The Barefoot Boy
When I first encountered spirits in my own home, I was unnerved and also doubtful of my sanity. After all, if I were crazy enough to tackle a third restoration project in nine years, then maybe I could be crazy in other ways as well! However, time and an open mind have helped me accepts and enjoy these little meetings between the past and the present; now, a home would never really be a home without these unexplainables.
In August 1979, we moved into a three-story 1857 brick Victorian to begin our third and most ambitious restoration. The structure had been built as a gracious home for a state senator, and then served as a doctor's home and office, a school superintendent's house, a restaurant, and finally for 25 years as a nursing home. It stood unattended for two years before we purchased it.
Needless to say, there was (and still is) a great deal to be done. However, by September of 1979, we considered ourselves fortunate to have repaired the roof and furnace, replaced missing windows, and installed a working kitchen. Over the weekend, we had ripped out a containment wall surrounding the curved mahogany staircase in the front hallways.
That particular morning, my husband had gone to the next town where he taught school, and I was halfheartedly contemplating painting one of the 15′ ceilings when the phone rang. As I told my college friend of our progress, I noticed the chandelier flashing on and off through the transom over the door leading into the formal parlor. I commented to her about the odd occurrence, wondering about the competency of the electrician who had recently inspected and approved all the wiring. She, however, began to worry that someone had come in through one of the eight exterior doors and was playing a nasty trick on me. Nothing would calm her except that I go immediately to investigate, while she listened in case somethig truly disastrous was happening.
As luck would have it, the closest doorway was blocked with ladders and tools. Therefore, I took the more circuitous route through the dining room, into and added room, and down the front hall. My two schnauzers trotted along, one on either side, as I entered the hallway. Suddenly, the door between the hall and the parlor literally flew open, as if a gust of wind had pushed it. Both dogs began to whimper and back up as very distinct, heavy footsteps came toward us. There was positively nothing to be seen, and I searched my mind for a logical explanation as the dogs turned tail and deserted me. Then all logical thoughts left me as an icy air encircled me and the footsteps continued past me, to die at the doorway I'd just used. I was very shaken, but I did carefully inspect the parlor: All the windows were sealed tight, and all the lights were off.
For several days, I was the victim of my husband's and friends' teasing about ghosts and strange noises. In fact, I was beginning to believe I'd been the victim of my own overactive imagination, when both my husband and I were awakened in the pre-dawn by the explosive sound of shattering glass—not a small tinkling, but a massive crash. With visions of tree limbs coming through the 14′ windows on the first floor, we raced down, only to find everything exactly as it should be. Then we ran back to the second floor to inspect the windows and antique mirrors, and finally to the third floor, where once again, everything was intact. In the daylight, we explored the yard around the house and finally the street for broken glass. In cautious questioning, we determined that no one else in the village heard a thing. Since that time, we experience the same phenomenon two or three times a year, and have yet to find a reason for it.
The footsteps in the front hall continued until we removed the room that was added to the rear of it and restored the door that hung there originally. We then found ourselves listening for what had become over the months an almost-pleasant sound. But upon completion of the former parlor, we found a new friend who liked to serenade us with soft, lilting tunes. If what we have since discovered is true, then perhaps the senator who built the house is back playing his beloved harpsichord as he once did for his family and friends in that very room.
Perhaps the most memorable and least explainable experience during our residence was my encounter with the barefoot boy. Once again, I'd been painting—a never-ending task, it seems! After an extended period of time, I began to wonder what had become of my husband, who had gone to the basement for "just a minute." In all honesty, I dislike the basement area intensely, with its eerily trickling spring (a Victorian luxury) and mausoleum-like silence. I loathe the thought of anyone being there for more than a few minutes.
As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, a startled boy of about eight stood looking at me. He was clad in a too-large, grayish shirt and faded coveralls, and had bare, wet feet. I gasped, and he picked up an unusually cumbersome lantern and began backing toward the outside door. As he backed, he also began to fade—"fade" is the only word that describes what happened to him. At that moment, my husband burst into the kitchen, carrying a rusted lantern he had unearthed in the basement. It was identical to the one the boy had been carrying. Later, a museum curator identified it as the type of hanging oil lantern often found in churches or meeting halls, and seldom carried, as it was awkward to handle and easily blown out. We can find no explanation for its being buried in the basement, unless of course some little boy did it a century ago.
Living in a village founded in 1803, where most of the buildings were erected between that time and 1900, ours is not the only home with unseen guests. And once you learn to accept these glimpses into the past as a rare favor, life in an old house becomes so much more delightful!...
The end.....