16
The Girl at the Gate
Most people can’t perceive ghosts with the naked eye,” said Debbie. She stood at the Old City gates surrounded by a group of parents and kids who had gathered for her ghost tour. Gilda noticed that many of the kids carried flashlights and cameras; Debbie held nothing except her old-fashioned lantern. “Now, if you take pictures with your camera, you might get luckier,” Debbie explained. “Some of the ghosts manifest as orbs. They’re like balls of energy that look like round lights floating in the air. And if you’re really lucky, you might see an actual face or an image of a person.”
“This is where I’ll leave you, ladies,” Evelyn whispered to Gilda, Darla, and Mary Louise as they joined the tour group. “You’ll be in good hands with Debbie. She knows the ghosts of this city even better than I do.”
“Now, the first story I want to tell you takes place right here at the old entrance to the historic part of St. Augustine,” Debbie continued. “A long time ago, there was a young girl who loved to stand right here and greet all the travelers who entered the city. Each day she smiled and waved to every person who passed through these gates. But then tragedy struck, and the poor girl died from yellow fever.
“Sometimes, if a person dies too young—before he or she is ready to pass on—their spirit lingers, trying to hang on to the things they did during life. Well, this young girl so missed being able to stand at the city gates watching all the travelers in their horse-drawn carriages that she just wasn’t able to say good-bye.
“To this day, a lone traveler who finds himself walking home late at night after a party in town or at the beach might glance up at the city gates and be shocked to see a girl standing there, just looking at him and smiling. It’s a troubling thing to see because this girl is wearing nineteenth-century clothes; she’s clearly in the wrong time. She also looks deathly ill from the yellow fever that killed her. But there she is, standing in front of the gates to the Old City—just smiling and waving.”
A gust of warm wind swept through the group, and Gilda felt a slight tickle in her ear. She glanced at Darla and was annoyed to see her furiously texting a message to one of her friends. What is she writing? Gilda wondered. She inched closer to Darla, until she was close enough to peek over Darla’s shoulder and sneak a glimpse of her cell-phone screen. Gilda was surprised and a little disturbed by the content of Darla’s message—a text she appeared to be typing to nobody but herself:
There are no ghosts there are no ghosts there are no ghosts. . . .
Gilda suddenly understood that Darla was scared out of her wits. But why? After all, Darla used to communicate with a ghost-boy every day—a spirit she had described as a “friend.” Why would Darla be so afraid of a routine ghost tour through the city when she had previously experienced a haunting in her own home without feeling afraid?
“Hey! Somebody—” Darla suddenly glanced behind and then quickly moved away from the city gate. “Never mind.”
“What’s wrong, Darla?” Gilda asked.
“Never mind,” said Darla.
“You saw something,” Gilda pressed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Darla muttered.
“Follow me, everyone,” said Debbie. “Next stop is the Huguenot Cemetery, where many of the victims of yellow fever were buried. In fact,” she added, “some of them were buried alive.”
“Darla!” Gilda whispered, grabbing Darla’s arm, “what are you so afraid of?” By now both girls had stopped on the sidewalk, facing each other as the other kids and parents walked past them.
“I saw her, okay?” Darla whispered. “I saw the ghost-girl by the gate. In fact, she pulled my hair.”
Gilda felt simultaneously amazed and exasperated. “Well, if you saw her, why didn’t you say anything, Darla?”
“Look,” said Darla, nervously glancing toward her mother, who was now standing across the street waiting for the two girls to catch up, “can’t we just forget about this?”
“No, we can’t,” said Gilda. “Darla, why aren’t you excited? This means you can see ghosts again!”
“It’s not exciting.” Darla looked as if she were fighting tears. “I see them everywhere, and I really wish they’d leave me alone.”
17
Darla’s Story
It’s my mama who wants me to see ghosts,” said Darla. She and Gilda walked together as Debbie led them across a drawbridge, over an old moat, and into the dark chambers and passageways of the old Spanish fort where soldiers once lived and worked. “Mama used to talk about turning our house into a bed-and-breakfast ; in fact, I think she first got the idea after I started seeing that ghost-boy Tom around our place. She had noticed that ghosts seem to be good for business around here. Mama planned how we’d have séances for the guests every evening after supper—the idea being that I would entertain everyone. And of course, all the ghost-hunter television shows would come to our place to interview me. For her, the whole thing was just really fun and exciting.
“I didn’t mind at first because I wasn’t paying much attention to Mama’s plans. I talked about my ghost-friend Tom all the time because to me, he was almost like a member of the family—someone who just happened to live in the house. I knew he wasn’t alive, but he didn’t scare me. It’s hard to explain, but it was kind of like being friends with someone who just happened to live a long time ago. He wore funny clothes—kind of like knickers. And he said he liked being near me because I was ‘warm.’ He felt cold a lot of the time—a different kind of cold than you and I would feel outside in the winter, I guess. He said it was hard to explain, but he felt better when he was near me.
“He usually just wanted to play, and he said he missed having his real body because all he could do mostly was watch me. Once he told me about the accident that killed him, and how mad he was about it. I didn’t know what to say. ‘I guess I’d be mad about it, too, if I were you,’ I told him.
“ ‘ But I’m not as bad off as some of the other spirits in this city,’ Tom said. I remember he kind of warned me that there are places in some of the old houses that are kind of like portals or gateways—places where spirits can travel from what he called ‘a bad place’ into the world.
“Anyway, it was all fine until the television cameras showed up. Tom didn’t like that. ‘Tell them to go away,’ he kept saying. ‘Tell them to leave us alone.’
“ ‘ Why do you want them to leave?’ I asked him.
“ ‘ Because they want to see me, but they don’t really care that I’m here,’ he said. ‘They don’t really care that I got killed and that I actually died here. They just want me to do something that they can put inside that box.’
“He meant television. He called it ‘that box.’
“ ‘ But I can’t tell them to leave,’ I explained. ‘My mom invited them to be here.’
“ ‘ Then pretend you can’t see me,’ he said.
“ ‘ But I can see you, Tom,’ I said.
“ ‘Just pretend that you can’t. Please.’
“So that’s what I did. They kept asking me, ‘Do you see anything now? Do you hear anything yet?’ And I kept saying, ‘No—there’s nothing.’ Even though I could see Tom sitting there, right next to the cameras.
“Mama was so disappointed. They left without anything to use for the ghost-hunting show. And as you can imagine, Mama really didn’t want to hear me talking about Tom after that, since I supposedly couldn’t see him when the cameras were rolling. And I guess I was kind of sick of the whole thing, too. I felt so guilty about disappointing Mama, and Tom’s games were beginning to seem immature. So I just started ignoring Tom—pretending that I really couldn’t see him.”
Darla paused and turned away from a dark barracks where Spanish soldiers used to sleep. “Well,” she continued, taking a deep breath, “ignoring Tom made him angry. For a while, he acted more like a poltergeist than he ever had before—burning out lightbulbs, making dishes fall from the cupboard, stuff like that. Eventu
ally, he stopped, and then, one day, I stopped seeing him altogether. Maybe he just got tired and left, I thought. What I hoped was that seeing ghosts had been kind of a childhood phase—something that I had outgrown for good.
“Then, one day—I think it was around this time of year—I was outside in the front yard by myself when something caught my eye. I looked up, and in one of Mama’s crystal balls, I saw the reflection of a lady. She wore a long, white dress and was just walking through the yard. I remember having a strange feeling—kind of like a tingling through my entire body. And when I turned around, she was standing right there behind me.
“She was pretty in kind of an old-fashioned way, and she beckoned to me, like she wanted me to follow her. I knew she was a ghost, but I was curious, so I did follow her.”
Darla hesitated. She observed Debbie, who was pointing to some interesting Spanish graffiti that had been carved into the coquina-stone walls of the fort.
“What’s wrong?” Gilda asked.
Darla flinched. “I’m not sure I should tell you the next part.”
“You have to tell me the next part. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because . . . she led me into Mr. Pook’s house, where you’re staying.”
Gilda shivered. “So tell me what happened next.”
“The woman dressed in white—she just walked right through the wall, straight into Mr. Pook’s house. I hesitated, but then something made me follow her. I remember the door was open, but nobody was home. His house looked kind of spooky with all those antiques he keeps everywhere. . . . Of course, I knew it was all just furniture and stuff, but still. And then I heard a voice crying, like someone was in pain.”
Gilda remembered the mysterious cries for help she had heard in Mr. Pook’s house. “Then what?”
“Then I saw something really weird. The woman in white had disappeared, but all around me, I saw skeletons. Some were whole, but others were just body parts: arm and leg bones, just lying around the room. Some of them were moving. Kind of twitching. I wanted to run, but it was like I was frozen. Finally, I turned and just ran out of the house as fast as I could. I never told anyone about it, but I told myself I would never go back inside that house. You couldn’t pay me to go in there.”
Gilda had to agree that this was one of the strangest and scariest ghost encounters she had heard firsthand—and she had witnessed some pretty terrifying things. “What do you think it meant?” she asked, doing her best to maintain the objective attitude of an investigator as she and Darla followed the tour group back through the fort and up a steep walkway leading to the old cannons.
“I’m not sure, but one time I heard Mrs. Castle saying that some of the houses in our neighborhood were used as makeshift hospitals during the Civil War. She said the bullets back in the Civil War days shattered the entire bone if you got hit, so they ended up having to amputate a lot of arms and legs without any anesthesia. Who knows, maybe all that pain from soldiers left some kind of imprint on the house or something.”
“It’s possible,” said Gilda. “We should do some more research so we can find out for sure. We should try to figure out who that woman in white is, too.”
“I’m not doing any research on ghosts. No way.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to see ghosts anymore.”
“Fine, but it sounds like you’re going to keep seeing ghosts whether you want to or not.”
“When I’m on the phone or listening to music I usually don’t see them, and I just try to avoid looking around too much.”
“You could also get one of those plastic ghost-proof bubbles to live inside. We’ll just send you your meals through a little flap and roll you down the sidewalk on wheels.”
Darla stared at Gilda, perplexed.
“I was joking!”
“Oh. Because it kind of sounded like a good idea.”
“Darla, you won’t be able to avoid ghosts forever, especially living in this city. And the truth is, avoiding them is a waste of your talent. You just have to learn how to handle your gift.”
“I don’t feel talented,” said Darla. “I feel weird.”
“But you are talented. In fact, you remind me a little bit of my mentor, Balthazar Frobenius. He started seeing ghosts and a lot of other things when he was just a kid, and he didn’t want to at first either. But it turned out he couldn’t ignore it; he finally realized he had to train himself to use his abilities in some positive way. He’s had an amazing career.”
“I suppose you and Mama would be thrilled if I became a psychic or a ghost hunter or whatever, but that’s not what I want. I just want to be a normal kid!”
Gilda felt frustrated. I wonder if there’s some way Darla and I could switch parents, she thought. I could start a bed-and-breakfast with Mary Louise and Darla could play video games with Stephen. On the other hand, Gilda realized that switching parents would mean that Darla would have to stay at Eugene’s house, and she’d be way too frightened to handle that. I may not have Darla’s natural talent for perceiving ghosts, Gilda reflected, but at least I’m brave enough to face them. What’s the use of being talented if you’re too scared to actually develop your gifts?
“Darla,” said Gilda, “you simply aren’t a normal kid, and you’re going to have to accept that.”
Darla stared out at the starlit sky and the black water of the Matanzas Bay. Tears welled in her eyes, and Gilda immediately regretted the statement. “Look, I didn’t mean it like something bad. I just mean that you’re special.”
“Look, I just want to go home,” Darla said with a sniff. “Please—don’t talk to me about ghosts anymore, okay?”
Darla walked briskly away, leaving Gilda behind. Gilda started to chase after her, but then decided to let her walk ahead; she was clearly trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the ghost-tour group.
18
Gilda’s Ghost Tour
TO: WENDY CHOY
FROM: GILDA JOYCE
RE: St. Augustine ghost-hunting update
Dear Wendy:
One thing’s for sure: Ghosts are drawn to St. Augustine like moths to a cashmere sweater in the back of an old lady’s closet. They’re everywhere. I’ve already had my first unexplained encounter at Mr. Pook’s house (strange voice calling for help; source not yet identified). Not only that, the girl who lives next door has amazing psychic abilities. (Unfortunately, she’s a bit of a wuss when it comes to actually facing real ghosts.)
NEWS FLASH: MAJOR DISCOVERY ABOUT MR. EUGENE POOK !
I just discovered that a long time ago, Mr. Pook was engaged to a woman named Charlotte Furbo, who wisely left him for another man. Apparently, Eugene never got over Charlotte until he met my mom.
What can I say, Wendy? Life is very strange.
On a positive note, St. Augustine has not failed to provide a healthy dose of intrigue.
MYSTERIES IN PROGRESS:
What was the source of the cries for help I heard in Eugene Pook’s house when Mom and I first arrived? Is the voice connected with Darla’s story about seeing skeletons and severed limbs in this house? Is there some link with traumatic events that happened way back during the Civil War and who is the ghostly woman in white? What was she trying to tell Darla about Mr. Pook’s house?
HOW CAN I HELP DARLA?
I feel bad for her; it can’t be easy to be scared literally all the time. How can I convince Darla to get over her fears so she can help me do some ghost hunting? Yes, Wendy, there is a selfish motive here. At the same time, I really do want to help. So far, I helpfully told her that she’s “not normal,” which resulted in tears. (NO INSULTS ABOUT MY LACK OF TACT, PLEASE.)
More to come: I need to pause to write my travelogue for Mrs. Rabido before she goes into withdrawal as a result of my absence from her class.
TO : MRS. RABIDO
FROM: GILDA JOYCE
RE: ST. AUGUSTINE TRAVELOGUE Entry #2
Dear Mrs. Rabido :
You might
be interested to know that I’m writing to you from a haunted house. Now, you might think this isn’t a big deal, since most of the houses in the old part of St. Augustine are at least a little bit haunted, but let me assure you, it is still quite scary.
Just so you can picture me: I’m sitting up in an old-fashioned bed complete with a feather-stuffed mattress and hand-sewn quilts. I’m trying not to look around the room too much, because the faces of about a hundred antique dolls look kind of freaky in the dim light. Listen ! The click, clack, clack of my typewriter is punctuated by bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning from outside. Indeed, Mrs. Rabido, here in St. Augustine it is literally “a dark and stormy night.”
If I’m lucky, both this homework submission and I will reach you in good health, allowing you to carefully print the letter A with a steady hand, using your lovely red pen. Let’s keep our fingers crossed, Mrs. Rabido!
Since I know you love excitement, I’ve arranged a special treat for you tonight. Get ready, Mrs. Rabido: Strap yourself into your corset and bonnet, and grab a few extra batteries for your flashlight. We’re heading out for GILDA’S GHOST TOUR OF YE OLDE CITY!
Our first stop--the lovely Huguenot Cemetery, which is filled with mossy, teetering tombstones. This cemetery “opened for business” in the year 1821 as a final resting place for “non-Catholics,” partly because there was nowhere else to bury all the people who died during an epidemic of yellow fever. What is yellow fever, you ask? Let’s just say that if you got the yellow fever, you would have been lucky if you died right away. (Notice that this was the “lucky” outcome, Mrs. Rabido.)
If you were NOT lucky, you went into a coma. And all too often, that meant that you were hastily stuffed into a coffin and enthusiastically buried by the overzealous townsfolk, who might have overlooked one teeny, tiny detail.
Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy Page 8
