Swanson followed our trail to Jamestown, North Dakota where he met up with us. Clues to our whereabouts had come from none other that Ian, Mom's only real son.

Ian did not like Marianne, and it is not clear how much he told Trevor Hall was factual. Even Hall doubted some of the stories. Hall did see a use for the disgruntled son, however. In April of 1956, Ian wrote to his mother in Jamestown. She didn't know it, but he had a hidden agenda. Another one of the ghosts from her past was about to raise up.

Hall prompted the letter and supplied the ideas, but was chagrined at the boldness his pupil used.

"I have written to Marianne," Ian told Hall. "I pointed out that she could save herself the trouble of fabricating a story for my benefit as I am fully aware about Fisher, O'Neil, and Dr. Davies thrown in for good measure. She will probably write to her brother and tell him I am up to something. . ."⁽¹⁾

Mom quickly wrote back:

April, 1956
Dear Ian;

I was so glad to hear that you still remember me. Gosh, what a life! I don't know what next is on the agenda, but it surely intrigued me to know that Santiago Monk, Dr. Davies, and Edwin Whitehouse were among the accused. Not guilty to that. . .

What set out as a bit of fun can surely get one into trouble. Not that I ever did haunt Borley. There were plenty of others who did that. It was haunted since 1860 and that's a little before my time.

D'Arles was the devil, not Rasputin. I never could get Lionel to do anything about him, though I did try.

I work on a newspaper here. I have a little house and garden, and am sure that if the affair could be settled it would be a happy place. . .

What on earth has Mary Dytor to say? She lived [with us] three months and was nearly starved to death and hated Lionel like poison.

If you help, I cannot tell you how grateful I will be.

I will write to you later. This is written as soon as I have read your letter.

I'm trembling all over.

M. ⁽²⁾

In May, Mom sent another letter to Ian. It had no greeting or close. When she wrote personal letters, she wrote quickly without correcting mistakes, but for the sake of clarity they are amended here:

I could not write before because I was hospitalized with contagious jaundice which was a very painful affair for a few days. . .

I don't know where to start. For a lot of things I am as mystified as you are. In the first place I only met Dr. Davies twice in my life. Is that an affair?

I did go to see Santiago Monk in London, about twice a year. He was an old man of 76. Lion knew him well too. There also was no affair there.

Whew, what next. . .

As I told you before, I do not know any more than you do about the child Emery. The little fellow died and is buried at Borley. His mothers name is on the birth certificate and death certificate.

What the heck has Vincent to do with the haunting of Borley? Privately I cannot think what they want to know that for. I wanted a baby of my own. I was not allowed to bring up my own child [Ian was raised by Mrs. Shaw] and longed above all things in life for a little boy. Do you understand that? And now I cannot tell you the trouble a good motive has brought to me. And could yet bring to me. If they find out who it is they will take him away from me and jail me for bringing in an illegal entry. If I don't tell who he is, they will persecute me and cause more hell fire anyway. Advise me Ian. Shall I commit suicide. I have contemplated it so often.

You know that I never had enough to eat when I was with L.A.F. I don't think anyone will ever know what I endured. I told Mrs. Fenton some wild stories. She was a Jewess and wild for excitement of knowing what, where, when and how before other folk [knew it]. It was a mild form of fairy tales which did nobody any harm. But it looks God Awful in print. Some of the tales which folk have told are lies and I don't know why it is, but I could not have done half the stuff they say. But they all want to be in on the deal - as top man of course. . .

Do I have to tell you where I got Vincent? He might have been anyone's kid, a neighbors child or a girls I nursed for a while. He might even have been your eldest boy.

As to O'Neil, he certainly did not wear gum shoes [at the wedding], he wore a grey suit and he tipped the witness a pound note, it's true, but that is nothing unusual. He was not mean like LAF who gave the clergyman nothing because the clergyman was a "brother clergy."

Fisher got caught. He thought I had money. And I got caught - I thought he had. I was desperate. Well, I lived with Lion until the end. I carried him in my arms and he was unable to contain his water or other bodily motions for the last three years. I took care of him and earned money for us to live on. He had a £125 pension and about £16 from rents. His medicine cost over £2 a month, and often as high as £8. I had none to turn to. I could not go anywhere or do anything.

I am grateful to you beyond belief for your kindness to me and I am not a bad woman. I have been a driven woman. Here I have a nice little home and friends. For the first time in my life I belong to a club and can be a member of life all round. Is this to be torn from me.

I did not sell Lionel's diary. Harry Price got it from him on the pretext of reading it and never returned it. . .

One thing I would like to say is that we did not leave on account of the haunting of Borley. We stayed until Lion collapsed in the pulpit. He could not walk and made it in a wheelchair. At the last he got very odd and could not see anything without it being a sin. He was hollering about sin over and over when he collapsed.

About the haunting. I didn't do it, but I think every kid and youth in and around Borley for the past 75 years has had a hand in it.

Kid, for the love of God, help me. Tell me - do you think if I wrote to the people [at the Society for Psychical Research] and told them I didn't do it and that all this about my so called love affairs is nothing to do with ghosts and that Harry Price didn't buy the diary they would stop persecuting me? What shall I do. Tell me, Ian.

Tell them what you want, Ian. It is good of you. How foolish can a person get. I made up stories of grandeur to offset the pain and hunger and misery I underwent and Dear God - - - Can you make any sense of this.

I had a letter from Edwin Whitehouse recently. He says that Mrs. Goldney had my address and is coming to the states. I live in the shadow of a volcano. . .

I never took drugs in my life. An occasional aspirin or a daisy powder for headaches, but that is all.

What are you doing? How many children have you? Who did you marry the second time?

Well honey, I hope you can make sense of this. It's all so disjointed, but try to understand me. Thank you and God bless you for your good kind deeds to me.

I had a hell of a life as a kid and Lion was so difficult even in Canada. Before he lost his money he treated me like a servant and an unpaid one at that. The time I had with you in New Brunswick was the nearest approach to living that up to that time I had ever had. We did have fun, didn't we?

Has this cleared up your questions? Steer them off Vincent if you can. Give any story that you think can make them lay off. . .

Will write again.⁽³⁾

Whenever Mom wrote to me, she was extremely forthright. I have to assume she was the same with Ian. I have to believe she would not lie to her natural son.

The letter mentions another ghost form the past raising up, Mrs. Kathleen Goldney. She was the third author of The Haunting of Borley Rectory, along with Trevor Hall and Eric Dingwall. She did not write any of the HBR manuscript, and her subsequent behavior estranged her from the other two authors. Fortunately, she never did show up to haunt Mom, but she did talk to Hilda Hanbury and caused her considerable upset. Hilda was Lionel's sister and a good friend of Marianne's.

The letter to Ian also contains a heart-wrenching plea for the investigation to stop. Some researchers may have called off the hounds after such a prayer, but Hall did not. He was concerned about her threat to commit suicide, however. As a consequence of this fear, both he and Dingwall wrote to her directly. Dingwall told her, "Do not distress yourself. . .your private affairs have nothing to do with the haunting. . . If [Mrs. Goldney] writes to you, do not answer. If . . .she turns up at Jamestown do not see her on any account."⁽⁴⁾ (Emphasis mine.)

Hall wrote, "I certainly mean you no harm, and I believe [Ian] would readily confirm this." He then went directly to a great many questions about marriages and her children. In the middle of the letter he asked "Who was responsible for the phenomena?"

Mom wrote back:

July 3, 1956

. . .I do not know who did the haunting, it had been going on for a great many years. It was going on in the time of the Bulls, but not as bad. . .

I do not know how the wine turned into ink. . .

I do not think that anyone will ever realize all I have been through, and Mr. Price who is dead, contributed to a lot of the annoyance. He it was who deceived Lionel. He just asked for that manuscript to read, and promised it would never be published. And what did he do - - I am so ill over the whole thing. The poor Hanburys have suffered so much through no fault of theirs. I had a complete breakdown and even the mention of all this makes me shake.

Kids used to ring bells to help things along, you know how kids will do things. Lionel was not popular I'm afraid. But there were a great many things which he and I went through which no one can explain away as mischief. Things happened when I was in London and when I was out of the house altogether. It was not me. . .

There have been so many things said but it isn't all true you know which has been said of me. There are things I could start, but I am not going to do, but I do know this that if I have to go through any more I will shoot myself. I cannot go on. Life isn't worth it. Folks who are no better than me are posing as lily white angels.

I beg you not to make the Hanburys suffer any more. That Mrs.Goldney plans to break their hearts again in July.

This is a disjointed letter and one which is probably not what you wanted. If you mean did I haunt the place, the answer is No. And there is nothing going to make me say I did, not all the pressure because of life can make me. I am afraid there is a blank in my life of nearly two years. I had a mental breakdown. I have a medical certificate proving this.

Yours faithfully,
Marianne O'Neil ⁽⁵⁾

Hall immediately called the letter "obscure and unsatisfactory." He was concerned that the suicide threat might be sincere, and decided not to press her any further through the mails. He decided that the best approach would be to some day hire a private detective. Two years later, his desire became reality as Robert Swanson entered the scene.

No one ever followed up on the claim of a mental breakdown. No certificate was ever asked for, and her papers are no longer available for me to search through them.

Ian reported that Mom tried suicide in Canada. In her second letter to Ian from Jamestown, she talked about suicide. Her letter to Trevor Hall mentioned it again. Robert Wood wrote in his book that Hall told Mom, "there was no need to use the gun she said lay before her on the table."⁽⁶⁾ When Swanson showed up two years later, Mom said "that she had placed a bullet in a gun to shoot herself. . .but she was a coward as she did not have the courage to pull the trigger. She said that one day she would get the courage."⁽⁷⁾

While I can find no specific reference where Mom told anyone a gun "lay before her on the table," she did startle me one day about 1983 by producing a very small .22 five-shot revolver. It had a white handle, and evidently lay concealed for many years as it was in rough shape. This was during the time I operated my own second-hand store, and she was always very happy to contribute to my stock. I will never forget her broad smile when she produced the gun and observed the look of shock on my own face.

Could she have used it? I don't know. I was totally oblivious to the pressures being put on her during that time period. I am convinced she contemplated using it and was telling the truth to both Ian and to Hall. Her later letters to me often speak of exhaustion and depression, however, and I am sure there were many times when she would have liked to give up. Under similar circumstances, many others would have done just that.

The first member of our family that met Robert Swanson in Jamestown was my Dad. Of all the times to be home, Dad had to pick the moment a private detective knocked on the door.

Dad never was much on grooming, but during this particular time a centennial celebration was under way, and all the men were encouraged to let their beards grow. It was a very unkept Robert O'Neil who greeted the sleuth.

The details aren't exactly clear under what pretext Swanson entered our home, but he apparently said he wanted to talk to Mom about "some facts for a book." Before Mom came home from work, Dad told Swanson the usual story about Mom's heritage - how she lived in Maine with her doctor father and how they had traveled extensively throughout Europe together.

Mom was immediately suspicious when she arrived home, and asked about Borley right away. Swanson confessed, and she said "in a vehement manner" that other writers had "done so much damage to everyone" that they would be subject to libel if they were in America.

Her brother Geoffrey had written to Marianne when the S.P.R. report on Borley Rectory was published in 1956. Geoffrey told her the report had one or two intimate details about her life which made her quite angry. (The references were footnotes at the bottom of pages 88-89.)

Marianne begged to be left alone. Swanson persisted, and she agreed to meet him at the Gladstone Hotel after dinner.

While waiting for the appointment, Swanson nosed about Jamestown and discovered Mom was respected and "well liked by most everyone." The women liked her very much. Dad did not have a very good reputation and it was well known Mom supported his drinking habit. At the time, Jamestown had about 7,000 people and everyone knew everyone else. I always thought Mom was rather foolish trying to keep Dad a secret from everybody. Her pride insisted, however, on displaying a brave front. On the other hand, when talking about my escapades, she often described how "word gets around a small town."

Mom was quite active writing freelance articles about this time, and even secured the services of a literary agent in Hollywood, California. Unfortunately, none of her published writings have survived, except for the story Swanson found about fur hunting. Mom called these types of stories "bot-boilers" - articles designed for a specific audience. They were easier to sell than mass-appeal articles. She continued to write poetry and witty sayings all her life, and fortunately a number of these have survived and have been published.⁽⁸⁾

I have often wondered about the conundrum she faced trying to become a famous writer. If she had done so, the privacy she so desperately sought would have gone up in smoke. She faced a similar fate promoting her public productions, and was never afraid to have her picture taken or appear on radio or on television. Others might say her vanity overcame her fear of being discovered. It was if she was teasing the ghosts from the past to come out. She loved games!

Once again, Swanson discovered in Jamestown that creditors had sued us. Mom never considered bankruptcy, and as far as I know, paid every last penny of all our debts. Often, this took many years, with five and ten dollar payments. She would often skip paying one debtor one month, so she could pay a different one. She would alternate who was paid any given month. This robbing of Peter to pay Paul never ended. She once told me, "It's ghastly. But under God I will one day come out. This is just to show you what my life has degenerated into."

Perhaps it was her struggles in the past that spurred her on. She worked incessantly, and I was as much to benefit as anyone else. She insisted I have clothes and shoes from better stores, since the bargain variety would wear out sooner. "Keep your hands out of your pockets," she would remind me. "You look like a Doukhobor barnstorming." At the time I didn't understand the history behind her admonition - to not look like a poor refugee traveling from place to place - but I fully understood the implication. I was NOT to be shabby in either my appearance or my demeanor.

She also struggled to make enough money to provide in some way for the children she left behind, but that became more and more difficult as the years went by and the bills grew larger.

I am convinced that the images of the children left behind haunted her. She did write to some of them, and some wrote to her. During third grade, I became unmanageable and was asked to leave my parochial school. I was sent to New Rockford Academy to live with the nuns. This reversion to her pattern in England must have brought back memories of the children she placed in boarding schools. She was probably also reminded of Ian as I grew up, since his life and mine had several parallels: she wasn't around much to help either one of us grow up, both of us told fanciful stories about our home life, and both of us went through some rather wild periods. As an infant, I posed no threat, yet over the years I believe she looked into my face and saw the ghosts of those she had left behind.

As he had discovered in Minnesota and Wisconsin, Swanson found that Mom was not known for having "love affairs with any of the men in town." Perhaps her experiences in England calmed her down, for she told me, "Don't be too violent in your affection - always leave a little for the girl to give. You will be hurt if you love too much. Anyone who is too eager and over loving makes people tired. It is called being too possessive."

She then wrote some sentences to me that Trevor Hall would have been very amused to read: "As a girl many a man has scared me out of meeting him again, because he was entirely too over eager - too hot for my blood. If one is too eager and over anxious to live [life] too hard, girls are afraid of the great passion and run, Run, RUN." Written in 1962, those sentiments are not in keeping with the picture of the promiscuous Marianne others saw.

Her reputation as man-hungry was also threatened by another letter she wrote me about the same time. She told me: "I went to the drive in [movie] with Chaplain Johnson and his wife. In the back seat with me was his brother. HA HA HA. And likewise, HEE HEE HEE. Nothing doing. . . [I just] kick up my heels and run."

Somewhere about that time, I must have told my mother I wanted to be a ladies man. Her response centered around her constant advice that "violent fires soon burn out." Then she added, "Any person who has multitudes of sweethearts is a person who is lost. They have never really had one. Love on that scale is a travesty. Friends, yes. Pals, yes. But love, no. Don't - I beg of you - demean yourself, Vincent. Save yourself for the woman who will be your wife one day. And marry a good woman. I don't care who she is or what she looks like, but for your own happiness, don't marry a girl who has been everybody's girl. I sound serious, don't I? Well, I am."

The police chief in Jamestown told Swanson we were law abiding, but that we had once received an eviction notice for non payment of rent. He was also familiar with her stories about the war.

Then Swanson met Mom at the hotel.

After the Gladstone Hotel meeting, Mom took Swanson to the newspaper office and introduced him as a friend and a publisher from New York. She wanted to impress her fellow workers. Her flamboyant attitude only made the team of investigators behind the scenes even more suspicious. Swanson told Garrett, "there must be many other aspects of her character as yet unrevealed. . .outside the field of psychic phenomena."⁽⁹⁾

While Mom and Swanson were at the newspaper office, I came in crying. Apparently, I was late for school, and the teacher wouldn't let me into class. Swanson was impressed with the way Mom soothed me and held me in her arms. The three of us then went for refreshments.

Swanson reported I apparently loved my Mom, and that I did not seem "abused by her." My clothing was cheap, but substantial. A picture of me and my Mom was taken outside the offices of the newspaper.

In a letter to Trevor Hall March 25, 1958, Eileen Garrett discussed the Swanson interview. In part she wrote, "Marianne expressed the belief that everything connected with Borley during her husband's presence there was a fake. Her description of her husband is that he, 'was always off his rocker.' Mention of Price's name is too much for her. She regards him as a faker, a magician, and one who might readily have produced the effects for his own purpose."⁽¹⁰⁾

After mentioning that Marianne "identifies herself with Rita Haywood, (sic) remarking that just as Rita Haywood has had so many husbands, so has she," Garret added, "Swanson feels very strongly that there must be something quite serious in her background. She has given him original letters from her children to show that she is still in contact with them."⁽¹¹⁾ I have found no trace of those letters, but may have held them in my hands without realizing their importance.

The Garrett letter continued, "[Swanson] feels that as soon as he got her to break down, she did reveal actual fear and much agitation lest she should be deported to England."

At one point, Swanson got "rough" with his subject. So much so that "she wept on his shoulder and became very miserable."⁽¹²⁾ Picked for his good looks and "male looking demeanor," he told Garrett he had handled nothing like this case before.

Garrett concluded her March 25th letter to Hall by saying "Swanson admitted. . .that if he had stayed around Marianne much longer, she most certainly have made a pitch for him, and he gives the impression that we ought to hold this is mind in case you have need of his services where Marianne is concerned in the future."⁽¹³⁾

Swanson's services were used again - in very short order - since no one was satisfied with the first interview.

Trevor Hall was not satisfied and came up with over two dozen lengthy questions he was very anxious to have clarified.

Eileen Garrett was not satisfied and told Hall in an April 16 letter, "She is not an easy girl to deal with." Garrett went on to say, "My interest would be to get her to tell all, and then help her find a decent position where she could live out a more healthy and disciplined life. Even if she cannot, the child may be helped."⁽¹⁴⁾

Swanson was not satisfied and became "so intrigued with this case that it now consumes him with the need to push it to the end," according to Garrett's letter.

Hall replied to Garrett April 21, "I am much impressed by your kind intentions towards her and hope very much that they will be appreciated. I confess that I am more enthusiastic about the suggestion that something might be done to help the innocent Vincent. . ."⁽¹⁵⁾

Martin Ebon, secretary of the Parapsychology Foundation, had earlier written to Hall describing how "Marianne was very upset when investigator A. Robert Swanson met her." The same letter mentioned, "At one point [Marianne] asked [Swanson] if she could find work in New York. She said that she would leave her husband and take her son with her if she could get away. She wants to start a new life."⁽¹⁶⁾

Ebon told Hall, "It is felt that if Marianne was interviewed in New York City, much can be accomplished. She would be at the disposal of interviewers for hours at a time, which was impossible in Jamestown as she always had to rush home."

Ebon went a step further. "There are many discrepancies in her interview. . . If she comes to New York she can be interviewed vigorously about evasions and discrepancies. She can be even induced in writing a book if properly handled."

Evidently, the questioners handled Mom quite well. That is the only answer I can come up with to explain how an outline for her autobiography ended up at the tail end of Marianne Foyster of Borley Rectory. Hall's five volumes were finished in 1958, and I can only surmise the outline was received at the last moment prior to binding the concluding volume. The pages of the outline are not numbered, and Volume V does not have an index, a table of contents, or a preface, as the other four volumes have. It is also never referred to by any researcher.

Ebon concluded, "If she is brought to New York City for about a week or ten days she should be brought here as soon as possible. She is amenable to an interview at the present time but one does not know how long we shall be in such an advantageous position."⁽¹⁷⁾

Swanson and Garrett called Hall and invited him to travel to America so he could interview Mom in New York. Hall quickly realized that his presence "might well be an inhibiting factor in any further confession which Marianne might make," and declined the offer. He would remain in the background.

Swanson corresponded with Mom and talked with her on the phone. He extended the invitation to come to New York. He didn't tell her about the many pages of letters that had been written between the researchers about this second interview. The plan was to get very specific and not spare any feelings. In her acceptance letter of April 17, 1958 Mom wrote:

Dear Robert Swanson:

I have spoken to my employer and he has given me permission to be absent the second weekend in May. . . Vincent is going to stay with friends.

I will fly. I get very air sick, but it does save time and my feelings don't matter, I know. You will forgive me mentioning these matters, but I am the family breadwinner and I cannot be away too long from my employment, since on a newspaper one looses one's job if one is given to absenteeism.

I had hoped that I heard the last of that other life, in another country, in another world. What more can I add? After all it is 20 years ago and I am not the same person I was. You may not believe it but it is true.

All that I ask is just to be left in peace to live out the rest of my life in quiet decency and in the serenity of the American way of life. I have friends, my child, and my work, here in America. Life is good, and above all, I pray that no hurt through me, will ever come to Vincent, and the many folks here. ⁽¹⁸⁾

Swanson then sent her money for a plane ticket and expenses. He shortly received the following thank you letter:

Dear Robert Swanson:

When I received your letter this morning, I went into my usual tail spin. Then when I opened it and read it I was absolutely astounded. Not by the money alone, though that too is one of the most wonderful things I have ever experienced. Your words in the letter are so kind. I have no way of expressing my thanks for them. Will you please try to realize how much they mean to me. The money means I will get my hair fixed and buy a dress which will not disgrace you. Not a flashy dress, just a plain little number which will make me look less like a ghoul.

Thank you for that. I will fly, as I said in my previous letter. I spoke to a doctor here, who comes often into the Sun [newspaper] office, and asked him what I should do about air sickness. He has promised me an absolute preventative. The experience of flying to New York in four hours is terrific. I could not take the time to go by train anyway. . . I can leave. . . May 8 or 9.

Naturally I will not gossip about employment in New York. I do not gossip anyway. You make the whole things sound so wonderful. I have never had a holiday like that. In fact, in my whole life I have never had a proper holiday which included airplane trips and a stay in a hotel. I have only passed through New York. Among your many kindnesses, will you arrange that I am allowed to look at the statue of Liberty?

Vincent is happy playing baseball. He is getting on well in school and has not been late again. He is such a nice boy and has often spoken of you.

I am writing this at work and will have to conclude now as the paper is rolling. Thank you again. I do not know how to say it as I want to.

When I had your phone call, I had visions of all kinds of unhappiness, not only for me, but for many dear friends and my dear child Vincent.

What touches me does not matter. But other people do.

I will probably be able to thank you better some other time. Thank you for giving me the opportunity of seeing New York, and I will fly.

Yours sincerely, Marianne O'Neil ⁽¹⁹⁾

Mom arrived in New York and met with Garrett and Swanson May 9, 1958. From her autobiography My Many Lives, Iris Owen describes Garrett as "a charming woman, who had a fund of anecdotes about all the people she had known. One could listen to her for hours. She had met and known so very many interesting and famous people. She was a 'character,' and looked somewhat like a 'gypsy queen.' She wore lots of chunky jewellery, which one might have dismissed as fake, but was likely the real thing. She was a completely self-assured woman, a no-nonsense, down-to-earth person, who thoroughly enjoyed intelligent and intellectual conversation, and particularly the company of people with unusual and avant-garde ideas. She had had a tragic personal life, having been married three times. [Tragedies in her life] left her a very sympathetic and sensitive person. She was a remarkable woman. . . a brilliant business woman, a tireless worker for various kinds of charities and causes, a woman of extreme sensitivity and compassion. She had little patience with the idle and trivial." (p. 223-24 Toronto: Colombo and Company, 2000)

1. Mrs. O'Neil stated that the impression that Harry Price asked her to become active as a medium, or that she had mediumistic abilities may have been due to the fact that Price did indeed tell her that she might have powers of such a nature as to attract or project 'Poltergeist' phenomena. She specifically denied giving a 'seance' to Mr. Price.

2. Mrs. O'Neil, throughout the conversation, expressed herself in terms of extreme skepticism toward the Borley phenomena. She went on record asserting that the Borley phenomena were due to fraud, perpetuated either by mischievous neighborhood children or created or imagined by Edwin Whitehouse or Lionel Foyster.

3. Mrs. O'Neil was ready to grant that the origin of the Borley 'legend' might easily be traced to the natural fears of Mrs. Smith who inhabited the Rectory after she and her husband returned from a country where they had served as missionaries with many servants. At Borley, they were in a big house with eight entrances inhabited by rats and starlings, causing many weird noises that might be misinterpreted by a fearful person.

4. Mrs. O'Neil mentioned that Mr. Price had brought many people to Borley including Mr. W.H. Salter who had become so excited over Price's allegations that two carved figures over a mantlepiece were due to origins in a monastery, thus indicating a monastery tradition and psychic links with such apparitions as the reported one of a headless nun. Mr. Salter disagreed saying that these carvings might have been bought at such an everyday locale as the Earl's Court shops.

5. Mrs. O'Neil did not commit herself specifically to Mrs. Garrett's suggestion that she make a 'clean breast' of the Borley affair; however, she seemed to imply tacitly that she was willing to cooperate in clarifying the record sufficiently to clear up misunderstandings, misapprehensions, and contradictions.⁽²⁰⁾

Garrett wrote to Hall May 10 to continue the story:

After our conversation with Marianne and Robert Swanson. . . I picked up the trail again and took the lady to my favorite restaurant. . .After a few drinks we began to get truly acquainted, and I think I know by now what makes Marianne behave as she does.

She is extremely Irish, born in Antrim, and filled with all the imagination, superstition, legends and what have you of my race [Irish]. She probably did not have the disciplined upbringing which happened in my own life, and many times as I listened to her I thanked heaven for the rigidity of my very orthodox aunt. . .

Marianne laughs easily and has a quite beguiling personality once she is off her guard, and quite unblushingly told Mr. Swanson that she had every intention of lying to him, and I fear she will do it again since her lying is a game. She remained adamant in her alleged dislike of Price, but she had enough to say about Mrs. Goldney and her affairs with Price some of which took place in the oddest places in Borley that I really wish you could have been present to hear! She denied emphatically any relationship with Whitehouse but rather intimated that the latter and Foyster were exceedingly intimate which suggested a spot of homosexuality in the relationship although she did not say so outright. She emphasized that Whitehouse was always ill, imaginative, and a liar, and again and again stated that she knew nothing about the stiletto. If these things happened at all, I honestly think that so much more has happened to her that she forgets, funnily or seriously. She lives in a perpetual temperature of romance. I cannot help seriously wondering how much Mr. Swanson is going to get when he begins his very realistic approach on Monday next.

She was amusing, gay all through the dinner. I pressed the bottle close to her, she drank like a lady and showed no outside or visible signs of being affected by it. She talked intelligently about a book that she is writing and we suggested to her that she should write a book about the whole Borley experience. It might be a therapeutic thing for her to do.

Apart from the seriousness of the subject I was frankly amused with her, and I can readily see that she is wiling to enter into any other form of mischief. I asked her point blank if she had killed Foyster. She answered equally candidly that it had often been in her mind, but that he was too cunning for anything like that to happen to him. Again and again she remarked that he laid in bed and wrote all kinds of imaginative stories which were to be presented about Borley, hauntings, ghosts, etc., but she never felt that they were to be taken seriously, nor did she take them seriously herself, or so she says. I am perfectly willing to believe, however, that if Price wanted some phenomena, and Mrs. Goldney obviously did, she would have no hesitation in producing it. She will not admit to having any psychic power and vehemently puts it all away from her. Nevertheless, the type of mischievous make-up which she possess might well lend itself to a form of poltergeist phenomena.

I felt sorry for her in spite of her willfulness and mischievousness. She is evidently very fond of the little boy and I have told her that if she comes clean with Swanson and tells as much of the truth as she can remember, I would help her later on to get a scholarship for the child. She seemed to take great pleasure in this.⁽²¹⁾

Mom did indeed take great pleasure in the offer from Garrett, and I remember very clearly her telling me about it. Of course, I was under the impression the offer came from a very rich neighbor lady in Jamestown, and I vaguely remember her name started with "G." I was astonished that someone should care so much for me, but we delighted in making plans for college. I thought the offer was specifically to Duke University, and specifically for a law degree. While I considered the offer most generous, my own contrariness came into play and I pushed law and Duke University to the dark recesses. Later, I wished many times I had taken advantage of Garrett's generosity.

The reference to being born Irish displays once again my mother's propensity for telling people what they wanted to hear. Most often, she let the other person run with the story along their own preconceived notions. Mom would smile very broadly and move her head in absolute agreement. She didn't have to say anything. This used to infuriate me to no end, because she was thus able to make all comers feel comfortable and even intimate. Everyone liked her so much, and as an observer on the outside I would be quite disgusted.

On the other hand, I do not believe when specific questions were asked during these interviews that Mom deliberately lied about everything. Why would she? If she were going to admit to an adulterous relationship with Francois, Fisher, and Robert O'Neil, then why lie when talking about Whitehouse or Dr. Davies? She admitted to creating a ghost to scare d'Arles, so why not admit to other specific faked phenomena? In addition, as I read the transcripts, I got a sense of the mood Mom was in by certain key phrases she used. I could often hear her voice say the words in my mind, and from many such instances in both transcripts she was clearly trying to tell the truth as best she could remember it. At other times, there was no reason for her to make something up. Especially when pressed, Mom did not lie.

Whatever, Garrett was keeping Hall appraised of every minute detail, and concluded her May 10 letter to him with this postscript:

P.S. I talked with Marianne this morning. She was very upset by Swanson who must have given her a rough time yesterday. . .

This morning she denies that she was born in Ireland, but was born in England - she admits that her family are Irish!! ⁽²²⁾

Hall responded May 15 by pointing out Mom's birth certificate and then told how she was in Ireland from age eight through 23, when she went to Canada. He thought Mom had an Irish accent, and told Garrett, "Her son Ian Shaw speaks with a slight Irish accent. . . He told me that he had no Irish blood in his veins."⁽²³⁾

As with the first interview, no one was satisfied with the second. Garrett told Hall she thought my mother had mediumistic powers, regardless of what Mom told her. She then wrote, "I do not believe from what I myself have seen of Marianne that we have received very much more knowledge."

Garrett then told Hall, "I am glad to have met her, and I feel that she liked me well enough not to disappear altogether."⁽²⁴⁾

Hall had spent five years wondering, probing, and digging. Now he didn't know what to do with the information he had. Garrett agreed to keep her copies of Marianne Foyster of Borley Rectory under lock and key. Hall hoped "for some possible publication in the future," and suggested the material "be available in the meantime for any student to read at your personal discretion." Because of the sensitive nature of what he had found, and out of consideration to me and the others he so carefully documented, Hall concluded, "I think we ought to insist that no copies or notes are made on any part of it for a few years at least."

Volume V of Marianne Foyster of Borley Rectory had no preface or index, as did the other volumes. It contained only the second Swanson interview and the outline for Mom's autobiography. The project was over. None of the leads Mom gave were followed, such as asking Dr. Alexander of Sudbury about her health while at Borley. Instead, the book was hastily closed.

It was not reopened until 1992.

My mother may have feared being deported, even though she technically met the requirements of the letter she received from the U.S. Embassy. I have no way of knowing when she applied for U.S. Citizenship, but her application was approved more than a year after Swanson found us. It contained one of the most important facts in my own life.

Even under threat of penalty, my mother was unable to provide all the truth. She must have been extremely nervous filing and verifying this petition. She had to stick with the birth date and maiden name of Fisher since her support documents gave that information. She never told me about this petition, since I always assumed she was born in Maine. It was only after I obtained a copy of it from the district court in Fargo that I finally realized who I really was. When I received my copy August 30, 1994, I noticed my birth date was not given as November 2, 1945. It was after comparing this petition with the give-away document of Peter Richard Howards that I finally put the puzzle together. No investigator had either paper.

The Swanson interviews did not touch on what life was like for us in North Dakota. Mom worked very hard to keep us fed, but I was very angry with her the night she told me we were going to have a "special treat" for dinner. It was to be bread and hot milk. If Dad ever roared that he wanted cow tongue or caviar, he got it. The inconsistencies upset me very much.

We started out with great looking furniture and silverware. There were tons of books and fancy bookcases. There were beautifully framed pictures of distinguished looking gentlemen and ladies in fine frames. There was a stamp collection and a silver trophy cup with the name "Fisher" on it. There was an antique Bible, dated "MDXXXVII." I thought it was hand-printed by monks, but Mom assured me it was one of the first printed books. Over the years, everything disappeared - everything. Except for the Bible.

We moved around a terrific amount, and I could never figure out why. To escape my alcoholic dad was the answer I settled on. At one time, the place we were living in was so small, Mom had to hang a sheet to divide a space into two sleeping areas. At other times, we landed in the biggest houses she could afford, even when there was only two of us.

Mom's boss at the newspaper was Mr. Hanson. When he interviewed her for the position, he asked her if she had any experience that would qualify her as an assistant editor. She simply replied, "No, but I'm willing to learn." He liked her. I got the feeling he was aware of some of my mother's problems with dad, and he bent over backward to protect her privacy.

Mom started work very early in the morning, and on occasion she would take me with her. National and international stories came across a teletype machine that would print out a readable version on paper. There was also a machine that produced a matching ticker tape. The ticker tape was full of holes that could be read by the Linotype machines which, in turn, would make lead type for stories the editor wanted printed. Mom would tear off the printed stories, and I would wind the ticker tape into a figure eight and clip it to the matching "hard copy." I enjoyed doing this, and Mom praised me to the sky because, "Not everyone can wrap tape as well as you can."

After work, Mom was still busy. She wrote freelance articles for small publications. She became an officer in the ladies auxiliary of the Veterans of Foreign Wars and proudly attached a huge VFW emblem to her small, red purse. She taught dance, and formed various entertainment groups that went on tour and local television. She produced an Arabian Night's play with a two-person camel. She was never home.

I was left to my own devices while I was home alone. I got into some pretty weird scrapes, and Mom allowed me to be placed in a jail cell for a few minutes once to stop me from shoplifting.

My mother bought me whatever she thought was appropriate in the line of toys, but never any guns except for a futuristic ray gun. She bought me a very expensive bicycle, and I was often charged with riding to the store for milk. More often than not, I would drop the milk and she calmly gave me another quarter to try again.

She wasn't always so understanding, however. I never knew what would set her off, but when she really got offended, she would tug at her hair and grimace, "Gott in Himmel, what did I ever do to deserve you!"

While I was still very young, she exploded when I "forgot" how to tie my shoes. She used a yardstick to try and help me remember. The more angry she became, the more frustrated I became, and around and around we went.

Another time she lost control was when she thought I had deceived her about something. I hadn't lied - just not told her the truth. On that occasion we were alone, and she chased me around the Jamestown Sun building with an electrical cord. I was too fast for her, but the memory stayed with me all my life.

Music played an important part in her life, and it was while we lived in Jamestown that she wound up with a beautiful - and very expensive - accordian. It was mainly black and "marble," with silver accents. If memory serves me correctly, it had beautiful ivory keys, and a "diamond" marker in the middle of the vast collection of bass buttons. The sturdy box that encased it was lined in red velvet. How we came to afford such an obvious luxury is a mystery today, but back then I did not think it strange. She paid for me to have violin lessons, and eventually guitar and harmonica lessons, so how could I form any jealousy over the accordion. Besides, she didn't mind if I strapped the behemoth on from time to time - though I was never able to play it. My tiny mother played it, though!

If I didn't envy the accordian as stealing from our cupboard, my father may have resented it. As with all our valuables, it too, went the way of alcohol, gambling debts, and legal fees. It is entirely possible that he even pawned it or sold it outright. Whatever the cause for its demise, I'm sure my mother was bitter over losing it.

In later years, we ended up with two pianos - yes, two - including a beauty that played piano rolls. We also had an organ. Mom could play the piano quite well, and was somewhat upset she couldn't master the organ, and ended up sponsoring organ lessons for senior citizens - but that comes later.

While we were in Jamestown, I learned a couple of songs that she absolutely loved to hear me sing - even up until her death. Everyone has heard "Joshua Fit de Battle," but I have not been able to find the title of another song she dearly loved. I do remember most of the words:

My mother made some good friends while in North Dakota. Friends she wished to stay close to, but who drifted away over the years. Some of those friends were members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She joined in August of 1955, stating her birth date as February 23, 1916. She gave her name as Marianne Emile Fischer O'Neil, and her father's name as Wilhelm Schau Fisher. Her mother was Anna Elizabeth Astrid von Kiergraff, and her place of birth was Aroostook, Maine.

One of the North Dakota friends later told me, "Marianne said she was attracted to the LDS Church because she was grieving over the death of a baby daughter. The Catholic Church would not allow the baby to be buried in the cemetery because she had not been baptized before death. The baby had to be buried 'outside the fence,' as my memory tells me." Mom never was a stickler for exactness, and this sounds very much like the infant John Evemond Every.

She told pretty much the standard story to these friends: "She said that her father was a doctor in Maine. She talked of her brother being killed during the war. She had gone to England to school before the war years. When the war started she was unable to come home. I had the feeling she had gone over there when she was about 16."

Mom was very active in the Church while in North Dakota. She taught Sunday School and Relief Society (ladies aid) lessons. She was very well liked, and served as counselor to the local president of the Society. A friend told me, "Your mother. . . is the best literature teacher we've ever had."

She lied to the LDS Church when she was baptized, but she almost told the whole truth to the United States Government when she became a naturalized citizen November 18, 1959. Her only error on that document was her birth date, given as January 26, 1913. It was the other true facts on this paper that convinced me I was not her natural son. She correctly put down my birth date as October 9, 1945 - the same date I found on her informal adoption paper of Peter Richard (no last name given). A copy of her naturalization certificate reached me August 30, 1994. Before that time, I knew something was suspicious, but never imagined the full truth.

It was while we were living at a great place we called "Four Acres" that Mom quietly came into my bedroom one night and said, "We are leaving. Right now. I am divorcing your Dad, and we are leaving for Fargo [North Dakota]." It was 1958, and I was about to turn 13.

The lady that owned our house stood up beside my mother during the divorce hearing ("Birdie" Byington), or she would not have had the strength to go through with it. Even though Dad had broken both her wrists - at different times - and even though he had spent all her money, she still needed help to face the judge.

I was glad about the divorce. My Dad had whacked me around one night and sent me to bed. Later, he came in to my room smelling like a dead animal soaked in alcohol. He leaned over and rubbed his five day growth of whiskers in my face. "Why do you make me do this," he accused me. "I don't want to hit you. Why do you make me do it?"

I thought, "Good riddance." He was not gone from our lives. He found us, and Mom kept paying his bills. He continued to live with us off and on until he died.

Meanwhile, we got set to move one more time.

Fargo wasn't any better for me than Jamestown. Mom went to work counseling unwed mothers at Lutheran Welfare. She was still never home.

She never went into great detail about her work, but she did tell me one of her clients was a 12 year old girl who was pregnant because of her father. I didn't know what she meant.

Pastor (Joseph) Belgum was her supervisor at Lutheran Welfare, and really enjoyed having Mom on his staff. A brochure from that facility indicates Mom had a B.A. Belgum encouraged her to get a doctors degree in sociology from the University of Minnesota, but she declined. She told me, "I have not a degree in sociology, only in psychology." Her "diploma" from Cambridge told me otherwise. I saw it many times before it disappeared, and it read:

At one point, Mom took in three girls to live with us. I don't know where they came from before moving in, but now I assume it was after they had given up their babies. One girl was studying to be a beautician, one overdosed in her bedroom, and the youngest taught me how to whistle through my fingers. The woman who overdosed left a strong smell behind after the ambulance took her away. I'm guessing it was the smell of heroin. I never saw her again.

It was not my nature to make friends, so I usually found ways to entertain myself. Then, when I was about 16, I started hanging out with this one guy who taught me how to "borrow" cars. We were caught when we drove a 1957 Chevy across the river to visit his girlfriend. A suspicious mother knew we didn't have such a fancy car, and called the police. He had a record and ended up in reform school. Some Mormon friends of ours bailed me out of trouble and I was sent to Utah. I was to live with the family of Robert Murphy, whom we had met years before.

Mom moved shortly after I left. Her new place was much smaller and she told me in a letter, "The apartment is not too bad. I hate it. I feel so confined and I feel as if the walls are coming in to squeeze me."

She definitely liked larger houses, and she definitely liked family. It wasn't long after I moved to Utah that she wrote and told me, "I think I shall have to take a vacation out to Zion and see if I can land a job somehow, somewhere. I'm not happy here all alone. The church is good and kind to me, but I do not have much heart left here [with you gone]. Of one thing I am sure - the Lord will work for me, and where I am to go, He will see to it that I [get there]."

Mom made extra money with several speaking engagements. She needed the funds to pay her moving expenses and to pay some bills I had left behind. I was not told what the topics of her speeches were, but I do know she traveled a great deal.

To increase her potential for earning money as a freelance writer, Mom took a correspondence course. It is quite ironic when looking at her image as a story teller that she told me, "Do you know what, when it comes to facts I score 100 - an 'A.' But on the fiction I do not seem able to score anything higher than a weak 'B' or a 'C' plus." The she let a couple of interesting phrases slip: "But I am learning to write in a more modern American style. It plays hob with ones style though." "American style. . ." as opposed to "English style?" I didn't catch on to that subtle hint in 1962 when she wrote this letter. I also failed to catch on to the fact that "hob" is an English word for a hobgoblin or elf.

Her travels on behalf of Lutheran Welfare took her to South Dakota, Minnesota, and all over North Dakota. She was gone for days at a time, probably to interview prospective clients. She relied on others for transportation as she did not have a car nor a driver's license. She told me she drove in England, and she could get a license any time she felt like it. Looking back, I wonder if filling out forms at the licensing bureau made her shy away from one more invasion of her privacy. Besides, she had plenty of friends willing to take her wherever she wanted to go. For her daily work, she walked.

Her abhorrence of bureaucratic paperwork, and her constant struggle for money, resulted in a tax audit in 1962. "One does not expect the government to do things like this," she wrote. "But the rotten Democrats will do anything, it seems. They have decided to investigate me as far back as 1958. Can you imagine that? They say I have not filed and they have no record of any filing for either Robert or Marianne. I do not have the records as far back as 1958." Being haunted by the IRS must have really given her a terrific fright, for she made sure an attorney handled her taxes every year after that.

Her dislike for forms and paperwork extended to her always being lavish with stamps. She claimed she could never remember the amount it took to mail a letter. So she simply put far more stamps on a letter than it needed.

As busy as she was, with me gone her nest was now empty and she missed me terribly. She begged me to call - collect - or send a scrap of paper on it telling her I was okay. "I think it will be nice to hear your voice," she pleaded. "And you may like to hear mine. It won't cost any more than our (weekly) Saturday jaunt (to a restaurant), and we should do something together, don't you think?"

The weekly jaunts continued all her life whenever we were together. A doughnut shop, a hotel restaurant, or a thrift store deli - the place didn't matter, just as long as we could have some time together. Several times we even ate at the bus depot in Fargo. Mom said we were "knitting memories" for our old age. She wanted me to have a "warm shawl of memories" to wrap myself in after she had gone. At one point while I was in Utah she told me, "I went downtown last Saturday and nostalgically went to the bus depot. I had a Seven-Up. [My favorite.] There was no delight in ordering anything else since there was no big fella to [lovingly] "scold."

We had never gotten along particularly well, but after I left she wrote, "I miss you, bad tempered as you were. I know it has been good for both of us to be apart, for you began to believe that you were the most downtrodden kid in the whole world. Ah, adolescence! I began to believe I was the worst mother in the world. Ah, maturity!"

She poignantly observed, "This will be the only Christmas we have ever spent away from each other. It seems strange not to be thinking of food and baking. I miss my boy."

She sent letters and cards at least once a week, and kept asking if I needed anything - like money. She thought television was a waste of time while I was growing up, but now she tried to watch at least the news programs every night. She began to watch more programs as a way of vicariously sharing some time with me. She watched shows we both enjoyed, such as Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Her other favorites shows were westerns - Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Have Gun Will Travel.

She even painted some pictures after I left. "I had a lot of fun doing it," she wrote after finishing her first painting. "It's not flowers, it's a scene on the prairie. It looks good, even if I do say so."

Not everything was picture perfect in Fargo. Ghosts from Dad's wildness and from my own short past haunted her. As she told me a few months after I left:

I have not been able to just have fun, because I lived with fear. It's a terrible thing to live with fear, Vince. Moral fear. Fear that every time the phone rang it could mean trouble. I am a law upholding person. I sometimes wonder though, how it is possible for someone like me to live through what I have and still be able to go to work and act as if nothing had happened. God has given me the strength, and only God has helped me. Vincent my son, my own dear son, play golf, run a motor boat, swim - do all of these things. They help get the energy out of ones system. Never put any woman through what I have suffered. You have seen the result of wildness in our home. Hate it Vince, for what it has deprived us of, and fight it, so that it never deprives your sons and daughters.

While I was in Utah finishing high school, Mom got a job back close to where we started out in America - LaCrosse, Wisconsin.

1. Hall, Trevor. Marianne Foyster of Borley Rectory. Unpublished, 1958. Vol. II, p. 35.

2. Ibid, pp. 37-38.

3. Ibid, pp. 39-42.

4. Ibid, p. 43.

5. Ibid, pp. 46-47.

6. Wood, Robert. The Widow of Borley. London: Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd., 1992. p. 159.

7. Hall, op. cit. Vol. IV, p. 74

8. O'Neil, Vincent. Things My Mother Tried To Teach Me. Ogden, Utah: RVON Publishing, 1994.

9. Hall, op. cit. Vol. IV, p. 83.

10. Ibid, p. 47.

11. Ibid, pp. 47-48.

12. Ibid, p. 5.

13. Ibid, p. 48.

14. Ibid, p. 91.

15. Ibid, p. 92.

16. Ibid, p. 82.

17. Ibid, p. 83.

18. Ibid, p. 94a.

19. Ibid, pp. 94b-94c.

20. Ibid, pp. 96-97

21. Ibid, pp. 102-103.

22. Ibid, p. 104.

23. Ibid, p. 104.

24. Ibid, p. 105.