by Tom Lapham
On another occasion, Sara's friend, Shirley, came to stay with the children while Sara went to visit relatives in Jacksonville. The children were very self-sufficient, very independent. Stephanie at eleven was an excellent cook, and, together, the kids could take care of themselves. Shirley expected to be no more than an adult presence in the house while Sara was gone.
The second night she was there she had a dream, a very real dream, it later seemed to her. In the dream, a small boy came into her room and woke her up. He was a nice little boy, very polite, and he wanted to show her his room. “Come upstairs and see my room. You must see my room.” He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs. Halfway up, she stopped.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Why, I don't know. I…”
“Come on,” he smiled up at her and pulled her up the stairs.
As they reached the top of the stairs he looked at her with an impish grin and said, “I'm dead, you know.” With that she woke with a start and broke into a cold sweat. The two dogs were on either side of her. Freda was snapping at something above her head. Horrified, Shirley jumped out of bed, packed her bag, and left the house, leaving a note behind for Sara. “Next time you leave, take your spirits with you!” Shirley never visited again.
Several months later Sara went out, and two teenage girls came to sit with the children. Jennifer and her friend, Stacy, were in Jennifer's room playing. Suddenly, they heard a child's voice crying out, “Help me! Help me!” They looked around and could see no one. John was not outside the door trying to scare them. They walked all around the room trying to find the source of the voice. They ended up at the window, and the sound seemed to be coming from just outside. Excited, they rushed downstairs for the sitters, and all four girls returned. They stood in the middle of the room and listened. “Help me! Help me!” the small voice cried out again. The sound came from a front window sill. It sounded like a little boy calling to his mother. The two teenage sitters couldn't hear the voice, but Stacy heard it and Jennifer heard it. Immediately, all four girls were seized with terror and raced downstairs. They stayed together in the living room until Sara got home. Stephanie and Jennifer slept with Sara that night.
Unusual incidents continued to occur in the house, especially with Jennifer. Periodically, she felt the presence of someone in her room, and often she heard noises that no one could identify. Shy disappeared with regularity, always to be found in the closet. And wind would loudly rush through the attic. Finally, Sara decided to move.
Another strange thing happened as they prepared to leave the house. Sara decided to have a yard sale and set everything up out front. As the morning progressed, Jennifer and her friend, Stacy, watched with detachment from the top of the stairs inside the house. About mid-morning a woman came with a little girl perhaps a couple of years younger than Jennifer. She was into everything. She whined. She was impolite. She was very sassy to her mother. She was obviously spoiled, and not a very nice child. Jennifer and Stacy watched, neither of them liking this little girl. Eventually, the child came into the house and went up to use the bathroom. When she came back out, she stopped on the steps and pestered the two girls, who scolded her. In a huff she plopped down on the step above Stacy, who was sitting on the step above Jennifer. All of sudden, the girl lurched forward against Stacy who fell against Jennifer. Jennifer turned to see what had happened. Stacy turned to glare at the little girl. The girl turned around to see who had pushed her. No one was there. She screamed and raced out of the house in fright.
After everything had been moved out and the family had found a new home, Sara and the children returned to clean the house. Jennifer noticed a red sap oozing from the banister at the top of the stairs. Her mother told her, “The banister's bleeding; your ghost misses you.” In later years Jennifer heard another explanation.
Supposedly, there originally had been a wall where the banister was located. The wall often oozed what looked like blood. Some say it was the blood of the little boy's grandmother, who allegedly died a violent death in the house. Several times the wall was covered over, but it continued to ooze bloody-looking fluid. Finally, the wall was replaced with the railing. No one has ever confirmed this version, but that is the legend.
Jennifer has been back to the house many times since her family moved out and has talked to the various owners. One of the owners reported seeing a woman wearing a long skirt walking downstairs. He also had problems with doors locking and unlocking. In fact, after several experiences, he finally had the house blessed by a priest.
Subsequent owners have had no problems. Perhaps the little boy and his mother or grandmother finally found each other and are at peace.
PAFFE'S
ON ST. GEORGE STREET, MIDWAY between the Cathedral and the gates, the Pellicer-de Burgo House now stands, constructed by the Historic St. Augustine Preservation Board in 1974. The Paffe Stationery Store used to occupy the site at 49 St. George Street. The building actually included three addresses: 49 St. George was the stationery store and print shop owned by the Paffes; 51 St. George was the address of the apartment upstairs, which ran the length of the building and was occupied by the Paffes; and 53 St. George, a toy store and card shop. The entire building was owned by the Paffe family.
In late September of 1927 a hurricane raged along the coast. Seventy-mile-per-hour winds drove torrential rain and debris horizontally down St. George Street. Streets were flooded. Power was out. Windows were closed and shuttered. Doors were bolted. Still, the rain seeped in through microscopic openings and added to the already high humidity. No one dared venture outside, except in dire emergencies.
Two days before, Nurse Maggie Hunter had stopped by to check on Mrs. Paffe, who was ill and bed-ridden. Her condition seemed serious to Nurse Hunter. She decided to stay and sent word back to the hospital.
Now it was evening of the third day. The hurricane had raged for two days, and Mrs. Paffe's condition had improved little in that time. Maggie went to the kitchen to warm some milk for her patient; Mrs. Paffe could keep little else down. When the milk was heated, she took the pan off the stove, poured the warm liquid into a glass, and started down the hall, passing by the study where Mrs. Paffe's son, Clement, sat bent over his ham radio, passing and receiving information about the hurricane.
As Maggie stepped into Mrs. Paffe's bedroom, she saw, kneeling beside the bed, the shadowy form of a nun, wearing the habit of the Sisters of St. Joseph. She could not see the nun's face, but she could clearly see her hands moving swiftly over the beads of her rosary, obviously praying for Mrs. Paffe. Maggie had been in the house for three days and knew that no one had entered or left in that time. She was quite shaken and rushed back to the study to tell Mrs. Paffe's son.
He acknowledged Maggie and was quite unconcerned. “Oh,” he shrugged. “That's just Sister Mary Helen. She always shows up when anything serious happens.” And he went back to his radio. When Maggie went back to Mrs. Paffe's room, the nun was gone, and Mrs. Paffe was feeling much better.
That afternoon the weather improved, and Maggie returned to her own home. Mid-morning, three days later, Maggie stopped by the Paffe home to check on Mrs. Paffe. Her son answered the door and Maggie inquired after the elder woman. He was concerned. “She's been babbling about a Spanish sentry coming to take her home. Except for that, she's about the same as she was.”
Maggie entered the house and headed toward Mrs. Paffe's bedroom; the son went down the hall to the kitchen. As Maggie entered, she froze. There, standing by Mrs. Paffe's bed, was what appeared to be a blue-coated, seventeenth-century Spanish sentry. She turned and rushed back down the hall, calling for Mrs. Paffe's son. Together they returned quickly to the old woman's room. The Spanish sentry was gone, and Mrs. Paffe lay lifeless with a peaceful countenance.
THE CASABLANCA
The Casablanca Inn at 24 Avenida Menendez is one of St. Augustine's most elegant bed and breakfasts. It was built in 1914 in the Mediterranean Revival style and rece
ntly renovated to its original grandeur. With its elegant rooms and sweeping view of the Matanzas Bay, it is a wonderful place to stay and is very popular with visitors.
In 1919 Congress passed the Prohibition Act prohibiting the manufacture and sale of alcohol in the United States. A thriving black market soon evolved. Treasury agents acorss the nation were hard-pressed, in fact, were unable to keep up with all the illegal activity that surrounded the trade. St. Augustine became an important center for smuggling booze into the country from Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Cuba, and other islands in the Caribbean. Although there was real risk in smuggling, only a handful of agents were assigned to the Florida coast from Jacksonville to Mosquito Inlet, now Ponce de Leon Inlet, below Daytona Beach, so the odds were heavily in favor of the rum runners. Still, they were careful and didn't take any needless chances.
During the 1920s and ’30s, the Casablanca was owned by an elderly lady who ran it as a boarding house. She kept a clean, inexpensive, and comfortable place and served excellent food, and lots of it. So, her boarding house was popular with traveling salesmen—and Treasury agents, who were usually on a tight budget. Because it was so popular, the agents, and everyone else who wanted to stay there, had to call ahead to make reservations. Therefore, the old lady was able to keep pretty close track of the Treasury agents, at least when they were in St. Augustine. This was valuable information, and she was well aware of that fact.
Soon, she was able to parlay this knowledge into a very profitable business. Smugglers would sail up the coast at night and heave-to a couple of miles offshore. Because of the location of her boarding house on the bay, a light from the top of the building could be seen for many miles at sea. If the coast was clear, if there were no agents in town, the old lady would go up to her widow's a walk with a lantern and swing it back and forth. The rum runners knew, then, that they could come into port, and they would rush in, speedily off-load their illicit cargo, pay the old lady, and race back out to sea.
Finally, in 1933 Congress repealed prohibition, but not before the old lady become a millionaire. Eventually, she died and was buried in the Huguenot Cemetery, but her light can still be seen. To this day, shrimpers and fishermen entering the harbor often see a shadowy form waving a lantern back and forth on the Casablanca's widow's walk.
But, it's not just fishermen who see the old lady. Inside the inn, she is often seen or felt. Recently, a guest took a picture of herself in a mirror, and when she had the film developed, there was the ethereal figure of an old woman standing beside her.
Other guests and the owners, too, have had experiences. Items get moved or mysteriously disappear, only to reappear again in unexplainable places. Her presence is often felt in the hallways and on the stairs, but she isn't threatening. In fact, she seems to be quite friendly. I'm sure she is quite pleased with the renovation that has recently taken place.
THE SISTERS OF HOPE STREET
IN THE 1930S NOT LONG BEFORE the beginning of the Second World War, two middle-aged sisters lived in a second-floor apartment on Hope Street. The owner and his family lived below. There was a private inside stairway to the second floor and a balcony across the length of the house facing the street, British-style, although the house had been built much later, probably in the late 1800S.
The sisters were quiet women, very fastidious and tidy. They kept a neat, clean house, although they did have a little dog, part Pekinese, part terrier, named Gerald. The dog stayed on the balcony and was not allowed in the house except when it was very cold or raining. They fed him on the balcony and walked him morning and night, so he was no trouble and didn't dirty the apartment.
They were pleasant women, but kept pretty much to themselves. Both had good jobs, and their only activities besides work seemed to be cleaning their apartment, taking care of Gerald, and reading. They had quite a sizable library and had it organized, using the Dewey Decimal System, of course.
One evening they came home, and, just as they were putting the key in the lock, heard shuffling noises from inside the house. Alarmed, they slowly opened the door. No one was there and nothing seemed amiss. Nothing was out of place, and Gerald was curled up in his little bed on the balcony.
The noise occurred again several nights later and increased in frequency, so that soon it was an almost daily occurrence. It would always stop, however, when the women opened the door. This unsettled them, but they weren't frightened, not yet.
Then, one evening they returned home first to hear the noise, and, when they opened the door, to find food crumbs on the kitchen floor. Crumbs on the floor unnerved them. Their first thought was to blame each other for failing to clean up, but they both knew that was ridiculous. They had never left cleaning chores undone. No, there had to be another explanation.
Now, both the noise and the crumbs began occurring with increasing regularity. Next, they started finding their carefully catalogued books rearranged and some even on the floor. After several weeks of these almost nightly incidents, one of the sisters became frightened and moved out. Still, the remaining sister hung on. She wasn't going to be driven from her home.
Two months passed with almost nightly occurrences of noises, food crumbs on the floor, and rearranged books. The remaining sister, now alone in the house, wasn't quite as confident as she had been. But she was stubborn, and she wouldn't be frightened away. It was probably just a friend playing pranks, anyway, she thought. Then, one night she was awakened from a sound sleep by Gerald, whose barking could only be described as hysterical. He was racing up and down the balcony in a frenzy. As the woman watched, the balcony door slowly opened, and Gerald raced in and jumped into her bed, quivering. Startled, she bolted upright in bed and watched as a white-gloved hand turned the door knob and opened the bedroom door. She leaped out of bed, ran to the door, and pulled it wide open. No one was there. She turned on the hall light but could see no one. Cautiously, she went through the entire apartment and could find no one. No windows or doors were open, or even unlocked. Gerald was still shaking in her bed.
Finally, like her sister, she'd had enough. She moved out the next day. No one knows who the ghost was or whether he remained. Both sisters and the owner are long since dead, and the house has been sold and resold several times.
BERT
BERT LOOKED OUT HIS BEDROOM window on the third floor and smiled. A car had pulled up and stopped right in front of his house. Four young women got out and walked toward the front door. Gloria Smith, the realtor who managed the property was with them. Was he getting some new boarders? He certainly hoped so. It had been so long since he'd had anyone in the house. He was lonely. He walked over to the mirror on the back of the door, adjusted his tie and the carnation in his lapel and strode happily downstairs to greet them.
He stood on the second floor landing and watched as the door opened, and the four young women bounced into the front hall with the realtor. He was overjoyed. So full of life and energy and so happy. They laughed and chatted, making jokes with one another. Bert was beside himself.
The realtor immediately began telling them how he had built the house back in the ’20s and about all the gay times the house had seen. Thank goodness she didn't mention that he had been murdered on the third floor. A nasty business, that. As the realtor showed them around the first floor, Bert followed along, listening carefully to catch everyone's name. Knowing their names was important to him. It showed he was really interested in them. Bert thought it was the only polite way to treat people.
As they walked through the sitting room, huge dining room, and into the kitchen, they all seemed to like it. They continued smiling and chatting, ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing.’ And he'd caught some of their names. When they went into the kitchen, Victoria, the especially pretty one with long black hair, looked around, critically at first, then smiled. She liked it. Well, after all, thought Bert, it was an exceptional kitchen. He had been quite a good cook himself—when he had been alive. And, of course, he had had Chi Fong and Mrs. Hydeman to handle the parti
es and the big dinners. Yes, it was quite a nice kitchen. He was pleased that this Victoria liked it.
Soon, they were on the second floor. All four of them were awed by the beautiful view of the ocean and the beach from his study on the northeast corner of the house. The one named Anne seemed interested in his book collection. It was out-of-date now, but he had selected each volume with great care. Anne walked out of the library and into the adjoining bedroom. Moments later she returned with a happy, triumphant look on her face. “That's mine,” she said. “I want that bedroom. It's perfect for me.” Bert was pleased about that, too. He knew she wanted it because it was so close to the study. Oh, it would be so wonderful having these girls around, he thought. Perhaps, perhaps, he could establish…a relationship with them, nothing romantic, of course. He laughed to himself. No, not under these circumstances. But a…a relationship. “Get hold of yourself, Bertie. Don't count your chickens and all that.” He followed after the women as they went up to the third floor.
Finally, they came to his room. It was his favorite, even though he'd been murdered there. It was a large room with plenty of space for a settee and a Victrola. And the windows reached almost to the ceiling. There was even a window seat on the west side. At night he would sit in that window and look at the lights of St. Augustine off to the southeast. He often played his Victrola. And he would waltz around the room. Oh, my, how he loved to dance.
Victoria was the first one in the room. “Oh, this is lovely,” she gasped. She whirled around. “I've got to have this room.” Lynne and Brenda, the other two who hadn't made any choices yet, just looked at each other and shrugged. This would be Victoria's room. Bert stood in the background and almost fainted with joy. He would have Victoria right there with him. Already she was his favorite. Then he gasped when he realized the implications. It would be very awkward living in the same room. Well, of course, he could stay out of the way, but, well, it just would be awkward.