by Maureen Wood
“Of course I do,” I said. I was trying to put on an air of confidence, but truth be told, I hate driving. If I could just beam myself somewhere, like they did in Star Trek, I’d be happy.
“Here it is,” I cried, slamming on the brakes and taking a sharp left through a narrow opening between tall hedges. As the old Subaru crept down a hidden driveway, the harvest moon cast menacing shadows on the poorly lit pavement. At the end of the driveway, we stopped in front of a quaint wooden building with dark brown cedar shingles. It was the Phillip Knight house.
I stopped the car and shut off the engine. Mesmerized for the moment, we sat in stillness staring at the skulking structure.
After a minute Maureen turned to look at my son in the backseat, then at me. “Do you feel anything, Ron?” she asked me.
“Yeah, hungry, but then again, when don’t I?” I turned the question back to her. “Why…do you?”
“I sense someone looking out the window,” she replied.
“Yeah, you don’t have to be psychic to see that. That would be Ethel. She’s our host.”
Just then we were flooded by the headlights of an approaching vehicle. As I raised my arm to shield my eyes, I heard a familiar voice call out to me. It was Brian and his cameraman, Tom, from WDNS, ready for the second investigation of the four-part series. I’d chosen the Phillip Knight house, a place I’d investigated before for The New England Ghost Project television show. But back then, Maureen hadn’t been with us. This time, with her here, we might be able to get some psychic verification of paranormal activity.
Our group now complete, we walked across the windswept pavement to the porch, which was embellished with various Halloween decorations. The seasoned wooden door creaked slowly open, and there stood Ethel, a short older woman with a heartwarming smile.
“Hello, Ron,” she said in a slight Yankee accent. “How are you?”
“Better than nothing,” I quipped as the aroma of fresh-baked bread drifted out of what must have been the nearby kitchen.
Turning, I introduced the rest of my ensemble one by one as they filed past us and into the kitchen—and back in time. Well, it felt like that, anyway. The warm glow of a cast-iron stove filled the room. A heavy wooden table was surrounded by hunter green ladder-back chairs. Pewter candlesticks, a snuffer, and a wicker basket filled with pistol-grip silverware sat atop a white handcrocheted tablecloth.
“Wow, Ethel, where did you get all these antiques?” I asked.
Ethel looked wistful for a moment. “I picked them up here and there. My husband and I used to enjoy antiquing. But he passed away years ago.”
I caught a faint whiff of candle wax. But there were no candles lit in this sea of nostalgia. “Ethel, do you have any candles burning?”
She smiled knowingly. “No. However, it’s funny you should say that. Many guests have reported the smell of candles burning and the pungent odor of tobacco.”
“Ron, I know you like to take the scientific stance,” Maureen said. “But are you sure you’re not becoming more sensitive, and picking up on things?”
I frowned at Maureen. “I doubt it. I’m about as psychic as a brick.”
“Never say never,” she chuckled.
I was itching to get started. Since I had been there previously to film a television episode of The New England Ghost Project, I knew I wanted to start in the living room, or Victorian Room, as Ethel liked to call it.
We got Ethel settled in a blue Queen Anne chair beside the red brick fireplace.
“So, Ethel,” Brian began. “What’s the history of this house?”
Maureen and I joined Brian on the sofa, while Ron Jr. and Tom stood, each with a camcorder rolling.
“The original house, a four-room cottage, was built in 1692 by Phillip Knight Jr. as a wedding gift for his bride, Rebecca Towne of Topsfield. She was the niece of Mary Estey and Rebecca Nurse, who were hung as witches during the Salem Witch Trials.” Ethel paused for a moment. “As you know, Middleton was formerly part of Old Salem Village. Phillip Knight Jr. and his bride moved into the house. Unfortunately, he died an untimely death at the early age of twenty-seven.”
“How long have you owned the house, Ethel?” Brian asked.
“Twenty-three years,” she replied. “A psychic told me I was going to buy a dark house. The minute I walked over the threshold, I knew I belonged here.”
“Well, as Ron can testify, I am somewhat of a skeptic. But tell me, what kinds of things have happened here?” Brian asked.
“Lots of things. Most notably, previous guests have reported seeing a ghostly apparition of what appeared to be a sea captain. In fact, one of the guests captured his image in a photo. The likeness in the photo is a mirror image of a portrait we have of captain Henry Quiner. Henry Quiner was not a captain; however, he did come from Marblehead, Massachusetts, to live here in Salem Village, and everyone in town called him the captain.” She smiled. “Would you like to see the photo?”
“Yes, I would, but not right now.” He paused. “Ethel, would you like to add anything else?”
“Yes. The captain is not the only spirit that has been seen. White figures have been seen walking the grounds, and a woman in brown period dress has been seen in this room. I think her name is Rosemary, because I could swear I heard her name whispered in my ear.”
The lights flickered, as if someone or something were acknowledging the name. Ethel visibly shuddered, then briskly rubbed her arms. “Did you feel that?”
“Yes,” Ron Jr. answered. “It felt like a cold draft just swept through the room.”
Tom nodded in agreement.
Brian cleared his throat, seemingly a little nervous, almost intent on ignoring what had just transpired. “Ethel, please continue.”
“There have been so many strange things that have happened here…one time a couple visiting from England wrote in the guest book, ‘We awoke to find a figure of a man with gray hair and spiffy mustache standing over our bed. Had we known this place was haunted, we would have never stayed here.’ Even my brother-inlaw saw a ghost in a window. Guests have also heard the sound of people running up and down the stairs. Items disappear. Glasses spill by themselves. And the doorbell rings, before anyone can press the button. It’s as if the spirit is alerting us to their approach.”
“Interesting,” Brian said, shaking his head. “But Ethel, have you ever been really scared?”
“Oh yes,” Ethel said with a nod. “One night I woke up with a heavy pressure on my chest, like somebody was pushing down on it, but nobody was there.” She raised her hand to her chest to demonstrate what she was saying. “A psychic friend of mine told me that if it happens again, just tell them to stop it. It did, so I told them to stop. Since then I haven’t had any problems.”
“Okay, that’s good. For the rest of the interview, I’d like to follow the Ghost Project as they do their investigation.” Brian nodded in my direction. “You’ll hardly know we’re here.”
As we walked down the hallway, the wide plank floors creaked beneath our feet, adding an air of creepiness to our tour through the historic bed and breakfast.
We entered a room painted in rich pumpkin shades, with cream trim surrounding an oversized working fireplace.
“This place is amazing, Ethel.” Maureen said, her mouth agape.
“Yeah, terrific. You picking up anything?” I asked, ignoring Maureen’s apparent fascination with the surroundings.
“Actually, not really.”
“Then let’s move on,” I said, glancing at my silent EMF meter.
Ethel walked past the group, taking the lead. She guided us up through a set of winding stairs, until we reached what she’d said was the oldest part of the house. It was the only room, in fact, that still had its original flooring.
Brian, the next in line behind Ethel, turned the corner into the room and jumped. “What the hell is that!”
Ethel laughed. “That’s one of my dolls,” she said, pointing to a four-foot-tall doll with large gre
en eyes. Just like the doll at the Windham, it looked more like a creature from a horror flick than a child’s toy. “Did Ron tell you the story behind it?”
“No, Ethel, I saved it for you.” I looked at Brian, whose color was just returning.
“As you can tell, I like to keep my dolls in period clothing. But for some reason, I have found her numerous times with just one of her shoes missing.” Ethel moved closer to the doll, lifting the skirt slightly. “You can see that the stand she’s on doesn’t allow for it to be removed easily.”
She turned to face us. “One Christmas, at a family gathering, I found her again with one of her shoes missing. I said aloud, ‘Where is that darn shoe?’ then nearly choked on my own spit when the shoe, out of nowhere, slid across the floor toward me.”
“Seriously?” Brian asked.
“Yes. It happened right in front of everyone.”
“Is there anything else significant about this room?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I really don’t like sleeping here.” She walked over to the window on the far side of the room. “This is the window that Phillip Knight was believed to have fallen through and broken his neck.”
“Is this the room where your brother-in-law saw the ghost in the window?” I asked.
“No, that’s the ’20s room,” she said, as she made her way toward the door.
“Why do you call it that?” I asked.
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
* * *
I followed Ron and Ethel into the ’20s room. It had a large poster bed with Duco Gold trim and amber-colored beads dangling from the cloth lampshade. But it was the chintz material on the dressing table chair that gave it away. It was the roaring ’20s room. “Hey Ethel, how come there are no windows in this room?” I asked.
“This used to be a Masonic Temple,” she said, with a knowing smile. “That’s why I think there’s a lot of activity in here. Because of all the rituals they did.” She turned to Ron. “Do you remember when Brian the Monk was here? He went nuts.”
“Ron, sorry to interrupt, but who the hell is Brian the Monk?” asked Brian Bates.
“Brian is a Franciscan monk who was doing a thesis in the seminary on spirits. He had heard about a ghost book written by Bob Cahill, and he decided to go with Bob on an investigation and prove that he was full of crap.” Ron hesitated for a moment. “Instead he photographed six spirits that night and has been hooked ever since. I met him through Bob when Bob retired. I kind of picked him up on waivers. You know, like they do to professional baseball players when they’re no longer needed.”
Brian grinned. “So, is Brian the Monk a member of the Ghost Project?”
“Unofficially. He works with us sometimes, when our schedules don’t conflict. The last time we were here, he was almost positive that a ghost was going to materialize right over there,” Ron said, pointing to the far end of the room. “In fact, this is the room where we saw the name Rosemary on the ceiling.” Ron walked up to the dressing table and touched the lamp. “Light emanating from this lamp filtered through jewelry lying atop the dresser and projected the name on the ceiling.” He hesitated, his voice rising in excitement. “As Ethel said during the interview, Rosemary is one of the spirits believed to haunt this house.”
As they were talking, I couldn’t help but feel the level of energy escalating in the room. It swirled around me, rising from the floor, drawing closer and closer. Like a moth to a flame, the spirit called to me. It somehow knew I was listening. I called out, “Ron, there’s someone here.”
With the last of my words, Ron’s EMF meter sprang to life.
“I think they want to make contact. Now.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get so huffy,” Ron grumbled as he circled me with his meter.
Barely in time for my pendulum to be ready, names and images quickly ran through my mind, almost too quickly. A young girl’s face. A familiar room. A favorite toy. The doll I’d just seen. Fragmented images bombarded my consciousness. As I closed my eyes to block out any distractions, I took a moment to sort out the onslaught of information. Then I blurted out, “It’s a little girl. Ten years old.” Once again, I struggled, focusing on the impressions in my mind’s eye. “Her name. It’s—Rebecca. No, Becky.”
“I thought you can only get yes and no answers with the pendulum. Where is this stuff coming from?” Ron growled, disbelief evident in his voice.
Some things were just hard to explain. Ron and I had only been working together for a short time, so on some level I understood his confusion, although I didn’t like having to justify what I was getting. “It’s hard to explain,” I said. “It’s like someone is putting messages in my mind.”
“So, it’s like tapping into their consciousness?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, that’s a good way of looking at it,” I replied as Ron’s meter went silent.
“They’re gone,” Ron stated.
“No, they’re not. She’s over there,” I said, pointing to the top of the stairs.
Following my lead, we walked to the top of the stairs, the meter blinking on and off, like a child flipping a light switch. “She’s playing a game with you,” I said, cloaking the satisfaction in my voice.
Brian spoke up, “Maureen, ask her if she’s the one playing with the doll.”
Echoing his question the pendulum swung wildly, a big yes.
A stabbing pain at the base of my skull suddenly broke my concentration. I cringed in pain, clutching the back of my neck. “What the heck?” The swirling energy had returned.
“What’s up?” Ron asked, with a look of concern on his face.
“I don’t know. My head is killing me,” I said, still holding my neck. “I think the pain is coming from Becky. She must have died from a head injury.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Ron Jr. snickered from behind the camera.
“Ha, ha.” The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I thought. “You know it’s not easy being empathic.”
“Empathic?” Brian asked.
“Yeah. I tend to feel how the spirits have passed.”
“Good to know,” Ron quipped. “Sure glad it’s you and not me.”
Typical, another Ron-ism, I thought. The throbbing pain began to recede, along with the spirit of the little girl. “Either she’s gone or she’s moved to another spot in the house,” I said, tucking my pendulum into the safety of my pocket.
Ron stood for a moment, silent, pondering what had just transpired. “This makes sense. It has to be the same little girl that Brian the Monk captured on infrared film, the last time I was here.”
An infrared photo by Brian the Monk of the spirit of a little girl (upper left hand corner)
He grinned at me. “Good catch.” He waited for a moment. “Are you picking anything else up? Is she still here?”
I closed my eyes and concentrated on my surroundings, opening myself up one more time. Nothing. “No. I’m afraid she’s gone. And I’m not picking up anything else.”
Ron frowned. “Fine.” Then he visibly sniffed the air, winking at Ethel. “That banana bread’s calling my name. Let’s go back to the kitchen.”
Within moments we were at the kitchen table, scarfing down the fresh-baked goodies. “Hey, why don’t we pull some cards on the house? Would you be up for that, Ethel?” Ron asked.
“Sure, do you need some playing cards?”
I glanced from Ron, who had offered my reading services, to Ethel. “No, I have my own cards and crystal ball.” I reached into the black bag I’d left on the table when we arrived and pulled out my tarot deck.
“Crystal ball?” Ron said, mockingly.
“Well, it’s not what you think it is—well, okay, it is,” I said with a chuckle. I reached into the bag once again and retrieved a four-inch round crystal. “See here,” I said, rotating the quartz for everyone to see. “All these fractures in it were caused by the energy of my clients when I do readings.”
“Yeah, I can see, it’s fracture
d like your mind.” Ron said, giggling like a schoolgirl at his own witticism.
I handed the crystal ball to Ethel, even though what I really wanted to do was crack Ron over the head with it. “Hold this for a minute, it’ll help me connect with your energy.” I looked at the way she scrunched her forehead, taking it as a sign that she was confused. “Ethel, there are lots of ways I use to connect with the energy of someone. This is just one of them. Think of it as nothing more than a tool.”
“A tool, just like you.” Ron piped in.
Man, he was on a roll. I decided to ignore him. It was better that way. Turning toward Ethel, I smiled and then continued, “When I do a series of readings in a row, it works as a way to break the energy from one person to another.”
“Okay. Now what?”
“Shuffle the cards for me, then draw six.”
Ethel handed them to me facedown, one right after the other. I laid them on the table in two neat rows. I turned each card over and studied them carefully. “Ethel, I can see you’re emotionally attached to this house. Which is why you’re so torn about your recent thoughts.” I glanced at Ethel. “You’re making a decision about whether or not to sell this place.”
“Yeah, you hit the nail right on the head.” Ethel shifted in her seat, looking a little uncomfortable.
I pointed at the card depicting a black cat and a collage of spiritual images. “See, this is the Sensor card. I believe this is why you felt the presence in the bedroom and heard the name Rosemary whispered in your ear.”
“What?”
“I think you’re a bit more psychically sensitive than most people, which is why you’ve had these experiences.”
I raised my head and caught the blank stares of the group, their faces suddenly unreadable. Are they bored? I just had a feeling they weren’t buying this.
“Thank you, Maureen,” Ethel said. “That was great.”
“Wait a minute.” I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling of unfinished business. “Let’s pull one more card.” With that, I spread the cards facedown on the table, accordion style. I lightly slid my hand across the cards, drew one out of the deck, and flipped it over.
