community, is not far from the scenes of the above-mentioned adventure.
In all this region of lovely situations and charming water views, its
site is one of the most beautiful. The brick mansion, with all the
strangely mixed comforts and discomforts of ancient architecture, rears
its roof up from an elevated lawn, while the silvery thread of a
land-locked stream winds nearly around the whole. Over the further bank
dance the sparkling waters of a broad estuary, flashing in the glance of
the sunshine or tossing its white-capped billows in angry mimicry of the
sea. The gleam of white sails is never lacking to add variety and
picturesqueness to the scene. In the dead, hushed calm of a summer
evening, when the lifted oar rests on the gunwale, unwilling to disturb
with its dip the glassy surface, one has a strange, dreamy sense of
being suspended in space, the sky, in all its changing beauties, being
accurately reflected in illimitable depth by the still water, until the
charm is broken by the splash and ripple of a school of nomadic alewives
or the gliding, sinuous fin of a piratical shark. In this lovely home it
was wont for the family to assemble on the occasion of certain domestic
celebrations, and it was at one of these that the following incident
occurred: All were present except one member, who was detained by
sickness at her residence, fifteen miles away. It was in early afternoon
that one of the ladies standing at an open window, suddenly exclaimed:
"Why, there's Aunt Milly crossing the flower garden!" The party
approached the window, and beheld, in great surprise, the lady, in her
ordinary costume, slowly strolling among the flowers. She paused and
looked earnestly at the group, her features plainly visible; then turned
and disappeared amidst the shrubbery. No trace of her presence being
discoverable, it was natural that a gloom fell upon the company. A few
hours later a messenger arrived with the intelligence of her death. The
time of her apparition and the time of her death coincided.
AN IDIOT GHOST WITH BRASS BUTTONS
(Philadelphia _Press_, June 16, 1889)
In a pretty but old-fashioned house in Stuyvesant square--ghosts like
squares, I think--is another ghost. This house stood empty for several
years, and about six years ago a gentleman, his wife and little daughter
moved in there, and while fitting up allowed the child to play about
the empty attic, which had apparently been arranged for a children's
playroom long ago. There was a fireplace and a large fireboard in front
of it.
When the house was about finished down stairs the mother began to pay
more attention to the little girl and tried to keep her down there with
her, but the child always stole away and went back up stairs again and
again, until finally the mother asked why she liked to go up there so
much. She replied that she liked to play with the funny little boy.
Investigation showed that it was utterly impossible for any person, man
or child, to get in that place or be concealed there, but the little
girl insisted and told her parents that he "went in there," pointing to
the fireboard.
The parents were seriously concerned, believing that their daughter was
telling them an untruth, and threatened to punish her for it, but she
insisted so strongly that she saw and played with a "funny little boy,
with lots of brass buttons on his jacket," that they finally gave up
threatening and resolved to investigate.
The father, who is an old sea captain, found out that this house had
been occupied by an Englishman named Cowdery who had had three
children--two boys and a girl. One of the boys was an idiot. This idiot
was supposed to have fallen into the East River, as his cap was found
there, and he had always shown a liking for the river when his nurse
took him out. Soon after this Mr. Cowdery moved West.
This was enough for my friend's friend, who had the fireboard taken
down, and short work in the wall by the side of the chimney brought the
body of the unfortunate idiot boy. The back of his skull was crushed in.
He still had the dark blue jacket on, with four rows of buttons on the
front. The poor little bones were buried and the affair kept quiet, but
the captain left the house.
A MODEL GHOST STORY
(Boston _Courier_, Aug. 10)
A very singular story which forms one of the sensational social topics
of the day is the best authenticated of the many stories of the
supernatural that have been lately told. Only a short time ago a young
and well-known artist, Mr. A., was invited to pay a visit to his
distinguished friend, Mr. Izzard. The house was filled with guests, but
a large and handsome room was placed at his disposal, apparently one of
the best in the house. For three days he had a delightful visit;
delightful in all particulars save one, he had each night a horrible
dream. He dreamed he was--or was really--suddenly awakened by some
person entering his room, and in looking around saw the room brilliantly
lighted, while at the window stood a lady elegantly attired, in the act
of throwing something out. This accomplished, she turned her face toward
the only spectator showing a countenance so distorted by evil passions
that he was thrilled with horror. Soon the light and the figure with the
dreadful face disappeared, leaving the artist suffering from a frightful
nightmare. On returning to his city home he was so haunted by the
fearful countenance which had for three consecutive nights troubled him,
that he made a sketch of it, and so real that the evil expression seemed
to horrify every one who saw it. Not a great while after, the artist
went to make an evening visit on Mr. Izzard; that gentleman invited him
to his picture gallery, as he wished to show him some remarkable, old
family portraits. What was Mr. A.'s surprise to recognize among them, in
the likeness of a stately, well-dressed lady, the one who had so
troubled his slumbers on his previous visit, lacking, however, the
revolting, wicked expression. Soon as he saw it he involuntarily
exclaimed, "Why, I have seen that lady!" "Indeed!" said Mr. I., smiling,
"that is hardly possible, as she died more than a hundred years ago. She
was the second wife of my great-grandfather, and reflected anything but
credit on the family. She was strongly suspected of having murdered her
husband's son by a former marriage, in order to make her own child heir
to the property. The unfortunate boy broke his neck in a fall from a
window, and there was every reason to believe that he was precipitated
from the window by his stepmother." The artist then told his host the
circumstances of his thrice-repeated experience, or dream, and sent for
his sketch, which, so far as the features were concerned, was identical
with the portrait in Mr. Izzard's gallery. The sketch has since been
photographed, but from its hideous expression is not very pleasant to
look upon.
A GHOST THAT WILL NOT DOWN
(Cincinnati _Enquirer_, Sept. 30, 1884)
GRANTSVILLE, W. VA., September 30.--The ghost of Betts' farm will not
lay. Something over a year ago the _Enquirer_ contained an account or an
occult influence or manifestation at the farm house of Mr. Collins
Betts, about three miles below this town, in which story were delineated
a number of weird, strange instances of ghostly manifestations, all of
which were verified by the testimony of honest, brave and reliable
citizens, the names of many of whom were mentioned. That story went the
rounds of newspapers all over the country and resulted in the proprietor
of the place receiving hundreds of letters from all over the country.
Since then the old house has been torn down, the family of Mr. Betts
rebuilding a home place on a different portion of the farm. This act, it
was believed, would lay or forever quiet the ramblings and queer doings
of the inexplicable mystery. But such has not been the case. Since the
building has been razed the mysterious manifestation has made itself
visible at places sometimes quite a distance from the scene of its
former domicile.
At a distance of several hundred yards from the old Betts place a
neighboring farmer had erected a house in which he intended to reside,
and in fact did reside a short time, but the "Cale Betts ghost," as the
manifestation is commonly called for a distance of many miles, was no
respecter of persons and oblivious of distance, and it so annoyed and
frightened the farmer and his family at untoward times that he has
removed his house to the opposite end of the farm, leaving his garden,
orchard and all the improvements usually made about a farm-house to take
care of themselves.
This in itself was considered strange enough, but the ghostly visitant
did not stop there. The high road, running some distance away, has been
the theater of almost numberless scenes of frights and frightful
appearances. Among those who have lately seen the ghost is a young man
named Vandevener, whose father had once been frightened nearly to death,
as related in a former letter. Young Vandevener had frequently made
sport of the old man's fright, but he does so no more--in fact, the
young man is willing to make affidavit that the old man's story was
mildly drawn.
The young man was driving along quietly one night about half a mile from
the Betts place, when he saw a strange being, which, in the pale light
of the moon, he took to be a man walking at the head of his horses. A
few minutes later the man, or whatever it was, glided, without making a
particle of noise, around the horses' heads and got into the wagon and
took a seat by his side.
Young Vandevener says it rode along with him several hundred yards, and
spoke to him. It first told him not to be afraid, as it did not intend
to injure him in the least. What it said he will not tell, except that
it admonished him not to say anything about it until a certain time.
After it had spoken to him Vandevener says it got up and glided off into
the woods and disappeared. He says the shape was that of a headless man,
and that while it was with him he felt a cold chill run over him,
although it was a warm evening, and this chilly feeling did not leave
him until the disappearance of the shape.
Since then Vandevener can not be induced to go over the ground after
night. He still persists in the same story, and as he is a truthful
young fellow, the people who know him are satisfied that he really saw
what he claims to have seen.
Only one day last week another young man, Henry Stephens I believe, on
his way past the same place, saw a peculiar shape rise out of the brush
by the side of the road and glide along by the side of the wagon.
Stephens got out of his wagon and gathered together a handful of rocks,
which he threw at the object. Some of the stones appeared to go through
it, but did not seem to affect it in the least. It still continued to
float along at a short distance away until Stephens became frightened
and whipped up his horses until they flew at a two-minute gait down the
road, the object following at some distance until quite away from the
scene of its first appearance, when it disappeared like a cloud of
vapor. There are dozens of authentic stories of the ghostly
peculiarities of the Betts ghost which are new and peculiar.
It appears, since the destruction of the Betts homestead, to have taken
up its quarters near the highway, and here it appears to people who have
generally scoffed and laughed at the former stories. That it is
bullet-proof does not need testimony, located, as it is, in a section of
country which has for years been noted for its fearless men--such as the
Duskys, Downs and others of national fame as sharp-shooters, scouts,
etc., during the late war. None of these men have succeeded in "laying"
or putting a quietus to it. There is a story that a couple of men had
been murdered or disappeared in this vicinity, and that the ghost is the
uneasy spirit of one of these men, but there is no real evidence that
anybody was ever killed there.
There is no doubt that Calhoun County has a mystery which neither time,
bullets, courage nor philosophy can either drive away or explain. It has
come to stay. If you meet a Calhouner just mention it, and he will tell
you that the "Betts ghost" is a county possession which it will gladly
dispose of at any price.
TOM CYPHER'S PHANTOM ENGINE
(Seattle _Press-Times_, Jan. 10, 1892)
Locomotive engineers are as a class said to be superstitious, but J.M.
Pinckney, an engineer known to almost every Brotherhood man, is an
exception to the rule. He has never been able to believe the different
stories told of apparitions suddenly appearing on the track, but he had
an experience last Sunday night on the Northern Pacific east-bound
overland that made his hair stand on end.
By the courtesy of the engineer, also a Brotherhood man, Mr. Pinckney
was riding on the engine. They were recounting experiences, and the
fireman, who was a green hand, was getting very nervous as he listened
to the tales of wrecks and disasters, the horrors of which were
graphically described by the veteran engineers.
The night was clear and the rays from the headlight flashed along the
track, and, although they were interested in spinning yarns, a sharp
lookout was kept, for they were rapidly nearing Eagle gorge, in the
Cascades, the scene of so many disasters and the place which is said to
be the most dangerous on the 2,500 miles of road. The engineer was
relating a story and was just coming to the climax when he suddenly
grasped the throttle, and in a moment had "thrown her over," that is,
reversed the engine. The air brakes were applied and the train brought
to a standstill within a few feet of the place where Engineer Cypher met
his death two years ago. By this time the passengers had become curious
as to what was the matter, and all sorts of questions were asked the
trainmen. The engineer made an excuse that some of the machinery was
loose, and in a few moments the train was speeding on to her
destination.
"What made you stop back there?" asked Pinckney. "I heard your excuse,
but I have run too long on the road not to know that your excuse is not
the truth."
His question was answered by the engineer pointing ahead and saying
excitedly:
"There! Look there! Don't you see it?"
"Looking out of the cab window," said Mr. Pinckney, "I saw about 300
yards ahead of us the headlight of a locomotive."
"Stop the train, man," I cried, reaching for the lever.
"Oh, it's nothing. It's what I saw back at the gorge. It's Tom Cypher's
engine, No. 33. There's no danger of a collision. The man who is
running that ahead of us can run it faster backward than I can this one
forward. Have I seen it before? Yes, twenty times. Every engineer on the
road knows that engine, and he's always watching for it when he gets to
the gorge."
"The engine ahead of us was running silently, but smoke was puffing from
the stack and the headlight threw out rays of red, green, and white
light. It kept a short distance ahead of us for several miles, and then
for a moment we saw a figure on the pilot. Then the engine rounded a
curve and we did not see it again. We ran by a little station, and at
the next, when the operator warned us to keep well back from a wild
engine that was ahead, the engineer said nothing. He was not afraid of a
collision. Just to satisfy my own mind on the matter I sent a telegram
to the engine wiper at Sprague, asking him if No. 33 was in. I received
a reply stating that No. 33 had just come in, and that her coal was
exhausted and boxes burned out. I suppose you'll be inclined to laugh at
the story, but just ask any of the boys, although many of them won't
talk about it. I would not myself if I were running on the road. It's
unlucky to do so."
With this comment upon the tale Mr. Pinckney boarded a passing caboose
and was soon on his way to Tacoma. It is believed by Northern Pacific
engineers that Thomas Cypher's spirit still hovers near Eagle gorge.
GHOSTS IN CONNECTICUT
(N.Y. _Sun_, Sept. 1, 1885)
"There is as much superstition in New-England to-day as there was in
those old times when they slashed Quakers and built bonfires for
witches." It was a New York man who gave expression to this rather
startling statement. He has been summering in Connecticut, and he avers
that his talk about native superstition is founded on close observation.
Perhaps it is; anyhow he regaled the _Times's_ correspondent with some
entertaining incidents which he claims establish the truth of his
somewhat astonishing theories.
Old Stratford, the whitewashed town between this place and Bridgeport,
made famous by mysterious "rappings" many years ago, and more recently
celebrated as the scene of poor Rose Clark Ambler's strange murder, is
much concerned over a house which the almost universal verdict
pronounces "haunted." The family of Elihu Osborn lives in this house,
and ghosts have been clambering through it lately in a wonderfully
promiscuous fashion. Two or three families were compelled to vacate the
premises before the Osborns, proud and skeptical, took possession of
them. Now the Osborns are hunting for a new home. Children of the family
have been awakened at midnight by visitors which persisted in shaking
them out of bed; Mrs. Osborn has been confronted with ghostly
spectacles, and through the halls and vacant rooms strange footsteps are
frequently heard when all the family are trying to sleep; sounds loud
enough to arouse every member of the household. Then the manifestations
sometimes change to moanings and groanings sufficiently vehement and
pitiful to distract all who hear them. Once upon a time, perhaps a dozen
years ago, Jonathan Riggs lived in this house, and as the local gossips
assert, Riggs caused the death of his wife by his brutal conduct and
then swallowed poison to end his own life. The anniversary of the
murderous month in the Riggs family has arrived and the manifestations
are so frequent and so lively that "the like has never been seen
before," as is affirmed by a veteran Stratford citizen. There is no
shadow of doubt in Stratford that the spirits of the Riggses are spryly
cavorting around their former abode.
Over at the Thimble Islands, off Stony Creek, is an acre or two of soil
piled high on a lot of rocks. The natives call it Frisbie Island. Not
more than a hundred yards off shore it contains a big bleak looking
house which was built about twenty years ago to serve as a Summer hotel
when Connecticut capitalists were deep in schemes to tempt New Yorkers
to this part of the Sound shore to spend their Summers. New Yorkers
declined to be tempted, and the old house is rapidly approaching decay.
It has recently assumed a peculiar interest for the residents of Stony
Creek. Midnight lights have suddenly appeared in all its windows at
frequent intervals, fitfully flashing up and down like the blaze in the
Long Island lighthouses. Ghosts! This is the universal verdict. Nobody
disputes it. Once or twice a hardy crew of local sailors have
volunteered to go out and investigate the mystery, but when the time for
the test has arrived, there somehow have always been reasons for
postponing the excursion. Cynical people profess to believe that
practical jokers are at the root of the manifestations, but such a
profane view is not widely entertained among the good people who have
their homes at Stony Creek.
Over near Middletown is a farmer named Edgar G. Stokes, a gentleman who
is said to have graduated with honor in a New England college more than
a quarter of a century ago. He enjoys, perhaps, the most notable bit of
superstition to be found anywhere in this country, in or out of
Connecticut. He owns the farm on which he lives, and it is valuable; not
quite so valuable though as it once was, for Mr. Stokes's eccentric
disposition has somewhat changed the usual tactics that farmers pursue
when they own fertile acres. The average man clears his soil of stones;
Mr. Stokes has been piling rocks all over his land. Little by little the
weakness--or philosophy--has grown upon him; and not only from every
part of Middlesex County, but from every part of this State he has been
accumulating wagonloads of pebbles and rocks. He seeks for no peculiar
stone either in shape, color, or quality. If they are stones that is
sufficient. And his theory is that stones have souls--souls, too, that
are not so sordid and earthly as the souls that animate humanity. They
are souls purified and exalted. In the rocks are the spirits of the
greatest men who have lived in past ages, developed by some divinity
until they have become worthy of their new abode. Napoleon Bonaparte's
soul inhabits a stone, so does Hannibal's, so does Cæsar's, but poor
plebeian John Smith and William Jenkins, they never attained such
immortality.
Farmer Stokes has dumped his rocks with more or less reverence all along
his fields, and this by one name and that by another he knows and hails
them all. A choice galaxy of the distinguished lights of the old days
are in his possession, and just between the burly bits of granite at
the very threshold of his home is a smooth-faced crystal from the Rocky
Mountains. This stone has no soul yet. The rough, jagged rock on its
left is George Washington. The granite spar on the right is glorified
with the spirit of good Queen Bess. The smooth-faced crystal one of
these days is to know the bliss of swallowing up the spirit of good
Farmer Edgar Garton Stokes. It was not until recently that mystified
neighbors obtained the secret of the vast accumulation of rough stones
on the Stokes farm. Mr. Stokes has a family. They all seem to be
intelligent, practical business people. There may be a will contested in
Middletown one of these days.
THE SPOOK OF DIAMOND ISLAND
(St. Louis _Globe-Democrat_, Sept. 18, 1888)
HARDEN, Ill., Sept. 18.--For some time past rumors have been circulated
in Hardin to the effect that Diamond Island, in the river about two
miles from this place, was the home of a ghost. The stories concerning
the movements of the alleged spook were, of course, not given any
credence at first, but later, when several reputable citizens of Hardin
announced that they had positively seen an uncanny looking object moving
about on the island at night, the rumors were more seriously considered.
Now, after investigation, the mysterious something is no longer
considered a myth.
Along toward midnight a peculiar light is seen at the foot of the
island. It has the appearance of a huge ball of fire, and is about the
size and shape of an ordinary barrel.
A few nights ago a party of young men from this place determined to
visit the island and fathom the mystery if possible. Equipped with
revolvers, knives, shotguns, and clubs, the party secured a boat and
were soon cutting through the water at a good speed for a point on the
island near where the specter usually made its appearance. Arriving at
the landing place, the skiff was hauled up on the shore and the young
men took up a position in a clump of trees close at hand to watch and
wait.
Suddenly the whole point of the island was illumined as a bright red
object rose apparently from the water and glided up into the air.
Ascending probably to a height of forty yards, the watchers saw the
lurid ball fade away. The investigating party had seen all they wanted.
They made a mad rush for the boat, but, just as they reached the place
where it had been left, they were horrified to see the little craft
moving out on the water from the island. At first its only occupant
seemed to be the red ball of fire, but the next moment the watchers saw
the crimson object gradually take the form of a man, and they saw him,
too, dip the oars at regular intervals and pull a long, steady stroke.
The man's features were fully concealed by a wide-rimmed slouch hat,
which was drawn over his face. A peculiar light illumined the boat and
the waters around it, making the craft and its mysterious occupant
perfectly discernible to the party on the shore, who stood paralyzed
with fear, unable to speak or move, their eyes riveted by some
mysterious influence they could not resist on the spectral object before
them.
The boat was now about in midstream, and suddenly the group of watchers
saw the skiff's occupant change again into the crimson ball. Then it
slowly began to move upward, and when it was about parallel with the
tops of the trees on the island it disappeared. Next instant the
watchers looking across the river saw nothing but the flickering lights
in Hardin.
The cries of the crowd on the island awakened a sleeping fisherman on
the opposite side of the river, and he kindly pulled across and rescued
the ghost-seeking youths. The fiery spook, it is said, still makes its
nightly trips to Diamond Island, but no more investigating parties have
ventured across to solve the mystery.
It is said that some years ago a foul murder was committed on this
island, and by the superstitious the crimson object is believed to be
the restless spirit of the slain man.
THE GHOST'S FULL HOUSE
(N.Y. _Sun_, April 10, 1891)