Echoes of a Haunting - Revisited
Echoes Of A Haunting
Revisited
A House in the Country
By Clara M. Miller
“Echoes of A Haunting Revisited,” by Clara M. Miller. ISBN 978-1-60264-465-6 (ebook); 978-1-60264-458-8 (softcover); 978-1-60264-459-5 (hardcover).
Published 2009 by Virtualbookworm.com Publishing Inc., P.O. Box 9949, College Station, TX 77842, US. 2009, Clara M. Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Clara M. Miller.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
This book is lovingly dedicated to:
My father: Vincent John Miller (1/21/10–6/9/79)
My daughter: Laura Marie Dandy Patron (9/19/60–9/1/92)
My brother: Martin Raymond Miller (7/24/37–1/3/96)
My brother: Gordon Francis Miller (9/17/41–5/17/96)
My uncle: William “Bill” Boland (4/7/02–7/11/84)
Other books by Clara M. Miller
Non-Fiction:
Echoes of a Haunting (1999)
Fiction:
The Brothers Series:
Brothers (2001)
Once a Demon (2002)
Birds of a Feather (2002)
Cirque Diabolique (2003)
Dancing with Shadows (2007)
The Uncaused Cause (2007)
The Brink of Chaos (2007)
The Shamrocks Saga:
Shamrocks in the Heather (2003)
A Breath of Old Smoke (2004)
Daughters of Gemini (2004)
Under the Southern Cross (2004)
Path to Destiny (2005)
The Eye of the Storm (2005)
The Sons of the Fathers (2005)
The Cranky Crow (2008)
The Devil’s Teardrop (2008)
A Lion in Shadow (2009)
Odds Bodkins (2009)
The Saga of the Travelers:
The Reluctant Heretic (2006)
Alien Landscape (2006)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
A House In The Country
Chapter 2
Winter 1970
Chapter 3
The Trouble Continues
Chapter 4
A New “Haunt”
Chapter 5
Friday—June 29, 1973
An Epilogue
September 1999
Epilogue to the Epilogue
A letter to my readers
Memories are peculiar things. They come and go, shift and re-shift. They delude and then return with an awful clarity and truth. It’s easy to fool yourself. Everyone has a tendency to portray themselves in the best light possible. But, deluding ourselves or not, the core of memory is the truth. Thus it is for me and the house in Hinsdale. Years have passed since I wrote the book about living in the house. More years have passed since I lived there. Still, for almost five hectic years our family stayed in that house, laughed in that house, loved in that house and, ultimately, fled from that house. Do I sound like a coward? Perhaps I am but, as the abyss of time widens between me and the happenings in Hinsdale, I find myself profoundly conflicted. On the one hand, I really miss the place. Not the haunting, certainly, but the life-style we’d established there. In spite of scary interruptions, we enjoyed our rural retreat. I look back on it with great nostalgia and tend to block out the more frightening aspects. Is that denial? I have heard so many people echoing the same sentiment, I know I’m not alone. There’s a terrible allure about the place. Those who tend toward addictive personalities should avoid it like the plague.
So many things have happened since we left Hinsdale. Please forgive me if this repeats what I’ve said at the end when I’m bringing you up to date but a little foreknowledge can be very helpful. Phil and I were divorced in 1980 and he died on August 5, 2002. Mike is living in Oregon and has two sons and daughter. Even more astonishing to me: he has two grandchildren. Beth is living in Virginia with her husband. She has a daughter, a son and two grandsons! Am I getting old? No way. Laura was living in San Jose, California when she died on September 1, 1992. Though she may not know it, she too is a grandma. Mary lives in California. She has two sons. No grandchildren yet. Whew!
I worked for the City of Santa Clara for 15 years before retiring to Oregon. Life is peaceful here on the coast. No ghosts. At least we don’t have any ghosts. I’m told the Oregon coast hosts quite a few. I’m not looking for them.
Since I retired, I’ve passed my time in writing, first my memories of Hinsdale and then fantasy fiction. It’s relaxing and I feel at least semi-productive. My mother still lives with me since my father died in 1979. We two old ladies make out just fine, thank you. I confess that mum and I watch all the “ghost-hunting” shows, sometimes with amusement. The cast members startle so easily! I would like to know, though, why they all turn the lights out. Some of our most frightening experiences happened in broad daylight. The only thing I can figure out is that darkness makes it scarier for the viewer at home. It certainly does nothing for the nerves of the “investigators”. Mary says that she was sitting in her bed one bright morning having a tug-of-war with something she couldn’t see. No darkness then. Ah, well. What do I know?
Now things are heating up again at the house in Hinsdale. I can’t say I’m surprised as they’ve never truly cooled down. The area is saturated with some kind of power I can’t define. The times when it’s quiescent, you couldn’t find a better place to live. Then, it seems to build up and needs a place to vent. If you’re there at that point, God help you. The whole nature of the area changes. We called nights like these “umbrella nights”. I have yet to find a better description. That’s exactly what it felt like. An umbrella descended on the house condensing the power into something very tangible. You didn’t have to be psychic to feel it. It affected different people different ways. Some grew increasingly restive. Some became contentious. Some felt their nerves jumping like out-of-control acrobats. There was a sense of expectation, of waiting for the other shoe to drop. See, it’s hard to describe. I guess you had to be there.
To anyone who has bought and (I hope) read the previous edition of this book: most of the material herein is unchanged except for corrections in grammar, facts and otherwise. Any additions have been made in italics so you’ll know it’s new material. That will also help anyone who only wants to skim through and find the new parts. I was very circumspect in the original manuscript because I know too well the price you pay for the doubts of others. But, I’ve decided to trust you and include some of them in this edition. I will ask you to please put aside your preconceptions and prejudices as you read. We, too, were normal. We, too, were doubters. We, too, led nondescript lives, interchangeable with millions of others. We, too, might have scoffed at the following story. So, this is a kind of cautionary tale. Keep your mind open to things you can’t see or hear. Know that we are not omniscient. In my other books I frequently quote Shakespeare since he really got it right: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Also, in the interest of full-disclosure, I will tell you that this was not my first encounter with the supernatural. When I was in the last half of eighth grade we moved to a large house quite near my new high school. My father had some friends I didn’t know who were helping us move. I discovered clothing in the attic that dated from the early and mid-eighteen hundreds. I hauled them downstairs and sat in the empty closet in my empty bedroom looking them over. My bedroom was directly across from the attic door. Dad told me they were goi
ng back for another load and assured me he’d lock the door behind him. I just nodded, caught up in my mental journey to the past. I felt someone watching me but felt no cause for alarm. Finally, when the feeling persisted, I looked up and saw a young man watching me. He stood in the doorway of my bedroom and was dressed in casual gray slacks and a dark blue jacket. He leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. I was a little miffed that my dad didn’t trust me alone in the house so I snubbed him and turned back to the clothing. When I looked up again, he was gone. Serves him right, I thought.
After a while I heard my father return. When I saw him, I mentioned the man. He said no one had been in the house but me. It kind of jolted me but I shrugged it off. The clothing was stored in the attic. From that day until the day the clothes cabinet was moved, we heard footsteps crossing the attic floor and coming down the stairs. It never frightened anyone and I never found out who the man could have been. Needless to say, this friendly haunt did not prepare me for Hinsdale.
Now, at this late date, I feel constrained to comment on the book I began writing after we’d escaped the house. At first, I couldn’t decide how to do this. I hoped to improve on the diary format and discovered that that format suited the tale better than any other. Then I figured the best way was to copy what I’d written before, paraphrasing and commenting as necessary. I have added a few of the more incredible things that happened though the dates of some of these events escapes me. I hope this re-writing doesn’t make anyone feel cheated but so many people have told me they can’t find copies of my book, maybe they won’t mind so much. So, here goes, an experiment in the making.
Echoes of a Haunting
In our innocense we’re blind
To things we don’t expect to see.
Then opens wide an unknown door,
A door into eternity.
And from that door the echoes flow
Like ripples in a tranquil pond;
Cresting, growing, reaching out,
Engulfing, flooding all beyond.
And still the ripples billow forth
Until they reach the far-flung shore,
But do they stop or merely pause
To echo on forevermore?
The years have passed; the time has flown.
Kith and kin have scattered forth.
Time heals all wounds, the wise men say
But time and tide have finite worth.
For still I feel the echoes peal
And, yes, they touch me even yet.
How can I recall their feel?
But tell me, how can I forget?
To you, my friend, I wish the best
May all your rippling echoes lead
To much more pleasant memories
Than those you are about to read.
cmm
PROLOGUE
In the first place, the house doesn’t even look haunted. If it had soaring battlements, secret passages or ominous looking towers it might be easier to accept what happened there. None of the usual trappings of Gothic novels are present in this normal, rather mundane looking building. How, then, were we to suspect? If we had known its secret, perhaps we never would have bought the house. Perhaps. That day, the day Donna took us to see the place, we were hooked. Later, that tendency to become drawn to, absorbed in and sometimes obsessed with the house, became more apparent but, on this day, it gave us hope for a brighter future. Little did we know.
In reality, it was a very ordinary looking farm house, typical for the southern New York State area. Its age, over one hundred years, didn’t add distinction. In fact, it didn’t even look its age. When we first saw its cheery, newly-painted white exterior, we fell in love. Its luminous appearance made it visible from the main road. The only structure on the side road, it occupied a spot a good half mile from its nearest neighbor. The view of the house disappeared as one turned off the gravel-surfaced main road. After crossing a stream, the narrow dirt road passed a deserted, falling-down shed. From there, it climbed a small hill and turned a bend. At this point the house reappeared.
One half of the house had two stories while the other had only one. To me, the house was oddly laid out but my husband assured me it was a typical farm house. A front porch was built across the one-story side. Standing on that porch was akin to a spiritual experience. Framed in the windows was a view of hills marching off into the distance. In the autumn those hills were covered with a display of color that would put an ancient tapestry to shame. More than one person gasped at encountering that view. The only house nearby was directly across from us at a distance of about half a mile. Please don’t take my measurements of distance literally because I’m measurement-challenged. In effect, we had no near neighbors. Strangely, that didn’t bother me.
Each window in the house framed an enchanting view of distant mountains, trees dressed according to the season and ponds, sparkling in the sun. There was nothing sinister appearing about the tall pine tree marking the beginning of the drive. There was nothing spooky about the spring house filled with clear, cold spring water which sparkled to the rear of the yard. There was nothing threatening in the sight of the large pond at the side of the house. The pond was newly dug and a perimeter of raw earth made the area look injured somehow. But, I assured myself, grass would soon cover the dirt and we’d have a great swimming hole. That pond, it turned out, held many questions, questions that have yet to be answered. Nor was there anything ominous in the abundance of nature’s beauty surrounding the house.
In short, there was nothing in its appearance to warn anyone. How could we have known that it also formed a door to another world? A world I still find difficulty accepting and am unable to describe adequately. A world where values turn upside down and things you have always taken for granted become foreign and threatening. A world which opened up and enmeshed our family in its frightening coils.
The tall, graceful pine standing sentinel at the edge of the curving dirt driveway made an impressive entryway. I loved that pine tree and still remember the sound of the wind soughing through its branches as I lay in bed. It was the only sound one could hear in the early morning hush. No reverberation of traffic penetrated our sanctuary; no noise but those instigated by nature. To our city-bred ears the silence was heavenly.
The back yard was large and had plenty of room for a picnic table and a shed. The remaining area provided more than enough room for all kinds of games. We consumed many carefree meals in that yard and the kids were able to swim in the pond with their friends any time they wanted. In winter we all donned skates and had fun trying to stay upright. We had an idyllic existence.....at first.
Looking back, it’s hard to figure the whole affair out. How could a family as normal and run of the mill as ours ever come to have such an extraordinary experience? To begin, I guess I’d better tell you a little bit about our family. I was born in 1935 in Buffalo, New York and raised in Irish/German South Buffalo. My husband, Phil, was born in Burdine, Kentucky in 1933 and raised in the rural part of Virginia. He was, therefore, much more familiar with country life than I was. We met in 1954. He was working in the corner grocery store until he found a more suitable job. As I learned later, he had served in the Air Force with the son of the store’s owners. After much furtive questioning, I found out he had fled Virginia to avoid a life of toil in the coal mines. His soft, southern accent was very appealing, although, as a staccato-talking Buffalonian, I was impatient with his slow drawl.
Phil and I married in July 1955 and my name changed from Miller to Dandy. Our four children were born in Buffalo and spent their first, formative years there. Mike was born in 1956, Beth in 1957, Laura in 1960 and Mary in 1962. Our fifth baby, Christina Michelle, died in May 1963 when she was only a couple of days old.
I was, at that time, a devout Roman Catholic. I had attended a Catholic grammar school and a Catholic Academy while Phil had no real religion at all. Although he converted to Catholicism before our marriage, I don’t think it ever really took. Our relationship
suffered from the clash of cultures and backgrounds. I realize now that these differences doomed our marriage from the outset. I was a convent-educated prude while he was a free-wheeling product of an entirely different upbringing. The time he spent in the military did nothing to mellow his personality. Over the years we grew apart, Phil and I. The growing difficulty in our marriage was, perhaps, the reason that I first proposed a vacation. I suggested we spend some time at a cabin near Allegany State Park. A vacation spent together as a family would, I felt, do much to repair the damage.
The year was 1967. Friends of ours owned a cabin right outside the park and we decided to rent it for a week in the summer. For those not familiar with it, Allegany State Park is very rugged and filled with deep forests and trails. An extremely beautiful, back-to-nature place, I felt that its peace would have a beneficial effect on all of us. The cabin itself sat on an isolated lot near the park. Its construction was rather primitive, made with salvaged materials. Its hodge-podge origin showed. There was a separate, spare sleeping shed build like a detached porch about twenty feet from the main house.
Each morning we woke to heavy mountain fog that burned off before noon. Our family spent blissful days tramping around the woods or driving through the park itself to look for wild animals. Mike spent a lot of his time hunting snakes and efts. In fact, he took home several red-bellied racers and regular garden snakes which gave us some interesting exercise when they got loose in the house. The kids thrived in the relaxed atmosphere and we went home with reluctance.