Why is it
that so many awful things, fateful things, happen on Oct.31st? Great Grandma Jane died on Oct.31st. Witches were hanged on Oct.31st. And now, this.
I used to
consider myself ordinary. I didn’t take
to belief in aliens starting our world, angels protecting us (some of us?), and
ghosts. Well, ghosts are a different
matter.
At parties, when mohitos allow
conversational groups to start discussing embarrassing topics – UFO’s for
example, and it comes out what people really dread and secretly think, I always
say, “Well, I don’t believe in aliens but I do believe in ghosts.” I am hoping
that someone in the alcoholic perfume of the evening will see the comic irony
of my declaration. No one ever does.
Instead it
launches a whispered discussion of hauntings, real experiences, and
visitations. I give up. Their stories are so ridiculous; do they
really expect me, an intellectual thinker, to buy what they’re saying? Obviously, they fabricate. None of their tales are real – only mine I
realize with a hesitant illumination. Only mine.
One of my
jobs is giving guided tours in an historic house – home to the Romanovs, famous
married writers from the nineteenth century.
I drifted there
by glancing into a local ad paper. The
old house was five minutes away from my house, and I admired the literature
produced from the famous, infamous married couple. After orientation and probation, observation
and jumping in like into a freezing lake, I had access to the house, a schedule
of tours, and keys.
I’ve always
loved old things, sixties thrift shop dresses with dyed-to-match ostrich
feathers, crumbling tomes from the eighteen hundreds like The Man Made of
Money by Douglas Jerrolds. I like
things not valued any more – old furs, scarred furniture, unmatched china
pieces, and tombstones. Graveyards. Yes, I like them, I wish to go to them and
sit amongst the long dead. I feel a
peace and welcoming. They’ve not had
visitors for decades, centuries… But I get ahead of myself.
This house that the Romanovs lived
in for forty years, it is so rich, so beautiful! I gasped as if touched when my prospective
employer brought me there as part of the interview. The house itself is large, yet called a
‘cottage’ due to its scallop-patterned roof shingles, the gingerbread detailing
along the eves of the gables, and the porches and balconies that presented
themselves in the oddest, most unexpected places. I wished I had lived there, along with them,
with the deepest longing of my heart.
The rooms
were configured in a pattern; I would call it unpredictable. The number of hidden nooks, drawing rooms to
draw a mysterious visitor into, stairways to winding hallways and unexpected
rooms took my imagination. I was
enchanted from the start.
How do we
know when to trust our senses? When is
it real or are we having a lapse of sanity?
I still wonder to this day. But
there was the little dog. Even during
the
orientation tour and the teaching lectures I was aware of
it. At first I thought it was someone’s
indulgence, a titled worker taking advantage of privileges, bringing their
beloved lap dog to work. But in an
historic site? Weren’t there rules against
such things? I wouldn’t tell a
soul. I like furry things. And I like little secrets.
Signs of
the dog were there from the first day. A
little earthenware dish was tucked into a nook next to the fireplace. In the front parlor there was a deep blue
cushion, tasseled, with tufts of white fur on it. I smiled when I saw them. Only I saw them.
Although
there was a visitor’s center across the green, a costumed interpreter was
required to be within the house during open hours. Being new, I was given this duty. I didn’t mind. I love costuming; I make my own, and I loved
the house instantly.
Two weeks
into my tenure as a full-fledged employee, I met the family. I sat in the kitchen/dining room, once used
in winter to cook all meals and heat water all the day long. Wrapped in my white wool shawl, it was a
chilly November Tuesday, I sat facing the cold, dark fireplace complete with
cauldron, commonplace for all kitchens, and witches’ broom, or hearth broom, to
contain flying embers. No one had come
for a tour in the last hour and a half.
I tucked my hands under the shawl, crossed my ankles under my long,
flowered, lavender dress under the white pleated apron I had made from a thrift
shop drape.
I closed my
eyes and dreamed of a cozy blaze casting encouraging shadows in the room. Roars of thunder made me jump, then settle,
digging my fingers into the thick fur of the small dog on my lap. The tapping of steady rain on wavy-paned
windows soothed me into soft sleep.
I could hear the activity in the
rest of the house. Footsteps on the
stairs led to the wooden hallway overhead, then a distant close of a bedroom
door. I heard the sound of soft singing,
as my drowsy mind wandered to the chicken stew for dinner, made with fresh
thyme and sage from the herb garden, roasted new potatoes, corn bread and
drippings saved from breakfast’s bacon.
I would have to go to the root cellar to choose seven apples to make a
savory/sweet compote with cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar grated from the cone.
A sharp rap jolted me from these musings. My dog vanished. A tour group of two
gentlemen from Austria apologized for startling me. What was true and what was a dream? I rose to tell them all I knew about the
dwelling, which once housed the ill fated, historically blessed Romanovs.
As I led
them from room to room, I related how Walter Romanov, well-known romantic
novelist in 1843, answered the door one stormy night to find Jillian Brown,
beautiful and bereft, fainting on the doorstep.
(Their sighs and grasping of hands egged me on. I’m always at my best with true
romantics.) As he supported her as she
fell senseless to the floor, the notion of love at first sight became a corner
stone of Romanov’s novels.
The rest is
history, or revisionist history, fodder for interpreters to regale their
audiences with sentimental soap-opera mush, if the eyes of their listeners
showed the glisten of a tear. This day,
as I moved from room to room, I felt a personal edge to their story. It was almost as if I were telling gossip
instead of historical verbiage. I told
of
their intense courtship, a runaway heiress refusing to marry
to join two powerful families, and a gentleman farmer, already known for
beautiful, free verse poetry.
I felt
strangely comfortable in my role of storyteller, almost too close to the
story. I wouldn’t have worried except that
I picked up a lace shawl on the second floor, very real to my tour charges, in
a theatrical sense, very real to me as I tried to disguise my utter surprise.
After this,
my ‘hallucinations’ visited me on a regular basis. I never mentioned them to anyone, except as a
‘what if’ topic of discussion. No one
ever came forward with their own intrigues.
I came to
accept my ‘historic tantalizations’ as too much caffeine, too little sleep, a
hopeful imagination, a very vivid waking dream.
Ironically,
far from causing problems with my supervisors, I was reaping rave reviews. “A true-to-life presentation,” exclaimed one
evaluation sheet, “complete with theatrical props and artifacts.” So rated the ever-appearing lace shawl, the
scent of apple-spice compote, and flickering red embers in several
fireplaces. My superiors were
pleased. I was shaken and enchanted.
As the
months progressed, the scenes from the past presented more and varied proofs of
their existence. December treated some
visitors to a drawing room festooned with pine boughs, the fragrance enough to
make the hushed refrain of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” to grow louder as you
paused to listen. It grew louder with
your eyes closed. I always advised my
tourists to close their eyes.
January,
February, March rained an assault on the senses. Roasted mutton and rosemary made visitors’
mouths water. The whirring of a spinning wheel that always seemed to cease the
moment before I opened the door to certain bedrooms. Spattered ink, half finished letters, inky quills,
scattered across the desk in the master bedroom. Two tiny glasses with claret, half finished,
on the bed stand.
Sometimes
items of clothing would be tossed on the beds.
Once a washstand with pitcher and washbasin half full by a roaring
fire. When asked how the historical
society paid for fire insurance, I would shrug and say that a good historical
perspective was foremost in the minds of the trustees. And then there were the
remnants of white fur on my clothes. My
little dog, so warm and loving, visited me every day I was there.
April and
May found sheets of poetry left casually on chairs in various rooms. “To my Jillian”, on one, “For My Love”, on
another. There were wooden pull toys and
blocks in the wide front foyer. Crumbs
were on the floor near the back parlor mantelpiece. Smudges made by tiny fingers appeared on the
wavy windowpanes.
One hot
hazy morning, I was alone, unlocking the house for the day. The alarm started to jangle. The thing to do was to unlatch the fragile
door to the root cellar, which had been tunneled out under the main floor. I had descended there once to see the
switches and dials for the different alarms and sprinkler systems. I carefully climbed down the uneven wooden
steps and flicked the switch to silence the alarm. Sometimes it would go off due to heat when
some of the doors were left closed.
The root
cellar was enclosed with stone; a large fireplace on one side once used to
roast animals took up the wall on one side. I felt an alarming sense of
dread. This was not a good place to be
alone to become trapped, to witness infamy.
As I drew my shawl closer and groped for the stairs, I tried to ignore
that something dripped thickly from the upstairs floorboards.
On the main
floor, bird song pulled me from my foreboding.
The effulgent scent of lilacs drowned my senses from windows that should
not be opened. Music from a pianoforte
tinkled a waltz. My startled thoughts
caused me to stumble through a side doorway, lower and recessed under a
stairwell. As I spun into the five sided
room, I smoothed my brown hair in the elongated mirror on the wall, tightened
the satin belt of my dressing gown, and sank gratefully in front of the round
tea table, set with white batten burg lace, a small silver tea service and an
exquisite lavender china cup and saucer.
Small herby cakes and jam were on a plate.
As I
refreshed myself with these thoughtful amenities, I thanked Patsy for her
kindness in my mind, after the frightening argument I had just had with
Walter. She must have heard and prepared
this tiny feast as a restorative. How
well she knew me, knew us. Little Vixen,
my white Pomeranian, entered the room and danced in delirious circles until I
offered her come crumbs and scooped her into my lap. Despite the fear and
disquiet in my life, there were always these certain comforts. I sank my fingers into her thick fur and
began to doze as I gazed into the flickering, soothing fire.
Very
disquieting, very disquieting indeed. I
would every so often wake in some odd place in the cottage, sometimes clutching
what I thought were sheets of poetry, empty fingers, sometimes with the taste
of fragrant tea on my lips and a linen napkin on my lap. No one ever discovered me this way. Was it luck, or more, were they apprehended
should they approach, to some other distraction, on my behalf?
July,
August, and September found me to be number one in recommendations from an
exuberant list of visitors. Happy as
this made the administration of our historic site, it did not serve to change
my salary of just above minimum wage.
October, a
favorite time of year, sunned its way into the mullion-windowed rooms of the
Romanov House. Walter and Jillian must
walk there especially at this beautiful time, I thought. The crisp breezes and almost chilly
temperature made the house cozier, as the light of the candles lit at five PM,
made the shadows soft as they leaned against the wall. The museum closed at four. Some deceptive magic made the staff in the
visitors’ center, and the caretaker in his tiny house in the corner of the
square not notice me. I was often still
there. I found it harder and harder to leave.
When I did pull myself away, I would always be
drawn to the wistful little cemetery yard.
I could never leave without visiting there first, partially because I
felt a comfort there, as if near a friend and also it was such a wonder to see
what flowers or keepsakes would be on the graves. When I had first mentioned this to a
co-worker, Sue Ann, she had laughed thinking I was entertaining her with
insider humor. I knew that the staff
considered me brainy and quirky, an adjective I wasn’t quite sure was a
compliment. So I knew never to mention
it again. It was for my observation and
enjoyment alone. It pleased me to see
the graves of the beloved dead adorned.
The
management left October to dried leaves and longer shadows. They refused to
admit the spirit of approaching Halloween.
They felt it put an unprofessional cast on the historic seriousness of
the place. I learned they had refused
many requests by seers, those who claimed to receive contact from the dead, for
séances in the house at this time of year. I shivered to think that maybe in
this way, others would know what I had seen.
At the same time I relished the thought that the scented past was all
mine.
October 31st
was considered to be like any other workday, a lonely Tuesday. Most visitors would avoid this day. I was in the old house alone. I wore a chocolate brown velvet skirt,
slightly bustled and longer in the back that swished as I drifted from room to
room. A velvet fitted vest, trimmed with
dark brown frogged edging, contained a frilly, cream blouse. My luxuriant yellow shawl, so woolly, soft
and touchable, puddled from my bent elbows.
My hair was upswept; garnets caught the light and dangled from my
ears. My gray kid shoes made soft
tapping on the wooden floor.
Urgent.
Something was urgent, sending me from room to room. What was I looking for? I had to find it soon.
As I
approached the rear portion of the house where a series of small, specialized
rooms were nestled, the library/reading room, a small receiving room, then the
pantry/cupboards, the borning room, my heart began to pound in my chest. I was almost there.
If I dashed
around the corner, as silently as possible, would I catch sight of her? If I stayed silent, in the hallway near the
door, would I hear the voices, mostly her voice telling and explaining,
answering occasional questions? Then,
somehow, could I prove this to the others, to Walter? Hurry.
Carefully.
I threw open the door of the
receiving room. There they were. There she was. I shrieked for my husband, shrieked for
vindication. Shrieked, strangled, and
fell onto the pointed handle of the candle holder that fell from my hand. It was midnight; how long till someone came
to me?
Blinking, I
struggled to open my eyes. My visitors
stood transfixed, amazed at what they considered to be fabulous acting
ability. I let go of the doorjamb, took
a deep breath, and continued, “She died on this spot. She fainted and fell
impaled on her candle holder. Her blood
seeped through the gaps in the floorboards, down into the root cellar. Some say
the stain is still there. If we were to
return tonight at the midnight hour, we would be sure to see her life’s blood
pooling on the stone. Jillian Romanov,
gifted author, married to Walter Romanov for forty years, died from the fright
of seeing ghosts on Halloween, 1884.”
(2,752 words)
