Ghosts

by Hans Holzer

  “I was frightened. I saw the bonnet and the apron and this woman shooing me away, and she seemed completely solid,” Mrs. Connacher said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I walked around in back of the trunk to see whether she was still there. She was. I said, all right, all right. But I didn’t want to look at her. I could feel my hair stand up and decided to go down. I was worried I might fall down the stairs, but I made it all right.”

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  “No. But there were all sorts of unusual noises. Once my husband and I were about to go off to sleep when it sounded as if someone had taken a baseball bat and hit the wall with it right over our heads. That was in the upstairs bedroom. The spot isn’t too far from the attic, next to the staircase.”

  “Have other people had experiences here?”

  “Well, my sister Clair had a dream about the house before she had been here. When she came here for the first time she said she wanted to see the attic. I was surprised, for I had not even told her that there was an attic. She rushed right upstairs, but when she saw it, she turned around, and her face was white; it was exactly what she had seen in her dream. Then there was this carpenter who had worked for me repairing the attic and doing other chores on the property. After he came down from the attic, he left and hasn’t been back since. No matter how often I ask him to come and do some work for me, he never shows up.”

  “Maybe the little old lady shooed him away too,” I said. “What about those cold spots Gus has been telling me about?”

  “I only have a fireplace and this small heater here. Sometimes you just can’t get the room warm. But there are certain spots in the house that are always cold. Even in the summertime people ask whether we have air conditioning.”

  “When was the house built?”

  “One part has the date 1837 engraved in the stone downstairs. The older part goes back two hundred years.”

  “Did any of the previous owners say anything about a ghost?”

  “No. Before us were the Turners, and before them the Link family owned it for a very long time. But we never talked about such things.”

  I then questioned Gus Kramer about the house and about his initial discussions with Mrs. Connacher. It is not uncommon for a witness to have a better memory immediately upon telling of an experience than at a later date when the story has been told and told again. Sometimes it becomes embroidered by additional, invented details, but at other times it loses some of its detail because the storyteller no longer cares or has forgotten what was said under the immediate impression of the experience itself.

  “Mrs. Connacher was holding an old, musty woman’s blouse at the time when the apparition appeared,” Gus said. “At the time she felt that there was a connection between her holding this piece of clothing and her sighting.”

  “Have you yourself ever experienced anything in the Connacher house?”

  “Well, the last time I visited here, we were sitting in the dim, cluttered living room, when I noticed the dog follow an imaginary something with his eyes from one bedroom door to the door that leads to the attic, where Mrs. Connacher’s experience took place. He then lay down with his head between his paws and his eyes fastened on the attic door. I understand he does this often and very frequently fastens his gaze on ‘something’ behind Mrs. Connacher’s favorite easy chair when she is in it. I assure you, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up like brush bristles while watching that dog.”

  I decided to get Ethel out of the car, which by now must have become a cold spot of its own. “Ethel,” I said, “you are standing in the living room of this house now. There is another story above this one and there is an attic. I want you to tell me if there is any presence in this house and, if so, what area you feel is most affected.

  “The top,” Ethel replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Is there a presence there?”

  “Yes,” Ethel said firmly. We had stepped into the next room, where there was a large, comfortable easy chair. I tried to get Ethel to sit down in it, but she hesitated. “No, I want to go somewhere.” I had the distinct impression that she was gradually falling into trance, and I wanted her in a safe chair when the trance took hold. Memories of an entranced Ethel being manipulated by an unruly ghost were too fresh in my mind to permit such chance-taking. I managed to get her back into the chair all right. A moment later, a friendly voice spoke, saying, “Albert, Albert,” and I realized that Ethel’s control had taken over. But it was a very brief visit. A moment later, a totally different voice came from the medium’s entranced lips. At first, I could not understand the words. There was something about a wall. Then a cheery voice broke through. “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?”

  When you are a psychic investigator, you sometimes answer a question with another question. In this case, I demanded to know who was speaking. “Loyal, loyal,” the stranger replied. I assured “him” that we had come as friends and that he—for it sounded like a man—could safely converse with us. “Will you speak to me then?” he asked.

  “Can I help you?” I replied.

  “Well, I’ll help others; they need help.”

  “Is this your house? Who are you?” But the stranger wouldn’t identify himself just yet. “Why were you brought in? Who brought you here?”

  “My house, yes. My house, my house.”

  “What is your name, please?” I asked routinely. Immediately, I felt resistance.

  “What is that to you, sir?”

  I explained that I wanted to introduce myself properly.

  “I’m loyal, loyal,” the voice assured me.

  “Loyal to whom, may I ask?”

  “His Majesty, sir; do you know that George?”

  I asked in which capacity the entity was serving His Majesty. “Who are you? You ask for help. Help for what?”

  We weren’t getting anywhere, it seemed to me. But these things take time, and I have a lot of patience.

  “Can you tell me who you are?”

  Instead, the stranger became more urgent. “When is he coming, when is he coming? When is he coming to help me?”

  “Whom do you expect?” I replied. I tried to assure him that whomever he was expecting would arrive soon, at the same time attempting to find out whom he was talking about. This, of course, put him on his guard.

  “I don’t say anymore.”

  Again I asked that he identify himself so I could address him by his proper name and rank.

  “You are not loyal, you, you, who are in my house?”

  “Well, I was told you needed help.”

  But the entity refused to give his name. “I fear.”

  “There is no need to fear. I am a friend. You are making it very difficult for me. I am afraid I cannot stay unless you—” I hinted.

  “When will he come? When will he come?”

  “Who are you waiting for?”

  “Horatio. Horatio Gates. Where is he? Tell me, I am a loyal subject. Where is he? Tell me.”

  “Well, if you are loyal, you will identify yourself. You have to identify yourself before I can be of any service to you.”

  Instead, the entity broke into bitter laughter. “My name, ha ha ha. Trap! Trap!”

  I assured him it was no trap. “You know me, you do,” he said. I assured him that I didn’t. “You know me if you come here, ha ha ha.”

  I decided to try a different tack. “What year are we in?”

  This didn’t go down well with him either. “Madman, madman. Year, year. You’re not of this house. Go.”

  “Look,” I said, “we’ve come a long distance to speak with you. You’ve got to be cooperative if we are going to help you.” But the stranger insisted, and repeated the question: When will he come? I started to explain that “he” wouldn’t come at all, that a lot of time had gone by and that the entity had been “asleep.”

  Now it was the entity’s turn to ask who I was. But before I could tell him again, h
e cried out, “Ben, where are you?” I wanted to know who Ben was, at the same time assuring him that much time had passed and that the house had changed hands. But it didn’t seem to make any impression on him. “Where is he? Are you he? Is that you? Speak to me!”

  I decided to play along to get some more information. But he realized right away that I was not the one he was expecting. “You are not he, are you he? I can’t hang by my throat. I will not hang by my throat. No, no, no.”

  “Nobody’s threatening you. Have you done anything that you fear?”

  “My own Lord God knows that I am innocent. If I have a chance. Why, why, why?”

  “Who is threatening you? Tell me. I’m on your side.”

  “But you will get me.”

  “I’ve come to help you. This is your house, is it not? What is your name? You have to identify yourself so that I know that I haven’t made a mistake,” I said, pleading with him. All the time this was going on, Gus Kramer, Mrs. Connacher, and my wife watched in fascinated silence. Ethel looked like an old man now, not at all like her own self. There was a moment of hesitation, a pause. Then the voice spoke again, this time, it seemed to me, in a softer vein.

  “Let me be called Anthony.”

  “Anthony what?”

  “Where is he? I wait. I’ve got to kill him.” I explained how it was possible for him to speak to us in our time. But it seemed to make no impression on him. “He was here. He was here. I know it.”

  “Who was here?” I asked, and repeated that he had to identify himself.

  “But I may go?” There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

  “Would you like to leave this house?”

  “My house, why my house? To hang here. My daughter, she may go with you.”

  “What is your daughter’s name?”

  “Where you lead, I go, she says. But she too will hang here if I do not go. She too. God take me, you will take me.”

  I assured him that he could leave the house safely and need not return again. “You will be safe. You’ll see your daughter again. But you must understand, there is no more war. No more killing.”

  “She died right here, my sweet daughter, she died right here.”

  “What happened to you after that?”

  “I sit here; you see me. I sit here. I will go.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m not so old that I can’t go from here, where the fields are fertile, and oh! no blood.”

  “Where would you like to go from here?”

  “Far away. Sweet Jennie died. Take me from here. He does not come.”

  “I promise to take you. Just be calm.”

  “Oh, Horatio, Horatio, you have promised. Why did he come instead of you, Horatio?”

  “Did you serve under Horatio Gates?”

  “Arnold, are you he? No.”

  “If you’re looking for Arnold, he’s dead.”

  “You lie.”

  Again, I explained, tactfully, about the passage of time. But he would hear none of it.

  “You lie to me. He will come. You lie.”

  “No,” I replied. “It is true. Arnold is dead.”

  “Why? Why, why, why? He is gone, is he?”

  “Is your name Anthony?”

  Eagerly he replied: “Oh, yes, it is. They don’t want me to go from here, but I must go, they’ll hang me. Don’t let them hang me.” I assured him that I wouldn’t. “My daughter, my sweet child. Oh why, because we swear allegiance to…Now I hang here. They will come to get me; they will come. Where is he? He has forsaken me.”

  “A lot of time has gone by. You have passed on.”

  “No. Madness. John, John, help me. Come quick.”

  I informed the entity that he was speaking through a female instrument, and to touch his instrument’s hair. That way, he would be convinced that it wasn’t his own body he was in at present.

  “John, John, where are you? I’m dreaming.”

  I assured him that he wasn’t dreaming, and that I was speaking the truth.

  “I am mad, I am mad.”

  I assured him that he was sane.

  “They hold me. Oh, Jesus Christ!”

  I began the usual rescue-circle procedure, explaining that by wanting to be with his daughter, who had gone on before him, he could leave this house where his tragedy had kept him. “Go from this house. You are free to join your daughter. Go in peace; we’ll pray for you. There is nothing to fear.” A moment later, the entity was gone and Albert had returned to Ethel Meyers’s body.

  Usually, I question Albert, the control personality, concerning any entity that has been permitted to speak through Ethel Meyers’ instrumentality. Sometimes additional information or the previous information in more detailed and clarified form emerges from these discussions. But Albert explained that he could not give me the man’s name. “He gives false names. As far as we can judge here, he believes he was hanged. He was a Loyalist, refusing to take refuge with Americans. He didn’t pose as a Revolutionary until the very end, when he thought he could be saved.” Albert explained that this had taken place in this house during the Revolutionary War.

  “Why does he think he was hanged? Was he?”

  “I don’t see this happening in this house. I believe he was taken from here, yes.”

  “What about other entities in this house?”

  “There have been those locked in secret here, who have had reason to be here. They are all still around. There is a woman who died and who used to occupy this part of the house and up to the next floor. Above, I think I hear those others who have been wounded and secreted here.”

  I asked Albert if he could tell us anything further about the woman who had been seen in the house. “I remember I showed this to my instrument before. She was wearing a white, French-like kerchief hat with lace and little black ribbons. There are two women, but one is the mother to this individual here. I am talking about the older woman.”

  “Why is she earthbound?”

  “Because she passed here and remained simply because she wanted to watch her husband’s struggles to save himself from being dishonored and discredited. Her husband is the one who was speaking to you.”

  “Can you get anything about the family?”

  “They have been in this country for some time, and they are Loyalists.”

  “Why is the woman up there in the attic and not down here in the rest of the house?”

  “She comes down, but she stays above, for she passed there.”

  “Do you get her name?”

  “Elsa, or Elva.”

  “Is she willing to speak to us?”

  “I can try, but she is a belligerent person. You see, she keeps reliving her last days on earth, and then the hauntings in her own house, while her husband and daughter were still living here. Sometimes they clash one with the other.”

  “What about the other woman? Can you find out anything about her?

  “I can describe her, but I can’t make her speak. She has dark hair parted in the middle and an oval face, and she wears a high-necked dress of a dark color. Black with long sleeves, I think. However, I feel she is from a later period.”

  “Why is she earthbound in the house?”

  “She had been extremely psychic when she lived here, and she has been bothered by these other ghosts that were here before her. Her name was Drew. Perhaps Andrew, although I rather think Drew was the family name. She died in this house. There was a man who went before her. A curse had been put on her by a woman who was here before her. It was a ghostly kind of quarrel between the two women. One was angry that she should be here, and the other was angry because she owned the house and found it invaded by those unwanted ‘guests,’ as she called them.”

  I asked Albert to make sure that the house was now “clean” and to bring Ethel back to her own self. “I will not need to take the woman by the hand,” he explained. “She will go away with her husband, now that he has decided to leave for fear they will hang him.” Wi
th that, I thanked Albert for his help, and Ethel returned to herself a few moments later, remembering nothing of what had transpired, as is usual with her when she is in deep trance.

  We had not yet been to the upper part of the house. Even though Ethel would normally be quite tired after a trance session, I decided to have a look at the second story and the attic. Ethel saw a number of people in the upper part of the house, both presences and psychometric impressions from the past. I felt reasonably sure that the disturbed gentleman who had called himself Anthony was gone from the house, as was his daughter. There remained the question of the other woman, the older individual who had frightened Mrs. Connacher. “I see what looks like a small boy,” Ethel suddenly exclaimed as we were standing in the attic. “I rather think it is a woman, a short woman.”

  “Describe her, please.”

  “She seems to wear a funny sort of white cap. Her outfit is pinkish gray, with a white handkerchief over her shoulders going down into her belt. She looks like a girl and is very small, but she is an older woman, nevertheless.”

  En route to another house at Hudson, New York, I asked Gus Kramer to comment. “Benedict Arnold was brought to this area after the battle of Saratoga to recuperate for one or two nights,” Kramer explained, and I reminded myself that General Arnold, long before he turned traitor to the American cause, had been a very successful field commander and administrative officer on the side of the Revolution. “He spent the night in the Kinderhook area,” Gus continued. “The location of the house itself is not definitely known, but it is known that he spent the night here. Horatio Gates, who was the American leader in the battle of Saratoga, also spent several nights in the immediate area. It is not inconceivable that this place, which was a mansion in those days, might have entertained these men at the time.”

  “What about the hanging?”

  “Seven Tories were hanged in this area during the Revolutionary War. Some of the greatest fighting took place here, and it is quite conceivable that something took place at this old mansion. Again, it completely bears out what Mrs. Meyers spoke of while in trance.”

  I asked Gus to pinpoint the period for me. “This would have been in 1777, toward October and November.”