"I'm not saying my foot powder is haunted but..."

“Okay, so this might not be the kind of story you’re looking for, but... maybe it is. Also, this might start with TMI, if you know what I mean. Okay, so as I got older, I realized that my feet were starting to sweat, like, a lot, so I always sprinkle foot powder in my shoes every morning before I put them on, and every night after I take them off. I use the kind in the plastic yellow bottle with the dial top- you know what I mean? The kind of container where you just turn the top like a dial and the holes open up and you can sprinkle the powder out. Like a spice container, only, you know, for foot powder.

So I never bother to close the top after I sprinkle because I’m just going to be using it at the end of the day, or the next morning. I leave it open so I can sprinkle and go. But when I go to sprinkle, it’s never open and I always have to reopen it.

For the longest time, I just assumed that my husband was closing it. He likes to have certain things neat and tidy, so I figured the bottle must have fallen over at one point and he had to wipe up powder or something, and so he must just close the container on the way by. I never said anything about it, I mean, I didn’t really think about it too much. It’s foot powder – who cares?

The other night I had just finished sprinkling my shoes after work, and my husband happened to pass me in the hallway as I was putting the container on the shelf. I don’t know what made me say something, maybe just because he happened to be there. I said to him ‘What’s the deal with the powder top? Did it fall over or something? Is that why you keep closing it?’ He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

‘What are you talking about?’ he said. 
‘The powder! My foot powder.’ I shook the container at him. ‘I always leave it open, but you always close it. Is it making a mess?’ 
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t use your foot powder!’
‘No, no’ I said. ‘I use it and leave it open and you keep closing the top!’
‘Honey.’ He says. ‘I don’t touch your foot powder. I’m not closing it- or opening it for that matter. It’s not me.’ And he continued walking down the hall.

So, we live alone, right? Who’s closing my stuff every morning and night? I’m not saying my foot powder is haunted... but I think maybe my foot powder is haunted.”

Mirrors are... weird.

Some folks use them as a way to peer into the future, gazing into it much like one might gaze into a crystal ball. Others use mirrors as part of protection spells (not always a fabulous idea- there’s lots of room for karmic error there, but that’s a conversation for another post). There are countless stories of haunted mirrors that show viewers the spirits of those who have passed away, or of mirrors that act as portals, allowing spirits and various other entities to pass in and out of our world via various looking glasses set about here and there (hellooooo Bloody Mary and Candyman. Eep!).

Don’t get me wrong, they’re certainly helpful when checking for stray bits of toothpaste on the chin, the overall effect of the randomly chosen separates put together into an outfit, and for applying all manner of hair/face/body products and accessories. Peer into the mirror and it will show you... well, YOU. Unless, that is, it decides to show you something else.

We have a number of mirrors, both antique and new, in our house and, most of the time I don’t give them a second thought. Except for one. That one is the one I try not to think about at all. It’s hanging on the wall in a tucked away corner of our basement, in a space where no mirror needs to be. In all of the tours and walk throughs before (and immediately after) purchasing the house, no one ever noticed it. It wasn’t until strange noises began emitting from the furnace and we had to crawl behind that ancient beast that we even noticed the mirror in the first place. It was hanging, oddly, at what appeared to be about eye level, though I can’t be certain as I’ve never actually looked into it. I can’t. I’ve seen it from the side, I’ve glanced at it at an angle, but never, NEVER have I (or will I) stand directly in front of it.

The few folks who have been in that room and have noticed it have commented on the weird placement over the years (we’ve been in the house 10 years now). Usually it’s a “Why is there a mirror there?” or “Uh… who is using that mirror?” Most have even made their way over to take a look, but before I can stop them, something else does. Can’t explain it- there’s just something there that keeps us all away from it. Honestly, that’s fine. I am more than happy to oblige. Mirrors are… weird.

It followed you home, didn’t it?

I was recently at a hockey game (Go Railers!) with a friend and in between goals (yeah, it was THAT game- the one where Railers scored 4 goals in the first 8:10 minutes of play AND won the game 5-1. Seriously love that team! But I digress. This ghost story is not about them) we chatted about the launch of Haunted Worcester, what we’re going, where we’re heading, and all that good stuff. As we were settling in after hooting and hollering after goal number 3 (nicely done, Mr. Almeida), our conversation returned to the spookier side of the house. “I told you about the spirit that followed me home from Salem, right?”

“Whaaaat? No!”

“Oh!” She laughed. “I though I told you that.”

“Ohmygod- what happened?! When?!”

I had, of course, heard of entities traveling to other places via people and things, but hadn’t realized that one of my friends experienced a tag-a-long. I looked at her expectantly.

photo by: Salem News/David Le

“You know the house up in Salem- the grey one, kind of run-down- right next to the cemetery?” She asked. I knew the one. I’m pretty sure everyone who had visited Salem did. It was the Grimshawe House, the one right next to the Old Burying Point on Charter Street. “Every time I go by that place when I’m in Salem, there’s a part of the building that I’m drawn to.” She continued. “It gives me the creeps, but I can’t help looking there. I just have the feeling that something’s in that part of the house, and it definitely wants my attention.”

“Hockey hockey, hockey… WOOOOOOO!” we hollered, along with the rest of the crowd (following the thread of a conversation during a hockey game is hard, but bear with me- it gets really good).

We settled down again and she picked up her story. “Well, one of the last times I went up, I went by the house as usual, checked out that part of the house as usual, got the heebie-jeebies as usual, and continued on with the day. Nothing really odd happened until I got home. I was on the phone with a friend of mine, who actually is a medium, by the way. She’s more on the religious side and helps people and so on. Anyway, I was chatting with her about my trip to Salem and at the same time I was puttering around on my back porch. We ended the call and I went inside, closing the door behind me. As soon as I did, I knew.”

At this point I expelled the breath I’d been holding- both because of the story and a few plays on the ice. “Criminey. What happened? Did you see something?”

“Oh, yeah. I could feel it first. Something… someone… something… standing at the window staring in at me- trying to get my attention.”

“Gah! What did you do?!”

Photo by: Jess Curtin

“Well, I grabbed the phone and called my friend right back. She picked up on the first ring and before I could say anything, she said, ‘It followed you home, didn’t it?’”

“Holy Crap!” I exclaimed. The rest of it got lost as the crowd lost their minds at the Railer’s 4th goal of the game (Well done, Mr. Hudson!). “What did she do?” I yelled over the screaming crowd.

“What? Oh!” She took care of it.”

“What? How? What did she do?!” I asked as we sat back down.

“I don’t know the exact details. She was able to take care of it for me. It was gone.” She shrugged.

The period ended and the clapping and cheering started up again. I didn’t get any other details, though I did get my friend’s permission to write her story up. I’ll be revisiting this again. I definitely want more details, don't you?

An hour later all of the scratches were just… gone

Looking for a little something spooky to read over your lunch hour? We (thanks to Anthony) have got you covered!

Anthony contacted Haunted Worcester after seeing our segment on The Dale Lepage Show, and I had the opportunity to spend some phone time with him this past weekend. Having the ability to both see and speak to the dead for as long as he can remember, he was an incredible resource, as well as fascinating to talk to! He had a number of stories (including one about a handmade Ouija board one of his relatives used until she threw it out the window) but when he told me this particular tale, I knew it was the one to write up next! Here’s what he told me:

It was somewhere during 2006 or 2007, and some friends and I were heading up to the old Worcester State Hospital. At that point, there had been some fires in some of the buildings, but there were some, including the building with the clock tower, that were still standing. There was a fence around the buildings, but we were going to walk around to see if we could see anything. I mean, that building housed so many mentally unstable inmates, and a number of them had died in fires over the years. That type of energy, and those types of spirits, don’t just disappear. We just had to avoid the security guards that patrolled the area as it got close to dark.

So my friends and I parked a ways away and started walking across the field towards the clock tower. I happened to look up and saw an old man just standing at the top of it, looking down at us. While two of my friends walked on ahead, my other friend and I slowed down. We stared up at him and he just kept one staring down at us. I knew, of course, that he had to be a ghost.

We started walking around the corner of the building, and we were heading towards a part of the fence that I knew we could sneak under in order to get a closer look. I looked back up at the clock tower, but couldn’t see the old man any longer. He had disappeared. I turned to look for the two friends who had walked on ahead, and the old man popped up right next to me! He reached out and put his hands on my friend’s face, turning it towards the building and the security guard who was just coming around another corner of the building. We felt sort of a weird, tingly feeling in our arms, and then we ran. Like, we REALLY ran!

We got to the car and headed out of there. It wasn’t until we got to a safe place and started talking that we saw them. Scratches. And not just little scratches, either. These were the kind with raised skin and welled up blood. I could see the scratches on my friend’s arm- deep and all over the place. Then I saw what had happened to me. I had one long, deep scratch that started at my shoulder and spiraled all the way down to my wrist. It didn’t really hurt, though I was definitely going to have a scar from this.

Here’s the thing though: an hour later all of the scratches were just… gone. No marks, nothing.

Spirits and ghosts don’t creep me out, I mostly just find them annoying. Now I just do my best to tune them out.

The Story of Lucy

Jess had contacted us though our Instagram account and told us she had both a haunted house AND a haunted car, and that she was not only willing to tell us about them, she invited us over to check them out! From the get go, I knew she was fabulous- not just because we share a name, or because she fed John and I maple sugar bacon when we went to her house to meet her and interview her for Haunted Worcester, but because she’s one of those friendly people who is smart, creative, and has a whole lot of stuff going on.

When we first began chatting, she told us all about her house, how she found it, what she discovered on the initial tour (hellooooo secret doorway to the attic and creepy basement) and what she’s experienced since she bought it and moved in (her house is absolutely haunted). While I was fascinated by those stories (we’ll post the house stories later), I was dying to know more about Lucy, her haunted car.

The following is Jess telling the story of Lucy, transcribed from the recording of our interview:

You want to hear the whole story of Lucy? Well, I had just separated from my ex-husband and I was thinking, what gets you over heartbreak? I should buy something! I suppose if I had been normal, I would have gone out and gotten a manicure. Not me. I was like, I’m going to go out and buy myself a 67 Impala!

I was actually just looking around and I figured my practicality would take over and stop me from buying something crazy. I actually looked at a couple other cars- there was this one Camaro in Hew Hampshire I checked out- but the minute I saw [Lucy], I knew she was my car.

*Note: at this point in the recording I had to interrupt Jess to ask if she had pets in the house as I kept hearing something running up and down the stairs (I thought she may have had a dog in the house and she’d been holding out on me. I love me some puppus snuggles). While she had a dog at one point, it now lived with her step-dad. There were no pets in the house. Being no stranger to ghostly animals (see our story about the ghost cat in our house) we quickly went back to talking about Lucy.

So, I bought Lucy a year and a half ago- July 2017. I found her on Ebay. The guy I bought her from was a deputy warden in the Maine State prison system. They have a program called cars for convicts, or convicts for cars, and people who are low risk offenders- small time drug stuff, small time larceny- they have a program where they can get their ASE certification, so when they get out of prison they can get a job. You know people who get out or are repeat offenders have a hard time finding jobs, so this [program] trains inmates to work on cars and how to restore cars.

So Lucy was a teaching car. 
Lucy was in prison.

They put a new carburetor and a new air cleaner and a bunch of newer stuff on her, but they kept all the originals. The deputy warden gave me a box with all of the original stuff in it and said, “Here ya go.” I’m really into original numbers matching, and they had kept all the original stuff! I learned how to restore carburetors just so I could restore hers. I learned how to restore everything so I could restore her to how she was originally. I mean everything- the interior- everything is original on her.

One of the selling points of the car, because I’m a creep, was when you open the trunk, there’s a big red stain on it, as if someone got shot in there. It’s not rust, and it’s not paint. It doesn’t come off.

* Note: someone on the recording burst out with “Holy crap!” at this point. It was totally me.

Yeah, that was one thing, but there’s more. I learned that a guy in Uxbridge owned her previous to her being in the prison in Maine, though the original owner was out in Washington State somewhere. He left her in a barn for years and she got waterlogged, but they cleaned her up. Oh! She does have new carpet. That’s the only part that IS new. There’s some rust on the glove compartment because it’s all metal, but I like it that way.

There’s something else about Lucy. She was burning oil last year, and I knew there had to be an issue with the crankshaft. I don’t have a lift here at the house, so I can do minor things, but not big things. I knew she needed an engine rebuild. I mean, the engine block hadn’t been cracked like, ever. [It] hadn’t been open since 1967. It came of the factory floor and nothing had been done to it.

I took her to my mechanic and he sent her off to an engine place. He came back and said it looked like the crankshaft. Then he said, “I know you want to keep everything original, so we found a guy out in Minnesota, and he’s the foremost crankshaft expert in the world.” or something like that. I didn’t even know that was a thing!

*Note: I didn’t either!

They sent Lucy’s crankshaft out there to be repaired by the guy. They eventually called me and told me she was ready to be picked up. I drove over and I forget exactly how the exchange went, but Bob, the guy who owns the garage, looked really freaked out when I walked in.

I said something to the effect of “I’m sorry Lucy has been such a problem. She just has this energy around her, bad vibes or something.” I was actually joking around, but he just looked at me and sighed this heavy sigh. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked if the crankshaft was okay.

He said, “Yeah, everything’s fine, but that’s the last crankshaft that guy’s going to send out.”
“Why, was she so much trouble and now he hates the car or something?”
He just looked at me and said, “No, he’s dead.”
Soooo…. This was uncomfortable, and in uncomfortable situations, I always end up trying to make a joke, and so I blurted out “Did Lucy give him a heart attack?”

Bob said, “Nope. He shipped out your crankshaft and them committed suicide.”

So there I am standing in my mechanics office and all I can say is “Oh God.” All the while I was thinking what the hell to normal people with good social skills do in this situation?! Of course I was horrified, and I was so sorry to hear that, but my next thought was along the lines of, okay, my crazy car killed a man!

I actually have a placard that I take to car shows. I like to think I’m funny and I made it like a little personal ad for her. It says Hello my name is Lucy. Status: Single (If you know of any rust free boy cars, let me know.). Interesting fact: I once killed a man. People ask me about it, and I tell them, because the story is just so crazy.

Once a guy came up and said “That car. That’s… something. I’m getting a feeling about this car.” I didn’t really press him. It was like, 900 degrees out and I didn’t want to get into it. She is her own beast. That car has quite the personality. I almost feel, and this is going to sound weird, that she is talking to me sometimes. I can totally feel that the car is like a living being. She gets a LOT of attention.

Lucy is my girl. I love her. Seriously.
But even I call her Christine sometimes.