the rear of the dining area.
According to Ted Andrews in his book Animal Speak, cats represent mystery, magic, independence, and nighttime. In ancient Egypt, the cat was revered and usually represented the goddess Bast. Cats have been associated with witches as their “familiars.” In this respect, it is believed that the cat embodies the spirit of a former witch who crossed the line and did something worthy of punishment. That punishment is to incarnate as a cat and serve the needs of another witch for nine lives before being allowed to incarnate once more as a human. It’s interesting to note that cats are typically feminine in their energies and connections. McSorley’s did not allow women in the bar until 1970, yet the cats have been present all along.
Brian pointed out to me a dust-covered gas lamp that hangs in McSorley’s. On it are several turkey wishbones, also covered with dust. McSorley’s tradition calls for a soldier leaving for war to place a wishbone on the lamp, then remove it when he returns. Brian thinks this tradition started with World War I; other sources claim it started with the Civil War. Other than a soldier leaving or reclaiming his wishbone, no one is allowed to touch the gas lamp, not even to clean it. Brian said that the dusty wishbones still on the lamp serve as a memorial of sorts for the soldiers who placed them there before leaving for war and never returned.
I doubt Houdini is hanging around McSorley’s as a cat. However, the disembodied noises, the unseen admirer seen petting the cat on the bar, and the lengthy history of notable guests at the establishment certainly lend credence to assertions that the place is haunted. Personally, I did not capture any evidence of paranormal happenings. Rather, my mother and I were captured by the mouthwatering aroma of the burgers that landed on the table by the front window for a young couple having lunch. The motto of McSorley’s is “Be Good or Be Gone.” Apparently, someone is being good for an indefinite amount of time, as they’re not yet gone. Keep this in mind if you visit McSorley’s, and order an extra round of “light & dark” beer when you belly up to the bar.
CHAPTER 6
Old Bermuda Inn
THE OLD BERMUDA INN is a sprawling banquet facility with a twist. Embedded within it is the original structure of a single-family home built in 1832. The home is now the Inn’s restaurant, and across the parking lot is a quaint outbuilding that serves as a bed-and-breakfast. For customers ranging from discriminating brides to planners of lavish company holiday parties, the Old Bermuda Inn fits the bill with its ambiance and fine-quality food.
The Mesereaus were the first couple to live in the home and enjoy the view of the New York harbor. Young Martha Mesereau looked forward to starting a family, but the Civil War interrupted her plans. Her husband was drafted to serve in the Union forces and, sadly, was killed in action. Martha was grief-stricken. She retreated to the small bedroom, locked the door, and starved her-self to death.
The portrait of Martha Mesereau, marred by a burn mark from a mysterious fire
Today, Martha’s presence is experienced as a distinct and chilling cold spot and by the sounds of someone moving around on the second floor when no one is there. Managers at the restaurant have investigated the sounds of a woman weeping on the second floor but have found no one. Often, there are reports of a phantom-like lady roaming the dining rooms or appearing on the staircase, and her description matches the portrait of Martha that hangs at the entrance of the restaurant, opposite the staircase.
In addition to cold spots, Martha has a thing for heat, as in fire. In each of the six fireplaces, fires have started mysteriously. During a renovation, the portrait of Martha self-ignited; luckily, the fire was contained immediately, and the portrait remains intact save for a few scorch marks. The staff are convinced that Martha was not pleased by the renovations.
The day my son Brian and I went to investigate the Old Bermuda Inn was Martin Luther King, Jr. day. I called ahead to make sure they were open, given that it was a Monday and a holiday. The receptionist said, “We’re open seven days a week.” The traffic gods were on my side as I approached the Outerbridge Crossing (a bridge) with absolutely no one in my way. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, traffic is customarily backed up to Route 287, forcing one to inch all the way down to 440 and over the bridge.
Once inside, the receptionist greeted us and explained that Cindy, the general manager, had left instructions to expect us and to convey her apologies that she could not be there. The receptionist handed us a flyer about the inn’s history that details some of the haunted activity there. Then she said, “Follow me.” Walking through the dining room, she pointed to the chandelier and told us, “People say they see one of the lights glowing when the chandelier is turned off.” (According to the flyer, “Martha is keeping a light on while she waits for her long lost love.”) Next, she took us to the portrait of Martha Mesereau. Pointing out the burn mark, she told us how the portrait caught fire during renovations when nothing nearby could have burned it.
Brian and I were left to wander the dining areas, the bar, and the second floor. We were on our own except for a catering manager and his two clients who walked by once as we stood in the downstairs hallway. There was activity in the kitchen, but nothing paranormal; the cooks were cleaning and prepping. We took several pictures of Martha’s portrait from various angles and positions. I left my digital voice recorder on the table in front of her portrait to record possible EVPs while we toured the adjoining rooms on the first floor. The average temperature in each room was approximately sixty-eight degrees. I retrieved the recorder before heading up to the second floor.
Upstairs, Brian and I had the whole floor to ourselves. This was perfect. It was quiet. The door of one room was slightly ajar; I peeked inside and saw chairs, tables, catering equipment, appointment books, and a bride’s hoop skirt and tulle. I thought it odd that this storage room was left unlocked. Later in my research, I read about the former bedroom that baffles the Inn’s staff because they find its door open when they know for sure that they locked it the night before. It’s thought that this is the room where Martha died.
In the larger room just beyond the unlocked storage room, Brian got out his camera to take pictures. At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary, but then his camera had an odd malfunction. Actually, it would have been functioning perfectly if someone had been in front of the lens. However, when he took a picture in the outer corner of the room, the camera went into face-focus mode, attempting to center and focus on a person’s face even though there was no one there that Brian could see. He thought something was wrong with his camera, but when he pointed it at the other corners of the room, it took pictures successfully without attempting to focus on a face.
Brian found me in the hallway outside the bathrooms and told me what had just happened with his camera. I followed him back to that room and took pictures with my camera. I had no problems, but my camera is a less advanced Nikon than Brian’s. He took some more pictures and the camera worked fine until he pointed it to the corner of the room where it had malfunctioned before. Again, the camera searched as if trying to focus on a face. This time I was there to witness it.
In the view screen on the back of the camera, I saw a blurry shape in the corner of the room. Whatever it was, the camera wanted to focus on it before it would allow the shot to be taken; I could hear the lens shifting in and out. Finally the camera just shut off, as if it were exhausted from focusing and had given up.
I asked Brian if he had shut the camera off. Looking rather perplexed, he said no. It’s unlikely that he shut it off accidentally. The power button on his camera has to be pressed and held down to turn the camera off; this prevents the user from accidentally powering down while taking a picture.
