Haunted Heartland

by Michael Norman

  John Webster, a Cleveland broadcast executive, told psychic investigators Richard Winer and Nancy Osborn Ishmael that when he visited the castle to gather material for a special program on its hauntings, a large tape recorder was torn from his shoulder and thrown down the stairs, smashing into pieces.

  During the visit of a television news cameraman, a hanging lamp turned in a slow circle. Ted Ocepec did not think vibrations from outside caused it.

  “I just don’t know,” he said, “but there’s something in that house.”

  Even owner Muscarello grew uneasy. He heard strange sounds and discovered articles taken from one place and put down in another. His plans for the church did not work out and he sold the castle.

  In 1978 former Cleveland Police Chief Richard D. Hongisto and his wife, Elizabeth, bought the property. They thought the twenty-room home, with its beautifully carved paneling and original wood plank floors, would be a perfect place to live, easily spacious enough for the large parties they liked to give.

  Yet less than a year later the Hongistos abruptly sold the mansion to George Mirceta, a buyer who was unaware of its haunted reputation. He had bought the Gothic castle for its solid construction and architectural whimsy.

  Mirceta lived alone in the house during the week and conducted tours on weekends. At the end of each two-hour tour, he passed out cards and asked the visitors to jot down phenomena they had observed—some reported seeing a woman in black in the tower room; others saw a woman in white. Still others complained of becoming temporarily paralyzed or of finding themselves babbling incoherently.

  Mirceta told reporters that he heard babies crying and saw chandeliers swaying. Still, he claimed to be unafraid—he would not live there, he said, if the castle was haunted. “There has to be a logical explanation for everything.”

  Franklin Castle has continued to change tenancy and ownership. Most recently the castle, which is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, was purchased by a European artist with the stated intention of turning it into a multiple-family dwelling. In 2015 a ghost hunting expedition from a cable television channel spent several hours there. Included in their report was a claim that they heard a disembodied voice.

  “Get out!” it cried.

  The Ethereal Innkeepers

  Granville

  Shutters bang on windless nights. Stairs creak. Floorboards groan. At first, Mary Stevens Sweet thinks the noises are the natural complaints of the rambling, old house settling down for the night. It is the late 1920s and Sweet has just taken over the management of the historic Buxton Inn in Granville, Ohio.

  Several weeks later, Sweet senses a presence on an upstairs outside balcony early in the morning, peering over the railing to the lilac bushes below. In the evening, something follows her into the ballroom where once the night was filled with fiddle music and the rhythmic beat of dancing feet performing an old quadrille.

  Before long, Buxton Inn guests say they are being awakened to find a forlorn figure leaning against their bedpost. The flowered wallpaper makes it obvious the unannounced guest is quite transparent.

  Other guests are startled when they spread their hands to the fire on the hearth and see a pair of pale, indistinct hands warming themselves beside their own.

  There is no doubt in Mary Sweet’s mind now. This inn is haunted.

  The Buxton Inn was built in 1812 by pioneer Orrin Granger, a Massachusetts native who moved to Ohio to seek a better life for his family. Originally, the inn served as a post office and stagecoach stop. Drivers cooked their meals in the massive open fireplace in the basement and bedded down there on straw pallets. Through the years throngs of travelers of all sorts crowded the old inn, leaving the residue of their memories and emotions imprinted on the structure. Identifying a ghost might be difficult given such circumstances.

  In the Buxton Inn, identification came relatively soon, in an unexpected way. Fred Sweet, Mary’s son, woke up hungry one night, so he crept downstairs to raid the pantry. He reached for the pie shelf, but it was empty. A ghost stood in the larder, devouring the last wedge of apple pie.

  Sensing the young man’s disappointment, the ghost drew up two chairs and in a thin, reedy voice introduced himself as Orrin Granger, the builder. The apparition then regaled Fred with tales of the olden days when carriages rolled along the Granville Pike and stopped at the Buxton Inn for fresh cider and rashers of bacon.

  The friendly ghost confided that it approved of the way Mary Stevens Sweet was running the place, retaining the authentic nineteenth-century atmosphere and blending it with new, attractive furnishings and tasteful food.

  “No need for me to hang around any longer,” said Granger. With a wave of his hand and a gentle smile, he was gone.

  Years later, a psychic glimpsed the ghost of Orrin Granger again in the house. She described a gray-haired gentleman who looked like a country squire. He wore knee breeches and white stockings and was dressed in blue.

  In 1972 Orville and Audrey Orr purchased the Buxton Inn. The Orrs had heard tales of a ghostly lady in blue haunting the old hotel but were determined not to forfeit the purchase because of a “spook” wandering the premises.

  Orr, a soft-spoken former minister, spent two years restoring the inn to its original state, even to the vivid-pink clapboard siding. During that time he hired several young carpenters to finish work on the house. One summer evening as they packed their tools for the day, Orr told them the stories he had heard about a lady in blue and how she had frightened unsuspecting guests. The workmen laughed and said they did not believe in ghosts. Proof. That is what they demanded. Proof.

  That was not long in coming.

  One day an attractive young woman in a blue dress opened the second-floor stairway door, walked across the back balcony, and started down the steps. Then she evaporated before the workmen’s eyes. Proof they wanted, proof they got.

  The blue lady repeated her visit the next day and every evening thereafter, promptly at six o’clock. The workmen made sure they were finished before then.

  Who is this woman?

  She is generally believed to be Ethel Houston “Bonnie” Bounell, the establishment’s vivacious innkeeper from 1934 until her death in 1960.

  Bonnie was an immensely popular woman whose elegant looks lent an air of sophistication to the bucolic Buxton Inn. In her earlier years she had been a singer of light opera. Those who had known her remembered her hats and her lovely pastel dresses.

  In fact, blue was Bonnie’s favorite color.

  More specific information hinting at the ghost’s identity came later from a Cincinnati medium, Mayree Braun, and a founding member of the Parapsychology Forum of Cincinnati, who once toured the house. Although the Buxton Inn was unfamiliar to her and she knew nothing of its history, Braun reached some startling conclusions.

  She described seeing, clairvoyantly, a woman in blue, from modern times, accompanying her and Audrey Orr from room to room. The psychic said the woman was beautifully attired, had once been on the stage, and obviously liked hats. Mrs. Braun also remarked that the spirit was pleased with the restoration work the new owners were doing, especially the work done in the ballroom. The medium seems to have unknowingly described Bonnie Bounell.

  While medium Mayree Braun had identified this “lady in blue” as Bounell, another medium, Peggy Little, a Columbus area psychic and member of the British Spiritualist Church, said the ghost of a lady she had seen in the inn was wearing blue clothing of a much older fashion. Although unable to see the bodice of the gown, she did see a floor-length, blue-gray skirt and heard the rustling of its folds as the wearer swept across the floor. Peggy Little also saw a white cap on the woman’s head. She thought it might be Mrs. Orrin Granger, the wife of the original owner of the inn. Or was it Bonnie in another elegant gown?

  Orr himself witnessed unexplained incidents in the house. During the long renovation period, he often heard footfalls on the stairs and the slamming of doors in upstairs rooms when no other human
being was around. Sometimes he even heard what sounded like coins being dropped on the pegged wooden floors.

  Orr had never been scared of the presence, but once he did lose his patience. He had spent an entire evening alone in the inn and was preparing to leave when someone opened the front door, walked upstairs and across the second-floor balcony, opened the back door, and proceeded down the back outside staircase. An incredulous Orr determined no one had entered. All the doors were bolted and every window latched. The Buxton Inn was secure. Or was it? Tired and somewhat exasperated, Orr shouted at his “guest,” “If you want this place you can just have it.” Later he rethought the offer.

  On many occasions he encountered a shadowy male figure in various parts of the house. Orr finally decided that this was probably the ghost of Major Buxton, the inn operator from 1865 until 1905, and the person for whom it was named. The ghost of Major Buxton seemed quite harmless.

  “When we first purchased the building, employees would even set a place for the major at the table,” said Orr. “One waitress claims to have seen the major sitting in a rocking chair before the fireplace.”

  The Grangers, Bonnie Bounell, and Major Buxton may be the most prominent ghosts who haunt the Buxton Inn. But some say that there are other “visitors” whose identities may never be known.

  In the Tavern, located in the original basement of the house, stage drivers cooked and bedded down long ago. There, psychics observed many spirits, especially between nine thirty and eleven thirty at night when the energy level in the inn slows down.

  Peggy Little saw ghosts congregate on the stairs during the evening hours.

  “It’s almost as if they were a wall of feeling,” she told one reporter.

  Newspaper photographer Gordon Kuster Jr., of Granville, might agree. Kuster, visiting the inn in 1979, observed a pitcher fly off a table and crash to the floor.

  There is something about the Buxton Inn that seems to attract and retain its old caretakers. In 2014 Orville and Audrey Orr sold the Buxton Inn to a group of investors intent on preserving the building and restoring the inn and the restaurant to its long-ago splendor. Guests continue to report odd experiences at the historic inn, especially in room number 9, where they say they smell perfume and wake up to the feeling of a cat snuggling up against them at night. It seems that the ghosts of Bonnie Buenell and her feline companion remain very much in residence at the Buxton Inn.

  The Pirate’s Mistress

  Scioto River Valley

  The bottomlands of the Scioto River valley in central Ohio are rimmed by forested cliffs lush with undergrowth. Many years ago travelers reported seeing the ghost of a lithe, young girl gliding among the trees. At night they heard screams coming from the vicinity of a ruined mansion, followed by silence, another shriek, and then stillness.

  Some said the ghost was the spirit of the little Spanish girl that John Robinson was alleged to have murdered. At least they thought he had killed her. Authorities never did find her remains.

  John Robinson entered this wild, inhospitable Ohio country in 1825. He arrived at the village of Delaware, Ohio, with a party of trappers. The village at the time was only a few log huts strung along a portage between the Ohio River and the town of Sandusky on Lake Erie.

  Robinson himself was not a trapper, and he was not friendly with any of his traveling companions. He left them without so much as a good-bye or a wave of the hand, stopping for the night at the local tavern, two heavy packs in tow.

  The villagers were suspicious. Most foot travelers crossing the wilderness carried the lightest of loads. And while the tavern keeper, the blacksmith, and the stable boy welcomed the stranger and asked about his plans and what assistance he might require, Robinson remained distant.

  In the morning, the newcomer rented a saddle horse and set out to explore the local bottomlands and bluffs. In the depths of the nearly impenetrable forest, Robinson found the retreat he sought, a vast acreage of high-bluff country that afforded a splendid view of the valley below. He took title to the property that night and as soon as the deed was executed, he began designing a mansion grander than any home in Ohio. It was clear he had wealth beyond imagination, but he never revealed where he had gotten his treasure.

  Once the plans were ready, Robinson hired an army of stone and brick masons. They blasted from a hillside and cut and laid the rock with utmost precision. Stone by stone, foot by foot, the magnificent building rose in the forest. A master craftsman, Robinson finished the interior himself, carving mantels and cornices and the balustrade for the staircase from virgin oak and embellishing them with intricate patterns of astonishing beauty.

  Soon wagons arrived, bringing furnishings imported from Europe—heavy brocade draperies, gilded tables and chairs, desks and chests, trunks filled with linens, silver and dainty bone china. One large leather trunk held easels, canvases, brushes, and oils, while other chests contained books for the library. Such opulence was unheard of in the wilderness of the 1820s.

  Indeed Robinson planned for every eventuality, even the most certain of all—behind the house he had built a lavish mausoleum as his final resting place.

  When everything was finally finished, Robinson paid his bills in gold pieces. Now the villagers knew the contents of the leaden sacks Robinson had dragged into the tavern. The workmen were dismissed and the new homeowner retired within his house and bolted the doors.

  The little community waited for an invitation to the housewarming that never took place. Masons and carpenters who had worked on the house were angered; local officials who had helped Robinson procure the land were puzzled by the rejection. An occasional neighbor who stopped by the mansion to welcome its owner to the area was rudely turned away.

  But one day Robinson summoned a workman to make some repairs in the house. The man noticed the walls of the rooms were covered with the owner’s paintings, sweeping landscapes of rolling hills and baronial castles and great medieval halls reminiscent of Great Britain. Robinson indicated that he worked at his easel every day from morning to night.

  The one painting that astonished the workman the most covered an entire wall of the library. Its setting was the deck of a pirate ship. Dark, heavy-bearded sailors gathered on the stern of the vessel, the officers forward. In the center, the captain struck a swashbuckling pose, sword and pistols at his side, a bold and crafty look on his bronzed face. The workmen recognized the man in the painting immediately—it was Robinson himself. Even in the dim light, the likeness was unmistakable.

  Rumors flew. A pirate captain in Delaware County? How could that possibly be? Romantically inclined persons pondered chests overflowing with gold buried on the mansion grounds. And silver. Perhaps even rare jewels and gems. Others thought Robinson must be the black sheep of an aristocratic English family to account for his other paintings with their typical historical English themes.

  When Robinson was not painting, he roamed the forest, searching for rare stones and unusual rocks. A neighbor sometimes caught sight of him studying a specimen, turning it over and over in his strong, callused hands.

  Then one day local residents glimpsed a most unexpected stranger in the woods near the Robinson mansion—an exotic young girl, small and dainty with hair and eyes as black as the raven’s wing and a pale complexion faintly tinged with olive.

  In a brocade gown with lace-trimmed sleeves, some said she resembled a Spanish countess. There was a certain nobility in the tilt of her head and the way she moved silently through the light and shadow of the forest. Like Robinson, who had arrived two years earlier, the girl’s presence in such a rough landscape was astonishing. Not a single trader had met her on the portage paths.

  Rumor had it that the senorita (at least everyone assumed she was not a senora) served as a model for the artist’s paintings, that her portrait would be his masterpiece, the crowning achievement of his life’s work.

  Sometimes, in the waning light of summer afternoons, Robinson and the girl would be glimpsed seated side by side on a
stone bench in a clearing at the brow of a hill. But more often the girl was alone, darting like a small bird among the trees, or wandering the willow-fringed banks of the Scioto River.

  When the days shortened and the leaves fell, the girl was seen no more. Yet those who lived in the region said she was not silent. They claimed that the girl was dead. Night after night her chilling cries shook the forest and trembled above the valley floor. Word spread that Robinson had beaten her mercilessly when she displeased him and she died from the blows. The settlers were alarmed, but in this age before any organized law enforcement, no one was willing to interfere.

  Early snows laced the barren trees and filled the forest. The land lay silent. The great stone Robinson house was silent too. And sinister.

  Throughout the long winter, the villagers spoke of Robinson and his companion, of their strange behaviors. Not once that winter had the pair been observed.

  With the coming of spring, the snows melted and the river ran full; the trees leafed out and the birds returned. But still no sound came from within the mansion.

  John Robinson was nowhere to be found.

  Weeds choked the path to the front door, and vines and lichen clung to the damp foundation stones. Over all was an air of desolation.

  At last a few hardy farmers banded together and approached the house. They banged on the thick, forbidding oak door. No one came. Using a fallen tree as a battering ram, they crashed through and tumbled inside. There was no sign of life anywhere, only what remained of a furious struggle.

  In the library, filled with Robinson’s books and paintings, chairs and tables were overturned; the easel lay smashed on the floor. One wall bore the bloodied prints of tiny, slender fingers.

  Just above the bloodstains hung the life-sized portrait of the mysterious, albeit nameless Spanish girl.

  As the men stared, they later swore the colors of the painting seemed to intensify; her eyes flashed darkly and her lips moved as if to speak. The farmers turned and ran back to the village with their story. By nightfall everyone in and around Delaware knew the mansion now was haunted. The midnight stillness of that night and every night to come was pierced by the mournful cries of the sad senorita.