Ghosts of St. Augustine

by Tom Lapham

  In the last few years, many psychics and paranormal investigators have visited the restaurant and have documented much of the activity. One even photographed a ghost standing at a second-floor window.

  Once, during one of the many weekend festivals held in St. Augustine, a group of people from Broward County came in for dinner. Shortly after they arrived, one of the women identified herself as a psychic and asked, “There's a ghost in this place, isn't there?”

  “Why, yes, there is,” the manager replied.

  “Well, I can tell you all about her. I honestly believe this room here with the fireplace was her bedroom, and I get the feeling that she is very, very restless because she's had a problem with a man. Something happened in her life, and she's restless because of it.” Perhaps, Catalina was upset because she was able to live such a short time in her house, or was Joseph seeing another woman?

  In 1993 the name of the restaurant was changed to Catalina's Garden in hopes of making her happier, and for a time there was less activity. But it soon picked up again and continues to this day.

  On April Fool's Day, 2004, Lance went upstairs to the linen room for more napkins and saw the lady in the white dress. He rushed down to tell his friend, Wes, another waiter.

  “Yeah, sure” Wes said. “April Fools.”

  But Lance insisted, so Wes went back up with him, and he, too, saw the ghost.”

  And, of course, many people still feel a presence in the ladies room on the second floor. Elena, one of the servers, went into the second-floor bathroom to put up her long, blond hair. She had just bent over to straighten her hair when she was pushed into the sink.

  Other employees have had experiences as well. Audrey was training a new server, showing her how to set a place, when a glass just flew off the table. April was upstairs rolling silverware into napkins one day just before opening when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She turned, saw no one, and went back to her work. The footsteps started again. This time when she turned she saw a shadow flash by. And Ashley, a hostess, was talking to a customer when they both saw a plant move.

  Rick Worley said years ago, “Some people don't believe it, but there's no question. I'd be the first one to say there's definitely a ghost. It's a friendly ghost, or ghosts. It's not someone scaring the hell out of you, but there's something here.”

  No one seems to mind, least of all Catalina and her nineteenth-century companion, who seem perfectly contented, for the most part. Employee turnover is low, and some are even eager to make contact. Customers keep coming back, not only for the excellent food and service, but also in hopes of “seeing or experiencing something.” Besides, the ambiance is out of this world.

  THE SENTRY

  ON A CORNER OF HYPOLITA STREET there is a bar, or it used to be a bar. Now it's empty, closed up. It's a two-story structure, built during the British period, with the door opening right onto the street. In the rear there is a small courtyard with a patio and wooden decks shaded by trees—a pleasant spot to while away a hot afternoon with a cold beer. Now it's overgrown with weeds, and the decks are falling apart.

  The second story used to be living quarters for the occupants and, until a few years ago, was an apartment which the bar owner rented out for a little extra income. It was actually a nice place to live. Because the walls and floor were so substantial, there wasn't much noise from the bar or the street. Being on the corner and above the street, the apartment got a breeze from several directions. But best of all was the balcony that ran the entire length of the building and looked out over the courtyard. It was covered, of course, and the trees in the courtyard were tall enough to provide additional shade and privacy. A stairway led from the street to the balcony on the south end of the building, and at the top of the stairs was a stout, grate-covered screen door, which could be locked for security.

  Joanna had just graduated from college and returned home with her roommate, Emily. Both girls had been lucky enough to get good jobs right in town. Joanna was a native; her family had lived in St. Augustine literally for centuries. She knew everyone, so when the apartment on Hypolita Street became available, she learned of it instantly.

  The girls went to look at it, and they both fell in love with the place. It had two bedrooms, a large living room, a small bath, and a tiny kitchen. The living room, and the only outside door, opened onto the balcony, with two windows on either side of the door and two on the opposite wall facing the street. There were no washer and dryer, but Joanna's parents lived not far away, so that wasn't a major problem. Although the place was small, it was well-lit and airy, a lovely little apartment. The two young women were excited; it was perfect for them and within easy walking distance of their jobs. Joanna's mother wasn't thrilled about her daughter living over a bar, but Joanna's enthusiasm soon overcame her mother's reluctance, and the following weekend the two girls moved in.

  The girls settled in quickly. They didn't have much furniture, nor did they need any. They both were exhilarated with their new freedom and carefree lifestyle. Neither had been completely on her own before, either living at home or in a college dormitory. There were new things to learn on their respective jobs, Joanna at the Lightner, the wonderful museum across from Flagler College, and Emily at the college. And, of course, there was the nightlife.

  They soon got to know the bartenders and regulars downstairs in the bar. It was so much fun just to walk down for a beer. And anytime either wanted peace and quiet, they simply walked back upstairs. Evenings on the balcony were idyllic. There was almost always a breeze, and even in the heat of summer it was cool. Joanna and Emily both loved to sit in the dark, enjoying the breezes and listening to the music from below.

  One August evening they had stayed on the balcony longer than usual. It was Saturday night; neither had any reason to get up early the next morning, and the day had been especially hot. Finally, about midnight Joanna yawned and got up from the big rocking chair her mother had given her. She said goodnight to Emily, still slouched lazily in the other rocker, and went inside.

  A few moments later Emily stretched and rose from her chair to follow Joanna, but first she went down to the other end of the balcony to make sure the door was locked. As she neared the door she thought she heard footsteps on the stairs. She flicked on the light when she got to the screen door and looked down the stairs. There was no one, but she smelled something peculiar. It was the heavy smell of human sweat and garlic. It smelled like a man who hadn't showered in several days and who had eaten Italian food or something similar. Really strange, she thought, then she turned off the light and went inside.

  By the next morning Emily had forgotten the incident, but in the evening the two girls were sitting on the balcony again having a late supper of spaghetti and salad, and Emily noticed the same strange smell.

  “Joanna, do you smell that?”

  “Do I smell what?” Joanna asked.

  “That smell, that garlic and sweat smell.”

  Joanna sniffed. “No, no, I don't smell anything.”

  Then Emily described the smell and related what had happened the previous evening.

  “You've been spending too much time in the sun, Em.” And both girls laughed.

  Nothing more happened for two or three weeks. Then, one evening while Emily was on the balcony by herself, looking down on the street at the north end, she heard footsteps. Turning around, she saw someone, or at least she thought she saw someone. Rushing inside, she told Joanna that someone was on the balcony. Joanna looked at her, a little alarmed, and both girls went outside. There was no one. The door at the top of the stairs was locked. They started back inside, when, suddenly, they stopped. Both smelled sweat and garlic.

  Again, nothing happened for several weeks, but in mid-September Emily returned to the apartment just after dark. Joanna wasn't home yet. Emily unlocked the screen door at the top of the stairs and walked down the balcony to the front door. As she was unlocking it, she smelled the garlic and sweat again and looked back down th
e balcony. There he stood, a small man, no taller than she was. He was wearing strange-looking clothing, light-colored, knee-length pants, a dark, tunic-like coat with some sort of belt or sash around his shoulder from which hung a sword, a heavy belt around his waist, and a tall, brimless hat. She couldn't make out many of the details because of the dim light, and she didn't stand there trying to figure them out. Terrified, she screamed, ran into the apartment, and locked the door. Then she turned on all the lights and called the police.

  By the time Joanna arrived not long after, the police and the bar owner were there and had calmed Emily down somewhat. While the two officers went through the apartment, checking for evidence of forcible entry, Emily related what had happened to Joanna. The police found nothing and soon left.

  Emily refused to spend the night in the apartment, so Joanna took her to her mother's. The next day Emily came back, but only to pack her things. Then she moved out for good.

  Joanna was angry with Emily at first. As a native of St. Augustine Joanna quickly realized she was dealing with a ghost. Eventually, she forgave Emily for running out on her, but she wasn't going to give up so easily.

  For a few days after Emily left, everything was fine. The ghost of the Spanish soldier, for now that was what Joanna believed she was dealing with, did not appear. But a week later she saw him, the same clothes with the tall hat which reminded her of a bishop's miter, only the front peak was rounded and the rear peak much smaller. What alarmed her most was that he was carrying a rifle. She stood, still and silent, looking at the soldier. Then he melted into the darkness.

  The next night he came again. This time she saw him looking in the window. Two or three days passed, and he appeared again. Then his visits became more regular, almost every night she saw him in one window or the other on the balcony. It was always the same. He always appeared at the window, peering in, never smiling. Joanna couldn't find another roommate; the story of her ghost had spread quickly, and no one wanted to live with a ghost. Eventually, the soldier's nightly appearances became too unnerving, and Joanna began to find excuses to stay over at her parents' house more and more often. Finally, two weeks before Christmas, Joanna moved out. For all anyone knows, the Spanish soldier is still there, guarding the rundown little apartment.

  THE ST. FRANCIS INN

  THE ST. FRANCIS INN BY MY reckoning, is the oldest inn in St. Augustine. It has been used by weary travelers since 1845 when Anna Dummett started operating it as a boarding house. It was actually built by Gaspar Garcia in 1791, when he received a grant from the Spanish Crown which included the plot of land on which the St. Francis Inn now sits.

  The property passed through a succession of hands until 1838, when Colonel Thomas Dummett, a former English Colonel of Marines, bought the house he and his family had rented the previous two years. The Colonel died a year later, and in 1845 his widow conveyed the house to her daughters, Anna and Sarah. Anna began operating the boarding house in that year.

  The original structure was a two-story building not much different from the three-story house that stands today. The third floor, originally an attic, was added in 1888 by John Wilson. Miss Anna boarded her guests in the main house and used what had been slave quarters behind the house as a kitchen. This small cottage is occupied by guests today.

  In 1855 the property was conveyed to Anna's brother-in-law, Major William Hardee, later General Hardee, C. S. A. Anna apparently stayed on to run the boarding house, because Major Hardee was soon promoted and transferred to West Point as the Commandant of Cadets. She is listed as the proprietor of the “Dummett House” in brochures as late as 1870, and she probably was still running the place in 1888, when it was sold to John Wilson.

  Through the years the inn has known many owners. It has been enlarged and modernized. It still retains its charm, however, and Regina Reynolds who, together with her husband, Stan, now runs the place is as gracious as I'm sure Miss Anna was.

  Naturally, a house as old as the St. Francis Inn has its history and its legends. Like many other houses, especially in St. Augustine, it also has a “presence.” My wife and I came up one weekend to visit the St. Francis and to see about the ghost. We checked in on Friday afternoon and were cordially welcomed by Mrs. Reynolds.

  After we checked in, April, one of Mrs. Reynolds's employees, escorted us up to our suite on the second floor; unfortunately, Room 3A, where most of the activity is, was already taken. Climbing the front staircase was like climbing into a history book. As we ascended, April told us a little about the place and the ghost on the third floor. She also spoke of a black person's hand, just the hand, some had allegedly seen going down the banister. She herself had never seen it.

  Our suite was homey with a sitting room, small kitchenette, large bedroom, and equally large bath. Both main rooms had fire-places. Our rooms overlooked the street and St. Francis Park, and we could see the Llambias House next to it. It was a pleasant suite of rooms.

  We didn't take any time to enjoy our surroundings, however. April had agreed to show us Room 3A before the new occupants checked in. The room is cozy with windows on the west and north sides. Like the other rooms in the inn, it is decorated with period furniture.

  The legend is that General Hardee's nephew fell in love with one of their black slaves. Under the circumstances, their love was hopeless, impossible, and the nephew killed himself. His grief-stricken lover, whom some have named Lilly, wanders around the third floor, which was an attic then and possibly the scene of their secret rendezvous, searching for her love.

  One visitor described seeing a young black girl, dressed in white, going down the hall. Later, just before going to bed, she saw the girl again in Room 3A. The apparition was not disturbing. In fact, the visitor thought it pleasant, almost playful. On another visit by the same guest the dresser light came on at 2 A.M. and went off twenty minutes later. The manager checked the light the following day and could find no electrical short nor any other reason for the light to have come on. That same morning about 6 A.M. the visitor heard a loud thud and got up to find her purse dumped on the floor.

  On a third visit this same guest reported the coffee pot turning itself on and off, and she heard moaning periodically through the night. In the morning while taking a shower, the water started getting hotter and hotter in spite of her attempts to regulate it. Finally, she got mad and ordered Lilly to stop playing around. The water cooled instantly.

  One woman guest came to stay in Room 3A purposely because she had heard of the unusual occurrences there. However, the next day she checked out. She had been unable to sleep the whole night because she felt that someone was in the room watching her.

  Once during a slow period in mid-week, there was only one couple staying at the inn; they were in Room 3B across the hall. They had gone out to dinner and were returning late. As they got to the top of the stairs, they saw someone in white pass down the hall just ahead of them and go into 3A. The door did not open and close, and they knew they were the only guests that evening.

  The employees, too, have had experiences. When April first began working at the inn, she erroneously believed the ghost was on the second floor, and she thought it strange that she'd never felt anything. Then, she had occasion to work on the third floor, and immediately sensed that someone was watching her. She learned only later that most of the unusual activity was on the third floor.

  Another one of the girls regularly cleans Room 3A and likes to watch TV while she works. Her favorite station is MTV and one of the first times she cleaned the room, she had it on. She left the room momentarily to get fresh sheets and when she returned the channel had been changed. She doesn't watch MTV anymore. As Regina tells her, “She (the presence) doesn't like MTV!”

  None of the stories I heard were particularly threatening, and everyone who has had contact with Lilly has reported a pleasant experience, even though she is sometimes mischievous.

  We stayed at the inn that afternoon for an hour or more, talking with Mrs. Reynolds and
some of her employees. We were fascinated by the tales. Finally, we had to leave to meet my young psychic friend, Jennifer.

  During dinner I related the stories I had just heard to Jennifer, and she was as enthralled as my wife and I had been. After dinner, we invited her over to walk through the halls, to see if she could sense anything. When we got to the inn, we walked up to the third floor. Although she was aware of a presence on the third floor, especially near Room 3A, we were mystified because she could detect nothing on the staircase. I had assumed that the hand which April had told us about had been seen on the front staircase, the only one I was aware of at that point. But, on the third floor Jennifer asked if there were another set of stairs. We walked down the hall in the other direction and found a back staircase, which we quickly descended. As we went down, I saw goose bumps on Jennifer's arms, and she told us that was where the hand had been. In the foyer, I asked Mrs. Reynolds, and she confirmed what Jennifer had just told us: the hand had been seen on the back stairs—the servants' staircase.

  HENRY BARNES

  KENNY BEESON HAS PASSED AWAY but as a young man was a hard-working tailor. Among other things, he also later became the mayor of St. Augustine. In 1946 Frank “Kixie” Kixmiller opened up a men's shop at 38 St. George Street. The site is now occupied by the East Coast/West Coast, another clothier's but for some thirty years or so, it was Kixie's Men's Store, and Kenny Beeson was the tailor.