Deadly Curiosities (8 page)

“I’ll show you the other two rooms,” Rebecca said, as we stepped back from the doorway and she locked it up again. We turned toward the opposite side of the hallway, where the doorways were staggered so that one room wasn’t directly across from another.

These doors weren’t locked. The first room was shadowed, and although I knew that, outside, dusk had fallen, something about the darkened room made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Rebecca turned on the light, but the faux gaslight glow didn’t dispel the feeling that something was not quite right.

“This room was the first place we got reports of problems,” Rebecca said. She nodded toward the large oval mirror with a broad bronze ribbon-like frame. I was certain it came from our shop.

“What happened?” I asked.

Rebecca looked chagrinned. “Guests said they felt uncomfortable in the room, as if they were being watched. A few reported waking up to see a shadow moving across the wall.”

Shadow men, again.

“Could it be car headlights from the street?” I asked. “That’s given me a start now and again.”

“Not up here,” Rebecca replied. “The angle’s wrong.” She sighed. “This is one of the places guests and cleaning staff have reported cold spots and small items moving around on their own.”

“Were there problems before you bought the mirror?”

She shook her head. “We brought all the pieces from Trifles and Folly in at the same time, so it’s hard to say whether it’s all of them, or just some of them.” Rebecca gestured toward the room. “You can see why I don’t want to return the pieces. They’re just perfect for the décor – if we can get them to stop scaring the guests.”

The furniture in this room was oak, with a bed, dresser and old-fashioned washstand. The bed still had the very tall headboard and footboard, but lacked the ornamentation of the last room’s furnishings.

Other than the troublesome mirror, there was an oil portrait of a pretty young woman, and a seascape that seemed a bit moody and dramatic for a bedroom. A Chinese Foo dog statue and a pewter lamp sat on the nightstand. The room had the requisite overstuffed chair, and also boasted a small fireplace.

“Do the fireplaces work?” I asked.

Rebecca nodded. “Several of them were bricked over before we bought the property, and the contractor advised against opening those back up. But the ones you see all work, and in the winter, guests like to cozy up to a fire even though as you know, it never gets all that cold here.”

I was glad when we left the room. I wondered whether my imagination was running away with me or whether I really was picking up the vibe from the mirror, but there was no way I would have been comfortable sleeping there.

“This is the last guest room,” Rebecca said, opening the door wide. She turned on the light, and I found myself looking at an imposing bed that had a small wooden half canopy protruding from the very high headboard, a detail that made it look like a throne. A vintage quilt covered the mattress, along with needlepoint throw pillows which made the bed only slightly less intimidating.

I spotted another set of silver picture frames on the dresser, ones I immediately recognized from our store. The pictures were old tintypes of a man and woman, authentic and completely unremarkable, yet instinctively, I wanted to draw back from the frames in unaccountable sadness.

“What happens in this room?” I asked.

“It’s odd,” Rebecca said. “The last room gives guests the willies, although no one has reported being hurt – thank heavens! But in this room, it’s almost as if something gradually drains the happiness out of the guests who stay here. Guests have cut their trip short, saying that they just didn’t feel like vacationing anymore. One woman told me that she broke down sobbing for no reason. My cleaning lady says the same thing.”

“So the problems have been witnessed by people other than just guests?” I asked. It had occurred to me that an unscrupulous guest might be tempted to concoct a story to get a discount or a refund.

Rebecca nodded. “Since the problems began, I’ve had to replace the cleaning position twice. The woman I have now, Cecilia, wears several charms around her neck, but then again, she’s Gullah, and says her people have ways of making peace with the spirits.” She drew a deep breath. “Sometimes when she’s cleaning, I hear her chanting to herself, but honestly, I don’t care what she does as long as she doesn’t quit!”

The Gullah people were descended from runaway or freed slaves who settled in isolated areas along South Carolina’s coast, the area most people call the Lowcountry. Gullah folks are known for their distinctive language, a combination of African and Caribbean languages borrowed from the cultures of the original settlers. One of their old traditions involves ‘root work’, a powerful form of folk magic and healing. The magic is real, and root workers deserve the high degree of respect – and awe – they are accorded. If you’re wise, you take root work very seriously.

I looked around the hallway as Rebecca closed the bedroom door and followed her back downstairs.

The parlor had a magnificent Victorian single-end sofa, with a curving back that was higher on one side than the other, and rich red velvet upholstery edged in dark wood. Fringed lampshades glowed on the table lamps with their elaborate molded bronze stands. Rebecca laughed as she showed me how the big armoire hid a large screen TV and stereo system. A pair of comfortable chairs sat near the fireplace with an end table between them, inviting me to curl up and read.

“It’s lovely,” I said sincerely. “Any incidents in here?”

Rebecca grimaced. “Now, we seem to have incidents everywhere. At first, it was just in the bedrooms.

Then, guests and staffers started experiencing strange things down here as well. And last week, we had a couple of unusual things go on in the garden.”

“Like?”

She sighed. “There was damage to one of the flower beds, but everyone denied doing it, and frankly, I can’t really imagine one of our guests tearing out the geraniums.”

I couldn’t either. “How about your room? Do you have any antiques I should look at up there?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Everything in my room is modern – I brought it from my old house and I’ve had it for years. I put all the good pieces where guests could use and enjoy them.” She looked sheepish.

“As much as I love the antiques, having only modern furniture in my room is a nice break, and it helps me feel like I’ve left work, if that makes sense.”

I nodded. “It does. Any disturbances up there?”

Rebecca hesitated, and I figured she was deciding just how much to trust me. “Not at first,” she said quietly. “But then ‘he’ started showing up.” She had gone quiet and pale. “He?” I asked gently.

She nodded, and exhaled in a rush, as if summoning her courage. “I see a shadow of a man, but it’s too dark to be a regular shadow.” Her eyes pleaded with me for understanding. “Imagine if you cut a silhouette out of black construction paper. No light goes through it. Sometimes, I see him on the stairs.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and see the shadow slide out the door, like he’s been watching me.”

“Has your shadow man actually tried to harm anyone?”

“No, but I’m afraid it’s heading that way. A few days ago, I fell on the steps. Only I didn’t trip. I definitely felt someone push me from behind, but there was no one here. One of my guests took an evening walk in the garden, and she said a vicious black dog growled at her. It chased her into the house, but of course, when we went searching for it, the gates were closed and there was no dog.”

“Have you had any reports of strangers, loitering near the place?”

Rebecca frowned. “The day I fell, I happened to look out the front window and I saw a man in black clothing with a broad-brimmed hat near the gate. It stuck in my mind because his clothing seemed odd for the season. I saw him again, the day the shadow dog chased my guest.”

She paused. “At first, I thought he might be new in the neighborhood. But I saw him just a few moments before you arrived, and I tried to catch up with him, but by the time I reached the sidewalk, he was gone.”

That definitely did not bode well,
I thought.
Shadow men, and now the man with the hat. Not to mention the fact that the incidents seemed to be getting more dangerous. Someone was going to get hurt. Maybe that was the point.

I followed Rebecca into the dining room, and gasped. Dominating the room was a massive mahogany table and an ornate sideboard that gave the bedroom sets real competition when it came to carved ornamentation. The table would easily seat sixteen, and the chairs had leather upholstery and graceful, curved backs.

A huge, heavy server table sat up against one wall. No doubt many a Thanksgiving turkey and sides of sweet potatoes and okra had once waited their turn from that fine piece of furniture. But it was the equally massive sideboard and matching china cupboard that were the stars of the room.

The china cupboard stood at least seven feet tall, with a fan-shaped, intricately carved wooden frill at the top that probably added another foot or so to the height. The back of the cabinet was mirrored, with glass shelves to set off treasured china and decorative objects to their best advantage. The sideboard was probably four feet long and over five feet high, with a wide counter for holding tureens and platters.

The tea set from Trifles and Folly sat on the broad counter, ready for use. The sideboard had a mirrored back above the counter, with carved wooden pillars at each end and another delicate but big wooden frill at the top. Drawers below would have held linens, flatware and other necessities, making it a very solid piece.

“It’s absolutely magnificent,” I whispered.

Rebecca grinned. “We’ve got some nice furniture in the house, but this is the showstopper,” she acknowledged. “My father’s great, great-grandfather was a sea captain, and he did well for himself.

When he brought his bride to their new home, he wanted to make sure its furnishings made a statement to the neighbors that Captain Harrison and his wife were people of quality.”

“I imagine this did the trick,” I said. Part of me longed to run my fingers over the beautiful carvings, but I held back, unsure what kind of psychic image I might receive.

Rebecca nodded. “By all accounts, the captain and his wife were very happy for many years.”

“Until?” Something in her voice told me that the Harrisons’s happiness did not last forever.

“Shipping is a dangerous business, especially back in that time. When Captain Harrison was in his late fifties, he decided to retire from the sea and planned to enjoy his later years with his wife.

Unfortunately, his ship was lost on his final voyage, and he never made it home.” “That’s awful,” I said.

Rebecca ran a hand lovingly over the table’s beautiful wood. “Mrs. Harrison lived into her nineties and never remarried. She was twenty years younger than her husband, so it was a long widowhood. The story that was passed down through the family was that she set a place for the Captain every night, just in case fate brought him home to her.” She looked at me conspiratorially. “And according to family legend, it did. But not in the way she expected.”

“Oh?”

Rebecca gave me an impish grin. “According to family legend, Mrs. Harrison was walking down by the Battery and spotted something bobbing in the water next to the sea wall. She had a servant fish it out.”

Flotsam wasn’t unusual down by the harbor, but most of the time it consisted of obvious trash.

“The item turned out to be an oilskin pouch that had been sealed with wax. Inside were papers from Captain Harrison himself, along with a fine silver chain necklace. An unfinished letter in the pouch in the captain’s handwriting indicated that the necklace was a gift for her, and that he looked forward to being home as soon as they completed this last trip, and that he would bring her a fresh pineapple to celebrate.”

There was a reason so many houses in the Charleston area used carvings of pineapples in their decorations. Once upon a time, the fruit had been quite rare, and many a sea captain brought them home as highly desirable gifts.

Rebecca shook her head. “Of course, his ship never made it home, but somehow, the sea brought her his last gift and letter.”

“What a great story!” I said, although as a historian, I had my doubts about its authenticity.

“Oh, that’s not the end of it,” Rebecca said. “The story says that great-great Grandma Harrison put the chain around her neck and went home with the letter. She was giddy with excitement, and told the servants that the Captain was coming home that night.” “The poor old dear,” I murmured.

“In fact, she told the servants to serve dinner for two, and then leave her uninterrupted, because she and the Captain had a lot of catching up to do,” Rebecca said with a gleam in her eye.

My scalp began to prickle. “What happened?”

“According to the story, they found her dead at the table later that evening, slumped in her dining chair. But listen to this: the servants said that the food had been eaten at both place settings and that the room smelled of Bay Rum and pipe smoke, as it did when the Captain was in port.” She met my gaze.

“And there was a fresh pineapple in the middle of the table.”

I eyed the table once more.
With all these stories, I’m more surprised that the inn wasn’t haunted before this. Both the house and the furnishings are prime spook material. So the real question is – why now? What set off the haunting?

“Their second son, Benjamin, also went into the shipping business with his brother, and was also lost at sea,” Rebecca added. “Good story, huh?”

“Very good.” I paused. “What about the linens from our shop?” I asked.

Rebecca crossed the room and opened the door beneath the huge sideboard. She took out a folded tablecloth and unfurled it over the dining table.

“I fell in love with this as soon as Debra showed it to me,” Rebecca said wistfully. “For its age, it’s in excellent condition, and the embroidery is just beautiful,” she said, caressing the old stitches between her thumb and finger. The stitching was as white as the cloth itself, but it formed a complicated tracery border that was a work of art.