He swears his childhood home in Cheshire was haunted. A ghost once goosed his sister. Someday, he'll write a book about it all and call it "Little House on the Paranormal."
So if it's ghosts we are going to see — and I'm afraid we are — I guess I cannot think of anyone I would rather see them with than my friend Mitch. We pull out of his place in Lenox on Friday at 6 p.m. and head north.
As we stop for spare batteries ("because ghosts can drain your batteries," he explains), I'm beginning to think that hunting ghosts is about the dumbest thing one could do on a night like this — a chilly, windy, menacing October evening straight from Central Casting. The streetlights squint with orange, jack-o'-lantern eyes. The trees sway in unholy incantations.
I could be home drinking a beer, preparing to watch the Red Sox game. But I'm heading to North Adams to go tip-toeing through a dark, Victorian mansion with a bunch of ghost groupies, presumably with the hope that an invisible hand will touch our arms or a disjointed voice will tell us the pros and cons of the afterlife.
If you don't know it already, the Masonic Lodge on Church Street is not only haunted, but "extremely haunted." Occasionally, such as on this evening, the Masons — some of whom are members of the Berkshire Paranormal Group, which is also based there — charge admission for the privilege of entering their spooky building and communicating with the dead.
The short history is this: The house was the residence of Albert Houghton, North Adams' first mayor. On Aug. 1, 1914, Albert's daughter Mary and a family friend were killed in a car accident. The driver, John Widders, so wracked with guilt, committed suicide the following day. Then, Houghton himself died nine days later, some say due to despair. Strange activity has been reported at the house ever since.
"I like to equate it to a whale watch," Josh Mantello, founder of Berkshire Paranormal, says of these ghost hunting events. "You can't guarantee something. But we've had only one event when people didn't experience something. The building has treated us well."
Mitch, a return visitor, informs me he once saw a black head peeking from behind a corner. I've got an open mind about all this. Probably ghosts exist. (How else to explain Donald Rumsfeld?) But are they really going around slamming doors and talking as if they've got Ping-Pong balls lodged in their throats? And if so, I'd really prefer my mediums to be happy mediums.
As we enter the building, I'm certain that the strangest sight I will ever see is that of several dozen ghost hobbyists. It's a subculture that operates on double-A batteries and intuition.
And it's a star-studded event. None other than Dave Tango, investigator for the Sci-Fi channel's "Ghost Hunters" series, is on hand. Maybe the place will be featured on his show, maybe it won't. In the meantime, his father is selling Dave Tango T-shirts and photographs. Others are selling gadgets such as electromagnetic field meters, dowsing rods, and various rocks that serve as "psychic shields."
Sean Coffey of Saugus, who drove three hours to be here, is not about to be carrying any psychic shield. "As far as I'm concerned," he says, "if a spirit wants to pick me up and throw me across the room, so be it."
Soon, we're all set loose for the next seven hours. For some, it means going from room to room with recorders asking questions of the darkness. (Sometimes, during playback, there's a response, I'm told.) It means taking temperature readings (a cold spot could be a ghost draining the energy). It means waiting patiently for something to happen.
Dave Tango, with his video camera locked and loaded, senses some weird vibes in the second-floor hallway.
"Is this joint haunted, or what?" I ask him at one point.
"I don't know yet, but it's definitely pretty cool," he says.
In a cramped, third-floor room, Sean swears his arm is mysteriously cold. In the basement, a guy named Steve Wilson of Vermont is certain a ghost is crouched in a corner. Mitch reports having moments in which he feels some strange presence, but nothing definitive.
By 1 a.m., we're out of there. Mitch will have trouble sleeping. I won't. Other than a psychic investigator from Haverhill telling me I have "philosophical knuckles," I didn't experience anything strange (though I did have a strong yearning throughout the evening to know the score of the Red Sox game).
That's not to say that I would ever — ever — spend a night alone at the Masonic Lodge in North Adams. (Cue the thunder.) Uh-uh.
Felix Carroll lives in Housatonic
