Steve Doyle

Night of the Lights

“Remember this date,” the old watchman told his young replacement. “August 30, ‘The Night of the Lights’. It’s best if you don’t look at ’em, but in thirty-three years I’ve never been able to turn away. We’ll just lock the doors and stay inside the building no matter what happens out there.”

“What are the lights?” the younger man asked.

“No one knows, but they’re hypnotic and they’re deadly. The last fella to have this job made the mistake of going out after ’em. He was found face-down in the grass with a musket ball in his back.”

“A musket ball?”

“Yep. That was back in ’56.”

“So, where do these mysterious lights come from?”

“No one knows that, either. I suspect the cemetery out back. Some of those stones date from the early 1700’s, which may account for the musket ball, but I’ve only actually seen ’em out front where they float across the field and disappear into the ground. The urge to go out there and chase after ’em is mighty powerful, but don’t give in to it, whate’r you do.” With these words he locked the door.

Two faces stared out the windows of the Walker Building into the darkness. Below them the small city of Marlborough slept.

As they waited in silence four flickering flames appeared on the hill and began moving slowly through the air. Picking up speed, they changed direction and began moving down the hill away from the building and toward the street. All of a sudden they stopped, fell to the ground and were seen no more.

The young man, James Rundell, broke for the door. Don Cowan, the older man, anticipating the move, restrained him. “Hold on, fella! Don’t go out there; it ain’t safe!”

The young man soon recovered his composure. He wiped sweat from his brow, panting to catch his breath. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“I know, I know,” the old man assured him. “I’m retiring and moving to Florida, so next year you’re on your own. Remember this date and do whate’r it takes to protect yourself.”

One year later. . .

“Are you getting this?”

“I am! I am!”

“Hold the thing steady!”

“I’m doin’ the best I can considering I’m cuffed to this radiator.”

“Yeah, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“There they go! They’re turnin’!”

“Try to keep ’em in focus!”

“I am! I am! Wait—they’re gone.”

“Keep at it a minute, just in case there’s anything else.”

The two men saw nothing more. Finally the young watchman removed the handcuffs with which he had chained himself to the radiator. Then he released his likewise bound friend. “There’s a VCR in the other room. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

They stared at the TV set as four lights paraded across the screen and disappeared.

“They look sorta like candles,” observed one.

“I think they’re orbs,” replied the other.

“What are orbs?”

“Ghosts or spirits, or maybe the energy they use. They’ve been photographed plenty of times, but I’ve never seen one on video. I’m going to send it to the Paranormal Research Institute in Boston and see what they think. Maybe they’ll want to do an investigation.”

“They’ll probably think it’s a hoax.”

“I think it’s a hoax.”

“Let me see the letter again.”

I handed it to my associate, John Everett, with whom I had just watched the video.

Dear Sir or Madam,

Please find enclosed a videotape shot by my friend, Bob, at the Walker Building in Marlborough where I work as a night watchman. No one around here seems to know what these strange lights are, but they can be seen moving across the front lawn every year on August 30. I saw them myself for the first time last year and so was ready for them this year when they made their annual appearance.

There is a very old cemetery behind the building and they may originate from there, but it is uncertain just where they come from or indeed where they go. As you can see from the tape, they just disappear.

We would be very interested to have you come out to investigate and maybe help us explain just what we’re seeing.

Sincerely,

(signed) James Rundell
(signed) Robert Spencer

“What do you think?” I asked when he’d finished reading.

“Well, I’m not ready to call it a hoax, just yet. I mean, these two aren’t trying to convince us they have something supernatural, they’re asking us to check it out. Maybe they’re just attention-seekers, but they’ve given us a definite date; I don’t see why we shouldn’t look into it.”

“You’re right. If they were just putting us on, they wouldn’t wait almost a full year to have their fun. They would have said it was a more frequent occurrence. Also, they admit freely that they don’t know what it is.”

“Well, we’ve got some time, maybe our friend Sarah Sreenan will take a look at it, she knows a lot about weird lights and other such phenomena.”

As expected, Sarah was more than happy to come out and help us. John and I waited while she read the letter and watched the short video. “Well,” she said when it was over, “legends av Oirlan’ tell us aboyt Jack wi’ ’is lantern, who’d appear ter travelers an’ lead dem into de bogs, from whaich they’d ne’er escape. Woe ter they dat followed auld Jack!”

“But Jack o’Lantern didn’t follow a regular schedule, did he?” John asked. “I mean, seeing him was more of a random thing, right?”

Sarah nodded. “Thar’s also somethin’ called de Will o’ de Wisp, said ter be lights carried by elves who’re animated by souls ov de dead; men, weemen, an’ chil’ren.” She shook her head as if she’d already discounted that theory. “But dohs usually move aboyt randomly, especially de wee ones, who tend ter run al’ over. These look more like de Canwylls Corph av a Teulu.”

“A what?” asked John and I together.

“A Teulu is a phantasmic funeral procession an’ Canwylls Corph are Corpse Candles, phosphorescent flames dat usually appear in late summer. They’ve an ’ypnotizin’ affect an’ make mortals folly wha ever they lead an’ so are called "Ignis Fatuus" or "Foolish Fire".”

“But, shouldn’t a funeral procession be going toward the cemetery?” I asked.

“Ye’d tink it wud,” she agreed. “Let me look into it a bit an’ see waaat oi find.”

Sarah left us with assurances that she would accompany us to Marlborough on our investigation and I penned a letter to James Rundell, the night watchman, telling him to expect us August 30 next.

We arrived about an hour before sunset on the appointed day and James Rundell in his uniform met us in front of the building. “Good evening, James, I’m Harry Alexander of the PRI and these are my assistants John Everett and Sarah Sreenan. Where should we set up?”

“Please call me Jim,” he said, shaking hands. “This is my friend, Bob Spencer, who shot the video.” More handshaking ensued. “I have to warn you,” Jim said, “that these lights are dangerous. There’s a legend about a night watchman being hypnotized by them. He ran out into the night after ’em. The next morning people found him dead from a musket ball in the back.”

Sarah said, “Aye, gettin’ caught up in a Teulu would be unpleasant an’ might be fierce, but oi doubt anythin’ would shoot at us.”

“They show up every year?” John asked.

“So I’m told. Since 1956, maybe even before that.”

Sarah produced a fishbowl and asked Jim to fill it about half way with water, which he promptly did. She took a small round loaf of bread and cut a hole in the top. She placed a white candle into the hole and set the bread to float in the bowl of water.

“What’s that for?” asked Bob.

“Whaen it gets close ter time for de Teulu ter make its appearance, we light de candle. Dis ’ill make de entire scene visible ter us, not jist de flickerin’ lights dat you’ve seen before.”

John and I set up microphones and recording devices around the area outside the building. We didn’t entertain high hopes of hearing anything, but we figured it couldn’t hurt. When everything was ready we settled down to wait. Jim locked the doors for our safety. At about 11:30 she lit the candle, saying:

May we see by dis here light
De phantoms of de night.

We actually heard them before we saw them.

“We have learned that you savages are not to be trusted. You will be marched to Boston to stand trial for your treachery.”

“But, Captain Moseley, Sir, many of these people are not fit to march, certainly not the 28 miles to Boston.”

“You have your orders, Sergeant. Now get them moving!”

Then we saw them. Armed soldiers in Puritan dress, sporting black shirts with wide white collars, and the distinctive, tall, wide-brimmed hat with a buckle in front, flanked about fifteen Indians who stood in columns of two.

“There are the lights!” Bob exclaimed. They shone over the heads of some of the Indians, two men and a woman holding a baby. Slowly they moved with the procession across the lawn. Suddenly that little group broke away from the others and began running down the hill.

“There they go!” cried Jim.

“Shoot them!” shouted the man we took to be Captain Moseley. Soldiers pointed their guns and fired.

Jim whispered, “Musketballs.” The Indians fell.

“Bury them right here!” ordered the captain. Some of the soldiers began to dig. “Tie the rest of them by their necks and get them moving!”

“Captain Moseley, Sir, there’s an infant still alive.”

“Put it in the hole with its mother.”

“I will not, Sir!”

Captain Moseley raised his own weapon and fired. “Now, put it in the hole.”

The other man stared in disbelief. “The Devil may take you, Captain.”

With that the images disappeared and everything was quiet. Sarah blew out the candle and we sat a moment in silence. Finally, John said, “I’d like to come back in the daytime and excavate the spot where that grave might be.”

“I’ll arrange to get permission,” whispered Jim who continued to stare out the window at nothing.

He called the office the next day. “As long as we repair the lawn we are welcome to dig, but only with hand tools, and we have to notify the authorities immediately if we discover any human remains.”

Sarah wasn’t interested in digging for bodies, but John and I returned to meet up with Bob and Jim. It wasn’t long before we found something. It turned out to be a water pipe. John looked up at me. “How much you willing to bet whoever laid this pipe found those bones?”

Jim contacted the office of the water registrar who informed him that the pipe had been put there in 1951. Showing a keen sense of sleuthing, he found a man at the Senior Center who had been involved with the project. “I remember that,” the old man said. “Strange experience, finding human bones. We called the cops who came in and determined that the bones had been there too long to classify the site as a crime scene. They bundled ’em up and took ’em away. I was very careful about my digging after that.”

Jim next went to the police station where he was allowed to look through the old archives. He discovered that the bones had been delivered to the R. S. Peabody Foundation at Phillips Acadamy. On the phone he told me about his conversation with them. “They told me there’s a Federal law that states: All Native American remains held in repositories must be returned to the place of their disinterment and reburied.”

“I think it’s great that you were able to track down and find those remains.”

“Wait, there’s more. They also told me that they can only be turned over to an Indian chief.”

“Let me make some calls. Somebody I know must know a chief. Meanwhile, contact the Cemetery Department and see what you can do about finding a reburial site, chances are they won’t let us reinter them on the front lawn of your building.”

Sure enough, one of my contacts knew a shaman, or medicine man, who put me in touch with Chief Natachaman of the Nipmuc tribe. I told the chief about our discovery and that we were seeking permission to rebury the bones. He agreed to receive them from the Peabody Foundation and preside over the ceremony.

Jim called with good news. “I’ve got permission to use the Old Common Burial Ground, which is behind the building and not far from the original site. They said I had to have a suitable container to bury the bones in, but I found a funeral home willing to donate a burial vault.”

“We’re in good shape, then.” I went on to tell him about my conversation with Chief Natachaman.

We assembled at the cemetery where we met Chief Natachaman, a big man with bronze skin and high cheekbones. He wore a buckskin shirt and moccasins, but a felt hat, not the feathered headress I’d been expecting. His countenance was solemn as we introduced ourselves. The chief was accompanied by a medicine man who wore brightly colored clothing and beads of purple and red. The two Indians carefully placed the container which held the bones into the new grave. Chief Natachaman said a short prayer in his native tongue which he explained was for the restless spirits to find peace. “I told them we were burying them so they could begin their journey anew. I asked them to forgive not only those who caused them harm, but also those who had disturbed their long rest.” After the burial, Chief Natachaman placed four candles in the ground at the corners of the mound “to light their way home.”

Jim tells me there have been no strange sightings in the years since we held that little ceremony. I like to think this means the spirits have finally found peace and that we were witness to the last "Night of the Lights".