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(I wrote this weeks ago but forgot to make it public. Oops, a Perry moment)
During a recent Friday happy hour at the pub someone mentioned Casey Moore's was haunted. Many staffers, and some patrons, have witnessed a woman in the second floor dining area, a cloudy mist with female features. How cool is that?
I may not have faith or spirituality but I do believe in spirits, only because I've experienced some paranormal activity in my life.
When I was 12 we lived in a house in Pawtucket, RI that had a storefront on the first floor. The space was empty, windows painted over and was used as storage. My brother and I would sneak down there to play in the store, totally against my dad's rules. There was a bench with tools on it. We would play with the tools, bend metal, cut wood, doing nothing creative.
The second time we went in the tools had been moved back to their original place. I though nothing of it. Maybe my dad did this, even though he didn't go in there. It wasn't his storage space. We played with them again, and again. Every time we went back the pliers, saw, hammer and other tools were in their exact place, neatly arranged. It was freaky. I thought my brother was doing it, he thought I was.
When we were moving out months later the landlord asked my dad if we ever saw anything strange in the house. Apparently past tenants had complained about spooky things happening.
As a young 20-something my friends Dave and Jenny shared a house in Cumberland, RI. It was a Revolutionary War era colonial duplex in a rural part of town directly across the street from a historic cemetery. They had swinging saloon style doors between the living room and kitchen. One evening as Jenny walked through those doors I saw a shadowy women standing in the kitchen. She appeared and disappeared from view as the doors swung open and closed, open and closed. She was wearing the long dress and apron of years gone by.
I said nothing until Jenny asked, "Don, are you okay? You look like you're in a trance." They had been told by the landlord to never tell the land lady if they saw something. She lived next door and was not happy about the occasional haunting images reported by others. Of course I told her, because I'm a jerk.
My last experience was in the late 90's through 2001. In the first months we owned our Victorian home in Cranston, RI, I was home alone in the basement workshop. I heard the front door open and close above me, footsteps walked through the foyer, living room, dining, kitchen and to the edge of the stairs leading from the kitchen to the basement where they stopped. I called upstairs to see if my boys had come home, no reply. As I started walking towards the stairs the footsteps retraced their path to the front door. I heard the heavy wood and glass door open and close again. I rushed to the door, it was locked.
This exact scenario played out at least 4 or 5 times in the first year we lived on Arnold Avenue. One night at the dinner table I mentioned the footsteps for the first time because it happened that very afternoon. My ex wife lept from her chair and with an excited tone said, "Oh my god, it's not me! I've heard that a dozen times from the laundry room (in the basement) and thought I was going crazy." I did not tell her the entire story, she finished it for me, exactly the way it always happened.
Fourteen months after we moved into that house we adopted our female Boxer Milkshake. On more than a dozen occasions over the years she would sit in an obedient pose, staring into an empty room ... always the dining or living room .... and act strange, as if someone were talking to her. Milky would wag her stumpy tail, make little barking noises, the kind she made if we were offering a milkbone. But she was staring at no one.
Finally, when I began my third floor rebuild, knocking down walls, ceiling, collar ties and transforming what was a small apartment into a large famiily room, I was spending many hours alone on that third level. We had a square spiral staircase going up three stories. The stairwell is a defining feature in that 1896 home. It was all wood, no carpet and very squeaky with several landings and odd features. It was impossible to sneak up or down those stairs, too many loose boards and creaks. You could see from the third floor through the well all the way to the first floor entry foyer.
I won't guess how many times I heard footsteps on those stairs. If others were home you don't think about it, but if you're home alone there's no mistaking them. The started on the first floor, came up, paused on the second floor, started again and stopped. I ran to the rail many times looking over the edge calling the names of my family thinking they had come home. They had not.
I finished my third floor office first (1999) and spent many late nights on my computer in the mostly unfinished top floor. In the wee hours those footsteps were especially spooky. I would walk down one level to peak in on the family, three beds occupied, all sleeping, chills running up my spine.
Our mailman was an oldtimer who grew up in the neighborhood. He said an old man died in the kitchen in the 1950's and people had told him things about the house. I told him a few more.
I'll have to request upstairs dining at Casey Moore's more often. I'd love to meet their ghost.
During a recent Friday happy hour at the pub someone mentioned Casey Moore's was haunted. Many staffers, and some patrons, have witnessed a woman in the second floor dining area, a cloudy mist with female features. How cool is that?
I may not have faith or spirituality but I do believe in spirits, only because I've experienced some paranormal activity in my life.
When I was 12 we lived in a house in Pawtucket, RI that had a storefront on the first floor. The space was empty, windows painted over and was used as storage. My brother and I would sneak down there to play in the store, totally against my dad's rules. There was a bench with tools on it. We would play with the tools, bend metal, cut wood, doing nothing creative.
The second time we went in the tools had been moved back to their original place. I though nothing of it. Maybe my dad did this, even though he didn't go in there. It wasn't his storage space. We played with them again, and again. Every time we went back the pliers, saw, hammer and other tools were in their exact place, neatly arranged. It was freaky. I thought my brother was doing it, he thought I was.
When we were moving out months later the landlord asked my dad if we ever saw anything strange in the house. Apparently past tenants had complained about spooky things happening.
As a young 20-something my friends Dave and Jenny shared a house in Cumberland, RI. It was a Revolutionary War era colonial duplex in a rural part of town directly across the street from a historic cemetery. They had swinging saloon style doors between the living room and kitchen. One evening as Jenny walked through those doors I saw a shadowy women standing in the kitchen. She appeared and disappeared from view as the doors swung open and closed, open and closed. She was wearing the long dress and apron of years gone by.
I said nothing until Jenny asked, "Don, are you okay? You look like you're in a trance." They had been told by the landlord to never tell the land lady if they saw something. She lived next door and was not happy about the occasional haunting images reported by others. Of course I told her, because I'm a jerk.
My last experience was in the late 90's through 2001. In the first months we owned our Victorian home in Cranston, RI, I was home alone in the basement workshop. I heard the front door open and close above me, footsteps walked through the foyer, living room, dining, kitchen and to the edge of the stairs leading from the kitchen to the basement where they stopped. I called upstairs to see if my boys had come home, no reply. As I started walking towards the stairs the footsteps retraced their path to the front door. I heard the heavy wood and glass door open and close again. I rushed to the door, it was locked.
This exact scenario played out at least 4 or 5 times in the first year we lived on Arnold Avenue. One night at the dinner table I mentioned the footsteps for the first time because it happened that very afternoon. My ex wife lept from her chair and with an excited tone said, "Oh my god, it's not me! I've heard that a dozen times from the laundry room (in the basement) and thought I was going crazy." I did not tell her the entire story, she finished it for me, exactly the way it always happened.
Fourteen months after we moved into that house we adopted our female Boxer Milkshake. On more than a dozen occasions over the years she would sit in an obedient pose, staring into an empty room ... always the dining or living room .... and act strange, as if someone were talking to her. Milky would wag her stumpy tail, make little barking noises, the kind she made if we were offering a milkbone. But she was staring at no one.
Finally, when I began my third floor rebuild, knocking down walls, ceiling, collar ties and transforming what was a small apartment into a large famiily room, I was spending many hours alone on that third level. We had a square spiral staircase going up three stories. The stairwell is a defining feature in that 1896 home. It was all wood, no carpet and very squeaky with several landings and odd features. It was impossible to sneak up or down those stairs, too many loose boards and creaks. You could see from the third floor through the well all the way to the first floor entry foyer.
I won't guess how many times I heard footsteps on those stairs. If others were home you don't think about it, but if you're home alone there's no mistaking them. The started on the first floor, came up, paused on the second floor, started again and stopped. I ran to the rail many times looking over the edge calling the names of my family thinking they had come home. They had not.
I finished my third floor office first (1999) and spent many late nights on my computer in the mostly unfinished top floor. In the wee hours those footsteps were especially spooky. I would walk down one level to peak in on the family, three beds occupied, all sleeping, chills running up my spine.
Our mailman was an oldtimer who grew up in the neighborhood. He said an old man died in the kitchen in the 1950's and people had told him things about the house. I told him a few more.
I'll have to request upstairs dining at Casey Moore's more often. I'd love to meet their ghost.
