by Eva Pohler
Ellen didn’t know the answer to that question. She felt compelled to solve the mystery of the abandoned building in the same way she had felt with the Gold House. “Are y’all wanting to forget about this place? Is it too much?”
“Not me,” Sue said. “What about you, Tanya? What does your gut tell you?”
“Well, my gut wasn’t so accurate last time. Vivian nearly had us killed.”
“But we weren’t killed,” Sue said. “We have to be brave if we’re going to do this thing.”
When Tanya didn’t reply, Ellen said, “I don’t know. Maybe it is too much. Maybe this one is out of our league.”
Ellen slept very little in the hotel room that night with the skeleton arm wrapped in the hotel dry-cleaning bag and packed in her suitcase. When she did find sleep, she was plagued with nightmares in which she and a room full of people were being engulfed by flames.
The next day, Sue arranged to meet Gayle for a second viewing at the old, abandoned building across from Cain’s Ballroom. Cain’s looked different during the day without all the cars and the music. It was dead, adding to the overall creepiness of the abandoned building across from it.
Ellen went directly to the first large room.
The bones and the blanket from the night before had disappeared.
Ellen ran though the skating rink and up the stairs of the western wing, toward the room with the dreamcatchers and the crucifixes.
“Is everything okay?” Gayle asked her from below.
Ellen tried to play it cool. “Yes. Yes, I just want to check something up here…”
“Did you sense a spirit?” Sue helped her out.
“I think so.” The room looked the same as it had the previous day, though the blanket on the bed was folded down. Otherwise, there was no sign of the Native American woman or the child’s bones she’d left behind.
Ellen returned downstairs, confused as ever.
As they were about to leave the old skating rink to check out the last room (the old bowling alley), Ellen asked Gayle, “Do you know if a fire ever killed a large group of people in this building?”
“There’s no record of it that I’m aware of,” Gayle replied. “Why?”
“Just curious,” Ellen said.
“We’re picking up on paranormal activity here,” Sue explained. “And we’re all having dreams of dying in a fire.”
Ellen hadn’t shared her dreams with her friends. She bent her brows. Had Sue been having the same dreams as she?
As they reached the bowling alley, Gayle said, “The only fire I’ve heard of in this area supposedly occurred in 1921, but we don’t talk about it much around here.”
“What fire?” Tanya asked.
“It supposedly happened during a race riot,” Gayle said. “But no one likes to talk about it—not the Whites or the Blacks. Makes people…uncomfortable.”
“Can you tell us what you know?” Ellen asked.
“Not much,” Gayle said. “My parents don’t even believe it ever happened. But you can visit the Greenwood Cultural Center a few blocks that way and find information there. Take it all with a grain of salt, though.”
“Were any other buildings affected?” Tanya asked.
Gayle shrugged. “They say around thirty or so square blocks were burned to the ground.”
Ellen shuddered. The image from her dreams of being suffocated in the black smoke as hot flames surrounded her took her breath away.
“Are you okay?” Sue asked her.
Ellen nodded. “Would that include the Brady Theater?”
“That building was one of the few that supposedly wasn’t affected,” Gayle said. “This one, too. The fire was all around them, but these two buildings supposedly weren’t touched, along with a few others in the Brady Arts District.”
Ellen frowned. If the buildings weren’t affected by the fire, then why did they make her feel like she was suffocating?
“They say the Brady Theater was used as a detention center for the black men,” Gayle continued.
“Detention center?” Sue echoed. “Why?”
Gayle shrugged again. “I really don’t know the whole story. My parents discouraged me from buying into it. They think it was a conspiracy created by the Blacks to get money out of the Whites.”
As they stepped from the building into the open air, Ellen was sure she heard something coming from the building. It was low and guttural, like a growl. No one else seemed to hear it.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. Sure enough, the battery was dead.
“So are you ladies thinking about putting in an offer?” Gayle asked as she locked the doors to the west entrance.
“Thinking about it,” Sue said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Nine: The Greenwood Cultural Center
The original plan was to drive back to Oklahoma City on Wednesday and spend Thursday there before catching the train Friday morning back to San Antonio. Ellen had even hoped to meet her son Nolan for dinner one night while they were there; but, as they drove away from the abandoned building, the ladies decided to stay in Tulsa for as long as possible to do more research. After a quick lunch at a salad and sandwich shop, they headed to the Greenwood Cultural Center to find out what they could about the race riot of 1921, which Gayle had said may or may not have happened.
On the way, Tanya, who’d been fixated on the missing bones all during lunch, finally said, “If the old woman didn’t hide the skeleton, then it had to have been a coyote. They couldn’t have just disappeared.”
“Agreed,” Sue said as Ellen pulled into the parking lot.
An old man with a long black face and smiling eyes greeted them in the lobby.
“We were hoping to learn about the riot,” Ellen said.
The old man pointed to a wall to their left. “Start there. And if you have any questions, Miss Frances will help you out.”
Ellen thanked him and turned in the direction he’d shown her to find an entire wall covered with framed newspaper articles and old photographs. The first showed pictures of what was called Black Wall Street. According to the article, the Greenwood District was considered the most prominent African American community in America in the early 1900’s. Even though it was separated from White Tulsa, it, was, at one time, just as grand with its hotels, theaters, ballrooms, and prosperous businesses and stately homes. Ellen asked Sue to take a photo of it with her phone.
“Oh my gawd,” Sue whispered. “I never knew about all this.”
“I wonder why it isn’t taught in school,” Tanya said.
“The worst race riot in American history?” Ellen read. “Over twelve hundred homes destroyed by fire? ‘Thirty-six square blocks of the black district, including churches, stores, hotels, businesses, two newspapers, a school, a hospital, and a library—all burned to the ground.’”
They continued to read in silence for many minutes, until Ellen said, “All because a black teenager named Dick Rowland needed to use the bathroom? It says he had to go to the Drexler Building because of segregation. It was the only bathroom for Blacks in the area where he worked as a shoe shiner.”
“It says he may have assaulted an elevator girl,” Sue pointed out. “Someone heard her shout.”
“But it also speculates that they must have known one another and may have been secretly involved,” Tanya said. “Maybe they were having a lover’s quarrel.”
“The girl never pressed charges,” Ellen said. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t try to hurt her.”
Tanya moved down the wall to the next article. “Even so, this newspaper article printed on May 31st, 1921 used the headline ‘Nab a Negro.’ The boy was already in police custody by the time it was written. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“They wanted to lynch him,” Ellen said. “They didn’t believe in mixing the races, so even if he was innocent…”
“This is making my stomach hurt,” Tanya, whose husband, Dave, was Hispanic, said. “Look here. It says over 1500 Whites
crowded around the courthouse, where the boy was held prisoner. You think they wanted to take matters into their own hands?”
“He was only nineteen,” Ellen muttered. “Alison is only a year older than that.”
“This article is saying that a truckload of black war veterans arrived with guns,” Sue said. “That probably scared the Whites, don’t you think?”
Ellen nodded. “I suppose. But it says they were offering the sheriff help in protecting the prisoner from the mob. They were worried their boy was going to be lynched.”
“The sheriff turned the black men away—twice,” Sue said. “So what started the riot?”
“Over here,” Tanya said, pointing to another article. “It says a white man asked a black man what he was going to do with his gun, and the Black said he would use it if necessary. Then the White tried to disarm him and the gun went off. Then all hell broke loose.”
“There was so much fear and tension between the races,” Ellen said. “They didn’t trust one another.”
“That’s still true in some places,” Tanya said.
“But how did the fire start?” Sue asked. “How did gunshots translate into thirty-six square blocks getting burned to the ground?”
Tanya beckoned them to another article on the wall. “It says here that the Whites feared a Negro uprising, so they used fire to put black people in their place. How awful.”
“They had to call in the National Guard,” Sue said from where she stood further away, reading another article. “The guards led dozens of black men to two detention centers—the convention hall and the fair grounds. The convention hall is now called the Brady Theater.”
“Seriously? What about our building?” Ellen asked.
“No mention of it yet,” Sue said. “But get this: the black men were told it was for their protection, yet they were disarmed and detained like prisoners while their homes burned to the ground.”
Ellen felt tears prick her eyes. How could people be so cruel to one another?
“This has got to be it,” Tanya said pointing to the same article. “This is what Vivian meant when she told us to help Tulsa.”
“What do you mean?” Sue asked.
“It says here that while the official death count was 36, the Red Cross and other experts estimate that at least 300 black people were killed in the shooting and fires, and most of those bodies were buried in unmarked mass graves.”
“Where?” Ellen asked.
“That’s just it,” Tanya said. “No one knows.”
Ellen looked at the date on the article. “1996. You would think that since then, the city would have made some effort to locate them.”
“Why don’t we ask Miss Frances?” Sue suggested.
Miss Frances turned out to be the office manager, and, upon hearing the ladies’ interest in the riot, she pointed them to the office of their Director of Program Development.
A young black woman with stunning golden eyes welcomed them into her tidy office with its sunny windows and view of the pond out front. She stood leaning against the front of her desk in a chic red leather blazer and black fitted skirt and, after introducing herself as Michelle, invited them to have a seat.
“What can I do for you ladies?” she asked.
“We just finished looking over the photos and articles about Black Wall Street and the 1921 Race Riot,” Sue began. “But we’re still not clear on how the story ends. Were mass graves ever found? Was anything ever done for the victims?”
“Unfortunately, no mass graves were ever found,” the director said. “There were efforts made to find them, but nothing ever came of them. And, as far as the victims, well they’ve all passed, but some of them lived to see the Black Wall Street Memorial that was erected in 1996. There were also discussions of reparations, but, as with the graves, nothing ever came of those efforts, either.”
Ellen shook her head. “We can’t believe we’ve never heard of this.”
“I can,” Michelle said. “The atrocities were kept under wraps for decades. Black people didn’t want their children to know about them, because they didn’t want them growing up believing they were inferior to white people, and they also didn’t want to instill anger and hatred in them. And white people didn’t talk about it either. Many of them felt Blacks had it coming to them, and once it was done, and the Blacks were put in their place, there was nothing left to say about it.”
“This is making me feel nauseated,” Tanya said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Can I get you some water?” the young woman offered.
“No, thank you,” Tanya said.
Ellen raised her chin. “Is there any way we can learn more about the past searches for the mass graves?”
“I can recommend a book that covers that information.” The director took a pen and scribbled the title and author on a post-it note. As she handed it over to Ellen she asked, “Do you mind if I ask about the reason for your interest in this matter?”
The three friends exchanged looks that showed that none was sure how to reply.
Finally, Sue said, “We’re thinking about buying an abandoned building near Cain’s Ballroom on the outskirts of the Brady Arts District, to convert into apartments, but we had a paranormal experience there that we think might be related to the victims of the riot.”
The young woman frowned. “I see. Are you ladies from around here? Have relatives in Tulsa?”
“We live in San Antonio,” Ellen said.
“My daughter was married this past weekend to a boy from here,” Sue said. “So I guess that means I do have relatives here now.”
The director nodded. “I see. Let me just warn you ladies about talking to too many people about the mass graves. Most Tulsans have put that idea behind them. We’re moving forward, onward, looking to the future. Looking for the dead will only cause more conflict in a town that is still healing after all these years.”
“But wouldn’t the recovery of the dead bring peace, not only to the dead, but to their families?” Ellen asked.
“Yes, it would,” the young woman said. “It would be a miracle. But I’m fairly certain that any efforts you made toward that endeavor would be put to rest by those with influence in this city. Don’t quote me on this, but there are powerful forces in Tulsa who’ll make sure that the only digging going on in these parts is that done with an oil rig.”
Chapter Ten: The Other Psychic of Tulsa
On their way to the hotel from the Greenwood Cultural Center, Sue received a call from Gayle’s psychic. The three friends made plans to meet with Miss Margaret Myrtle an hour before dinner.
Miss Myrtle lived in the poorest part of the Greenwood District, two blocks away from Eduardo Mankiller; but, in the light of day, the neighborhood wasn’t nearly as daunting. Ellen pulled up to a shabby but quaint bungalow with a pretty little garden bordering its dilapidated front porch.
The three ladies climbed out of the rental car and met Miss Myrtle at the torn screen door.
“Come on in, friends,” she said, holding open her screen door. “Come into my parlor and have a seat, why don’t you?”
Ellen followed Sue and Tanya into the small, cozy front room, where they all squeezed together on the one white sofa. Miss Myrtle, a black woman in her late seventies with a short afro and a colorful scarf, reminded Ellen of her late grandmother. The woman was sharply dressed, her face made up, and even her nails were polished.
“Are you all comfortable sitting together like that? I can go get another chair.”
“We’re fine,” Tanya, who was the one most squeezed in the middle, said.
Miss Myrtle turned to Sue. “You wear that weight nicely. Those are the prettiest chubby cheeks I ever did see. It’s a good thing most of your weight goes to your hips. That’s what the men prefer.” Then she pointed to Ellen. “You, on the other hand, are all chin. You probably wish you could give some of that over to this one here, don’t you?” She pointed to Tanya. “You a skinny thing, aren’t you?
You might want to get out more often.”
Ellen tried not to show any offense to Miss Myrtle’s direct way of speaking as she forced a smile and said, “Thank you for meeting with us.”
“It’s always a pleasure to make a little bit of money doing something good for other folks. Do any of you have a particular question you want to ask, or are you interested in receiving a general reading from me?”
“We have particular questions,” Sue said.
Miss Myrtle took the seat across from them. “Alrighty, then. Ask away.”
Sue gave Ellen a nod. Ellen hadn’t realized she was the one expected to speak, but she swallowed, cleared her throat, and began.
“We’re thinking about making a major purchase together.”
Before Ellen could continue, Miss Myrtle nodded and said, “I sense a very strong energy around you ladies. You feel called to a higher purpose. It is better to die for a cause you believe in than to live comfortably but passively. You ladies are entering a phase of your life where you are being called to be warriors for something. So why do you want to make this purchase? What is calling you to it?”
“Ghosts,” Sue said.
Miss Myrtle’s eyes widened. “You have the gift?”
“Yes,” Sue said. “All three of us sensed and heard something while we were there. The purchase we want to make is of a building here in Tulsa.”
“We’re having dreams of being suffocated by fire,” Tanya added. “And we think my mother’s cousin Vivian, who has passed away, is trying to tell us something about that building.”
“Oh, you do, do you? What makes you think that? Has she made contact with you?”
They all three nodded.
“How glorious,” she said. “I do love it when they speak to us from the other side. Would you like to try to make contact with her again today? I can help with that.”
“Sure,” Ellen said.
The woman opened a drawer to an old wooden table near her chair and pulled out a candelabra holding three small candles. As she struck a match and lighted them, she asked, “Where exactly is this building?”