The history of the Archer House is well-documented in the annals of parapsychology. Apparitions and sightings had been observed within its walls almost from the day it was built. The current owners inherited the house upon the death of a distant relative but have never lived in it, choosing instead to rent it out to the occasional thrill seeker or sceptic. But it has been unoccupied now for the past twenty years, (unoccupied, that is, by any living person); the last person to spend a night there, one Steven Harper, is currently the inhabitant of a padded cell in the state mental hospital in Medford, MA. Before that, there were two suicides that we know of, though both of them took place months after leaving the house.
The source of all this paranormal activity has always been a mystery. No violent deaths have ever taken place within the house; in fact, no deaths of any kind, at least none that are known. The original house was built in the early 19th century in the countryside near the small western Massachusetts village of Ashfield by Joshua Archer, the patriarch of a wealthy Bostonian family that made its money first in shipping and then, before the Civil War, in the slave trade, after that in banking. Built for use as a summer house, it was added to in the ensuing decades as the family prospered, eventually becoming a sprawling pile of granite and marble. Initially, the apparitions seemed to occur only sporadically and were treated by those of the family who saw them almost as a harmless ‘eccentricity’ of the house. But at some point things seemed to change; from what can be determined from the records that survive, the apparitions became more frequent and of a more ominous nature. Eventually the family stopped summering there. The house was sold to a succession of owners, usually to people unaware of its history. But as its activity and the house’s unsavory reputation increased, it became harder and harder to find buyers for it, and it eventually came into the unwilling possession of its current owners.
As to the precise nature of this activity, it is difficult to say. Initially the phenomena seemed to be due to a playful poltergeist. But as the phenomena became more sinister the records become sketchy, probably due to the natural reluctance on the part of the family for the house to get a reputation as ‘haunted’. One thing we do know is that on several occasions when the house was opened up for the summer season after being closed for the winter there were certain inexplicable ‘disturbances’ in many of its rooms, disturbances too extreme to have been caused by any supposed squatters during the winter months.
Despite many requests from paranormal investigators, the current owners of the property have never given permission for an on-site examination of the house or of its surroundings grounds.
Chapter 1
I had run across some of the history of the Archer House while doing research for my book on the lives, the fortunes and the crimes of some of Boston’s wealthiest families. The book had sold modestly well, but for my next book I was looking for a subject with a more general appeal. So when my editor, Sam, suggested a book on some of New England’s haunted houses I remembered what I’d found out about the Archer family and their supposedly “haunted house”. Two months of research into its history convinced Sam that there might be best-seller here. But, and here’s the kicker, Sam insisted that I and a photographer spend some nights inside it; if by any chance we came away with some photographs of actual ghosts, then that would be all the better.
So Sam contacted the owners and got their reluctant permission for us to enter the grounds and the house. The impression he managed to leave them with was that the book would be about New England’s grand estates, with no mention of Archer House’s paranormal reputation. The owners probably saw this as a way to drum up some interest in their white elephant and hopefully to unload it on some unsuspecting schmuck.
For a photographer I would be taking Frank Marlowe, an old acquaintance. In his day Frank had been a legendary news photographer at the Boston Herald. His drunken binges had also been legendary and had eventually cost him his job, his profession and his wife, in that order. I had known hm mainly through his wife at the time, Jennifer, and when I happened to run into her she asked that I use him for the job. She had heard about it through Sam. So I met him and, even though he looked years older than his actual age, he assured me that he was up for it and was now completely off the booze, and I agreed to take him on.
The plan was for me and Frank to spend a week in the house. From what we had heard, the house itself was still in good shape but, except for an occasional inspection of the interior, no one had entered the house in years. Since all the electricity, gas and water had been turned off long ago, we would camp out in one of the ground-floor rooms. So, with our bedrolls, a week’s worth of food, Frank’s portable gas stove, and all the flashlights and extra batteries we’d need, Frank and I shlepped on out into the wilds of western Massachusetts to Ashfield. From there it was a ten-mile drive down a dirt road to Archer House, where we arrived in the late afternoon. The iron gate and the house were of course locked but Sam had gotten the keys from the owners before we set out. Opening the massive front door to the house, we entered the great hall that extended all the way to the back; off of it to the right was what appeared to be the living room, or what was back in the day known as the “front parlor”. Other doors, about a dozen, led off from both sides of the main hallway.
The sunlight was fading but there was still enough light for Frank to get a few shots of the exterior and then for the two of us to do a bit of preliminary exploration of the ground level. The other doors in the hallway lead to what looked like a library, a dining room, sitting rooms and other rooms of indeterminate usage containing various 19th-century items of furniture. The dust, and the silence, lay everywhere. Towards the back there was a mammoth kitchen area, but further exploration would have to wait until morning, Frank and I decided to set up camp in the cavernous living room. So, after eating, we unrolled our sleeping bags on the carpet and tried to get to sleep.
Our first night in this “haunted house” turned out to be boringly uneventful; no creaks, no clanking chains, no disembodied footsteps. The next day likewise passed without anything happening. We explored the two upper floors and the attic, and Frank took photos of all of the interior rooms and more of the exterior. After he had taken all the pictures that we’d need for the book, he went about setting up some cameras throughout the house with sensors that would automatically trip them if anything moved (like a ghost) in its field of view. This took him most of the remaining day while I started typing up my handwritten notes in the parlor.
The only odd event of that first day was when Frank said that a door in the hallway that he was sure he had seen and opened last night wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t remember if there had been a door there or not. But because of Frank’s formerly being on such good speaking terms with pink elephants, blue mice and other denizens of delirium tremens, I thought little of it. Later that day I saw a half-empty pint bottle in Frank’s backpack. I decided not to confront him with it, since he hadn’t appeared drunk, just hoped that he could get through this job without a meltdown. But over the following two days Frank kept insisting that doors and the rooms behind them were changing, either appearing or disappearing. I tried to explain to him that I remembered seeing the very door that he said wasn’t there yesterday, but he just looked at me as if I was crazy and walked away.
The third day I was on the second floor in what appeared to be the master bedroom; we had done a quick run through of this room the first day but I wanted to take some more detailed notes on its unique architectural style. Now, no one has ever accused me of being “overly sensitive”, but after about five minutes in that room I began to feel something, something different, even though the room still looked the same. Nothing as cliche’ as a ‘cold spot’, or a ‘ghostly presence’. Rather I felt like I was hurtling through a complete, absolute blackness, unable to stop or slow down. And something was waiting for me; something monstrous, ancient, evil. Waiting, in the darkness ahead.
The feeling faded almost as soon as it started, but it left me in a cold sweat. I tried to convince myself that it was just the effect of Frank’s insane ravings starting to get to me. But I got out of that room as fast as I could and didn’t go back.
Then around 9 PM that day, when I was checking something out on the third floor, I thought I heard Frank shout something from somewhere below. But when I went down and called out for him, there was nothing. I spent what seemed like an hour searching the house for him, thinking he had had some sort of an accident. After finding and hearing nothing, only the sound of the cameras going off as I tripped their sensors, I decided to check the grounds outside. The first thing I noticed was that my car was gone! It had been parked in front of the house since we’d arrived but there was just an empty spot there now. I still had the keys in my pocket, but Frank had started it and driven off, leaving me stranded!
In the back of my mind there was something nagging at me but I couldn’t pin it down. There was nothing to do but go back into the house, try to set some sleep, and in the morning hike the ten miles into town. So I ate something and crawled into my bedroll and eventually drifted off.
Around 2 AM something woke me. I lay still for awhile and then I heard it. Something was moving on one of the upper floors. Thinking it may be Frank despite the missing car, I grabbed a flashlight and went up the stairway to the second floor. I stopped and listened and then heard it again, seeming to come from the next floor up. The stairway to the third floor was down at the other end of the hall, so I went down the hall and up to the third floor. Nothing, not a sound! After listening for a few minutes I started to go down the hallway to look for Frank when it hit me; there had been no car tracks leading away from the spot where the car had been parked! The tracks from when we had driven up to the house had still been there last night, but no outgoing tracks! With this realization an icy chill passed through me and from somewhere inside a warning voice screamed, “GET OUT!!” I ran down the stairway to the second floor and then back down the hall to where the stairs leading to the ground floor were. And stood in dumb, horrified shock as I started at the blank wall where I had just five minutes before walked up from the ground floor!
Chapter 2
The House is playing with us!
The walls shift, the hallways open up or close, the doors appear and disappear. Never when you’re looking at them. It’s always just after you’ve turned your head, or when you walk by them the next time, is when you see the change. A hall that one day is of a sensible length the next day stretches into the distance an impossibly long length, far beyond the physical limits of the House; the day after that it’s a blank wall. Rooms you just walked out of disappear when you turn around to go back in.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here; there is no sunlight here, no days, only night. I often see faint shimmering lights moving down the dark halls. Sometimes, for a few seconds, these lights will be just on the verge of forming into the shapes of people before they fade back into darkness. When they do, I can sometimes recognize a few of them from my old research photos: the two suicides; Joshua Archer, his wife and children; Harper (but he was still ALIVE in that padded cell!!). I think I’ve even seen Frank once, maybe twice. They all appear to be unaware of me, passing by without a glance. But these sightings are becoming less and less frequent, and I fear that soon I will walk alone through these ever-shifting hallways, as I search for an exit from this nightmare!