The following true ghost story reported by David A. Curtis was published in the Cedar Rapids Evening Gazette in Cedar Rapids, Ohio. Copyright 1892 by American Press Association, but now in the public domain. It was subtitled, “Mysterious Manifestations in a Haunted House.” This story is unique in that it gives a historic definition of what an elemental is and contains a detailed report of spirit writing. Hope you enjoy the ghost story:

“Ghost your grandmother!” said Connelly, with emphatic contempt. “It isn’t a ghost. It’s an elemental.”

“And what in the name of mystery is an elemental?” asked Julius.

Then the conversation drifted off into a discussion of the theory of things according to Blavaisky’s teachings. Elementals, it appeared, are certain beings lower in scale than the human race, but not belonging to any genus or species known to natural history. Indeed it appears doubtful if they have anything like a physical form. They are spirits, but not human spirits. Having little or no moral sense, but very mischievous natures, they are fond of playing tricks, sometimes serious ones, when they get the chance: but being, as a rule, very feeble,and, moreover, being held in subjection by higher powers, they seldom get chances, which accounts for the comparative scarcity of good ghost stories, for the elementals, it seems, almost always pretend to be ghosts, and their pranks are often taken for “spiritual manifestations.”

“Well,” said Quevedo impatiently, “why isn’t an elemental just as good shooting as a ghost? I’ll like to get a shot at either one. Let’s investigate.”

Connelly objected, “I haven’t the faintest objection,” he said, “to going anywhere if there is any occasion for it, but I have no desire to intrude on the elementals unless business requires it.” Julius was a little doubtful, but I, filled with that fool curiousity which has frequently got me into trouble, acquiesced immediately.

“Here’s the key,” said R.F. “You are welcome to go and find out what you can. As for me, I have had all the experience I hanker after.”

R.F. is the only one in our circle who has attained the dignity of a landed proprietor, and it was his pretty cottage in the suburbs that we had been talking. He had been so enthused when he moved into the house two or three years ago that  we were all surprised when he moved out. He would not explain, however, and it was only by accident that we learned a month ago that his house was “haunted.”

He would not admit or deny. “I’ve heard and seen curious things there,” he said, “but what caused them I don’t know.” And that is all he would say. Connelly, however, had looked at the house with the idea of renting it, and had discovered something uncanny. He wouldn’t explain any more fully than R.F., but said he was conscious of some hostile influence the moment he entered the door, and had learned afterward that the neighbors believed the house to be “haunted.” He did not rent it.

So it fell out that Quevedo and I went ghost hunting. We took the professor with us. He isn’t one of our set, but Quevedo knows him pretty well. Quevedo knows queer things. The professor runs mostly to hair and two long finger nails, one on each little finger. He professes to have communications from the other world. Hence his title. Being in the business for a living, he felt no tremor at the thought of facing ghosts. He took no weapon with him but a slate and pencil. Quevedo carried a horse pistol and I a big stick with a loaded head. The rest of the outfit consisted of a dark lantern and a substantial cold supper for three.

A considerable part of what follows will not be believed, but it is true.

We found the house to be a pleasant looking cottage in one of the upper wards of the city (New York), surrounded by what had been a pretty lawn and garden. There were remains of shrubbery that had evidently once been ornimental, and a little arbor or summer house was badly broken.

“Evidently,” said Quevedo, “the grounds have been haunted by tramps.”

We went inside just before dark and look carefully around. The house was almost empty, only a few bulky pieces of furniture having been left in it. Among these was a heavy mahogany desk of an old fashioned pattern that looked as if R.F. had picked it up in an auction room or inherited it as an heirloom. It did not attract our attention especially at first, but afterward proved to be a most interesting piece of furniture.

We lighted our lantern before it grew dark, filled and lighted our pipes and sat in the gathering dusk telling one another thrilling yarns of ghostly adventure and creepy stories of spiritual manifesations in order to keep our courage up. Neither Quevedo nor I really believed in anything of the sort, but the professor did, or professed to, and he reeled off some of the most remarkable statements ever listened to with an air of gravity that under some circumstances would have made me laugh. Just then, however, his stories seemed at least possible.

It came to be near 10 o’clock when the professor suggested that we keep perfect silence for awhile. “I feel the influence,” he said.

Accordingly we smoked awhile without talking, when suddenly a weird cackle, that was evidently meant for a laugh, sounded in the room.

“Aha!” The professor is a ventriloquist,” I said to myself. Quevedo evidently had the same thought, and we sat still, waiting for developments.

In a few moments a heavy rap sounded from the direction of the big desk, and instantly Quevedo flashed the lantern on it. We could see nothing there excepting the desk, and he whirled the light rapidly, so that we saw all three of us where sitting, as we had been, near the center of the room.

“There’s no trickery about that, ” said Quevedo, and I was inclined to believe him, especially as I felt a sharp twitch at my mustache just at the moment the light swung around, and knew that nothing human was near my face.

“No, it is not a trick. It is a spirit,” said the professor. “I will talk with it. Perhaps we can get a communication.” He was cool enough to suggest that either it was a trick, or else he really believed in what he professed to. We could not believe the former, for we had brought him from down town without telling him where we were going, so he could not have any concealed apparatus. We were obliged, therefore, to admit to ourselves that he really did believe, and somehow his belief did not seem very absurd just at the moment. “Go ahead,” said I. “If the spirit has anything to say to us, we want to know what it is.”

The reply to this was a perfect fusilade of knocks or raps from all parts of the room at once. It was impossible to believe that the professor made these noises, and Quevedo and I confessed to each other afterward that we felt very shaky just then. However, we feared each other’s ridicule more than we did ghosts, and we waited.

“Knock three times for yes and once for no,” said the professor. “Do you  understand?”

Three knocks sounded from the desk.

“Do you wish to make any communication to anyone here?” Three raps.

“Is it to me?” One rap.

“Is it to Mr. Quevedo?” One rap

“Is it to Mr. Curtis?” Three raps.

“Shall he question ?” One rap.

“How will you communicate? In writing?” Three raps.

By this time I was deeply impressed. The professor, however, in the most matter of fact way, took from his pocket the slate and pencil mentioned. The slate was one of those folding affairs generally used by “writing mediums.” He put the pencil inside, folded the slate and laid it on the floor at our feet. Quevedo holding the lantern so that we saw perfectly what was done. We then waited a moment, and presently heard a noise as of a pencil scratching on the slate. In a few moments this ceased and I put the slate in my pocket.

Nothing more happened, though we waited fully an hour longer. The professor asked several questions, but could get neither yes nor no in reply.

At length I moved an adjournment, saying that we would go elsewhere and read the message. I cannot say why we did not read it there, as would seem natural, but no one proposed it, and I felt a strange reluctance to opening the slate.

We locked up the house and left. Half a mile away was a hotel. We entered and sat at a table. Then I opened and read the following lines, which were legibly written on the slate.

“I am your father’s brother, Henry Curtis, the lawyer. This was my office desk. It stood for years in my office, at 47 John street, New York. In a secret drawer in the left hand corner are certain papers of great value to you.”

“Sweet ghost!” exclaimed Quevedo. “Let us go back. Some uncle of mine may be there.”

“This is certainly stange,” I said. “The more so as I never had an uncle Henry, nor so far as I know of any relative who was a lawyer.”

Subsequent inquiries satisfied us that no lawyer of the name Curtis, or of any other name ever had an office at 47 John street. Moreover, two skillfull cabinet makers, after separately examining the desk with the most scrupulous care, both declared positively that there was no secret drawer in the left hand corner, or anywhere else in the desk.

“But what does the message mean, and who wrote it?” demanded Quevedo. “I’ll swear the professor didn’t.”

“Just as I told you,” said Connelly. “It was one of those lying elementals.”

Note: Today, there are 3 real addresses for 47 John Street in New York. One is located in New York proper, the second is in Brooklyn, and the last in Staten Island. Have any local NY ghost hunters ever heard of or encountered a ghost or elemental at that address?? Maybe you should check it out!