Queer Hauntings
True Tales of Gay & Lesbian Ghosts
Compiled by
Ken Summers
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
Maple Shade NJ
Copyright ©2009 Ken Summers.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.
This trade paperback edition published by
Lethe Press,
118 Heritage Ave,
Maple Shade, NJ 08052.
lethepressbooks.com lethepress@aol.com
Cover by Niki Smith
Book design by Toby Johnson
ISBN 1-59021-239-8 / 978-1-59021-239-4
_______________________________________________
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Summers, Ken, 1979-
Queer hauntings : true tales of gay & lesbian ghosts / compiled by Ken Summers.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59021-239-8 (alk. paper)
1. Ghosts. 2. Haunted places. 3. Gays--Miscellanea. I. Title.
BF1471.S86 2009
133.1086’640973--dc22
2009035444
Table of Contents
Part I: Gay & Lesbian Hauntings in the United States
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After the Forty Whacks: The Other Borden House
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Here Comes the Bride: A Guest House Ghost
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Not Quite Terminal: Jersey's Haunted Nightclub
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Dying for a Drink: New Jersey's Original Gay Bar
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Remembering Buddies: Ghost of a Gay Bar
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Boxed and Bottled Spirits: Death Surrounds Nocturnal New York
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The Good Gay Poet: Walking with Whitman
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Slave to the Rhythm: Hidden Heritage in Philadelphia
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Death is Such a Drag: A Case of Closets
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Final Curtain Call: Undead Management at Royalty Theatre
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Moonlight in the Garden: Jim Williams and Mercer House
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A Man's Home is His Castle: The Corpsewood Murders
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A Haunting Most Kinky:The Bastinado Ghost
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Spirited Behavior: Famous Phantoms of the Big Easy
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Burned in Effigy: Tragedy Lives on at the Upstairs Lounge
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The Return of the Sheik: Valentino's Haunted Home
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Belvedere's Return: The Ghost of Clifton Webb
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Movie Monsters: Did the Director of Frankenstein Return?
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A Grand Illusion: Who Haunts the "Houdini Mansion"?
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Musical Therapy: The Innocent Spirit of Long Beach
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Music and Mediums: The House of Francis Grierson
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Smile for the Camera: The Afterlife of Harvey Milk
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A Liquored Time Warp: Golden Gate Ghost Story
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Shadows and Sequins: Liberace Lives On
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Loose Women: Nevada's Wayward Lesbian Ghost
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Part II: Other Gay and Lesbian Ghosts around the World
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Bottom's Up: A Pub with a Pinch
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Spirits on Tap: Death and the Gay Bar
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Getting a Rise: Phantom Hands at the George Hotel
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Pilgrim's Rest: The Monk of the New Inn
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Nowhere to Run: Flight of the Mollies
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From One Queen to Another: A Spirit at the Queen's Theatre
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Wilde and Free: Oscar Returns to Oxford
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Heads Will Roll: The Specter of a King's Lover
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Sign of the Cross: Fitz Manor's Forgotten Crime
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A Bishop's Revenge: The Haunting of John Atherton
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Tea for Two: The Ladies of Llangollen
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Sleep Tight: The Legendary Man-Loving Bat Demon
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Ghosts in the Limelight: Toronto's Haunted Gay Playhouse
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Stiletto Echoes: A Haunted Transvestite Theater
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For Love of Beauty: Slovakia's Bloodiest Countess
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Haunted GLBT-Owned Accommodations
Preface
Vodka cranberry.
The name of this cocktail screamed inside my head while sitting inside the dimly lit Adams Street Bar in eastern Akron. I found myself perched on a barstool during a slow Friday evening, not out of eagerness to see a drag show or sing show tunes at the sparse adjoining piano bar. I came to find Chris.
I first met the lanky blond during my college years. He was a driver for the campus bus service returning to pursue his education after a prolonged absence. He was spry and outgoing—a giddy, gangly blue-eyed boy with a face straight off of a German WWII propaganda poster. Ironic, considering he recently returned from living several years in Berlin along with his other half: a dark, moody German winner of the green card lottery.
Chris would be responsible for my decent into local paranormal lore. On one occasion, he mentioned the tale of a haunted covered bridge in Everett, Ohio and his experiences there one summer night with a female friend. The sound of a wagon came from the darkened bridge, yet no horse or rider ever appeared. Previously, the only ghosts I had searched for in vain were a decent drive from my hometown. The Cuyahoga Valley was a favorite haunt of mine—my backyard practically—so the idea of spirits inhabiting my neighborhood was an exciting newsflash. Borrowing the title Moonspender from a Jonathan Gash novel, I formed a website and collected this and other ghostly tales from along the Cuyahoga River.
Our casual friendship followed the ebb and flow of our ever-changing personal lives. One night, we watched Victor, Victoria in his apartment while his boyfriend stormed off to the bedroom in a tantrum. Between the two of us, we polished off an entire liter of vodka mixed with cranberry juice. An awkward moment passed between us late that night. Lines were crossed that led to certain uneasiness in later months. We still maintained our friendship, enough that Chris called me later in the year to get his mind off a few broken ribs (his other half had thrown him down a flight of stairs during an argument). Months passed without any correspondence between us. Our friendship reduced to chance meetings at the same Akron clubs, updating one another on our lackluster lives and sharing a few laughs.
As I leaned over the counter at the rectangular bar to place my drink order, the sensation of a body too close for comfort against my back startled me. I turned around swiftly to face the mystery greeter and found myself staring at a blank, slate-grey wall. I shrugged it off; it wouldn’t be the first place I visited to host some form of haunting. Continuing my acclimatization, I sipped my beverage and chatted with a few friends. Slowly the alcohol calmed my exhausted nerves.
“Did you hear about the guy who killed himself? He was a regular here.”
I looked up from my cape codder. A Golden Girls rerun droned dismally from an overhead television in the background. My friend John updated me on the latest happening at the bar: a customer (he had forgotten his name) hanged himself in his closet earlier that month in a fit of dire depression. I interrogated him for further details, but the only facts he could recall were a former German boyfriend, blond hair, and above-average height.
Shock gave way to uncontrollable sobbing fueled by Russian firewater. Waves of emotion poured over me. My composure would return fleetingly, replaced moments later by another inundation of grief. I was a total mess. The following day felt like a dream. And then there was the sudden puzzling memory: the presence behind me earlier in the evening.
Chris?
I pondered the implications of it. The vodka and cranberry, allusions to that night so long ago. Was it all coincidence? Was my overactive imagination responsible for connecting nonexistent cues from beyond the grave? Surely, my experience wasn’t self-concocted. I never drank cranberry juice and vodka anymore. The presence behind me was something I could not see. I felt it. Chris was the only answer that made any sense.
In truth, the notion was a great comfort. I felt guilty in the subsequent months for having neglected the friendship. If only I had stayed in contact, I thought, I could have prevented his death. However, the visitation showed no ill will. Regardless of why Chris chose to contact me, the fact remained that he had. On other occasions, I sensed his presence and caught the occasional silhouette of his form in darkened rooms. A friend and psychic told me that a tall blond man continues to visit me and inject writing ideas into my head. I’ve felt no overwhelming urge to visit his final resting place in Stow, Ohio. He isn’t there, after all.
The experience awakened something else within me, a question haunting me since my early explorations of ghostly hangouts. Stories I researched involving relationships always dealt with heterosexual couples. Where were the gay, lesbian, and bisexual entities in paranormal literature? Are the dead asexual? Is ghostology limited to straight society? I had to know the answer. I scoured history, books, and paranormal groups. And slowly the forgotten, overlooked, and unpublicized spirits of a not-so-straight nature were revealed.
This book is the product of my quest. And I owe it all to Chris.
My very first gay ghost.
Introduction
There is an underlying terror of death deep within human consciousness. Life’s greatest mystery awaits us after we exhale our last breath. Heaven or hell, blackness or rebirth, it’s all philosophical speculation. As human beings, we wish to matter and have purpose. There must be some reward for life’s insufferable journey. When our light snuffs out, we hope for an envisioned continuance in the afterlife.
Death, to the spiritually minded, is but a doorway, opening out of our mortal existence. While our bones crumble to dust in subterranean coffins, the soul continues its infinite journey. Some passageways lead the spirits of the dead back to our conscious world, hiding in shadows and haunting our homes. But these skeletons are not the only monsters sharing quarters with shoes and coat hangers. Behind closet doors, we hide an assortment of secrets and personal demons.
The term “coming out of the closet” is used to describe the shedding of some secret life, predominantly the embarrassed silence and denial of homosexuality. This rebirth of self-identity can be painful, isolating, and, in less-accepting circles, dangerous. Some gays and lesbians choose to live out their lives in confidentiality, taking their sexual identities with them to the grave. Others proclaim their gayness to the world with lifted voices. It’s a decision each person must make individually.
In reading tales of ghosts and hauntings, themes of fear and rejection recur with much regularity. Lonely souls seek acknowledgement from the living so that their lives are not forgotten. This terror of abandonment is shared by the many gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered individuals deciding whether to share their truth with friends and relatives. No one, living or deceased, wants to feel invisible and unloved.
Yet some ghosts are invisible. The best-known ghost stories and haunted places revolve around heterosexual entities. Gowned ladies eternally wait for their male lovers, happily-married couples and their children loiter in their favorite homes. Many other tales surround ambiguous specters, demonic possessions, and unearthly animals. Feminine men and butch women are not often to be found, and when a haunting displays homosexual characteristics, it is often rejected, scoffed at, or ignored by paranormal investigators.
In this book, you will find some of the many pink phantoms and lavender apparitions which have fallen through the cracks. From the urban streets of New Orleans and London to the isolated countryside of Zanzibar and the United States, Queer Paranormal lifts the veil separating sexual orientation from supernatural activity and explores the other side of the metaphysical closet. Ghosts of legendary celebrities mingle with ordinary individuals. Horrific murders, forgotten history, and strange characters emerge once more as their stories are retold.
Though there are undeniable gay, lesbian, and bisexual individuals discussed in these chapters, some characters have been at the center of much debate surrounding their sexuality. Not everyone was forthcoming with his or her personal proclivities in life; absolute knowledge often is taken to the grave. These assumptions and deductions are part of the collective myth surrounding these people and are by no means to assume that they may not have been bisexual, curious, or misinterpreted by friends, historians, and investigators. They fall under a broad spectrum of queer identities. This in no way reflects upon their character. Sexuality is not intended to be taboo with paranormal claims nor should it be. Identifying someone as gay, bisexual, or straight is not a moral judgment: it’s a human trait.
Background information is provided for many of the identified spirits to give a sense of their humanity. While they are deceased, they once lived and loved as you or I. Who they were in life is as valid and important as their behavior in the afterlife. Though historical research has pieced together many mysteries of several queer hauntings, some of the dead retain their secrets. Detailed records chronicling the lives of everyday individuals were not always kept. Incomplete facts have been left as they are; several enigmas remain a mystery.
Scattered throughout the pages are a handful of GLBT businesses hiding more than just shy lovers in darkened corners. Phantoms ignore rainbow flags and techno beats. Their desire to be seen or heard outweighs reluctance toward major renovations in their surroundings. Most specific locations mentioned are accessible to the public, giving the reader an opportunity to explore and experience possible paranormal activity for him or herself.
Whether you’re looking for a spooky experience on an upcoming trip or a creepy story for a chilly autumn night, this book offers something for everyone. Now, new meaning can be given to the expression “gay haunt”. And perhaps, this might inspire the next gay or lesbian ghost hunter to see beyond traditional haunted houses and explore a queerer side of the paranormal realm.
Part I: Gay & Lesbian Hauntings in the United States
Eastern States
Fall River, Massachusetts
After the Forty Whacks
The Other Borden House
New England has suffered its share of tragedies and despicable acts. From the early days of the Salem witch trials, the land has had a taste for blood. And blood it has seen. Amidst the bountiful centuries of life, great tragedies have befallen the region. Massacres and battles. Suicide and homicide. New life coincides with death.
Were it not for tragic events which unfolded in 1892, the town of Fall River on the southern border of Massachusetts would have remained obscure and forgotten. Yet one spirit from this infamous crime has not found peace in the solitude of French Street. Her lingering shade is overshadowed by the house where she lived previously, and where her family life was changed forever.
The tragic tale of Lizzie Borden began at her father’s home on Second Street, in a blue-collar neighborhood of Fall River. She was the eldest daughter of a former undertaker, known for his miserly financial habits. As an undertaker, Andrew Jackson Borden was known to be absurdly frugal. Townspeople whispered that Andrew would go so far to pinch pennies as to bend the legs of the deceased for coffin measurements, saving a few precious inches of lumber expense in any way possible.
While the family was far from impoverished, the Borden household scrimped on every expense at the behest of Andrew Borden. He was one of the wealthiest men in the city, earning his fortunes through banks and commercial real estate. He refused to part readily with his capital. Living arrangements were very modest. The only toilet was in the cellar, yet it was rarely used. Each room in the dwelling contained a chamber pot, emptied into a slop pail every morning and spread across the back lawn.
Andrew’s wife, Abbey Durfee Gray, was not Lizzie’s mother. Her biological mother, Sarah Anthony Morse, passed away in 1863 when Lizzie was only three. Abbey had not been well received in the household. She was reclusive and overweight, spending nearly all her days inside their Second Street home. Yet there is little doubt she had minimal effect in rearing Andrew’s two children, Emma Lenora and Lizzie Andrew.
Lizzie was the youngest daughter: a very plain girl with deep amber hair and chilling, pale blue eyes. Her shoulders were broad, as was her waistline, adding to her already coarse and sallow complexion. Thick jowls erased the feminine contours of her face, yet she compensated for her lackluster appearance in her behavior. Lizzie was polite to everyone and had impeccable manners. Animals received the majority of her affections and care, for she possessed awkwardness in social settings and had difficulty obtaining human companions.
Once a month, Lizzie’s mood would turn sour during menstruation—a concept lost upon the Victorian mind. She endured worse pangs than most women suffer, and was a force to be reckoned with. Sulking was her mildest discourtesy. If a person made her upset or angry, she would refuse to speak with the offender for days on end. The family avoided Lizzie’s wrath at all costs; even Andrew handed over a lavish expense account to his daughter as not to be bothered by her darker side.
That late Thursday morning on August 4, 1892, murder swept the Borden household. Lizzie spent the morning in the barn searching for metal sinkers to use for fishing with her sister, who was away at Fairhaven. Upon returning home, Lizzie discovered the body of her father. Bridgett Sullivan, the Irish household maid referred to as Maggie by the children, was in the attic when she heard Lizzie shouting to her.
“Maggie, come down!”
Bridgett was startled by her tone. “What’s the matter?”
“Come down quick! Father’s dead! Somebody’s come in and killed him!”
Her father was reclined on the sitting room sofa. His bloodied coat was bunched behind his head. Abbey was later discovered in the guest bedroom. Her body was face down on the floor beside the bed. Both victims had received blows to the head with an axe: Abbey was struck 18 times while Andrew only 11.
Police descended on No. 92 Second Street. Guilt was immediately placed upon Lizzie. She hadn’t left the house for very long on the morning when the crime was committed. The previous day, she had attempted to purchase cyanide (then referred to as “prussic acid”) at a local store without a prescription. The Sunday following the double murder, a witness saw Lizzie burning a pale blue Bedford cotton dress in the kitchen stove, allegedly because it had been ruined by wet paint. The barn loft floor was coated in dust, revealing that no one had set foot there for quite some time.
With the mounting evidence, Lizzie was indicted for both murders. Her trial lasted fourteen long days in June of 1893. However, luck was on Lizzie’s side. Testimony concerning her attempt to purchase poison was barred. José Correira had recently committed a similar axe murder in the area, spreading reasonable doubt among the jurors. After one and a half hours of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty. Though legally liberated, many maintained her guilt.
The memory of Lizzie Borden is often confined to the Second Street house and these horrific murders. What happened after the murders is often forgotten: the story of a women running from her past with a new name. Lizbeth A. Borden.
Five weeks following the acquittal of Lizzie Borden, she and Emma moved to “the Hill”: a fashionable area of town where the best families lived in luxury. They chose a lovely house at #7 French Street, owned by Charles M. Allen. It had been built in 1890 and was purchased in July of 1893 for the modest price of $11,000. Immense maples shadowed the home. Lizzie chose a suitable name for their new domicile: Maplecroft.