Ghosts

by Hans Holzer

  Meanwhile the demands for her act were as great as ever. The “girl in the champagne glass,” as she was known, had added an oriental act to her original routine, and as a belly dancer she was in almost greater demand than as a striptease artist. There are hundreds of small clubs in the United States using this type of talent and Rita had a busy winter season, traveling about the country.

  Somehow, word of her preoccupation with the occult had gotten around, perhaps because she liked to talk about it on occasion with fellow performers. Agents and managers would proffer their palms and ask to be “read” as if Rita were some kind of carnival gypsy. Rita, of course, refused but did not bother to explain the difference between a casual psychic reader and a person genuinely possessed of ESP and a serious interest in that which she did not want, but nevertheless found present within her.

  Still, inadvertently, she sometimes told friends what she felt about them only to find out later that it had all come true the way she had so casually mentioned it. It did not give her any sense of pride in her psychic accomplishment. To the contrary, she kept asking herself, what is the matter with me? I don’t want to see ghosts; I don’t want to tell people’s fortune or misfortune—I just want to be left alone by the forces that cause all this.

  She could handle the freshest of hecklers when performing her act, and quench the rudest remark, if necessary. But this was different. How can you deal with something you don’t see or hear, something within you?

  One day in Baltimore, she was sitting in her dressing room backstage at a local club. It was an icy February day of 1968 and business had been good despite the cold weather. Perhaps because of it, she reasoned, men wanted to see a pretty girl undress. She had some time to kill between performances, and her son had forwarded her mail to her from Boston.

  As she casually went through the stack of fan mail, she noticed an unfamiliar stamp. It was a letter from Locarno. Quickly, she tore open the envelope. The letter was from Susan’s son. She had died on January 7 of that year. As she put the letter down, she kept seeing her redheaded friend in her mind, how lifelike and joyous she had been during their last get-together.

  Then, with a shudder, she felt herself think of the woman on the train again, and all at once Rita knew that this was someone connected with Susan’s death. But why had she been chosen to receive this warning and not Susan herself? Was she the “telephone between worlds” for all her friends and should she have told her friend about the warning after all? “No,” she said to herself, “no,” it would have spoiled the last few happy months she had on earth. With a sigh Rita put the letter back with the others and prepared herself for the next performance.

  She is often in Vienna, but the night train to Zurich is out of bounds to her now. Perhaps there are ghosts on airplanes too, but at least the flight to Zurich only takes an hour.

  * 119

  The Lady Of the Garden (California)

  GARDENING IS ONE OF the finest expressions of man’s cultural heritage, for it stems back to the early Greek and Roman cultures, if not beyond that into Babylonian and Chaldean realms. The hanging gardens of Nineveh were far more elaborate than anything modern man can dream up no matter how green his thumb, and the rose gardens of Emperor Diocletian at Salonae, among which he spent his declining years, were a great deal more elaborate than the gardens we are apt to have for our own.

  Gardening is also a health measure, for it serves two purposes admirably well: it provides man with physical exercise, and cleanses the air around him through the chemical process of photosynthesis, the miraculous arrangement whereby carbon dioxide is changed into oxygen naturally.

  Americans in the eastern states often find gardening a hard-to-find pleasure especially if they live in the cities. But in the sunny west, it comes as a natural adjunct to one’s house and is often the most desirable feature of it. Many of the citizens of the small communities of California have gone there, usually from the east or midwest, to have an easier life in their later years. To them, having a garden to putter in is perhaps one of the chief attractions of this unhurried way of life.

  The western climate is very kind to most forms of flowers, to fruit trees and almost all the plants usually found in both moderate and tropical climates, so it is small wonder that some of the California gardens turn into veritable show places of color and scent for their loving owners.

  Naomi S. is a widow who has lived in California most of her life. Since the passing of her second husband, she has lived quietly in the southern California community of Huntington Park, and nothing of great importance happens to her now. That is as it should be, for she has had a glimpse into a world that has at once amazed and frightened her and she prefers that the excursion into it remain a veiled memory that will eventually be indistinguishable from the faded pictures of other past experiences in her busy and full life.

  * * *

  At the time, in 1953, she and her husband had been house hunting in Lynwood for a suitable place. She did not care for the run-of-the-mill houses one often finds in American communities and when they both saw this strangely attractive old house on Lago Avenue, they knew at once that that was it.

  It was almost as if the house had invited them to come and get it, but so eager were they to investigate its possibilities, they never thought of this until much, much later.

  The house was built in Norman style, almost European in its faithful copying of such old houses, and it was covered with all kinds of greens and vines going up and down the stone walls. Since it was surrounded by shrubbery and trees in the manner of a fence, it was most secluded, and one had the feeling of complete privacy. There was sufficient land around it to make it even more remote from the surrounding community, and as the zoning laws in Lynwood were quite careful, chances of a new building going up next door to them were remote. They immediately went past the shrubbery and looked around, possibly to see if anyone could show them the house. The sign outside had read “For Sale” and given the name of a real estate firm, but it did not state whether or not the house was currently inhabited. As they approached the house across the soft lawn they came to realize immediately that it could not be. All around them were signs of neglect and apparently long periods of no care at all. What had once been a beautifully landscaped garden was now a semi-wilderness in which weeds had overgrown precious flowers and the shrubbery grew whichever way it chose.

  The paths, so carefully outlined by a previous owner, were hardly recognizable now. The rains had washed them away and birds had done the rest.

  “Needs lots of work,” her husband mumbled apprehensively, as they observed the earmarks of destruction all around them. But they continued toward the house. They did not enter it but walked around it at first in the manner in which a wild animal stalks its prey. They wanted to take in all of the outside, the grounds, first, before venturing inside.

  On the other side of the house was a fine patio that had apparently served as a breakfast and dining patio at one time. A forlorn broken cup and a rusty spoon lay on the ground, but otherwise the patio was empty and still.

  “Boy, they sure let this place run downhill,” Mr. S. remarked and shook his head. He was a businessman used to orderly procedures and this was anything but good sense. Why would anyone owning so lovely a place let it go to pot? It didn’t make sense to him.

  All over the neighborhood, down Elm Street, the houses were aristocratic and well-kept. It would seem someone would care enough to look after this little jewel of a house, too. Why hadn’t the real estate man sent someone around to clean things up once in a while? He decided to question the man about it.

  From the patio on down to the end of the property, clearly marked by the shrubbery, was almost nothing but roses. Or rather, there had been at one time. One could still see that some loving hand had planted rows upon rows of rose bushes, but only a few of them were flowering now. In between, other plants had grown up and what there was left of the roses needed careful and immediate pruning, his knowledgea
ble eyes told him at once. Still, there was hope for the roses if a lot of work were to be put in on them.

  They entered the house through the patio door, which was ajar. Inside they found further proof of long neglect. The furniture was still there, so it was a furnished house for sale. This was a pleasant surprise for it would make things a lot easier for them, financially speaking, even if some of the things they might buy with the house had to be thrown out later.

  The dust covering the inside and an occasional spider’s web drove home the fact that no one could have lived here for years. But this did not disturb them, for there are lots of nice houses in California standing empty for years on end until someone wants them. They felt a strange sensation of being at home now, as if this had already been their house and they had just now re-entered it only after a long summer vacation.

  Immediately they started to examine each room and the gray, almost blackened windows. No doubt about it, it would take months of cleaning before the house would be livable again. But there was nothing broken or inherently beyond repair in the house and their courage rose, especially when they realized that most of the Victorian furniture was in excellent condition, just dirty.

  After a prolonged stay in the house, during which they examined every one of the rooms, every nook and cranny, and finally went out into the garden again, they never doubted for a moment that this would be their future home. It never occurred to them that perhaps the sign had been out there for months even though someone had already bought the place or that it might be available but priced beyond their means.

  Somehow they knew immediately that the house was right for them, just the size they wanted—they had no children—not too big to manage, but yet spacious and above all quiet, as it sat in the midst of what might once again become a fine garden.

  “Well, what do you say, Naomi?” Mr. S. inquired. It was more of rhetorical question since he, and she, knew very well what they were to do next. “Yes, it will do,” she nodded and smiled at him. It is a good feeling to have found one’s home.

  They carefully closed the patio door and locked it as best they could—after all, it was their home now, practically, and not just a neglected, empty old house for sale. As they walked up the garden path towards Elm Street, they had the distinctive feeling of being followed by a pair of eyes. But they were so preoccupied with thoughts of how to make this place into a livable home, that they paid no heed. They didn’t even turn around when they heard a rustling sound in the leaves that covered the path. It was the kind of sound the wind would make, had there been a wind.

  After they left the place, they immediately drove down to the real estate office.

  Yes, the place was still for sale. They sighed with relief, too noticeably to escape the glance of the real estate man. It bemused him, since he was only too glad to unload the white elephant the house on Lago Avenue represented to him. After some small talk, they agreed on a price and move-in date, and then Mrs. S. began to wonder about the people who had lived there before.

  But the real estate man, either by design or ignorance, could not tell them much. The house had been there for about thirty years or so, but even that was not certain. It might have been sixty years, for all he knew. It could not be more than that, for Lynwood wasn’t much older. Who had built it? He didn’t know their names, but a couple had built it and lived in it originally, and after them a number of other people had either bought or rented it, but somehow nobody stayed very long. His company had just recently taken over its sale, he believed, in the name of some absentee heir, across the country somewhere, but he really could not tell them more than that.

  “It’s just an old house, you know,” he finally said and looked at them puzzled. “Why do you want to know more?”

  Why indeed? The man was right. Resolutely, they signed the contract and a few weeks later, when their affairs elsewhere had been wound up, they moved into the house.

  The first few days were grim. They reminded one of the pioneering days of early Americans as the S.s worked from early to late to get their bedroom into livable condition. After that, the kitchen, and so forth until gradually, with much sweat and effort, the house changed. In the spring, they turned their attention to the garden, and since Mr. S. had meanwhile gone into semi-retirement from his business he had a little more time on his hands to help. Now and then they used the services of a local gardener, but by and large, it was their own effort that made the garden bloom again. Carefully pruning the roses, and whenever they found a gap, replanting a rose bush, they managed to bring back a new life to the beautiful place. Inside the house the old furniture had been dusted and repaired where necessary and they had augmented the pieces with some of their own, interspersing them where suitable. So the house took on a strange look of mixture of their old house and what must have been the former owner’s own world, but the two did not seem to clash, and intermingled peacefully for their comfort.

  They never tried to change anything in either house or garden just for change’s sake: if they could find what had stood on the spot, they would faithfully restore it, almost as if driven by a zeal to turn the clock back to where it had stood when the house had first been built. They felt themselves motivated by the same loyalty a museum curator displays in restoring a priceless masterpiece to its original appearance. Their efforts paid off, and the house became a model of comfortable, if somewhat Victorian, living.

  As they became acquainted with their garden, they became aware of the fact that it contained lots more than roses or ordinary flowers. Apparently the previous owners liked rare plants for there were remnants of unusual flowers and green plants, they had never seen before outside of museums or arboretums. With some of them, the original label had remained, giving the name and origin. Whenever they were able to, they fixed these labels so that much of the old flavor returned to the garden. They even went to the local florist and asked him to explain some of the rare plants, and in turn they bought some replacements for those that had died of neglect, and put them where they would have been before.

  With all this work taking up most of their time, they found no opportunity to make friends in the community. For a long time, they knew no one except the real estate man and the gardener who had occasionally worked for them, neither persons of social acquaintance status.

  But one morning Mrs. S. noticed a nice lady pass her as she was working in the front garden, and they exchanged smiles. After that, she stopped her in the street a day or so later and inquired about shops in the area and it turned out the lady was a neighbor living across the street from them, a certain Lillian G., who had been a longtime resident of the area. Not a young woman any longer, Mrs. G. knew a great deal about the community, it appeared, but the two women never talked about anything but current problems of the most mundane nature—on the few occasions that they did meet again. It was almost as if Naomi did not want to discuss the story of her house any longer, now that she owned it.

  * * *

  A year went by and the S.s were finally through with all their restorations in the house and could settle back to a comfortable and well-earned rest. They liked their home and knew that they had chosen well and wisely. What had seemed at the time a beckoning finger from the house itself to them, now appeared merely as an expression of horse sense upon seeing the place and they prided themselves on having been so wise.

  * * *

  It was summer again and the California sky was blue and all was well with the house and themselves. Mr. S. had gone out and would not be back until the afternoon. Mrs. S. was busy working in the rose garden, putting some fine touches on her bushes. Despite the approaching midday, it was not yet too hot to work.

  Naomi had just straightened out one of the tea roses, when she looked up and realized she had a visitor. There, on the path no more than two yards away, stood a rather smallish lady. She was neatly dressed in a faded house dress of another era, but in California this is not particularly unusual. Lots of retired people like to dr
ess in various old-fashioned ways and no one cares one way or another. The lady was quite elderly and fragile, and Naomi was startled to see her there.

  Her surprise must have been obvious, for the visitor immediately apologized for the intrusion. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said in a thin, high-pitched voice that somehow went well with her general appearance and frailty.

  “You didn’t,” Naomi bravely assured her. She was nothing if not hospitable. Why should a little old lady scare her?

  “Well then,” the visitor continued tentatively, “would it be all right if I looked around a bit?”

  This seemed unusual, for the place was scarcely a famous show place, and Naomi did not feel like turning it into a public park. Again, her thoughts must have shown on her face, for the lady immediately raised her hand and said, “You see, my husband and I originally built this place.”

  Naomi was flabbergasted. So the owners had decided to have a look at their house after all these years. At the same time, a sense of accomplishment filled her heart. Now they could see how much had been done to fix up the house!

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Naomi said and waved her visitor to come with her.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” the lady nodded. “We took great pride in it, really.”

  “Too bad it was in such bad shape when we bought it, though,” Naomi said succinctly. “We had to put a lot of work into it to bring it back to its old state.”

  “Oh, I can see that,” the lady commented and looked with loving eyes at each and every shrub.

  They were on the garden path in the rear now.

  “Oh, you’ve put pink roses where the tea roses used to be,” she suddenly exclaimed. “How thoughtful.”

  Naomi did not know that the tea roses had been on that spot for there had been nothing left of them. But she was glad to hear about it. The visitor now hopped from flower to flower almost like a bird, inspecting here, caressing a plant there, and pointing out the various rare plants to Naomi, as if she were the hostess and Naomi the visitor.