Our local library has a colorful history of being haunted.
Two librarians died in the library under unusual circumstances. One hung herself from the attic rafters and another was battered to death by a book cart. Spend a little time there and you’ll hear footsteps, feel as though you’re being watched, see ghostly apparitions browsing the stacks or sitting and reading, see runaway book carts and ghostly children sitting with young children during story time.
It’s a lively place with a history that very few people discuss. On overcast rainy days it’s not a place where you want to be — yet it is ideal for relaxing with a good gothic tale — especially with what is going on in the library. Seriously, I prefer being home on such days in my comfortable chair with a lap robe and my Kindle, but I digress.
I was at my local coffee shop on such an overcast rainy day and I met Graham who had a story to tell about his college library.
He and four of his friends worked at the library. They were given the task one evening after closing to clean the third floor, which was believed to be the most haunted area of the library. They did split up to cover the area.
Immediately Graham felt a kind of static electricity surrounding him. He was uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to alert his friends.
When the lights started blinking, Graham and his friends became concerned.
“Maybe we should leave,” one of his friends said. “I don’t want to be stuck up here in the dark.”
He was teased a bit about being afraid of the dark, but they all felt the cold air that blew throughout the area. Graham looked around and saw a middle aged man dressed in a dark suit carrying a couple of books and looking in the stacks.
When he first started working in the library, the librarian told him about an English professor who haunted the library. At the time Graham accepted it, but didn’t think much of it. He believed in the paranormal, but he didn’t think it odd that college professors wouldn’t be haunting the library from time to time or the lecture halls or classrooms. So when he saw the gentleman ghost, he assumed it was the English prof.
As the spirit moved around, the lights blinked. The elevator chimed and the doors opened. Graham and his friends stood still watching and listening. No one came out of the elevator and no one went in, but the doors closed and the elevator moved down.
Books were falling from the shelves from various areas. Graham wondered if a group of spirits got off the elevator to mess with them. A book cart slowly rolled towards them. When Graham reached out to stop it, it picked up speed with Graham taking a ride on this runaway cart. It headed for the elevator. When Graham thought he would crash into it, the door opened. On the ride up and then down he could hear soft laughter. He wondered if this was an reenactment of a fraternity hazing that happened a number of decades previous.
He tried to remember this particular incident. Did it happen in the library? He remembered that it did involve books, but a book cart . . . Graham closed his eyes to think. He took a few deep breaths. When he opened his eyes he had a vision of a young man blindfolded with hands and feet bound with a rope. He was on a book cart, bumping along a path pushed by young men in long coats. Each one yelling insults at the one on the cart.
Upahead near a tall tree was another man making a noose from a coil of rope.
“What do we have here, boys?” he said.
“A horse thief,” was the reply.
“Well now, you know what we do with horse thieves, don’t you?”
The noose was put over the young blindfolded man’s head. He was removed from the book cart and raised just a few inches in the air. If he stretched out, his feet would have touched the ground, but he was so scared . . .
The cause of death was not hanging, but . . . could one die from being scared to death? That seemed to be what happened.
From the research Graham did, he found that each of the young men involved in this hazing incident all died within a year. Was this revenge . . . or guilt?
Of the six fraternity brothers involved, two fell down the elevator shaft, three hung themselves on the third floor, and one was crushed to death under the weight of fallen bookshelves.
They were destined, so it seemed, to play out their deed for eternity.
Residual hauntings can’t harm the living, but they can be frightening. I’d rather see the old English Professor than these frat boys any day.
There are plenty of old houses where I live. I sometimes get a weird feeling from houses, just passing by them.
Some are inviting and others feel creepy and I don’t even want to look at them. Has this happened to you?
I believe every house has the potential of being haunted. Not scary haunted, just having a previous owner who has passed still living there. It starts out with a feeling of being watched. Then you may feel cold or increasingly uncomfortable. Depending upon the spirit, you can either feel welcome or unwelcome. I have walked into houses and immediately wanted to leave. It’s awkward when you’re invited to dinner and just don’t want to stay another second. You truly believe something horrible will happen to you if you do stay. Sometimes you see something out of the corner of your eye. You know you’re not imagining it, but you do shrug it off. You don’t want to say anything, not everyone shares your belief in the paranormal. And, honestly, how do you tell a friend that their house is creepy?
The interesting thing is when you do make contact with a ghost, who doesn’t know he or she is dead.
There have been times when I’ve talked with a ghost and didn’t know it was a ghost. It thought I was a ghost.
I was looking to buy a house a number of years ago. There was a great open house that served food and allowed potential buyers to look around and get a “feel” of the house. I suppose it was a way of imagining how it would feel to live there as opposed to most open houses where they invite you in, quickly show you around and out the door you entered.
It was a friendly crowd who were sitting around enjoying the buffet. I wasn’t sure how many realtors were there and how many were potential buyers. It didn’t matter to me. I was enjoying the setting and was curious about other homes in the area they may have seen. For me, it seemed to be a way of comparing notes of different houses in different price ranges.
I noticed an elderly woman standing off to the side with an unpleasant expression on her face. She seemed to be upset about something. Being a curious person, I walked by her and stood close by, but not too close.
She immediately said, “Why are all these people here?”
I told her it was an open house.
She said there must be some mistake, she wasn’t selling her house. She also explained that no one would listen to her. “These people came early and started setting things up and snooping all over the house. They woke me up at the crack of dawn.”
Then she got a really frightened expression on her face. She was sure her house was haunted by these “party makers.”
Well, I’m not one to tell her they were real. At the moment I didn’t know I was talking to a ghost.
Later, my realtor was asking me why I was standing there talking to myself.
Fortunately, she shared my belief in ghost so I told her I was talking to the previous owner who didn’t know she was dead and didn’t want to sell her house.
She left to talk with the realtor who was hosting this open house. We did make a hasty retreat. He was probably afraid I would tell his potential buyers the place was haunted.
I can only imagine how the family that moves into that house are going to feel to have a resident ghost who doesn’t want them there.
Well, I’m usually at my local coffee shop, if they wish to talk . . . I wonder how the dear old woman is coping . . .
Thanks for stopping by!
I hope you liked this real ghost story and it got you thinking about the paranormal.
I don’t know anyone who would want to see a figure in their rear view mirror on a dark road late at night, but this is exactly what happened to John as he was returning home from a weekend at his cabin.
The radio was on Coast to Coast AM which is a talk radio program where they have guests discuss all kinds of topics, but especially about the paranormal and UFOs. It was a favorite of John’s. He enjoyed hearing about the experiences of others. It was better than the news and politics. This was his escape from all of that. He was listening to it while packing up to return home and continued listening in his car.
It was approaching midnight. The road was deserted and dark. His headlights cut through the darkness ahead of him. The radio program was about UFOs. John thought this would be the perfect time and setting to see something strange in the sky. Instead, he saw something white fly across the road in front of him. He immediately broke out in goose bumps.
He calmed himself by saying it was an owl. He tuned the radio to another station to listen to music. He wasn’t in the mood to have his imagination fed with a discussion of UFO abductions.
Before John got on the freeway for home, he decided to stop for a cup of coffee and a hamburger.
He heard something move in the backseat.
He adjusted his rear view mirror to see what had fallen when he got the scare of his life.
There was a child in a car seat and next to him was a woman he had never seen before. He didn’t know how they got into his car. He immediately pulled off the road to investigate.
When he turned around, the back seat had nothing except what he placed there.
He forgot about getting coffee and got on the freeway heading for home. Periodically, he checked his rear view mirror, but there were no people in his back seat.
When he arrived home, he checked his email and did a google search for any accidents on the road. He did find one of a young mother with her young son.
To this day he’s disturbed by this incident. A part of him wants to see those ghostly figures again.
John has become obsessed with this woman and her son. He found out that she was looking for property in the mountains. She was recently divorced and wanted to relocate. Unfortunately, according to her family she found nothing appropriate in her price range and was on her way to her parents house when the accident occurred.
Strange as it is, this accident occurred three years to the day of these ghostly apparitions appearing in John’s car.
Residual haunting? It would appear so. Let me know your thoughts by leaving a comment below.
Lizzy Borden’s life and trial have been discussed over the years with divided beliefs of her guilt in murdering her father and step-mother that fateful day in August, 1892.
In 1975 there was a movie made with a possible means of how Lizzy Borden committed the crimes and was able to leave no evidence behind for the authorities to find.
I got caught up in it once again by watching a variety of YouTube videos to get a clear picture of what happened. My quest started when I watched a Paranormal Investigation of the Lizzy Borden Bed and Breakfast.
But for this post, I believe it is best to begin with a documentary of Lizzy Borden.
It’s always important to discover what was going on in the Borden residence prior to the murders.
Each documentary brings forth evidence regarding Lizzy, but is that the complete story?
I do like the dramatization of this documentary . .. but some aspects of the story seem to be left out . . . Lizzy and her thoughts and feelings.
Later on you’ll hear some EVPs that state Lizzy was “spoiled”. Wouldn’t that indicate that she always got her way and thus would have no reason to murder her step-mother and father?
And what is the truth . . . something we’ll never know for sure.
Lizzy Borden Documentary:
Did Lizzy murder her step-mother and father? Was it motivated by greed?
Given the “personal” nature of the attacks, it seems likely Lizzy Borden did do the deadly deed . . . But what is the truth?
Paranormal Investigators FAM and Lou Rock decided to visit the Bed and Breakfast to see what they could learn from the haunting that seems to be taking place.
There is definitely some creepy stuff going on and the spirit box EVPs do give one a bit of a chill.
The Paranormal Investigation Video
What do you think?
There were definite disturbances in the basement.
It has been documented that Mr. Borden had once been in the furniture business and later became a mortician.
However, there is no evidence that he conducted any “mortuary” business in his home or that his home had ever been a mortuary.
That would be too easy to explain the “hauntings” . . . Yet, I do wonder what spirits came into the house when the home across the street had been burned own. It is said children came to stay, but was there more?
Did something evil come into the house — maybe possessing Lizzy?
No offense to these paranormal investigators, but I decided to go a bit farther and wanted to see what Amy Allan and the Dead Files had to say about Lizzy Borden and the house that was turned into a Bed and Breakfast.
This took a bit of a turn to my way of thinking.
It does shed more light on Mr. Borden and how he ran his home.
Dead Files Investigate The Lizzy Borden House
What wasn’t Amy revealing?
Lizzy Borden Documentary:
Does this add clarity or muddy the water a bit more?
I believe more information is necessary in the form of another documentary.
This documentary discusses Lizzy’s life after the trial and how she and her sister did move to a mansion on the hill. Lizzy named it Maplecroft and this was where she could live a lavish life — evidently the life her father could afford, but didn’t want to live — even for the future welfare of his daughters.
It also debunks Lizzy’s killing of animals in order to hold a funeral — and all the implications associated with harming animals to a criminal mind.
Yet, what is behind the statement that Lizzy was “peculiar” or “odd” what was the evidence of this? Was it how she was raised . . . yet she did church work . . . or was this after the trial? Or was this because of her shoplifting?
You can decide later what is truly relevant and what isn’t in order to seek the truth about Lizzy Borden and the murders of 1892.
In light of all of this . . . I’m wondering . . .
Emma may have had a lot of resentment of having to care for her sister, or she may have welcomed it.
Yet both women didn’t have the opportunity to meet gentlemen and back then, the only way for a woman to leave home was to marry. So, both Lizzy and Emma may have resented their father for not allowing them to attend fancy balls or for their father to host one.
Without a mother — a true mother who would have seen to it that her daughters were given every opportunity to meet suitable suitors, these women were really nothing more than house servants in their own home.
If there had been “abuse” in the home, then it seems reasonable Mr. Borden would want to hold a tight rein on his daughters — to keep his secret . . . or was it the sister’s secret . . . or was something else at play in the house . . .
I can understand how Lizzy Borden could have gone “mad” . . . but why continue living in that small town — or did Lizzy Borden have something to prove to the townfolk?
And what did she prove?
I would suggest that instead of asking Lizzy if she did the crime, why not ask her for her story and who she was with her goals and aspirations . . . Her feelings of how everything went terribly wrong . . .
I believe there is more to this story. And I believe this rings true with the second Biographical Documentary. There are definitely more questions that haven’t been answered.
Yet I do believe, too, that Lizzy and others who “haunt” the bed and breakfast are tired of being asked the same questions over and over again . . . and may just say “yes” to commiting the murders in order to be done with it.
Thanks for stopping by and please leave a comment.
Sharon
But wait . . .
And what could be said for Maplecroft — Lizzy’s last known residence?
Surely Lizzy Borden would haunt that place moreso than the residence where her father and step-mother were murdered.
I would definitely not want to haunt the old house, but haunt my home, the home where I was free to live and entertain as I pleased.
I would think Mr. & Mrs. Borden would haunt the bed and breakfast and Lizzy would haunt Maplecroft . . . but what do I know . . .
Maplecroft:
A beautiful place, but I don’t know if I’d like to live there.
I don’t know about operating a bed and breakfast out of Maplecroft Mansion, but I think a quaint little paranormal bookstore would be lovely selling crystals and other items of interest.
I wouldn’t really want to do seances in the home other than to discuss Lizzy’s life without mentioning the murders.
As I mentioned earlier, I believe the Lizzy Borden story is a lot more interesting than the murders and the trial.
I’m going a bit soft on thinking of buying such a house with a history . . . it could be a selling point or drop the price down . . . I do wonder what stories this house has to tell . . . since there were several previous owners . . .
Just something to think about . . .
Thanks for indulging me in my search for the Lizzy Borden story.
It was one of the old mansions in town that got everyone exciting about this particular estate sale.
I was there bright and early so I wouldn’t miss anything. The article said that everything had to go and the attic was filled to the rafters with cast offs from decades of storage. It’s something that feeds the imagination.
I was talking to a few people before the doors opened. Everyone had something special they were seeking: old dinnerware, toys, dolls, silver, old clothes, furniture, fixtures, etc.. I understood even the chandeliers were going and those were original with the house. I was daydreaming and missed the rush of bargain hunters when the door opened.
I was almost ready to leave as soon as I entered the residence.
I was assaulted with muggy air — it was thick and hot. I was feeling a little ill, but I continued on as though nothing was wrong. I took a hankie from my purse and gently dabbed the moisture off my face. My glasses were sliding down my nose and become a bit foggy.
I did see an entity a few feet away from me, frantically trying to get my attention or anyone’s attention in the room. Every time I walked away my legs buckled out from under me. It was awkward for me to just stop in the middle of the room and converse with a ghost, but it was giving me no choice. Every place had people milling around, so I just had to do the best I could to hear what this trapped spirit wanted to say to me. With my hankie still in hand, I thought this may cover the fact I was actually talking to something that others couldn’t see.
“My home is being destroyed, who are these vandal?” were the first words addressed to me.
I didn’t know if I was in the vandal category or if he thought I would help him in some manner — maybe to get rid of the rift-raft which I couldn’t do for him. I tried to explain that this was no longer his house and others had lived there over the years. He wasn’t buying any of it. He spoke of losing his wife after the children moved away and hadn’t seen them for a very long time.
Well, all that was back at the turn of the 20th century. I told him his wife and children and grandchildren were all waiting for him and he could leave at any time.
“I do hear my name being called. It sounds just like my Anna,” he said sadly shaking his head. “Is she trapped here? In the walls?”
“No, she’s beyond the walls. Come outside with me,” I said.
I didn’t see the bright light, but I saw swirling white mist circling the entity of the tried old soul. I just got pieces of conversation, almost like there was static on an invisible line. His wife was coming for him. He was having quite a reunion with his loved ones. I couldn’t help the big grin on my face.
Some people were leaving the estate and others were coming in while this beautiful passage was taking place. Then there was silence.
To be honest with you, I believe I came to the estate, not for antiques or a look around the mansion, but to help this trapped soul. As soon as he was gone, I felt free to go, as though my job there was done. I was also exhausted and felt the need for a nap.
In my sleep, I was visited by the man and his family. He asked why I hadn’t been there earlier. My only reply was that he wasn’t ready then. I believe I’m drawn to where I need to be. He seemed to accept that. That was good, because it was the best explanation I had at this time.
I am definitely intrigued by the ghosts of children.
For one thing it breaks my heart that children have died young. Maybe since I’ve been a teacher, they’re attracted to me, or me to them. Whatever the case, I do get my fair share of children ghosts.
I met two young lady ghosts — Emma and Sarah while visiting the local cemetery..
Sarah invited me to visit her Aunt Francis in this old Victorian Mansion just outside of town.
Normally, I don’t want to go ghost hunting . . . or meet ghosts in a creepy, rundown old house . . . but I did.
Yes, I was arguing with myself the whole time. I was definitely telling myself how this was stupid. I knew of this old house and Aunt Francis before inviting my ghost hunting friends on this venture.
My friend Barbara was the only one from my ghost hunting group of friends who could join me on this great adventure. Barbara was all for it, especially since we received an invitation to visit the old matriarch of this old mansion.
I’m torn in telling this “adventure” as Barbara puts it.
You know, I always come out as being anything but brave. Yes, this is no different. You see, Aunt Francis . . . well . . . Aunt Francis is a cranky old woman who nagged her husband to the point where he took an axe to her and . . . goodness, she’s come back as a floating head.
The young nieces dote on their beloved Auntie Francis and she’s insistent on meeting the “human” they’ve grown fond of.
I know the old woman loves peanut butter cookies, so I made some for her. I would have preferred to buy something, but Sarah insisted they had to be homemade.
We needed to time it so that the cookies were “fresh from the oven.”
I don’t know why or how a two hundred plus year old woman would know the difference or care, but it may be her controlling way — as in life, so in death.
So, there I was with Barbara and two ghost girls paying a call on dear old Aunt Francis in a creepy old, rundown mansion in the middle of a thunder storm. Not much rain, but plenty of thunder.
The girls float on up the stairway. Barbara and I walk slowly, testing the boards as we step lightly. Some of the steps are missing so we did our best to continue moving up. Barbara knocked the banister down in her attempt to climb up three broken steps. My hand went through the wall in a couple of places.
This wasn’t unnoticed by Aunt Francis who screamed, “Sarah, tell your clumsy friend to be careful. This is our home.”
Then, a little calmer I heard, “Those cookies better be good.”
Aw geez, now my culinary skills were on the line.
My only thought besides trying not to break my neck was, “Betty Crocker, don’t let me down.”
Barbara and I made it to the landing. I didn’t see the girls, but I heard dear old Aunt Francis.
“Quit dallying, woman. I want my cookies!”
Of course, she had to be another flight of stairs up. Only those stairs were in worse shape than the ones Barbara and I just climbed.
Whatever happened to ladies meeting guests in the parlor? I was getting tired of this charade.
“I sorry, madam, but it’s impossible for me to go any farther. I’ve met you halfway, the only polite thing for you to do is come down here,” I said as forcefully, yet politely as I could.
“Who are you to tell me . . .” she sputtered.
I didn’t wait around to hear more. I motioned for Barbara to go on down the stairs we just climbed.
“What about the cookies,” Barbara whispered. “Shouldn’t you leave them?”
I’m not really up on ghost etiquette, but this woman wasn’t the most hospital ghost I’ve encountered.
“If she wants them, she can come and get them.” I took them out of the carry-all I put them in so she could get a good whiff of the fresh from the oven peanut butter cookies.
“What is that I smell?” the woman bellowed.
“Your cookies. You can find them in the parlor.”
Fortunately, it was easier for Barbara and me to get back down the stairs. Finding the parlor was another matter.
Sarah came down to meet us without Emma.
“Auntie wants her cookies, why can’t you bring them to her?”
“The stairs,” I stammered, “there are no stairs.”
Sarah didn’t seem to understand. Her perspective of the house was locked in time. Too bad I didn’t share her same perspective.
A head bobbed beside Sarah. I almost jumped out of my skin.
“Aw, Francis, I presume.” I said awkwardly to cover up my fright. Her countenance matched the gruff voice I heard.
Barbara wasn’t aware of what I was looking at, but she shared my fright. I must have scared her.
“The cookies!” Francis boomed, shaking the house.
I opened the container again and Sarah picked up a cookie and fed it to her aunt.
It was the most disgusting sight I’d ever seen. Crumbs dropped to the floor. The woman made obscene grunting sounds. I thought I was going to be sick.
I expected a lady of the manor with Victorian manners, but what confronted me was a head that had no resemblance of refinement . . . a head that was badly decomposed.
“What’s that putrid smell,” Barbara whispered.
“Aunt Francis.”
“I need some air,” Barbara said as she bolted for the door.
I wanted to follow, but I had to wait for Aunt Francis’s feeding time to conclude. Four more cookies to go.
Francis nodded for Sarah to take the remaining cookies upstairs.
Why hadn’t I thought of giving the cookies to the girls and save myself all this aggravation?
They just floated away.
“More tomorrow,” Francis said.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “There will be no more cookies.”
“What?” she boomed, knocking me down with the shaking of the foundation.
“Your nieces are polite young ladies. You, madam have no manners at all. I refuse to bake cookies for you again.”
Normally, I don’t stand up to spirits, but there was something about the situation that got my dander up. Maybe it was the lack of appreciation and the demanding tone. I had enough and I wasn’t going to take any more abuse from this disgusting ghost.
I got out of the house as pieces of it were thrown at me under the wrath of a peanut butter cookie craving ghost.
“That went well,” Barbara said.
Was any of this captured in pictures or video . . . of course not — Barbara and I are not professional ghost hunters . . . and besides, Barbara’s camera batteries were drained — I guess Aunt Francis doesn’t like her picture taken . . .
I hope you enjoyed this Real Ghost Story . . . and if you happen to meet Aunt Francis, please don’t mention my name . . . but be sure to bake some fresh peanut cookies.
