by Hans Holzer
“What about that cold spot in the house?”
“Outside of the owner,” Gus replied, “there was an artist named Stanley Bate, who visited the house and complained about an unusually cold spot. There was one particular room that was known as the Sick Room; we have found out from a later investigation that it is one of the bedrooms upstairs. It was used for mortally sick people, when they became so ill that they had to be brought to this bedroom, and eventually several of them died in it. You couldn’t notice it today, because the whole house was so cold, but we have noticed a difference of at least twenty-five to thirty degrees in the temperature between that room and the surrounding part of the house. This cannot be attributed to drafts or open windows.”
“Did your artist friend who visited the house experience anything else besides the cold spot?”
“Yes, he had a very vivid impression of someone charging at him several times. There was a distinct tugging on his shirt sleeve. This was about two years ago, and though he knew that the house was haunted, he had not heard about the apparition Mrs. Connacher had seen.”
It appeared to me that the entity, Anthony, or whatever his name might have been, had pretty good connections on both sides of the Revolutionary War. He was in trouble, that much was clear. In his difficulty, he turned to Benedict Arnold, and he turned to General Horatio Gates, both American leaders. He also cried out to John to save him, and I can’t help wondering, common though the name is, whether he might not also have known major John André.
* 17
The Haverstraw Ferry Case
HAVERSTRAW IS A SLEEPY little town about an hour’s ride from New York City, perched high on the west side of the Hudson River. As its name implies, it was originally settled by the Dutch. On the other side of the river, not far away, was Colonel Beverley Robinson’s house, where Benedict Arnold made his headquarters. The house burned down some years ago, and today there are only a few charred remnants to be seen on the grounds. At Haverstraw also was the house of Joshua Smith, the man who helped Major John André escape, having been entrusted with the British spy’s care by his friend, Benedict Arnold. At Haverstraw, too, was one of the major ferries to cross the Hudson River, for during the Revolutionary period there were as yet no bridges to go from one side to the other.
I had never given Haverstraw any particular thought, although I had passed through it many times on my way upstate. In August 1966 I received a letter from a gentleman named Jonathan Davis, who had read some of my books and wanted to let me in on an interesting case he thought worthy of investigation. The house in question stands directly on the river, overlooking the Hudson and, as he put it, practically in the shadow of High Tor. Including the basement there are four floors in all. But rather than give me the information secondhand, he suggested to the owner, a friend, that she communicate with me directly. The owner turned out to be Laurette Brown, an editor of a national women’s magazine in New York City.
“I believe my house is haunted by one or possibly two ghosts: a beautiful thirty-year-old woman and her two-year-old daughter,” she explained. Miss Brown had shared the house with another career woman, Kaye S., since October 1965. Kaye, a lovely blonde woman who came from a prominent family, was extremely intelligent and very creative. She adored the house overlooking the river, which the two women had bought on her instigation. Strangely, though, Kaye frequently said she would never leave it again alive. A short a time later, allegedly because of an unhappy love affair, she drove her car to Newburgh, rigged up the exhaust pipe, and committed suicide along with the child she had had by her second husband.
“After she died, and I lived here alone, I was terribly conscious of a spirit trying to communicate with me,” Miss Brown explained. “There was a presence, there were unnatural bangings of doors and mysterious noises, but I denied them. At the time, I wanted no part of the so-called supernatural.” Since then, Miss Brown has had second thoughts about the matter, especially as the phenomena continued. She began to wonder whether the restless spirit wanted something from her, whether there was something she could do for the spirit. One day, her friend Jonathan Davis was visiting and mentioned that he very much wanted the red rug on which he was standing at the time and which had belonged to Kaye. Before Miss Brown could answer him, Davis had the chilling sensation of a presence and the impression that a spirit was saying to him, “No, you may not take my rug.”
“Since that time, I have also heard footsteps, and the crying of a child. Lately, I wake up, out of a deep sleep, around midnight or 2 A.M., under the impression that someone is trying to reach me. This has never happened to me before.”
Miss Brown then invited me to come out and investigate the matter. I spoke to Jonathan Davis and asked him to come along on the day when my medium and I would pay the house a visit. Davis contributed additional information. According to him, on the night of August 6, 1966, when Miss Brown had awakened from deep sleep with particularly disturbed thoughts, she had gone out on the balcony overlooking the Hudson River. At the same time, she mixed herself a stiff drink to calm her nerves. As she stood on the balcony with her drink in hand, she suddenly felt another presence with her, and she knew at that instant, had she looked to the right, she would have seen a person. She quickly gulped down her drink and went back to sleep. She remembered, as Mr. Davis pointed out, that her former housemate had strongly disapproved of her drinking.
“It may interest you to know,” Miss Brown said, “that the hills around High Tor Mountain, which are so near to our house, are reputed to be inhabited by a race of dwarves that come down from the mountains at night and work such mischief as moving road signs, et cetera. That there is some feeling of specialness, even enchantment, about this entire area, Kaye always felt, and I believe that if spirits can roam the earth, hers is here at the house she so loved.”
The story sounded interesting enough, even though I did not take Miss Brown’s testimony at face value. As is always the case when a witness has preconceived notions about the origin of a psychic disturbance, I assume nothing until I have investigated the case myself. Miss Brown had said nothing about the background of the house. From my knowledge of the area, I knew that there were many old houses still standing on the river front.
Ethel Johnson Meyers was my medium, and Catherine, my wife, drove the car, as on so many other occasions. My wife, who had by then become extremely interested in the subject, helped me with the tape recording equipment and the photography. Riverside Avenue runs along the river but is a little hard to locate if you don’t know your way around Haverstraw. The medium-size house turned out to be quite charming, perched directly on the water’s edge. Access to it was now from the street side, although I felt pretty sure that the main entrance had been either from around the corner or from the water itself. From the looks of the house, it was immediately clear to me that we were dealing with a pre-Revolutionary building.
Miss Brown let us into a long verandah running alongside the house, overlooking the water. Adjacent to it was the living room, artistically furnished and filled with antiquities, rugs, and pillows. Mr. Davis could not make it after all, owing to some unexpected business in the city.
Ethel Meyers sat down in a comfortable chair in the corner of the living room, taking in the appointments with the eye of a woman who had furnished her own home not so long before. She knew nothing about the case or the nature of our business here.
“I see three men and a woman,” she began. “The woman has a big nose and is on the older side; one of the men has a high forehead; and then there is a man with a smallish kind of nose, a round face, and long hair. This goes back some time, though.”
“Do you feel an actual presence in this house?”
“I feel as if someone is looking at me from the back,” Ethel replied. “It might be a woman. I have a sense of disturbance. I feel as if I wanted to run away—I’m now speaking as if I were her, you understand—I’m looking for the moment to run, to get away.”
Ethel to
ok a deep breath and looked toward the verandah, and beyond it to the other side of the Hudson River. “Somebody stays here who keeps looking out a window to see if anyone is coming. I can’t seem to find the window. There is a feeling of panic. It feels as if I were afraid of somebody’s coming. A woman and two men are involved. I feel I want to protect someone.”
“Let the individual take over, then, Ethel,” I suggested, hoping that trance would give us further clues.
But Ethel wasn’t quite ready for it. “I’ve got to find that window,” she said. “She is full of determination to find that window.”
“Why is the window so important to her?”
“She wants to know if someone is coming. She’s got to look out the window.”
I instructed Ethel to tell the spirit that we would look for the window, and to be calm. But to the contrary, Ethel seemed more and more agitated. “Got to go to the window…the window…the window. The window isn’t here anymore, but I’ve got to find it. Who took away the…. No, it is not here. It is not this way. It is that way.” By now Ethel was gradually sinking into trance, although by no means a complete one. At certain moments she was still speaking as herself, giving us her clairvoyant impressions, while at other moments some alien entity was already speaking through her directly.
“Very sick here, very sick,” she said, her words followed by deep moaning. For several minutes I spoke to the entity directly, explaining that whatever he was now experiencing was only the passing symptoms remembered and had no validity in the present.
The moaning, however, continued for some time. I assured the entity that he could speak to me directly, and that there was nothing to be afraid of, for we had come as friends.
Gradually, the moaning became quieter, and individual words could be understood. “What for? What for? The other house…” This was immediately followed by a series of moans. I asked who the person was and why he was here, as is my custom. Why are you bringing him here?” the entranced medium said. That man, that man, why are you bringing him here? Why? Why?” This was followed by heavy tears.
As soon as I could calm the medium again, the conversation continued. “What troubles you? What is your problem? I would like to help you,” I said.
“Talk, talk, talk…too many…too many.”
“Be calm, please.”
“No! Take him away! I can’t tell. They have left. Don’t touch me! Take it away! Why hurt me so?”
“It’s all right now; much has happened since,” I began.
Heavy tears was the response. “They went away. Don’t bother me! They have gone. Don’t touch! Take him away! Take them off my neck!”
“It’s all right,” I said again, in as soothing a tone of voice as I could muster. “You are free. You need not worry or fear anything.”
Ethel’s voice degenerated into a mumble now. “Can’t talk…so tired…go away.”
“You may talk freely about yourself.”
“I’ll tell you when they’ve gone. I didn’t help…. I didn’t help…. I didn’t know.”
“Who are the people you are talking about?”
“I don’t know. They took it over.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“They went away over the water. Please take this off so I can talk better.”
Evidently, the entity thought that he was still gagged or otherwise prevented from speaking clearly. In order to accommodate him, I told him I was taking off whatever was bothering him, and he could speak freely and clearly now. Immediately, there was a moaning sound, more of relief than of pain. But the entity would not believe that I had taken “it” off and called me a liar instead. I tried to explain that he was feeling a memory from the past, but he did not understand that. Eventually he relented.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“You know, you know.” Evidently he had mistaken me for someone else. I assured him that I did not know his name.
“You are a bloody rich man, that is what you are,” he said, not too nicely. Again, he remembered whatever was preventing him from speaking, and, clutching his throat, cried, “I can’t speak…the throat…” Then, suddenly, he realized there was no more pain and calmed down considerably. “I didn’t have that trouble after all,” he commented.
“Exactly. That is why we’ve come to help you.”
“Enough trouble…. I saw them come up, but they went away.”
All along I had assumed that we were talking to a male. Since the entity was using Ethel’s voice, there were of course some female tinges to it, but somehow it sounded more like a masculine voice than that of a woman. But it occurred to me that I had no proof one way or another.
“What is your name? Are you a gentleman or…”
“Defenseless woman. Defenseless. I didn’t take anyone. But you won’t believe me.”
I assured her that I would.
“You won’t believe me…. It was dark. It was dark here…. I told him, take care of me.”
“Is this your house?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Jenny.”
“Why are you here?”
“Where is my window? Where is it?”
I ignored the urgency of that remark and continued with my questioning. “What is your family name?”
“Smith…Smith.”
“Where and when were you born?”
There was no reply.
“What day is this today?” I continued.
“July.”
“What year are we in?”
“‘80.”
“What went on in this house? Tell me about it.”
“They brought him here. They came here.” Evidently the woman wasn’t too happy about what she was about to tell me.
“Whose house is this?”
“Joshua. Joshua Smith.”
“How is he related to you?”
“Husband. They brought him…. I told them, tell them! No…no one was coming. That is all I told them. I don’t know why they hurt me.”
“You mean, they thought you knew something?”
“Yah…my friends. All that noise. Why don’t they stop? Oh, God, I feel pain. They got away. I told you they got away.”
“Who are the people you fear?”
“Guns—I must look in the window. They are coming. All is clear…time to go…they get away…they got away…. See, look, they got away. It is dark. They are near the water. I get the money for it.”
“What is the money for?”
“For helping.”
At the time, I hadn’t fully realized the identity of the speaker. I therefore continued the interrogation in the hope of ferreting out still more evidential material from her. “Who is in charge of this country?”
“George…George…nobody…everybody is fighting.”
“Where were you born?”
“Here.”
“Where was your husband born?”
Instead of answering the question, she seemed to say, faintly, but unmistakably, “André.”
“Who is André?”
“He got away. God Bless His Majesty. He got away.”
“You must go in peace from this house,” I began, feeling that the time had come to free the spirit from its compulsion. “Go in peace and never return here, because much time has gone on since, and all is peaceful now. You mustn’t come back. You mustn’t come back.”
“They will come back.”
“Nobody will come. It all happened a long time ago. Go away from here.”
“Johnny…Johnny.”
“You are free, you are free. You can go from this house.”
“Suckers…bloody suckers…. They are coming, they are coming now. I can see them. I can see them! God Bless the Majesty. They got away, they got away!”
It was clear that Jenny was reliving the most dramatic moment of her life. Ethel, fully entranced now, sat up in the chair, eyes glazed, peering into the distance, as if she were followin
g the movements of people we could not see!
“There is the horse,” the spirit continued. “Quick, get the horse! I am a loyal citizen. Good to the Crown. They got away. Where is my window?” Suddenly, the entity realized that everything wasn’t as it should be. An expression of utter confusion crept over Ethel’s face. “Where am I, where am I?”
“You are in a house that now belongs to someone else,” I explained.
“Where is that window? I don’t know where I am.”
I continued to direct her away from the house, suggesting that she leave in peace and go with our blessings. But the entity was not quite ready for that yet. She wouldn’t go out the window, either. “The soldiers are there.”
“Only in your memory,” I assured her, but she continued to be very agitated.”
“Gone…a rope…. My name is Jenny…. Save me, save me!”
At this point, I asked Albert to help free the entity, who was obviously tremendously embroiled in her emotional memories. My appeal worked. A moment later, Albert’s crisp, matter-of-fact voice broke through. “We have taken the entity who was lost in space and time,” he commented.
If ever there was proof that a good trance medium does not draw upon the unconscious minds of the sitters—that is to say, those in the room with her—then this was it. Despite the fact that several names had come through Ethel’s entranced lips, I must confess they did not ring a bell with me. This is the more amazing as I am historian and should have recognized the name Joshua Smith. But the fact is, in the excitement of the investigation, I did not, and I continued to press for better identification and background. In fact, I did not even connect John with André and continued to ask who John was. Had we come to the house with some knowledge that a Revolutionary escape had taken place here, one might conceivably attribute the medium’s tremendous performance to unconscious or even conscious knowledge of what had occurred in the place. As it was, however, we had come because of a suspected ghost created only a few years ago—a ghost that had not the slightest connection with pre-Revolutionary America. No one, including the owner of the house, had said anything about any historical connotations of the house. Yet, instead of coming up with the suspected restless girl who had committed suicide, Mrs. Meyers went back into the eighteenth century and gave us authentic information—information I am sure she did not possess at the time, since she is neither a scholar specializing in pre-Revolutionary Americana nor familiar with the locality or local history.
