Who can say what is real and what is imagined? Only Hammond Jr. himself knows if he is enjoying his eccentric afterlife.
Gloucester is a gorgeous seaside city on the tip of Cape Ann; getting to it takes a willing diversion, but visitors won’t be disappointed. It is full of museums, curio shops, seafood restaurants, and beaches revealing treasures at low tide. The Hammond Castle Museum is located at 80 Hesperus Ave., stately standing along Gloucester’s rock-ribbed shore. It is open from late May/early June through late September, seven days a week, from 10 am to 4 pm. Guests can guide themselves through the castle or take tours that depart every 90 minutes. Candlelight tours are also offered on Thursday nights—in homage to the night-loving proprietor himself—and the castle is available for private rentals, corporate functions, weddings, and other events. For details, visit www.hammondcastle.org or call (978) 283-2080.
THE GHOST LOVER
THE ALEXANDER–PHILLIPS HOUSE, SPRINGFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS
This house was the scene of an exceptional courtship.
It is doubtful whether Historic New England hosts many ghost-story programs. Even if it did, it seems unlikely that another story could be as unusual as this one. This story was first presented at a then Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities meeting by the son of Mrs. Julia Bowles (Alexander) Phillips twenty-five years after her death.
Fortunately, one of those present at that meeting was Richard C. Garvey, editor of the Springfield Daily News. His interest in history and his writing skills combined as he masterfully retold the following romantic and eerie story. Garvey’s source was an account that Mrs. Phillips wrote in 1886 that was never made public until it was presented to the Society. He edited and paraphrased it for his newspaper. With his permission, the story below is reproduced as it appeared in the Daily News.
When my father bought Linden Hall, I was very young, only seven years old, but my first recollection of the house is quite distinct. I was first brought here by Father one afternoon when he came to talk over some business arrangement with the former owner, an elderly Southern lady who occupied it as a summer residence. She was accompanied by her family of two sons and a beautiful daughter, a retinue of slaves, and a fine yellow coach drawn by thoroughbred horses.
Soon we were established, and I and my young sister roamed at our own sweet will through the lofty rooms and the lovely gardens. The flower garden was the delight of my sister and myself. My sister was a strange child, fanciful and dreamy. Very soon I noticed that the house seemed to have a special charm for her. Our dining room was then in the eastern wing, the library in the western wing.
It is in this library wing that my story centers. We were still quite young when we learned that this library and the little bedroom opening out from it had been lived in for years by a young man, one of the sons of the Southern lady. During all this time, no one had looked upon his face. He was a very handsome fellow, they said, clever and fascinating in his manner, but like many attractive men with plenty of money, he had become dissipated and led a very fast life. Then, satiated with what he supposed to be the only pleasures of this world, he decided to isolate himself from his fellows and spend his remaining years in study and self-communion.
My sister, Leila, was a peculiar, reticent child, and this story naturally made a great impression upon her. In the summer, when the old library was opened, she spent a great deal of time there, sitting at the window that looked out upon the garden and reading the queer old books, especially those related to the supernatural. The years of our childhood rolled slowly by.
One warm Sunday afternoon early in June, when Leila was sixteen, she stood in the garden facing the library. She looked toward it, feeling drawn to do so by some strong impulse. There in the window sat a young man, and he seemed to her as beautiful as a god. His large, dark eyes rested upon her with a gaze of burning intensity.
She walked through the garden, around the pathway, and up the library porch steps, but on looking into the room, she was amazed to see the chair in the window empty! She came immediately back to the rest of the family and asked what young man had been in the library. We laughed and replied that she must have been dreaming. She turned away from us with a troubled look in her eyes.
She came to me one evening several days later and said, “I have seen him again.” She told me that she had stepped out upon the eastern porch for a moment and was astonished to see, standing in the driveway, a spirited black horse saddled and bridled with rich, silver-mounted trappings. She turned her head and encountered again the face of the man she had seen at the library window.
Before she had time to speak or even think, he leaned toward her, grasped her hand on which he pressed a burning kiss, and, mounting his horse with a flying leap, galloped away in the dusk.
As Leila related this to me, she was trembling with intense excitement. She begged me to say nothing of the matter to our parents, and I consented, though greatly troubled.
It was about this time that Leila became a somnambulist. One night I was awakened from a heavy sleep by a slight noise. I lighted my bedside candle, hurried into my wrapper and slippers, and reached the foot of the stairs just as a
