B&B | The Haunting of Harbor Hill

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My name is Brandon Schexnider, and you are listening to Fear Daily. Subject, B&B. User, fam63folk. Posted April 4th, 1995. There's a bed and breakfast in my hometown of Waterbury, Connecticut that dates back to the 1820s. It's a nifty little spot that has been a private home, a tavern, and a stagecoach in, but for most of my childhood, it sat derelict. It was the kind of place kids told stories about. So-and-so was murdered here, and their ghosts still haunt its halls, and so on. As teenagers, my friends and I would talk about trying to break in so we could check it all out, but we were too chicken. Just before I went off to college, I saw a for sale sign on the lawn of the house, and by the time I came back for Christmas break, it had sold. According to my mom, the new owners were nice people who were planning to reopen the hotel as a bed and breakfast. Carrie and I met at college through mutual friends, but we didn't start dating until after graduation last year. It got serious pretty fast, so I decided to bring her home to meet my folks and pop the question. On all my previous trips back, I'd stayed at my parents' house, but that obviously wasn't an option if I was bringing a girl. Mom tried to convince me there was plenty of privacy at home, but Dad finally won her over. He told me that most of the motels in town would be fine, but if I really wanted to impress Carrie, I should take her to the B&B, which had been open for a few years at this point. The room I booked was the nicest one they had, a third-floor suite with a king-size bed and walk-in shower. Carrie and my parents loved each other, thank God. We spent the first day with them and then on the morning of the second day, hiked out to Bolton Fire Tower. The view from the tower has always been incredible, an endless forest of fir, spruce, and birch trees. I proposed to Carrie there and she said yes, it was absolutely perfect. We celebrated with dinner and drinks at Charlio's, a bar I love since before I was too young to love it and when the bartender found out we were engaged he started buying shots Carrie isn much of a drinker so we staggered out of there earlier than you expect If I remember right, we were in bed by midnight. Around 3 a.m., I was woken up by a sound I couldn't place at first. It was still there after I shook off the cobwebs and was able to hear it properly. Voices. Two young women in a room upstairs from the sound of it, and they were talking about Carrie and I. There's a lot about this experience that doesn't sit right, but the first thing was that I couldn't remember us having met any young women in the bar, yet these two seemed to know everything about us. They knew that we sometimes fought over money, that we'd broken up once in the second month of our relationship before reconciling over a bottle of wine two weeks later. I knew we'd had a lot to drink that night, but you'd think I'd remember us spilling every detail of our lives. Through it all, Carrie was dead to the world, blissfully ignorant of the hangover waiting for her in the morning. The conversation between the women got even more intimate. it. They knew things I never would have told anyone in a bar, things I'd never even told Carrie. They giggled about how I'd fooled around with a couple girls during the two weeks we were split, how there'd been a pregnancy scare with one of them that had turned out to be a false alarm. They repeated word for word the conversation I'd had with that girl on the phone when she told me that the test was negative and then the lie I told Carrie when she asked who was on the phone. Just then, Carrie rolled over in her sleep and I jumped a little. The women laughed like they knew exactly what had just happened. That pissed me off. I threw on a pair of shorts and stormed out into the hallway. I didn't know how they knew what they knew, but I'd had just about enough. When I couldn't find the stairs leading to the fourth floor, I got even angrier and stomped downstairs full of righteous fury. The desk clerk's eyes were puffy with sleep when she came out of the office, and I gave her both barrels. How is anyone expected to sleep in this place when the floors are paper thin? I demanded. A puzzled look replaced the sleepy one, and she asked what I meant. I told her that the women in the room above ours had woken us up with their giggling and carrying on, and I hadn't paid good money to hear someone else's gossip when I was supposed to be sleeping. The clerk's brows knit in confusion. She asked if I was sure it was coming from above us, which, of course, I was. She looked uncomfortable and went silent for a moment. well I said are you gonna do something about this sir she told me haltingly there is no fourth floor you're at the top of the hotel the only thing above you is the roof and it's not accessible that took the wind out of my sails I sputtered a response something to the effect of that being impossible but she insisted I tried to tell her that I'd heard what I'd heard but she just shrugged It's an old building, she said. It makes a lot of noise. Silence hung between us for what felt like minutes but was probably only 30 seconds. I had nothing else to say so I lamely apologized for disturbing her and slowly walked back upstairs. In the room, I watched Carrie sleep. The flings I'd had had been while we were separated, but they still weighed on me. I remember wondering if I should tell her if it would accomplish anything. She was the most important person in the world to me, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt. The women upstairs spoke one last time. They said we were going to be fine. To start your business, go to the Handels Platform for the Entrepreneurs. Shopify helps you to start, run and spread your business. With an adaptable theme, you can build your brand, marketing tools, Let your products fall off. And integrated present solutions save time for starters and growing companies. Both online, personally, as well. Shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you. Call you for your test period of 1 euro per month on Shopify.eu of cold cases, to paranormal encounters, cults, and extraordinary survival stories. It's a little bit of everything for everyone. Whether you're drawn to mysteries, fascinated by the strange and unexplained, or simply love a good story, I focus on the truth, the details, and above all, justice for the victims and survivors. So buckle up, things are about to get a little scary. Follow Beyond the Ferns wherever you get your podcasts. Thanks y'all. Subject The Haunting of Harbor Hill User TooLate36 Posted August 13th, 1995. Up until the age of nine, I spent as much of my time in the forest as possible. The further in I could get, the better. In my mind, I was like Davy Crockett, forging a life in the untouched wilderness where the world couldn't touch you, and back in the 30s and 40s, there was still a lot of that wilderness in America. Nowadays, it feels like anything that's green or flowering gets built on, and I worry how much of the natural beauty I took for granted as a boy will be left for my grandchildren to enjoy. Regardless, that's not the story I wanted to tell today. As I said, until the age of nine, I adored the forest and felt no danger there whatsoever. During the school year, I felt alien and apart from the other children, but in the woods, amongst the stoats and minks and raccoons, I was at home in my truest self. My parents were good, kind people. My father was a mechanic at the Rosalind Hudson Essex Automobile dealership, and my mother kept house, but they didn't quite understand me. In fairness, I still don't quite understand myself, so this was hardly their fault, but they seemed relieved that I enjoyed spending so much time out of the house. An experience in 1947 changed my relationship to the outdoors somewhat. Call it a loss of innocence, if you like, and though I still spent hours away from home afterward, I never again felt as free and unguarded as I had previously. One of my favorite spots to explore was an estate called Harbor Hill. It once belonged to Clarence Hungerford McKay, a millionaire who had been wiped out by the stock market crash of 1929 and eventually passed on a decade later. I don't know the full story, but there must have been no heirs to pass his land to because by the time I first visited Harbor Hill in the mid-40s, it had fallen into ruin. The land surrounding McKay's abandoned mansion was vast, some 700 acres if I remember right, and it took some time to wind through its many glades and dells. You knew you were nearing the house when you began to see gravel carriage paths beneath the wild growths of dogwood and rhododendron. At the height of its grandeur, the main chateau of Harbor Hill was some 80,000 square feet, but by the time I found it, much of the roof had fallen in, rendering the third floor inaccessible. All the windows had been broken by what I have to assume were rock-throwing vandals and possibly the same ones who lit fires in the house's many rooms. Don't ever let anyone tell you that juvenile delinquency is a recent invention. I spent hours in the ruins of Harbor Hill, making up games to play by myself. Sometimes, I was an outlaw, sometimes a noble, sometimes an outlaw noble, and never had a second thought about things like ghosts or monsters. In fact, my biggest concern was making sure I didn't catch the notice of any teenagers or tramps who happened to come by. This is why, on my final visit to the estate in 1947, I assumed at first I was dealing with something commonplace. But I was quickly disabused of that notion. It was a warm afternoon, the air humming with birdsong and the buzz of insects. I was approaching the house by way of the main carriageway, which was lined on both sides by huge maple trees. Once you reach the chateau, the road split into a circular drive, in the center of which was an island overgrown with brambles and even more maples. When I spotted a figure standing in the window of what had once been the first floor billiards room, I ducked into that island, hoping whoever it was hadn't seen me. I waited there, breathing as quietly as possible while I strained to hear what sounds were coming from the ruin. If it was breaking bottles or laughter, it was teenagers inside and I could stay so long as I gave them a wide berth. If I heard grunting or screaming, then it was likely tramps and I had to leave. Tramps were a mystery to a child. adults were supposed to be scrubbed, hard-working people who told you what to do or ignored you. Instead, tramps were filthy, often crude figures who spoke to you as if you were one of them, and that disturbed me. If that wasn't enough reason to avoid them, there were also stories at school about what certain tramps would do to children if they caught them alone. All I had seen of the figure in the window was a shadowy outline of shoulders and a head, so it was impossible to know what I was dealing with I sat there in the overgrown island for long minutes hearing nothing but the sounds of nature Finally I decided that it must have been my imagination and I came out from shelter walking up the main steps and through the open doorway. As always, the halls were filled with dirt, rubble, and garbage left behind by the many people who had drifted through over the years. In some rooms, charred bits of wood lay atop fire-blackened floorboards. I was on the grand stairs when an incredible crash sounded out all around. It was as if someone had thrown dozens of invisible bowling balls down the steps toward me, and I covered my ears as much in surprise as in pain. The sound increased in volume, and I pressed my hands over my ears harder, trying to drown out the cacophony, but it didn't help. I closed my eyes tight and crouched down, rocking back and forth on the stair, trying to soothe myself. It finally stopped as quickly as it started with no tapering or lean in. It was as if someone had simply turned a switch. I opened my eyes and cautiously took my hands away from my ears. Standing, I turned my gaze back up toward the top of the staircase, and that's when I saw it. It looked like a man, but it could have been because even with the sun shining through each shattered window, it was completely cloaked in shadow. The only features it had were its eyes, but they were enough. They shone a bright purple and radiated menace, as if they held every cruel thought in the world, every terrible story I'd been told about hobos and teenagers and the damage they could do. Decades later, I served in Vietnam, where I saw horrors I would never share with another living soul, but the feeling emanating from this man's eyes was a thousand times worse. I ran. The trip back to our little row house in Roslyn is a blur, but I do remember tripping over and over. I couldn't keep myself from looking behind me to make sure I wasn't being followed. Stopping or slowing down was not an option. I spent the rest of that summer much closer to home. The entirety of Harbor Hill was eventually turned into a 400-home housing development in the mid-50s, but the Chateau was dynamited not long after that final visit in 1947. My parents, who I never shared my story with, said that this was done to stop squatters from taking up residence there, but I knew from my many visits that no one ever stayed there long. I've always wondered if someone else saw the purple-eyed man, and that's what led to its destruction. I suppose I'll never know. Fear Daily is an independent podcast hosted by Brandon Schecksneider and written by Brennan Storr with Joanna Smith serving as the consulting editor audio production by Rachel Boyd and sound design by Southern Gothic Media. This podcast is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or locations, is entirely coincidental. 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