True Ghost Story

Photo copyright Clare McCarthy 2016

This is a true ghost story.

When I was a teen, I knew the folks who lived in the old Colonial on the way to town. It has a name, but let's let it be nameless; suffice to say it’s on a hill and was built around the time of the Civil War.

The family had lived in exotic places all over the world, but eventually mom and the kids settled in New England, where she kept horses, a small garden, a menagerie of Irish Wolfhounds, Cairn Terriers, Siamese cats and cats without a lineage - and her many children - in line. 

In the dark ages when this story took place, there was no such thing as a cell phone – the (usually sole) phone was attached firmly to a wall somewhere in the house. This house’s phone was in the kitchen, where most phones in that era lived.

The house had a wide center hall with doors to all the rooms opening into it. The stairs to the second floor landed in the hall next to the living room door.  In the kitchen was a massive fireplace, with an iron crane for hanging a pot, a baking oven, and a large hearth where the critters hung out on the huge, warm, granite hearthstone. A giant window spanned one wall, and the fireplace and hearth took up most of another. Between the window wall and the fireplace wall was the open doorway to a tiny mud room, which was also the shortcut to the living room. Everyone went in and out through the mudroom – its door out to the yard was the only door kept cleared in winter.  

Most of the rooms were dusty and unused, except the cozy kitchen with its big fireplace and table, and the living room, with its comfy seats, warm fireplace, and television. 

Bedrooms and a bathroom occupied the second floor; the third floor was all attic, where could be seen the huge beams that formed the skeleton of the house. The mom took me up one day to admire the beams and look out the attic windows at the hills across the fields above the tree tops. She pointed out the date, 1863, and initials of the original owner of the house, and those of his eldest son, carved into one of the massive support beams.

 Shortly after helping his father build the house, the son went off to fight in the war, and died.  The father was said to be a little strange, either made so by the loss of his son, or maybe he was always a bit odd. He had put Indian Shutters in all the windows on the first floor. These solid interior shutters slide into the wall when not in use, and when pulled shut completely block the window opening. 

Local lore included many rumors about these shutters; neighbors spoke of seeing lights moving about in the upstairs windows late at night, and brief glimmers in the downstairs, and hearing strange noises. It was believed the man was a --- FreeMason!! ---who hosted mystical meetings with secret goings-on, and kept the shutters closed against prying eyes.

All old houses have at least one mystery, and this house had another. The mom sometimes asked me to stay there to care for the critters when she and her kids were away. "Don't bring anything yellow with you," she warned me. "It doesn't matter what it is: shirt, socks, skirt, pillow case - it will disappear. Our ghost will steal it and you'll never get it back.”

Ghost? Ghost? First I'd heard about that. "Oh, come on…" I said. "I'm serious," she answered. "I used to think it was the kids playing tricks. But I've searched every nook and cranny all over the house and barns. I’d have found them out eventually. We've lost all kinds of clothes, and linens and towels and napkins and even a set of curtains. Gone, usually within a day or two. We think it's the son who never came back from the war - not alive, anyway. I don't know if he really likes yellow or really hates it."

I asked the son if his mother was pulling my leg. "Oh, no," he said, "it's true. I've helped look for those things. It's the ghost, for sure. Don't be alarmed if you hear him at night," he continued. "We've all heard him coming down the stairs from the attic. He checks out all the bedrooms, sometimes goes downstairs. We never see him, we just hear him. He's harmless."

Ooookay. I thought twice, but decided to stay, and experienced no ghostly thefts or sightings. I stayed several times, in fact - no ghost. I didn't believe in it.

One dark night in December, with snow lightly falling and several snowstorms' worth piled up in high banks along the roads, I was spending the evening. The son had earlier left Mom at a party several towns away. We were watching a good movie. The Indian Shutters were closed for extra draft control, and the critters were all in the kitchen lounging on the hearth, basking in the heat of the embers of a fire. 11:30 pm - time to fetch Mom home.

"I'm staying here," I said. "It’s cozy and I want to see the end of the movie."(Yes, this predated streaming movies and recording devices. Dark ages, remember?)

"Okay," the son said. "We should be back in an hour or so. I won't bank the fires, so don’t leave until we get back."

Out into the cold and snow he went, and I returned my attention to the movie. It was warm and quiet, the house lit only by the glow of the tv screen and a faint glow from the fireplaces. I got dozy. Suddenly, the critters trooped in from the kitchen.  One by one they climbed up on the couch with me: two cats on the back of the sofa by my head, two Wolfhounds leaning against me on either side, a Cairn Terrier sitting on my feet, and two more cats in my lap. They all stared intently back towards the kitchen.

"What's up, guys?" I said out loud. Then I heard it - to my left, footsteps descending the stairway to the dark hall; footsteps walking down the hall to the kitchen; the kitchen door opening and closing; footsteps moving into the kitchen… and then all the kitchen lights blazed on.

Now we were all staring intently at the doorway to the mudroom - the only way out - and I was hanging tightly onto the dogs and trying to see, and not wanting to see, through the mudroom into the kitchen, where the phone - and the ghost - were.

One at a time, the kitchen cupboard doors opened and shut, opened and shut, coming closer and closer to the door of the mudroom – and the door of my room. The fire in the kitchen fireplace flared; the fire in my room flared. I held my breath. The critters were very still and very quiet. A hesitation: then back again, opening and shutting, opening and shutting, moving away towards the door to the hall. The steps reached the door: the lights went out. Then step, step, step through the hall, approaching the stairs and the open door to the room I was in. Still holding my breath; all critter heads swiveled to look toward the hall. No living creature moved; I considered whether I should run, barefoot, out into the cold, snowy night while I could. 

The footsteps stopped, just outside the door to my room. A log fell. I could feel the hesitation – then, slowly, the steps climbed the stairs. In a moment, the house was silent again, except for the murmur of the tv. The critters got off the couch and filed back into the kitchen. I took a quiet breath and wondered whether the ghost was going to come back to watch tv with me.

I have no idea how the movie ended.

Originally published in the Concord Monitor, October 26, 2016, as "A Ghost Story."

Hay bale Hallowe’en cat, Rt 4, Northwood, NH, 2016. Photo by Charley Freiberg, c 2016