The so-called “ghost tour” was advertised as starting at an ancient hotel just outside of Japantown. The building was unimpressive from the outside, but a single step through front door revealed a breathtaking interior done up in red draperies of Victorian design. Gold mirrors and vibrant portraits adorned the walls, and the soft, welcoming lighting was provided by a series of simple chandeliers and wall lamps. The layout seemed strange for a hotel, being more along the lines of what one would expect from a family-run bed and breakfast, and Dennis suspected that the building had once been an expansive mansion.
He followed Luke through an adorned archway into what could only be a common area, furnished with hardwood chairs and ornate cushioned benches. A group of about twenty people had already congregated at the far side of the room, next to a large stone fireplace. Near the back wall stood a man, and even had it not been for the ink characture on the flyer that had brought them there, Dennis would have immediately recognized him as the ghost hunter. He was likely in his late fifties, and the clothing he wore seemed to have been carefully chosen to match the Victorian theme of the hotel, although the ankle-length leather trench coat was somewhat at odds with the rest of the ensemble. The man’s long silver hair curled outward from beneath the brim of a black top hat, and the wispy beard surrounding his lips gave him the air of a storyteller from centuries past. Whether he proved to be useful or not, Dennis decided that he liked the man.
“You should have worn your September outfit,” Luke whispered jovially. “You’d match.”
“Wrong kind of hat,” replied Dennis. Their hushed exchanged drew the attention of the ghost hunter, who called out to them in a friendly voice.
“Getting cold feet, gentlemen?” He smiled broadly, making his eyes twinkle beneath his half-moon spectacles.
“Hardly!” Luke answered, raising his voice to match the man’s tone. “We’re just a little spooked.” A chorus of lighthearted groans came from the rest of the crowd, and Luke beamed appreciatively.
“Do me a favor,” the ghost hunter said. “When we start the tour, let me tell the jokes.” His eyes jumped to Dennis, and his smile became a look of recognition. “You... I know you, don’t I? You’re a writer?” Dennis only nodded, hoping that the assembled group would ignore him. “I thought so. We’ll talk later.” He clapped his hands once, making a surprisingly loud noise, and launched into a stream of practiced patter. “Well, folks, welcome to the Golden Gate Ghost Tour! My name is Jim, and I am – as it says on my business card – a professional ghost hunter!”
There was a smattering of applause, which was quickly silenced as Jim raised a spindly finger into the air. “Now, some of you might have the mistaken impression that a ghost hunter’s job is eradicate vengeful spirits. That’s not what I do. You’ll see me interact with a variety of haunted items and objects, but you won’t catch me wearing one of those proton packs!” He paused for laughter, of which there was little, before continuing, undaunted. “No, a ghost hunter’s job is to find ghosts, and to understand them. I’m a researcher and an historian, and I’m also – this might surprise you – a skeptic.”
“You’re not the only one!” Luke called.
Jim laughed and aimed a finger at Luke. “I can tell I’m going to have to watch this guy!” Then he nodded and addressed the crowd again. “But, he makes a valid point. How many people here believe in ghosts?” Two or three hands shot up, with a half dozen more tentatively following. Dennis remained still, unsure of how he should answer, but it wasn’t long before the ghost hunter was talking again.
“Well, I’ll tell you what my goal is,” he said. “My goal here, tonight, is to do everything I can to personally guarantee that each and everyone one of you will have a supernatural experience. I’m going to take you to some of the most notoriously haunted places in all of San Francisco, and I’m going to show you things that have no other explanation than to be called ‘paranormal.’ For those of you with cameras, I encourage photography, and you can feel free to ask any questions that you might have. Do we have any now?” He smiled invitingly.
After a few seconds, a young woman to Dennis’ left raised her hand and spoke in a hesitant French Canadian accent. “How far will we be walking?”
“It’s about a mile in total,” Jim replied. “A quarter mile up, half a mile around, and a quarter mile back.”
“Convenient that the ‘most haunted’ places in the city are all within a four-block radius,” Luke muttered.
Dennis shrugged. “Maybe that’s why he chose this place.”
“Did you have a question back there?” Jim asked. Dennis looked up to see the man’s eyes locked on his own.
“Uh, I was just wondering if that was why you chose this place. To start the tour from, I mean.”
Jim smiled and nodded. “As a matter of fact, that is why I chose this place. Some of the most powerful and reliable haunts in the area are right around here. But, that’s not the only reason. I also start the tour here because...” His voice adopted a quavering quality, like that of a ghost from a cartoon. “...This hotel is haunted!”
To Dennis’ mild disappointment, there was no flickering of lights or crash of recorded thunder to accompany the statement. Instead, the ghost hunter gave a brief history of the hotel’s history and origins as a wealthy merchant’s mansion, paying particular attention to the story of a woman who lived there. As Dennis suspected, this character soon became the central focus of the story, and was revealed to be the friendly, nurturing spirit that haunted the hotel. After allowing the group a moment to take in the story, Jim suggested that they all explore the building, stating that they would meet up again in ten minutes.
“Well, this is all very interesting,” Dennis said once he and Luke were alone. “I’m not sure how helpful it’s going to be, though.”
Luke nodded in agreement. “What I can’t tell is whether this guy actually believes any of it or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, dude. He just seems too...” Luke trailed off, scratching his cheek. “Too sane, I guess. I mean, yeah, he tells a good story, but it’s like he thinks it’s normal or something.”
“It probably is to him,” replied Dennis. “Besides, you didn’t exactly question my sanity when I told you about the haunted chair.”
“Sure I did. I just didn’t say anything.”
The pair wandered aimlessly through the hotel, occasionally meeting other members of the group and exchanging polite conversation. The ten minute deadline turned out to provide exactly enough time for everyone to visit each of the hotel’s four floors and be back to the common room for the beginning of the tour. Jim stood waiting by the fireplace, holding a brass lantern and a leather satchel.
“Before we head out,” he said, “there’s a little ritual I want each of you to do.” He gestured the opposite side of the room. “Just inside the front door, there’s a mirror. On your way out, I want you all to look yourself in the eye and repeat this oath: I, your name, will be open-minded, safe, and respectful of the dead.” He smiled again. “If that doesn’t keep you safe, then you can always run away screaming!”
The group laughed politely, and with Jim leading the way, made their way towards the door. The mirror they had been instructed to stop at was much like the others Dennis had seen nearby, with an ornate gold frame and slightly foggy glass. He was the last to approach it, but before he could begin repeating the oath, he felt the same sensation of being watched that he had experienced in Alena’s studio.
“Damn it, Bobo,” he muttered. “Why did you have to say anything?” He glared at his reflection – which glared back, predictably – and stalked out the door to where everyone else was waiting.
“What’s the matter?” Luke jibed. “Find a blackhead?”
“Oh, shut up.”
The first stop on the tour was, as far as Dennis could tell, a nondescript stretch of sidewalk in front of one of San Francisco’s famous Victorian houses, called Painted Ladies.
Once again, Jim talked about the history of the area, going back to some of the natural disasters that had plagued the city. He gestured to two of the houses in particular, explaining that each of them experienced paranormal activity on a regular basis. One of them had apparently changed hands so often that it had become a famous example of one of California’s more obscure laws: If a house was haunted, the owner was required to inform prospective buyers. Dennis made a mental note to check for the existence of said law, then quickly forgot about it as the tour resumed.
At first, it seemed as though the entirety of the evening’s activities would consist of listening to ghost stories and history lessons. Upon reaching the third destination, though, Jim produced a tarnished pocket watch from within his satchel, and held it up for the group to see.
“Can anyone tell me what this is?” he asked.
“It’s certainly not a waste of time!” quipped Luke. The groans he received in response were more sincere this time, and Dennis kicked his friend in the heel to shut him up.
“Well,” Jim continued, his friendly demeanor unaffected by Luke’s heckling, “it’s a pocket watch, obviously. What’s interesting, though, is what kind of pocket watch it is.” He held the timepiece higher, catching the glow from a nearby streetlight. “Around the turn of the century – that’s 1900, not 2000 – there was a sort of club for artisans and tradesman. To become a member, a person would have to create something so perfect that the rest of the society would unanimously agree that it was the best of its kind.” He reached down and adjusted the flame of his lantern, bringing it down to a much lower level. “Each of them was given a silver pocket watch with their initials etched into hands, and in 1908, the group accepted their first-ever female member. Her name was Winifred Charles.”
The crowd pressed closer to the ghost hunter as he flipped the catch on the watch, and held it open. In the dim light, Dennis could barely make out the letter W on the hour hand, and what might have been a C on the minute hand. There were muted gasps and whispers from all around, and Dennis cast a wary eye at Luke, suspicious that his friend was readying another awful pun.
“Winifred was the daughter of a tailor,” Jim continued, “and when her father died, she took over the business. Back in those days, women could be seamstresses, but never tailors, so she hatched a cunning little plan.” His tone became conspiratorial, and his eyes lit up with mischief. “See, she didn’t tell anyone that her father had died, and she kept right on pretending that he was the one making all of the fancy suits and whatnot for her customers. Then, one day, she was visited by a man named William Howard Taft, who was running for president. She spent three months making him a custom-fitted suit, and when he talked about how superb it was, she let the cat out of the bag about her father.”
Luke nudged Dennis in the ribs. “Dude, was California even a state in 1908?”
“Yes, it was. Shut up and listen.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a history buff. My mistake.”
When Jim spoke again, his voice was much lower, and although the roguish quality remained, his words somehow felt darker. “Well, a few people didn’t take kindly to Winifred being allowed into the club, and they took it upon themselves to teach her a lesson. They waited until the dead of night, when they knew nobody would be awake, and they burned down Winifred’s shop.” He paused, letting out a slow breath. “What they didn’t realize – or maybe they did, and just didn’t care – was that she was inside, working late. By the time the fire was extinguished, there was nothing left of her but a twisted, blackened skeleton... and this pocket watch.”
There was an audible murmur from the crowd. A few people attempted quiet jokes, but a pall of almost tangible horror seemed to have fallen from the night sky. “It was here,” Jim said, “between where these two houses are now, that Winifred’s shop once stood, and the place where they found her corpse was right there in the middle.” He swung the watch idly as he spoke, his eyes seemingly focused on some remote point in space and possibly time. Dennis felt a chill across his neck, and he tugged at his jacket. “Ever since then, people have talked about strange and terrifying things going on in this area. Once, no more than a year ago, a couple of guys were trying to have a barbecue out in their backyard. Now, these were not skittish men, but what happened to them brought both of them to tears. As soon as they’d lit the barbecue, this horrible, howling wind came up, knocking it over and spraying coals all over the yard... into the shape of a skull. And if that wasn’t enough, two of those coals kept glowing for hours and hours, and those two were right in the center of the skull’s eyes.”
The ghost hunter held up the pocket watch again, and with his other hand he produced a plastic cigarette lighter. “To most people, this looks like an ordinary pocket watch, and most of the time, it is. But if you’re in the right place, and you do the right thing, it’s something much more.” He held his hand steady, waiting for the watch to come to a standstill. “Not moving, right?” he asked. There were several murmurs of agreement. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Jim raised the lighter until it was only an inch or two from touching the watch, and flicked it on.
The effect was hardly instantaneous, but it was noticeable nonetheless. The watch began to spin on its chain, slowly at first, then faster and more violently. Dennis watched the ghost hunter’s hand carefully, straining to see a clue as to how the trick was accomplished. If it was indeed a trick, he couldn’t see how it was done, and he resolved to ask Jim directly after the tour was concluded.
“If there’s one thing you all take away from here tonight,” the man said, stifling the lighter and pocketing the watch, “it should be this...” His voice suddenly jumped in volume, and the playful aspect returned. “Don’t play with matches!”
Laughter broke out as the tension was alleviated, and the short walk to the next stop was filled by discussions – some muted, others not – of what everyone had just witnessed and how it might have been accomplished. Luke had come up with a wholly unlikely method involving a magnet and some fishing line, but he seemed to be one of the outliers amongst a group of delighted (if cautiously so) believers.
The tour continued for the better part of two hours, with each new location providing an interesting and occasionally unpredictable story. Every so often, Jim would produce another allegedly haunted object, and try as he might, Dennis couldn’t ever seem to come up with a reasonable explanation of what might have been happening behind the scenes. Even Luke’s sarcastic attitude had softened, and Dennis could tell that he was grudgingly enjoying what he probably saw as a piece of performance art.
When the last story was concluded and the crowd began to disperse, Dennis hung back and waited. A couple of tourists from Florida had felt the need to detail their own supernatural experiences to Jim, who listened to their stories with a warm smile and occasional nods of the head. Finally, when Luke and Dennis were the last ones left, they approached the ghost hunter.
“Uh oh, here comes the funny man,” Jim said in a sing-song voice. “Oh, and the writer, good, I wanted to talk to you.”
“I remember,” answered Dennis. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you, too.”
“I’ll just sit here and talk to myself, then,” Luke interjected. “Maybe go find a ghost to talk to...” He strode down the street, whistling loudly, and stopped under a streetlight, where he paused and examined his nails.
Dennis cleared his throat. “Sorry about him. Believe it or not, coming here was his idea.”
“Oh, I could tell,” Jim laughed. “The loud ones are always embarrassed about actually wanting to listen to me.”
“Yeah, that’s Luke alright,” said Dennis with a nod. “Anyway, uh... Okay, look, this is going to be rude, but I really have to know...”
“Uh huh?”
Dennis swallowed. “I just wanted to ask, you know, how much of that was real. If any of it.”
A knowing smile crossed the ghost hunter’s face. “You have a few ghost stories of yo
ur own, huh?” Technically, Dennis thought, he only had the one ghost story, but it still felt like a gross understatement.
“Something like that, yeah,” he said. None of the evening’s tales had even come close to mirroring the situation with Evy Palin, and he was hesitant to describe it. In fact, Jim had led the tour group to believe that most ghosts – at least in his experience – did not often manifest as easily-recognized figures or apparitions. Most of them, he had explained, were little more than motes of light or unexplained cold spots in a room.
Jim rummaged in his bag, pushing aside sheets of photographs and folders full of laminated newspaper clippings. “While I’ve got you here,” he said, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“Uh, maybe,” replied Dennis. “What do you need?”
“I was wondering,” Jim repeated, “if I could get you to sign this?” He pulled out a hardcover book with a missing jacket and opened it to the title page.
“Oh, wow, definitely,” Dennis said. He scrawled a cursive approximation of his name into the book, which he noted was dog-eared and worn. “I take it you enjoyed it, then?”
“Actually,” replied Jim, “I haven’t read it yet. I’ve been carrying it around for months.”
Dennis shook his head quickly, trying dissipate the fog of bemusement that had clouded it. “Anyway, I did have something I wanted to ask you. Suppose you had a ghost, like the ones you talked about, only it was haunting a piece of furniture.”
Jim nodded. “What kind of furniture?”
“An armchair.”
“Okay. Why is it haunting an armchair?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” answered Dennis, “I don’t know.”
The ghost hunter shrugged apologetically. “I can’t really help you then, sorry. I mean, without knowing about your ghost’s history, there’s not much to go on.”
“You don’t know of any kind of sure-fire exorcism technique then?” Dennis’ last shreds of hope were fraying, despite the encouraging tone in Jim’s apology.
“Every ghost is different,” he said. “You have to understand that some of them don’t want to leave. Those that do usually have a reason for hanging around, but even then, you might not be able to find out what it is.”
“I see.” Dennis sighed. “Well, thank you. I had a great time.”
“My pleasure. Thanks for the book.”
“Not a problem.”
Both men stood awkwardly until the ghost hunter extended a hand. “Well, have a nice evening.”
“You too,” replied Dennis, shaking it. Then he hurried down the street to where Luke was waiting, fully expecting another barrage of derisive commentary. He wasn’t disappointed.
Nearly Departed Page 15
