Ghosts of St. Augustine

by Tom Lapham

  “Why, yes, I know Carol. Nice lady. She gave me the names of several people.” I paused. “Although, she never mentioned yours.”

  “Well, I've been reluctant to say anything about this. It was so terrifying. I still have nightmares, and it's been almost seven years. Maybe telling you will help.”

  She looked around again, and in an even quieter voice she continued, “Back in the late eighties my husband and I—we were newlyweds at the time—rented a small house over on the Island. The house was only about ten years old. It was a nice little place, two bedrooms, central air. The garage had been converted into a laundry room and workshop, but a carport had been added shortly before we moved in.”

  She fidgeted with her coffee cup and looked down into it, pausing. “The laundry room,” she sighed. “That was the problem. Well, anyway, it seemed like a very nice place, and we could afford the rent, so we took it. And everything was fine for the first few days. My husband had taken a vacation, and we were busy moving in and arranging things.

  “Then, the following Monday, the Monday after we moved in, my husband went back to work, and I was alone in the house for the first time. I had fixed him breakfast, and after he left, I started cleaning house. First, I cleaned up after breakfast. Then, I went into the laundry room to start a load of wash, and I got the strangest feeling. My spine began tingling, and I felt this presence. It was physical, like some giant person was hugging me, a pressure all around me, like, like being underwater twenty or thirty feet. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was just very strange. And I felt cold, too. Really weird.

  “Well, I got the washing started and went back into the other part of the house. I was back in the laundry room three or four times that day, putting things in and taking them out of the washer and dryer, and each time I was in there, I got this weird sensation.” She stopped talking for a moment and fumbled with her coffee cup, as though she were remembering.”

  “I told Jim—that's my husband—about it that evening, and he just thought I was a little anxious about being alone after spending so much time with him during the wedding and honeymoon and all. But he understood, and we talked about it. Then he suggested that we go into the laundry room together. I didn't want to, but he insisted, so we went in. I felt nothing. Neither did Jim. In fact, he was in the room for perhaps an hour, puttering around, and he didn't experience anything. At least, he didn't admit it. So, I just let it pass.

  “But the next day, Tuesday, I found myself avoiding going into the laundry room. Silly, I guess, but I didn't want to go in there. Then, on Wednesday I had to go in, and the same darned thing happened. Only this time, it was worse.” She shuddered. “This time it wasn't just a gentle hug, it was a constricting, icy cold grip. I could hardly move, and I was almost shivering from the cold. I panicked and broke free from it. Ran out of the room. Out of the house onto the front porch and just sat, trying to catch my breath and almost in tears.” She stopped again to collect herself.

  “That's when the lady next door came over. She introduced herself, and we chatted. She was nice, an older woman. She and her husband were both retired. Then, I guess she saw I was upset and asked if anything was the matter. So, I told her what had just happened to me. Well, she just looked at me, then at the house with this real serious look.”

  “‘You know, something like that happened to the last people who lived here. The woman was in the laundry room and said she was overcome by an awful fear—like Amityville. She just ran out of the house, terrified. I found her sitting out by that tree, crying her eyes out. Never would go back. They moved the next day. Her husband had to do all the packing. She wouldn't go near the place. I've never been in there myself. Some strange goings on, if you ask me. Well, anyway, come on over and have some coffee. It'll calm your nerves.’”

  The young woman stopped and looked at me, her eyes questioning. “Is this weird or what?” she asked.

  I chuckled. “Yes, it's weird, but it's certainly believable.”

  She continued. “I spent an hour or more with my neighbor and finally went home. I didn't go into the laundry again. I was afraid. When Jim came home that evening, I tried to act as nonchalant as possible. I didn't tell him what had happened, and he didn't ask.

  “Well, everything was okay for about three weeks. Nothing much happened. Of course, I used the laundry room, and every time I went in, I felt a presence, but it was gentle, not frightening like the first time. Then, right after Jim had left one Thursday morning, I went in to do laundry.” Her voice wavered and trailed off.

  I reached out and patted her hand. “It's okay,” I said. “Nothing can bother you now.”

  We sat silent for several minutes. The waitress came by and refilled our coffee cups. The young woman stared out the window at the new building across the street.

  Finally, she looked back at me and went on. “I went back in to do the laundry, and I was seized by an even more powerful force. It totally enveloped me, crushing, pulling me. I struggled. I couldn't breathe. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. The force was trying to drag me across the room. I looked over and could see this image. It was like heat waves shimmering off the pavement on a hot day, and it was sort of oval, like a doorway but oval. It reminded me of the mouth of a cave, perhaps, or something like that. But it wasn't hot; the whole room was cold, icy cold, like the inside of a walkin refrigerator. I was numb from the cold, and I couldn't breathe, and I was getting weak. This thing was dragging me toward the shimmering archway…. Finally, I broke free…. I ran from the room and out the front door…and stood gasping for breath on the porch.

  “I could hardly stand…my knees shook…my whole body was shaking. Eventually, I was able to get to the car. I wouldn't go back into that house for the car keys, but there was a spare set of keys in one of those little magnetic boxes, stuck under the wheel well. I got them and drove into town.” She stopped talking then and composed herself.

  “I stayed away for several hours. Finally, in the middle of the afternoon, I came back and cautiously went inside. Everything seemed to be okay, but I was exhausted, absolutely drained. I went into the bedroom—it was at the far end of the house—I went in, locked the door, lay down, and closed my eyes. I was asleep in minutes.

  “An hour or so later, I guess it was about four o'clock, I woke up with a start. Someone was sitting on the bed. I couldn't see them, but the sheets were stretched, and I could see the indentation where someone was sitting, but there was no one there. This time I wasn't panicked; I was really mad, I'd had enough. I got up, collected my purse and a few things and went outside to wait for Jim.

  “When he came home about an hour later, I told him what had happened. He immediately called a friend of his who knew a psychic, and she arrived about six. I think her name was Mona, Mona Freeman, something like that.

  “Reluctantly, I went back into the house with them. I was scared to death. We walked all around the place, Mona stopping, looking at this and that, closing her eyes. Then we finally went to the laundry room. I refused to go in, the doorway was as close as I'd get. But Mona and Jim and his friend just charged right in.

  “Mona stopped abruptly in the middle of the room and was quiet, just standing there. Sometimes she'd close her eyes, sometimes she'd look around, but she stood completely still for the longest time, silent. Finally, she spoke, ‘There are spirits in here, a family. There's a man and woman and young boy about eight. I think they were killed in an automobile accident about eight years ago. One of them was probably sitting on your bed, maybe trying to comfort you.’ She paused, then continued, ‘But that's not your problem. There is also some kind of passage, a pathway, a doorway into the spirit world, but it feels very bad. Let's go outside,’ she said calmly.

  “When we were back out on the porch again, she stood silent for a long time with her eyes closed, like she was trying to get in touch with something. Then she explained, ‘As I was telling you about the passage, I could feel an awful demonic presence trying to get through. I don't
know how long that passage will be there nor how big it will get, but it's definitely there, a sort of gateway to hell. ’ A gateway to hell…” the young woman repeated.

  “We stayed in a motel that night, and, like those former residents, Jim moved us out the next day…. Well, that's my story. Weird, isn't it?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I bet I've talked to fifty people here in town with stories just as strange. After doing the research for this book, I'd believe almost anything.” Then an idea came to mind. “Would you mind going over there with me, to show me the house?”

  She just shuddered, rolled her eyes, and looked at me, “You've got to be kidding. I wouldn't go near that place. Why, I won't even cross over that bridge!”

  THE SPENCERS OF VILANO BEACH

  NO ONE IS EXACTLY SURE WHERE they came from, some place up north, I suppose. No one knows. In fact, nobody is sure that their last name was Spencer or that their first names were Todd, Sarah, and Sally. The three are somewhat of a mystery, and I guess that's as it should be, because their departing was as mysterious as their arrival.

  The brother and sisters appeared in St. Augustine one day and immediately set up housekeeping in a home they purchased in Vilano Beach, not far from the ocean. It was a large home, five or six bedrooms, and well-appointed. It doesn't exist anymore; it was torn down a few years ago, but old-timers remember it as one of the most splendid homes in the area.

  The Spencers—we'll call them that—loved to entertain. At least once a week, and often much more, they threw lavish dinner parties which lasted late into the night. Their guests included some of the most influential people in town, although no one quite remembers how they came to be in the upper circles of local society. Still, all three were well-liked and popular, even if they had no close friends.

  That brings up another mystery about Todd and his sisters. None of them seemed to do any work. No one knew where they got their money, and they certainly had lots of it to be able to entertain in such a grand style. No one cared, perhaps, not while they were sitting at the Spencer's groaning table, stuffing themselves with sumptuous treats, anyway.

  They weren't young people by any means, but they weren't that old either—in their late forties or early fifties as one long-time resident seemed to remember. Todd was the oldest, or was it Sally? Well, no matter. Their ages were another mystery.

  Within a year of their arrival, Todd disappeared. Sarah and Sally had a dinner party one evening, and when someone remarked about Todd's absence, the two sisters simply said that he had gone on a trip. “He'll be back,” they both smiled nonchalantly, and that was it. Only trouble was, he never returned.

  However, the ladies never missed a step. The parties, the music, the lights, and the late nights continued. Neighbors got used to it, and they never complained, although they often talked among themselves. Perhaps they were envious and a little jealous if they didn't get invited.

  Several months later, three weeks after Christmas, Sally invited fifty people from the upper crust of St. Augustine society to a luxurious dinner party which included a nine-course banquet and dancing to a twenty-piece orchestra. It was an extravagant affair, bigger than any New Year's Eve party or any of the other balls that occurred throughout the year. There were cars and limousines with drivers parked around for blocks. Vilano Beach had never seen anything like it.

  Strangely, when the guests began to arrive, only Sally was there to greet them. Odd, everyone thought. Where was Sarah? And, for that matter, why hadn't Todd returned? Sally smiled. Sarah had gone to New York to be with a sick aunt. She would return in three or four weeks. Well, the guests soon forgot about Sarah, as they had mostly forgotten about Todd, when they sat down to dinner. Sally had imported an internationally renowned chef and had hired a local caterer to provide a working staff for him. It was a smashing success.

  Well, the parties continued, week after week, month after month. Sarah hadn't returned, nor had Todd, but when Sally was asked, she just smiled and explained away her brother's and sister's absence as though they had just gone to Jacksonville for the weekend.

  No one is exactly sure when it happened, because the lights and the music and noise continued for a long time. But one day, a neighbor realized she hadn't seen Sally for days, or was it weeks? Very strange. She asked around. No one else in the neighborhood had seen her either. Then someone realized that, although the partying had continued, there hadn't been any unusual amount of traffic, people or automobiles. In fact, quite the opposite was true. When they thought about it, it seemed there had been fewer cars than normal.

  A week later, the morning after a particularly raucous party, the next-door neighbor finally went over and knocked on Sally's door. No one answered. She knocked again and called out. Still, no one answered. She knocked and called out several more times with no response. Eventually she called the police. When a squad car arrived, she explained the circumstances, and although the officers were reluctant to break into the place with so little evidence, they received permission from their headquarters and broke through the front door.

  Carefully checking each room, they found nothing downstairs. Nothing seemed amiss. Everything was in place, and there was no evidence of foul play. Then they went upstairs and continued to search room by room. The first two rooms, a study and what was probably a sitting room, were in order, nothing in disarray. When they reached the third room, what they thought to be a bedroom, the door was closed. Slowly, one of the officers turned the knob and pushed it opened.

  They were almost overcome by the stench of rotting human flesh. There on the bed lay the body of what later was determined to be Sally Spencer, dead for several days. After they composed themselves and got over their initial shock they checked the room and the body over. There was no sign of violence and no wounds on the body.

  The officers decided that they should check the rest of the house and started down the hall. The next room, like the last appeared to be a bedroom. Its door was also closed. With a sense of foreboding, they entered. Sarah Spencer, in a nightgown and very decomposed, lay tucked in her bed. Like her sister, she seemed to have died a nonviolent death.

  The rest of the rooms along the hall were in order, but when the two officers got to the last room, a large corner room, they found Todd. He, too, was in his bed in silk pajamas. He was little more than a skeleton. By this time the coroner had arrived with ambulances and quickly took the corpses out of the house for autopsies. Subsequent forensic examination revealed that all three had died of natural causes.

  The authorities returned to the house, of course, to try to find out exactly who the Spencers were and where they were from. Why had the surviving siblings left the bodies in their beds? And what about Sally? How could all three of them have died of natural causes? And how could all three of them have died in their beds? No one was ever able to find out anything. There was nothing in the house that revealed any next of kin or even any place to look. There was nothing to give any indication of the circumstances of their deaths. Not one question was ever answered. The house and its contents were eventually sold at an auction and the money given to charity.

  Most mysteriously, people in Vilano Beach continued to see lights and hear the gay sounds of people laughing and dancing for years afterward. In fact, some say that they often hear noises and see lights even today, even though the house was torn down in the ’80s. Perhaps they can. I don't really know. At least, it makes a good story.

  WILD WOOD

  ONE SUNDAY MORNING A FEW years ago the minister of the Wildwood Baptist Church stood in front of his congregation during a service and led in the singing of that beautiful old hymn, “Zion's Hill.” His great voice boomed out and inspired everyone present, who joined in with equal passion. While the congregation was thus engaged in the singing, Willie Watkins and her sister happened to look behind the minister and watched as a man wearing a black suit and top hat walked in and discreetly sat in the minister's chair. Willie thought it a little strange, first
that someone would come right in and sit in the minister's chair, second, that he would wear a top hat in church, and third, that no one else seemed to notice. When the hymn ended, the man suddenly wasn't there. Willie thought that was very strange.

  She was afraid to ask so she didn't say anything, but after several days her curiosity overcame her fear, and she asked the minister who the man was. He smiled, “That was Mr. Anthony. He died several years ago, as you remember, and ‘Zion's Hill’ was his favorite song. He comes around whenever we sing it.”

  There have been other unexplainable occurrences at the Wildwood Baptist Church. Once a man was walking by the church and the cemetery next to it at dusk and saw the statue of an angel standing next to a fresh grave. It wasn't at the head or the foot of the grave; it was right in the middle. And, it was a large statue, made of stone and perhaps six feet tall. One man, even two men, could not have carried it without great difficulty. The next morning on his way to work the man passed by the cemetery again, and the angel was gone.

  On another occasion, an eleven-year-old girl passed by the church and saw a minister standing just outside of the door, welcoming people. She didn't recognize him, so she asked her mother who it was. From the girl's description, the mother realized that it had been a former minister who had died six years before.

  I've never attended services at the Wildwood Baptist Church, but it must be a wonderful place to worship; no one wants to leave.

  Not far away there is a farm, and there is a house on the farm where, in the early 1940s, an elderly woman lived. She loved to grow roses—yellow roses—and everyone in the neighborhood was blessed, because she freely shared them. In fact, the woman was quite well-known around the area because of those yellow roses, which were always beautiful and robust and healthy. Then the woman died, and, strangely, the roses died, too. Several people tried through the years after her death to revive them, and to grow other roses in the same beds. No one was ever successful.