The Ghost Chronicles (15 page)

“It’s hard to say,” Ron replied. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

I remained silent. I was just too exhausted. In fact, if I had heard this tidbit of information prior to the investigation, I may have discounted it as nervous gossip. But now, after everything that had just happened, I couldn’t discount it at all. Because what I felt was nothing if not pure evil.

All I knew was, I was happy to get the hell out of there. It had been a rough night. And, somehow I knew the ordeal wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The next day I answered the phone.

“Hey, did you hear what happened to Leo and Karen?” Ron asked.

“No. What?” The knot in my stomach that had been there since the night before suddenly tightened.

“I got a call from Karen’s son. Shortly after listening to last night’s recordings she got in a freak accident. She broke her arm, scraped her face, and has a concussion.”

“You’re kidding me. That’s awful.”

“And that’s not all!”

“Oh no. Now what?” I asked.

“Leo was rushed to the hospital last night with abdominal pain. Gall bladder surgery,” Ron said. “Not for stones, but for a failed organ!”

“You’re kidding! But you know, Ron, they were the only ones who chose not to protect themselves.”

“Holy sh—. You’re right.”

“Aren’t you glad that we always do?”

“Yeah, but maybe now Leo and Karen will rethink their protection process.”

“You don’t think there’s any relationship to the ashes, do you?”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” A phrase from the English burial service, sometimes used to denote total finality. Finality? Not likely. At least not for this investigation…

The Houghton Mansion in North Adams, Massachusetts

F
or a moment we stood gazing up at the towering Houghton mansion, mesmerized at its appearance. Not at all what I had expected. Looming in the darkness with meager lighting casting shadows over the cracked cement walkway was a large building, paint curling, showing its age.
It seems harmless enough,
I thought. Then I silently chastised myself. I knew better. I had been investigating the paranormal for more than ten years, and if I had learned anything as a paranormal investigator, it was that even the most benign of situations could turn ugly in a matter of seconds. I thought of the long night of investigating that lay ahead and the two-and-a-half-hour ride home from North Adams. No, this definitely was not a night to get careless.

As we unpacked our equipment, the creak of the porch door drew our attention. We turned to see a heavyset man briskly walking toward us. As he approached, the dim light revealed his beaming smile beneath a heavy mustache. “You must be Nick,” I said. Up until this point, I had only chatted with him on the phone. A book was being written about haunted places in Massachusetts, and the author wanted to include the Houghton Mansion, so she had contacted Nick. After researching various paranormal investigative groups on the Internet, Nick selected the New England Ghost Project for verification. As first impressions go, I found myself liking him already.

“You must be Ron. It’s great to finally meet you guys. This is so cool.”

We followed behind as he led us up the granite stairs of the aging mansion and into the foyer.

I looked at a sullen Maureen. “What’s wrong with you? You’re unusually quiet.”

“I don’t know. I can’t quite explain it.” She hesitated. “For the past hour or so I’ve had the odd sensation that we’re being watched.”

Without another word, we followed Nick as he veered through a doorway to the right and ushered us into what appeared to be a meeting area. Toward the far side of the wall stood a set of six-foot conference tables and chairs, partially blocking the view of the elegant marble fireplace. Gazing at the ornately carved columns, wainscoting, and antique brass sconces, I said, “Wow, this place is awesome.” One look at the surroundings and I found myself momentarily distracted, envisioning what the Houghton Mansion must have been like in its heyday. As I have always said, haunting and history go hand in hand. To find out who the spirits are, you have to look at the history.

Placing my black canvas bag on the table, I eyed my surroundings one more time and smiled inwardly as I thought of all the history this building had witnessed. Something told me that we were going to be in for one hell of a night.

The sudden sound of movement from behind caught my attention, and I turned to find Nick standing amid a small cluster of onlookers.

“Ron, this is my son, Josh, my daughter, Sarah, and her husband, Greg.”

The introductions continued with the rest of the group, like a receiving line at a wedding. And just when I thought the introductions were complete, he gestured to a hulk of a man with a pseudo-ZZ Top beard, standing sheepishly in the corner. “I’d
like you to meet Paul, our local historian.” Judging from his black T-shirt, which read “Local History Rules,” I didn’t have to be a psychic to figure that one out.

“Paul’s not able to stay too long, but he was nice enough to offer to take us to the cemetery and give you guys a short history of the place.”

“Sure, how far is it?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks away, but at this time of night you want to drive.”

Three blocks later we pulled up behind Josh’s truck, alongside the wrought-iron gate of the cemetery. Nick, with Paul leading the way, escorted us to the Houghton family plot, while Maureen remained behind in the car. That was when the melodrama unfolded.

The drawl of Paul’s monotone voice began, “It was August 1, 1914, when A. C. Houghton, former mayor of North Adams, decided to go for a pleasure drive with his daughter, Mary, and some friends, the doctor and Mrs. Hutton, who was a childhood friend of Mary’s.” Paul hesitated and then pointed to a smaller headstone, situated behind and to the right of the massive Houghton tombstone. “Over there is where Houghton’s chauffeur John Widder is buried. That day, he was at the wheel of A. C.’s brand new 1914 Pierce Arrow, a seven-passenger touring car. He was not as familiar with cars as would have been preferred. He was much more familiar in dealing with horses.”

“Is there a point to this?” I asked sarcastically.

Paul, evidently not used to being interrupted, became a bit flustered. “I, ah, I’m getting to that,” he answered. Pointing to the distant mountains, he continued, “Driving up what is now Spruce Hill Road, they came upon a work gang. Widder was forced to
drive the Pierce around a team of horses, and he hit a soft shoulder. He lost control when the engine began to race, causing them to plunge down a fifty-foot embankment. The car rolled over three times. Everyone with the exception of Mary was thrown from the vehicle. Although the men escaped with minor injures, Mrs. Hutton died immediately when the car rolled over on her. Mary, suffering a number of substantial injuries, including a crushed face, died in the hospital later that day.”

“John Widder, distraught with guilt over the accident, committed suicide the next day in the mansion’s barn by shooting himself in the head. Mr. Houghton, who was expected to live, just gave up, dying ten days after the accident.”

Just when Paul finished with his tale, a shuffling sound startled the group. We turned to see a silhouette materialize out of the darkness, stepping into the glare of my flashlight. It was Maureen.

“How did you know we were done? What are you, psychic?”

“Ha, ha, Ron. You’re soooo funny.”

Tamping down the grass with our feet we circled the tomb one more time, as I disappointedly glanced at my silent EMF meter. “Picking up anything?” I asked, looking at Maureen.

Swatting at the mosquitoes, she bristled. “Let’s make this quick, ’cause I really don’t feel a thing. Besides, I’m getting eaten alive.”

Maureen was right; this place was dead (no pun intended). Calling it quits, we made the short journey back to the mansion and did what every good investigative team would do: ordered pizza. After all, we planned to stay into the wee hours of the morning to take advantage of the time when the spirits are strongest.

I hadn’t finished my last bite before the EMF meter in my pocket began blaring. I took one look at Maureen’s vacant stare and knew something was up. Standing by the doorway to the room with the
fireplace, I called for the rest of the group. We had to act fast, or we’d miss the connection.

“Nick, we’re gonna do it. I don’t want to lose it.” I sent my wife, Jan, to retrieve the rest of the team.

Over the incessant beeping of the EMF meter, Jan’s voice could be heard. “My husband bellows.”
Only she would say that
, I thought, as the room quickly filled with people.

* * *

By the time Ron and the rest of the team entered the room, I already had my pendulum in my hand and had begun to feel the first surge of familiar energy. Realizing that Ron understood my plan, I maneuvered myself beneath the entranceway. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on my intent, and reached out with my mind. This is a silent, internal conversation I sometimes have with entities, a way for me to open up, by mentally asking who they are and if they wish to communicate. I placed a karmic phone call, and as I did, I struggled for a moment to push back the awkwardness of having what felt like a million eyes focused on me.

I can’t help it. I still feel self-conscious under the watchful eye of new clients.

I turned to Ron. “Can you feel it?” I asked, inhaling deeply, my body adjusting to the sudden onslaught of energy. I looked up into the eyes of Nick and his family, along with the reporter from the local newspaper, who had decided to join us at the last minute.

Is anyone else picking this up?

I sighed, as I gazed into the blank stares of the onlookers. Apparently not, but I knew we were not alone.

With that, it began. My third eye pulsated, the swirling energy so strong it encompassed my whole face. Even as my arms began to throb in pain from the sudden onslaught of energy,
my consciousness ebbed and flowed. I felt distant, detached. The sound of disembodied voices rumbled in my brain. The air was charged, sizzling with electricity. There was no disguising it. A spirit had arrived. “Is someone with us right now?” I asked, already knowing the answer. My pendulum responded with a spinning yes.

“Do you want to talk to us?” Ron asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Is this a male or a female?”

A voice echoed out of the background; Ron Jr. piped in sarcastically, “Yes-or-no questions.”

I didn’t need the pendulum because instinctively I knew, “Male.”

“That works…” Ron responded, ignoring his faux pas.

“Not my…” I stumbled through gasps of breath. It was becoming increasingly difficult to speak. “Not my…” Suddenly I was struck with the overwhelming feeling of grief. But it wasn’t mine; it was Mr. Houghton’s. His feeling of loss became almost unbearable. “Not my Mary,” I spat out, fighting the tears that caused my mascara to run. “It’s not my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Who was Mary again?” Ron asked, looking for help.

“Mary was Houghton’s daughter,” Paul said.

“Is this A. C. Houghton?” Ron asked.

The energy became crippling, preventing me from communicating verbally. All the while the pendulum continued to swing to and fro, supplying Ron and the remainder of the group with yes and no answers that I myself was unable to give.