It Happened Here-- Halloween Special

Well, once again America's holiday that celebrates horror, the weird, the creepy and the spooky is fast upon us.  (No, I'm not referring to election day.) In Octobers past I have occasionally tried to showcase, or mention markers and stories associated with memes or things that "go bump in the night", etc., etc.[1]   In recent years the Pomeroy foundation has made this easier for me by producing a series of   "Legends and Lore" markers that celebrate New York folk lore. But first, let's begin at the summer home of a writer who made his mark by writing in genres of horror and "weird" stories.

On a quiet street in the quiet village of Broadalbin  NY is the former summer residence of Robert W. Chambers a literary beneficiary of Edgar Allen Poe and a literary contemporary of Mark Twain, Stephen Crane,  and Ambrose Bierce.  Chambers was scion of a wealthy family living in Brooklyn who was educated first at the Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, then, when he showed artistic promise enrolled in several of the most famous art schools in Paris but after he graduated  abruptly left art for writing, returning to it occasionally to  produce  some illustrations for magazines or to illustrate some of his own works.

North Main St., Broadalbin

( picture  taken in 2014 )

 Chambers was most successful in the genres of gothic horror, science and supernatural fiction and just plain "weird" stories, inspiring the writings of H.P. Lovecraft. His most popular work, The King in  Yellow is a collection of stories centered around the effects of a play ("The King in Yellow")  reputedly, so profound, so psychologically  engaging that readers cannot put it down with the effect that it ultimately drives them insane!  And it is this thread that links four of the collection's short stories.  Later in his career he would write romances and historical fictions that were less successful.

  Chambers, himself, was an avid sportsman who loved the Adirondacks and his home on the doorstep of New York's great wilderness.  Like some baronial hunting lodge, his home in Broadalbin was filled with hunting and fishing trophies, and  his extensive collections of exotic insects.  His stories are sometimes set in wild, outdoor-atmospheric landscapes, like the Scottish and  English moors that inspired his Victorian predecessors and contemporaries. The Sacandaga Vley out his back door was a large area of sunken meadows,  cattail swamps, vernal ponds, interspersed with tangles of thickets and patches of woods, before it was dammed  up creating the Sacandaga Reservoir in the 1930's. 

 Perhaps unsurprisingly, his work habits were a bit odd.  For most of the year he lived in New York City.   Six days a week he would arise, breakfast, and groom and dress himself immaculately before leaving for his office to write, precisely at 10am.  He returned precisely at 6pm.  No one, not his family, not his business associates, not his publishers  ever knew where this office was!

 I won't spoil any of his stories by summarizing any of his plot lines, but let me give you a little of flavor of his work by describing some of the characters he creates:

--A little, fussy tradesman, with wax ears held on by wires and no fingers on one hand, who repairs things  for people as a clock repairmen or shoe maker might, but the things he repairs  are reputations  and the tools he uses are an army of  henchmen who wheedle and bribe and threaten and intimidate.

--mysterious spectral maidens                                                                                                        -grey bipedal mur-men with with soft fleshy rubbery skin, red pulsating gills, slack open mouths, and lidless staring eyes

--foul smelling spidery, reptilian things

--a scientists that turns living matter into marble

--a church attendee who discovers he is being observed by the organist during the mass,  and from that person's expressions and supposed feigned indifference to him, he conjures up all sorts of malignant intentions the musician  must harbor towards  him.

-- a pale bloated driver of a two horse hearse.

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Within the last few years the Pomeroy Foundation has created a number roadside markers that are part of their "Legends and Lore" series--stories that lack verifiable documentation, but have persisted over time  in an area long enough to be considered part of the local folklore

                  Rt. 20, Esperance at Schoharie Creek

After the Napoleonic Wars a French Grenadier and his wife and two young sons came to live across the Schoharie Creek from the village of Esperance. The ex-soldier died and the women lived apart from the community, never learning english.  Rumors began to spread about her among the New England settlers of the town after several crop failures and unexplained deaths of livestock and children. One villager reported she had seen the women polling her way across the Schoharie  riding upon her apron and when she reached the other side she put on the apron, undampened by the crossing and continued on her way.  This revelation was enough to galvanize the New Englanders who assembled at the local meeting house and decided she must be put down/killed.  One of their number was chosen to cast a silver bullet from a table spoon and shoot her through an  open window of her home. She was buried with a stake driven through her head, buried  under a  tree so its roots would keep her from leaving her grave.  In later years one of her sons vividly told the story of her demise.

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Like many legends, the legend at Spook rock, a large angular boulder on the edge of the Claverack Creek has several versions. The features they have in common are that a star-- crossed pair of lovers escaping from their people who don't approve of their union, come together at the rock where they meet their demise but when the church bell  from the Claverack church can be heard echoing through the valley the pair reappear in spirit form at the rock or  in the surrounding woods.                                 Spook Rock Rd., Co.Rte 29, Claverack

The most "accepted" version, to which the Pomeroy marker alludes , is the version  reported by the Greenport Historical Society.  In this story a Mohican chief in his fortified  village on Becraft Mountain has a beautiful daughter.  A young handsome brave, from a rival tribe, scouting out the village, runs into her and they fall in love.  The pair plan a tryst in the woods  but then a huge violent storm develops.  They seek shelter under a rocky outcropping near the top of the mountain .  In the midst of the downpour and lightening the cliff side  collapses and they are carried down the mountainside ending up buried together under a huge boulder at the edge of the creek.  When the church bell tolls the boulder temporarily turns over releasing them briefly from their rocky tomb and they can be seen together in ghostly form.

A second version have the couple deciding to elope and coming to the rock with the creek at flood stage, deciding to cross, and both being swept away to their deaths. Ever after, the Princess is said to be heard moaning in the wind as she searches for her lost beau.

A third version has a young Mohegan princess and a young Dutchman meeting at the rock to carry on a romance but when the affair was discovered the local Dutch settlers  surprised the pair at the rock killing them both.  Their shadows can be seen in the moonlight and their screams faintly heard in the woods.

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A final story doesn't belong in this blog because it isn't located in New York State but it brings up a point I wish to make.  On vacation this summer, I was in York, Maine.  York is an old town first settled in 1624 and incorporated in 1652.  In its heart is a colonial cemetery and in the cemetery is a "witches grave".  In their signage the Old York Historical Society is quick to reassure us that this isn't  really the grave of a witch,  covered over with a very large stone to prevent said witch from reemerging and causing mischief.  Instead, it is a grave  covered by a thoughtful husband who wanted to make sure his wife's remains are undisturbed by wandering livestock.  Fair enough--but why is this grave the ONLY grave to receive such treatment?

                                                                    Old Parish Cemetery, Rte 1A, York , Maine

And then there is the "portrait". In a cemetery filled with cherubim and angels of death images conveying the standard dour warning "repent--for I am now what you soon will be", there is this singular lady, elaborately coiffed, in a flowing gown, sensual, bare-breasted!  Eyes staring forward, mouth pursed,  she seems ready to burst out with something --but What?

And she lies there seemingly alone, away from the other well marked graves. Actually there are probably plenty of graves nearby but they are unmarked or were once marked with wooden markers, long since rotted away. She's up in the cheap seats!  And where is her family?   

A final observation--she hasn't been totally forgotten by members of the  twenty-first century. Her grave is covered with mementos, tokens, gifts, coins, flowers, talismans, etc. What are the meanings of these "gifts" for the people who gave them?  Though I don't take seriously witches and ghosts and  the "things that go bump in the night" etc, etc.,  it  is well to remember, there are many that do.

Happy Halloween!

[1] see "New York State Historical Markers: It Happened Here.  October 26 , 2014, "With Halloween Approaching"--Indian Raid.

see also NYSHMS:It Happened Here.  October. 23,  2013. "The Ghost of Duncan Campbell"and Marker of the Week "The Mysterious Throne in Kingsbury"