WARNING

This post contains mature subject matter and certain triggers!

Contents: Fear, Supernatural, Violence and Rape.

If you or someone you know is the victim of rape or sexual assault, call the National Sexual Assault Hotline (800) 656-3673 for directions to help in your area. This is no time to be alone.

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A terrible saga began in 1901 when a brownstone house was built. No one is left to tell the story of its early days. Some property listings say that it is “prewar” which, these days, is an ambiguous term. You know it means before the second world war, but it also predates the first world war, “The Great War,” as it has been named.

When it was built, the Ottoman Empire still existed. That year, President William McKinley was shot, succumbing to his wounds a week later. Theodore Roosevelt was sworn in.

A summer heatwave killed over 9,000 Americans; air conditioning did not yet exist. Louis Armstrong, Ed Sullivan and Walt Disney were born. They’ve long since left us.

Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Alaska and Hawaii weren’t yet states, but territories.

The world didn’t notice, nor would it care, that another Brooklyn brownstone was just being built.

The world was a busy place, and the Boxer Rebellion was just coming to an end, Cuba became a protected territory of the United States: future president Batista, who would be deposed by Fidel Castro, was born. Japan was resolute in its efforts to keep Russia out of Korea, and Australia became a sovereign country but retained British “oversight”, and Queen Victoria passed away at age eighty-two. She was succeeded by Edward VII, but most of the power of the Crown had been leached from it by Parliament.

In New York City, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had left the Wild Bunch, passed through for a photograph and settled in South America. But in 1901, the Wild Bunch went on without them and pulled their last known job, a train Robbery.

Teddy Roosevelt decided that henceforth, The Executive Mansion would be officially known as “The White House.”

Coney Island was just getting its reputation and it changed several times. At first hotels catered to the wealthy, then there came a monstrosity called “The Elephant,” which housed a brothel, and illegal “prizefights” went on out back. Nathan Handwerker wasn’t even attracted to the area until 1916, when the Elephant was gone and beach-and-boardwalk boundaries were finalized. He was the man responsible for Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, and when someone wanted a “Coney Island hot dog” and some rings, that’s where they went.

In 1901, most of New York City was unrecognizable to current residents and tourists. The Brooklyn Bridge was up, but across the river, the Empire State Building wasn’t even dreamt of yet, and the Flatiron Building was not yet finished. The towering skyscrapers would be raised later.

With horseless carriages now on the roads, it was inescapable that tremendous changes were coming. Not everyone welcomes change; too much too fast, and we go into shock from it all. All of the above should amaze you; it does me.

Between 1901 and present day, 119 years all told and soon to be 120, much has taken place. The world became, in ways people living in 1901 couldn’t imagine, a masterpiece of the macabre and the miraculous wrought by humanity. We’ve engaged in the most destructive wars the Earth has ever known, made medicine and vaccines that saved lives, sent men to the moon and the bottom of the sea. Television and motion pictures evolved to a staggering range of abilities including realistic dinosaurs rendered by computers. In 1901, that wasn’t imaginable.

And the brownstone at 455 Sackett Street saw some awful things. Later, much later, a walled-up body would be discovered. Terrible things indeed.

In 1912, the Year of the Titanic, a boy was born to a couple who lived those harsh days with stoicism and firm resolve in the “Irish” part of Brooklyn, where a mere street served as a boundary between them and Italians, and crossing that street meant putting oneself in peril. Gangs ruled both sections, but it would be the Italian Mafia that came to rule all five Burroughs with an iron grip.

Young Frank Cunningham had no idea what he was in for. One day his mother took him with her to visit the graves of friends and relatives. Child and infant mortality was high, and a woman who carried eight babies was fortunate if only one survived. Yellow and Typhoid fever were constant predators, rheumatic fever and everything else including ghastly birth defects were not uncommon. Frank looked at the little graves, not quite understanding how babies could die. The sensitive boy was told that they were angels now. But things make lasting impressions on the young. And when the Spanish flu struck his mother down, Frank was sent to live with a relative. She survived the initial fight, but succumbed not long after. Frank Cunningham learned that the world was unforgiving and grew up constantly reminded of that awful truth.

After growing up to be a man, he enlisted and was discharged just before the attack on Pearl Harbor. He went right back in, serving until the end of World War Two. During that time he slogged across Italy as a corporal gunner in the field artillery. He endured the heat of the North African days and the cold at night. Then, just after D-Day, his unit was assigned to Patton, and the field artillery was a critical component of the Third Army. Of all the weapons the Allies had, artillery was perhaps the most feared by infantry. When Wermacht troops saw or, worse, heard but couldn’t see a spotter plane overhead, there was nothing they could do. Artillery was deadly accurate, and there were different shells used. All of them were terrible, including anti-personnel shrapnel rounds, high explosives, incendiary and white phosphorus.

It was in April of 1945 that an armored cavalry unit entered the Gotha countryside deep in Germany. There had been rumors but not a man there could ever have prepared himself for what they had stumbled upon. Somehow, Frank’s unit had been brought up. Eisenhower and Patton both went into the Ohrdruf concentration camp which fell under the Buchenwald network command. Eisenhower wrote that there was a shed full of stacked bodies and George would not go in, claiming he’d get sick. Both wrote that that bestiality was worse than anything they had seen. Frank never forgot the scene, bodies partially burned on pyres as the German Schutzstaffel, or SS, bugged out, hoping no evidence of their evil would remain. He remembered the stench of decomposing bodies starved or shot, bodies that would have been hard to be close to even when they were alive.

The war ended, Frank came home, entered New York politics, and worked hard to help anyone who needed it. While an alderman he would spend his own money to take turkeys for the holidays to the poor families who otherwise would have celebrated nothing. He understood hunger, suffering on all levels and he was still that sensitive little boy on the inside, the one who found comfort that babies went to Heaven and became angels.

He didn’t speak of the war. He had been through too much, seen too much. He once charged a machine gun nest with two MG 42s, which was either brave, suicidal or both. He earned a Purple Heart and two Silver Stars and he was fine with it, keeping his pain and his extreme hatred for Germans to himself.

But then Frank found the perfect partner in Jane, whom he married. They stayed in love until death parted them. Their daughter caused them a turn or two; in what at the time was Redhook, there were plenty of hazards. Their daughter made friends easily with people who sometimes caused Frank to be concerned, but she also brought home friends who were in trouble, and Frank never turned any of them away. A teen beaten by his father for his sexual orientation was kicked out of his house. Frank let the boy stay, then went to his father and said, “You ever lay a hand on him in anger again, you’ll be sorry.” Then he demanded, “How the hell can you kick your own son out on the street?”

And he meant it. He wasn’t fond of threats, which are always a sign of weakness. If he said he would do something, he’d do it. That was part of his reputation. The man did not, as I know of, ever raise his hand to the boy again.

Another native of Redhook, “Crazy Joe” Gallo, once stopped in the street and spoke solicitously to Frank’s daughter, scaring the little girl. She told Frank about it. She merely described the man and where he was and at what time of day. That was enough that Frank knew it was Joey Gallo. He simply waited on the sidewalk the next day, and when the monster who had been rumored to be part of the hit on Albert Anastasia came along, Frank calmly told him that if he ever went near his daughter again, he’d be really sorry.

And Gallo believed him. The reckless gangster who would die, riddled by bullets, in front of Umbertos Clam House, backed down. He knew that Frank was respected and well-liked, a man of principle, honesty and kindness. He probably understood, somewhere in his dim mind, that those are the guys you least want to piss off.

Frank Cunningham was “hands off”, a respected man. Besides, everyone had kids, and nobody wanted them hurt.

When accidents at intersections began to claim injuries and lives, he was the man to go to. He’d fight for traffic lights anywhere, even outside his district. He was occasionally unsuccessful, but a man who had seen and done so much in his life wouldn’t let someone down. He’d continue to fight for, and he got traffic lights, and undeniably, he saved lives.

Even fighters, though, have their day of reckoning, that one day when they sit across from a doctor and get the worst news of their lives. And so it was for Frank: cancer.

His daughter was married, and she was a nurse. She was pregnant during his end stage, and she took loving care of him as he grew more sick. Soon he was bedridden and she’d lie to him and say she was giving him vitamin shots because he hated painkillers. It was really demerol. One day early in the treatment he became loopy, and remarked that the vitamins were a bit suspicious. He knew, though. Frank always knew the score.

One day, still cold outside, he asked if she would drive him to Coney Island. She was surprised by the request. Was he really up to it? Her mother was sick and couldn’t go, but he wanted to visit the place. His daughter got the car ready, then helped him out to it, and they left. Frank…always knew the score. This would be his last chance to score a Nathan’s and an orange drink; he loved those. He managed to eat most of the Nathan’s and the drink, but couldn’t finish.

He asked to go to the beach, but his daughter knew he could not make the walk. She got permission from one of New York’s finest to drive under the boardwalk and onto the beach. He stood for a while, gazing out at the ocean, then said, “We had some good times here, didn’t we?” It wasn’t so much a question as an acceptance of success as a father and a husband; he’d done his best, but his time was up.

Doubtless he remembered the afternoon when he came home from work and found his wife and daughter in the kitchen, attempting to wash dishes and failing because they were giggling in between fits of mirth. Jane was washing the same plate the whole time he asked each of them how their day was and what exactly was so funny.

It turned out that Jane Cunningham was aware that her daughter smoked marijuana, and, being a responsible mother, she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. So she and her daughter went and smoked a joint. It was, after all, the 70s. A parent should know certain things, right?

Frank probably knew, always knowing the score the way he did, but he never brought it up or pressed. Although evidently his expression gave Jane the idea that it would please him if she left the teenager stuff to their daughter.

As often occurs with end stage patients, there were moments of tenderness and lucidity and a final rally. Frank was being tended to by his daughter one night and he said to her, “Your mother’s birthday is tomorrow. Get me my wallet, please.” She gave it to him, and he picked some currency out and told her which jeweler to patronize, and to get his beloved Jane something nice.

And that’s how he was. A father, a husband and a man anyone can look up to and make even the slightest effort to emulate, and end up a great man.

He talked to daughter Maggie about how they used to go to Mets games, especially one game in the 1969 World Series. And the Jets, and how he had introduced her to Tom Seaver and Joe Namath. She still swears her undying love for Seaver (Tom Seaver died of complications from COVID-19 shortly after this post was first published).

Frank Cunningham never showed any regret that he had no son. To his delight, his daughter went with him anywhere, and was as enthusiastic about sports as he was, and even got a priceless political education from him that no school could touch.

The rally was a wonder. Frank sat up in bed and ate steak and lobster and had a beer. It was wondrous that is, until his daughter realized that rallies often signal that the end is close, very close. His death came as no surprise to her, but her daddy, her teacher, her friend…was gone.

It wasn’t fair. He never got to meet his granddaughter, who was born later that same year. Nor his grandson, who came a few years later. No one should have to go before meeting their grandkids.

But there is always another bit of unfairness waiting on either side of the stage. Jane Cunningham died, leaving Maggie grieving terribly, and she’s never stopped. She knew it had happened. She wasn’t there, but she knew. Maggie senses things, and surely grief has sharpened her ability; she often knows when a friend is in trouble. And, so very often, she’s been called on by a higher power to tend to a friend or neighbor when their last days are near. Frank and Jane Cunningham were such amazing parents that their only child turned into a lightworker, one who helps the dying and the lost to find their way home.

Tragedy sometimes hits families with a force and frequency, though, that seems so unfair as to be a challenge to their faith, their family unit, their ability to keep up or to cope with it all.

And so we come to the terrifying, terrible part of the saga that is 455 Sackett Street in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Carroll Gardens. Used to be that the whole area was counted as Redhook. And, way back when, there was Mafia violence clean down to the waterfront, where the scaled down operations continue to this day. All five New York Mafia families have always had their fingers in Brooklyn. In the map below, 455 Sackett Street is pinned, but look to its right and notice a dark line extending north to south to the waterfront. That’s the Gowanus Canal, a place that once served as a dumping place where the mobs disposed of bodies.

There have been all sorts of frightening things found in those old homes. Renovating means tearing up floors and ripping drywall. People have found caches of Thompson machine guns, drugs, tunnels, bodies and everything in-between. People making these discoveries include side work carpenters, contractors and do-it-yourself owners. At least some have reported paranormal activity in those homes, though many still prefer to remain silent about such things. Others have told friends in confidence only to have the story grow legs, gain new details and they never say anything about it again.

Now we find Frank and Jane’s daughter, married, two children. They moved into the brownstone in the 90s and Maggie’s daughter, aged 14, said that she didn’t like the house. These days, the brownstones are highly coveted, but that unit was going for cheap. Jane didn’t feel right about it. She wrote this awesome yet disturbing brief of the family’s horrors in the year they lived there.

That’s an horrific story, but unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. True, the fire department could find no reason for the fire. But while there, they had dozens of things happen that go beyond that narrative.

The poor girl was to testify and was treated unforgivably by the district attorney. The slime that raped her taunted her endlessly and threatened to kill her the next time he attacked her. In the courthouse, her mother was sequestered, not allowed into the trial. Meanwhile, the D.A. told the girl that because she was reporting ongoing crimes by her rapist, the court was going to put her in a group home and have uniformed police escort her to and from school. Hysterical, Jane ran from the courthouse, refusing to ever testify. Even therapy didn’t help; her first therapist shamed her by saying she should have testified. Then the guy couldn’t have raped more girls. The rapist was old enough to go to a supermax where, possibly, some guys might not have liked how young his victim was.

First of all, to a young victim, threatening to put her in a group home is heinous. Second, shaming gets done to victims enough by defense lawyers, so coming from a therapist, more trauma is added where there should never be any.

All sexual assault victims feel guilt. It’s something the mind does with that kind of trauma. That kind of experience. Historically, women have had great difficulty getting heard at all, and much more at getting justice, and still more dealing with trauma. It’s evil, all of it, and sickening to even imagine going through. Which is hard. Never can anyone who has not been so assaulted imagine what it’s like.

The trouble continued. Her father was never the same. He felt tremendous guilt that he had not been able to stop his little girl from being savaged so. He had already done brilliant work in his career, he loved his wife dearly, he loved his children and before living in that house, was so devoted to them that he’d give his wife time alone after her shift and take the children to the park. After his little girl was savagely attacked, and so visibly wounded, he began to drink. The drinking went hardcore, to a point his wife told him to leave. Afterward, he literally drank himself to death.

I get where everyone in this tragic story is coming from. My daughter was raped. She was in Junior high school. She walked. I drove her when I could, but then the breakup happened. I wasn’t there. Had I been, she would not have had to walk that day, and wouldn’t have been offered a ride. When she told me about it, we got in the car. She was going to show me his house. I was going to kill him later, after I got her back home. She said, “Dad, I can’t. Take me home. And don’t call the police.” She never said a word about it again.

I understand. As a victim myself, I knew the pain, the trauma. The fear. As a father, I knew the guilt, helplessness and my ultimate failure as a dad.

I, too, went into the bottle. Hard. At one point, I walked to work. One mile each way. After work, I’d buy a bottle and toss the empty on the side of the road or in someone’s yard, since it was dark, before I got home. Before that, I’d lost a job by drying myself out. So I said “fuck it” and started the liquor again.

And I get sibling guilt, too. I had to lie in my bed at night when I was a teenager and listen to my father raping my sisters. I couldn’t stop it, he terrified me. I could have beaten him to death but it wasn’t in my power. That’s guilt you take to the grave; it’s not rightfully yours, but there is no shaking it. Part of the reason I’m happy not having any contact with my blood relatives is that guilt. I got to where I couldn’t look them in the eye anymore.

Like Jane, I had times when I knew, even saw something evil in my room. I’ve told that story, so look through my archives and check it out.

But her troubles continue, as do mine. I’ve come under demonic attack repeatedly. In her current apartment, things go missing. She and her mother and her boyfriend have looked everywhere, and it’s only a studio. Sometimes things stay lost. Sometimes they turn up in places no one would put them.

There are vague apparitions, a face formed on a wall, her health has become frail, she has money problems and nightmares that I suspect are demonically influenced, not just PTSD nightmares. Something is in there.

The mother of the weasel who raped her said she had put a curse on her using Latin voodoo. I have written about curses, and people who say they’re bullshit unless you believe in them are idiots. The woman was “an adept” at whatever she practiced, so it may be true. The varmint had been found hanged in his jail cell after being arrested for more rapes and violent crimes. That’s okay; the world is a better place without him.

But Maggie and Jane, and Jane’s brother, they’re much more than just a tragic story. From a long line of Irish blood, Maggie has raised her family to be stronger than most. Frank Cunningham served his country and raised a daughter whose children are a true reflection of his sense of honor, honesty, loyalty and his resilience. They will not be defeated; they will endure. They inspire me, move me, teach me and they have gotten me through some dire issues, solely because they care. Just as Frank cared; the man who frustrated his wife by writing checks to buy turkeys for poor families. Like that. It’s not just that, either. It comes from love and empathy, the best parts of us.

***

It is never the best of times that give us the tools to fight against things that threaten us or our loved ones. It is always the worst that life can dish out that forms who we become, how strong we are, how much determination we can muster. No one lives without darkness, and evil cannot be escaped in life; it doesn’t work that way. Through the trials we endure, we learn the difference between light and dark and decide which we will live by.

I know a family in New York who I am proud to say I can call my friends. We are family. On my worst days, unable to get up, unable to sleep, unable to even form my thoughts, I need only think of them, and I’ll be on the mend soon enough.

And as terrible as this has been, take heart; if not for that brownstone that predates our country’s flag, I would never have known them at all. We meet people, sometimes, because of an awful, shared experience. It makes no sense, but it is often true.

Update: in March of 2025, Jane Francis Hunter died. She passed away alone, leaving behind a brother, her mother and uncountable friends who grieve. She is no longer in pain. The nightmares have stopped and what remains is our memory of a loving, bright, enthusiastic and extraordinary woman we shall not forget.