by Maureen Wood
“We’re men of science.” Ron’s grin widened again, and this time I thought his face would crack. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
Wendy took a crisp twenty-dollar bill out of her pocketbook, and then turned to her mesmerized audience. “Now watch,” she commanded. She folded the bill lengthwise and placed it on the chair. “Without the use of my hands I will pick up this twenty-dollar bill,” she said. Turning her back to the chair, she glanced over her shoulder as if calculating her stance. Wendy adjusted her miniskirt. In one quick motion she sat down on the chair, and bounced back up.
“What’s the trick?” Ron asked.
She smiled. “This,” she said, as she reached her right hand between her butt cheeks and pulled out the twenty-dollar bill. She waved it in the air, like an honor guard raising a flag in a parade.
She walked over to me. “Maureen, would you like to try it?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Look, I’ll even make it sanitary.” Wendy took the twenty-dollar bill, unfolded it, then folded it in the opposite direction. “There, now it’s all ready for you.”
I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “No, that’s okay…”
Jeff, not one to refuse a challenge, jumped at the chance. Within seconds he was standing with his back to the chair. “So what do I do?”
Wendy let out a hearty laugh. “When you feel your bum hit the chair, squeeze your cheeks together.”
Jeff sat down, then stood up. The folded bill remained on the chair.
“One more try,” Jeff said, as he took the plunge yet again. “Wahoo!” He screeched as he reached his hand behind and plucked the twenty-dollar bill out of the seam in his jeans.
We all started clapping.
Jeff, addressing the smiling onlookers, said, “It’s always good to learn a new skill; that gives me something to fall back on in bad economic times.”
Laughter filled the studio as we began to pack our equipment.
Although I’d felt a little embarrassed during the show, Wendy was a genuinely nice, fun-loving person, and I found myself feeling way more comfortable as we made our way out the door than when we’d first arrived.
“Maureen, do not open your car yet!” Ron said as he circled my Audi, blessing the windows with holy water. Then, after spraying a healthy portion of “special blend” over himself, he said, “Okay, I think I’m good.”
“I’d say. That’s a little overkill, isn’t it?”
“Let’s just say that our friend the transvestite is one hitchhiker I don’t want following me home.”
I couldn’t help it—just hearing him say it made me throw back my head and laugh.
RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION
We’ve had a lot of interesting cases in the past, but never a case like this. There were surprises at every turn, or should we say “twirl.” Wendy the pole dancer, we later found out, authored two books: Pole Dancing for Dummies and, much to our surprise, The Deaths of The Popes. Jeff and Rob were able to reproduce similar light anomalies, but could not reproduce the movement that was seen in Wendy’s video. We concluded that Wendy’s studio was in fact haunted. The twist came when Maureen sensed the spirit of a black transvestite, who was more infatuated with Ron than Wendy. Since this investigation, Wendy has moved, and to her delight, it appears the spirit has followed her.
episode fifteen
THE LIZZIE BORDEN HOUSE
CASE FILE: 6321947
THE LIZZIE BORDEN HOUSE
Location: Fall River, Massachusetts.
History: On August 4, 1892, Mr. and Mrs. Borden were murdered with an axe. Lizzie Borden, their daughter, was accused of being the murderess. However, Lizzie was put on trial and acquitted of all crimes.
Reported Paranormal Activity: Impressions in the beds, guests who have reported being touched, orbs and mists in photographs, unexplained noises, and voices of the dead (EVP).
Clients: Lee Ann (the owner), Emily (tour guide).
Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Laura (photographer), Ron Jr. (investigator), Jim (EVP specialist), Gavin (Welsh psychic), Martin (Gavin’s manager), Byron (UK investigator from the ghosthunting group, Haunted Devon), Pippa (BBC correspondent).
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
And when she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.
~Author Unknown
I did my best to push the popular Lizzie Borden rhyme to the furthest recesses of my mind. It made me nervous, although I knew the rhyme was an over-dramatization of the actual events of August 4, 1892. I distracted myself by chatting with Gavin Cromwell, a psychic visiting from Wales who was accompanying us to Fall River. With foreign guests in town, Ron called Lee Ann, the owner of the Lizzie Borden House and a former guest on Ghost Chronicles, to see if we could host a UK/US investigation of one of America’s most haunted sites.
“I sense there was a large shed or barn in this exact spot,” Gavin said as I slid the car into a parking space behind the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast, which was now closed for repairs.
The infamous Lizzie Borden House in Fall River, Massachusetts
Unlike Gavin, the only sense I was getting was one of foreboding. No matter how many investigations I’ve been on, I am never sure what we will encounter. Unsure how to answer him, I remained quiet as we made our way to the small brown clapboard building to our left.
“Good evening, everyone, I’m Lee Ann. So glad you all could make it.”
Over the clamor of voices I heard bits of Ron’s introduction of Gavin to the host. “He’s a psychic visiting us from Wales.”
I gazed around at the shelves piled with Lizzie Borden paraphernalia: various sizes of stained-glass ornaments in the shape of hatchets, Lizzie Borden hatchet earrings, baseball hats and T-shirts with macabre sayings, bobbleheads, water with a Lizzie label, and other items too numerous to even mention.
Lee Ann pulled out a small bottle with what appeared to be sand in it. “Our new hottest seller: authentic brick dust. It’s collected from the decaying bricks of the haunted basement of the Borden home.” She held out her hands like Vanna White displaying a letter. “Look, we tag each one with a stamp of authenticity. Not only that, but the proceeds benefit the renovation of the property.” She grinned as she placed the bottle in Gavin’s hands then, covering his hands with her own, she gently squeezed her hand closed. “Tell me. What do you feel?”
“Oh my God,” Gavin said in his thick Welsh accent. “It’s very powerful, isn’t it?” He placed his free hand to his temple and closed his eyes. “Well, I never.” Eyes still closed, he gently shook his head from side to side. “My goodness, the basement is a very scary place.”
Lee Ann’s eyes sparkled. “It is a very scary place. But I won’t give anything away.” She raised her head and looked around the room, then looked back at Gavin. “I can’t wait until you’ve finished with your investigation. I so look forward to hearing what you pick up.”
I took my place behind Gavin as we began the investigation. That way I had an opportunity to compare another psychic/ medium’s impressions to my own. My own little experiment.
Not more than two steps into the hallway of the house, I felt an overwhelming sense of evil oozing out of what I presumed to be the basement. As if Gavin and I were connected by an ethereal string, we reacted in unison, sidestepping the open door to our right. I took a series of short, shallow breaths as I tried to relieve the pressure of what felt like a hundred-pound weight upon my chest. Hoping to escape the sudden onslaught of discomfort, we hurried into the kitchen.
“Wow, Maureen, did you feel that?”
“Yeah. That was horrendous. My chest is still killing me.” Then I felt something else. “Gavin, are you getting anything here? I’m feeling the presence of a woman.”
He began to stumble around the kitchen, moving back and forth with his fingers to his forehead. “I’m getting the name Abby.”
As Gavin spoke of Abby, sending o
ut a cosmic calling card, my third eye began to throb. I looked at Gavin and thought of our drive over. He’d told me that he owned a Lizzie Borden doll that he was fascinated with. Without being certain of how much prior knowledge of the gruesome murders Gavin had, I held my tongue. As for me, growing up in Massachusetts I’d have been hard-pressed not to hear the tales. Rather than compromise the investigation with names that I already knew, I decided to keep them to myself. What I didn’t know, however, was where in the house the crimes were committed.
With my thoughts and the pressure in my forehead spiraling out of control, enveloping my whole face, I began to feel as if I were wearing a mask, looking through eyes that were not my own. A sudden onset of emotions coursed through my body, burning me to the core: anger, hatred, repulsion. Over the sound of blood pumping in my own ears I vaguely heard Ron’s voice as I struggled for control.
“Gavin, what’s the problem?” Ron said as he entered the room.
“I don’t know. Look at her. She’s…”
Ron interrupted, closing the gap between him and me. “Maureen. Now’s not the time.” We weren’t ready for me to trance channel—we weren’t even set up yet.
The anger within me growing, my head raised slowly of its own accord, staring through the mask into Ron’s eyes. “Leave me alone!” I said, barely conscious. The words gurgled, torn from my throat.
I felt Ron’s hand on my shoulder. Sickened by his touch, I jerked away. “Don’t—touch—me.” My anger festered like a pus-filled wound.
“Maureen.” Ron pushed forward.
Once again repelled by his touch, I stumbled backwards. A sharp pain seared my lower back as I collided with the potbellied stove. My hand frantically searched for the hatchet I’d seen earlier, nestled in the basket on the floor. One part of me wanted to drive it into his skull, while the other part of me struggled for control. “Ron, get away from me!” I bellowed, clenching my fists, “Get away. I just want to kill you right now.”
Ron took a step backwards, while Gavin and Martin, Gavin’s manager, quickly retreated to the far corner of the kitchen. Bending at the waist, I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to control the urges that possessed my emotions. Reclaiming my soul, I mustered my free will, and with a mental shove, I evicted the vile presence invading my body. I looked up at Ron once again, this time through my own eyes, no longer through a mask.
“Are you all right?” Ron asked.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Why don’t we take Maureen out to get some air?” Martin said.
He gingerly approached me, taking me by the elbow and ushering me back through the short hallway and out the side door. Gavin followed.
A burst of cool air hit me in the face as we exited the building, a refreshing relief to my labored lungs. After a few deep intakes of breath, my body slowly regained strength. I’d only been here a short time, and I had already experienced far more than I really wanted to.
Martin slowly approached me and said, “Maureen, are you okay? You scared the bloody hell out of us.”
I turned and caught the wide-eyed stares of Gavin and Martin, “The cool air is helping a lot. Thanks.”
Gavin, feeling less nervous, joined in the conversation. “That was actually quite disturbing, Maureen, to see you like that. There wasn’t any warning at all; it hit you like a ton of bricks. You just fell into a trance, taking on the energies. I’m beginning to understand what’s happening here. The energy is so thick. It’s not good, not at all.”
We heard Ron’s voice through the door. “I guess we ought to go back in,” he said.
Gavin and I walked into the parlor. This time, feeling a little braver and more prepared, I closed my eyes to get a feel for the environment—and shuddered as a searing pain shot through my head. What was I thinking? Empathic abilities and murders don’t mix. I grabbed the left side of my head. It felt like my head was splitting open.
“This is horrendous. Maureen, I’m so glad I don’t feel their pain like you do,” Gavin said, as he picked up the 5x7 picture frame from the side table.
I walked up beside him, peering over his shoulder at the gruesome sight of Andrew Jackson Borden, Lizzie’s father, his body slumped to the side of a Queen Anne–style couch. Blood and gore spilled out of his head, splattered on the wallpaper. “Gross.”
“Oh my, would you look at this?” Gavin pointed from the picture to the green velvet couch we walked past as we entered the room. “Lee Ann, is this the original couch that Mr. Borden was murdered on?” he called, his voice loud enough to carry into the next room.
Lee Ann leaned into the parlor. “No. It’s an amazing copy though, isn’t it? Actually, I spotted the frame on eBay, bought it, then had a local guy do the reupholstering.” Stepping into the parlor, she leaned over and lightly caressed the couch. “He did a great job, don’t you think?”
The throbbing finally lessening, I replied, “I’d say.” It was true; the replica was nearly identical. In fact, the more I looked around the room, then back at the photograph, the more I noticed how meticulously the home had been restored. The flowered wallpaper. The heavy, velvet drapes. “Wow, Lee Ann. Did you do all the restorations yourself?” I asked.
“Pretty much. I’ve tried to capture the authenticity of the place. You know, to give our guests a genuine, unique experience.”
I thought about all of the people who were clamoring to spend the night in the Borden home and shuddered.
As we walked into another sitting room, I found that although I felt some energy, it wasn’t nearly as strong as in the parlor. That had me thinking. “Gavin, what is your impression of the area where Mr. Borden was murdered? To me, it feels like his energy is nothing more than a memory. It’s residual. More like a horrific imprint of his murder than an actual haunting.”
Gavin nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think Mr. Borden is still haunting this house.”
Ditto, I thought, as I listened to the sound of gear clanging off the dining room table. While Ron Jr., along with Ron and Jim, our new EVP specialist, continued setting up base camp in the adjoining room, Gavin, Laura, our photographer, and I amused ourselves with the array of period clothing hanging in the front hallway. Finally, getting antsy, we headed for the stairs to venture onto the second floor.
“What are you doing?” The screech of Ron’s voice stopped us short.
“What? We’re getting bored. I mean, really, Ron, it’s already after seven-thirty.”
“Byron and Pippa from Haunted Devon aren’t even here yet. And we’re not starting without them—after all they are my guests.”
“Fine.” This was getting ridiculous. Gavin and I were eager to explore.
No sooner had we retraced our steps back down the stairs than a knock resounded at the front door. Relieved, I smiled at Byron, the UK investigator, and Pippa, his girlfriend, a news reporter for the BBC. It was great to meet them since I had only seen them on our Halloween videocast, a live Internet video broadcast shown on Halloween with three ghosthunting groups—the New England Ghost Project, Haunted Devon (UK), and Haunted Australia—conducting simultaneous investigations in three different countries.
After a quick swapping of pleasantries, we walked into the parlor and began our investigation. Ron spoke into the microphone. “We’re in the parlor where, supposedly, Mr. Borden was murdered.”
Ron Jr. bellowed, “What do you mean ‘supposedly’? This was the murder room.”
“And how do we know that?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know, genius, maybe the evidence photo sitting over there might be a hint.”
The sound of laughter broke the growing tension in the room.
Then Ron continued. “Gavin, what are your impressions of this room?”
Gavin pointed toward the kitchen. “Whoever did this came in through that door, and to me, I’ve got to say, it feels like a male energy doing this killing. But upstairs, that might be different. This one was killed first, the other one, later.”
“What about you
Maureen?”
“Truthfully, I felt how he died, more than anything.”
Without saying a word, Gavin walked up to the bookcase and picked up the photo of Lizzie Borden and studied it. “I think she was a lesbian.”
Ron gazed at Lee Ann for her reaction.
With raised eyebrows she said, “Hmmm. That’s interesting.”
“Okey dokey. Moving on. Next room.” Ron said.
As we entered the next room, Gavin stopped. “I hate this room with a passion. I don’t like it. Immediately when I walked in, I felt like a blanket dropped on me.”
Since I had shared the same feeling, I added, “Yes, it’s a heaviness all around you, like you’re walking through a wall of energy.”
Gavin took several steps to the far corner of the room and stood next to a Victorian table lamp. “I feel that this was a room where they came to socialize.” Stopping short, he peered out the window and said, “I sense a female spirit, who comes to the house and peers in. She’s an acquaintance of the Bordens. She comes to the house often, but can’t or won’t come in. That’s all I’m getting in this room.”
Looking at Gavin and I, Ron asked, “Where to next?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Since we didn’t make it past the first floor for the past three hours, and we have no idea what’s upstairs, why don’t you guide us.” I said, not trying to hide the irritation in my voice.
Ron wrinkled his nose, then said. “Fine. Be that way.”
Jim, our EVP specialist, suggested, “Why don’t we go to the third floor? When I was setting up the IR camera I had a feeling that I was being watched.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Ron said.
* * *
I took the lead, with Maureen, Gavin, and the rest of the group close behind me as we made our way to the third floor.
We walked down the narrow corridor to the front of the house. Upon entering the room I caught an odd whiff. “Is it just me, or does anyone else smell this?”
The remainder of the team meandered past me, sniffing the air as they walked around the rich mahogany bed.
