Speaker 1: In a Haunted House by Joseph B. Bowles. A New
Yorker's experience with a strange old colonial mansion, a nerve
racking 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 brought 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. Oh Gorman, is near
enough to his real name to suit present purposes. This
Oh 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 month's 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 on 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 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'll 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 a special.
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 during 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 neighbours, 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 Clark 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 Bartholf himself, which was directly above the mantle.
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 half way 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 Clarke 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 we'll 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 still,
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 Jan 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 mantle. 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 gramble 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. Clark had the struggling
fellow by the throat, and I lighted an extra candle
and clambered up into the hole above the mantle. 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 candlelight 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 Bartholf 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 Bartholf's picture. The idea of scaring
Clark into selling cheap had occurred to him sooner on
o' gorman giving us a written confession, Clarke 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 prints by prosecuting the swindler. End
of in a haunted house