A Haunted History of Grand Rapids

PREFACE

One of my favorite memories from when I was a kid is of sitting in the unfinished basement of my childhood home in the dark. With only the faint light seeping in from the four small windows that lined the exterior walls, dark shadows fell everywhere. A big, creepy furnace stood in the middle of the room, blocking out any light that dared filter through. I sat in a circle with my brother Joe and my sisters Heather and Jennifer, all of us so silent we could hear each other breathe. Joe would lean in and, in his creepiest Vincent Price–like voice, begin to tell the story of the ghost that lived in the tiny room in the far back area of our cellar.

Her name was Lucy. She and her husband, John, lived in our home before our dad purchased it. Lucy was known about town for her beauty. She had striking eyes with full eyelashes and lovely long red hair that she would spend hours brushing. The only unattractive thing about her was that she knew how appealing others found her and would use it to her advantage. Despite being married, she would flirt with other men, who, in turn, would shower her with gifts.

John, who once considered himself the luckiest man in the world, began to realize his wife was unfaithful. One day, he walked into the house after a hard day’s work and found Lucy opening a package from yet another unidentified man. Her eyes glazed over as she smiled and held a shiny sterling silver hairbrush up to the light. It was all too much for John. He lunged forward, wrapped his hands around her neck and choked her until she lost consciousness. Reaching over, he grabbed a pair of sewing scissors that were lying on a chest nearby and cut off her precious flowing red hair—the ultimate humiliation.

He dragged Lucy’s lifeless body to the basement, determined to dismember and bury her. As he raised the axe above his head and began to bring it down toward her neck, Lucy opened her eyes in horror. Blood spattered everywhere as the blow connected. Her head rolled across the room. Unfazed, John continued cutting her body up, tossing each body part into a hole in the cellar. He then covered her with cold, damp earth and spent hours cleaning up. It wasn’t until he had finished making the floor look completely undisturbed that he remembered her head. As he picked it up, he began to realize what he had done. He wailed as he lifted her head close to him and kissed the cold lips of his former sweetheart. Filled with grief and unable to live with himself, John went down to the Grand River and threw himself off the Sixth Street Bridge. He drowned. Lucy’s head was never found.

At that exact point in the story, our brother Mike would roll a woman’s mannequin head down the basement steps. It would hit the wall at the bottom with a thud and come to a standstill, vacant eyes staring blankly at nothing. We would all scream and go running up the stairs.

This silly prank played itself out over and over. I loved hearing the same cheesy story, capped off with a fright. I was hooked. Even as I got older and found out it was completely made up, I continued to appreciate it for what it was—a good creepy story. From that moment on, I did everything I could to lay my hands on books filled with ghost stories. I’m not sure what happened to Lucy the mannequin head, but she and my siblings had set me on the path of loving a spooky tale.

To top it off, when I was about eight years old, I began to experience unexplainable activity around my home. (No, Lucy’s head had nothing to do with it.) I’d see shadow figures walk through the room and witness objects move by themselves. Unexplained voices were heard on a regular basis—primarily by my mother and me, as well as an occasional friend who would dare spend the night. I found myself able to sense when something was about to happen. The air would change, and a heaviness would overcome me. Seconds later, an unexplained event would occur. I jokingly called it my ghosty sense.

I discovered the book Haunted Houses of Grand Rapids by the late Don W. Farrant in the late 1980s. It was comforting to find that other people in Grand Rapids were dealing with hauntings as well. When the book was revised by Gary Eberle and John Layman in 1994, I found myself playing detective. It became my mission to try and find out where all the homes in the book were located. (Out of all the chapters, only two of the locations remain a mystery to me.) Anytime I drove by the homes, I’d point them out to my family and friends and relate the tales of their dark past. I even convinced my mom to pretend to be interested in purchasing the old Phillips Mansion on Prospect Avenue when it was up for sale in June 1994 so I could get inside. While she kept the realtor busy, I snooped through the place, taking endless pictures and looking in every nook and cranny. (For more on the Phillips Mansion, see chapter 5 in Ghosts of Grand Rapids.) It became my passion to collect ghost stories from my city.

Lucy’s mannequin head at the bottom of the steps. Roger Scholz.

My childhood home. Brad Donaldson.

At nineteen, I began to work part-time at a company located on the fourteenth floor of the McKay Tower. It worked out great, as it was situated in the middle of downtown Grand Rapids, blocks away from the college I attended. Between work and classes, I would wander about the city, taking in all the unique buildings and learning about their history. I became known about town as Ghosty Girl. I never thought twice about walking into a place and saying, This building is old. Have you ever experienced anything paranormal here? No matter the response, I documented it in a notebook, as I knew that one day, I would author my own book on our great city’s ghosts.

I joined the West Michigan Ghost Hunters Society (WMGHS) in 2001 and, over the years, have become very close with the other members: Nicole Du Shane (Bray), Brad Donaldson, Bob Weber and Roger Scholz. I collaborated on my debut book, Ghosts of Grand Rapids, alongside Nicole Du Shane (Bray) and Robert Du Shane, who had previously coauthored other books. They also led successful ghost tours in Kalamazoo with their company Paranormal Michigan (www.ParanormalMichigan.com). In 2015, we launched the original Ghosts of Grand Rapids Outdoor Walking Tour. Our inaugural tour attracted just seven attendees, but by the end of the season, demand had skyrocketed. We were soon scheduling several tours a week, and each one sold out. To maintain a manageable group size, we capped ticket sales at fifty. While other tour groups have come and gone, ours consistently receives rave reviews. Not only do we possess extensive knowledge of the city’s eerie history, but we can also substantiate it with real facts. Unlike some other tours that attribute every flickering light to the paranormal, we provide honest insights. As a seasoned ghost hunter with thirty years of experience, I’ll tell you the unvarnished truth. Over time, Nicole and Rob took charge of the original west route, while I designed a new east route. My trusty notebooks proved invaluable, as I had collected personal stories from people all over the downtown area spanning three decades. Whenever I found a newspaper article and could tie it to a ghostly sighting or a paranormal experience I had previously documented, it was like solving a puzzle. I hope you appreciate the culmination of my efforts and enjoy reading the following stories as much as I enjoyed putting them together.

CHAPTER 1

THE MISSING MONEY

LOCATION: CORNER OF FOUNTAIN STREET AND IONIA AVENUE

Alfred Morse Webster was a good man, honest and hardworking. He was born in Richland, Michigan, and became a schoolteacher in 1868 at the age of nineteen. After holding the job of superintendent of the Monroe school system, he went on to graduate from the Chicago Homeopathic College and became a physician and surgeon with Ruffe and Webster. His one goal in life was to help others. One person who knew him said, Alfred believed that whatever was worth doing was worth doing well. He had the constant aim of doing good. He was also active as a Mason and a member of Woodmen of the World.

While he had a successful career, Alfred was not as fortunate in his personal life. At twenty-one, he married Caroline Donaldson, also a schoolteacher, and together they had a little boy they named Eugene. Sadly, when Eugene was only three, his mom passed away from peritonitis. A year later, Alfred married nineteen-year-old Hattie Hale, and they had two daughters, Ida and Ruey. Unfortunately, his second wife died just ten years later, once again leaving Alfred alone with his children. He successfully raised them into thriving, successful adults, and they settled in Grand Rapids, where Alfred worked as the general secretary for the New Era Association Insurance Company. He also helped several family members get jobs at the firm, including his son-in-law Charles McGuire, who was married to his oldest daughter, Ida. At fifty-eight years old, Alfred married his third wife, Hattie Dubbs. Hattie was eighteen at the time of the wedding, three years younger than Alfred’s youngest child, Ruey.

Alfred Morse Webster. Courtesy of Kathie Dillard Schwend.

82 Ionia Avenue, former site of the New Era Association Insurance Company. Brad Donaldson.

It was a brisk day on September 30, 1909. As the leaves blew around in circles at his feet, insurance examiner Engelhart walked toward the three-story building that sat on the southeast corner of Fountain Street and Ionia Avenue. It was Thursday, and he was on his way to interview Alfred. The night before, Engelhart had found a discrepancy in the company’s bank account in the amount of $14,594 (the equivalent of approximately $501,000 in 2024). He was eager to figure out where the money went.

On arriving, Engelhart found the doors closed and locked. He sat outside until Charles McGuire, Alfred’s son-in-law and coworker, showed up and let him in. Together, they walked upstairs to the second floor, where the company’s offices were located. McGuire excused himself and went to get Alfred from his office.

When Charles opened the door, he found his father-in-law lying on the couch in the corner, covered in blood. He ran over, but it was too late. It seemed obvious from the bullet hole in Alfred’s chest and the revolver by his side that his wound was self-inflicted. The doctor had carefully taken off his coat and vest, unbuttoned his shirt and shot himself clear through the heart.

When his family and friends began to think back over the previous days, it became apparent that something had been off with Alfred. Engelhart and Alfred had spent