Night Stalks The Mansion: A True Story Of One Family's Ghostly Adventure (4 page)

I didn't have much to say on our way back to town. I was
too busy with my own chaotic thoughts. I certainly had
been convinced that an intruder was in the house. But, if
so, why the silence at my challenge? Where did she go? Why the mystery? I didn't want to discuss it further at the moment
for it would only make Dorothy unduly nervous. And it
didn't help my frame of mind to hear occasional chuckles
from the back seat. I realized, then, that the boys had never
felt that there was really anyone in the house at all.

The next morning I phoned Mr. Brooks and asked if
there was an extra set of keys to the place. I told him I was
sure someone had been in the house the previous night.

He seemed puzzled. "The foreman turned in all the keys,"
he informed me. "You have them. I don't even have a set,
myself. Was there any sign of a forced entry?"

"None."

"Well, if there was someone," and his voice indicated
that he doubted it, "they have gone by now. No one will
camp out there when a big family is moving in."

I hung up, impressed by his logic. It would take a foolhardy intruder to remain in hiding when the Camerons
took up residence.

The general manager of our firm was in Philadelphia
that week for a visit. I told him, jokingly, of my experience
and waited for him to share the laugh. Instead, he just gave
me a strange look.

"I'd get out of that lease if I were you," he said with a
seriousness that astounded me. "When we drove past the
house the other day, it gave me the creeps. Sure you want
a place that big?"

For a moment I felt a twinge of apprehension, but it
soon passed. In the bright light of day I had begun to doubt
the reality of my impressions. Everything had to have a
logical explanation and I felt I'd find one in this instance.
Besides, I was still captivated by the aura that surrounded
the imposing ancestral mansion. While growing up, historical novels had been my preference and the place looked
like it had been the setting for one. Also, not to be overlooked, there was the new kitchen, new paint job and the new furnace-all renovated according to my specifications. There was also the signed lease. I told myself that
the Camerons were a normal, noisy bunch and that all
would be well. Dorothy was already packed and so were
the boys. I decided to be my usual sensible self.

"Sure, I'm sure," I laughed.

And so we moved into the house on Plum Tree Lane.

There followed the usual flurry of activity that accompanies
moving and getting settled. Surplus furniture was stored in
a big barn located on adjacent holdings known as "The
Farm." Here lived some of those "poor" relatives that Brooks
had spoken of. The Farm consisted of two or three sections
of land on which was a large farmhouse, several out-buildings
and the barn which was only about a quarter of a mile away
from the mansion. The relatives didn't encourage intimacy
and we, in turn, didn't desire it, so we got along without
trouble.

I had registered with an employment agency in town,
asking for a couple who would live in. The woman was to
help with the housework and the man would take care of
the yard and do odd jobs. I wanted references, of course.
Perhaps that's why it took so long to hear from interested applicants. In the meantime Dorothy swept, scrubbed,
vacuumed, dusted and polished. The boys good-naturedly
lent a hand with the heavy work although their patience
wore a bit thin before their mother had finally moved and
arranged furniture to her satisfaction. Then we all had to
agree that the old mansion looked equally impressive, inside
and out.

"There's one good thing about this house," Dorothy announced triumphantly. "Responsibility for a messy bathroom can no longer be shifted to the shoulders of the
innocentl"

There were several bedrooms and baths on the upper
floors. I had always done my share of business entertaining
and we had numerous relatives who visited periodically. It
was going to be a relief to put up groups without having
anyone feel the visit was an imposition or having family
members stay at the closest motel. We were congratulating
ourselves on the fact that we had made a good choice of a
home when an unexpected problem developed. Someone
else heard footsteps in the night!

We'd been there about two weeks when Hal woke from
a sound sleep and heard someone walking down the hall
shortly after midnight. He grinned to himself, remembering some leftover chicken and half a lemon pie in the
refrigerator and decided that Bob wasn't going to enjoy a
private raid by himself. He swung out of bed and followed
to the head of the stairs and then stopped, puzzled. There
was no light on downstairs. He went back to Bob's room,
opened the door and looked in. Bob was sitting up in bed,
his dark hair disheveled. When he saw Hal, he gave a sigh
of relief.

"Oh, it's only you," he said. "I thought ... well, I thought
it was something else."

"Didn't you just get out of bed and go down the hall?"
Hal demanded.

"Who, me? Not on your lifel"

"That's funny. I heard somebody but there are no lights
on downstairs. Let's see where Dad is."

Together they came into our bedroom where Dad was
asleep, but not for long. Dorothy, like all mothers, slept in
that no man's land between physical rest and subconscious
awareness that woke her immediately at the slightest whimper
from a child. She sat up in bed and turned on the light
while I blinked sleepily.

I listened to their story and could only shake my head.
"You kids will be okay," I said, reassuringly. "No one can
be in the house. We'll check on Carrol."

The younger boy was fast asleep, the covers over his
head. I accompanied his brothers back to their respective
rooms. Then I went back to Dorothy who was waiting for
me, perturbed.

"Did you find anything?" she questioned.

"Not a thing."

"Huml" Then she faced me suddenly. "Harold, did you
really hear footsteps in the house that night before we
moved in?"

I was uncomfortable. "I thought I did at the time," I
admitted reluctantly.

"And now?"

"Well, I've just put it all out of my mind," I assured her.

"Maybe you'd better just put it back in," she said thoughtfully. "Hal isn't the nervous type and he isn't afraid of anything. If it had been only Bob now, I wouldn't think so
much about it. But both of them . .."

"I know," I agreed. "I'm as puzzled as you are. We'll just
have to wait and see what else happens-if anything does."

She slid out of bed and went into the nursery to look in
on Michael and Janet. Everything was okay there, so she
climbed back into bed. "Well, there's nothing we can do
about it tonight. Let's try and get some sleep."

I had never admired her more. Dorothy was a calm,
unexcitable person who created scarcely a ripple on the
smooth pond of family existence as she moved serenely
through her busy days. She was the ideal wife for a tense,
hard-driving business executive. Just to be near her would
quiet me down after a hectic day at the Philadelphia office
or a quick trip to my other headquarters in Washington or
New York. Tonight, however, I could have understood an
emotional outburst but she had surprised even me. I leaned
over and kissed her.

"I love you, Dorothy."

We had agreed to wait and see what happened. We
didn't have to wait long. A new element was added. It
wasn't a new composition exactly-merely a variation on
the original theme. Footsteps, measured and dignified, no
longer confined themselves to the upper halls, stairway and
library. They entered each bedroom in turn and the occupants seemed to be subjected to some sort of scrutiny.

The first time it happened, Dorothy and I both heard
the footsteps approach our bed. Someone stood there, unseen in the darkness, but certainly felt. Then the steps
receded into the hall although we were unaware of the
door being opened.

"Harold," Dorothy whispered, nudging me a little.

I was shaken. "I know," I whispered back, turning on
the light. "I heard it, too."

"What does it mean?"

"I don't pretend to know." The room was empty and
completely normal.

"What can we do?"

"Nothing at the moment. Let's not alarm the kids."

But it wasn't long before we were forced to compare notes
as the three boys, in turn, spoke of the phenomenon.

"Gosh, mom!" Carrol cried, his eyes big in his sensitive
little face. "Wasn't that you, last night? I sure thought it
was. I even asked what you wanted but when you didn't
answer, I thought you'd gone out. So I just went back to
sleep."

When the boys discovered that they had all experienced
the same sort of visitation, they held a hurried conference
and decided to sleep together in one room. It was a large
enough room for the three beds as Carrol's was little more
than a cot. There was still room for a chair or two and a
study desk as well as a small bookcase.

Bob announced their plans later in the day. "We're
worried about Carrol sleeping in a room all by himself,"
he confided.

I suppressed a smile. "So it will take both of you to keep
him company?"

He nodded, a little sheepishly. "We guess so."

Even this arrangement was changed. The ghostly inspections continued and a few days later, without further explanation, or even asking our permission, the boys dragged
their mattresses into our master bedroom and slept on the
floor for several nights. Later on they returned to their
original rooms for dressing and studying, but when night
came, the three of them slept together in Carrol's room
for the balance of our stay on Plum Tree Lane.

I had never been a man who took family problems to his
office. I was in a competitive business and couldn't afford
to be contemplating mysterious footsteps and unseen visitors
at work. When I turned the car out of our driveway in the
morning, I was already thinking of my first appointment
of the day; of the list of "things to do" scribbled on my desk
calendar. But I had never before been faced with a situation like this. I got in the habit of driving slowly and looking back at the house while I breathed a prayer.

"Keep them safe, God, until I get home."

It didn't occur to me for quite a while that my prayer
was a little vainglorious. I was actually telling the Almighty
to keep them safe and when I got home I, Harold Cameron,
would handle thingsl As a matter of fact, I handled nothing.

That next week we became aware of another manifestation. Again it was a variation on the basic theme, this
time in bass notes. Another set of footsteps was heard on
the gravel drive outside the house. They came from the
area around the old coach house and were clearly discernible
as they approached the house and went up the steps to the
front door. Then the sound would abruptly cease. We were
to remember later on that they would be particularly noticeable when the moon was bright and the air clear.

Again we convened a family meeting.

"They aren't the same ones, Dad," Hal said positively.
"These are heavy-like a big man sort of pounding along
on the gravel -I can hear it crunch under his feet."

"But no feet," Bob added wryly.

Again we talked and speculated. Again we could do
nothing about the situation. The unseen lady who moved
about the mansion gave the impression of dignity and seemed
to mind her own business, whatever it was. Her footsteps,
always identified by the steady rhythm and whispering scuff
of slippers, never left the inside of the house. After she
walked from the library at night, she climbed steadily to
the third floor. On the other hand, there was something
ominous about the man's footsteps as they crunched down
upon the graveled drive and climbed the front steps. They
made us uneasy. It didn't contribute to my peace of mind
to read in occult literature that often an evil entity could
be detected by an unpleasant odor, for this was the next
stage of our developing drama.

I was awakened one night by a hard jab in the ribs from
Dorothy. "Wake up, Haroldl What is that awful smell?"

It had been a hard day. I had arrived by plane from Washington at the Philadelphia airport, grabbed a hurried
meal because I was too late for dinner and had driven home
completely bushed. I was still half-asleep.

"Maybe it's coming from the nursery," I muttered drowsily.

The words were unfortunate. "Nursery?" she echoed,
aghast. "My babies never smelled like that in their whole
lives!"

She jabbed me again and this time it really hurt. I came
awake fast, took a good sniff, and nearly choked.

I have never been able to adequately describe that odor.
It was pungent, acrid and strong. The nearest thing to it
was creosote, but it was much more unpleasant. It seemed
to be held like a foul blanket above our heads and then
pressed down until we were nearly suffocated.

That first night we experienced it I jumped out of bed,
switched on the light and ran to open a window. Then I
stopped, utterly astonished, and beckoned for Dorothy to
join me. She did so and we stared at each other.

"It's gone!" she cried.

I nodded. There wasn't the slightest trace of the odor
where we stood. We approached the bed and were immediately engulfed by it. The only comparison I could make
would be that of a powerful spotlight if it were shedding
odor instead of light. It concentrated on a single area. We
could move in or out of the condensed essence at will. Usually it was focused from above onto our bed. Sometimes,
however, if one of us were reading in a chair, it would suddenly descend without warning. Once it was "set" it didn't
shift around but remained in place until the essence or
energy was spent. Later, I remembered comparing it to a
lawn sprinkler placed in position and left to do its work
while the gardener went about other chores, only to have
its mechanism shut it off after sufficient time had elapsed.
In our case the ensuing time was enough to worry us, make
us physically uncomfortable, and do away with sleep.