Portsmouth house, Portsmouth, NH October 1999, about 11 a.m.
This photo was taken outside a Portsmouth private residence. While living in that house, I saw two ghosts and experienced considerable poltergeist phenomena. I took several photos of the house in late October 1999, to illustrate my pages about this very haunted house.
When I had this film printed and examined the photos, I kept returning to the photo shown above. Something about it didn’t seem “right.” My attention was drawn to what seemed to be window reflections of the old lilac bush in front of the house.
The following day, I decided to enhance the image with my computer, simply making it larger so I could determine what was bothering me about the picture. That enlargement appears below:
Either this photo looks like a man looking to the right, with longish hair and 19th-century dark sunglasses, or it looks like a reflection of lilac leaves. Nobody seems undecided about this photo!
If you’d seen the male ghost in that house, you’d recognize the window reflection right away: That’s our ghost. He has a broken-looking nose, a scar under his right cheekbone, and his hair is thinning on top.
My sketch from memory, and from the photo.
In spectral appearance, he was about 5’5″ tall and stocky. He looked like a hastily-groomed, slightly British version of Buffalo Bill… sort of.
Among people I know in modern times, our ghost reminded me of folk singer Jaime Brockett.
When our ghost wasn’t wearing sunglasses, he had average no-particular-color eyes, somewhat tanned skin, and slightly sun-bleached brown hair. He favored brown clothing, usually wore a suit, rarely buttoned his jacket, and he always seemed in a hurry to go nowhere. When I took this photo, I had the sense that someone was at the window, but I didn’t notice the man’s face.
It seemed reasonable that the current residents of the house might have been peering out at the strange woman taking photos of their house. I don’t put any significance on my discomfort at the time.
It was too easy. In the early 1990s, I placed a notice on a bulletin board, looking for a “nothing down” house to buy near Portsmouth, NH. Several people called within the week, but one house seemed almost perfect: a house within walking distance of downtown Portsmouth.
The owner was eager to leave. Perhaps too eager, but I believed her when she said that her reduced salary (since being disabled) left her unable to pay the mortgage on both an in-town house and her summer home. Also, the two-story in-town house seemed too large since her divorce.
The house was near downtown, in an area that was either on its way up, or continuing to descend into… well, the kind of neighborhood I wouldn’t raise my three children in. Betting on the former, we decided to take a chance. We had nothing to lose, since we were renting on a trial basis first.
The owner was out of the house within three days, and we moved in. I remember how gleefully she laughed as she drove away. It seemed odd, but I thought maybe it was just her relief, since she’d finally rented the house.
The house needed work. Right away, we covered the black, half-finished floor in the kitchen with a white-and-gray vinyl flooring, and painted the yellowing walls and cabinets shiny white. It looked brighter then, but not quite right.
In fact, for the next year we continued to paint, remodel, redecorate and upgrade the old house, but it remained unwelcoming. It wasn’t anything specific, just the feeling that no matter what we did, the house would always need something that paint and wallpaper couldn’t fix.
Maybe the angles weren’t quite straight at the corners. Maybe the floor wasn’t quite level. I should have measured these things, but instead kept redecorating, trying to solve the problem. I had the idea that a vase of flowers here, and a fresh coat of paint there, or a new throw rug, would finally lend a sense of ease to the house. But nothing seemed to make this house a “home” for us.
Still, we continued on a “rent to own” basis, planning to take over the mortgage as soon as we accumulated the down payment.
There were odd noises during the afternoon and towards dusk, like footsteps on the second floor when no one was there. The faucets, particularly in the upstairs bathroom, would turn themselves on. I said to myself, “Older houses have these quirks, especially when temperatures drop in the evening. It’s okay.”
One night, I stopped making “logical” excuses:
It was about four in the afternoon, and the sun had not set yet. It had been a sunny day, and I was in a cheerful mood as I prepared dinner at the stove. It was a jambalaya dish, all made in one skillet. I was sauteeing the onion and sausage when I left the spatula in the skillet, and stepped across the room to get rice out of the cabinet.
I picked up the pink-trimmed Tupperware container of rice, and turned around just in time to see the spatula make a mid-air twirl as it flew across the room and landed on the floor at the opposite wall.
Always choosing the rational explanation first, I decided that a slice of sausage must have cooked in just the right way to release a burst of air and propel the spatula. And to prove it to myself, I washed the spatula and put it back where I’d left it, and then hit the handle with my fist to deliberately send the spatula into the air.
It rose about two inches and then fell on top of the stove, next to the skillet.
I repeated my experiment about fifteen times, trying to find a way to replicate what I’d seen when I’d picked up the rice. Different angles. Different ways of hitting it. Nothing worked.
Still dismissing the obvious poltergeist answer, I continued cooking. Once again, I stepped away from the stove for more ingredients, and again, the spatula was airborne. This time it landed about five feet from the stove.
I resumed my experiments to make the same thing happen, but couldn’t figure how to do it. Nothing seemed to work.
I continued cooking, feeling very uneasy. The rest of the meal was without incident, but I told my (mechanical engineer) husband about the flying spatula, and he said there was no logical–or scientific–way it could happen.
He wanted to believe me, but my story didn’t make sense.
I thought about this, and decided not to make anything of it.
Since my first Haverhill ghost investigation in 2008, people have asked me why Haverhill and vicinity are so haunted. There are many reasons. History may be part of it.
Why is Haverhill haunted?
Haverhill (pronounced “HAY-vuh-rill” or just “HAY-vrill”) has been the site of many significant events. They include some gruesome history that is documented at Golden Hill.
Haverhill, Massachusetts — a lovely town near the New Hampshire border — was known for intense Native American activity, and it was a gathering place for several Penacook Indian tribes.
In 1640, colonists settled in the area and named it Haverhill, after the English town and birthplace of their first minister, John Ward. According to the “Haverhill Deed of Township,” the land was formally purchased in 1642 from the Pentucket Indians. (That deed was signed on Mill Street, just a short walk from Golden Hill.)
The colonists paid three pounds and ten shillings for the entire town. The only signatures of the Natives were two “bow and arrow marks” on the deed. After that, Haverhill was generally peaceful, but some relations with the Natives were difficult.
One of the most horrific attacks occurred on March 15, 1697, when Indians burned six homes and killed or captured at least 39 people.
Many of the victims were buried in Pentucket Burial Ground on Water Street in Haverhill. (The Pentucket cemetery was established in 1668, and has many old and unmarked graves.)
Hannah Dustin
That was the same attack in which Hannah Dustin (or Duston) was captured, along with her newborn daughter, Martha, and Mary Neff, Hannah’s midwife. For 15 days, they were marched in freezing March weather.
After Hannah’s six-day-old baby was brutally killed by Abenaki Indians, Hannah Dustin and Mary Neff were joined by another captive, 14-year-old Samuel Lennardson. Hannah avenged her daughter’s murder by organizing a revolt one night. With a hatchet, Hannah killed and scalped nine of the 10 or 12 Indians they ambushed. Among Hannah’s Native captors, only one woman and a young man escaped the attack.
Hannah, Mary and Samuel seized a canoe and reached the nearest colonial settlement where they presented the scalps to the British authorities, for a reward of 50 pounds.
Hannah’s story has been the subject of controversy. Some describe her as a hero while others are less flattering. Nevertheless, a Haverhill statue commemorates her history, and — though the story is disputed — she may be buried in an unmarked grave in the Pentucket Burial Ground.
Around Haverhill, you may see artifacts from the Dustin-Duston Family Association.
Hannah’s connection to accused Salem witch Lydia Dustin (or Duston) is not clear. Lydia Dustin died on March 10, 1693 — four years before the Haverhill attack — after being acquitted of witchcraft.
An 80-year-old widow, Lydia Dustin was not allowed to leave the Salem prison because she could not afford the jail fees. The courts had impoverished her. Lydia’s husband, Josiah (1623 – 1671), had been one of the founders — and leading land owners — of Reading, Massachusetts.
A second bloody attack
On August 29th,1708, Haverhill was attacked again. This time, over 100 French and Indians raided the town in a guerrilla-style attack. At least 40 people were killed and others taken captive, and — according to some contemporary descriptions — the town of Haverhill was “destroyed.”
Many victims of that attack are also in unmarked graves “at the south end” of Pentucket Burial Ground.
A spiritual site
Golden Hill is an historical location with beautiful river views.
From the first colonial settlement at Golden Hill, the site has been recognized as a deeply spiritual site. John Ward, the minister who came to Haverhill in 1641, held church services there. (The 1710 house located at Golden Hill was named for him.)
There are also rumors that, before the colonists’ arrival, the site was considered sacred by the Native Americans.
Witch trials and Judge Nathaniel Saltonstall
One colonial home atop Golden Hill passed from Rev. John Ward to his daughter, Elizabeth, and her husband Major Nathaniel Saltonstall.
Nathaniel Saltonstall (1639 -1707) was a soldier and a 1659 graduate of Harvard University. He’s remembered as one of the judges during the 1692 witch trials in nearby Salem, Massachusetts. Records suggest that Major Saltonstall was “very much dissatisfied with the proceedings.” After the hanging of “witch” Bridget Bishop, Saltonstall resigned in protest, and was replaced by Judge Jonathan Corwin.
Nathaniel Saltonstall was later accused of witchcraft. His grave is also in the Pentucket cemetery.
1815 Duncan House and 1850 Daniel Hunkins Shoe Shop
Two other historical buildings at Golden Hill include the Duncan House, built in 1815 — the year James H. Duncan began his law practice in Haverhill — and the Daniel Hunkins Shoe Shop from 1850.
The college is no longer at that location. It is now private property.
Summary
Haverhill is clearly a magnet for historically significant events. From its early Native American lore, to its violent Colonial history, to Bradford College’s Necronomicon connections and ghost sightings, Haverhill has an ample foundation for paranormal activity.
Here’s some more trivia about Haverhill and its ghosts… in mirrors!
Schoolhouse Cemetery, Nashua, NH 31 October 1999, about 8 p.m.
Fiona’s comments: After my camera refused to work on Halloween night at Blood Cemetery in Hollis, I visited Schoolhouse Cemetery in Nashua, NH, to prove to myself that there was nothing wrong with my camera or the film.
Schoolhouse Cemetery never felt very haunted. I’ve heard no local tales about it. Frankly, it’s on busy Daniel Webster highway, across the street from Bickford’s, with a large apartment complex in back of it.
Generally, I stay out of it to because I’m concerned about the living, not the dead who might be there. The cemetery has no light in it at all. The deeper you go into it, the creepier it gets. But I can’t say that it’s a really “haunted” feeling–just creepy.
On Halloween night, the highway was nearly deserted. I knew I could take photos at the entrance to the cemetery, without risking intrusion, flares, or reflections from apartment or shopping center lights. As you can see, it was very dark that night.
The orb surprised me when I picked up my prints. When I show my “ghost photos” and negatives, this is the one that impresses most professional photographers.
At right is the second photo I’d taken. (It’s my habit to take two photos in a row, as quickly as possible, without moving or even breathing between the pictures.)
As usual, these two photos were taken within seconds of each other from the same location.
The schoolhouse is boarded up. There are many headstones in the cemetery, but only one shows in the photo.
Camera: Olympus AF-1, point-and-shoot
Film type: Kodak Gold ASA 800 color film, 35mm
Negative shows: Same image. No splash of chemicals, no marks on the negative.
Developed and printed by: Shaw’s Supermarket overnight photo service
Our last night in the house, the footsteps returned, louder than ever. It was late in June, and about three o’clock in the morning. I remember hearing the footsteps, pounding up the varnished pine stairs as my family slept. Hard, leather-soled shoes.
For some reason, I thought that I was the only one who heard them.
Then the noise woke up my husband, and he leaped from the bed and turned on the lights. He shouted into the hall, and the steps paused.
My husband returned to bed, but sat up, prepared to go out to see who it was if the noise resumed.
It did. The footsteps suddenly continued, like someone was now running up the final few steps to the second floor where we slept.
Then the noise stopped, as if the person waited one or two steps from the top. My husband and I both went out to the stairway, turned on the lights, and saw nothing unusual. After checking the locks on the front and back doors, we left the lights on and nervously returned to bed.
Adrenaline pumping, I checked the stairs and hallway many times that night, but it remained silent. Something felt malicious to me, but that was probably my imagination after too little sleep, and the accumulated stress.
We moved out the next day. (My now ex-husband’s independent summary of the footsteps that night, are on the …Other notes page.)
THE FIRE WARNING WAS REAL
The night after we moved out, a huge Victorian house in back of ours burned to the ground. The distance between that house and ours was about 100 yards, at the most.
Our house would have been filled with smoke. The fire would have been seen from the window where — in my dreams — I’d seen fire reflected.
We were miles away, sleeping peacefully under the stars on the first night of a well-deserved camping vacation. When I saw the newspaper the next day, I was both stunned and relieved.
Someone else lives in “our” house now. It’s been fixed up, and the neighborhood may be improving after all. Perhaps we made a poor financial decision, but I don’t regret leaving that house after all we witnessed there.
1999 UPDATE
I took photos of the house on Sunday morning, Oct. 17th, but I felt as if someone was watching me from the house. Perhaps someone was; it’s certainly odd for a woman to stand in front of your house with two cameras, taking pictures. Nevertheless, when I picked up the prints, something about one photo nagged at me. It didn’t look right. One of the windows had a reflection that didn’t seem right to me.
Below, I scanned the section exactly as it appeared in the print, and an enlargement of it on the right. To me, it’s the man’s face, looking to the right, with an indented scar beneath his right cheekbone. He’s wearing round, dark sunglasses from either the 19th century or the hippie era. He has long-ish, light colored hair, and he’s slightly balding at the top.
From a 19th-century Portsmouth city directory, I know that the first inhabitants of the house were probably a man from England, his brother, and his son. All of them worked with leather, making shoes at a local factory, I think.
He’s the man in brown that I’d seen in the house. I’m certain of it.
But, maybe I’m just jumping at shadows, and perhaps you see something different in the image… even just the reflection of the lilac bush in front of it.
Author’s comment: My ex-husband wrote this before reading my notes about what happened.
“One night, at about 3AM I clearly heard someone coming up the stairs to the bedrooms. We lived in one of those old Cape Cod type houses, built around the turn of the century. The stairs had no carpet on them and the hallway was quite bare with excellent acoustics. I called out, ‘Hello?’ wondering if it was a burglar or other intruder.
“We had only lived in the house for less than a year. The previous owner had myriad tenants who rented rooms. There was a distinct possibility that one of these ex-tenants came back from a night of drinking or drugs and had mistaken our home for theirs.
“I could tell that the person on the stairs had stopped right at the top step or the one right below it. I turned on my light, got out of bed, and looked at the top of the stairs and no one was there.
“There was no possibility of someone running down the stairs before I got there. There was no place to hide. There was no possibility of there being someone making the noise outside of the house. The footfalls were definitely on the stairs. I remember hearing that slight crunch of that stuff between your shoes and the treads of the stairs. Someone had definitely been walking up the stairs. But no one was there.”
Is this a real haunted house? Those who lived there in the early 1990s would say that it is. We have tried to conceal the actual location of this private home and ask those who recognize it not to bother its current residents. They have enough problems, if the house is still haunted.
[2016 update: The current residents say that they’re not troubled by any ghosts at the house. But, if a ghost did show up, they’d be fine with any benign spirit.]
At right is the second photo I’d taken. (It’s my habit to take two photos in a row, as quickly as possible, without moving or even breathing between the pictures.)