by Maureen Wood
As I listened, I couldn’t help but have my doubts about that story. Just as I finished the interview, I could feel a surge of cold air rush by me, causing the little hairs at the base of my neck to stand at attention.
“Something’s here!” Bob said with a broad grin. He felt it too.
We didn’t have to be told. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.
It was time to see if we could find any evidence to validate the stories we had just heard. Maureen rejoined us and we gathered up our equipment to do a sweep of the building, while Ron Jr. monitored base camp. During a “sweep,” we go from room to room looking for evidence of ghostly activity, such as EMF spikes, unexplained temperature fluctuations, psychic impressions, EVPs, as well as video and photographic evidence.
EVP (ELECTRONIC VOICE PHENOMENA)
When a spirit manifests its voice by manipulating the white noise on a recorder. The voices of the dead are not heard by the naked ear, but are heard later upon playback.
It was now time to try out my brand new EMF meter, something I was pretty excited about.
After assembling the group, with meter in hand, I turned to Maureen. “Okay Maureen, you ready? Let’s see what you can do.”
* * *
With a sweep of Ron’s arm, he indicated I should get a move on. “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “Lead the way.”
Lead the way? Was he kidding? Not wanting to look inept, I plastered on a makeshift smile and prayed I appeared more confident than I felt.
The nervous energy I’d been fighting since I’d opened my eyes to start the day continued to gnaw at me. Before leaving my house that evening, I’d pulled a few tarot cards from my Voyager deck to gain some insight on what type of evening to expect.
I’ve been reading tarot cards all my life as a tool to connect me with other people’s pasts, presents, and futures. I don’t usually read for myself, but it isn’t every day that I’m invited to join a team of paranormal investigators in search of communing with the dead. To gather my nerve, I visualized the two cards I’d pulled: the Sensor, a sign to me that my senses were in overdrive, and the Magician, a card of dreams realized and manifestation. Although it was too early to know for sure, I’d say that the “manifestation” card was right on the mark. I’d known it the second I’d walked into the Windham Restaurant. The air danced with electricity, a sure sign to me that it was haunted, inhabited by an earthbound spirit.
Finishing our sweep of the first floor, we climbed the stairs to the second floor, Ron directly behind me with his EMF meter and the remainder of his team nipping at his heels. As we walked through the second floor of the restaurant, I felt a presence. Intuitively I knew it was a male spirit. By the weight of the energy, the lightness, and the fleeting feel of it, I knew he remained at a distance. His presence wisped around us, darting too and fro, coming close, then retreating just as quickly as he’d come. Having had more than twenty-five years, experience in dealing with the paranormal, I knew this activity meant the spirit was just as curious about us as we were about him.
That all changed a few moments later, when we walked into the room Ron referred to as the wait station, an undersized prep area with coolers, a sink, a counter, and some small appliances. The second we crossed the threshold, the atmosphere became dense and statically charged—it grabbed me like a live wire. It was the same feeling I’d experienced when we had first arrived. I glanced at Ron.
“A male spirit is here, and he is anxious to speak.”
We positioned ourselves to make communication. What was I thinking? The anxiety I’d been feeling up to now suddenly turned to claustrophobia as each member of our party filed in one by one. Ron stood to my right, Brian Bates to my left, Leo beneath the entranceway, and Tom, the cameraman, kneeling between us, the light of his camera burning my retinas.
“You ready?” Ron asked.
Gingerly I nodded my head. With all eyes on me, I began to feel a bit self-conscious. I’d never been on an outing with the group, and I was terrified of failing them. Although Ron hadn’t expressed any fears about the evening’s success, I sensed the New England Ghost Project had a lot riding on this investigation, especially with the television cameras rolling. I didn’t want to let them down.
Whether I liked it or not, there was no turning back. I pulled out my pendulum.
Although the spirits communicate with me in numerous ways, spiritual dowsing acts as a visual tool for those who are present to take an active role in the communication, so I’d decided to start with that.
SPIRITUAL DOWSING
Using a pendulum (a weighted bobber on a string or chain) to communicate with the dead via a series of rotations. The various rotations indicate “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” responses, and they vary from person to person depending upon each one’s own energy.
I lifted my pendulum between my thumb and forefinger, waiting for it to sway.
“How does that thing work?” Ron asked. By the eagerness in his voice, I knew I’d captured his attention.
“I’m using my psychic ability to tap into the energy around us. You know, that sixth sense that so many people forget about. First I make a connection. I mentally open myself up to energy that is reaching out to me. When my third eye begins to pulsate we begin to ask the spirit questions.”
I started off with the usual questions.
“What is a yes?”
The pendulum swung counterclockwise, indicating what a yes response would be.
“What is a no?”
The pendulum slowed, stopped, and began its circular swing to a clockwise rotation, indicating a no response.
“What is a maybe?”
Once again, the pendulum indicated its response; it slowed its movement then swung to and fro in a back and forth motion.
“Is there someone here with us?” I asked.
The pendulum swung counterclockwise. A yes.
But I didn’t need a pendulum to tell me that. I already knew.
“Are you a woman?”
The response was clockwise: no.
“Are you a man?”
The brass bobber rotated counterclockwise once again.
“Is your name Jacob?”
I knew intuitively it was, and then the pendulum gave a resounding yes.
“Can you feel this?” I asked Ron, excited that the spirit seemed to have been touched by the last question. Almost as if the mere mention of the name Jacob had garnered the ghost’s undivided attention.
“Feel what?”
“The air. It’s different. Heavy.” It wasn’t just heavy; it was inhabited. But how could I tell Ron that? It was the first night out with the group, and I wanted to be on my best behavior. Well, at the very least, I didn’t want him to think I was crazy.
“You don’t feel that?” I asked, sensing the weight of energy hovering above us.
Like a minnow chasing a shiny fishing lure, Ron became distracted by the sudden blaring of his EMF meter.
My attention returned to the spirit reaching out to us. My third eye pulsated with energy. It was spiraling, consuming my whole face in sizzling electricity. The heavy energy sapped my breath as if stones had been laid upon my chest.
A random thought popped into my mind, and with it a feeling of rage. Gathering strength, I moaned, “He’s not happy with the changes in the restaurant.” I turned to meet Ron’s glare over the glowing red light of his EMF meter. “This is his home. He doesn’t like what’s going on.”
“Tough. Tell him to get over it.”
My mouth said, “Be nice,” but my mind thought, What a jerk. Was he serious? Weren’t we here to help the spirits too?
An oddly familiar voice entered my mind, diverting my attention away from Ron’s momentary lack of respect. It was the reporter, Brian Bates. I could feel his thoughts; his unspoken words burned me to the core. He thought this was all a sham and that I was completely nuts. Not that I’m unfamiliar with this type of reaction to what I do, since I’d face
d it all my life, but for some reason, this time I took it to heart. Maybe it was because I’d wanted to make such a good impression with the New England Ghost Project . I suddenly felt like a fool in front of the camera. The fact that Brian didn’t believe me really pissed me off.
As if my thoughts were being flashed on a neon sign, an awkward silence filled the room. Once again Jacob’s energy grew stronger, and in a flash, I felt his anger reach out to me. Brian’s refusal to acknowledge Jacob’s existence had gravely insulted him. On some twisted level, I couldn’t help but agree. The silence erupted as a voice crackled over the radio.
It was the base camp. “The temperature’s dropped to 66.6 degrees!”
I felt his presence gathering more strength. Then—bam. Jacob’s energy tore through my abdomen like a freight train, doubling me over in pain. My body was a conduit, channeling a surge of supernatural energy. Instantaneously, the force barreling through me triggered the coffeemaker on the counter, turning it on. We jumped at the sound of suddenly spurting coffee.
An infrared photo taken at the time of the incident captures an energy spike surging through the coffee machine.
The faint aroma permeated the air. Feeling like I’d just been knocked over with a wrecking ball, I clutched my abdomen in an attempt to catch my breath.
“What the hell was that?” Brian shouted. He bolted for the door, not even waiting for a reply.
Over the buzzing in my ears, the frantic chatter of the rest of the group became nothing but a jumble in my mind.
Although Ron and I had worked together for no more than several hours at this point, he sensed my agony. “That’s it. Let’s get out of here.”
Ron grabbed my arm and guided me out of the wait station. His well-meaning efforts irritated me though. As he patted my back to comfort me, I inwardly shrugged him away, wanting nothing more than to cower in the corner and ride out the residual energy left like a fingerprint on my soul.
“Why don’t we go outside and get some air? You look a little pale.”
I hesitated. Jacob’s voice was still dogging me. “Wait. Wait, Ron.”
I closed my eyes in an attempt to hear Jacob’s weakened whisper. He wanted me back in the room. I’d had enough and mentally told him so. Undaunted by my refusal to return, he said, Leslie.
Leslie?
“Is there a Leslie here?” I called out. “Jacob’s calling your name.”
Ron immediately said, “No,” but was quickly corrected by Gay, Bob the videographer’s wife, as she scurried out from the adjacent dining area, straight toward Ron.
“My name is Leslie,” she said. Adjusting her Red Sox cap, she looked at me. “But I don’t use that name. What does he want?”
Even though I sensed that Jacob was already gone, I could see her excitement and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I thought quickly. “He wants you to take pictures,” I lied. I suspected Jacob only really wanted to prove he existed by whispering a name to me that I couldn’t possibly have known.
* * *
Brushing by me and Maureen, Gay entered the wait station, snapping away. The click, click, click of the camera and the buzzing of the group filled the hallway. They were still shocked at what we had just witnessed. I stood transfixed for a moment while I attempted to digest what had just transpired between Maureen and Gay. Leslie was Gay’s real name—but Maureen could not have known that, since it was the first time they had met. What an amazing connection.
Maureen’s first spiritual contact with Jacob had been swift, and laden with pain. But there was no way we could call it a night now. The house certainly had paranormal activity, and I wanted to see the scope of it. Some spirits inhabit their favorite rooms, while others roam. If we left before completing our investigation and doing a walkthrough of each room in the house, we might have never known if the house had any other spiritual communication to offer.
I turned to stare at Maureen. Happy to see the color returning to her face, I asked, “Are you ready to continue with the investigation?”
She nodded.
We first entered the dining room to the right of the wait station, making our way in a continuous loop from room to room with little else happening but the creaking of the floors. Not having worked with a psychic before, I looked at Maureen to gauge her reaction. “Are you picking up anything?”
She narrowed her stare, as if she read my thoughts. “No,” she replied abruptly.
We made our way toward the narrow stairs to the third floor. Maneuvering past the ill-placed vacuum cleaner, we climbed the stairs. I hesitated as I reached the top of the landing and pointed above us. I directed my question to our photographer. “Right here. Remember the picture that Jean Pierre showed us, Leo?”
“Oh yeah. The Christmas packages, I wish I’d been there to see it in person.”
I then realized the group had no clue what we were talking about. Leo was referring to another incarnation of the restaurant, when Jean Pierre, the previous owner, had had a strange experience. “The previous owners had these empty boxes wrapped up like Christmas packages,” I explained. “When they came in one day, they found the boxes stretched out like a bridge from wall to wall. Hanging in mid air.”
Leo chimed in, “Yeah. You’d need a lot more than a ladder and a couple of guys to pull off that stunt.”
We walked to the end of the hall and entered the room on the right with Maureen in the lead. Turning the corner, she jumped back, slamming into me. “What the hell is that?”
I scanned the room and saw the source of her terror. There, in front of us, stood a life-size statue of a chef. Encased in shadows, it had an ominous presence, becoming more than just a statue. It took on the persona of a doll from one of those horror flicks. I half expected to hear, “Hi, I’m Chucky, wanna play?”
We laughed, breaking the tension that had clung to us since Jacob’s visit.
Just then I glanced down at my EMF meter. Although we were picking up fluctuations in the electromagnetic field, they were minimal at best. Disappointed, I changed tack. “Okay, let’s go to the basement.”
The basement door creaked when we opened it, like it was crying out in agony. Was this a sign of what was to come? We weaved our way through the old cellar; with a flick of my hand I brushed away cobwebs as we went.
“Ewww. I hate spiders,” Maureen said, as she followed close behind.
“You aren’t afraid of ghosts, but you’re scared of a little spider?” I asked with a laugh.
After ducking under heating pipes, we reached the back of the basement where the cellar door was. Almost immediately my meter began flashing. Its eerie red glow illuminated the expression of pain in Maureen’s face.
“He’s here. Right between us.”
Maureen’s words confirmed what my meter was already telling me.
Once again Ron Jr. reported a temperature drop, and Maureen told us that she could feel electricity filling the basement. We attempted to make contact via the pendulum, but to no avail.
“He’s agitated,” she said. “No…he’s pissed and getting more angry by the moment…He doesn’t like you, Ron,” Maureen said, as if afraid to tell me.
Great, I’ve got another fan, I thought sarcastically. I swear, if there’s a post office on the other side, my picture is hanging in it. It seems some of the nastier spirits resent my lack of respect for them. However, just as in the real world, I believe respect is earned. And this was no different.
I heaved a heavy sigh. I looked at Maureen’s drawn face, and since it was our first investigation together, I wasn’t sure how much more pain and discomfort she could withstand. Given that Jacob seemed to be hostile, I thought it best to end the investigation.
All in all, though, it was a successful night. It even left the skeptic reporter Brian Bates shaking his head. That was a good sign, since we had agreed to provide WNDS with a weekly series, a spotlight on the newscast. A four-week haunted crescendo with a Halloween night finale meant we still had three more investigations to
go. I chuckled to myself when I thought of Brian’s reaction to the coffeepot incident. Hmmm. Maybe I’d make a believer out of him yet.
There was also the question of Maureen. I thought she would be a great addition to the staff of the Ghost Project, but I wanted to see a little more of her work.
I wouldn’t have long to find out. I had another test for her next week, when we investigated the Phillip Knight House.
RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION
To Vess and Lula’s delight, we were able to verify that the Windham was indeed haunted. Infrared photos taken during the investigation revealed an energy spike going through the coffeemaker as it turned itself on during Maureen’s communication with the spirit named Jacob. Even more interesting, later research into the property revealed that a German immigrant who once owned the land was named Jacob. The owners were impressed by the results of the investigation and, because of those results, coupled with the rate of paranormal activity there, requested we return.
episode three
THE PHILLIP KNIGHT HOUSE
CASE FILE: 6251867
THE PHILLIP KNIGHT HOUSE
Location: Middleton, Massachusetts.
History: Phillip Knight Jr. built the home in 1692 for his bride, Rebecca Towne. She was the niece of Mary Estey and Rebecca Nurse, who were convicted and executed for witch-craft in the Salem Witch Trials. This house was in the Knight family for two hundred years, later becoming the Blue Door Inn Bed and Breakfast.
Reported Paranormal Activity: Apparitions, unexplained noises, and moving and disappearing objects.
Clients: Ethel (owner).
Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Ron Jr. (investigator).
Press: Brian Bates (reporter WNDS), Tom (Brian’s cameraman).
Ron, are sure you know where you’re going?” Maureen asked. This was the first time she’d questioned my directional skills, but sure as shooting, it wouldn’t be the last.
