OOPS! YOU WERE STILL ALIVE!!
“We know that A LOT of people were buried alive by accident,” Debbie Castle, a local ghost-tour guide and student archaeologist, cheerfully explained during tonight’s ghost tour. “They’ve found the scratch marks on the insides of coffins when they are exhumed.”
But if you were rich, Mrs. Rabido, then you might be able to afford being buried a very special way. A string would be tied to your finger--a very long string that would also be attached to a little bell ABOVEGROUND at the other end. That way, if you just happened to have the nasty surprise of waking up to find yourself inside a coffin, you could let someone aboveground know about the terrible mistake before it was TOO LATE.
Of course, this service wouldn’t come cheap, Mrs. Rabido, so don’t go expecting anyone to do it for free. You had to pay someone to hang out near your tombstone around the clock--hopefully someone who would stay there without taking too many long bathroom breaks; someone who would remember to listen for that bell! And let’s be frank--hopefully someone who received good grades from you in history class! Let us hope that you choose the right person, Mrs. Rabido, should you ever find yourself in such an unfortunate position.
GHOSTS OF THE OLD FORT:
Next, Mrs. Rabido (if you’re still conscious and haven’t passed out from fright), I will lead you down to the Castillo de San Marcos (also known as “The Old Fort”).
In the darkness, with only our flashlights and the moon shining down on the dark water of the bay, we can imagine a time back in the 1600s, when the Spanish soldiers paced back and forth during the night, keeping watch over the horizon and prepared to launch their cannons at any moment if they fell under attack.
Follow me across a drawbridge suspended over a murky moat where alligators used to lurk. Inside the fort we go, down the steps and into the living quarters. Notice the old communal latrine where soldiers went to poop. Here, the ghosts of smells past sometimes waft through the air.
Now we see a row of sleeping quarters where the walls are smudged with the graffiti and carvings of bored, homesick Spanish soldiers.
There are many ghost stories from the old fort, Mrs. Rabido, so I’ll share one of the local favorites:
PRISONERS OF LOVE
Once upon a time, some archaeologists were doing an excavation of one of the rooms in the old fort, and they found bones. People speculated about the bones: Had they discovered an old dungeon in the old fort? Maybe a torture chamber?
Well, eventually someone came forward to tell the tragic tale of a jealous Spanish colonel whose young wife fell in love with another officer in the Spanish army. When the colonel discovered the affair, he decided to punish his wife by giving her exactly what she wanted--the opportunity to be with her lover forever. The Spanish colonel ordered his men to chain the two lovers together and seal them into an airtight room where they would gradually suffocate and die in each other’s arms.
(Sorry Mrs. Rabido; I warned you that this was a scary story!)
But here’s good news : Now you can breathe a sigh of relief, Mrs. Rabido. As it turned out, this story is about as true as the headlines in our school newspaper. That’s right; the story is completely made up--a local legend. The truth was that the archaeologist had discovered animal bones in the fort’s old trash room. Of course, that’s not as exciting as lovers sealed in a dungeon, is it?
Gilda looked up from her typing and caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror affixed to the wall. She looked small and vulnerable, crouching in front of her typewriter, which she had propped up on a stack of leather photo albums and an embroidered pillow. A gauzy canopy curtain was draped around her bed, reminding her of a little tent. Gilda remembered how, when she was younger, she had wanted a “princess bed” like this one. But in Eugene’s house, the bed was spookier than she had expected: The shadows of objects glimpsed through the filmy curtain had an eerie, animated quality. Every now and then, she had the distinct feeling that something in the room was silently moving around her.
Outside, Gilda heard the whistling of wind in the trees followed by a rumble of thunder. A bright flash of lightning illuminated a row of staring glass eyes—the vintage dolls.
Gilda ducked under her covers and squeezed her eyes shut. It was a perfect night for ghost hunting, but she suddenly felt frightened and overwhelmed, as if all the ghosts in the city had followed her home after the ghost tour. She pictured them drifting toward Eugene’s house, peering in the windows and slipping under doorways, wanting to speak to her. She suddenly felt even more sympathy for Darla, who must feel this way most of the time. No wonder she keeps her eyes on her cell phone as much as possible, Gilda thought. For her, every day must be like looking around a strange bedroom in the middle of the night.
Gilda opened her suitcase and took out a small pewter crucifix that had once belonged to her grandmother McDoogle. She remembered her grandmother telling her that the object had been a gift from her own mother, and that it had special “protective powers.”
Holding the smooth cross in her hand and curling up under the covers, Gilda reminded herself of the advice she heard Debbie give to kids who got scared on the ghost tours: “Just tell the ghosts, ‘Go away!’ ”
“Go away,” Gilda whispered as she tried to will herself to fall asleep.
19
The Woman in White
Gilda awoke to the clanging sound of an antique bell.
“Get up,” someone said. “You fell asleep on the job.”
The bell rang louder, and Gilda realized that she had fallen asleep in the middle of the Huguenot Cemetery.
“She’ll die if you don’t hurry.”
I need to find her grave, Gilda thought. But as she walked, she realized she didn’t know whose grave to look for. As she hurried past tombstones, heavy pieces of furniture moved in front of her to block her path: grandfather clocks, wooden benches, mirrors, leather-bound photograph albums, tall stacks of china dishes, giant baby dolls wearing elaborate petticoats, “black Americana” knickknacks.
A sickly sensation moved through Gilda’s body. She knew someone had been buried alive by accident, but whom? How could she know which of the graves contained the person calling for help?
“I need a shovel!” Gilda called. “Someone’s calling for help down there!”
Across the cemetery, a row of shadowy strangers observed her silently, but made no move to help.
“You’re trespassing!” one of them called to her. “Get off the property.”
“There’s no time left! We have to help her!” Gilda dropped to her knees and tried to dig into the ground with her bare hands, but the dirt turned into hard wood; her efforts were futile. The final moment passed, and the bell fell silent.
She sat alone with the cold tombstones, the quiet bones, and the ghost-woman who glided through the cemetery wearing a gown of white silk.
20
The Message in the Dollhouse
Gilda awoke with a feeling of relief to find herself safe in bed and not outside digging in a cemetery. Had the ghost tour caused her nightmare? Or was it something about Eugene’s house that filled her dreams with cemeteries and ghosts?
Gilda stared up at the grandfather clock, listening to its eerily soothing ticking and the creaking of footsteps coming from somewhere in the house. She jumped to her feet, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and tiptoed into the hallway. As her eyes adjusted to the dim morning light, she surveyed the objects arranged and stacked outside her door and realized something looked different. Hadn’t the dollhouse been in her room when she first went to bed? Now, inexplicably, it was outside in the hallway. Looking more closely, Gilda saw something even more puzzling: A pair of very tiny shoes and the lace hem of a dress peeked out from beneath the toy house. Someone had purposefully placed one of the Southern belle dolls beneath the dollhouse to make it look as if the doll were being crushed. Inside the dollhouse, tiny tables, chairs, dishes, and paintings were turned over and tossed in a jumble,
as if a bunch of mice had snuck into the little rooms and thrown a destructive party.
Had Eugene or her mother moved the dollhouse during the night? Or was this evidence of a poltergeist in Mr. Pook’s house?
Eugene emerged from his bedroom wearing an old-fashioned pair of pajamas with red stripes. He rubbed the top of his balding head, squinting without his glasses. Gilda stifled a laugh: At the moment, he reminded her of a rotund, grumpy Christmas elf with one tip of his mustache pointing skyward and the other sticking straight out.
“Morning,” said Gilda. She observed him closely, watching for clues.
“Oh—good morning. Sleep okay through that storm?”
“I had a really weird dream.” Gilda couldn’t quite remember the dream, but there had been something about digging in the ground. The dream had left her with the unpleasant feeling that an important task remained unfinished.
Eugene put on his glasses and suddenly noticed the dollhouse in the hallway. He frowned as he took in the scene—the little shoes and tiny petticoat of the Southern belle doll protruding from beneath the house.
“Why is this dollhouse out here in the hallway?” Eugene spoke quietly, but Gilda sensed his rising blood pressure.
“I have no idea.” Gilda did her best to hold her ground and look Eugene straight in the eye. “I was just going to ask you the same question.”
“I didn’t move it.”
“Neither did I.”
He obviously didn’t believe her. If Eugene didn’t move it, Gilda thought, then this must be more evidence of a haunting.
Gilda attempted to lighten the mood: “Remember the old Wizard of Oz movie? That doll’s feet sticking out from under the house reminds me of the scene where Dorothy’s house falls down on top of the witch.”
Ignoring Gilda’s anecdote, Eugene wordlessly walked over to the dollhouse, hoisted it up, and removed the doll. He adjusted her dress and gently placed her back inside the house. “This is a very expensive item,” said Eugene, his lopsided mustache dancing above his lip as he spoke. “And I specifically asked you not to move any of these objects.”
“I know,” said Gilda. “And I didn’t.” If he’s this mad about an object being moved, what would he do if something actually broke ? “Maybe my mom knows something about it,” Gilda added, although moving a dollhouse in the middle of the night didn’t sound like something her mother would do.
“Your mother’s mad at me,” Eugene said, sighing.
“Really?” This comment surprised and intrigued Gilda. “Why?”
“Turns out we see a few things differently.”
Is this about the mustache? Gilda wondered.
“It’s about wedding flowers.” He stared at the dollhouse glumly.
“What about them?” Eugene sure doesn’t waste words, Gilda thought. Getting him to actually explain something seemed to take a ridiculous amount of effort.
“We need to have white lilies at the ceremony, but she wants pink roses.”
Why does he care what kind of flowers they have? Gilda wondered. And does he expect me to take his side against my mom?
“I guess when you spend time in the antiques business you get some very particular ideas,” Eugene continued. “I know the lilies will look much better with the lines of her dress, but she doesn’t believe me.”
“I could take a look at both types of flowers and give you my expert opinion,” Gilda suggested. “That’s the kind of service I’d offer as your wedding planner.”
Eugene chuckled, but he also turned away from Gilda quickly, as if to show her that he hated this idea. “That’s okay,” he said, “we’ll figure it out. Anyway, your mother wanted me to tell you that we’re having a wedding rehearsal down by the waterfront at eleven this morning.”
“We’re having the rehearsal this morning?! But Stephen isn’t even here.”
“It’s the only time we could find when the priest and the musicians could meet with us at such short notice. We just want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“Okay,” she said, “but what about my reading? I haven’t even written my wedding tribute poem yet.”
“Don’t worry about that; the priest can give you a verse to read.”
Gilda was not about to let the priest pick out a verse when she herself had an opportunity to select—or better yet, write—a truly unique reading for the wedding. After all, she loved any opportunity for a performance, and her mother’s wedding was no exception.
Gilda glanced at the clock and sighed. I’d better get busy, she told herself, reluctantly turning her attention away from the mystery of the moving dollhouse. I need to figure out what I’m wearing to the wedding and come up with a wedding poem by 1 1:00 this morning. But how am I supposed to concentrate on wedding plans when an actual poltergeist is on the scene?!
21
The Ghost in the Mist
Gilda dashed into the guest bedroom and opened her suitcase. She was tempted to wear her “freaky bridesmaid” costume to the wedding rehearsal as a joke, but decided it would be best to save it for Halloween.
Instead, she pulled open the swinging doors of an antique armoire, where vintage dresses hung in a row. Gilda loved trying on old, formal clothes that suggested a more elegant, theatrical time, and these dresses looked particularly fun. She selected a sleeveless dress made of pale, sea green silk and slipped it over her head. The 1920s-style gown was long, loose, and flowing, with a drop waist. She pulled open one of the drawers where she found a pair of long gloves decorated with tiny white pearl buttons and a beaded clutch purse that sparkled as if it were covered with jewels. The final touch was a vintage hat tied with a velvet ribbon.
Gilda smiled when she saw her reflection in the mirror. It’s perfect for the wedding, she thought: vintage, simple, and elegant. With any luck, Eugene would let her wear it. But if only I could wear this dress to an elegant party or ball instead of Mom’s wedding! Gilda contemplated styling her hair in an updo, but when she glanced at the grandfather clock, she realized she had better head out and find a good spot to work on her wedding poem.
Gilda cracked open the window to check the weather and a humid breeze filled the room with the scent of rain. Looking outside, Gilda suddenly had a tingly feeling that was similar to the tickle she often felt in her left ear when picking up a psychic vibration. But this feeling was more intense: It permeated her entire body. What Gilda saw out the window made her feel as if she had momentarily stepped into a magical dimension: An eerily beautiful woman whose dark hair and ivory silk gown rippled in the breeze walked through the early-morning mist, her bare, white feet padding over the wet ground. Gilda froze for a moment, just staring at the vision.
Somehow she knew that this woman was not alive. I’m seeing a ghost, Gilda told herself. And in my experience, ghosts tend to surface when there’s an urgent problem to be solved.
There wasn’t time to change back into her regular clothes. In Gilda’s experience, ghosts only surfaced if they had something urgent to communicate. She hurriedly slipped on her shoes, grabbed her notebook and backpack, and ran from the room to follow the ghost.
22
The Truthful Letter
Outside, Gilda was surprised to spy a crab crawling through a puddle right in the middle of Water Street. The storm had left the sidewalks and streets messy with mossy branches and palm fronds that had fallen during the night. Even bits of ocean life had blown into people’s yards, far from the beach. There was, however, no sign of the woman in white; she had vanished.
Who is she? Gilda wondered. The woman had looked completely solid, but Gilda remembered the unique, tingling sensation she had experienced—the distinct feeling that she was seeing a ghost. I wonder if it’s the same ghost that Darla saw, Gilda thought, the woman in white.
Gilda suddenly felt annoyed that she couldn’t run straight over to Darla’s house, knock on the door, and blurt out everything she had just seen. Here I am, Gilda thought, staying in a haunted house—right next doo
r to a girl who has even better psychic powers than I do . . . and she refuses to talk to me about ghosts!
Gilda took one last look down the street, but decided to give up looking for clues when she felt her stomach rumbling. It wasn’t likely she was going to do very good detective work on an empty stomach. She glanced at her watch and figured she had just enough time to grab some breakfast in the Old City, scribble down a quick but awe-inspiring wedding poem, and then head down to the waterfront for the wedding rehearsal.
Gilda walked down St. George Street and decided to investigate a small, rustic building called the Spanish Bakery. Inside, a woman wearing a traditional corseted dress and apron lifted a tray of empanadas from an old woodstove. The aroma of fresh bread, pastries, and meat pies filled the air.
“Those smell amazing,” said Gilda, eyeing the empanadas.
“Spanish meat pies,” said the woman. “Good choice.”
Gilda reflected that it would be convenient if more foods were available in pie form for on-the-go consumption. She made a mental note to share that idea with Mrs. Rabido in her next travelogue entry, since she had spied Pop-Tarts in her teacher’s desk drawer on more than one occasion. As Gilda paid for her empanada, she noticed a tray of small pastries shaped like little skulls with bones attached.
“What are those?” Gilda asked, pointing.
“Those are Huesos de Santo: ‘Bones of the Holy’ in Spanish. In Spain they sometimes make them especially for Halloween. Here: This one broke; you can try it for free.”
Gilda bit into the pastry, which tasted faintly of licorice.
“We make a special dough with anise seed and an orange glaze and then shape it into a skull with bones attached,” the woman explained. “I grew up in Spain, and when I was a little girl, sometimes we’d go put some of these on the graves of our dead relatives on Halloween night. For this one night, the living and the dead are reunited—breaking bread together.”
Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy Page 9