I have never seen a ghost and, frankly don’t believe in them. Nevertheless, I have heard some things. This story is called
It was summer in the early seventies and those of us who missed Woodstock were eager to have our own days of peace, love, music, and chicken stew. John McCrae knew the perfect venue. In Liberty Hill, no one can hear you party. John’s two aunts lived in a house with a huge back yard that sloped gently downhill into a surrounding forest. The nearest neighbor to the house was the Governor Richards Mansion, which was unoccupied at the time.
Even the most spontaneous event needs planning and we worked for hours on invitations and logistics. We would all bring tents to pitch around the yard, the guest list would include anyone who sounded like fun and the main course would be a hunter’s stew cooked over a fire in cast iron pot big enough for me to hide in. Beverages were strictly bring your own, mostly beer, and anything stronger was personal choice.
With invitations out and supplies bought, the five couples who planned the event decided to spend the night before sleeping in the yard. John’s aunts had decamped for places unknown and we arrived in the afternoon, built a nice campfire, set up tents and spent an afternoon looking forward to all the friends who would arrive the next day.
When night fell, the only light was from our campfire and from our flashlights. These were not the super flashlights of today, they were the old type, two D batteries and a bulb that at best could at best, illuminate a bear at 25 feet. John had told us stories about the Governor’s Mansion and the legends about it being haunted. Armed with a little liquid courage and the bravado of youth, we decided to walk the three hundred yards up to the mansion and have a look for ourselves. John had a key and we could even go inside.
Up the road we went, flashlights waving around like London during the Blitz, and having a great adventure. As we neared the dark mansion, we knew we would not be going inside. There was a low iron fence surrounding the house and two big vicious-sounding dogs had rushed up to the fence line. They were like shadows caught momentarily in the beam of our flashlights as they ran along the fence line barking menacingly. We all stopped, sort of jumbled together, barely able to hear each other talk over the barking when we heard it.
A deep commanding voice from the unoccupied house said, “Be quiet!”
We all froze. The voice was enough for me but to make it worse, the dogs let out a whimper and scrambled back under the house.
No one said a word but everyone turned in unison and made a mad scramble back down the road. This was no polite women and children first…this was mad dash mayhem. I am reminded of the running sound made by the feet of cartoon characters. Think Flintstones.
Even John was shaken. He was sure that no one should have been at the house and no one but the aunts could calm the dogs. As I said, I don’t believe in ghosts but I heard the voice and saw and heard the dogs. I don’t believe I was the only one-eye open sleeper that night.
The next day, when the sun was bright, we went back to the house. There were no dogs and no voice but it was daylight and as we know, the sun dissolves eerie voices.
There was another scary experience. This time in a place far away. We were innocents abroad and loaded with inexperience but Chuck and Tiffany Hancock and my first wife Jane and I saved our money and went overseas. Jane and I had been to England before but on an organized trip. This one was on our own with no reservations and a Brit-Rail Pass. After the sights of London, I was most interested in going to Inverness to see Loch Ness.
The train ride from London was strange enough because there was no seating, but young vagabonds that we were, we opted to sit in the corridor of the train. The trip was overnight and along with dozens of our closest strangers, we attempted to sleep on the floor of the train hanging on to our belongings for safekeeping.
We stopped in Glasgow, Scotland at 5:30 the next morning to change trains. The station was almost deserted and we had to wait for an hour before the bathrooms opened. We tried to check the schedule but it was tough to decipher. Chuck decided to go up the counter to ask the clerk for information about the Inverness train. The clerk explained at length and Chuck came back. When we asked for information, he shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I couldn’t understand a word.”
The rest of us laughed at him and, of course, I had to save the day. I sauntered over to the counter and asked about the train. “Aye,” the clerk said and then made a long series of unintelligible sounds. I came back, head low and defeat in my eyes. With some time and effort we were able to figure out the departure time and departure platform but only after sitting on a bench and listening for a while did we begin to understand the Glaswegian accent.
We arrived in Inverness in the middle of the afternoon and made for the Tourist Information Center. We had no reservations and asked them to suggest a very reasonably priced Bed & Breakfast. The lady behind the counter gave us an address and basic directions and off we went.
The B&B was an old house in the shape of a gray monolith, like a stone cube with ancient ivy climbing all the way up the walls. When we knocked, the door opened and the eerie began. A tall man in a tweed suit answered the door. He had a voice like Lurch from the Addams Family and his face looked strange. It took only a moment to figure out that his skin was pale white in the shape of a full beard. It looked like he had shaved off the beard only minutes before. The effect was chilling, but the lady of the house scurried up and was as normal as scones. She greeted us and showed us to our rooms on the second floor. Jane and I were in the front room with two small windows overlooking the street. Chuck and Tiffany were in the room beside us at the back of the house. Our room was comfortable and like many bed and breakfast homes, the bathroom was across the hall. It was a very old house and there were no built-in closets. A large free-standing chifforobe closet stood beside the head of our bed. The only unusual feature was that behind the closet was a door. Very curious, but we didn’t make much of it and set out to explore the city. After an afternoon of wandering and a fish and chips dinner at the Loch Ness Café, we headed back to the B&B.
Exhausted from our train adventure, it felt good to settle in for the night. I had been asleep for only thirty minutes or so when I heard it the first time. Knock! Knock! Knock! just as anyone might tap on a door. I got up and opened the room door ready to complain with Chuck for disturbing my sleep but no one was there. I lay back down when again, Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Did you hear that?” Jane asked.
“I went to the door but no one was there,” I answered.
“It didn’t come from that door,” she said.
We lay perfectly still until a few minutes later, Knock! Knock! Knock!
It sounded like it came from the door behind the closet. This time it repeated fairly quickly, Knock! Knock! Knock!
Neither of us said a word. There was no attempt to go back to sleep. Both of us lay there with eyes wide open. After five or so minutes, Knock! Knock! Knock!
Against my better judgement, I got up and walked quietly over to the closet.
“Hello?” I whispered.
Nothing.
Once more, “Hello?”
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
I jumped away from the closet. The sound definitely came from behind the door and it seemed more insistent. I went back to the bed, pulled up the covers and lay very, very still.
All night, at varying intervals, the tapping would come.
Finally, daylight broke through the windows and we were awake and jittery. I couldn’t wait to tell Chuck and Tiffany about the sound. I knocked on their door and Chuck showed up, fully dressed.
“What were you two knocking on over there,” he said. “We didn’t sleep a wink.”
We all went down to breakfast but didn’t tell our landlady. When we went outside, I walked to the street and looked at the house. There were the windows to our room, too close to the wall for a passageway. When I looked at the side of the house, there was the outline of an outside door, filled in with newer stone and the stain made by stairs long removed. The door at the back of our room went nowhere.
Chuck and Tiffany left that morning to travel to Edinburgh and we stayed to visit Loch Ness. We didn’t see Nessie, but we refused to spend another night in that house. When we asked the lady at the tourist information center for a different B&B, she asked why we were leaving the first one.
We didn’t tell her…but she knew. I could tell, she knew.
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