by Nancy Bell
“Folks just don’t change,” Miss Mattie commented.
“They called themselves Mr. and Mrs. Woodrow Hamilton, and readily accepted most invitations.” Mary Ann twisted the little wedding band on her finger. “The men played poker while the women took tea in the parlor.” She smiled. “Often, the men found their wallets a good bit lighter at the end of those evenings.”
“Huh?” I said.
“He won their money,” Biggie said. “Now hush and listen.”
Mr. Thripp stood up. “Think I’ll turn in,” he said. No one paid him any attention, so he hobbled on up the stairs.
Mary Ann continued. “Soon, the couple let it be known that they were expecting a child. Months went by and, though large with child, Lucy continued to be seen around town wearing her fine clothes and jewelry.”
“Reminds me of Clarice Mayfield,” Miss Mattie said. “Remember, Biggie? We thought she was going to have her baby on the courthouse steps.”
“That woman loved to shop,” Butch said. “I heard she ordered all her maternity clothes from Neiman Marcus.”
“The baby was born with a great big head,” Miss Mattie said. “Oh, there was nothing wrong with it. All the Mayfields had big heads … but Clarice vowed after that one, she’d never have another baby.”
“They moved to Gladewater. He went into the beer business,” Butch said.
Biggie slapped the arm of her chair. “Will you two hush and let Mary Ann get on with her story?”
They hushed and Miss Mary Ann continued.
“You know how, in the middle of winter, we get a little warm spell? Well, it was one of those warm days in January that Mr. Hamilton stopped by Henrique’s restaurant and purchased a picnic lunch. He told the waiter they thought they’d just take advantage of the nice weather. They were last seen together crossing the bridge across the bayou toward Brinker’s Woods carrying a picnic basket. She was smiling up at him and he had his arm around her waist. Late that evening, he returned alone.” She paused and looked at us.
“Wow,” I said. “Did he kill her?”
“No one knew at first.” Mary Ann took a sip of her coffee. “Sol said she had stayed to visit friends on the other side of the bayou, but he left on the next boat bound for New Orleans. He was carrying all of Lucy’s carpetbags and hatboxes. Strange, the people thought. Lucy was never seen alive again.”
“Did they find her?” Biggie asked.
“Well, eventually. You see, after that one little warm spell, the worst winter anyone could remember followed. It snowed and sleeted through the entire month of February. One day, toward the end of the month, one Seth Milliken, a farmer, discovered her body beside the road. It was perfectly preserved because of the freezing weather. The snow around her was covered with blood. People concluded that she must had given birth to her baby out there and the poor thing was carried away by the wild hogs that roam those woods to this day.”
“Yuck,” I said.
“The story persists to this day that a trapper found the baby alive and took it home to raise.” Lucas held out his coffee cup for Mary Ann to refill. “Who knows, Diamond Lucy’s descendants may dwell nearby, even today.”
“Now, Lucas, that’s just an old rumor. A newborn baby couldn’t have survived for five minutes in that cold.” Miss Mary Ann poured his coffee and offered him the sugar bowl.
“Who knows?” Lucas said, looking wise. “Anyway, they brought her body back to town, and she lay in state right here in this lobby for a day. After all, this had been her only home in Quincy. The townspeople took up a collection to give her a decent burial. They purchased a nice stone and built a little iron fence to go around her grave.”
“Fresh flowers appear at her graveside every year on the date she was last seen alive—daffodils and tulips,” Miss Mary Ann said.
“What a sad story.” Biggie shook her head.
“At least she was laid away right,” Miss Mattie said.
“You’d think so,” Mary Ann said, “but she never has gone to her rest. She still walks the halls of this hotel, and some nights, her moans and tears are just heartrending.”
I felt a chill just thinking about it. “Where does she stay most?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t near my room.
“She seems to like the courtyard best,” Mary Ann answered. “The bronze statue in the fountain was paid for by a secret admirer two years after her death. Some say the face of the statue is identical to Lucy’s.”
“Aren’t there any pictures of her?” I asked.
“No photographs,” she said, “but there is a tintype in the museum. It’s blurred with age, so you can’t really tell much about her. If you ask, I’m sure Lucas will show it to you tomorrow.”
Lucas nodded.
Up until now, Rosebud had been quiet, just sipping his coffee and listening to the story. Now he spoke up. “What happened to her husband?”
“He was found in a New Orleans brothel, a mere skeleton from drink and disease. He had tried to kill himself but only succeeded in shooting out his left eye. He lived to stand trial here in Quincy and was sentenced to death. A hanging was scheduled but, at the last minute, a judge overturned the verdict, saying he had not gotten a fair trial. He disappeared after that and was never heard from again.”
Biggie looked at her watch. “My soul, it’s almost eleven. I’m going to bed.”
I followed Biggie up the stairs, wondering if I’d ever get one wink of sleep in this haunted hotel.
4
The halls of the hotel, papered in faded wallpaper and lit by hanging sconces with little flame bulbs, looked spooky in the semidarkness. My shadow along the walls looked like a skinny old witch, and the walls and floor seemed to creak and moan with each step I took. When I finally got to my room, I turned on all the lights before going into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Suddenly, the door to the room next door made me uncomfortable. I locked the dead bolt on my side. Then I took off my clothes and crawled into bed taking the TV remote with me. I turned on World’s Scariest Cop Chases but it was one I’d already seen. I watched it awhile, then started getting sleepy. I dozed off with the television on and never even heard Rosebud when he came up to bed.
It must have been after midnight when I woke up with a dry throat. I was dying for a drink of water but I was too sleepy to get up. I turned over in bed and tried to get back to sleep, but it was no good. I had to have a drink. I pushed back the covers and crawled out of the bed. Rosebud must have opened the drapes before he came to bed, because the moonlight was streaming in through the windows. I could see the shapes of the branches from the old crepe myrtle swaying in the wind. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked for a drinking glass beside the sink, but there was not one. I’d have to ask Miss Mary Ann for one tomorrow. In the meantime, I turned on the water and pushed my face under the faucet to drink. The water came out brownish-looking and tasted like iron, but I was too thirsty to care. As I turned off the water and was wiping my face with a towel, I heard a sound coming from the next room, real soft at first, then it got louder. It sounded like a baby kitten mewing for its mama. I stood still and listened. Now, it came again, only fainter. Finally, it stopped completely. I went back to the bed and crawled under the covers, but the moon was shining in my face, so I got up and closed the drapes. Just as I was dozing off again, Rosebud gave a big snort in his sleep, and I like to jumped out of my skin. This haunted hotel must be getting to me, I thought, and scooted as far away from him as I could.
It must have been an hour later that I heard the sound again, this time loud enough to break into a dream I was having. I got out of bed and started back to the bathroom, but now it was dark, since I had closed the drapes. I tripped over one of Rosebud’s big shoes and looked at Rosebud, half hoping I had waked him up, but he only turned over in bed and snorted in his sleep. I tiptoed to the window and opened the drapes so I could see my way, then went into the bathroom, and switched on the light. There was no doubt, the sound was coming from the va
cant room next door, and it sure wasn’t any kitten; it was a woman crying, crying her eyes out. It seemed to me like the sobs were just going to tear her right in two. I turned to go get Rosebud, but then I heard another voice, a man’s voice, and it didn’t sound like any ghost. I put my ear next to the door, but the voices had stopped. I don’t know what got into my head, because I’m not usually very brave, but for some reason, I decided to do a little investigating on my own. I would have called Rosebud, but he sometimes tends to get grumpy when you wake him up unless you’ve got a very good reason.
I unlocked the door from my side and gave the doorknob a turn, pushing as I did. I was surprised that it swung open so easily. The room was dark as pitch and quiet as a tomb.
“Uh, hello,” I whispered. “Anybody in here?”
No one answered, but I had a funny feeling, like I was not alone in that room. It felt like a kind of electricity. The hair on my arms raised up the way it does when you comb your hair and then hold the comb just over your arm. I took one step into the room and stared into the darkness. Pretty soon my eyes adjusted so I could see the shape of an old-timey canopy bed and a tall wardrobe against the wall where I thought the hall door must be. I took another step and stopped again to listen. Could I hear breathing? I couldn’t tell, so I whispered again, “Anybody here?”
Just then, I felt an icy breeze whisper past me and move on off toward the door that led to the hall. When I looked, I thought I saw a dim light at the door, then it was gone. The door never opened, but suddenly I knew I was alone in the room.
I ran back to my own room and shook Rosebud. “Wake up! Rosebud, wake up. I just saw the ghost!”
“Say what?” Rosebud rubbed his eyes and looked at me.
“I saw—well, I didn’t exactly see her—I felt her. The ghost, Rosebud. Get up. We’ve got to go find her.”
“How come we’ve got to find her?” Rosebud sat up in bed. “And how come you to be so sure it’s a her, anyway?”
“Because, it’s Diamond Lucy.” I gave Rosebud a shove. “Get up. Come on.” I jumped down and fished my shoes out from under the bed.
Rosebud wouldn’t budge until I told him everything from the woman’s sobs to the cold way she brushed past me and disappeared without having to open the door. “If you won’t come with me, I’m going by myself.” I was already pulling on my jeans over my pajamas. “This may be the last chance I ever have to see a real live ghost!”
Rosebud slung his long black legs over the side of the bed. “Hand me my pants,” he said.
I stood on one foot and then the other while Rosebud put on his pants over the tee shirt he was wearing and took forever getting into his socks and shoes.
When he was finally done, I led him into the room next door. Rosebud stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose.
“Smell that?” he asked.
“What?” I sniffed the air. “Oh, yeah.” It smelled like the ground does when you crawl real far under Biggie’s house—like rotten leaves and earthworms and old damp bricks.
“Come on.” He left the room and went back to our room, opening the door to the hall. Everything looked normal, just like it had when I came up to bed. The sconces with candle flame bulbs still shone dimly against the faded wallpaper. Somewhere in the hotel, I heard somebody snoring. Probably Biggie, who snores like a freight train, but just try to get her to admit it. I waited for Rosebud to say I was being silly and let’s go back to bed. Instead, he started down the hall toward the stairs. I followed. When we came to the lobby, he made a beeline for the big desk and began rummaging around in the drawers like he owned the place.
“Rosebud, you might not oughta be doing that,” I whispered. “What if someone catches you?”
Rosebud ignored me and went right on prowling through drawers and shelves. Finally he pulled a flashlight out from Miss Mary Ann’s sewing basket. He turned it on to test it, and motioned for me to follow him down the long hall that led to the back of the hotel.
“Where are we going, Rosebud?” I had to run to keep up with his long strides.
Rosebud didn’t answer, just kept walking until he came to the French doors to the courtyard. He switched off the flashlight on account of the moon was almost as bright as day. Rosebud didn’t open the door, just peered through the glass panes. I cupped my hands around my eyes and looked too. That courtyard looked pretty in the moonlight. Shadows from the trees and vines danced on the brick floor and the bright reflections in the water from the fountain made the statue gleam like silver.
“Let’s go on back now. There’s nothing here.” Everything looked so normal, I had decided I must have been dreaming after all.
Just then, Rosebud pointed. Something was moving across the bricks. It was light, but it wasn’t light, and it cast a shadow. It disappeared into the shadows under the old crepe myrtle tree. The thing reminded me of the foxfire I’d seen in the woods one night when Rosebud had taken me and Monica camping. Monica had insisted it was “haunts” but Rosebud explained to us that it was only phosphorous that was coming out of the swampy ground. Then we heard a low moan, both fearful and sad, followed by a loud thump. I gripped Rosebud’s arm. The sounds seemed to come from somewhere under our feet. We waited a few minutes more, but nothing happened. Finally, Rosebud opened the doors and stepped out into the courtyard, shining his flashlight in all the nooks and crannies. “It’s gone,” he said and turned back toward the stairs.
“Rosebud,” I said after he had closed the drapes and crawled back in bed, “where do you reckon those sounds came from?”
“I dunno,” he said. “Go to sleep.”
I had one other question I just had to ask. “Rosebud, do you really believe in ghosts?”
“Yep.” He turned over on his side and wouldn’t say another word.
The next morning I woke up and looked at the old carved clock on the wall. Only six o’clock, but the sun was already making bright slices between the heavy drapes. I went over and peeped between the folds, making sure not to let in enough light to wake Rosebud. I was surprised to find that the windows weren’t windows at all, but French doors—and they led to the balcony that surrounded the courtyard. I turned the handle on the door, but it was locked. Then I noticed a bolt just under the handle. When I turned that, the door opened and swung out without making a sound. As I stepped out into the muggy East Texas morning, I heard somebody banging garbage cans down the street. Two cardinals made a racket as they argued over the seeds on the crepe myrtle tree. A yellow cat was licking itself on one of the iron benches. Everything looked so normal I was convinced I had imagined the whole thing last night. Then my eyes fell on the fountain. I screamed. I screamed and screamed until Rosebud came bursting out the door and grabbed me in his arms.
5
Later, downstairs in the lobby, I sat shivering on a velvet-covered bench with Rosebud’s arm still around me. Butch sat on the other side patting me on the hand. Brian, with tears in his eyes, sat on one of the sofas next to his mother, who was smoothing his hair and whispering to him. The undertaker had already come and taken Annabeth away. He had wheeled the stretcher through the lobby, her body covered with a white sheet. Now, we were all gathered together to wait for the sheriff to come and start trying to find out why someone had left Annabeth lying faceup in the fountain with a butcher knife sticking out of her chest. I closed my eyes and tried to wipe away the sight of her dead eyes staring up at me through the cloudy water. Mostly, I tried to forget how the goldfish were all gathered around fighting over who was going to get to gobble up the blood that was oozing out of her wound. I never wanted to see another goldfish as long as I lived. I didn’t care how pretty they were.
Biggie, who had been walking around questioning everybody, came over and hugged me. “Rosebud, why don’t you take J.R. out for an ice-cream cone while we wait?”
“I wouldn’t care for any ice cream right now,” I said, trying to sound like a grown-up, because I sure didn’t feel like one. A s
trange man was sitting at the game table talking to Mr. Thripp. “Who’s that?” I asked.
Biggie glanced at the tall man, who wore a black suit. He was staring at Miss Mary Ann. While I was watching, he got up and took a step toward her, then changed his mind and sat back down. “His name’s Lew Masters. He says he’s a casket salesman from Shreveport. He checked in late last night after we all went upstairs.”
Just then, there was a commotion at the front door as the members of the historical society came into the lobby together. Hen Lester carried a manila folder in her hands. She tapped Alice LaRue on the shoulder, and they both stopped and looked at some papers in the folder. Alice nodded, then Hen closed the folder and they both approached Biggie. Emily Faye followed behind, glancing at Brian like she could eat him with a spoon.
“Here we are,” Alice said, “all fired up to teach you all we know about local history. Hey, why’s everybody look like they just had a dose of castor oil, anyway? It’s not going to be all that bad!”
At that very moment, Lucas Fitzgerald came down the stairs from his room, looking at his gold pocket watch and frowning. “You’re five minutes late,” he scolded.
Biggie told them what had happened.
“Oh, I think I’m going to faint.” Hen Lester grabbed the arm of the chair in front of her.
