markgrago
Ghost stories hold a particular fascination to the general audience for uncounted and personal reasons from which I will refrain from advertising. That said, there are ‘perks’ for making mention of figures wandering aimlessly through the thick drama of an enchanted night; there are volumes of reported appearances of spirits strolling through cemeteries and dark cornfields. But more vibrant than these claims are the ones made mention in hospitals and public edifices which make an impressive and ennobling mark on our towns. Beaver County has many such occurrences, and I shall spin this tale on a page from which I draw upon the most reliable source I can think of and that a writer can encounter myself.
Some years ago, I was hired to be an assistant in the Franciscan Manor Nursing Home. However, before I cultivate my tale and share my experience, I feel compelled to arrange this location in its proper and original sequence of historical reliability; it just so happens that this not-so-famous haunted playground has acquired a colorful and unusual past. Originally, this nursing home was a mansion built by the Beegle Family. Mr. Frederick Beegle was a prosperous businessman who acquired an impressive bit of wealth; consequently, he built one of the most ornate and extensive mansions Beaver County has even made claim to. But then, tragedy struck him. His twelve-year-old son came down sick; it was said he died in the mansion although I cannot find any evidence to confirm this claim. Finally, when Mr. Beagle passed away himself, his mansion was sold off and switched ownership quite a few times in its history. Before its current claim as a nursing home, a group of Franciscan monks purchased this mansion, and had it converted into a monastery; it was one of the most impressive religious retreats Beaver County ever possessed. (Some of the actual prayer books used by the monks can still be seen in various locations throughout the nursing, last time I checked.) My purpose of including these superficial/historical facts relates to the story of my telling.
When I was first hired to perform my duties within the nursing home, I had almost instantly began to hear stories of lights flickering on and off, the laughter and crying of children echoing through cold and drafty hallways, and even apparitions of a dark-haired boy who roams the lonely corridors of the nursing home late into the night. These stories were subjected to continuous circulation by co-workers and supervisors alike. As I became more acquainted with the folks I was working with, the more the stories grew as a subject of nightly dialogue. It is not outstanding information to assume that the graveyard shift is the most appropriate time to share stories of suspense, strange apparitions and even the sound of children’s laughter and crying. As my employment period expanded and my skills sharpened, I began to imagine hearing ‘things’ taking place right near me but was unable to harvest any identification on a voice or be able to recognize any appearance of anyone. The sounds would catch my attention many times while performing my various duties that were required.
At first, they were taken lightly by my instincts. I was not permitting myself to wade in a dark habit of waiting to hear strange sounds and voices; after all, Franciscan Manor was a large building; it had recorded an expansive history of renovation and structural detail; it was annexed by an entire new building for the purpose of housing residents who would spend their last days in a one room living facility that was labeled as assisted living; it also was a place that preserved a ‘breathing’ secret of Franciscan monks praying in their nighttime dressed chambers for keeping the devil away as demonic forces of a more maniacal and menacing nature. These intoxicating ingredients gave birth to the many legends and scenery that colored the walls and chilled the air of this palace of nightmares and nocturnal activity. Echoes of the past were just as alive as the folks who occupied the present in this stately chateau of the unexplained. In the upstairs chambers of this presidential fortress, there was lovely colored evidence of days passed by. Healthy, thick fireplaces scented the rooms with comfort and quietude that screamed at any person walking by its extravagance. Fruit-colored wallpaper and Victorian shades of convivial furniture dressed each room with a manicured and embroidered sense of friendliness and illuminating allurement. But that was not to be the end of it!
Sitting alone in the main lobby of the upstairs wing of the building, my imagination grew tameless and superstitious. I began recollecting the many stories I was already acquainted with and commenced on wondering, heavily, if they were true. Every sound in the hallway transcended into a nightmare. I sat frozen with a desire to seek mischief; in return, I got haunted by the arrival of footsteps with no one to claim them; I was listening to the distant echo of a person in sickly distress, a patient perhaps. But my fascination chained me to my present surrounding of hallucinations and uncertainty. I waited for more. Suddenly, out of the corner of my onerous eye, a dark and small figure of a black-haired child dressed in white was envisioned walking down by the end of the long and dimly lit hallway. I glanced forward so hard in its direction that I feared snapping my neck off of my shoulders. To my satisfaction, no one was there. To my dismay, I had to surrender the phantom apparition as nothing more than a false vision from the haunting imagery my imagination had manifested over the many stories my thoughts were attempting to process. The image was fake, but the feeling of not being alone on that floor was ghastly. I did not confess this experience to any of my co-workers. How could I? The rest of the night was preoccupied with the business that the night required of it. I said nothing and went home when my shift ended. I thought that would be the end of things. I would speak no more of ghostly figures or strange sounds coming from all of the odd geometry in the ancient place. The following night I returned to work and expected nothing but routine and activity that was the normative of my shift. This would be anything but the case!
Late into the night, I was summoned by a supervisor to check on an elderly woman who was complaining of being kept awake. Upon arriving in her room, I found her to be lucid but quite disturbed but wearing a mask of fear on her face that took an inextricably hold on her rationality. I asked her to tell me why she thought she could not sleep tonight. Her response was gruesome.
“why does he keep coming into my room and crying? Why does he keep coming in here? That poor little boy! You must help him! All he does is sit by my bed and cry!’
Astonished and horrified by her confession, I asked her what this little boy looked like. She confessed that he possessed a beautiful head of dark hair, dark eyes, and was dressed in a white outfit that looked ‘old’! My convictions, soaring high above my reasoning, left me little to doubt. The little boy of Franciscan Manor had been seen by someone other than myself, and that the vision out of my cornered eye did, in fact, have the horrid potential of being real!
I still kept all of this a secret; after all, heavily medicated elderly people were not to be taken seriously as a reliable source of information on the comings and goings of a busy nursing home, in spite of the fact that there were already in the generals circles of gossip, stories of voices and ghostly appearances that no one decided should be taken seriously. But that would still not be the end of it!
When I finished my weekend of being absent, my duties resumed, once again, on the second floor. On that floor, at the end of the hallway, lived an old German woman whose disposition was stern and manicured impressively for a woman of her age. After exchanging several topics with her, she began to regale me with a quaint spiel about a nightly visitor on her end of the hallway of her room. As the details sprouted into a tale of animation and suspense, she collaborated her confessions with that of the other oral narratives of hauntings and apparitions that is replete on the nursing home grounds. On a particular rainy night, she was awakened by the sound of thunder that was exchanging violent bursts of sounds and echoes that invaded her sleep. Upon opening her eyes instantly, she possessed the overwhelming feeling that she was not alone in her room; there was someone ‘near’, but in the room with her. Her instincts commanded her to rise up from her bed and open her door that led into the hallway. After doing this, she saw, in the dark and unidentifiable distance, the image of a small boy with ebony hair and white clothing standing near the middle of the entrance staring scarily at her. She asked him a question! ‘What are you doing here? How did you get into this building and on my floor? Where is your mother?’ The boy did not speak a word and simply and quietly walked towards the stairs that were located clear on the other side of the grand hallway. She unsuccessfully tried to call him back, but his image, as it got further away from her sight, grew faint and dull. Before she knew it, the little ghostly image had vanished. Stricken with what she had just witnessed, she immediately called for assistance. When one of the nurses arrived in her room, she demanded to know why a little boy was standing outside in such a dark hallway, all by himself, with no one with him. The nurse made every attempt to convince her that she did not see any liking of a little boy and that she was most likely dreaming the entire episode. Convinced, but not entirely with the nurse’s suggestion, she calmed herself back and went to sleep. She never spoke of the incident again until she decided to confess it to me. As the months passed, there were more reports of a little boy with black hair and white clothing roaming the hallways of Franciscan Manor; there were also other sightings of older men accompanied by little boys walking around outside on the grounds; most of these cases were reported only at night.
Some weeks later, I resigned from my position and the stories of that place continued to entice my curiosity even more. I sought out more information from various sources and people. One witness revealed some startling information concerning the Beegle Family that resided there. As I stated earlier, it is not known with certainty that Mr. Beegle’s twelve-year-old son passed away in the mansion; in fact, no one was even certain that such a child ever existed. However, after some considerable research, I discovered that the Beagle Family had entered the Beaver Cemetery. When you arrive at the front entrance where the cemetery office is located, the Beegle Mausoleum is located diagonally across from the office. It is an impressive complex of names, fancy, heavy doors that house the final remains of each family member; I took a closer look by peering inside the front window. As far as my eyes could make out, there is indeed a little boy entered in the mausoleum (I was unable to read his name last time I visited)! Perhaps this is the final resting rest of the Crying Boy of Franciscan Manor…
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