by Ning Cai
It is hard to explain these sounds I hear. To me, the whisper or sigh is distinctly male or female. How I can be so certain, I have no idea. There is also a clear source, a direction from which it originates. The sound usually compels me to turn my head towards it. But while it may seem to be a distance away, the whisper or sigh actually sounds much closer and louder, like it’s magnified and it surrounds me. How do you explain that?
The harsh whisper I heard in Beth’s bathroom was exactly like that. You can thus understand why it made my hair stand. But after sharing this with Ning, I felt a little better because she had not laughed at me or dismissed it as a figment of my warped imagination.
“You should tell Beth about it,” Ning said, throwing me a glance as she picked up her book again and continued reading.
“Are you nuts? No! What if it’s just my imagination?” The objective journalist in me protested. “I don’t want to scare her for nothing.”
I flopped down on the bed beside the BFF, facing the rocking chair at the foot of the bed. I rested my chin on my folded arms and replayed the scene in my head, trying to explain what could possibly have happened in the bathroom.
It was then that I noticed my little green journal on the floor beside the rocking chair. I had placed the journal on the chair that morning before we left for the jazz festival. How odd that it was now on the floor. Somebody had placed it there, for sure, because the journal was closed neatly, not like it had fallen off the chair with its pages thrown open.
“Ning, did you put my journal on the floor?” I asked her with a frown.
“Your journal?” Ning replied from behind her book. “No, I didn’t touch it.”
I bit my lip. Perhaps it was Beth? Last night, she had come into our room to discuss our plans for today and sat on that rocking chair. Perhaps she had come in again this morning? Or someone else had? I could not think who or how, because we had all left for the jazz festival together. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook the thought out of my head.
That evening, Beth’s husband Chad took us to their favourite pizza hangout. It was a typical Southern place with warm Southern hospitality. It was a noisy, family-friendly restaurant, and we ordered several pizzas to share. Travis came along, together with Aiden and Ashton, Beth’s handsome teenage sons, who always referred to themselves as “Southern gentlemen”.
I didn’t say anything to Beth at dinner, and had almost forgotten about the incident when she suddenly brought up the topic of seeing a ghostly apparition in her home.
Beth and Chad’s master bedroom was on the third floor above us, and her bedroom door faced the top of the old staircase.
“We used to keep the door open at night, but every night I would see this... this shadow... move past the door from the top of the staircase,” she said. “Chad was so tired of me talking about it that he made me close the bedroom door.”
“Do you mean in this house? Or your previous house?” I asked nervously, sitting at the edge of my seat. I knew her previous house had been destroyed by Hurricane Katrina.
“This one,” Beth replied, nonchalantly. It didn’t seem to bother her, but it made my entire body go weak.
Ning glanced at me and indicated with a subtle toss of her head to tell Beth about what happened that afternoon, but I shook my head. I felt a trickle of sweat down the back of my neck, even in the air-conditioned room.
Perhaps people who grow up in New Orleans regard supernatural phenomenon as part and parcel of life. After all, New Orleans is famously associated with voodoo, with Marie Laveau being the most famous voodoo queen. Born a free coloured woman in 1782, this devout Catholic of African descent was believed to be an oracle who performed private rituals and exorcisms. Some people have even claimed to see her at different places at the same time!
Marie Laveau died in 1881 and her body is buried at St Louis Cemetery. Beth had taken us on a walking tour of the cemetery earlier in the week. Because New Orleans is below sea level, dead bodies are never buried in the ground – when the Mississippi River overflows its banks, the waters flood the low-lying area and in the past, this caused the buried bodies to be unearthed and to float up with the rising tides. Since then, the natives of New Orleans have built concrete tomb-like structures above the ground, and sealed their dead within these tombs. Marie Laveau’s tomb is no different. But what set hers apart are the “XXX” markings all over the tomb.
“Why do people vandalise her tomb like that?” The BFF had asked our tour guide, a cocky George Burns look-alike. “The only ‘XXX’ I know is...” Her voice trailed off sheepishly.
“They hope that Marie Laveau’s spirit will grant them their wishes, even in her death,” Mr Burns said with a casual shrug. “No one was really sure which was her tomb, so many people put markings on the wrong one... but this is hers.”
Ning and I stood silently, staring at the voodoo queen’s resting place, marked with red and blue crosses. We were standing in the hot noon sun, and all this voodoo stuff was getting to our heads. Earlier, Ning had been chided by the owner of a voodoo shop in the French Quarter for taking a photo of one of the voodoo artifacts on display.
“Give me your phone!” She had demanded in a high-pitched screech, startling all of us in the little shop. She had lunged forward and tried to grab the phone from Ning, who was fast enough to avoid her advances.
Shaken, Ning muttered hastily, “I’ll delete the photo!”
“You are not allowed to take any photos in here, do you understand?” Her face had turned ominously black, and I could almost not recognise her. “Not allowed!”
We thought better than to argue with her lest she put a curse on us, or sewed a voodoo doll and stuck pins in it. We still had six months of travelling to go, and pin pricks and broken bones were just not part of our travel agenda.
“I’m sorry about that! Some people in Nola are crazy, just nuts!” Beth had apologised with a laugh, the sunlight bouncing off her white blond hair as we stepped back into the sun, on the streets of the French Quarter.
This from the spunky lady who, in her younger years, owned a pet iguana and carried it on her shoulder everywhere she went. When looking at an old photo of her, I remember thinking she looked like a sexier version of Debbie Gibson in her teenage years.
“I’ll take you girls to Café Du Monde. What you need now, I reckon, is some beignets!”
Beth led us through the quaint and charming streets of New Orleans’ French Quarter till we arrived at the place most famous for its square-shaped fried pastries or “French donuts”, as the locals call them. Café Du Monde! We each ordered a packet of beignets dusted with icing sugar, and a special brew of café au lait made with coffee and chicory.
Munching my fried sugared beignets, I immediately felt better as we strolled along the banks of the Mississippi River, whose waters were fast rising. Stacks of sand bags were already in place to prevent the river waters from advancing into the low-lying city.
New Orleans is a city fraught with natural disasters, from the Mississippi River flooding to Hurricane Katrina, which destroyed most of the city when it struck in 2005. Even Beth and Chad were not spared – their home and business were looted and wrecked. When we were driving through some neighbourhoods, we saw that they had never recovered from the disaster. The houses were still abandoned and lying in shambles.
I never did tell Beth about my bathroom encounter. Even on the very last day – her birthday – when we had breakfast together at the Starbucks outlet near her home, I bit my tongue.
That was another opportunity for me to say something, and the BFF had actually kicked me under the table about it, but I scowled at her and shook my head firmly.
Beth was telling us about her experience when clearing out her basement. Many of the homes in New Orleans are very old and steeped in history and most are turn-of-the-century buildings. She wasn’t sure whom the house had originally belonged to, but when she was spring-cleaning the basement, she found a little secret compartment in the wall.
When she slipped her hand in and felt around the ledge, her fingers rested upon a fragile object.
“I pulled it out, and it was pair of really old spectacles,” she said, with a little amused smile on her lips. “I think it was from the 1800s, like really old... it was definitely not ours!”
Ning was listening intently. “Was it a pair of woman’s spectacles or a man’s?”
I wasn’t sure why the BFF asked Beth that peculiar question, but Beth’s answer sent a shiver down my spine. “It was a man’s.”
As we sat together outside the Starbucks café on that bright Sunday morning, before we left for the airport to catch our flight to Boston, I pondered if the voice I had heard in the bathroom belonged to the man who owned those antique spectacles.
Who was he? Did the rocking chair and spectacles in the basement belong to him? How did he die? Where did he die? What was keeping him in the house? But maybe these were all isolated, unrelated events. Pure coincidence. Perhaps that’s what held me back from revealing to Beth what I had experienced. Perhaps as an objective journalist, I just could not articulate it because I could not explain or understand it.
So meshed with my merry memories of jazz and jambalaya is a curious and haunting experience that still stays with me today. And this was not the only experience on our world travels that I could not explain or understand... it was just the beginning.
09
B&Bs: the good, the bad & the scary
Vermont · May 2011
NING
She raised the heavy axe and struck him again, and again, and again, and again.
The sharp blade hacked right into the shattered skull of her second victim. Her unsuspecting father had absolutely no chance, since he had been asleep when his youngest daughter began her violent assault on him.
The town’s prominent banker had no idea too, that his wife Abby had already been murdered. Her cold body lay upstairs in the family house, mutilated by dozens of deep blows to the head by the same bloodied axe that now buried itself in what had been his brains.
The dark-haired woman had a calm, expressionless air about her when she was finally finished with her work. Stepping back, the conservatively-dressed Sunday school teacher allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as she tilted her head to the side, looking at the lifeless corpse sprawled before her.
Her father’s eyeball hung from his whiskered cheek, his once handsome face now a bloodied open mess. No one would be able to recognise him. Blood dripped from the blade of the axe, forming dark speckled patterns on the carpet near her feet...
* * *
“Are you serious?” I raised both eyebrows at Pam, who was now driving us towards our B&B in Vermont. “You’ve never ever heard about the notorious Lizzie Borden of Maplecroft?!”
The BFF shook her head grimly as she made a tricky turn, skillfully navigating our Hertz rental under the clear instructions of its GPS system. Pam still looked spooked after I told her about the infamous murder case that happened in the 1890s.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you booked us into Maplecroft!” I raked fingers through my hair as we drove past stretches of ancient New England houses and a centuries-old church. I recalled old black and white pictures of the building, which was said to house the angry spirits of the Borden family. “What if it’s the same Maplecroft? Wouldn’t that be freaky?”
“I really didn’t know,” Pam frowned. “Do you remember how the place looks like?”
My memories of it were faded and unreliable, since this was something I’d read about when I was a little girl. It was a library book about haunted houses, and the Lizzie Borden case stood out for me. I shrugged uneasily. “It was a very old house, on a hill somewhere in New England?”
Our Hertz “Neverlost” GPS directed us up a gentle hill and at the end of the slope, we turned left into the Maplecroft compound. The big 19th-Century Victorian house had a strange, ominous feel about it and the BFF and I exchanged worried looks.
The two of us have had some unnerving paranormal experiences on our travels so far. In Vietnam, for instance, Pam and I stayed at an old Hanoi hotel for a couple of nights and something spooky was haunting that place.
An unceasing knocking was coming from the big closet opposite our beds, disturbing our peace. Pam was freaked out and begged me to check things out, even though I was just about to doze off after a long day out.
Lumbering over as I pulled on my glasses, I hit the lights and swung open the closet doors. I frowned when I saw that there was nothing there. No small animal or trapped bug. The clothes hangers hung still on the bar, but the knocking sound was still originating from the space before me. It clearly wasn’t coming from the next room. It was right inside the closet.
I went down on my knees, checking every inch of the simple closet that was just next to the TV console. We could still hear the constant knocking sound — something was bumping against the wood. But what?
Giving up, I sighed and closed the doors of the closet before padding over back to my bed since there was nothing that could be done about the situation. Pam still looked uneasy and in a hushed whisper, asked if I was going to sleep. I grunted and set my glasses down, pulling my blanket over myself.
And that was when the knocking noises moved.
The constant rapping shifted from the closet to a slightly softer tap-tap-tapping on the wooden TV console table right before us. The noise travelled but still we could see nothing. Groaning, I pulled the blanket over my head and let sleep claim me, dismissing the spirit who wanted to make its presence known to us. Pam was wide awake and terrified, and tried to wake me but I ignored her.
“Well, this is it,” Pam said as she killed the car engine, bringing me back to the present. Here we were, in Vermont, home of the original Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory... but more specifically, we were on the grounds of the Maplecroft estate. “Let’s hope this isn’t the Maplecroft.”
“What’s the name of the room you booked?” I asked, as I pulled our luggage from the boot of the car. I was just about to hand Pam her ukulele when a thought came to me and I froze. “Oh, please don’t tell me it’s the Lizzie Borden room...”
“I think it’s called the Mary Mackie room,” the BFF quipped, slinging her ukulele case over her shoulder after picking up her backpack. “They named it after the original owners of the house.”
“... who are dead people.” I retorted, slamming the car boot shut. Even though it was only late afternoon, the buildings around us already seemed rundown and spooky.
“Shut up, Ning...” Pam led the way towards the B&B’s main door. I sighed and followed behind the pint-sized BFF. We were both exhausted after the long non-stop drive from Provincetown, in Cape Cod.
A printed note was stuck on the glass door, instructing us to just ring the doorbell ONCE and someone would attend to us. I frowned and shifted the weight of my 42-litre backpack on my shoulder, tempted to ring the doorbell again after Pam pressed the buzzer and no one came.
A minute later, the door finally opened and we found ourselves staring at a tall, lanky Asian man with a small dog at his feet. We were ushered in. With a deep breath, I stepped into the house.
“Welcome to Maplecroft, please sign here,” we were gestured towards an open book with the scribbling of other people. I looked at Pam and raised an eyebrow. Usually B&B owners got us to sign their guestbook after we checked out. What did we have to say now? Thank you? Your house seems very, very big. Your dog looks cute, but I think Pam has allergies. I personally like your kitchen apron. I think it matches the wallpaper.
The sweet-natured BFF picked up the pen and drew smiley faces to test the ink. As she started to write in the Maplecroft guestbook, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself to the Asian innkeeper. He had been awkwardly perched over us with his hands clasped and it felt a bit uncomfortable.
“I’m Yasunari,” he said as he shyly shook my hand, tiny eyes smiling behind his thick glasses. “And this is Barney.” The friendly terrier
came forward, licking my fingers.
“Breakfast is at 7am,” Yasunari gestured to the dining hall. “You’ll get to meet my partner, Dan. He’s at work right now.”
“7am?”
“7am.”
I looked at the BFF who had just signed off in a flourish and was capping the pen. She looked up at me, having missed the conversation.
“Breakfast is at 7am,” I shot Pam a pained expression. The BFF knows I’m not a morning person, and that there was no way I’d be able to make it down for breakfast at 7am.
“Can we make it later?” Pam asked, joining us as Barney waddled over towards her. “Isn’t there a breakfast stretch, like 7am to 10am or something?”
“Everybody eats breakfast together,” Yasunari wrung his pale hands together.
I gave him my best dour expression, not believing that I was paying to stay at a Bed & Breakfast that had such strict rules. “Then go ahead. I won’t be able to wake up.”
Our B&B owner relented. “We can have it at 8am then, since you’re the only ones here.”
It was a small consolation, but I politely murmured a thank you anyway. Yasunari showed us the TV room, which had a big bookcase filled with books next to his grand piano.
As we trudged up the old wooden stairs, the stillness of the house creeped me out a little. We were shown our room, a small charming space named after someone called Mary Mackie. There wasn’t a television, but at least it had Wi-Fi so I was cool about it.
“She’s George Mackie’s wife,” Yasunari explained in his soft and gentle voice as he showed us the adjoining bathroom. “He’s the wealthy granite businessman who built Maplecroft over a hundred years ago.”