Ghosts on the Coast of Maine Page 5

  Alfred Hitchcock would have gone wild. Instead of the grand mirrors and Victorian chairs that usually adorn a hallway of this sort, stands a ceiling-high display of antique musical mechanisms. They range from three-inch music boxes to Aeolian pneumatic organs. The preponderant taste seems to be German, as seen in the tall glassed symphonium supported by sturdy carved legs, and the Black Forest creatures with real animal horns.

  The pleasant but ethereal cacophony of several instruments playing at once shifts one’s mind away from the everyday world and into another dimension. The key to this dimension strolls into the hallway and lifts his head in a manner that suggests heavy back pain. Thick eyebrows shade dark eyes that dispel seriousness more quickly than expected. He does not resemble anything that exemplifies Down East Yankee.

  His name is Josef Schmidt, and he is the keeper of this musical fantasy land. Josef does not have to collect and maintain these precious items; he does it because he loves to. An outsider’s eye, however, would detect that there is so much passion involved in the project, that the loving force has driven him to make the whole thing a necessity. His collection began in Washington, D.C., but the house there became too small. He expanded his musical storehouse to a Maine resort town and Dallas, Texas. Then he bought the house in Wiscasset, and now this building is not big enough to hold the ever-increasing displays.

  The operation of the music boxes is easily understood, but that of the mechanical organs and pianolas raises questions. He explains that he does not “play” the instruments; he interprets the heart and soul of the music by means of the foot pedals. As the player Steinway is pumping out notes written by Mozart and recorded by a professional pianist, Schmidt controls the pace and temperament of the piece. Closing his eyes in complete concentration, he becomes the captain who steers the ship or the artist who frames the lovely painting. Sometimes, when no one is around, “someone else” plays the instruments, he says with a wink.

  Dismissing the remark in good humor, all those following Schmidt around to different rooms continue up the flying staircase. A set of broad tuckered drapes decorates a gold-and-black bedroom. A candlelight chandelier with diamond drop pendants illuminates a somber black bed that looks more like a throne. The heavy night stands sustain golden bowls that once held washing water for their historic owner, the Archduke of Austria. After five motley peasant figures dance atop their music boxes, the group listens to a short concert on the bedroom pianola, composer unknown. Schmidt makes the music sing throughout the house. He delights in this piece even more than the Mozart.

  Part of the group leaves him still playing while others peek into various rooms, curious about the ivory knobs, the three-foot brass cylinders and the carved cases of the automata. The shapes range from huge clocklike structures to three birds in a gilded cage, warbling a foreign anthem. One woman finds a small cubbyhole of a room.

  She steps into it gingerly as the floorboards creak underneath her feet. The place is fascinating because there is something about it unlike the other rooms. It feels private; it definitely “belongs” to someone. She walks over to the twin music boxes that serve as platforms for two German beer drinkers but chooses not to turn the keys. An inlaid bookcase is more interesting, with its dusty old books and little brown globe. She was perusing the weatherworn map of Europe on the wall when a rustling noise to the left caught her attention. The books on the shelf were falling on each other, one by one to the right, as though someone were riffling through the stacks. One of the books sort of flew out and dashed itself at her feet, making her sneeze with the dust. In that moment the music box keys turned in their sockets and the mechanisms started playing their different tunes.

  The woman, too shocked to scream, made a low, frightened sound and quickly backed out the door. Upon shutting it, she realized that she had not observed the white sign that read No Public Admittance. In order to keep from being scolded, she did not relate this incident to the owner, but she started telling it to the rest of her party, as she ushered them out the main door. The music eerily continued through the closed door of the little room.

  Right after she left, the owner stopped playing the pianola and came downstairs to check on the room in question. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Someone’s been in here, because I left this door open. Was it you?” He looked at the person nearest the door. By this time a small crowd had gathered. The accused answered negatively, but she told him what had happened to the woman who had just left. Josef nodded knowingly, and as he opened the door to pick up the book, a cold draft escaped, rippling through the onlookers.

  “This is my grandfather’s room,” he lectured. “I’ve been keeping it for him. As a matter of fact, I’ve been keeping this whole collection for him.” He gestured abstractly.

  Hans Reutenberg, it turned out, was a musician and composer in the late nineteenth century. Music was his whole life. His son carried on family tradition by becoming a music box restorer. Handel, Bach, and Beethoven discs were his favorite. In 1957 Reutenberg’s grandson, Josef, after moving to America, cultivated an emotional link with the grandfather, and started collecting mechanisms on which Hans’s music could be played. It was a Reutenberg composition that had been tinkling its way through the house at Josef’s hands, from the Austrian bedroom—another German gift of probably the greatest spiritual enhancement of all, music.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BATH BUILDER

  So many ghosts were people with strong personalities and a great deal of energy. This energy breaks through the material world, even from the non-material plane of existence, even after many “years” of being on this plane. I say “years” because it is my opinion that “time” in this sphere is a totally different concept, most likely not the linear version that we Westerners are accustomed to.

  These high-powered people made big impressions on their communities and on the communities to come. In the town of Bath, shipbuilding capital of the world, it would be difficult to encounter an outstanding person not connected with this industry. It would be like trying to find an Iowan not attached in some way to agriculture.

  Even now, although the aromas of molasses, tar, resin, and pine are not intermingled with the basic smell of the sea, Bath products are among the best boats in the country. In place of the schooners and barks so handsomely docked in the past stand sleek gray destroyers, laden with the sophisticated radar necessary for present-day navigation in the Persian Gulf, for example. Many of the men working on these ships are descendants of those who built the first Bath vessels. They claim that the spirit of their forebears permeates the waterfront.

  The best place to encounter this sort of thing, they say, is the Bath Maritime Museum, a preservation of the original buildings of the great shipyards. The men are busy with their work, but they take time to joke about the ghost stories that have been circulating for years.

  Not one to be daunted by friendly ridicule, I traveled with my family over to the museum to see what I could find. The boat nearest the Caulking Shed was the one we picked to explore. The Sherman Zwicker was a small schooner constructed on the principles of nineteenth-century shipbuilding. Below deck every space was well-utilized, and it seemed cramped and dark—a great place for a ghost hideout. My husband made the remark that it would make you think twice about going to sea. I reminded him that this boat was quite a bit smaller than the original schooners, and besides, people back then were of a smaller stature. There are pictures on the walls of old houses that show plenty of space below deck: a niche for a berth, a partition containing a six- or seven-foot harmonium and another space for a private water closet. Of course, that would have been the captain’s quarters.

  We visited the Mold Loft, the Mill and Joiner Shop where there was part of an old shipwreck, the building for small craft which included a dugout canoe, and the Apprentice Shop where new boats are in the making. Most of the buildings were dark and creepy, but there was no sign of a ghost.

  The city heat and humidity began to wear on
our nerves, and we were on our way out when I said, “Wait a minute, let me check out this building.” It was the Paint and Treenail (pronounced trunnel) Shop. The kids tagged along after me while my husband waited outside.

  Nobody else was in the place. It seemed darker and older than the other buildings. Three antiquated engines stood inside the door, then a pulley display, and a large wooden style operated by manpower, used for hauling or rigging. In the corner was a display of shipyard store items, and to the side, a ten-foot wharf scale.

  The kids were in front of me and the scale behind. The solemnity of the place was broken by a large squeak and the sound of metal. We all turned toward the scale. Whereas before it had been a foot off the ground, it was now resting on the ground. Suddenly it popped up again.

  As we turned toward the store items, a bowler hat sitting atop a metal safe camouflaged as a desk moved and landed on top of an antique cash register. The kids left immediately, but I had to get the name on the store display: Hefflin. Mr. Hefflin meant no harm. He was just saying “hello” (tipping his hat?). I moved to a book in the center of the shop to find out the story behind the elusive presence.

  Lucas Hefflin came to Bath, then called Long Reach, in 1792 at the age of nineteen. After marrying Harriet Rowe, he produced five sons, all of whom helped their father sustain the family businesses. From a general merchandise store selling ladies’ and children’s shoes, Lucas graduated to the big-time merchant business and became an importer.

  Spurred on by success, he took shares in several Kennebec-built vessels. By 1815 he reigned over his own shipyard, from which were launched four brigs, three barks, and seventeen ships. In 1825 Lucas expanded his waterfront holdings to include a third wharf and a store. Ten years later he purchased more property, and more in 1846 and 1854. In 1854 he also added another wharf and a brick store that became his oakum and paint shop.

  Hefflin gained popularity as a man who gave employment to many men and kept the town going with his generosity. One day in 1857 the ship Hefflin, coming into port after an overseas journey, seemed to sense that this well-loved leader had passed away the night before. She breezed in silently, waving her flags at half mast for the man who had watched her progress from the laying of her keel to her complete construction and worthiness at sea.

  Today, it seemed, Mr. Hefflin was sticking around to watch over the growth and development of the fifth generation of his family in the shipbuilding business. Was it one of the fellows who had talked to me at the shipyard down the street? As I pondered this, I felt a pressure like a footprint start at the back of my left ankle. I could feel it slowly work its way up my back till it got to my hair. It either pulled my hair or caused static electricity. Time for me to split.

  As we drove by the boat workers on the way back, they asked if we’d had any luck finding ghosts. “One of you guys named Hefflin by any chance?” I asked. They pointed to a fellow about thirty feet away. I said, “Tell him to visit the Paint and Treenail Shop sometime,” and we drove off.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SALLY WEIR

  There are no accidents. This theory does not rule out free will; it merely states that everything that happens comes from within us. Subsequently, it was no surprise to us when two women and I met at a meeting in Northport. They were being bothered by a ghost, and I was researching stories for this book. Thus began the chapter of the most twisted, entangled mass of information I had encountered so far.

  Terry and Amanda, residents of Bucksport, are mother and daughter. Mandy is a fresh-faced girl with dark blond hair, her large ocean eyes framed by strong bones leading down to a healthy jaw. A full mouth expands into a smile that would not go unnoticed by any teenage lad I know.

  She has been having horrible dreams about a faceless woman crying for help underwater. In the dreams Mandy, with her boyfriend in scuba gear behind her, reaches out to help the woman, but to no avail. She describes the woman as fiftyish with dirty blond hair and an old-fashioned dress with buttons open at the bosom. The recurrent nightmare persisted to such a degree that the girl asked her mother for help. “Mom, I have to find out who this woman is.”

  Terry, a bright little energetic hairdresser, took on the case. Together mother and daughter dug into historical records and asked a lot of questions around town. Through an old newspaper article that included a picture, they determined that Sally Weir was the woman. The description of her burial place was so confusing, however, that no one could tell them where to look for it. Her place of burial was not the only confusing issue. The manner of her death was as bizarre as it was bewildering. At our meeting they asked me to join the search. I agreed, and the following is what we learned.

  Sally Weir, divorcee and hard-working woman of the late 1800s, found that her only means of support in the town of Bucksport was employment as a domestic. Mrs. Milo and the Bolder brothers were her chief employers. Sally, who bore a striking resemblance to Amanda, especially about the jaw, had talents above and beyond the role of chambermaid, and here the resemblance ends. Her mind encompassed the man’s world of politics, legal matters, and illegal matters such as bootlegging and prostitution. She gave advice on all of these subjects, usually with a sense of humor and a thin cigar stuck in her mouth.

  Sally was the life of the party September 17, 1898, the night of a poker game held at Mrs. Milo’s house. After much drinking and guffawing by the four male players, she laughingly acknowledged herself as the “stakes” of the game. Then this fifty-two-year-old good-looker went about her business. She would soon be the death of the party.

  Let’s take a look at the partygoers. Terry found out that they included two lawyers, the Bolder brothers; Tom Treelee, a store owner; and Ed Finn, a town selectman. These men formed a cardplaying club that met every Saturday. They also formed part of a group of men engaged in the bootlegging and possible prostitution trade of a local tavern.

  Tom Bolder was the more vibrant of the brothers. You wouldn’t want to go against him in a courtroom; his brilliant oratory would beat you every time. He was also a bit of a rogue, especially since he’d been widowed, and when he got drunk he could out-talk and out-punch any of the lot. George was older, and protective of his brother. It was his self-appointed task to cover up whenever Tom messed up. Ed Finn was a merchant and family man; Treelee was a good man, not very bright.

  There are three versions to the next part of the story. One is that after the poker game, Sally left Mrs. Milo’s house with sixty-five dollars that she had just been paid. She then purchased a two-cent cheroot at Bogg’s Store and went across the street to the Bolders’, where she did some light housework for them. Again she was paid. While on her way back through the brush to Mrs. Milo’s (for she did not want to leave the old lady alone that night), either one of two things happened. She was accosted by an unknown attacker who killed her for the money, or she committed suicide.

  The second version is that Sally was killed at Mrs. Milo’s house, the night of the poker game, and dragged through the overgrowth to the spot where she was located eighteen days later.

  Our version states that Sally had aroused the angry and/or sexual passions of Tom Bolder, winner of the poker game. She left Mrs. Milo’s to replenish the supply of her favorite smokes, and Tom followed. They may have stopped at Tom’s house for small talk or the pillow talk that was supposedly the prize at the end of the game. In any case, they left there and walked through the brush in continuance of whatever they had started in the house. Tom’s anger got the better of him and he murdered Sally not for money, because he had plenty of that. He killed her because she knew enough about his underhanded dealings in town to have him arraigned, should she desire revenge. Maybe he got too rough with her sexually, and she threatened to spill the beans.

  This version is the one we cling to, because of the undisputed state of her body. The authorities found the left ear (everything she heard) totally severed, as well as her mouth (whatever she could tell). No doubt as to a crime of passion. The bones in fro
nt of the left ear were gone, and a portion of her upper and lower jaws and cheekbone were not only broken, but broken off and missing.

  Also, circulation of the first version enforces a robbery motive, while the second version puts at least four people under equal suspicion. We believe that these tales were concocted as part of a giant coverup to protect a prominent community citizen.

  When Sally’s body was lifted to be put on the morgue cart, her head fell off and had to be boxed separately. The skull, badly fractured and sharply nicked in four places, was used at the trial as evidence of murder. After the trial it was placed in the Ellsworth Courthouse safe, where it remained untouched by human hands. No one had opened that box since 1898. We were the first to investigate the small piece of mutilated head.

  The clerk of the court told us who took the rap for the crime: simple-minded Tom Treelee. He was paid a tidy sum for his services. No one could tell us what became of Mr. Treelee. It is ironic that his surname is engraved on the cornerstone of the courthouse, this monument to the pursuit of justice.

  When I turned over the skull to check out the back of it, Terry choked with fear. There on a seam going down the back was wedged a brown hair. Underneath it were about eleven short blond hairs, sticking straight out of the skull. Terry, having studied cosmetology, told us that hair needs living tissue to subsist. She could not believe that we were witnessing healthy human hair on a ninety-year-old skull. Maybe this was Sally’s way of telling us that in some sense she was still “alive.” The whole DA’s office came down for a look.

  This incident was an impetus for discovering the truth about the rest of her body. Was it buried alongside her Weir in-laws in the town cemetery? There is a gravestone bearing her name, but we think not. Was it buried in a crypt by the lake? It seemed a likely location, since townspeople have always spoken of a female ghost wisping about Silver Lake on foggy evenings.