One of the most startling places Ive ever been was the Rider 1812 Inn in Painesville. I wrote about it and Mistress Suzanne in Haunted Ohio IV. Here is one of Innkeeper Elaine Cranes many stories about the Inn: When the very first incident happened, I didn’t realize its significance. This took place the August before we opened. One wall in the inn was set with antique tile imported from Italy. I wanted to use it in my bathroom. The tile worker didn’t want to chip it off because the tiles were so fragile. It was very fussy work, trying to move the tiles without breaking any. One Sunday, I was home alone, with no paperwork and no closets to clean and I thought, “This is the time for the tile.” So I drove to the inn. It was a sunny day, the lawnmowers were buzzing, and it was hot, so I was wearing a tank top, sandals, and cut-offs. The radio was blaring a baseball game. I started chipping away. Well, I hit too hard, knocked something loose, and the entire wall came down on me. The broken tile was razor-sharp and laid me open from breast to waist. I could feel the blood running down my leg, warm and sticky. I was pinned by the weight of the wall and could not get up. I was gasping and yelling, but no one could hear me outside over the lawnmowers. I was really frightened. I knew tile was sticking in me and the pain was beginning to spread. We had a cat named Sasha. I saw her in the next room and I felt like she was watching me, concerned. I was dizzy and feeling faint. Then I felt something brush behind my hair, which I assumed was the cat. Then the wall lifted enough for me to free my right hand, and to push the tile away. Covered with blood, I drove myself to the hospital where I had sixteen stitches. I called my husband to pick me up; they wouldn’t let me drive home, I had lost so much blood. Well, I’m an innkeeper, so no matter what, I had to go back and lock the door. My husband didn’t like it, but I told him, “There’s blood all over the floor, it will stain; we’ve got to go back.” So we went and there was blood all over the place and we cleaned it up. I was telling him how the cat had brushed against me. My husband looked at the floor. “What do you mean?” he said, “There was no cat in here.” I looked down; my husband looked down. In the dust that had settled on the floor, there were no cat footprints, only the prints of my sandals—and the marks of a pair of high-heeled shoes.
Posted on: Sat, 22 Nov 2014 13:34:07 +0000
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