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PRESTON GANNAWAY / Monitor staff
Mike Sullivan plays old EVPs -
electronic voice phenomena - on
his computer. Some people
believe the restaurant is
haunted by a ghost named Frank,
who is said to have shot himself
in 1926.
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“I've
come to Hopkinton to find Frank. It's a warm evening
at Blaser's Fireside Tavern, and I'm joining a team
for a night of paranormal investigation, or what
laymen might call "ghost bustin'." First, I'm
introduced to Nancy Blaser, who assures me the place
is haunted, recounting story after story of spectral
encounters since she and her husband Terry bought
the place in 1999.
The presumed presence is Frank Mills, who shot
himself dead in 1926, distraught over the death of
his young bride the year before. Nancy must serve
quite a pepper steak for anyone, dead or alive, to
stick around for 70 years, but before I can order
from the pub menu, I head upstairs to meet the team.
I need to be straight with you - I'm a believer.
Granted, I might not sleep in cemeteries on
Halloween, and I know my sisters rigged the Ouija
board, but I've no doubt that some departed souls
just never got the memo about the big sleep. And I
admit it doesn't take much to scare me - one scene
in The Sixth Sense made me yelp aloud in a packed
movie theater like a pre-teen girl with a wooly
spider in her popcorn, and I often run faster than
Edwin Moses getting up my basement stairs, just in
case someone or something is following me, which I'm
pretty sure is true most of the time.
It's getting dark outside, and the team continues to
set up. Karen Mossey and Mike Sullivan, give me a
quick overview of the world of paranormal
investigation. Karen's specialty is EVP - electronic
voice phenomena - and she shows me her digital voice
recorder, explaining that spirits "manipulate the
energy in the recording devices," sometimes leaving
behind their voices.
Mike then gives me a primer in EVP, playing a series
of creepy recordings, where I hear voices say things
like, "We're the hunters," in a chilling,
old-fashioned accent, and another that says, "I love
you," but not in the way you'd really want whispered
in your ear. I listen and nod, but all I can think
is that I'll never invite Karen to my house - with
my luck, she'll wander around with her voice
recorder discovering the one ghost who loves to mock
my personal hygiene. "Nose picker," it would say, or
something just as revealing.
Mike, who's been doing this kind of work for 30-plus
years, tells me that images of ghosts most often
appear as reflections in mirrors or glass objects,
which explains why he's arranged a dozen or so old
bottles and small mirrors throughout the third floor
and why he takes photo after photo like an
over-medicated tourist.
Mike shows me a photo from his collection, a tiny
one of a man wearing a morning coat and bowler, and
I get queasy because I'm pretty sure I'm staring at
a picture of a man who's been dead for 50 years. I
bet if I fake left and run right, I can make it
downstairs and to my car in 20 seconds, but it's
dark in the parking lot and who knows what's out
there waiting for me, so I stay.
The team gathers, and Karen begins in the near-pitch
black on the third floor. I ask no one in particular
if I should have some sort of safe word if Frank
gets me in his ghostly clutches, like "binkie" or
"mommy," but the team is in no mood for jokes. Karen
asks for quiet, calling out to Frank, urging him to
join us. We're greeted with silence, save for the
soft snapping of digital photos. Karen hands me a
thermalined monocular, a night-vision scope, and I
walk around in the dark, praying that I see only
people I recognize through the green-tinted lens.
Somehow, I find myself alone on the third floor in
absolute darkness. I knew this was a bad idea. I'm
in the one area in New Hampshire where ghosts book
their appearances months in advance, and we've
baited Frank into showing his ghostly face right in
this room!
But before I can hyperventilate into
unconsciousness, I hear something downstairs. I
hustle off to find the group huddled together,
excited about a discovery, the first of the night.
Karen presses play on her recorder, and we hear her
voice call out, "Is there anybody here? Speak if you
are here. Who is here?" And then we hear one word,
spoken in a low, peculiar voice. The voice says,
"Frank." The team is ecstatic - real EVP proof that
Frank has arrived! They may be thrilled, but my
stomach feels like my pancreas is holding onto my
duodenum for dear life.
As we listen again and again to Frank's voice, I'm
struck by the fact that these people are like the
paparazzi - they sit around with expensive cameras
and gear, waiting for a glimpse of someone special
to show his face, and then they pounce.
The group heads back upstairs, but my night's over.
Karen's planned a full séance to continue the
chitchat with Frank, but I've heard enough to know
there really are things that go bump in the night.
Besides, it's getting late and this crowd looks like
it could go all night. I need to get home to go to
sleep. With the lights on.
“
(Tim O'Shea can be reached at comments@lastdrop.org.
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