake up and be, literally, unable to raise my head from the pillow without using my hands. When I left my job in June of 1973 I thought perhaps I could recover over the summer by working in my garden and just taking it easy. I didn’t know then that the summer would turn into a living nightmare. I had another reason for leaving the job as well. One day, I reluctantly left Mary home alone while I went to work. She had a bad cold and was feeling pretty sick. As she rested, a loud pounding started at the back door. The dogs went crazy and were barking wildly and jumping at the door. The pounding went on. Mary, heart in mouth, came downstairs. The man she saw out the kitchen window looked scary to her. She called me, panic-stricken. The door was locked but she didn’t trust the lock. The barking of the dogs seemed to have no affect on the “caller”. I jumped in my car and headed for home. It seemed an interminable drive. I was imagining all sorts of scenes when I reached home. By the time I got there, the caller had disappeared leaving only a tearful, terrified young girl and three very disturbed dogs. She spent the rest of the day at BOCES with me.
In writing this book, I have become aware of some facts that surprised me. For one thing, I didn’t react as I would have predicted, nor did the rest of the family. I found out I didn’t mind stranger’s doubts about our veracity so much as long as those we loved believed and supported us. I have always marveled at the heroines of gothic novels who stay in “haunted houses” and yet, we did not run until staying became unthinkable. My whole outlook on life, including religion, took an awful beating and proved a need for a complete revamping of my beliefs. I don’t know if I’d ever be comfortable in that house again and, yet, I’m tempted to return. The house still holds a tremendous charm and appeal for me. In spite of everything, some of the happiest days of my life were spent in that house.
My reasons for writing this book are myriad. Number one, I think, is that it acts as a kind of cathartic to get rid of some of the tensions which had been built up over the period of our residence and afterwards. Sometimes I bitterly resent what happened to us since it deeply affected every member of the family and all of those close to us. Number two, since suffering the trauma of having people laughing, doubting and snickering behind our backs, I want them to know how proud I am of my family. I don’t know many who could have stood up to the extraordinary pressures they had to face. Three, I would like people to know why I let the newspaper publish our story. And four, I want to thank, publicly, the many people who called and wrote to assure us that they did believe our incredible story and the surprising number who offered to help.
I am especially grateful to the teenagers in town who never lost faith in us; helped in every way they could and defended us even though, in doing so, they sometimes got into trouble. Our families, both Phil’s and mine, and, of course, Father Al, deserve a special thanks since, without their support, we could not have held on as long as we did. Perhaps I am also writing to convince myself that what happened actually did happen.
No one seemed to realize that our family was the first to doubt; our family was the first to question; our family was the first to seek some rational explanation to some very irrational happenings. I am also using the book to bring some semblance of order to events that seemed, at times, to flow together. I can’t possibly tell every little thing that happened because, after a while, everything took on a dreamlike quality and, unless an event were written down when it happened, we tended to forget it. We also began to accept as normal, things which were decidedly abnormal. Believe me, that’s a danger signal.
Now, I will begin the story. Did you think I already had? Those were only the preliminaries. Now, to begin. I have decided to tell our story in semi-diary form so that I can sort out not only the events but our changes of attitudes as well. The people involved besides our family will be identified as they appear. I am using first names only so as to avoid any embarrassment to those involved.
At the point where the story begins our family consisted of: Me, of course; at the time of the story I was 37 years old. Phil, my husband, was 39. Mike, who at 17, was very conscious of his age and took his increasing responsibilities seriously when his father wasn’t home. Because he considered himself short at 5'7", he tried to make up for his lack of height with a keen sense of humor and a compulsive, perpetual motion. Beth, 16, with her long brown hair and laughing brown eyes, was my right hand. We are very much alike and, without her, I doubt I could
have withstood the ordeal. No matter how bad things got I could always talk it over with Beth and then we’d laugh together. Laura, 12, was the only one of the kids who inherited my blue eyes. She was an eternal optimist and, so we’ve come to believe, the most psychic in the family. All her life I had considered Laura fey. Perhaps I was right. Mary, 11, had brown eyes and the most beautiful wavy blonde hair that gets lighter as the sun touches it. Poor Mary, she was in a state of constant fear because her room seemed the most troubled. At 11, or any other age for that matter, one shouldn’t be expected to deal with the paranormal.
We also had the following animals at this point: our three dogs–Lassie (a collie), Julie (terrier mix) and Peanuts (a German Shepherd and St. Bernard mix); two cats–Fluffy (part tabby and part angora) and Jinx (the classic black cat); two raccoons–Gypsy and her son, Jasper; one guinea pig–Barney; two parakeets–Pixie and Jingles; and our pet skunk–Dolly (de-scented). I will ask you to read the event following with an open mind because THEY ARE ALL TRUE!!
Chapter 5
Friday–June 29, 1973
What a beautiful day it was today! I could feel the promise of a good summer coming up. Laura had to have her eyes examined in Olean so Phil offered to take her while I went for my usual visit to the doctor. I had no idea the results of whiplash would last so long. In fact, to my embarrassment, I have always considered whiplash victims to be malingerers. Poetic justice. I found out I was wrong the hard way. Serves me right, I guess. The rest of the kids decided to go along with Phil into town. Since their father isn’t home very often, I’m always glad when they have some time with him. In their absence, I had some time to myself, a rare thing. Since our house is usually filled with kids, I decided to enjoy my solitude and read in peace for a change.
I am a voracious reader who scans labels on packages in the absence of any more thrilling reading. I settled down on the couch in the living room with a big sigh when suddenly I heard what sounded like a big pile of newspapers fall. Since I had just finished straightening the newspapers piled on a desk on the front porch, I assumed I hadn’t done a good job. Reluctantly, I got up from my comfortable seat and went to the porch to check.
The porch was one of my favorite places. The windows still enclose it and will remain in place until summer makes its final appearance. They overlook a panorama of magnificent trees still shaking off their winter sleep. Taking a moment to enjoy the panorama, I saw beautiful scenery but no fallen newspapers. They were still piled just as I had left them. Puzzled, I searched the whole house and could find no papers fallen anywhere. Weird! I thought. Finally, I shrugged mentally and went back to my book.
I had barely gotten settled when, without any warning the window directly in front of me and at a distance of about ten feet, slammed shut. The windows in this century-plus old house are ancient and have no sash cords so when one of them falls the whole house shakes. I jumped three feet in the air. When I looked, the window had not fallen! Again, I checked the house but, again, could find no cause for the sound. All the windows that had been open to let in the warm air were still open. I was puzzled and more than a little disturbed. Still, it must have a natural explanation. Mustn’t it? Resolutely, I decided to ignore the whole thing and get ready for my appointment with the doctor. So much for peaceful reading!
Because of the absurdity of the occurrence, I decided not to mention the episode to Phil. Besides, he’d probably think I was imagining things. Am I?
Monday–July 2, 1973
In spite of my new awareness caused by the strange sounds last Friday, I am pleased to report that nothing further has happened. Perhaps naïvely, I am, therefore, going to attribute the whole thing to natural causes or an overactive imagination. However, don’t ask me what natural causes and don’t ask me how an imagination can cause you to hear a noise as loud as that one. I hope I’m not whistling in the dark.
Today, as usual, Phil left for work at about 9 p.m. and everything seemed normal. He has been spending more time at home lately and I have hopes that this is a good sign. Beth, Mike and I are the only ones home. Laura and Mary have gone to Buffalo to spend the weekend with my mother and father. Our evening was pleasant and unspectacular. We went to bed about 11 and I dropped right off to sleep.
At about 3:30 in the morning a scream coming from downstairs sent me leaping from my bed. I grabbed my bathrobe and dodged Lassie, Julie and the two cats to get down the stairway. The stairs are steep and I am always very cautious when I descend. I managed to get one arm in my robe correctly but didn’t realize I put the other sleeve on inside out so that the robe crossed in back. All the way down the stairs I tried frantically to fix my robe. Maybe my preoccupation with the robe kept me from becoming too panic stricken at the screams still echoing from Beth’s room.
There were no lights on in the house and I stumbled over furniture as I fumbled in the pitch darkness for a light switch. In the country there are no street lights and the darkness is absolute. I finally managed to calm my shaking hands long enough to find a lamp and light it. Anxiously, I looked in Beth’s room and saw her lying with her hands pressed to her eyes. Peanuts was offering her a shoe–his idea of a pacifier.
When I finally got her calmed down, she told me that something had attacked her although she didn’t seem too sure of what it was. Fluffy had been sleeping on her bed but left when Beth got up to get a drink of water a little before 3:30. She was no sooner back in bed when “something” landed on her stomach. It took her eyes a second to accustom themselves to the dark, so all she could make out was a shadow resembling a cat. Suddenly, it went for her face. Instinctively, she swung her arm to knock it off. It was soft and furry, like Fluffy, but smaller–more the size of Jinx. It wasn’t until she realize that the “thing” didn’t hit the floor that she started to scream.
Since I knew both cats had been upstairs when she screamed, I knew it had been neither of them. Peanuts is part German Shepherd and part St. Bernard so size alone ruled him out, as it did the other two dogs. Besides, none of our animals would have attacked any of us. I made Beth come to my room for the remainder of the night. As we climbed the stairs, I could feel goose bumps belatedly rising on my arms. Settling quickly into bed, we talked of everything but the subject uppermost in our minds. Thankfully, dawn brought relief and blessed sleep.
Tuesday–July 3, 1973
Well, he did it again! This morning, with superb understatement, Mike sleepily asked: “Was Beth crying last night or something?” When I told him what had happened, he couldn’t have been more blasé, giving me the distinct impression that he didn’t believe us. To add to the mystery, I found what appeared to be animal excreta in front of Beth’s door this morning. At first I was angry with the cats but, since I knew they were well trained and fastidious, I found their “goof” hard to believe. Besides, the matter was grayish green and slimy but odorless. It resembled greasy modeling clay.
As I cleaned it up it occurred to me that I had seen the same substance once before. Belatedly, the light began to dawn. Beth had broken her arm in April and had screamed the same way one night while she still had her cast on. She had swung her arm, the one with the cast, and it hit her dressing table. At the time, she could give me no explanation. Now I questioned her about it again. The last time she saw the “thing” come at her from behind the bed, she thought she was dreaming. The fear of being thought foolish kept her from telling us what had happened. So this wasn’t the first time. The day following the first incident, I had found the same “message” near the entrance to her room and grumblingly blamed the poor cats. Now what are we dealing with?
Phil only half believed us when he got home and probably thought that Beth was dreaming. But he hadn’t seen her face. I also knew she hadn’t been asleep when it happened. As so often happens with mothers, it had drifted through my sleep that Beth had left her bed and I half heard the water running in the bathroom. That’s probably why I woke up so easily.
Mike won’t be home tonight. He and his f
riends are leaving early in the morning for the amusement park at Crystal Beach in Canada so they’re spending the night together in one of their houses. Phil will be here, though, so maybe nothing will happen. I don’t know why I think that or why I should have to.
Wednesday–July 4, 1973
At least it was quiet last night. Maybe the whole thing was our overactive imaginations. Phil and I came down to have breakfast about 10 o’clock this morning. To get to the stairway Phil had to pass by Mary’s room so I would assume if anything had been wrong in there he would have noticed. He doesn’t miss much. Failing that, I myself would have seen anything out of the ordinary.
After breakfast, I went back upstairs to get dressed. I glanced in at Mary’s room as I passed and saw her milk glass lamp on the floor. The base was about three feet from her nightstand while the heavy glass chimney was right at the doorway, about seven feet away. The bulb had shattered all over the room. I was stunned.
The lamp has fallen before and the sound echoed through the house. It is very heavy. Beth sleeps directly under Mary’s room and would have heard even a light sound, especially since we have become overly sensitive to anything out of the ordinary. Not only that, but I had seen Beth move the lamp on the nightstand the night before. As is the habit in this animal-oriented home, she caught the cord behind the stand so none of the animals could trip over it. Beth had been getting Mary’s seldom-used night light which was in the shape of the Infant of Prague. As a family, we liked to sleep in the dark but I didn’t blame Beth for wanting a night light. Before too long, we would all become addicted to night lights and would not be ashamed to admit it.
Echoes of a Haunting - Revisited Page 5
