In a Haunted House by Joseph B. Bowles. A New Yorker's experience with
a strange old colonial mansion, a nerve wracking night, some startling incidents which
seemed impossible of rational explanation by T. D. Sullivan, Congressman elect from
New York City. This is I think the strangest experience in a career that
has not been monotonous. It is true, and at one time I had
some trouble keeping it out of the papers. Now there's no more reason for
keeping quiet about it, so I may as well tell the whole story for
the first time. The reason why I need not keep the secret any longer
is because a big, old fashioned red brick building was torn down this year.
It was once a private residence, then an office building, and now
its site is the site of a steel skyscraper. That is the way New
York grow. But at the time this narrative deals with, the house was
a residence, a big, rambling, roomy old residence at that remodeled from
a colonial mansion. There was a young fellow whose father had been a dear
friend of mine. He had recently married his bride had taken a fancy to
the house, and her husband, being rich and eager to gratify any whim
of hers, had bought it in at a sheriff's sale of uptown property.
The purchaser is now a United States Congressman. I have not permission to use
his name, sir, I will call him Clark. His chief opponent at
the sale was a real estate dealer. O'Gorman is near enough to his real
name to suit present purposes. This O'Gorman was a shrewd, shifty, unscrupulous
chap who had visions of the great future of the Upper west Side, visions
that later came true. If you ever get dissatisfied with the old place,
I'll take it off your hands at the figure of my best bid today,
he said to Clark after the sale. Clark laughed at him, gave orders
for the house's renovation, and sailed with his bride for Europe on a six
months trip. The trouble begins. I was sitting in my office one day
about half a year later, when Clark sauntered in. I saw from his
face he was bothered about something. After our first meeting, he came to
the point, I've made a bad investment in that old Bartolf House. He
said. The colonial builder's name had been Yan Bartolf, and the house was
still referred to in the neighborhood by his name. Doesn't missus Clark like the
place as much as she expected to, I asked him. She hasn't had
a chance to judge of it, he said, and I don't mean that
she shall. The house is haunted. Haunted, what nonsense. That's what
I thought when I came home last week from Europe and found that not a
single day's work had been done on the repairs I ordered, answered Clark.
I went to the contractor and he calmly informed me he wouldn't touch the job,
and then I could have my money back. He said that ghosts had
frightened his workmen half to death, that he'd seen and heard things there that
couldn't be explained, and that every man in his employ would strike if he
ordered them to work there. And you believed all that rot, I laughed,
No, replied Clark. Seriously, I didn't. I thought he was
lying. I went over the house myself, and well, what he said
was true. You can guide me if you're like old man, But the
house is haunted, and I'm going to get rid of it. I suppose
why monsters clattered their chains at you. I hazarded, and you ran a
block before you identified the hideous specters as a pack of mice scampering in the
loose plastering of the walls. If you take it that way, he said,
offended at my guying, there's no use inviting any more of your jokes
by telling you what really happened to me there. I'm going to hunt up
O'Gorman, tell him the truth about the place and see if his offer to
buy it still holds good. He may be willing to pay something for it
as a land speculation. He never could get a tenant to stay there.
Now, Clark's absolute sincerity began to make an impression on me. I saw
that he was terribly in earnest, that he believed he was telling the truth,
and that he was really ready to sell the valuable property for a song.
Look here, Clark, I said, I'm sorry I guide you,
but it all seems so absurd. You know as well as I do that
there are no such things as ghosts. Don't be foolish and give up the
place till you've made sure. What are you going to do this evening,
nothing especial. Why come and dine with me. Then we'll take a box
of cigars, a bundle of candles, and a light lunch along and go
together to this haunted house of yours for the night. I've always wanted to
see a ghost. Maybe I can find some explanation for it all. My
first idea on hearing his story had been that o' gorman, in order to
gain possession of the property he coveted, had bribed the contractor to spring that
ghost yarn. But when Clarke himself had apparently seen or heard something to verify
the crazy belief, the affair began to take on a more serious aspect,
a night investigation. I took a long nap that afternoon to obviate the chance
of going to sleep, drawing the vigil and promptly at ten that evening,
I started with Clark for the Bartholf mansion. It was, as I said,
a rambling old brick dwelling and built in colonial days by an eccentric Dutchman,
concerning whom some odd stories still survived. The neighbors, it seemed,
had regarded him as a sort of wizard or magician. As we walked up
the uneven path to the front porch. The old pile of brick looked in
the moonlight like the regular dime novel haunted house, and as Clarke led us
in through the great blackened oak doors, the darkness of the huge hall seemed
to rush forward to meet us. We set about our preparations in a businesslike
way. We established our headquarters for the night in the big drawing room to
the right of the hall. We lighted a half dozen candles, stuck them
in the rusty iron sconces about the wall, and set about examining the room.
The walls were lined with faded tapestry. One or two old, half
defaced pictures hung here and there, notably one of old Yan Bartolf himself,
which was directly above the mantel. Several pieces of furniture occupied the bare floor,
whose hardwood boards were warped by dampness and neglect. We made sure that
no hiding place for lurking mischief makers existed within the four walls of the apartment.
Then, candle in hand, we made a systematic detour of the whole
dusty, creaking house. Well, said Clarke, as we reached the top
of the wide staircase on our return toward the ground floor. If there'd been
a man, or even a mouse concealed anywhere, we'd have found him.
Let's go back to the drawing room. And why it's dark down there?
We were halfway downstairs, as he spoke. On our way up, the
light of the candles in the drawing room sconces had cast a glow across the
hall. Now, except where illuminated by the two candles in our hands,
the whole lower floor was in dense blackness, ghostly mystery. What do you
think now, asked Clark. I made no reply, but ran down the
remaining steps into the drawing room. The smell of extinguished candles filled the room.
All was dark, save where a broad patch of moonlight from the one
unshuttered window fell on the floor. In the very center of that patch was
an old mahogany rocking chair. It was rocking with a quiet, regular motion,
as if some invisible guest were taking his ease and swearing himself to sleep.
Do you see that, whispered Clark over my shoulder. That's what I
saw when I came up here in broad daylight. It's a current of air,
I explained, But even as I said it, I knew that no
real draft could enter that closed room with force enough to blow out six candles
and start a heavy chair into motion. Moreover, the air in the room
was dead and motionless. I never used to believe in this sort of thing
any more than you do, said Clark. But who can doubt it?
Now? I can doubt it, I answered, Help me light these candles
in the sconces and will make another inspection of the room. We lighted the
candles. As we set foot in the room, the chair had ceased rocking.
We once more made the rounds of the apartment, patting the tapestry against
the walls with our hands, looking under each bit of furnish, sounding the
bricked up fireplace, and in other ways making sure no trick was played on
us by human agency. If anybody is putting up this line of practical joking,
I said, he can't do anything while we're in here. If it's
a ghost. The sound as if someone sobbing and panting for breath, came
to us while I was speaking. It seemed to be in the room within
arm's length of us. That's easily explained, I said, as Clark grabbed
my arm. The wind in the empty passages of the house, and the
chimney makes it's growing dark, interrupted my companion. I looked up. Only
two of the six candles were burning. Even as I looked, first one
and then another of those remaining two lights went out. It was as though
someone had passed along that side of the room and extinguished them. We were
in total darkness, for I had closed that one open window shutter. In
the dense blackness, as I groped for a match, I could hear that
great rocking chair slowly begin to creak back and forth. I found a match
at last, and struck it. We re lighted the candles. Then I
turned to look at the rocker. It was standing motionless. We stared hopelessly
into each other's faces. I hope mine wasn't as scared and white as Clark's.
And this is the sort of house you advise me to bring my bride
to, he said, At last, we've seen enough. I'm going home.
You're going to spend the night here, as you promised, I answered.
This ghost seems to be a harmless sort of creature, as long as
he contents himself with puffing out candles and making chairs rock. He can't bother
us greatly. Let's have a smoke and talk it over. I sat down
in the ghostly rocker and lighted a cigar. I kept a keen eye on
the candles, resolved to get some clue if possible, to the way they
were extinguished. Clark threw himself on a sofa at the other side of the
room. It's no use, he said. I'll get rid of the house
as soon as I can, and at any terms. I'm sorry because my
wife had set her heart on living here. With a little repair, this
would be an ideal home except for the ghost. What are you doing the
ghost? I had risen to my feet and come to the middle of the
room. The rocker in which I'd been sitting was in the shadow. The
candles, as we had rearranged them, were all at the lower end of
the room, near the big mantelpiece. As I had sat idly listening to
Clark's complaint, my gaze had chanced to fall on Old Yan Bartholf's picture.
I could have sworn that I saw the eyes in the tarnished face close and
then open. I'm just strolling around for exercise, I said, carelessly.
It makes one so nervous to sit still in here. And as I got
to this point, my steps had carried me in a circuitous route to the
mantel. With a sudden motion and exerting all my strength, I seized the
big picture and wrenched it from its fastenings. It fell to the floor with
a crash, and there, in a great hole in the wall which the
canvas had covered, crouched a human body. With a second sweep of the
arm, I seized it as it was about to vanish into the dark passage
behind the opening, and pulled it into the room, where it tumbled headlong
on the floor. There's your ghost, Clerk, I said, brushing the
dust off my clothes and watching the figures grumble to its feet. You're a
clever chap O'Gorman, but you're not clever enough. That's all the trouble with
you, now, Clark, If you'll keep your hands on this worthy house,
haunter, I'm going on an exploring expedition. Clarke had the struggling fellow
by the throat, and I lighted an extra candle and clambered up into the
hole above the mantel. I'll be back in a minute, I said.
The aperture led to a passageway nearly three feet wide that ran the entire length
of the house, being depressed to a height of about three feet at places
where the windows intervened. This explained the unusually deep window seats I'd noticed the
inner walls of the passage. Those nearest the rooms were honeycombed with auger holes,
whose aspect showed them to have been bored many years before secret passages Through
these apertures. It had been a simple matter for O. Gorman to detect
the whereabouts of the candles in the sconces, and by a sudden puff to
blow them out. The threadbare tapestry did not obstruct the air, and one
could see dimly through it. The passage ran clear around the house between outer
and inner walls, connecting by ladders, with a similar secret passage on the
floor above. A ladder descended from the ground floor passage to a space between
the drawing room flooring and the cellar ceiling. This space was quite large enough
to admit the body of a man. As I glanced into it, I
could see the drawing room candle light filtering through the cracks in the flooring.
A slender bladed knife thrust through the cracks at the right place would readily account
for the rocking of the chair. One light push of the knife point would
set it in motion. Old Yan Bartolf must have had odd theories on the
subject of building. What may have been the original object of these passages peep
holes, etc. No one can tell whether he sought to spy on his
family or guests, or whether he feared he might one day need shelter from
justice or from Indians. I don't know, perhaps to foister the popular belief
in his magic powers. But the secret chambers were there, and O'Gorman had
made clever use of them. But for his folly in using the cutout eye
holes in the portrait in order to watch us from a better point of view,
he would assuredly have gained his point and bought the house of Clark for
a song. O'Gorman confessed to us that while wandering over the house with a
view to buying it just before Clark had outbid him, he had blundered on
the secret passage behind Bartolf's picture. The idea of scaring Clark into selling cheap
had occurred to him sooner on O'Gorman, giving us a written confession. Clark,
greatly against my advice let the fellow go. He was so much relieved
to find the house was not really haunted. He said that he hadn't the
heart to drag the whole story into the public Prince by prosecuting the swindler.
End of in a haunted house