Tales From The Past – Cedar Rapids Haunted House

Once again we have found an exciting true ghost story for you. It was reported in the Cedar Rapids (Iowa) Evening Gazette on January 24, 1887. It is reproduced here without edits:

How much a person can imagine he feels has never been demonstrated. When one enters the realm of sensation — and by that in this connection is meant “feelings occasioned by objects not material” — he is on disputed ground. The soul of man, that subtle psychological force which enables us to think and will and feel, in a word which is the man himself, has never been made plain in all its phenomena, and, perhaps, never will. Myriad of strange feelings come to us which are so inexplicable that we give up the study in disgust or rush headlong into further difficulty. Whether ghosts are the result of a diseased mind or an over “fertilized” imagination; whether a haunted house is made so by mice, and wintry winds, and splinters in  the floor or not, does not matter materially in the case which is about to be related; in short, to get at the heart of this article, we have in this city a haunted house.

This italicised assertion will create a cynical smile on the visages of some of our good readers, and others will be just as emphatic to declare that there is such a thing, and that they have had similar experiences which we are about to relate. The house is on Third avenue, and the family living in it is that of a Milwaukee engineer.

The facts are about as follows:    

Rumors have come to this office for the past two weeks that on said avenue in this city there is a genuine haunted house. The rumor was at first credited so the tedency which people have for gossip and the matter was laughed at, but so many people talked about it that last evening about tea time, our reporter who “spooks” around occasionaly for a morsel which flavors of something now, accompanied by a valued friend in the B.C.R. & N. employ, visited the family to hear from their lips the true story of the affair. The house is a rooty, two story structure and two families live therein. A railroad engineer and his wife occupy one part, an intelligent, quick witted elderly lady and her daughter occupy the other. In the engineer’s family are two or three children, bright, and fearless in reference to the dark, and while the latter were in the room surveying the contour of the reporter’s friend and the soft lines of facial beauty of the reporter, the elder members of the family denied all knowledge of the report. The scribe went on to say that the report had come directly to him and seeing that there was no alternative, the children were hustled out of the room and the engineer’s wife, a brave little woman,  began: “Yes,” said she, “we are troubled with some strange presence in this house. I never heard till last week that it was haunted, but I thoroughly believe there is some strange power about this place. I am not in the least superstitious. Neither is grandma nor Miss – -, but we have been so annoyed by strange sensations and sounds that we leave this house this week forever, and you know that I would not move at this time of the year if I didn’t feel that sensation. It is not imagination for I am not imaginative. There isn’t a grain of belief in witchery in my make-up, but there are some of the incidents:  In one room upstairs this power, be it ghost or devil, seems to have more power than in any other room. He does everthing by twos” (that shows it must be the duce), and one evening it blew out Miss –‘s light on the top of the stairs twice and the third time did not disturb it. It is as prevalent in the daytime as at night. I came down stairs one day and it apparently stepped on my dress. I jerked it away and returned to see if a lock or something did not catch my dress, and there was nothing whatever there to explain the mystery. I laughed, and said to myself that I just imagined it, and started down the second time when it caught my dress the second time.  The third attempt again proved fruitless, for my dress slipped away without the slightest resistence and the power was gone. One night Miss — lay on the sofa when the same presence seemed to lift the sofa. We do not let the children know our thoughts, but they complain of strange sensations. They sleep up stairs, but at divers times have said, “Mamma, what were you doing up stairs last night? We heard you walking about,” when I was not up stairs at all, and no one else was. It is only for their sakes that we move out. They know nothing of our suspicions, and we would not talk with you when they were in the room for this reason. Our little girl slept in ‘that room’ upstairs I mentioned before, and long before we had felt these manifestations she complained of not being able to sleep there, and grew so weak and languid that we took her out of the room and she has been growing better. The same power has opened the door leading to the kitchen and closed it, and I distinctly heard footsteps leading away from the door. I investigated the matter and found nothing, and returning heard the same opening and shutting of the door, and a second search revealed nothing. It makes no sounds of groans or anything of that kind. The noises we hear are only like feet shuffling or footsteps. Once the organ was under its power, and it seemed that the organ would go to pieces, it cracked so. My husband has always laughed at me and told me it was imagination, but a few nights ago I heard the opening of the door again and awoke him. He laughed, but in a moment he felt the same chilly, heavy sensation on his arm, and was not able to move it. With his other hand he made a lunge for it, when it blew into his face. Husband arose and lighted the lamp, but nothing could be found.”

The husband assented to the above as correct to himself, and said that he could not explain the feeling, but that on that occasion he certainly felt the ‘presence,’ that it rested on his arm with such a weight that he could not lift it, and that it blew into his face.

While the reporter and the railroad friend listened, the lady’s face turned a trifle pale, and said calmy: “The ‘power’ is on my arm now; feel my hand, how cold it is.” They both did so, and it was like ice. The other hand was perfectly warm, but the one on which the ‘presence’ “sat” was like that of a corpse. As to the latter it was a fact and cannot be doubted. As to the other statements, they have existed, as facts, which may perhaps be explained in some way — how, the inhabitants cannot tell.

The history of the house is not uninteresting. It was formerly occupied by an early practicing physician in this city. It is said he was married three times, and that each of his wives died in the house. Whether the subtle presence is a spirit of one of the departed wives prancing about, resting on the arms of the inhabitants, or sitting on their knees, whether it is pure imagination in a family never superstitious and never before subjected to similar feelings, whether it is electricity or nervousness, we leave some one else to conjecture. Other families, we are told, have  experienced the same feeling of sleeplessness while staying in the house.

Final thoughts for our readers today: How many times have YOU had an unexplained sensation? Do you think the phenomena of spirit or ghosts is merely an over-active imagination? Or is it more possible that in this day of modern technology, the internet, and fast-moving transportation, we are able to lock into more fleeting “sensations” because we are accustomed to the varied energies of our modern world? If the latter is the case, then it does not explain the circumstances and experiences which occurred at Cedar Rapid’s Haunted House…Until next time…carry a light with you in case you get caught in the dark.

Ghost or Elemental?

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!