The Haunting of The Portico’s

In 1991, I was a junior at Indiana University, in Bloomington, Indiana, studying Journalism. I was taking a magazine reporting course, led by one of my very favorite professors ever, Dr. Stocking. The assignment was to write a human-interest article about something in your hometown. I felt a little extra pressure to come up with something amazing, since I was representing the townies, having grown up in Bloomington. I needed to find something so Bloomington that IU students wouldn’t know about it.

I remembered going to a restaurant for a number of special occasions, including my Junior Prom, and many birthdays. It was called The Portico’s and was located in a beautiful, old, Victorian mansion on North Walnut. The sign in front of the restaurant was cheeky. It said, “The Portico’s – Fine Food and Spirits” – Good one!

Word was, it was haunted. I’d heard the stories. And some of them were from some very reputable Bloomington residents, including former Mayor, Tomi Allison. And I’d heard the scary recordings that would play every Halloween on WTTS, from a DJ who had spent the night, alone, in the building.

The stories I’d heard involved a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, who like playing pranks on employees and guests. There were two common stories I’d heard. A number of women reported locked in the bathroom on the second floor, even though there was no lock on the outer door. And numerous people told of two children blocking access to the second floor by sitting on the stairs. One story I’d heard had the children complaining that they couldn’t find their brother. Like a never-ending hide-and-seek game from beyond.

I’ve always been on the line between believing in ghosts and, well… not. I found comfort in the idea that people who’d gone before me were watching over me. But the thought of anyone’s spirit being “trapped” is frightening and sad. So, I began my research with a fairly open mind.  

I started by interviewing a number of people who worked at the restaurant. Most had general stories of feeling spooked, being touched when no one was around, hearing indistinguishable sounds when no clear source could be found. Certainly creepy, but not solid evidence.

Two employees had very specific incidents that they shared with me. One, a manager, was closing up for the night. Everyone else had gone home and he was finishing up paperwork. We went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he came back onto a dining area on the same floor, about five minutes later, all of the chairs were piled in one corner, the forks in another, spoons in another, and knives in another. He left.

A server recounted a time when she had a large tray on her shoulder, full of food to serve guests. She felt someone hit the tray, hard, from behind and everything went flying in front of her. I’ve been a server. I’ve dropped trays. We all have. The way she explained it, someone hit the bottom of the tray at her back. Only there wasn’t anyone there.

I felt like I could interview every employee who ever worked there and every guest who’d ever eaten there, and I’d probably hear just as many stories that couldn’t be verified. So I called WTTS to see if the DJ who had spent the night was still around. He was.      

                

Jerry Castor agreed to my interview, but he wasn’t happy about it. At all. When I met him, I could feel his nervousness at even talking about his experience. Once he started talking though, he opened up and talked about an experience that would make almost anyone a believer.

Jerry and two other WTTS employees planned to spend Halloween night, 1988, in the Portico’s. As the date drew near, the other two found excuses and backed out, leaving Jerry to spend the night there alone. Gathering his courage, he set up a comfy spot of blankets in the main hallway on the second floor. He set up a tape recorder, hit record, and settled in for a long night.

As the night drew on, Jerry couldn’t sleep. He had a lot of nervous energy, of course, but the massive grandfather clock on the main floor below chimed every fifteen minutes, making it impossible to really fall asleep. He noted every chime and at the end of his stay, disappointedly realized nothing had happened and he’d been awake the whole night.

He packed up and headed to a press conference in town. He had the tapes on hand from his overnight stay and used some to record the press conference. Back at the office, he listened to the audio and edited it together to form his radio spot.

As the audio from the press conference ended, and Jerry worked as his desk, the recording underneath came on. This was his useless recording from the Portico’s and he frowned as he heard himself… snore. SNORE??? He hadn’t slept a wink! He’d heard that grandfather clock chime every fifteen minutes! But he was clearly snoring.

Intrigued, he let the audio play. Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty minutes. An hour. He snored and sighed. He mumbled from time to time. He was clearly asleep. And more confounding, there were absolutely no grandfather clock chimes. None.

Just as he began to think something hinky had happened, there was a scream. It was both loud and far away. Ethereal, really. He rewound and heard it again. It sounded like kids screaming. Playing, perhaps? Were they laughing? Or were they scared? He wasn’t sure, but the screams were clear.

He listened to all of the audio he had left, kicking himself for the hour or so he’d taped over during the press conference. There were a number of random noises, but only one other moment was clear. And it chilled him to the bone. Out of the silence came children yelling two words. They were a little muddled, and like the screams earlier, sounded both close by and far away at the same time.

He played the two audio clips for me. I heard the kids yell, “Cold Spot!” He nodded and said that’s what he thought too, although he wasn’t totally sure.

And the screams? Pardon the pun, but they were chillingly haunting. I looked at Jerry and he said, in his deep voice, perfectly suited for radio, “If they are playing, it’s kind of cute. But when I hear them, I think they are in pain, and that makes it sound totally different.” He played it again, and this time, the screams brought tears to my eyes.

When Jerry reported his finding’s to the owners of the Portico’s, they gave him puzzled looks. The grandfather clock, they asked, had chimed? He explained that he had clearly heard it throughout the night, every fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t on the recordings. They gave each other a look and told him the clock hadn’t chimed in decades, since it had been moved from one floor to another. It. Never. Chimed.

Jerry and I spent about an hour together and I left knowing that he truly believed the building was haunted. He had heard from numerous people over the years, of course, as they played the recordings on the radio every year. Two of those stories stuck with me.

A man who used a metal detector to find lost, forgotten items, had permission and was searching the property behind the Portico’s. He noticed two kids watching him intently and waved them over to show them what he was doing. They were obviously playing dress-up, as they both wore clothes reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie. He smiled and showed them what the metal detector did. They asked what he was hoping to find. He said, anything, but really coins. The little girl pointed to a tree and told him they’d buried some coins over there. He smiled indulgently. “Thanks, kid. I’m looking for older coins.”

He turned his back and when he looked again, the kids were gone. Eventually, he made his way over to the tree and, sure enough, his metal detector went off. Thinking he’d show the kids that his tactic had worked, even to find modern coins, he dug a little hole and began pulling coins from the dirt. They were all coins dating back to the nineteenth century. He tried to find the kids again, but couldn’t. No one knew of any children living nearby. They were gone.

Another listener had called WTTS and shared that she has used a Ouija Board in the back yard. She’d basically gotten four words, “Penny,” “Owen,” “Stanley,” and “Fire.” That was enough to send me to The Monroe County Public Library to research the house.

I spent days in a small room, delicately going through dusty old ledgers and books recording the history of Bloomington, Indiana. Specifically, I was looking for any information about the house at 520 N. Walnut.

I found what I was looking for. My heart sank as I read. The house had burned to the ground in the mid-1800s*. A family of five had perished. The bodies of the parents, the daughter, and one son had been found. The infant’s remains had not been located. The children’s names were listed as Penny, Owen, and Stanley.

From a skeptic’s point of view, I found the information after hearing what the Ouija Board lady had said. I could have just as easily created a story using the information I found in the library. So, whether Ouija Board Lady received the information from the other realm, or the library, I cannot say.

Regardless, it left me saddened. And I remembered the stories I’d heard of the children who were looking for their brother. Were Penny and Owen looking for their baby brother, Stanley, for eternity? Were those screams Jerry Castor recorded those of children dying in a fire? My heart ached. Even if their spirits weren’t trapped in the house and it was all a bunch of bunk, a very real family had died there.

Records showed that the house burned to the ground, but a new house was built on the existing basement. Folklore had it there was a tunnel in that basement that had been used in the Underground Railroad. Certainly, the basement was still there. I could not get permission to go down there, and frankly, my chicken-hearted soul was totally okay with that answer.

I contacted a local ghost hunter*. He said some people believe that different individuals are receptive to different energies. Some people are receptive to a wider range than others and these are the people who are considered “sensitive.” What they see and hear is basically like a video, replaying a time in history. He told me that buildings are built upon, and with, living matter. This matter can hold memories, just in a different way than we do, as humans. And those memories replay. Sensitive people can see or hear those replays.

I also contacted the Skeptics Society. A good journalist includes both sides, right? I talked to a well-spoken man* who said that he did not believe in any of it. I asked about the ghost hunter’s explanation. I liked it. It made me feel better than the “trapped souls” version we all know. But it didn’t explain the interactions so many people were reporting. The house wasn’t “remembering” something when the kids talked to people in the present. Right? That’s where the skeptic shut it down and said it just, plain isn’t happening. People like ghost stories. Period.

I submitted my story to my professor. I got an A. But I never really felt like I knew for sure what happened and whether those ghost children were real.

I dreamt about them for years. It was always the same dream. We were in a big, old kitchen, with a black pot, full of something that smelled delicious, in the fireplace. I was sitting at a long, wooden table with Penny and Owen, laughing about some inside joke. They would each grab a hand and stare at me. Their stares penetrated me to the core. And I would wake up in tears, my heart pounding. I had the dream for about ten years. It occurred less and less frequently, until the dreams finally stopped. Even now, thinking of the dream, my heart is pounding a little harder, and I feel on the brink of tears. I get the feeling I was supposed to find answers for my little friends, and I failed them.

It’s silly. I know that. But Penny and Owen and the stories surrounding the Portico’s will stick with me for a lifetime. I truly hope, if they were real, that they’ve found peace.

[*I will update these sections when I find my original story. I have dates, names, and specific information, but I’m not seeing any of it online at this time.]

Photo 1 credit: https://www.heraldtimesonline.com/news/local/the-former-portico-s-restaurant/image_d8fb3924-3c9c-53d5-8e60-493d49e309af.html

Photo 2 credit: http://hauntedindiana.net

The Skeptics Society: https://www.skeptic.com/

My New Role Model

So, I ran an errand to a Super Target (humongous) yesterday. It's been a long few weeks and I wanted to get home so badly to start my relaxing weekend. But I needed a couple of things, so I stopped. I wanted to run in, run out, get home and in my pjs and reeeeeeee-lax!

When I came out to my car, there was an elderly woman sitting the passenger seat in the car next to mine, and she had the door propped open. So I waited a second to see if she'd close it before walking up and asking her to close it, so that I could get into my own car. She *grabbed* my hand (so hard, she actually bent my Claddagh ring significantly - and made me think of my Nana, who always did that! LOL) and told me that her friend, Don, had gone into the store TWO HOURS earlier and she was worried about him. He'd gone in just to pick up some cat food, so two hours was way too long.

I was so tired, my friends. So tired. But of course, I went back into the store, wandered around, trying to find the right person to help me (yeah, Customer Service was Ru-hoo-hood!). Finally found a manager with a kind heart, who called for Don over the loud speaker. I had very little to go on, not actually *knowing* Don and all. No clue what he looked like. Didn't know his last name. So, the manager called for "Don who came in for cat food and has a friend waiting in his car" - ADORABLE!

Meanwhile, I'm watching the exit (one of many, of course) to see if I can spot a (maybe) elderly man who has cat food and looks like he’s two hours late. And I spotted a candidate. So I went over and asked him if his name was Don. He was stone deaf. I mean, seriously.

I say, “Is your name Don?” 

“Oh, I’m fine!”

“SIR! IS YOUR NAME DON??”

“No I’m not Tom.”

“DON! IS YOUR NAME **DON**????”

“Oh everything's fine. I found what I needed. I’m heading home.”

I got in front of him so I was facing him. “DON???!!!???”

“OH! Yes! I’m Don!”

Thank God. Now what? “YOUR FRIEND, FLORENCE, IS WORRIED ABOUT YOU!” I won’t detail the back and forth on this sentence and the few that followed, but I eventually got the message across and offered to carry his bags to his car. He did manage to ask me if I was single, bless his lil heart. We put his bags in his trunk (I was grateful to see he’d actually bought cat food!) and I went to tell Florence he was there.

She grabbed my hand again (ouch) and thanked me profusely! I asked if Don was her husband and she says to me… She says, “Oh no dear! We just have sex!”

I. Shit. You. Not.

My face must have been priceless, because she elaborated, “Well you know sweetheart, I’m 96 years old! I’m not messing around with any relationship stuff. I did that for years! Men are difficult! But so is sex without one!” My jaw dropped and I just laughed. She said, “You’ll see! You’ll see what I mean! I just keep looking for nice young (!!) men to keep me company (WINK). But I don’t need a husband to tell ME what to do!!!”

I said, “It must be kind of hard. He doesn’t hear very well.”

And she said, “Who cares? His thingie works!”

*drops mic*

UnWinona

I have never gotten uber-serious on my blog. But there has been so much hatred spewing forth on the Internet, that this stranger's blog really touched me. She's right. Somehow in crowded situations, men can completely ignore the people around them, and they can more easily ditch the chatty person who decides to hit on them, despite their being obviously busy. This young woman's experience is one a lot of women, if not every woman, has run into in one form or another. It's not right. It must stop.

Read if you want to. Don't if you don't. Peace.

UnWinona

Happy Turkey

Two weeks ago, a high school friend of mine died suddenly of a massive heart attack. He was 40 years old. Obviously, everyone was extremely shocked and saddened. I was completely blindsided. I’d talked to him hours before his death, a fact that both baffles me and makes me so grateful.

Christian, or Xtian, or X, was an amazing guy. He was born with a birth defect and you kind of had to notice it. His left hand had no fingers. It had “nubs” instead. And they were all different sizes – pretty useless, although Xtian found uses for his “special” hand. He loved to freak substitute teachers out by shoving it in his mouth so it looked like he had swallowed his arm. It was sick. We loved it. And since he’d had his “special” hand since birth, he’d adapted quite well and become a one-handed wonder. He could do pretty much anything any of us could do. We didn’t give his one-handed-ness much thought.

He was in show choir with me. (Yeah, we were gleeks!) We were often dance partners. I remember one dance move where we were supposed to grab hands and I sort of looked at him in panic, and without a hitch, he did it – he grabbed my hand with those nubs and swung me around! Not a word! Just whipped me around with all the confidence in the world! And I started laughing. He whispered, “The one-handed bandit, girl!” and twirled me around again. I loved dancing with him. He was a joy.

He HAD a joy. He was a gifted artist. And he had a way about him that made you want to spend time with him. He made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. You and he were kindred spirits, meant to be friends since you were specks in the sky. Little did we all know that he made us each feel this way until we all started talking at his memorial service. We were all his special friends, his kindred spirits. And he was each of ours.

Little buttons were passed out by Xtian’s sister at the memorial. “Happy Turkey” buttons. For those of us who knew the story, fresh tears and laughter started. For those who didn’t, we happily shared: Christian worked a few years ago at Starbucks in Atlanta as a manager. For some reason, when he went to look, there weren’t any Thanksgiving decorations at the store. He didn’t approve. So he quickly traced his “special” hand on a piece of paper and wrote “HAPPY.” underneath. He taped it on the front door. Thus was born, “HAPPY TURKEY” and every year, he would greet us for Thanksgiving. Now “HAPPY TURKEY” is a welcome to the Christian Zabriskie Memorial Fund.

I’ll miss Xtian forever, but his zest for life is a reminder that we are not guaranteed tomorrow. Remember to tell people you love them. I told X he was super smart that afternoon (after a zinger of a political debate regarding health care), but I don’t remember telling him that I loved him, even though I know he knew. Live your life to the fullest, despite all your limitations. And to use one of Xtain’s favorite quotes by Souza, “Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment you have, and remember that time waits for no one.”

Memes

 I've now made two memes and am really quite proud of myself!

The Mysteries of Park Ridge East

Every kid probably has mysteries or folklore or stories that other kids who shared schools and neighborhoods have as well – or at least some version of. I grew up in a fantastic neighborhood on the east side of Bloomington, Indiana in the 70s. In fact, my house was one of the first to be built in Park Ridge East. I remember going daily with my parents and baby brother R (J wasn’t even a glimmer yet) and watching it grow – a three bedroom ranch-style house, HUGE compared to the little starter home we were moving from. It stood alone in a barren field, cleared of any such annoyances such as trees or flowers or critters. I didn’t understand the sadness of such things at the tender age of four. My parents took great blackmail photos of me… uhhhhh… “baptizing” the foundation.

As soon as the roof went on the house, BLAM! It was struck by lightning! Literally! Struck! I was terrified by this and didn’t want to move in until my dad told me (true or untrue, I believed him) that lightening never strikes even near the same place twice. Then I just became obsessed with the patch in the ceiling where it struck. I showed all my friends. It was right outside my bedroom door, near the linen closet, up by the light. I even showed a later owner of the house when I went back to visit. He was duly impressed. I didn’t mention my personal addition to his foundation.

There were a ton of kids in the neighborhood, many of whom lived right on my street. It was a happy street and I lived on a cul-de-sac, so for those younger years, we pretty much stayed on our little street. Well, we didn’t want to venture much past Beacon Court anyway because of, well, you know… The Witch lady. Someday I’ll tell you all about her. But she lived on the corner. I’d say she was dead by now, but I’m really not sure. She had two brutal, evil, ugly, mean dogs. If you stepped on even a blade of her grass, she’d toss you in the basement with those dogs.  REALLY! She would! My friend, L (you remember L, of the S-E-X revelation, right?) – she told me it happened to a friend of hers, so it MUST have been true! Anyway, The Witch Lady is an entire blog unto her (or ITS) self. **shiver**

And then of course, there were the hours spent searching in my backyard for the tunnels I was told by KB that were dug there by Civil War soldiers. Oh yes! TUNNELS! Right in my very own back yard. We had a hill there and they were supposed to be right there in the hill. I spent hours, days, possibly years, looking for those fucking tunnels. I hate KB.

When we got a little older, we started to venture forth, carefully avoiding The Witch Lady’s grass. I spent many hours exploring the woods in back of Park Ridge East. You had to slip, slide, and sneak behind a house to get there. But once there, it was like a secret paradise. This is where my friend G and I found the, you know, DINO tooth in the creek. The little creek wound its way through the woods and if you wandered far enough, there was a little field of daisies. Thus, my obsession with daisies (cat’s name, tattoo, etc…). I spent hours reading in that field and sulking in those woods. Ahhhh, memories!

A few years later, the kids were all old enough, and the world was still innocent enough, to ride our bikes around the neighborhood from dawn until dusk. Sure, we sometimes went beyond our boundaries, but that was our job. And there was a great bike trail that started across the busy road that we were NOT allowed to cross in the neighboring Park Ridge. It was awesome! And it led to other mysterious neighborhoods and stores and the like. And it was made up of all hills! FUN!

And then there was the Park. Which the kids all assumed the neighborhood was named for. Hello! PARK Ridge East. I mean, the place was as flat as a pancake, so RIDGE? Ummmm, noooooo. So, it was all about the park. Funny thing is, the park was tiny. By today’s standards, it was not only tiny, but incredibly dangerous. There was a tire swing that had three chains connected at the top with no spinney thing. My friend M and I were spinning the tire and my hands were at the top of the chains. Oh the mangling!!!! Youch! But I was a touch 70s kid. If I even bothered to tell my parents, it’s not like the SUED or anything! It was years until that thing got hauled away and replaced with some dumb, boring plastic, very safe, playground apparatus. Zzzzzzzz. I, of course, never sat on that tire swing again. But, I digress. The playground rocked.

There was a slide that ended in a pit of sand that would suck you to the depths of hell. I shit you not. The depths I tell ya! My friend I (who I will totally tag, so she can vouch for this one) and I got stuck and thought we were gonna DIE one day in the pit of sand. I can’t remember who got stuck first. But the other one gallantly went in to save her bestie and got stuck too. We stood there and screamed for what seemed like hours. People walked by and laughed at us, which infuriated both of us (human right activists at a young age). The more we squirmed, the stucker we got. Finally, the people who lived across the street heard us wailing and came and sucked us out of the mud. Our shoes were left behind. They were very sweet. I remember being wrapped in a blanket in their warm house as they called our embarrassed parents to come get us. They didn’t really believe our story. But I swear to this day, we did not make that shit up. We were stuck!

And then, of course, the best part of the park… the secret known to but a few, and yet… the entire neighborhood… the four story tree-house. This thing was death waiting for us all. It was a case of tetanus, a case of gangrene, a lost limb, head, life, whatever. It was adventure! It was… completely ridiculous!!! I have no idea when it was built, or by whom. But the thing was rickety, at best. The first floor was okay. Pretty sturdy. You could reach it by stepping on little 2x4 “steps” that had been nailed into the large tree. I spent lots of time on the first floor. The second… “floor” was a moldy piece of pressboard. And you got to it by climbing the branches. No easy steps to this one. You had to be brave. I got there. A couple of times. The third floor was a board of some sort. It was up damn high. I looked at it. I think I climbed up to it. But I didn’t step on it. The fourth floor was actually a floor. I mean, it looked fun… up there in the tree top. It looked dangerous and the kind of thing that only a really stupid boy would try to get to. And they did. And they gloated. I admit, I never tried. I was brave enough. I just wasn’t stupid enough.

There were broken arms from that tree, but I don’t think ANY kid EVER admitted it was from THAT tree. If they fell and broke something, their buddies would haul their ass to another location quickly, and a story would be made up by the time an adult arrived. Agreed upon and never spoken of again. Truth. And I will never disclose the location of that tree. I can’t imagine that tree house still exists. I’d like to think it does. *sly grin*

Wonder how many of you out there are from Park Ridge East. Do you have the same memories? Any that I'm missing? Do share! :)

Baby Birds

When I was about 10, I went and sat under my favorite tree to read. There was always a nest in the spring in that tree because three branches formed a perfect Y. Well, a baby plopped out of the nest, right into my lap. For about three seconds, it was the most miraculous thing that had ever happened to me.

Then then mother caught sight of me with her fuzzy baby and swooped down and started pecking my head. That baby flew out of my soft lap and onto the hard ground and I started screaming. My mom came out and held open the screen door and I ran in. I was scarred for life. Not my head. My soul!