Lunation, non amplius—a New York Halloween tale.

October 29, 2011 — American Civil War, Central Park, Civil War, Ghost, ghosts, Green Door, Halloween, Haunted, James Brown, New York, New York City, Nor'Easter, snow, spooky, The Ear Inn

October 29^th

Beneath a crescent moon barely three nights old, snow fell over the city—too soon, too quiet. Its companions came next, silent as breath and old as memory.

It had been fifty-nine years since an inch of snow fell in Central Park before Halloween, only the fourth time since the Civil War era. Back then, the Silk Stocking blue bloods made The Seventh Regiment Armory (now the Park Avenue Armory) its social hub.

Elite military brass gathered in the armory’s ornate gas-lit rooms, where they were served hand-rolled cigars and drams of whiskey on engraved silver trays. Polite liveried attendants ensured crystal glasses were filled and sulfur matches struck as essential matters were discussed in the hazy, rich atmosphere.

Slipping behind the Veterans Room’s heavy oak doors today, you may still hear those others whispering confidences and passing secret plans. The ghosts of New York possess personalities that seldom fade away. They move past one another with a knowing nod, sometimes retreating decorously but always ready to send a shiver when summoned.

Ever unexpected, the abnormal can jolt nature, sharpening surprise to a pinpoint that frightens to the core.

Waking this morning, I am startled by a strange bluish light through the bedroom window, alongside a high windy whistle threading the courtyard. Expecting the rhythmic thud of autumn rain, instead, out the window, I am surprised by a tumble of ghostly white flakes spinning in the cross currents. As the day wears on, its cold dankness settles in with a discordant weight. I cannot shake this eerie feeling, filling me with dread. Weather like this is unnatural and unsyncopated. A blast of October snow disrupts the natural timeline: the green canopy turns scarlet, fading to nut-brown, just in time for Thanksgiving. Peering out the living room window, I can see fresh leaves scattered around the street, blown into corners, wet with snow, and sodden. A crypt has opened, and the Yeti has loped in, unannounced.

Bundled up for a walk, I spy shivering, hunched men methodically shoveling slush off the sidewalk–the color of bleached, rotting bones. Only the metal scrape of the shovel breaks the silence. Not a word is exchanged. I trudge onward to pick up lunch at the corner deli.

As the gloaming darkened, sodium lamps atop black posts sent a cascade of sparkles to dress the piles of snow pushed to the curb. I return to my walk-up and settle into my tiny apartment. It is dark outside; the cast iron radiator hisses, and a cozy candle flickers against a black windowpane. I hear the wind rattle against the trees, weaving a staccato canopy of lines against the starlit sky. My powered-on laptop offers the comfort of normalcy. I have no plans tonight—yet.

Watching the clock, I feel claustrophobic and unmoored at the end of a strange day. I email friends to join me later at The Ear Inn at 326 Spring Street (also known to old-timers as The Green Door), the earliest working bar in New York City… and one that is notoriously haunted. This Federal Era neighborhood hub was established in 1817 by James Brown, a tobacco trader and African American Revolutionary War aide to General George Washington. Built around 1770, its two-and-a-half-story facade is elegant and intimate in scale, featuring a gambrel roof and dormers. The street slopes a short distance to the Hudson River waterfront. According to legend, “Ghosts have been seen and heard within, particularly, “Mickey,” a sailor still waiting for his clipper ship to enter the harbor.

What better way to end an odd, unsettling day than in a haunted bar, swilling strong spirits, a dash of bitters, and stories shared among old friends? The Ear Inn is aptly named for an establishment providing a safe harbor for the dead—and living. Remember this, friend. In New York, to see the dearly—and not so dearly—departed, all you need is the ability to listen. And to see beyond the concrete. Three hours to go before I make my way out into the night. I wonder what awaits on the other side. Killing time online, I Google “signs of the paranormal,” not yet knowing that by midnight, I’d have my own to add to the list.