Night Stalks The Mansion: A True Story Of One Family's Ghostly Adventure (2 page)

The broker was an immaculate, tidy-looking individual
behind an untidy desk. He had gray hair, gray eyes, and a
gray toothbrush moustache. I was enough of a salesman,
myself, to recognize his swift appraisal of me. He was wondering whether or not I was a "live" prospect. I didn't keep
him long in doubt.

"I'm Harold Cameron," I announced. "I'm with Aluminum
Corporation of America with headquarters in Philadelphia
and I need a house for a family of seven."

He was noncommittal until I showed him the ad that
had brought me to his office. Then he brightened up
considerably.

"Is this place still for lease?" I demanded

"Yes, Mr. Cameron. Not everyone can appreciate a splendid old mansion or would be comfortable in a country estate." I recognized the sales pitch but it was what I'd
expected.

"Tell me about it," I urged.

He went into an elaborate description of the old family
dwelling which was appropriately called the mansion. He
spoke in a clipped British accent and at times I was more
interested in his voice than his words. I did learn, however,
that the property was located seventeen miles out of Philadelphia in the suburb of Wynne, and was available for only
$3600 per year on a two-year lease.

"This is less than half of its real leasing value," he informed me. "It's almost impossible to find anything for
lease or rent around here since the war. This is a great
bargain."

I saw no reason to tell him that I was so desperate that
any house big enough to stretch in would be a great bargain. I was also intrigued by his mention of seven big fireplaces in the house and that it was completely furnished.

"About all that furniture," I began. "I could use some,
of course, but I have a lot of my own in storage. I ordered
it shipped out here when I was transferred from Portland.
Then, too, I don't want to be responsible for the safety of
valuable antiques in a household of kids."

"Anything you don't want can be stored with no problem," he promised.

The deal was sounding better all the time. "What about
the plumbing?" I asked.

"It's in fine shape. No one has lived there for any length
of time for years, but things like that have been kept up."
Then he added as an afterthought, "The owners aren't
exactly impoverished, you understand. They spend most
of their time in Europe. Of course the place will need some
renovating but if you are willing to sign a lease, that will
be taken care of before you move in."

"When can I see the house?" I wanted to know.

He glanced at his watch. "Today? I have several appointments but maybe ..."

"Later this afternoon. I'll take the family out to look it
over. Do you have a key for me? Then we won't have to
bother you if I'm delayed and can't keep a definite appointment."

He selected a big key from a pile in a desk drawer and
held it out. "This unlocks the front door. I'll trust you with
the key, Mr. Cameron. You don't look like a vandal. Just
take your time looking the place over."

"What are the neighbors like?" I questioned as I got up
to leave.

He gave me a curious look. "You won't be bothered with
neighbors," he promised with a faint smile, "and they won't
be bothered with you -not unless your ancestors beat the
Mayflower over. Some relatives run the adjoining farm but
they aren't too sociable as far as newcomers are concerned.
None of these oldtimers are," he added reflectively.

"How long does one stay a newcomer?" I asked with
interest.

"Oh, I venture to say about twenty or thirty years." He
spoke quietly, but with a flash of humor.

"I'll contact you tomorrow," I promised.

Somehow I felt we were going to get that house. I was
able to concentrate on a multitude of duties at the office
that day without the subconscious worry that had nagged
me about housing.

Dorothy and I thought alike. The very things I had mentioned as possible obstacles to our leasing were the ones she
brought up as we were on our way to inspect the premises
later that afternoon. Hal and Bob were with us. I had given
five dollars to the daughter of the motel manager to keep
an eye on the younger children for an hour or so until our
return.

"Harold-" Dorothy began hesitantly "-about those
antiques ..."

"We're not baby-sitting with a bunch of antiques," I reassured her. "They will store them for the time of our lease,
along with the furniture we don't want."

She laughed. "Well, that's a reliefl I have enough babysitting to do in other areas."

"If only half of what he says is true, the place is a gift at
that price," I observed. "I'm not looking a gift horse in the
mouth."

It was an old saying that I came to disagree with a little
too late. One should not only look a gift horse in the mouth
but scrupulously examine every molar. There is always the
danger that it could turn into a different breed of animal -
the proverbial white elephant.

Dorothy had one more question. "What about plumbing
in an old place like that?"

"Good shape. I asked about that."

Dorothy wasn't the type to raise too many objections
before she inspected things for herself. Now she sighed a
little and settled back to enjoy the drive.

Leaving industrial Philadelphia, we entered a different
world-one of beauty and serenity, green rolling hills,
clusters of trees, tidy farms and spacious dwellings. We had
driven for twenty minutes and had just crossed a small stream
when the mansion suddenly loomed before our eyes. It was
a great house situated on a hill about a quarter of a mile
away. I was immediately impressed by its grandeur. Four
jutting chimneys thrust themselves above the third floor
level into the lowering clouds that darkened the sky on that
wintry Pennsylvania afternoon. A few minutes later we
approached the front drive which swung into the property
from Plum Tree Lane. A stone fence had separated the
extensive grounds from the road for about three hundred yards. I stopped the car on the circular drive at the front
door.

"Will you look at thatt '

"I am looking," Dorothy replied in a small voice. A sharp
whistle sounded from the back seat where the boys were
riding.

Constructed of gray Philadelphia granite, the mansion
could have been used as an illustration for The Fall of the
House of Usher. A concrete veranda took up about a third
of the entire circumference of the house, running from the
front door around to the kitchen entrance.

Awed at the sight, we climbed silently from the car and
walked up to the massive, carved walnut door which opened
readily with a turn of the key. We found ourselves in a large
entrance hall. Directly before us a wide stairway curved up
to the second floor. At our left a door opened into the living
room which held furniture draped with heavy cloth dusters.
I felt I had stepped backward in time.

Dorothy ran an investigating finger over a shrouded chair
and promptly sneezed. Dust settled in a gray film over everything in the room.

"Gosh!" Bob exclaimed. "It's like being in King Tut's
tomb!"

"That would be nice clean dirt compared to this," Dorothy
replied a little grimly.

"Why, Moml" Hal observed with a grin. "That's the first
time I ever heard you admit there was such a thing as clean
dirt!"

Dorothy wasn't in the mood for levity. She sneezed again
and reached for a tissue.

Against the back wall and facing the entrance was a large
walk-in fireplace that could easily accomodate a six-foot
log. We went through wide French doors into a dining room
as impressive in size as the living room and found another
fireplace of identical dimensions.

"At least we'd have heat," I laughed. Privately, I loved
the old fireplaces even though I knew we might use them
very little.

"Provided there's enough timber left in this neck of the
woods to keep them burning," Bob replied. "I'd hate to
have to cut wood for Dad's heat!"

From the rear of the dining room we walked into a big,
old-fashioned kitchen where we started opening doors. One
disclosed stairs to the servants' quarters above; another
opened on a stairway to the basement which, in itself, contained seven rooms (these were in addition to the seventeen
mentioned in the real estate ad). A third door led to a stairwell in the back yard and it was securely locked. Still another
one opened into the butler's pantry and that, in turn, was
provided with its own exit under the broad stairway that
faced the front door. We found ourselves back in the entrance
hall where we had started.

Dorothy had stopped sneezing and was very quiet. "Which
way now?" she asked simply.

I led the way through a short hallway to the right with a
great sliding door of heavy oak at its end. Pushing it open,
we discovered a library at least twenty-five feet wide that
extended to the back of the house and had its own exit into
the back yard. Filled bookshelves, at least five feet tall,
extended around three sides of the room except where deep
windows with built-in seats were set into the walls.

"They built houses to last in those days, Dad." Hal was
measuring the depth of the stone walls with his arm.

I welcomed his comment as it distracted Dorothy from
her silent contemplation of those bookshelves. I knew she
was thinking that just keeping the books dusted would be
a job in itself. There was another immense fireplace in the
library. Two old long barreled hunting rifles, like the ones
used by pioneers, were crossed above the mantle like medieval
swords. A long antique davenport was placed in front of the fireplace. Behind it was an old-fashioned library table
with a lamp for reading before the fire. Two crystal chandeliers gave an ornate touch to what once must have been
an elegant and charming room.

Dorothy's mood had changed almost imperceptibly. "You
know," she said softly, "the Prince might have felt this way
when he entered the palace to awaken Sleeping Beauty.
Life seems to have just been suspended for some reason or
other."

"I feel it, too," I agreed.

We trooped upstairs. Here were bedrooms and several
baths, all in remarkably good condition. Most impressive
of all was the master bedroom which was located directly
above the library and had the same measurements. Through
an alcove we looked into a smaller adjoining room that
might have served as an upstairs sitting or sewing room but
which would serve very well as a nursery for Janet and
Michael. There were additional rooms on the third floor,
but we didn't go up there. Darkness was gathering swiftly
and there was no electricity in the house. We still wanted
to see the grounds in what was left of the daylight.

Outside, at the right rear of the mansion, was the old
summerhouse, overgrown with climbing roses and honeysuckle. I'm not usually a romantic, but I did wonder fleetingly how many "sweet nothings" had been whispered here
in moonlit moments of the past.

"Oh, Haroldl just look at that maplel" Dorothy cried out.

Some thirty feet away grew the largest and most beautiful
red maple I had ever seen. Its lower branches nearly touched
the ground and when leafed out, it would make a bower
larger than the summerhouse itself. I couldn't even venture
a guess at its age but it looked ancient.

We walked, single file, down the drive and past the kitchen,
to an old coach house. No coaches remained, but it wouldn't have surprised any of us to hear a ghostly whinny. There
were ancient pieces of tattered harness on the walls, a bridle
with rusted bits and shrunken leather, and two horse collars
covered with cobwebs, the leather stiffened and hard as
stone.

The shadowy coach house was an eerie place at best, but
Bob was irrepressible. He caroled softly, "Old Faithful, we
roamed the range together . . ."

"You're not back in New Mexico, kid," Hal laughed. We
had lived in that state when the boys were younger and they
had learned to ride horses and rope cattle. "No cowpoke's
pony ever munched oats in these stalls."

"He's right," I put in. "Hunters and gaited carriage stock
were cared for here."

It was so dark that we were forced to end our inspection
tour. This I did reluctantly because the house and grounds
were exerting a terrific emotional pull and I was falling
under a spell from the past that I had never felt before. It
was as if I was supposed to be in that house; I must walk
over the grounds; listen to a message from the past. I didn't
understand my reaction and couldn't explain it. It was so
foreign to my usual manner of thinking that I couldn't even
speak. I relocked the front door and we climbed back into
the car. Then I turned to Dorothy who took a deep breath
like a swimmer coming up for air.

"I could never keep that house up properly," she finally
said.

"You'll have help," I pointed out. "We'll also close off
the top floor entirely. We don't need it."

"The kitchen is impossible!"

I knew my wife very well. She was clean and meticulous
and very particular about her kitchen. When she said this
one was impossible, I knew she was really telling me that it
was going to be impossible to get her into it.

"We'll have a new modern kitchen," I promised. "You'll
be surprised what a good cleaning and a new paint job will
do for the whole place."

She must have been remembering the historical account
of Washington's winter at Valley Forge which wasn't too
far away from Wynne. "What about the furnace?" she demanded. "It might have been suitable when the house was
filled with servants, but who will stoke it this winter?"

I had already made a mental note about the furnace.
"Not you, honey, and not me. I'll insist on a new oil burner
grate being installed in the basement."

After a moment of silence she turned to me with real
puzzlement in her voice. "You really like this house, don't
you, Harold?"