Sentient or Residual Energy: The Presbyterian Church

Theoretically, there is a grey area between residual and sentient energy. There is a haunting at the Presbyterian Church in Leesburg, Virginia that seems residual and yet the witnesses have very distinct variations to the story that give it a sentient twist.

On November 9, 1802, the Presbytery Society bought at auction a one acre lot on Market Street for the price of $80 with the intent of establishing the first Presbyterian Church of Leesburg "for the sole use and purpose of a burying ground and place of worship to be conducted agreeably to the manner prescribed by the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church of these United States, forever" and it was arranged that a 40’ by 30’ brick house of worship would be built in the clearing. The current congregation continues to use the original brick structure and its original pews and boasts descendants of the first gathering in 1804.

With a history this strong and intact, it is no surprise that the church has a haunting. But the Presbyterian Church haunting is not from its deep historic roots; it is actually that of the choir director from the early 1960s.

At 5:15, as was her weekly Wednesday habit, Lilias Janney placed the dinner dishes in the sink, gathered her keys and sheet music, and headed to the back door to attend choir practice when she suffered a massive heart attack. Death was immediate.

Choir members gathered at the church for their weekly practice and quickly knew something was amiss. The music stands and chairs were still stacked along the balcony wall and Miss Janney was nowhere to be found. When there was no response at Miss Janney’s house, choir members called her daughter who hurried to her mother’s house where she discovered her body on the kitchen floor.

It was a sad day for the Leesburg Presbyterian Church community. A large crowd of church members and locals gathered to pay their respects as hymns floated down from the balcony sung by the choir that Miss Janney loved so much. A friend took over the responsibility of directing the choir and scheduled practices to resume the next Wednesday.

As was Miss Janney’s habit, the friend arrived for the Wednesday choir practice early and went to the balcony to set up the chairs, stands, and sheet music. As soon as she reached the balcony, she heard the door at the back of the church swoosh open. She looked over the balcony rail to see who had also arrived early and saw the familiar figure of a woman rushing up the aisle.

“Lilias, I’m up here,” she called out before recalling that her good friend Lilias Janney had died the week before. When the rest of the choir arrived, the visibly shaken director told them what she had seen.

Others have also witnessed Miss Janney rushing through the back entrance and hurrying up the aisle. With each telling, the story changes. Witnesses in the 1960s saw Miss Janney rush through the door and then disappear halfway up the aisle. Later it is reported that Miss Janney rushes up the aisle and makes it to the bottom of the balcony staircase. More recently the ghost of Miss Janney is seen and heard rushing up the aisle and her heels can be heard coming up the balcony staircase but no one ever appears at the top of the stairs.

A picture of Lilias Janney hangs in the hallway at the back entrance of the church to commemorate her dedication to the church and the choir. Members of the church embrace her everlasting spirit that still enters through their church doors. They believe that one day the spirit will climb to the top of the balcony stairs and the haunting of Miss Janney will cease for she has finally reached her destination – the choir practice that she didn’t make it to decades earlier.

includes information from “Virginia Town Proud of Tales of Supernatural” by Gail Shufelt. The Daily Gazette: The Sunday Gazette: Travel. April 30, 1995.  Schenectady, NY.

Sentient or Residual Energy: I think; therefore, I am

Interactive energy, or intelligent energy, is sentient. Sentients have perception, are conscious of their actions, and experience sensations, feelings, and emotions. In T.E. Lawrence “Lawrence of Arabia” autobiographical Seven Pillars of Wisdom, he proclaims "The living knew themselves just sentient puppets on God's stage." A sentient haunting, therefore, is cognitive of its existence, albeit at times a bit confused and still grasping for center stage. Unlike residual energy, the sentient does not repeat actions or appear on schedule. An encounter with sentient energy is rare.

In addition to the residual haunting of the tired maid at the McCabe-Patterson Tavern in Leesburg, there is a sentient haunting on the third floor of the building. A mischievous little girl has interacted with more than one visitor to the location.

The McCabe-Patterson Tavern is one of the most interesting structures in downtown Leesburg. From the windows placed well above street level to discourage the 18th century prying eyes of gossip mongers and political foes, to the massive stones carefully set in place from ground level to its highest peak, to the abundance of pencil sketches that decorate the third floor stairwell and upper landing, the old Tavern is shrouded in mystery.

In the mid-1980s two representatives from the Library of Congress were sent to the McCabe-Patterson tavern to record the pencil sketches. It is believed some of the sketches were doodled by idle Hessian soldiers briefly imprisoned in Leesburg. Some are thought to be commemorative sketches of General Lafayette’s visit to Leesburg when he spoke to the residents of Loudoun County from the tavern steps. The other sketches are more childlike and most likely the result of unattended McCabe children and grandchildren sent to the third floor classroom/playroom.

The Library of Congress curators, two distinguished ladies of culture and education, were assigned the task of photographing and documenting the numerous sketches in a matter of three days. On day one they worked diligently and got a lot accomplished. Tired, but satisfied, they rewarded themselves with a leisurely lunch that included a glass of wine before returning a little after 2pm to the hot attic stairwell. As they climbed to the third floor, a little girl with ringlet curls and wearing an airy summer smock peeked her head from around the corner of an upper room. “Peek-a-boo” she giggled as she ran past them down the stairs. The two ladies laughed at the delightful child and went back to their work.

On the way out for the night, the ladies stopped to say good-bye to the building manager and commented on how cute the young girl was; whose child was she?

“There are no children in the building?” responded the manager.

Well of course there is, insisted the two ladies and they described her in full detail – six or seven years old, golden blonde hair styled in Shirley Temple ringlets, a gauzy summer dress in a light shade of peach with embroidered flowers around the scooped collar.

The manager insisted that not only were there no children that day, but no one in the building has children fitting that description. Shaking their heads and blaming their lunchtime imbibing, the ladies headed to their hotel room.

The next day the curators resumed their work, consciously avoiding any discussion about the little girl. On this day, they took a brief lunch, minus any alcohol, and quickly returned to the stone structure. What had started as a leisurely, enjoyable job had taken on an uneasy edge and they were both eager to complete the assignment.

They again climbed the narrow third-floor staircase and just as they reached the landing, the little girl from the previous day peeked around the corner and shouted “peek-a-boo” before turning and running back into the room.

The startled ladies hurried into the room and found it completely empty. Unsure what to do, they both agreed they should document it in their report and complete the assignment as quickly as possible. They stayed a bit longer that day and informed the building manager that they had completed early and would not be returning the next day. When he pressed them further, they confessed that they had seen the little girl a second time and they had no desire for a third encounter.

Owners of the building speculate that the little girl is one of the McCabe children, but no records have been found to support that theory. What is recorded in the Library of Congress is the official account of two curators encounter with a ghost child in the McCabe-Patterson House of Leesburg.

Sentient or Residual Energy: A Recording in Time

O Death, rock me asleep, bring me to quiet rest, let pass my weary guiltless ghost out of my careful breast.
                                                                                                                                               ~ Anne Boleyn

In the field of paranormal studies, there are many theories of what creates a haunting. Many investigators adopt a theory with which they are most comfortable and, hopefully, expand and improve their theory through research and field work. (Warning: If a paranormal investigator speaks in terms of fact instead of theory, smile politely and excuse yourself quickly! There is nothing proven in this field.)

A theory I find most fascinating is the theory of residual and sentient energy. Everything generates some form of energy, - electromagnetic, AC magnetic, AC electric, and radio - including humans. If you place a Trifield meter near most any object, it will register traces of energy.

A great party game is to scan partygoers with a trifield meter to see who is the most “energetic!” (Ok, maybe that’s just a party in my limited social circles.)

Basic knowledge of electrical currents teaches us that energy can fluctuate depending on the source and input/output relationship. A lamp requires less energy than a clothes drier; therefore, the outlet wattage is adjusted accordingly. (Yawn – Try to stay with me. It gets more interesting.)

Humans generate energy in the same manner, but not always at the same levels. Need to run a marathon? Fuel your body to generate long-term, slow-release energy. Living a more sedate life? Reduce your fuel intake and monitor life from the porch swing. But what if you suffer a sudden shock? Where does that burst of energy your body generates go?

The theory of residual hauntings claims that a sudden burst of energy imprints or is absorbed into various natural elements, especially quartz and magnetite, but also wood, gypsum, limestone, and many other elements found in nature and building construction material. This is all based on the 1970s paranormal hypothesis the Stone Tape Theory.

If you apply this scientific theory to paranormal research, then scenes of extreme trauma or shock are prime locations for residual hauntings. Battlefields are a common location for residual hauntings. For some investigators, the residual theory also encompasses the belief that emotional outburst of the living can imprint on the environment.

Unlike a sentient haunting that interacts with the living and is intelligent, the residual theory does not require the releasing of a soul’s energy. Residual hauntings are incapable of interaction with the living because it is a recording and not an intelligent source. In order to experience the residual haunting, you must place yourself in the exact location that the original energy occurred; therefore, (this part is crucial to understanding this theory, so shake yourself awake,) a battlefield residual haunting is not necessarily recorded on the environment by the dead, instead it may be recorded by those who suffered the intense emotions of witnessing the deaths.
A living person must stand in the exact spot of someone who witnessed a traumatic scene in order to visually replay the scene. (Spoiler: Again, this is theoretical. Others have their versions of “residual” hauntings.)

Near the corner of Church St. and Market St. in Leesburg, Virginia, directly across from the county clerk’s office, sits an elegant mid-1700s, two-story brick house. A colonial portico leads to the center front door and is flanked by two 9-over-6 windows on each side. Google “Market St., Leesburg, VA” for a street scene of the building.

As you walk in the front door, there is a parlor to the left. Remain in the foyer looking into the parlor and you may catch a glimpse of a distraught mother dressed in Revolutionary period attire. She sits in a rocker in the corner near the street-side window, sobbing inconsolably. If you move from your spot in the foyer, the apparition will disappear. Step back to the entrance and she reappears.

By applying the residual energy theory, you are viewing the scene the same as someone in history experienced it when they too walked in the front door, stood in the foyer and saw for the first time a woman sitting in the corner sobbing inconsolably. Perhaps it is the father who walked in the door and instantly knew by his wife’s distress that his son has perished in battle. Perhaps it is a child who learns of a parent’s passing.

It is theorized that repetitious activity will also generate a residual haunting. Stairs creaking at the same time each day, doors that swing open at precisely 5:14pm, the sound of a long-gone pet pitter-pattering across a kitchen floor for their morning meal are all examples of residual hauntings. The small releases of energy used to execute the most monotonous, daily actions imprint and accumulate over a period of time to create a recording that replays itself long after the action has discontinued. Makes you rethink your habitual daily activities. Hmmm?

An instance of a residual haunting that is most likely a habitual act is at the McCabe-Patterson Tavern on Loudoun Street also in Leesburg, Virginia. Originally built as a tavern for clientele as distinguished as John Adams, George Washington, marquis de Lafayette, and Henry Clay, the structure eventually evolved into a boarding house and then a funeral home in the late 1800s. It is currently used as offices for numerous businesses.

During one of its many business venues, a harried maid went about her early morning duties, including lugging an oversized basket filled with linens and buckets of water. In the wee hours of the morning, she most likely paused at the base of the stairs before climbing the three flights to strip the beds of overnight guests and replace them with fresh linens or to bring fresh water and empty bedpans.

Two modern-day occupants have witnessed the young maid going about her duties completely unaware of the modern world outside her doorsteps. An employee was unlocking the door at a very early hour to get a jump start on the day’s events. She was startled to see a young girl in period costume sitting quietly on the bench at the bottom of the stairs. With a sigh, the girl lifted a heavy basket and trudged up the staircase, never acknowledging that someone had entered the front door.

Another employee of a business that was leasing office space in the McCabe-Patterson Tavern worked late and decided to nap on the couch in his office. He awoke in the very early morning hours, got up to go to the bathroom and nearly walked into the same maiden as she lugged full buckets up the staircase. If he had not pressed against the landing wall, she would have passed right through him.

Like a recording, residual hauntings will fade over time. The more frequently it is played, the more quickly it will fade. A house that has been sealed for a number of years may have stronger residual energy because the “recording” has not been repeatedly viewed. Or so the theory says!

Don't Lie

Not all investigations are positive, but each is a new lesson learned. After moving to North Carolina, I joined the paranormal investigation team Haunted North Carolina. Through HNC I have been to some amazing historic locations and I have also been to some very questionable, off-the-beaten-path residences. It is not an investigator’s job to judge the client, but it is often necessary to delve into the client’s personal life to get to the core of the situation.

A few years ago we were called in by a young couple to investigate their home in the foothills of northwest North Carolina. Home was a rundown modular on a dirt road many miles from modern civilization. Adjacent to the modular is a dilapidated 100-year-old farmhouse that has been left to the elements since the mid-70s, complete with a rusted out Dodge Charger yard ornament. We pulled our vehicles into the overgrown yard and then made our way through the debris and tangle of weeds and vines to the front door of the modular, expecting to hear strains of banjo music at any moment.

The interior of the house was devoid of furnishings except for a worn plaid couch, a plethora of toys, and the largest TV to ever be squeezed into a 10x15 space. Despite our requests, the TV was muted but remained on the entire investigation, pulsating blasts of energy through our equipment. The noise from the television was coupled with a very energetic two-year old whose favorite toy was a slightly dysfunctional See & Say. To this day I believe that child still thinks a cow goes “baa.”

Years of cigarette smoke permeated every inch of the house. The windows grayish tint barely allowed the early evening light through the bare windows and a single shadeless bulb tried it’s hardest to push through the shroud of clinging smoke into the corners of the room. Aside from the abundance of toys in the living room and the impossible battle against chain-smoker residue, the majority of the house was tidy and the child seemed happy and loved. Barely 19-years old, the couple had a two-year old son and a newborn. A cousin with a two-year old was also living in the house, but had gone out for the evening.

It’s often best to interview people separately and then together to get a true sense of the activity in the house. I walked through the bedrooms with the mother while the father stepped outside with the two-year old and the other team members.

In the child’s room, the mother proudly pointed out the Winnie-the-Pooh mural she had painted and the bedding she had made for their son’s new “big boy” bed. It was a cheery room and, since they mentioned their son had nightmares, I made a recommendation to move the child’s bed away from the side of the room that shared a wall with the massive pulsating TV.

Then we crossed the hall into the bedroom occupied by the cousin. The room was in complete disarray. Clothes were strewn everywhere. A crib served as a receptacle for fast food containers and dirty laundry…and hopefully not a child. Full ashtrays littered the floor and dresser tops and a cereal bowl with fresh ashes sat on top of the unmade bed.

The young mother was quickly apologetic for her houseguest’s neglect. I commiserated with her and then seized the opportunity to move into some more personal questions about the family situation.

The girl’s father, distraught over his failed marriage and a terminal illness, had committed suicide the previous year and she believed he was still visiting her. Given her politeness, her efforts to maintain her home, her pride in her children, and her embarrassment for the messy guest room, I knew she had been raised with solid family standards. On a hunch, I asked her if her father would approve of her current living situation, thinking the whole time “Please tell me the truth.”

Avoiding eye contact, she paused and finally admitted “No.”

We concluded the investigation in a couple of hours and climbed back into our cars for the three hour drive home, promising to review the evidence and get back with them as quickly as possible. Given the ever present television and active toddler, none of us had high hopes that we had caught any evidence. Our premature conclusion was a very tired couple of kids looking for something to spice up their lives.

Since it was going to be a long drive, I popped on my headsets and began reviewing my audio recorder. About six minutes into my interview with the mother, a distinctly male voice said “Don’t lie.” I rewound the tape to listen again.

While I had been mentally willing the girl to be completely honest with me whether her father would approve of her current living situation, the recorder captured a male voice telling her to not lie. We were the only two in the house at the time and neither of us heard the voice while we were talking.

I have discussed this piece of evidence with numerous paranormal investigators. The obvious deduction is the EVP (electronic voice phenomenon) is her father; however, because I was mentally beseeching the girl to not lie, did I somehow generate the EVP? It is one of the few pieces of evidence I have captured that I cannot explain.

One thing I do know is it was not normal and therefore it is paranormal – though some could argue it is abnormal.

House Hunter

With nineteen moves in my lifetime, house hunting is the only consistent career I’ve held. A consequence of my many moves is I have developed a house hunting addiction. To this day my heart races at the sight of an “Open House” sign and I tremble with anticipation at the release of the newest edition of Homefinder magazine. House hunting in North Carolina lasted for over a year, partially because my husband and I differed vastly in our expectations and partially because I adore my real estate agent, Waban, and I wanted to prolong our search as long as possible.

For months I ran the gamut of potential houses that I drug Waban through – 50’s ranches, 90’s McMansions, 70’s split levels, small towns, metropolises, country with acreage, country without acreage, fixer-uppers, historic, modern, short sales, foreclosures – you name it, we saw it. My search criteria were simple - a first-floor master and a screened porch; everything else was wide open. You would think this would simplify the search, but, like a poorly formulated thesis statement, my topic was too broad. Once a week I sent Waban a list of potentials, he’d revise the list and map out the best route to hit as many houses as possible. We traveled throughout Guilford and Alamance Counties, and occasionally ventured into surrounding counties, searching for the perfect “forever” home where our family could finally settle down.

On one of our house hunting days, we pulled out of an upscale subdivision in Northern Guilford County onto a narrow, country road. I had started the day certain that a new house was the best choice, but lost my enthusiasm when I realized I couldn’t distinguish one new house from the next. Beyond the entrance of the subdivision sat a ramshackle split-level with three beautiful elms that I had not noticed earlier. The elm’s branches stretched high above the house, creating a canopy that cooled the humid summer afternoon. A “For Sale” sign sat at the property’s edge.

“Ooh,” I squealed. Poor Waban wordlessly pulled into the driveway and reached for his cell phone. He was never certain what struck my fancy on our house hunting journeys, but he knew from the sound of my squeal, there was no use questioning. While my daughter, Jessica, and I circled the house, Waban got the entry code from the listing agent and we were soon crossing the threshold of our unplanned stop. Despite the high 90s temperatures outside, a blast of cool air greeted us as we entered.

The home was newly listed the day before by the executor’s of the estate. The interior was already cleared and our footsteps echoed across the bare linoleum. Sooty brown paneling covered every wall. Hollow core doors and divider walls built of pressed wood and paneling split the home into three apartments. A crooked opening was cut through one wall to create a pass-through from one apartment to another as if someone or something had been trapped in the small apartment and needed to cut their way out. Only one section of the house benefited from a full kitchen. The other two areas boasted a free-standing small sink, a dorm fridge, a microwave, and an ancient window unit air conditioner. It was the first time neither Waban nor I could mutter the words “It has potential.”

We had both decided this house was not an option, but no respectable house hunter addict or real estate agent would leave a house without the full tour. Jessica obediently followed us from room to room looking to fill her own criteria checklist – a secret room, a swimming pool, and space for a pony. Waban came to a solid six-panel wood door original to the 40-year old structure and tugged it open to reveal a dark narrow staircase to the basement.

“Who’s there? What do you want?” A gruff male voice grumbled from below.

“I’m sorry, sir. We were told the house was empty. We…” Waban stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned around with a confused look on his face. I followed him down the staircase to see what was wrong. The basement was completely empty. Waban shifted awkwardly and a rogue nail skittered across the industrial tiles, the sound echoing off the bare cement walls. “You heard that, right? I coulda’ swore…” Waban shook his head from side to side trying to grasp the situation, all the while nudging me back up the stairs.

As we reached the top of the stairs, Jessica popped into the doorway. Waban and I both jumped in surprise, grabbing the handrail to keep us from tumbling back down. “What’s down there?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Waban pushed us through the doorway and firmly closed the door. “We need to go.”

Jessica headed to the front door ready to return to her videos and the air conditioned car. The house had turned oppressively hot. None of the window air conditioning units were on. Before we reached the front door, Waban was distracted by another six-panel wood door. Ever the real estate agent, he couldn’t resist. “Is this a coat closet?” Before I could stop him, he pulled the door open to reveal another staircase. We had completely forgotten that the house had a second story.

“Do you want to go up?” We both stood in the doorway, peering around the corner of the jamb at the steep incline. At that moment the snap-crackle of a match lighting sounded in the mere inches between us followed by the distinct, slightly sweet smell of the first puff on a cigarette. Neither of us smoked. Without a word we high-tailed it to the car and were a mile down the road before either of us spoke.

Six months later my husband joined the house search. In two days, Waban showed him six houses and my husband put an offer on a house without a screen porch or room for a pony. Now where’s the fun in that?

A Mother's Love

Conducting historical research and paranormal investigations introduces me to some very interesting people and situations. Some I continue to maintain a relationship with, such as Melanie Miles at the Harrison House in Leesburg, Virginia. While others were a passing acquaintance that for one reason or another are tucked into the overcrowded recesses of my memories. Cobwebs and dust are gathering in these dark corners, so I am trying to gather my experiences before they are as murky to my memory as 8th grade algebra and a 20” waistline.

Year-round tours in Leesburg are conducted by the Virginia Scientific Research Association. VSRA’s leader, Keeler Hunt, concludes the tour at the Loudoun County Courthouse beneath a 170-year old American Elm with the promise of touching a spirit. Late at night it is not uncommon to see groups of tourists with extended arms reaching into the courtyard’s quiet abyss. Many swear to a tingling sensation in their fingertips. At the end of every tour, Keeler, a self-proclaimed intuitive, recounts the story of the time a group led by VSRA founder, the late Joe Holbert, witnessed the apparition of a frightened soldier run across the lawn under the old elms and then disappear (March 2011 "Street Scenes.") Joe theorized that the apparition is the residual energy of a young soldier replaying the final moments of his life. Based on that theory, Holbert called on his science background to test the energy levels of the area. When Keeler joined him, she conducted her own intuitive tests, which resulted in the two of them discovering that a current of energy runs along a path in the grassy area of the courtyard that can be physically detected by meters and the human body.

At the end of my tours in Leesburg, I would also finish in the courtyard with the tantalizing promise of “touching a ghost.” More than once, the expression on the face of a skeptic dissolves into uncertainty as the current tingles their fingertips and lifts their arm hairs. The energy works its magic as a surge of adrenaline passes through the crowd, breaking their obedient tour group silence. Inevitably the group will begin sharing their own experiences. It was often my favorite part of the two-hour tour.

On one warm spring evening the group was especially eager to share their stories. One couple’s deceased cat still pitter-pattered across their kitchen floor and ruffled the newspaper each evening. Another person could smell his grandfather’s cigars. Throughout it all, a beautiful young girl shyly stood on the outskirts of the group clinging to her boyfriend’s arm. The courthouse clock chimed half-past eleven before the group began moving toward their vehicles. It was only then that her boyfriend gently nudged her toward me. In a guarded voice she asked me if I could tell her if her mother is still with her. Her dark eyes looked deep into mine, begging for a glimmer of hope that her mother is not gone.

I immediately wished that Keeler had taken this tour. I am in no way intuitive. This girl was not on the tour to hear tales of the ghosts of Leesburg. She was searching for something much deeper.

Slowly, she began to tell me about her mother, speaking with tenderness about her mother’s beauty and kindness and how cancer had robbed her of everything. In the end, as the mother’s body and mind wasted away, death was welcomed. But two years later the young girl still couldn’t get over the complete and absolute feeling of loss. She said that sometimes she catches a whiff of her mother’s perfume, or a note of a song, or a glimpse of her favorite color, but she wasn’t certain if it was her mother or wishful thinking.

At some point as she spoke, I had taken her hand. Normally not a touchy-feely person, my maternal instinct took over and I wrapped her in my arms. “Your mother is always with you,” I whispered. ”A mother’s love never dies.” She began sobbing in my arms. Wracking, heart-breaking sobs. I didn’t release her but let her cry it out. Behind her, her boyfriend mouthed the words “Thank you” through the silent tears streaming down his face. The moment had taken me completely by surprise and I thanked God that I was able to set aside my own social awkwardness to give this girl what she needed most…one last hug from her mother.