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By Bags27 - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=73109127
Section 1: History of family and house.
Greetings. My name is Carl Johnson. By way of introduction, I am somewhat known, perhaps renowned throughout the paranormal community, that is, those who share an avid interest in studying inexplicable activity thought to be of a supernatural origin, as a paranormal investigator who specializes as a demonologist, meaning I address some of the more malevolent seeming situations which are brought to my attention. My recognition factor stems in part from my television appearances on paranormal-themed reality television series. My television credits include Ghost Hunters on the SyFy Channel, The Haunted and Finding Bigfoot on Animal Planet, Paranormal State on A&E Network, and the special, Most Terrifying Places In America produced for the Travel Channel. My avocation has provided me with many fascinating encounters and at times has brought me face-to-face with dark forces proceeding from unknown, shadowy realms. What inspired this quest, and my life's work, more than any other factor, were my formative years and early adulthood spent in my family's home, in what was then a rural, pretty much country setting.
Following is a succinct--as is practical while sufficiently conveying the emotional impact on me and my immediate family--narrative the of sometimes remarkable occurrences which transpired within the house where I was raised, and for a majority of the time resided until I reached my mid-twenties. I'd rented an apartment in the Armory district of Providence's West End for some months during 1976 and '77.
A little background on my family's history: My father, Leonard James Johnson's grandparents had immigrated to America from Sweden on his father's side and Ireland on his mother's. I am the namesake of my father's father. On y mother's side, I and we are directly descended from Roger Williams who founded Providence, Rhode Island's capital city, in 1636. We also are descended from Captain George Child, who went down with the ship, SS Lexington, in a conflagration which on January 13, 1840 burned the steam-driven paddle ship, a sounder, to water level in Long Island Sound, a disaster which claimed 143 and only four who had been aboard survived, clinging to cotton bales; many of those bales were tossed onto the sea by Captain Child, as his last living action. On the mother's side as well, we are related to renowned horror-fiction writer H.P. Lovecraft, and I organize an annual service of tribute in Providence recognizing the unorthodox literary contributions of my 2nd cousin. During the 1920s, my maternal grandmother, Mildred Ellen Crowell-Willis, would sing and play piano on Sunday afternoons, accompanying her neighbor and family friend, crooner and movie star to be, Nelson Eddy.
The address now designated as number 601 Hartford Pike, Route 101 in North Scituate, Rhode island had been my family's home for nearly 4 decades, from the time the house was built in 1955 until it was sold in 1994. That structure started off as a modest dwelling comprised four rooms, a bathroom and a basement, then during the mid-to-later 1960s was expanded with additions to a sizable ranch house of eight rooms and a two-cars garage, set on an embankment. During the years we resides in North Scituate, there were many happy hours enjoyed in our home, some disappointments and even strife, but some rather inexplicable occurrences arose within those walls.
Following is a succinct--as is practical while sufficiently conveying the emotional impact on me and my immediate family--narrative the of sometimes remarkable occurrences which transpired within the house where I was raised, and for a majority of the time resided until I reached my mid-twenties. I'd rented an apartment in the Armory district of Providence's West End for some months during 1976 and '77.
A little background on my family's history: My father, Leonard James Johnson's grandparents had immigrated to America from Sweden on his father's side and Ireland on his mother's. I am the namesake of my father's father. On y mother's side, I and we are directly descended from Roger Williams who founded Providence, Rhode Island's capital city, in 1636. We also are descended from Captain George Child, who went down with the ship, SS Lexington, in a conflagration which on January 13, 1840 burned the steam-driven paddle ship, a sounder, to water level in Long Island Sound, a disaster which claimed 143 and only four who had been aboard survived, clinging to cotton bales; many of those bales were tossed onto the sea by Captain Child, as his last living action. On the mother's side as well, we are related to renowned horror-fiction writer H.P. Lovecraft, and I organize an annual service of tribute in Providence recognizing the unorthodox literary contributions of my 2nd cousin. During the 1920s, my maternal grandmother, Mildred Ellen Crowell-Willis, would sing and play piano on Sunday afternoons, accompanying her neighbor and family friend, crooner and movie star to be, Nelson Eddy.
The address now designated as number 601 Hartford Pike, Route 101 in North Scituate, Rhode island had been my family's home for nearly 4 decades, from the time the house was built in 1955 until it was sold in 1994. That structure started off as a modest dwelling comprised four rooms, a bathroom and a basement, then during the mid-to-later 1960s was expanded with additions to a sizable ranch house of eight rooms and a two-cars garage, set on an embankment. During the years we resides in North Scituate, there were many happy hours enjoyed in our home, some disappointments and even strife, but some rather inexplicable occurrences arose within those walls.
Keith and I were born on December 9th, 1954, in what was then called Lying In Hospital, now Woman's and Infant's hospital in Providence, Rhode island, to Beverly Darling Place Johnson and Leonard James Johnson. Our parents weren't aware our mother was carrying twins, since only one heartbeat was heard and this was a time before sonograms and other, modern diagnosing procedures commonly were used. Twin boys were a complete surprise! We were delivered by Caesarian section, so the births were only several minutes apart. I was named after my father's father, Carl Leonard Johnson who was of Swedish heritage. As my parents realized another name was needed, and quickly, an attending nurse suggested they dub one of the twins Keith since that went nicely with Carl. Keith's middle name is Edward, after our maternal grandfather Edward Place. Keith Edward became a family name. Not intending to devote less press to her, our sister Cynthia Ellen came along nearly three years later, born on November 12th, 1957.
Section 2: There's something hiding in our house!
Even when we were all pre-adolescents, my siblings and I noticed something in that house was...different. One early experience I and my twin brother recall was Keith repeatedly, in the early evenings, hearing the strange and unaccounted for sound of children laughing, playing, running outside around a corner of the house, while he was alone in the bedroom we then shared. Continuing regularly for several months, this phenomenon was very real, and unsettling to him. There was the time, I don't recall precisely when but Cynthia was still in a highchair, that our mother drew water from the faucet over the kitchen sink, and was about to take a drink. Suddenly we: my mother and the boys, perhaps my father as well, heard a slurping "sound". Mom stood there, perplexed, as she found the cup she held had been drained of its contents! Mom talked of this for awhile, then apparently she dismissed the incident and forgot about it. As time went on, we were to hear sporadic, mysterious knocks on the front and back doors, sufficiently audible that we would call out to ask who was there, then open the doors, only to find no person standing on the outside concrete steps or driveway.
One occurrence that seemed particularly amusing, and that my brother and I still clearly recall, occurred during an early evening in summer, 1962. We called this, "the Case of the Thirsty Ghost!" It was dinner time, and family was gathered around the kitchen table. Our mother Beverly rose to draw a drink of water from the faucet of the kitchen sink. However, as she raised the glass to her lips, all in the room were rather startled and puzzled to hear a slurping sound. Mom noticed the glass she held in her right hand had mysteriously been drained, and she displayed that for us to see. My Dad disbelieved her and observed that she must have spilled or intentionally poured out the contents.
Spring, 1969. It was mid-May that year, a Saturday morning, when Keith, Cynthia and I had gathered in the parlor or living room of the newest section to the house. At that time there was a newly-built brick fireplace in the room. (From what I've observed driving by the house at 601 Hartford Pike, I presume it still is there.) Cynthia had left on her phonograph and she was playing the then-new-to-us The Beatles' newest record album which actually was titled The Beatles but more commonly known simply as The White Album. We could hear the track Sexy Sadie. We also became aware of some rustling and scratching sounds coming form the west wall of the living room. I got off the couch where I'd been sitting and reading, to explore the source of those strange sounds. By natural and immediate reaction I started back when something that was moving became apparent in the fireplace. A blackbird, perhaps a corvid but somewhat smaller than a crow had, intentionally or not, made its way down the interior of the chimney and out through the flu which I'd thought was left closed. Bracing myself for action and naturally wanting to save the confused bird, I moved away the iron screen, which sent our sister dashing from the parlor and into the adjoining dining room. At my suggestion Keith opened up one of the three windows over the driveway, yet at first the bird didn't seem to find that escape route inviting. Instead, it fluttered over to perch the brass frame of that iron fireplace screen, and for a span of what must've been several minutes, simply glared at us, its beak pointing in a manner akin to a weather vane as the head turned left and right. My mother had been alerted by the sound of commotion and my sister's calls. When she entered the parlor she put her fingers to her mouth and exclaimed, "Oh, Lord! How did THAT get inside?" Then our beagle named Tammy scampering into the room and emitting a quick series of staccato barks further startled the black bird, and after missing on its first attempt to get out, it found egress through the middle open window. How appropriate, I though it would've been if the song Blackbird had been playing on the album right at that time! Our perturbed avian guest overshot its musical cue. In the months to come, at least I would regard that bird's brief visitation as something of an omen.
Even when we were all pre-adolescents, my siblings and I noticed something in that house was...different. One early experience I and my twin brother recall was Keith repeatedly, in the early evenings, hearing the strange and unaccounted for sound of children laughing, playing, running outside around a corner of the house, while he was alone in the bedroom we then shared. Continuing regularly for several months, this phenomenon was very real, and unsettling to him. There was the time, I don't recall precisely when but Cynthia was still in a highchair, that our mother drew water from the faucet over the kitchen sink, and was about to take a drink. Suddenly we: my mother and the boys, perhaps my father as well, heard a slurping "sound". Mom stood there, perplexed, as she found the cup she held had been drained of its contents! Mom talked of this for awhile, then apparently she dismissed the incident and forgot about it. As time went on, we were to hear sporadic, mysterious knocks on the front and back doors, sufficiently audible that we would call out to ask who was there, then open the doors, only to find no person standing on the outside concrete steps or driveway.
One occurrence that seemed particularly amusing, and that my brother and I still clearly recall, occurred during an early evening in summer, 1962. We called this, "the Case of the Thirsty Ghost!" It was dinner time, and family was gathered around the kitchen table. Our mother Beverly rose to draw a drink of water from the faucet of the kitchen sink. However, as she raised the glass to her lips, all in the room were rather startled and puzzled to hear a slurping sound. Mom noticed the glass she held in her right hand had mysteriously been drained, and she displayed that for us to see. My Dad disbelieved her and observed that she must have spilled or intentionally poured out the contents.
Spring, 1969. It was mid-May that year, a Saturday morning, when Keith, Cynthia and I had gathered in the parlor or living room of the newest section to the house. At that time there was a newly-built brick fireplace in the room. (From what I've observed driving by the house at 601 Hartford Pike, I presume it still is there.) Cynthia had left on her phonograph and she was playing the then-new-to-us The Beatles' newest record album which actually was titled The Beatles but more commonly known simply as The White Album. We could hear the track Sexy Sadie. We also became aware of some rustling and scratching sounds coming form the west wall of the living room. I got off the couch where I'd been sitting and reading, to explore the source of those strange sounds. By natural and immediate reaction I started back when something that was moving became apparent in the fireplace. A blackbird, perhaps a corvid but somewhat smaller than a crow had, intentionally or not, made its way down the interior of the chimney and out through the flu which I'd thought was left closed. Bracing myself for action and naturally wanting to save the confused bird, I moved away the iron screen, which sent our sister dashing from the parlor and into the adjoining dining room. At my suggestion Keith opened up one of the three windows over the driveway, yet at first the bird didn't seem to find that escape route inviting. Instead, it fluttered over to perch the brass frame of that iron fireplace screen, and for a span of what must've been several minutes, simply glared at us, its beak pointing in a manner akin to a weather vane as the head turned left and right. My mother had been alerted by the sound of commotion and my sister's calls. When she entered the parlor she put her fingers to her mouth and exclaimed, "Oh, Lord! How did THAT get inside?" Then our beagle named Tammy scampering into the room and emitting a quick series of staccato barks further startled the black bird, and after missing on its first attempt to get out, it found egress through the middle open window. How appropriate, I though it would've been if the song Blackbird had been playing on the album right at that time! Our perturbed avian guest overshot its musical cue. In the months to come, at least I would regard that bird's brief visitation as something of an omen.
These were instances, in varying periods coming infrequently, with which we easily managed to live. Strange aspects of residing there seemed to escalate when, during 1969, my sister, then at the age of 11 years and I, age 14 began playing on, or experimenting with that "Mystifying Oracle", a Ouija Board. Basically regarded as a harmless parlor game developed by Robert Fuld and successfully marketed by Parker Brothers, the Ouija hadn't inspired so much superstition prior to the publication of the book, The Exorcist" by William Peter Blattey, and ensuing release of the motion picture by that title late in 1973. My mother and her step-mother, Anna Livingston, had enjoyed Ouija Board of Talking Spirit Board session during the 1940s, apparently without any undesired results. Cindy and I asked some what I supposed to be typical questions such as, How long will I live? Who will I marry? Plus we vocalized test-questions: What's my friend's mother's middle name? As we went on, and I believe by out third time on the Ouija, according to directions printed on a sheet of paper in the box, we positioned our finger tips lightly along the opposing edges of the heart-shaped, plastic planchette, and following a few, cursory questions I asked the Spirit of the Board (it is believed each Ouija Boards has a unique spirit o ghost attached to it), "Can you give us a further sign that you're here with us?" The planchette glided across the Board's smooth surface, indicating through a brass needle inserted into a clear circle at the planchette's center: C-E-L-L-E-R. My sister and I decided to leave the dining room table on which the Board was set, and go to the top steps of the staircase leading to the basement we all called, the cellar. T here we waited in silence for approximately 20 minutes. As we were rising to return to the dining room, we heard three, distinct raps or knocks coming from a wooden patrician along the right side of those stairs. I should perhaps add that our brother Keith chose not to participate in the Ouija Board play, even then considering a tad risky, we not being able to discern what types of nature of spirits might be invoked.
It was shortly after this early Ouija play, that my family members: sometimes our mother but more often my siblings and me, began to notice things within the house were no longer quite so...routine Old furniture, a dehumidifier machine and other items stored in the basement started to be relocated, moved about, evidently being propelled by an unseen force. (My father simply inquired who was messing up the storage area!) Usually we'd hear the sounds of shuffling and wood or metal scraping over the smooth, cement floor down there: then upon inspecting the following morning we'd discover materials in disarray, sans any suitable explanation. Keith and I even would experiment by positioning chairs, a card table and blankets in specific arrangements, a couple of times taking Polaroid photographs of how we'd set up the items, only to find them moved a day or two after. This was spooky, but in a sense, king of fun! Cynthia's and my Ouija play became less frequent during the ensuing months. Eventually, I decided to relocate my bedroom down to the cellar, thereby establishing my own space and enjoying an improved sense of privacy. This isn't to say that the strange shifting of furniture, tables and chairs had altogether ceased, but it didn't occur on a regular basis and when it did, was easy to ignore. Within a week, surrounding me I had my own bed, a black & white television set, a record player and even a bureau for my keeping clothes there in my sometimes damp bot comfortable. Mom purchased lengths of light, attractively patterned cotton cloth for me to hang from the wooden support beams which served as curtains, cornering off a section and defining the boundaries of my makeshift, basement domicile.
It was shortly after this early Ouija play, that my family members: sometimes our mother but more often my siblings and me, began to notice things within the house were no longer quite so...routine Old furniture, a dehumidifier machine and other items stored in the basement started to be relocated, moved about, evidently being propelled by an unseen force. (My father simply inquired who was messing up the storage area!) Usually we'd hear the sounds of shuffling and wood or metal scraping over the smooth, cement floor down there: then upon inspecting the following morning we'd discover materials in disarray, sans any suitable explanation. Keith and I even would experiment by positioning chairs, a card table and blankets in specific arrangements, a couple of times taking Polaroid photographs of how we'd set up the items, only to find them moved a day or two after. This was spooky, but in a sense, king of fun! Cynthia's and my Ouija play became less frequent during the ensuing months. Eventually, I decided to relocate my bedroom down to the cellar, thereby establishing my own space and enjoying an improved sense of privacy. This isn't to say that the strange shifting of furniture, tables and chairs had altogether ceased, but it didn't occur on a regular basis and when it did, was easy to ignore. Within a week, surrounding me I had my own bed, a black & white television set, a record player and even a bureau for my keeping clothes there in my sometimes damp bot comfortable. Mom purchased lengths of light, attractively patterned cotton cloth for me to hang from the wooden support beams which served as curtains, cornering off a section and defining the boundaries of my makeshift, basement domicile.
Section 3: The house reveals its "attitude."
A year or so after that period, I began an involvement with what could be termed "ritual magic" and conducted my own experiments in communicating with spirits, This was in measure a time of rebellion, I'm sure, but also enabled me to give vent to my desire for unique (and unorthodox expression. Naturally, I was chiefly motivated by curiosity. I can't say I ever came to regret these outlets since they were basically innocuous and rarely produced notable results. I merely wish I hadn't shared my interests with other friends and classmates in such a contained and structured environment as Scituate Middle - Senior High School! However, this is a factor which may well have contributed to, or amplified the inexplicable goings on within our house. during that period. It was also during those months, mid-to late summer of 1973, when my brother and I were enlisted as members of a team based at Rhode Island College named Parapsychological Investigative and Research Organization, to conduct a paranormal investigation at a residential farm house located in Harrisville, Rhode Island. To this end we contacted Ed and Lorraine Warren, requesting the noted ghost-hunting couple to assist with that case, as the situation progressed and became of increasing interest to us. It turned out that the Warrens were perhaps overly eager to lend their "assistance". Forty years later, this intercession would become the subject of a major motion picture titled The Conjuring. Keith and I first met the Warrens in May, 1972 at a lecture they presented in Roberts Hall at Rhode Island College. That same evening, Carl L. and Keith E. Johnson were invited to join P.I.R.O. by several members of their group. We accepted the invitation.
August 23, 1973, late afternoon. Mark Pilkanis, then a close friend of mine, and I were my parents' home, sharing time together in the basement room. We recorded our conversation with phonograph music playing in the background; I recall we played Black Mass Lucifer by Mort Garrison, which wasn't nearly so diabolic an album as the title suggested. It was merely a selection of electronic, synthesizer themes, which sounded ideal for the ultraviolet lighting and black vinyl drapes defining the décor of that enclosure. (It was, after all the early '70s!) Later, as Mark P. and I listened to our cassette recording without anticipating anything out of the ordinary, towards the end of our played-back conversation we were startled to hear what resembled a human voice, though slowed, sibilant and low. It seemed to say, "someone...help me...help" and a series of thuds was also audible. Mark being a musician and majoring in music at college had access to a unit which could control the speed at which an audio recording is played. When accelerated, the recording became more clear and we detected a vaguely feminine voice speak, "Carl...help me...help" accompanied by tapping sounds. At that time, I hadn't yet heard of Electric Voice Phenomena, which is the capturing on audio recordings of disembodied voices. Yet we did interpret this message, or manifestation as having proceeded from a consciousness not confined to a living body. What else were we to assume? It would be less than a year later that I began to observe a ghostly form making its way through that basement, an apparition which I was to witness, altogether, four times.
The evening came when I was readying myself for bed in my basement room, and very shortly after turning out the overhead electric light, I heard the return of that familiar shuffling and moving about of stored items. To me at that minute this was more amusing than unsettling, since I'd thought the extraneous, unaccounted for noises had ceased. Then I saw her, the figure of a woman attired in clothing of a style from maybe a century before, the turn of the 20th century. There was time to study her in those five or six seconds, this specter striding silently towards then past me, revealed in the scant light of the basement or, rather, casting her own illumination, wearing a grayish frock dress and with her hair pulled back, gathered up in the back of her head. Altogether I was to see her four times, and always in that basement. I almost became used to seeing her, but certainly I came to recognize her as the spirit in the cellar. The most clearly I ever beheld that unobtrusive ghost lady was when I was getting back to bed after assisting my grandfather, who was convalescing in his section of the house after a stay in a nursing facility. and I had just laid down. The room was illuminated by diffused light from the newly risen sun shining though the thin cloth curtains. Not close to sleeping, I opened my eyes and beheld the form of a woman, standing next to my bed side about a foot away from me. I could only react by saying, "Hello." Within a moment, I knew who this was! I propped myself up on my right elbow, and looked into her unblinking eyes as she stared directly at me. Several seconds later, she vanished, seeming to evaporate from the bottom up as would dew warmed by the morning sun. After reflecting a minute more, I uttered aloud" "How am I ever going to get anyone to believe this?"
One of those evening I recall, there was so much unaccounted-for clamor in the cellar that I couldn't manage to sleep, so I went upstairs to repose on the living room couch. As it turned out, that wasn't be an effective solution. I heard banging from above, coming from the roof, which increased in a crescendo until it was reverberating, and thunderous. Why that didn't quickly arouse the other inhabitants, apart form my brother and me, from their slumbers, I've never known. It may just have been due to my precise location in the house. This went on for maybe three minutes, but at that time seemed longer! from my perspective the house, effectively, was breathing: inhaling then exhaling, in rhythmically swelling and shrinking. I was only certain only that this was no form of hypnagogic hallucination; I was at that moment, and remained, wide awake.
Yet another strange occurrence was of a somewhat longer duration. This was the appearance of the "boogey man" who was noticed inside the pigeon shed, or shack, behind my parents' house. Way back in 1955, my maternal grandfather, Edward G. Place, had brokered the property on which our family's house was built to my father. Mr. Place contracted to have an addition to the house built on in 1968, in which he and my mother's sister, Aunt Natalie, would reside in the wake of the sale of their house next door to us, in which my grandfather and his wife Livvy, my mother's step mother, had operated a convalescent home during the 1940s, '50s and early-to-mid 1960s. For approximately thirty years during the mid 20th century, Grampy Place was well-regarded as a breeder and trader of prize pigeons. Eventually his stock of birds was reduced, though he kept raising pigeon until the early 1070s. He, and we became understandably perturbed when we began to notice a dark, human-like figure moving about inside his one remaining pigeon shack, a fairly small, wooden structure painted all white and with chicken wire enclosure in the front. Each of us had seen the opaque form of a man inside the shack, but as came to be expected, upon inspection no one was to be found inside. Twice, I think, local police were called about these sightings; they didn't doubt our sincerity but neither could they offer a solution. Extraneous footprints around the shack which could have been associated with a prowler of interloper were never discovered. Still, he or it was spotted in there perhaps ten times between 1966 and 1990. Originally known to us as the Boogie Man, the Shadow, as we came to call it, was a tad disconcerting, later amusing, and didn't seem particularly bothersome.
Section 4: There's not enough space for 'it' and us!
Another indication that something apart from what could be understood was influencing our routines was that small objects within the house such as gloves, silverware and jewelry, etcetera, were with increasing frequency vanishing, only to reappear later in another place if they came back at all. Eventually, things in the house were becoming sufficiently unsettling that intervention from outside our family was sought. Actually, it was Edward warren who telephoned on evening in 1973 and asked if he and wife Lorraine could visit to conduct their own style of investigation. This was arranged' the warrens were invited for dinner with my family which was followed by the paranormal investigation. At one point during their procedure, Lorraine who was (and is) known as a clairvoyant said she detected a dark and destructive presence that had become attached to the house. the Warrens were well aware that I experimented with ritual magic; as previously I've mentioned that was my means of expression and perhaps to a degree, my rebellion. I suppose it was merely inevitable that the "conjuring" I had performed, sometimes with the participation of a few friends, would be cited as the cause. Yet I and my siblings knew the strange activity sometimes observed in our home predated any "magic practices" in which I'd indulged! Not long after this intervention of sorts, the service of Father James K. Frink who at that time presided over Trinity Episcopal Church located in North Scituate, Rhode island was enlisted. Fr Frink conducted a blessing, or sanctification of our house, going from room to room and offering prayers. I believe he sprinkled Holy water against each door. Certainly in the immediate wake of these visitations a sense of peacefulness was felt by we who lived there. Yet that calm was to be short-lived, as para-activity returned and progressed. It's not that the overall situation on our home front was tragic nor intolerable, but an uneasiness prevailed as we weren't sure what that next expect.
The up-step of uncanny activity came shortly after the passing of Grampy Place at the age of 93 in February, 1980. Indeed, his passing marked the end of an era for our family, relatives and friends. As winter went on, that house began to groan, as if it was a living body painfully writhing, and as they continued, those unearthly sounds would increase in volume. Eventually that "symptom" lessened, only to be replaced by inexplicable slamming against the exterior of the house, then those blunt thuds moved to the inside walls. There seemed to be no real consistency to the mysterious disturbances. My brother and I felt that the ghost of the house simply missed the presence of Grampy Place, who himself had long been regarded as the master spirit of our clan. This caused us to reminisce about our grandfather's revelations from his own childhood, such as sketchy information concerning the untimely death of his brother Roy Place which had always seemed shrouded in mystery...more information came to light in the early-to-mid 2000s...and of particular interest was that he was living in Fall River, Massachusetts at the time of the infamous Lizzie Borden ax murders were perpetrated. In fact, young Edward Place and his family resided merely two blocks away from the Borden homestead on Second Street. He recalled hearing the bolder of the neighborhood children chant: "Lizzie Borden took and ax; gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one!"
Then, for several years to come, the house grew noticeably darker, both inside and out. It didn't seem as though we could adequately illuminate the rooms within. This was attributed to the logical causes of faulty wiring and deficient electrical output, though professionally conducted readings and inspections of the circuitry and connections always indicated normal flows of current. The brown exterior paint took on a deep umber hue, and that was thought due to natural weathering from the sometimes harsh New England winters. Eventually, this inexplicable darkening motivated my father to repaint the house in a light grey color paint.
Life went on and with the passing of years, circumstances in the Johnson household underwent significant changes. For the most part, his was merely the natural progression of things. I met a woman named Francesca LIacqua, who was a career dancer, and I joined New England Ballet Company, of which my brother was a member, to better become acquainted with her since she the held a position as Ballet Mistress. She and I resided together for a time in an apartment in Providence, RI, and we married several years later. Once, when I visited my parents in the North Scituate house, I went downstairs into the cellar to retrieve some papers I'd stored there. While sifting through bureau drawers, I saw a figure, shadowy but sufficiently solid, descend the stairs and the form was visible as it quickly passed by an opening in the curtains. I took this to be Keith, probably wearing sock with no shoes since there was no sound of footfalls. I called out, "Keith? Hey, Keith!" Upon walking several steps, between the curtains and into the adjoining section of the cellar, I discovered that no one else was down there with me. This was a minor incident, but it served to confirm the house still was home to at least one unseen resident. However, not long after that when Francesca first stayed overnight, in the bedroom I'd set up but which now contained a larger, considerably newer and more comfortable bed, I was alerted to a problem when, upstairs in the kitchen of my parents' house, I heard my fiancés' voice, calling to me with a tone of alarm. She reported that the bed on which she reclined was shaking and gyrating. I could tell she had not been to sleep during those few minutes we were apart. I stayed with her, of course, and the bed remained still.
Somewhat suddenly and rather drastically, the mood in that house underwent a change. Approximately a year after giving birth to her daughter Scarlett, Cynthia and the baby's father split up. This was prior to her meeting, then marrying Joseph Bailey, a Providence Police Officer at the time of their wedding, and their union has endured. For a time during that period of adjustments, Cynthia moved back into the house along Route 101. She was seeking a few answers to important questions regarding her future. Cynthia discovered the old Ouija Board set on a shelf behind some sheets in a closet. On a whim, she started attempting communications through the board, often by herself and upon occasion with the participation of one or two of her girl friends. When Keith learned of this, he sternly admonished her. I suppose I was basically ambivalent in my regard to that development, but bemused to learn of it. Cynthia desisted for a time. Yet, apparently a door or let's call it a "portal" to the unknown had been reopened. I can't say for certain how much the renewed though brief experimentation with the Ouija Board might have contributed to the impending upheavals.
August 23, 1973, late afternoon. Mark Pilkanis, then a close friend of mine, and I were my parents' home, sharing time together in the basement room. We recorded our conversation with phonograph music playing in the background; I recall we played Black Mass Lucifer by Mort Garrison, which wasn't nearly so diabolic an album as the title suggested. It was merely a selection of electronic, synthesizer themes, which sounded ideal for the ultraviolet lighting and black vinyl drapes defining the décor of that enclosure. (It was, after all the early '70s!) Later, as Mark P. and I listened to our cassette recording without anticipating anything out of the ordinary, towards the end of our played-back conversation we were startled to hear what resembled a human voice, though slowed, sibilant and low. It seemed to say, "someone...help me...help" and a series of thuds was also audible. Mark being a musician and majoring in music at college had access to a unit which could control the speed at which an audio recording is played. When accelerated, the recording became more clear and we detected a vaguely feminine voice speak, "Carl...help me...help" accompanied by tapping sounds. At that time, I hadn't yet heard of Electric Voice Phenomena, which is the capturing on audio recordings of disembodied voices. Yet we did interpret this message, or manifestation as having proceeded from a consciousness not confined to a living body. What else were we to assume? It would be less than a year later that I began to observe a ghostly form making its way through that basement, an apparition which I was to witness, altogether, four times.
The evening came when I was readying myself for bed in my basement room, and very shortly after turning out the overhead electric light, I heard the return of that familiar shuffling and moving about of stored items. To me at that minute this was more amusing than unsettling, since I'd thought the extraneous, unaccounted for noises had ceased. Then I saw her, the figure of a woman attired in clothing of a style from maybe a century before, the turn of the 20th century. There was time to study her in those five or six seconds, this specter striding silently towards then past me, revealed in the scant light of the basement or, rather, casting her own illumination, wearing a grayish frock dress and with her hair pulled back, gathered up in the back of her head. Altogether I was to see her four times, and always in that basement. I almost became used to seeing her, but certainly I came to recognize her as the spirit in the cellar. The most clearly I ever beheld that unobtrusive ghost lady was when I was getting back to bed after assisting my grandfather, who was convalescing in his section of the house after a stay in a nursing facility. and I had just laid down. The room was illuminated by diffused light from the newly risen sun shining though the thin cloth curtains. Not close to sleeping, I opened my eyes and beheld the form of a woman, standing next to my bed side about a foot away from me. I could only react by saying, "Hello." Within a moment, I knew who this was! I propped myself up on my right elbow, and looked into her unblinking eyes as she stared directly at me. Several seconds later, she vanished, seeming to evaporate from the bottom up as would dew warmed by the morning sun. After reflecting a minute more, I uttered aloud" "How am I ever going to get anyone to believe this?"
One of those evening I recall, there was so much unaccounted-for clamor in the cellar that I couldn't manage to sleep, so I went upstairs to repose on the living room couch. As it turned out, that wasn't be an effective solution. I heard banging from above, coming from the roof, which increased in a crescendo until it was reverberating, and thunderous. Why that didn't quickly arouse the other inhabitants, apart form my brother and me, from their slumbers, I've never known. It may just have been due to my precise location in the house. This went on for maybe three minutes, but at that time seemed longer! from my perspective the house, effectively, was breathing: inhaling then exhaling, in rhythmically swelling and shrinking. I was only certain only that this was no form of hypnagogic hallucination; I was at that moment, and remained, wide awake.
Yet another strange occurrence was of a somewhat longer duration. This was the appearance of the "boogey man" who was noticed inside the pigeon shed, or shack, behind my parents' house. Way back in 1955, my maternal grandfather, Edward G. Place, had brokered the property on which our family's house was built to my father. Mr. Place contracted to have an addition to the house built on in 1968, in which he and my mother's sister, Aunt Natalie, would reside in the wake of the sale of their house next door to us, in which my grandfather and his wife Livvy, my mother's step mother, had operated a convalescent home during the 1940s, '50s and early-to-mid 1960s. For approximately thirty years during the mid 20th century, Grampy Place was well-regarded as a breeder and trader of prize pigeons. Eventually his stock of birds was reduced, though he kept raising pigeon until the early 1070s. He, and we became understandably perturbed when we began to notice a dark, human-like figure moving about inside his one remaining pigeon shack, a fairly small, wooden structure painted all white and with chicken wire enclosure in the front. Each of us had seen the opaque form of a man inside the shack, but as came to be expected, upon inspection no one was to be found inside. Twice, I think, local police were called about these sightings; they didn't doubt our sincerity but neither could they offer a solution. Extraneous footprints around the shack which could have been associated with a prowler of interloper were never discovered. Still, he or it was spotted in there perhaps ten times between 1966 and 1990. Originally known to us as the Boogie Man, the Shadow, as we came to call it, was a tad disconcerting, later amusing, and didn't seem particularly bothersome.
Section 4: There's not enough space for 'it' and us!
Another indication that something apart from what could be understood was influencing our routines was that small objects within the house such as gloves, silverware and jewelry, etcetera, were with increasing frequency vanishing, only to reappear later in another place if they came back at all. Eventually, things in the house were becoming sufficiently unsettling that intervention from outside our family was sought. Actually, it was Edward warren who telephoned on evening in 1973 and asked if he and wife Lorraine could visit to conduct their own style of investigation. This was arranged' the warrens were invited for dinner with my family which was followed by the paranormal investigation. At one point during their procedure, Lorraine who was (and is) known as a clairvoyant said she detected a dark and destructive presence that had become attached to the house. the Warrens were well aware that I experimented with ritual magic; as previously I've mentioned that was my means of expression and perhaps to a degree, my rebellion. I suppose it was merely inevitable that the "conjuring" I had performed, sometimes with the participation of a few friends, would be cited as the cause. Yet I and my siblings knew the strange activity sometimes observed in our home predated any "magic practices" in which I'd indulged! Not long after this intervention of sorts, the service of Father James K. Frink who at that time presided over Trinity Episcopal Church located in North Scituate, Rhode island was enlisted. Fr Frink conducted a blessing, or sanctification of our house, going from room to room and offering prayers. I believe he sprinkled Holy water against each door. Certainly in the immediate wake of these visitations a sense of peacefulness was felt by we who lived there. Yet that calm was to be short-lived, as para-activity returned and progressed. It's not that the overall situation on our home front was tragic nor intolerable, but an uneasiness prevailed as we weren't sure what that next expect.
The up-step of uncanny activity came shortly after the passing of Grampy Place at the age of 93 in February, 1980. Indeed, his passing marked the end of an era for our family, relatives and friends. As winter went on, that house began to groan, as if it was a living body painfully writhing, and as they continued, those unearthly sounds would increase in volume. Eventually that "symptom" lessened, only to be replaced by inexplicable slamming against the exterior of the house, then those blunt thuds moved to the inside walls. There seemed to be no real consistency to the mysterious disturbances. My brother and I felt that the ghost of the house simply missed the presence of Grampy Place, who himself had long been regarded as the master spirit of our clan. This caused us to reminisce about our grandfather's revelations from his own childhood, such as sketchy information concerning the untimely death of his brother Roy Place which had always seemed shrouded in mystery...more information came to light in the early-to-mid 2000s...and of particular interest was that he was living in Fall River, Massachusetts at the time of the infamous Lizzie Borden ax murders were perpetrated. In fact, young Edward Place and his family resided merely two blocks away from the Borden homestead on Second Street. He recalled hearing the bolder of the neighborhood children chant: "Lizzie Borden took and ax; gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one!"
Then, for several years to come, the house grew noticeably darker, both inside and out. It didn't seem as though we could adequately illuminate the rooms within. This was attributed to the logical causes of faulty wiring and deficient electrical output, though professionally conducted readings and inspections of the circuitry and connections always indicated normal flows of current. The brown exterior paint took on a deep umber hue, and that was thought due to natural weathering from the sometimes harsh New England winters. Eventually, this inexplicable darkening motivated my father to repaint the house in a light grey color paint.
Life went on and with the passing of years, circumstances in the Johnson household underwent significant changes. For the most part, his was merely the natural progression of things. I met a woman named Francesca LIacqua, who was a career dancer, and I joined New England Ballet Company, of which my brother was a member, to better become acquainted with her since she the held a position as Ballet Mistress. She and I resided together for a time in an apartment in Providence, RI, and we married several years later. Once, when I visited my parents in the North Scituate house, I went downstairs into the cellar to retrieve some papers I'd stored there. While sifting through bureau drawers, I saw a figure, shadowy but sufficiently solid, descend the stairs and the form was visible as it quickly passed by an opening in the curtains. I took this to be Keith, probably wearing sock with no shoes since there was no sound of footfalls. I called out, "Keith? Hey, Keith!" Upon walking several steps, between the curtains and into the adjoining section of the cellar, I discovered that no one else was down there with me. This was a minor incident, but it served to confirm the house still was home to at least one unseen resident. However, not long after that when Francesca first stayed overnight, in the bedroom I'd set up but which now contained a larger, considerably newer and more comfortable bed, I was alerted to a problem when, upstairs in the kitchen of my parents' house, I heard my fiancés' voice, calling to me with a tone of alarm. She reported that the bed on which she reclined was shaking and gyrating. I could tell she had not been to sleep during those few minutes we were apart. I stayed with her, of course, and the bed remained still.
Somewhat suddenly and rather drastically, the mood in that house underwent a change. Approximately a year after giving birth to her daughter Scarlett, Cynthia and the baby's father split up. This was prior to her meeting, then marrying Joseph Bailey, a Providence Police Officer at the time of their wedding, and their union has endured. For a time during that period of adjustments, Cynthia moved back into the house along Route 101. She was seeking a few answers to important questions regarding her future. Cynthia discovered the old Ouija Board set on a shelf behind some sheets in a closet. On a whim, she started attempting communications through the board, often by herself and upon occasion with the participation of one or two of her girl friends. When Keith learned of this, he sternly admonished her. I suppose I was basically ambivalent in my regard to that development, but bemused to learn of it. Cynthia desisted for a time. Yet, apparently a door or let's call it a "portal" to the unknown had been reopened. I can't say for certain how much the renewed though brief experimentation with the Ouija Board might have contributed to the impending upheavals.
After my grandfather had the first of two sections built onto the original "core" of my parents' house, it became what could be termed a duplex. My sister was able and welcome to move into the section that had previously been occupied by Mr. Place, long-term, which proved convenient for her as a single mother. In the course of one evening session with her talking spirit board, Cynthia observed the planchette spelling out a rather more detailed--and ominous--than customary. It informed, or warned her that Sandra would be stricken in a car accident. She took this to be indicating my brother's wife. (Keith E. Johnson and Sandra A. Hutchings married on June 21, 1991 and they had a son, Keith Jr. who was diagnosed with autism at the age of 3 years. Sandra did not personally experience any of the inexplicable, preternatural occurrences within the North Scituate homestead, though certainly she'd heard about them.) However, when Cynthia cautioned Keith about this impending tragic even the spirit had revealed to her, he advised our sister in no uncertain terms not to trust or relay upon messages from "the other side" and to discontinue those impromptu séances, which really they were. Cynthia agreed and decided to discard the Ouija Board, initially by tossing the planchette into the trash container. Well, next day, the Ouija Board was back, set on a shelf in the closet, with the plastic planchette resting on top! This alarmed Cynthia sufficiently that she placed an urgent telephone call to Keith, asking him to burn the Board for her. Our brother, who had gained some experience in such matters, advised his younger sister that the Board shouldn't be consumed by fire since that might further provoke and anger the entity, or spirit connected to it which, he pointed out, could be demonic since she was dealing with unknown, and potentially dangerous forces. Before he could take charge of and dispose of the Ouija, Cynthia set it outside on a stone wall next to Hartford Pike. The following morning, it was gone. Perhaps someone walking or driving by thought they'd found a free, little treasure, prized because of its unknown history.
Section 5: Aftermath and departure...or, retreat?
Cynthia Johnson remained there, basically sequestered in the house for the ensuing two months. We assumed probably she was enduring a measure of delayed, post-partum depression. Keith, however, cited spiritual oppression as the reason for our sister's protracted withdrawing, since for that time she just didn't "seem herself." With prayerful intervention on my brother's part, leading to what I thought to be a rather climactic scene, plus encouragement from family and friends, Cynthia's emotional equilibrium was restored. She'd always exhibited strength of character and correctly we'd assumed her deterioration of mood would be temporary.
There came the day when both my parents were away from the house, and Cynthia was there with her daughter Scarlett whom I think was then eight years of age. There was nothing unusual about this, not at first. Scarlett, using the land line telephone, placed calls to me and my brother Keith. The girl didn't want to overly concern my parents, and really she felt we could more effectively help out, in this situation. It seemed that my sister was locked in her own bedroom, but possibly not by a faulty lock in the door nob. Keith who was living with Sandra and Keith Junior in the city of Warwick and I who resided in a Providence apartment arrived there at nearly the same time. We weren't especially worried since young Scarlett hadn't sounded panicky. But when we met her, her tone was more urgent. Cynthia from behind her door said she would tell us what had happened. I was first to try the door. Yes, it did appear to be locked from the inside. I went to retrieve a screw driver, intending to detach the door nob and lock, if absolutely necessary. Keith, after several attempts and a prayer, was able to turn the nob and it cranked to the left with a "click". A tearful and visibly relieved Cynthia advised us that we might not believe what had transpired, what she saw. She described how she was exiting her bedroom, and as she reached over at waist level to grasp the door nob, she beheld what appeared to be a shadowy hand grab the nob from the opposite side and slam it shut! She wondered if she had actually seen this, but the fact was, her door had become locked without apparent cause! Keith told her of the prayer he'd whispered since he felt it couldn't hurt, and might help. I think it did. Cynthia was able to endure what could have been a very harrowing half hour, knowing that her brothers (versed in such matters of the nether realm) were coming to her rescue. Another thirty minutes, and the fire department would've been summoned, probably to the detriment of that bedroom door.
When Aunt Natalie, my mother's sister older by five years, who being disabled continued to resided there after her father's death, reported glimpsing figures akin to people walking, or gliding over the house's front, back and side lawns, all over the yards, she seemed in total earnest if not particularly concerned, and I took her seriously. She was only the first to see the specters. I recall hearing my parents discussing this development. My father said, "By gum, Beverly, you're right. There is someone stalking the grounds!' He exited the house through the front door, flashlight in hand and armed with a crow bar. With a nervous tone, my mother called after him, "Oh, Lenny...What do you think you're going to do out there? Let me just call the State Police!" Dad went on, strode along the perimeter of the property, but saw no one malingering outside. "How he got away, I've no idea. I'm baffled!" exclaimed Dad. I guess we could say the ghosties won out, because they always eluded us. Their appearances weren't all that common, anyway.
Naturally there were happy and sad times, a sense of loss and inevitable, unwelcome change, balanced by a growing closeness among members of our family. Beloved pets died and we agreed they could not be replaced. The end result was, my parents felt compelled to sell their house. Ostensibly this was due to financial concerns. Mom had retired from her career at Fleet National bank, and my father, formerly employed by Electric Boat based in Groton, CT and also retried, had fallen into increasing debt, struggling to keep up with expenses of maintaining the big house. I assisted with the move, and for a time found it more frugal to give up the apartment on the East Side of Providence I rented, move in with my folks: Dad, Mom and Auntie Nat, to share expenses. The apartment they secured in Cranston, RI, my father's home town and situated two miles from where he was born on Philmont Avenue, was spacious and in a convenient location. One rather perplexing and recurring happenstance was to remind us that possibly not all the spirits had been cut-loose with the grand relocation. Every so often, three resounding knocks on the doors, especially the front door to that second floor, luxury apartment in the Chateau Surcrest complex, would cause us to rise and look for whoever wished access!
My father, Leonard, passed away on November 2, 2000 after a relatively brief struggle with an aggressive form of lymphoma cancer which likely for some time had progressed undiagnosed. He had been active in Bethany Lutheran Church, the Masonic Lodge where he was awarded the position of Master Mason of Hamilton Lodge, and was an officer with Vasa Scandinavian Lodge. He was quite the sports enthusiast and historian. One week before his death, he had been sent home from the hospital, and there was that early morning when he told his wife, Beverly, he had seen a woman all in white in their bedroom. He was very lucid and "unquestionably sound of mind, right up until and including the day of his departure in Kent County Hospital, Warwick, RI. Hundreds, and hundred and hundreds, attended his calling hours. I prayed for fair weather on the day of his funeral and burial, and November 7th was graced by splendid weather conditions. My mother's sister Natalie, whose health had become frail, died the following March, having five months earlier suffered a fall inside the apartment after which she never recovered her ability to walk.
After often having reviewed and discussed with Keith and Cynthia all that transpired during those years my parents owned the house in North Scituate, we have concluded that homes and buildings and properties can and sometimes will take on an evanescent life and personality of their own. An occupied house becomes like unto a living organism. The history of that property prior to my grandfather purchasing the acres in the early 1930s was, to our knowledge, innocuous. It had belonged to a family named Martin. Previously situated on the spot where our house would be built had been pens for small farm animals, with a corral and pony rink in back. Digging in the garden would sometimes turn up gravel from the edge of the pony rink. Certainly there had been deaths in the convalescent home run by my grandfather, but those were all from natural causes. No murders nor suicides were reported there. My parents' house was younger than Keith and me by six or seven months, and about two years younger than Cynthia. Yet, Scituate, located in towards the northwest of Rhode Island is a nostalgia-evocative old town, incorporated as a town in 1731. Its center region underwent major reconstruction during the creation of the Scituate reservoir which happened in 1918 when first ground was first broken and through 1921. That is when electric power lines were strung along the Scituate roadways, and many of the dirt roads were paved. The villages of Ashland, Rockland, South Scituate, and Trim town among others were taken out and those areas are now submerged, their vestiges seen today on signs indicating the names of streets. The house along Hartford Pike, Route 101 in North Scituate where my siblings and I were raised is still there. I haven't ventured out there to inquire of the present inhabitants whether things within and without their home ever are strangely "unsettled!" I'm unsure of just how to broach the subject, if I pay a social call there at number 601.
Cynthia Johnson remained there, basically sequestered in the house for the ensuing two months. We assumed probably she was enduring a measure of delayed, post-partum depression. Keith, however, cited spiritual oppression as the reason for our sister's protracted withdrawing, since for that time she just didn't "seem herself." With prayerful intervention on my brother's part, leading to what I thought to be a rather climactic scene, plus encouragement from family and friends, Cynthia's emotional equilibrium was restored. She'd always exhibited strength of character and correctly we'd assumed her deterioration of mood would be temporary.
There came the day when both my parents were away from the house, and Cynthia was there with her daughter Scarlett whom I think was then eight years of age. There was nothing unusual about this, not at first. Scarlett, using the land line telephone, placed calls to me and my brother Keith. The girl didn't want to overly concern my parents, and really she felt we could more effectively help out, in this situation. It seemed that my sister was locked in her own bedroom, but possibly not by a faulty lock in the door nob. Keith who was living with Sandra and Keith Junior in the city of Warwick and I who resided in a Providence apartment arrived there at nearly the same time. We weren't especially worried since young Scarlett hadn't sounded panicky. But when we met her, her tone was more urgent. Cynthia from behind her door said she would tell us what had happened. I was first to try the door. Yes, it did appear to be locked from the inside. I went to retrieve a screw driver, intending to detach the door nob and lock, if absolutely necessary. Keith, after several attempts and a prayer, was able to turn the nob and it cranked to the left with a "click". A tearful and visibly relieved Cynthia advised us that we might not believe what had transpired, what she saw. She described how she was exiting her bedroom, and as she reached over at waist level to grasp the door nob, she beheld what appeared to be a shadowy hand grab the nob from the opposite side and slam it shut! She wondered if she had actually seen this, but the fact was, her door had become locked without apparent cause! Keith told her of the prayer he'd whispered since he felt it couldn't hurt, and might help. I think it did. Cynthia was able to endure what could have been a very harrowing half hour, knowing that her brothers (versed in such matters of the nether realm) were coming to her rescue. Another thirty minutes, and the fire department would've been summoned, probably to the detriment of that bedroom door.
When Aunt Natalie, my mother's sister older by five years, who being disabled continued to resided there after her father's death, reported glimpsing figures akin to people walking, or gliding over the house's front, back and side lawns, all over the yards, she seemed in total earnest if not particularly concerned, and I took her seriously. She was only the first to see the specters. I recall hearing my parents discussing this development. My father said, "By gum, Beverly, you're right. There is someone stalking the grounds!' He exited the house through the front door, flashlight in hand and armed with a crow bar. With a nervous tone, my mother called after him, "Oh, Lenny...What do you think you're going to do out there? Let me just call the State Police!" Dad went on, strode along the perimeter of the property, but saw no one malingering outside. "How he got away, I've no idea. I'm baffled!" exclaimed Dad. I guess we could say the ghosties won out, because they always eluded us. Their appearances weren't all that common, anyway.
Naturally there were happy and sad times, a sense of loss and inevitable, unwelcome change, balanced by a growing closeness among members of our family. Beloved pets died and we agreed they could not be replaced. The end result was, my parents felt compelled to sell their house. Ostensibly this was due to financial concerns. Mom had retired from her career at Fleet National bank, and my father, formerly employed by Electric Boat based in Groton, CT and also retried, had fallen into increasing debt, struggling to keep up with expenses of maintaining the big house. I assisted with the move, and for a time found it more frugal to give up the apartment on the East Side of Providence I rented, move in with my folks: Dad, Mom and Auntie Nat, to share expenses. The apartment they secured in Cranston, RI, my father's home town and situated two miles from where he was born on Philmont Avenue, was spacious and in a convenient location. One rather perplexing and recurring happenstance was to remind us that possibly not all the spirits had been cut-loose with the grand relocation. Every so often, three resounding knocks on the doors, especially the front door to that second floor, luxury apartment in the Chateau Surcrest complex, would cause us to rise and look for whoever wished access!
My father, Leonard, passed away on November 2, 2000 after a relatively brief struggle with an aggressive form of lymphoma cancer which likely for some time had progressed undiagnosed. He had been active in Bethany Lutheran Church, the Masonic Lodge where he was awarded the position of Master Mason of Hamilton Lodge, and was an officer with Vasa Scandinavian Lodge. He was quite the sports enthusiast and historian. One week before his death, he had been sent home from the hospital, and there was that early morning when he told his wife, Beverly, he had seen a woman all in white in their bedroom. He was very lucid and "unquestionably sound of mind, right up until and including the day of his departure in Kent County Hospital, Warwick, RI. Hundreds, and hundred and hundreds, attended his calling hours. I prayed for fair weather on the day of his funeral and burial, and November 7th was graced by splendid weather conditions. My mother's sister Natalie, whose health had become frail, died the following March, having five months earlier suffered a fall inside the apartment after which she never recovered her ability to walk.
After often having reviewed and discussed with Keith and Cynthia all that transpired during those years my parents owned the house in North Scituate, we have concluded that homes and buildings and properties can and sometimes will take on an evanescent life and personality of their own. An occupied house becomes like unto a living organism. The history of that property prior to my grandfather purchasing the acres in the early 1930s was, to our knowledge, innocuous. It had belonged to a family named Martin. Previously situated on the spot where our house would be built had been pens for small farm animals, with a corral and pony rink in back. Digging in the garden would sometimes turn up gravel from the edge of the pony rink. Certainly there had been deaths in the convalescent home run by my grandfather, but those were all from natural causes. No murders nor suicides were reported there. My parents' house was younger than Keith and me by six or seven months, and about two years younger than Cynthia. Yet, Scituate, located in towards the northwest of Rhode Island is a nostalgia-evocative old town, incorporated as a town in 1731. Its center region underwent major reconstruction during the creation of the Scituate reservoir which happened in 1918 when first ground was first broken and through 1921. That is when electric power lines were strung along the Scituate roadways, and many of the dirt roads were paved. The villages of Ashland, Rockland, South Scituate, and Trim town among others were taken out and those areas are now submerged, their vestiges seen today on signs indicating the names of streets. The house along Hartford Pike, Route 101 in North Scituate where my siblings and I were raised is still there. I haven't ventured out there to inquire of the present inhabitants whether things within and without their home ever are strangely "unsettled!" I'm unsure of just how to broach the subject, if I pay a social call there at number 601.
Sincerely,
Carl L. Johnson http://demonologistperspective.blogspot.com/