The Ghost Chronicles Read online

  Developed in the 1900s as part of the Spiritualist movement. The participants sit around a table, join hands, and attempt to reach out to the spirits. The spirits respond by moving, levitating, or knocking on the table.

  Lee Ann brought a small octagonal wooden table up from the basement and placed it in the middle of the front parlor. Lee Ann, Pippa, Gavin, and I sat at the table. Ron Jr. was viewing the room on the monitors of the base camp, while Laura took up a position in the far corner of the room. Jim, manning the camcorder, stood over my shoulder. Byron, his camcorder in hand, took a seat on the couch. Laura dimmed the lights as I turned on my EMF meter and placed it in the center of the table, hoping it would detect any fluctuations in the magnetic field of the room. Placing our fingertips on the table, we began.

  Ron, Pippa, Gavin, and Lee Ann attempt to make contact with the spirits of the Lizzie Borden House via table tilting

  Gavin spoke: “I call upon all spirits around us tonight. I call upon all spirits in this house. I invite you to draw closer to this table. Tilt this table, move this table. I call on all spirits, whether male, female, or child, to draw closer. Use all your energy to make this table move.”

  Jumping in, I said, “We mean you no harm. I know it is difficult, but please try. Use our energy. We give it freely.”

  Gavin said, “All spirits in this house, please come forward and let us know you’re here.”

  It didn’t take long before I could feel a gentle hypnotic rocking of the table beneath my fingertips. Someone was here. My heart beat slowed in sync with the rhythmic sway of the table.

  “It’s rocking!” Gavin cried. “Whatever spirit is here, can you make it go faster?”

  My eyes closed; somehow, not sure how I was doing it, I mentally tapped into the spirit circling the table. “Patience, patience, she’s trying,” I whispered.

  “Which spirit is here?” Lee Ann asked over the creaking of the table as it swayed.

  “Abby’s here,” Gavin said. “Byron, can you ask the questions?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “Abby, if you are here can you please make the table move faster? Show us you are here. Show us you can communicate with us. Please.” The table rocked, harder and harder, creaking and moaning.

  “She’s showing herself to me,” Gavin said. “She is not showing herself as she looked normally, but the way she looked when she was murdered. Like she just got up from the spot. She’s between Ron and Pip, right in front of that lamp.” The rocking grew stronger; our fingers barely touched the table.

  Pippa spoke, “Abby, do you want us to know that Lizzie did this to you?”

  “For the record,” I said, “Lizzie was proven innocent. So she didn’t do it. Did she?” The rocking of the table stopped as if it were held down by some supernatural force. Evidently, Abby did not like my statement. “Oh, wow, did you see that?”

  “Abby, if Lizzie killed you, could you please make the table move again?” Pippa asked. No sooner had the words left her lips, when the rocking returned. It appeared she was confirming that Lizzie had murdered her.

  “I know this is going really well,” Byron said, “but maybe we ought to try glass swirling. It requires less energy.”

  GLASS SWIRLING

  Introduced by the British, it involves placing a glass rim-down on a table. Each participant places a finger on the bottom of the glass. The spirit, using the energy of the group, moves the glass in response to questions.

  “I don’t know, Byron. I have never seen so much energy like this before. I’m barely touching the table and look at it rock,” Pippa said. “Let’s try something. Everyone take their fingers off the table.” Lifting our fingers, it immediately went dead. “Put them back down.” As we did, the table began to rock. “See, she’s using our energy.”

  A thought popped into my head. “I feel she’s getting tired. Why don’t we try the glass swirling?” I paused. “Thank you, Abby. We really appreciate your help.” The table went dead.

  Removing my EMF meter, we replaced it with a short drinking glass, positioning it in the center of the table.

  Gavin began, “I want everyone to picture a band of white light surrounding us. Enveloping us. Protecting us.” After a moment of silence, we began.

  Pippa said, “Everyone, please place the very tips of your fingers on the glass. Like this.”

  We all mirrored her movements. “We would like to call Abby forth. We know that you want to communicate. We know you have a story to tell. Can you please step forward?” Pippa said softly, as the glass began to slide across the table toward Lee Ann.

  “She’s drawn to you,” Gavin said.

  “Thank you, Abby,” Pippa said. “Can you bring the glass back to the center of the table?” As if on command, the glass complied. “Thank you, Abby. Can you make the glass go in a circle?” Again, as requested, it began moving in a circular pattern around the table.

  Byron spoke up. “Abby, can you show us where the church is?” Without pausing, the glass moved toward Pippa. “Is that right, Lee Ann?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Show us where Doctor Bowen’s house is.” The glass moved toward Gavin.

  “That’s right,” Lee Ann said, with a look of astonishment.

  We continued to test the spirit in regards to directions, with mixed results.

  Gavin interrupted. “She’s getting frustrated with our direction game. And you know what, I’m sensing that she didn’t feel accepted in her home.”

  As the glass circled the table in a clockwise direction, I asked, “Abby, if you didn’t feel comfortable in this house, please make the glass go in the opposite direction.”

  Without missing a beat, it turned in place and moved counterclockwise.

  Gavin spoke up again. “Abby, the woman I sensed earlier, the one who visits here, is either a friend or relative.”

  Pippa asked, “Abby, is the woman who visits here a friend?” The glass stopped moving. “Is it a relative?” The glass began to move again, denoting a yes.

  Lee Ann chimed in, “Mrs. Borden, stop for a minute, please.” The glass responded as asked. “Mrs. Borden, was it your sister, Sarah?” The glass began to move in a circular motion, another yes.

  I asked a question. “Abby, do you mind all these paranormal investigators coming in here with their cameras and equipment?” The glass spun wildly, then tipped over and rolled toward me. “Oops, what does that mean?” I asked.

  In response, Lee Ann picked up the glass and gently placed it back in the center of the table. “Mrs. Borden, please move the glass if you like these investigators coming here.” The glass immediately responded by moving in a wide, circular motion on the table.

  Gavin piped in, “I sense she likes us here because she has a story to tell.”

  Pippa resumed her questioning. “Abby, are you a religious person?” The glass moved more forcefully. “Did you like going to church?” The glass moved with even greater force until it tipped over once again. As an eerie silence fell over the room, a church bell began to toll in the distance. Dong. Dong. Dong. Twelve times.

  Lee Ann picked up the glass, once again placing it back in the center of the table as she said, “Mrs. Borden, last year when I was up in the guest chamber making the bed, was that you who passed through me?” Once again the glass moved in a circular motion denoting a yes response. “Thank you, Mrs. Borden. I will try to talk with you more often.”

  Pippa asked, “Mrs. Borden, is there any truth to the rumor that Mr. Borden abused his children?” The glass stopped. “Is there any truth that he was unfaithful?” No reaction.

  Gavin intervened, “I don’t think she is comfortable with these questions. Ask her something else.”

  I asked her, “Mrs. Borden do you like the way the house is kept?” The glass moved quickly around the table.

  “Mrs. Borden, do you find it rather humorous that people come to visit here?” The glass moved faster and faster. It became more and more difficult to keep our fingers on the glass. On
e by one they fell off, until only Pippa and I remained. The glass, spinning wildly close to the edge, fell off.

  Lee Ann said, “I have one more question.” Reseating it, we placed our fingers back on the glass. “Mrs. Borden, do you appreciate the way I keep your house?”

  As the glass began to move quickly around the table, I turned to Lee Ann. “Of course she does! She absolutely adores you. Watch this. Mrs. Borden, do you like Lee Ann?” The glass took off, spinning faster and faster, until it pushed off the table, into Lee Ann’s lap.

  Gavin spoke up. “Mrs. Borden, I know you are getting tired and so are we, but could you please answer one more question? Did you get along with Lizzie?” The glass jerked, barely moved. “I think she’s too scared to talk.”

  I said, “Let it rest…” The glass slowly moved off the table. As far as I was concerned, we were done.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Borden. We really appreciate you talking with us,” Pippa concluded.

  Exhausted, with an hour-and-a-half ride home, it was time to call it quits. The team began to break down base camp and the rest of the equipment, while I made small talk with Lee Ann in the kitchen. Suddenly I saw blood beginning to drip from my hand. To my surprise, there was a small cut on my hand.

  “How did you get that?” Lee Ann asked.

  “I really don’t know. I don’t remember cutting it on anything,” I said. Reaching into my duffel bag, I retrieved the first aid kit. Finding the last bandage, I placed it on my hand.

  “Ron, do you want to stay the night here?” Lee Ann asked.

  “No, thank you.” I smiled, then walked out the door toward the car. As I opened my car door, the overhead light revealed more blood on my hand. What the hell is this? Unable to figure it out, I looked closer. There, beneath the gushing blood, was another slice in my hand. Knowing I had no more bandages I returned to the house, lights now out. I banged on the door. Lee Ann answered. “Do you have a bandage?” I held my hand up. “Not sure why, but I’m cut again.”

  Once in the kitchen I cleaned the wound, while Lee Ann went in search of a bandage.

  As she handed it to me, I pointed to my hand. “Take a look at this. It looks as if someone put a razor to it.”

  Lee Ann leaned in for a closer look. “Wow. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, struggling to hide the sarcasm in my voice. “I think I’ve had enough of the Lizzie Borden House for one night.”

  RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION

  It was exciting to be able to arrange an investigation in such an infamous location for our foreign guests. The prevalent spirit of the night seemed to be that of Mrs. Abby Borden. Although most of our evidence was collected through spiritual methods such as trance channeling, glass swirling, and table tilting, the spirits were present nonetheless. Maureen’s channeling revealed the pain of Abby’s death and a glimpse of her killer, who Maureen believed was Lizzie. Gavin’s insight into the death of Mr. Borden revealed a male accomplice.

  episode sixteen

  THE HOUSE THAT WENT TO POT

  CASE FILE: 6231980

  THE HOUSE THAT WENT TO POT

  Location: Bow, New Hampshire.

  History: The original house was built in 1740. Over the years, additions were tacked on to accommodate hired hands who worked the adjacent apple orchard. Since then, the house and additions have been merged, and the structure has become a single family home.

  Reported Paranormal Activity: Orbs, unexplained organ music, the sound of a baby crying, light bulbs burning out almost daily, insect infestations, and the sudden appearance of words scratched into the woodwork.

  Clients: Frank (homeowner), Samantha (Frank’s wife).

  Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Karen (EVP specialist), Janet (Ron’s wife).

  Press: Rita (reporter for Andover Townsman), Tim (Rita’s photographer).

  I quickly glanced at the email attachment, which revealed a mundane photo of a brick oven with what appeared to be a pie plate in front of it. But as my eyes began to focus, I soon realized that it wasn’t a pie plate at all, but rather an extraordinary-looking orb.

  I was never much of an orb person. You’ve seen one orb, you’ve seen them all. But this one was somehow different. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I decided to call the woman who sent me the email.

  “Hello, Samantha?” I said over the crackling in the telephone receiver. “This is Ron Kolek from the New England Ghost Project.”

  “Oh, I am so glad you called. I would really…” she said as her voice faded into the static on the line.

  “I can barely hear you. Is there something wrong with your phone?” I inquired.

  “No, it’s the ghost. He does all kinds of stuff like this. It’s terrible,” she said, her voice once again barely audible. “I would really like to talk to you. Do you think you could come to the house?”

  “Sure, where do you live?”

  No reply. The phone went dead.

  Frustrated but undaunted, I called her back. After the second ring she answered. “Hello, Samantha?” I said quickly, before we were cut off again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a little clearer now. “The ghost does this all the time. I’ll email you the address; it’s just outside of Concord, New Hampshire. But there’s a catch: you’ll have to be here no later than Saturday, because we have to move out by Sunday.” She paused, sounding a bit hesitant to continue. “The bank is foreclosing on the house.”

  “That’s not much time, but I understand. We’ll be there Saturday. I look forward to meeting you and hearing more about the house.” I hung up the phone. I found myself oddly curious. Why would someone even care to have their home investigated when they were losing it? Was she looking for verification, or just crazy? I guessed there was only one way to find out.

  Four days later, we arrived at our destination, a sprawling farmhouse with an attached barn. As the tires of the Subaru kicked up the stones from the gravel driveway, I wondered how old the house was. Then I saw a white sign against the yellow clapboards: 1740. No sooner had I opened the car door than I heard the familiar sound of tires crunching against gravel. I turned to see a black sedan pulling up behind us. It was Rita Savard, a journalist, and Tim, her photographer, from the local newspaper the Andover Townsman. Rita was writing an article on the Ghost Project and I had asked her to tag along.

  We were greeted by a heavyset woman with salt and pepper hair who looked a bit beaten, like a child who had her lunch money taken by the school bully.

  “Hi, I’m Samantha. You must be Ron,” she said, barely able to muster a nervous little smile.

  I introduced the group, and we followed her to the wooden porch, through the creaking screen door, and into the house. As we entered the kitchen, we were approached by a man whose long, gangly arms swung as he walked, lending him an air of oafishness.

  “Hello, I’m Sam’s husband, Frank,” he said in a quiet, educated voice, which was a stark contrast to his appearance. “Glad you could make it.”

  I made the appropriate introductions and then started in with the questions. “Samantha, why don’t you tell us a little about what has been happening here?”

  “Well, it all started when the house we were living in, in Massachusetts, burned down. We had no choice but to look for a new place to live. This place looked perfect; I called the realtor and made an appointment to see it. We fell in love with it. Even though the price was suspiciously low, we bought it.

  “When we first moved in, we found pennies and other coins face down on all the windowsills. We thought that the previous owner had placed them there for good luck, so we collected them and put them in this jar,” she said, as she took an old jelly jar off the mantle of the brick fireplace. “Maybe we were wrong. Our problems began when the septic system failed. Shortly after that, orbs began appearing in photographs, like the one I sent you. Light bulbs burned out almost daily. I called an electrician, but he couldn’t f
ind anything wrong with the wiring. Next we began to experience cold spots throughout the house, so cold you could see your breath. We also had infestations of various bugs.” She sighed heavily. “Our luck went from bad to worse. Frank lost his job. The bills kept piling up. And finally, the bank foreclosed on the house.”

  Although we couldn’t help them monetarily, I was glad we had decided to take on this investigation. If, as I suspected we would, we found paranormal activity here, I could at least let the couple know they weren’t crazy.

  I said, “Anything else make you believe you have a ghost?”

  “Well, in addition to the photos, we also hear things: a baby crying and, perhaps even stranger, organ music. We have no neighbors, and there is no organ in the house.” She brought her hand to her chin, as if in deep thought. “There are other things too. Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.” I looked at our two friends from the newspaper and asked if Rita was ready.

  Rita, with her head down, scribbling the last of her notes, paused and looked up. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Okay, let’s rock. Samantha, would you lead the way?”

  We followed her down a narrow hallway to the well-worn staircase at the back of the house. The boards of the stairs moaned beneath our weight. We followed her up the staircase and down another corridor to a room on the right. I ducked as I passed through the small door into a rather narrow room. Judging from the height of the ceilings, I could see that this house wasn’t built for tall people. Samantha led us to a window overlooking the back of the barn.

  “You see this?” she said, pointing to a dark spot on the yellowed pine floor. “It’s blood, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t remove it.”

  “Well, how do you know it’s blood?” I interjected.

  “When it first appeared, it looked like fresh blood. I was frantic. I thought someone had cut themselves. But everyone was fine, and there was no reason for it to be there. And there’s more,” she said, as she motioned to the door we just entered. “Close it.”