David Golemon - The Supernaturals

The slide changed to a gorgeous view of the mansion in summer.

“The most famous incident occurred in the very next turn of the seasons. In the summer of 1928, gossip columnist Henrietta Batiste, eminent in her literary slashing of the world’s most popular authors, was invited to visit for a short weekend getaway. Miss Batiste, an accomplished rider and renowned horse lover, was out riding alone one sunny Saturday morning before breakfast. As she trotted out the $120,000 thoroughbred from the richly appointed stable, her demeanor was one of a woman who had died and gone to heaven — according to the account that stablehand James McCeevy gave to the local constabulary that evening. Usually harsh and ill-tempered toward any of the hired help, the columnist seemed almost human on that fateful morning long ago.”

The slide switched to a scene from the Bright Waters Sunday Chronicle, the local newspaper. It showed a large group of searchers on the grounds surrounding Summer Place.

“The next anyone saw of the columnist was at five-thirty that evening. Lindemann had just returned with an unsuccessful search party to find the woman sprawled on the Persian rug in the entryway. She was bleeding from her mouth, and one arm was almost completely ripped free of her body. The same police report states that the thirty-six year old was in a state of shock from loss of blood — but I must note here that there was more than one quote from the house staff after their dismissal a few years later, stating that it wasn’t only loss of blood that precipitated the shock, but sheer fright.”

There was more than one gasp from the men and women around the table.

“A local physician removed the torn remnants of her left arm and stayed through the night to keep an eye on his famous patient. When she awakened, still in a state of shock, she was able to relate her experience to the good doctor. In the woods at the back of the estate, her horse had stumbled upon what looked like an unearthed human skull. There had been other remains — an old tattered gray dress, a woman’s shoe — but before she could discern more, she had been pulled from her horse by the sharp tug that had injured her arm. She was thrown to the ground, where someone — or something— pulled her hair, ripping free her riding hat, then showered open-handed slaps to her face. She had felt horrid fingernails rip down her cheeks and exposed neck. Miss Batiste claimed that if it weren’t for the horse, she would have been beaten to death. But the horse went wild, attacking her attacker with flying, flailing hooves. When the doctor and Lindemann attempted to question the woman further, her screaming fit started. She said it was a man, and then screamed it was a woman. The story switched back and forth until the only course of action was to discount her memory of the event altogether.”

Kelly looked around the meeting. The slide show and its powerful narration, the results of months of research and planning, were doing their job.

“As for her claim that her horse had unearthed the skeletal remains of a woman long dead, searchers returned to the scene and found no trace. Our producers attempted to gather more information, but sources in the small town refused to talk to us. It may seem ridiculous to us now, but thoroughly understandable when you see the faces of the locals. They are still haunted by the mention of Summer Place.”

Again, the gorgeous view of the giant house dominated the screen.

“The property has many familiar sides to it, as described by the author Shirley Jackson in her famous story. Ms. Jackson claimed never to have laid eyes upon the house, and extensive research by our producers has shown no evidence that she was ever on the property.”

The slide changed to the winding roads and forested slopes of the Pocono Mountains.

“Several weary travelers have reported eerie happenings on the roads surrounding the estate. Blood-curdling screams in the night, deer and other animals lying dead along a roadway that no one travels. There are even rumors of missing cross-country skiers who may have happened upon Summer Place in the season that sees the grounds shrouded in a white veil of snow. Ski tracks lead up to the property, but no tracks ever leave.”

The portrait of the sewing machine magnate again flashed upon the screen.

“With the death of F.E. Lindemann in 1940, Summer Place closed its doors. The only other time it received guests, save for the Lindemann children’s burials, was during the lease in 2003 to the now famous — or, infamous— Professor Gabriel Kennedy. The true details are hard to come by. All that is known about the event comes directly from official state police reports. The state of Pennsylvania reports in triplicate that the professor walked into Summer Place one spring night with six students. A day later, he and only five others walked out alive.”

Kelly finally looked directly at the head of entertainment. His brow was furrowed, and she knew that he had just figured out what the meeting was about.

“Since 2003 and the Professor Kennedy incident, the house has truly remained empty except for the Johanssons — a local family hired as caretakers in 1940 and paid handsomely by the Lindemann estate. The house continues to sit in the peaceful valley, and anyone traveling the lonely roads in the Poconos may still happen upon Summer Place. Its gabled roof still stands tall against the blue summer sky, and if you happen by in winter, smoke still billows from her main chimney like a talisman against the freezing onslaught of the season. Eunice Johansson still changes the bed linens in the twenty-five bedrooms and suites religiously every other week. She polishes the wood floors every month. The felt on the billiard table is brushed, and the table itself is leveled. The pool is drained every fall and refilled promptly the second week of spring. Though there are no horses at Summer Place these days, the straw inside the stables is still tossed bi-monthly. Fresh water is still changed out daily for animals that will never drink it.”

Kelly started to gather a few items from her case, unnoticed. The presentation continued under the deep, soothing voice of the narrator.

“Summer Place stands and waits, still looking like a home from a fairytale. It pays no mind to the ghostly rumors that permeate the valley, spoken in hushed whispers in the nearby small towns. The rumors sometimes attract the curious, as rumors of a house that is supposedly haunted will, but those wishing to test the myths find Summer Place as well guarded as the castles of olden days. From the road, the upright lines and warm glowing windows of Summer Place and its benign atmosphere lend no credence to the ghost stories. It is a beautiful estate, with a foundation strong and sound, the walls and doors upright and tight, and always sensibly shut, just like Ms. Jackson’s story says they should be. And when you look at Summer Place, always from a distance, a line from The Haunting of Hill House may come to mind: “Whatever walked in Hill House, walked alone .” This was the heart of her terrifying story, and it may also be true of Summer Place — the resemblance is just too strong to ignore.

“ Whatever walked there, walked alone.”

Jason Sanborn raised the lights and paused to survey the faces around the table. They looked confused, but also interested. He moved to his seat as Kelly passed sheaves of paper around the conference table, saving the last for the silent man at its head.

“The following transcript is the last journal entry of Professor Gabriel Kennedy, Head of Behavioral Sciences at the University of Southern California. It was found on June 19, 2003 by the Pennsylvania State Police, and entered as evidence in the official state report.”