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HAUNTED HOUSES
FOURTH EDITION
HAUNTED HOUSES
CHILLING TALES FROM 26 AMERICAN HOMES
NANCY ROBERTS CONTINUED BY TARYN PLUMB
GUILFORD, CONNECTICUT
An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Blvd., Ste. 200
Lanham, MD 20706
www.rowman.com
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
Copyright © 2020 The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Roberts, Nancy, 1924-2008., author. | Plumb, Taryn, 1981- author.
Title: Haunted houses : chilling tales from 26 American homes / Nancy Roberts continued by Taryn Plumb.
Description: Fourth edition. | Guilford, Connecticut : Globe Pequot, 2020. | Summary: “Ghostwriters Nancy Roberts and Taryn Plumb spin fascinating tales about 26 haunted houses all over America. Based on stories told by first-hand witnesses, these stories of ghostly goings-on will keep you on the edge of your seat-and possibly up all night! Read about San Diego’s Whaley House, whose former residents maintain an active presence, as does Yankee Jim, a hanging victim over whose gallows the house was built. Learn about the house in Massachusetts that once belonged to eccentric millionaire and brilliant inventor John Hammond, Jr.-whose practice in spiritualism, say some, continues long after his death. And relive the terrifying battle that claimed the lives of 1,700 Confederate soldiers whose battlefield became their final resting place on Tennessee’s Carnton Plantation”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020008095 (print) | LCCN 2020008096 (ebook) | ISBN 9781493047130 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781493047147 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Ghosts—United States. | Haunted houses—United States.
Classification: LCC BF1472.U6 R634 2020 (print) | LCC BF1472.U6 (ebook) | DDC 133.10973—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008095
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008096
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992
CONTENTS
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Contents
PREFACE
CALIFORNIA A Shot in the Dark, Hotel del Coronado, Coronado, California
The Haunted Hotel, Hotel Ione, Ione, California
Return of the Hanged Man, Whaley House (Museum), San Diego, California
The House the Spirits Built, The Winchester Mansion, San Jose, California
SOUTHERN US A Plea from the Grave, Cedarhurst Mansion, Huntsville, Alabama
The Ghostly Greeter, Lucas Tavern, Montgomery, Alabama
The Pirate’s House, Savannah, Georgia
The House of Spirits, The Myrtles, St. Francisville, Louisiana
House of Tragedy, Carnton Plantation, Franklin, Tennessee
The Free Spirit, Ashton Villa, Galveston, Texas
NEW ENGLAND The North Room, Red Brook Inn, Old Mystic, Connecticut
The Governor’s Haunted Mansion, Woodburn, Dover, Delaware
The Romantic Inn by the Sea, Inn by the Sea, Cape Elizabeth, Maine
Where You Never Dine Alone, John Stone’s Inn, Ashland, Massachusetts
Where History Comes Alive, The Old Manse, Concord, Massachusetts
The Hatchet Murders, The Lizzie Borden House, Fall River, Massachusetts
John Hays Hammond Jr.—Peculiar in Death Just as in Life? Hammond Castle Museum, Gloucester, Massachusetts
The Ghost Lover, The Alexander–Philips House, Springfield, Massachusetts
MIDDLE AND SOUTH ATLANTIC STATES How to Kill a Spy, Seven Stars Tavern, Woodstown, New Jersey
The Thing in the Well, Old Fort Niagara, Youngstown, New York
The Dreaded Meeting, White Oaks, Charlotte, North Carolina
The Phantom Lady, Mordecai House and the Andrew Johnson Home, Raleigh, North Carolina
Beware the Lights of Loudoun, Loudoun House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The Hermitage, Near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
A Drum for the Dead, Berkeley Hundred, Charles City, Virginia
The Tramping Feet, The Gaffos House, Portsmouth, Virginia
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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Guide
Cover
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Contents
PREFACE
Start of Content
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PREFACE
THERE ARE HOUSES that you and I should, perhaps, never enter—houses that can be lived in with only the greatest understanding and tolerance. Within them we may encounter ghostly presences, soft touches from invisible fingers, eerie sounds, the echoing footsteps of unseen inhabitants, pervasive fragrances, or even vile stenches.
There are those of us who are skeptical, but there are others who would not mind saying that, perhaps, these houses are haunted. Where are they, and what is it like to live in one of them? How do the owners adjust to curiosity seekers, to the skepticism of their friends, and, most of all, to sharing their home with an apparition?
The pages of this book contain stories written in a style that not only will be easy to read but also especially suited to being read aloud. They are accounts of hauntings, presences, and spectral appearances obtained from interviews conducted across the country. If you were to ask me what sort of people I talked with, I would have to describe them as ordinary people. They were down-to-earth, intelligent, and, probably, very much like yourself. In this book, I have let them tell their own unique stories.
There is often an impression perpetuated—intentionally, I believe, by so called “ghost hunters”—that spirits return because of violent circumstances or for revenge. I would say this is not necessarily true and is entirely too limiting and unimaginative. As a writer who probably has researched more ghost stories based on personal interviews than any other author, I have become convinced through conversations with those who claim supernatural encounters that there are as many reasons for the appearance of a ghost as there are kinds of people—or should I say spirits?
Nor do I believe that these ghosts are necessarily tragic spirits trapped somewhere in space, unable to enter either heaven or hell. Rather, I believe that they are sometimes the recipients of an occasional and very special dispensation.
I have just returned from the most recent in a series of excursions that have taken me all over the United States in search of special houses with memorable ghost stories. Tonight, I sit writing by the light of a small brass-and-emerald-glass student lamp that belonged to my great-aunt. It is a reminder of the many times I lay beside her in bed at night as a child and coaxed, “Aunt Jess, tell me a story.” From her prodigious memory she would hold forth, and I was enthralled.
Not all of the narratives herein are suitable for bedtime, but that will be up to you to judge. Here is how one of the stories I wrote for this collection begins:
When the moon is full above the Castle on a summer night—that is when they say it happens. And for all we know it may be happening tonight. Pray it won’t. Or pray, at least, that neither you nor I will be there to see it if it should.
There is much early history of our country in this story, and that is one of the reasons I enjoyed writing it.
Most of the stories in this book are about places you may tour, in which you may spend the night, or which you may at least drive past and wonder about. (Please respect the owner’s privacy when doing so.)
And now, dear reader, here is your opportunity to visit some unforgettable houses!
−Nancy Roberts
A SHOT IN THE DARK
HOTEL DEL CORONADO, CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
The legendary Hotel del Coronado near San Diego has a room said to be haunted.
Across from San Diego on a balmy beach by the blue Pacific is the Hotel del Coronado. It is a legendary place. The Prince of Wales (Edward VIII), Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, Lyndon B. Johnson, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, Shirley MacLaine, and countless other celebrities have enjoyed its 1880s opulence.
Built when Wyatt Earp was keeping order in Tombstone, the palatial hotel is one of the last great seaside resorts. It has excellent food, a magnificent expanse of ocean, and a haunted room.
The hotel on Orange Avenue in Coronado resembles at first view a huge colony of many different-sized mushrooms, each capped with a pointed red Mediterranean roof. When I went to the desk and inquired about the haunted room, the assistant manager replied abruptly, “We do not have such a thing.” I nodded politely and asked to see the manager.
“Well we do have a room that some people say is haunted,” answered the manager reluctantly, “but, of course, it isn’t.”
“Would it be possible for me to see it anyway?”
“No, I’m sorry it wouldn’t.”
That seemed a strange reply, so I went on to explain that I was collecting stories for a book of supernatural phenomena at famous places. Again, I asked to view the room and again, he refused.
“Would you like to rent it?” he asked.
“What number is it?”
“Number 3502.”
How odd that he immediately knew the number if it were not haunted. Something must have happened in this room, I thought. “Well, what is the price?”
“It would be one hundred and five dollars.”
That seemed reasonable enough for a haunted room, I thought. “Would you kindly show it to me?”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I can’t do that, but if you wish to rent it for the night . . .”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll think about it and let you know later,” I had another approach in mind, but it could wait. It was time to try the Sunday luncheon buffet in the majestic Crown Room. An impressive display of delicacies graced the long tables, and I observed at least a dozen varieties of luscious-looking desserts. As I sampled the buffet, I admired the dark magnificence of the vaulted oak ceiling, contemplating all the famous people who had dined here. There was a sense of awe at being in the same room where Charles Lindbergh had been honored following his solo flight across the Atlantic in 1927. Here too the Prince of Wales had been feted, and, unfortunately for a man named Simpson, it was on that occasion that his wife, Wallis, met the prince.
But on with the ghost story quest. After brunch, questioning various employees of the hotel, I discovered that many had heard stories of the room being haunted and some believed them.
Through the years the girl’s identity and details of her background gradually came to light. The true story is not a happy one. It is about a wicked stepmother and a lovely young girl.
Kate Morgan was born in Dubuque, Iowa, three years after the close of the Civil War. Her father was a well-to-do farmer, and, when she was a child, he and her mother gave the golden-haired little Kate every advantage. She was in her early teens when her mother died and her father remarried. Despite the girl’s efforts to please her stepmother, Maggie, she was never able to do so, and as time went on, the girl’s life became increasingly miserable.
The lovely clothes her parents had given her were now tattered and outgrown, and anything Morgan did for his daughter made her stepmother madly jealous. Even his bringing her a bright ribbon from the store was an occasion for harsh words from his wife. It irritated Maggie that despite Kate’s faded calico dresses her beauty shone bright as a new Indian head penny.
In 1868 Dubuque showed some of the promise and much of the tawdry glitter of the city it would one day become. Rough bootclad cattlemen trod the muddy streets, their pockets full of money to squander, and saloons and gambling houses attracted all kinds of men.
Demure, well-dressed ladies flourished parasols shielding their delicate complexions from the rays of the blazing Midwest sun as they strolled along the wooden sidewalk in front of the stores. And then there were women whose hair boasted a brassy henna brilliance and who wore color on their lips as red as the blossoms of the trumpet vines that twined over unpainted shacks. Real ladies could spot that kind in a twinkling,
Maggie Morgan always said, and with her sharp tongue was ever ready to point them out contemptuously.
Often while Maggie lay languidly in bed resting, Kate was sent through the flat Iowa countryside, bright with purple phlox and wild roses, on errands to the store. One July afternoon she had just come out of the Dubuque Supply Company, carrying her purchases when a cattleman grasped her arm.
“You’re sure a pretty gal. I wanna buy you a drink,” Bill Bailey said.
Kate pulled away and tried to pass him, but his big, calloused hand reached out, encircling her waist, and he spun her around to face him.
“Please, let me go. I don’t know you, sir.”
“Wal, you can git to know me mighty fast!” With that, he jerked Kate toward him, and her bag full of groceries fell from her arms, its contents spilling all over the ground.
“I seen you before, wearin’ them raggedy clothes. You need a purty dress, a gal like you.” He thrust his bearded face close to Kate’s own. She screamed, and a knot of men began to gather around them. Kate strained to break free, and, as she did, her dress tore at the shoulder. She began to cry.
“Now, see what you went and done,” Bill said, leering at her. “I tole you, you needed a purty dress, and I’m going to take you to git it.”
“You’re not taking her anywhere,” a hard-edged masculine voice spoke up from the crowd. Bill Bailey glared at the man the crowd parted to let pass. A tall, well-built fellow with bright blue eyes, curly black hair, and expensive clothes, it was obvious he was no cattleman.
Bailey released Kate and, fists raised, started for the stranger but stopped abruptly when the man’s hand slid toward his pocket. That meant a pistol. Bailey turned away, melting into the little knot of onlookers. The stranger covered Kate’s bare shoulder by putting his jacket around her and began picking up the contents of her bag from the dirt of the main street.
“I want to see you safely home,” he said. “What is your name, young lady?”
“Kate Morgan. And yours, sir?”
“Lou Garrou.”
She rode behind him on his horse, and Garrou seemed in no hurry. He had gotten off a Mississippi riverboat that afternoon and was in town to enjoy himself. In answer to her question about his occupation, he said, “Just a traveling businessman,” and that he would be moving on in a day or so. He came back to see her that night and the following afternoon, much to everyone’s astonishment, he appeared at the Morgan farmhouse with a box of pretty clothes for Kate. Since he was still there at suppertime, they invited him to sit down and share their meal.