The Ghost Chronicles (28 page)

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. One 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.”

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 find 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.”

Janet, who was closest to the door, slowly pushed it shut, its old iron hinges screaming in response. “Oh my God,” she said. “There’s writing on it.”

I quickly made my way to the door. There, to my surprise, were several words scratched or carved into the rough-hewn wood.

Maureen leaned in closer. “What’s it say, Ron? I don’t have my glasses.”

Studying the marks etched in the wood, I said, “This one says ‘die’ and this says ‘kill you.’” Looking back at Samantha I asked, “Who wrote these?”

“No one,” she replied. “They just appeared out of nowhere one day.”

I raised my 35mm, checked the flash, looked in the viewfinder to make sure I had the shot, and pressed the shutter. Nothing happened. “What the heck?”

Maureen chuckled. “Did you bless the camera, Ron?”

“Would you shut the hell up?” I stammered.
Man, if I hear that one more time, I’m going to strangle her
. I raised the camera once more and snapped the shutter. “There, see? It worked.”

“You’re such an ass,” Maureen said.

Suddenly Maureen pulled me aside and spoke in a low voice, for only me to hear, “There’s something off about this place—and her.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Unable to get any more answers, I looked at Maureen and spoke up for the group to hear. “What do you think? Are we done in here?”

* * *

I met Ron’s gaze. “Yeah, I’m really not picking anything up in here.”

“Okay,” Ron said. “Samantha, let’s move on.”

Moments later we were in the next room, a small bedroom with torn flowered wallpaper, white trim, and a wide pine floor, painted brown. The floor was so dark it looked nearly black. Standing in the corner was a lone piece of furniture, an oval, mahogany, freestanding mirror.