The Ghost Chronicles (6 page)

Maureen’s first spiritual contact with Jacob had been swift, and laden with pain. But there was no way we could call it a night now. The house certainly had paranormal activity, and I wanted to see the scope of it. Some spirits inhabit their favorite rooms, while others roam. If we left before completing our investigation and doing a walkthrough of each room in the house, we might have never known if the house had any other spiritual communication to offer.

I turned to stare at Maureen. Happy to see the color returning to her face, I asked, “Are you ready to continue with the investigation?”

She nodded.

We first entered the dining room to the right of the wait station, making our way in a continuous loop from room to room with little else happening but the creaking of the floors. Not having worked with a psychic before, I looked at Maureen to gauge her reaction. “Are you picking up anything?”

She narrowed her stare, as if she read my thoughts. “No,” she replied abruptly.

We made our way toward the narrow stairs to the third floor. Maneuvering past the ill-placed vacuum cleaner, we climbed the stairs. I hesitated as I reached the top of the landing and pointed above us. I directed my question to our photographer. “Right here. Remember the picture that Jean Pierre showed us, Leo?”

“Oh yeah. The Christmas packages, I wish I’d been there to see it in person.”

I then realized the group had no clue what we were talking about. Leo was referring to another incarnation of the restaurant, when Jean Pierre, the previous owner, had had a strange experience. “The previous owners had these empty boxes wrapped up like Christmas packages,” I explained. “When they came in one
day, they found the boxes stretched out like a bridge from wall to wall. Hanging in mid air.”

Leo chimed in, “Yeah. You’d need a lot more than a ladder and a couple of guys to pull off that stunt.”

We walked to the end of the hall and entered the room on the right with Maureen in the lead. Turning the corner, she jumped back, slamming into me. “What the hell is that?”

I scanned the room and saw the source of her terror. There, in front of us, stood a life-size statue of a chef. Encased in shadows, it had an ominous presence, becoming more than just a statue. It took on the persona of a doll from one of those horror flicks. I half expected to hear, “Hi, I’m Chucky, wanna play?”

We laughed, breaking the tension that had clung to us since Jacob’s visit.

Just then I glanced down at my EMF meter. Although we were picking up fluctuations in the electromagnetic field, they were minimal at best. Disappointed, I changed tack. “Okay, let’s go to the basement.”

The basement door creaked when we opened it, like it was crying out in agony. Was this a sign of what was to come? We weaved our way through the old cellar; with a flick of my hand I brushed away cobwebs as we went.

“Ewww. I hate spiders,” Maureen said, as she followed close behind.

“You aren’t afraid of ghosts, but you’re scared of a little spider?” I asked with a laugh.

After ducking under heating pipes, we reached the back of the basement where the cellar door was. Almost immediately my meter began flashing. Its eerie red glow illuminated the expression of pain in Maureen’s face.

“He’s here. Right between us.”

Maureen’s words confirmed what my meter was already telling me.

Once again Ron Jr. reported a temperature drop, and Maureen told us that she could feel electricity filling the basement. We attempted to make contact via the pendulum, but to no avail.

“He’s agitated,” she said. “No…he’s pissed and getting more angry by the moment…He doesn’t like you, Ron,” Maureen said, as if afraid to tell me.

Great, I’ve got another fan
, I thought sarcastically. I swear, if there’s a post office on the other side, my picture is hanging in it. It seems some of the nastier spirits resent my lack of respect for them. However, just as in the real world, I believe respect is earned. And this was no different.

I heaved a heavy sigh. I looked at Maureen’s drawn face, and since it was our first investigation together, I wasn’t sure how much more pain and discomfort she could withstand. Given that Jacob seemed to be hostile, I thought it best to end the investigation.

All in all, though, it was a successful night. It even left the skeptic reporter Brian Bates shaking his head. That was a good sign, since we had agreed to provide WNDS with a weekly series, a spotlight on the newscast. A four-week haunted crescendo with a Halloween night finale meant we still had three more investigations to go. I chuckled to myself when I thought of Brian’s reaction to the coffeepot incident. Hmmm. Maybe I’d make a believer out of him yet.

There was also the question of Maureen. I thought she would be a great addition to the staff of the Ghost Project, but I wanted to see a little more of her work.

I wouldn’t have long to find out. I had another test for her next week, when we investigated the Phillip Knight House.

R
on, are sure you know where you’re going?” Maureen asked. This was the first time she’d questioned my directional skills, but sure as shooting, it wouldn’t be the last.

“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.