Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy

by Allison, Jennifer

  “Oh, great! I’ll tell Wendy; she’ll be so excited.”

  Is it possible that I’m actually excited about doing something with my mother? Gilda wondered as she added a note about the psychic party to her letter. I guess the embarrassing answer is yes.

  Gilda sat happily between her mother and brother for the rest of the flight and didn’t even mind when Stephen bumped her elbow off the armrest for the fifth time in a row. If there was one thing she had come to realize during the past few days, it was that she was grateful for the family she had, despite the many flaws, quirks, and embarrassing scenes that came with it.

  49

  Psychic Sisters

  Dear Gilda:

  I hope you’re doing well up in Michigan.

  I just wanted to thank you again for letting me borrow your Master Psychic’s Handbook; I read the whole thing and even took down notes, so I’m sending it back to you now. I think meeting you and reading this book really helped me feel less scared of the things I see. Now I create a “boundary” to protect myself, and also try to analyze the situation more so I can learn something from everything that happens to me. I also light my guardian angel candle every night and say a prayer for everyone I care about, and I haven’t had as many nightmares since.

  I thought you would be interested to know that I saw a light on inside Mr. Pook’s house the other night, so of course I thought of Charlotte’s ghost. I looked over the fence, and I realized it was Mr. Furbo sitting there all by himself. He looked really sad, so I went over to talk to him. He was sitting there reading that diary you found—the one Charlotte kept. And it kind of looked like he had been crying, but I wasn’t sure.

  Well, I ended up telling him that I live next door and that I used to see the ghost of his daughter around—and that I hadn’t seen her ever since her body was found. He was really interested. He told me that he thought it was all his fault she died because if he hadn’t told her to go away just because he didn’t like her new boyfriend, she might still be alive.

  I kind of had a feeling that there was a message Charlotte wanted to tell him—so I tried to tune into it the way the Psychic’s Handbookinstructs you to do.

  “I think Charlotte wants to tell you something, Mr. Furbo,” I said. “I feel like she’s at peace now,” I told him. “I really do. And she isn’t even mad at you—or at anyone—anymore. But she says you’re supposed to do something in her memory.”

  “What kind of thing?” he asked me. He was really listening to me, as if I had all the answers in the world! And then I got this picture in my mind of Mr. Furbo and a family named Owens sharing their datil-pepper recipes at the next barbecue festival. “Mr. Furbo,” I said, “Charlotte thinks you might feel better if you went and got to know the family of that boyfriend she had so many years ago.”

  So Mr. Furbo, he just stared at me, and then he nodded as if he was thinking about that idea really seriously. “Maybe so,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just do that.”

  Anyways, Gilda, I hope you’ll come visit us here in St. Augustine again. Mama says I can maybe come up to see you in Michigan sometime, too, although not in winter because I wouldn’t have a warm enough coat for this time of year.

  Your friend and fellow “psychic sister”! J

  Darla

  50

  The Eyes of the Dead

  Looking like a character out of a vampire movie with her Goth-inspired black lipstick, heavy eyeliner, and traditional colonial costume, Tina led her tour group of rowdy kids down Water Street in the moonlight. The kids had just visited the Old Fort and heard the story of the headless ghost of the famous Seminole Indian leader Osceola; they were now prone to fits of giggling and screaming as they made their way through the dark city neighborhoods of St. Augustine.

  Following Tina’s swinging lantern, they walked toward the house that had given birth to the latest ghost tale—the tragic, macabre love story that had the whole city talking, gossiping, and embellishing.

  “You may have heard the news stories of an alleged murder that took place at this house,” said Tina, facing her charges in front of the haunted property. “You should know that it’s also a ghost story.” She turned to look at the crime-scene tape draping the front porch and the blocked-off section of the lawn where archaeologists had begun excavating the property. “This story is one of my favorites because I actually met some of the people who were involved.

  “Once upon a time,” Tina began, “a man named Eugene Pook fell in love with a local woman named Charlotte Furbo. They shared a love for antiques, and Eugene particularly loved the antiques that Charlotte had inherited from her family—a family with deep Minorcan roots in St. Augustine. The two of them started an antiques business called Charlotte’s Attic, and everything was great at first.

  “But pretty soon, it became clear that Eugene and Charlotte were very different. Eugene loved traditional things; Charlotte wanted to experiment. They argued about how to run the business. Gradually, they drifted apart and Charlotte had an affair with an African-American serviceman who was about to be stationed overseas. Well, when Eugene heard about Charlotte’s plan to leave him, he basically went crazy. Some say he shot her on purpose; some believe his story that it was an accident. Anyway, he killed his fiancée, and then he hid her body in an old cistern beneath the house.

  “Well, it was Charlotte’s murder that seemed to awaken some kind of dark magic in the house. The neighbors began to see spirits walking around the property—especially the apparition of a woman wearing a white bridal gown.

  “After many years, Eugene decided to get married, and who did he pick? A woman who looked very much like Charlotte—the woman he had murdered long ago. He even dressed his new fiancée in his dead fiancée’s vintage clothes.

  “But pretty soon, his fiancée became suspicious of some of the strange things going on in Mr. Pook’s old house. She often heard mysterious calls for help that seemed to come from beneath the floor of the kitchen.

  “It was on Halloween night—the night before Mr. Pook was to be married to his new bride—that his new fiancée’s children made a chilling discovery: the body of Charlotte Furbo was lying in an old casket beneath Mr. Pook’s house. Not surprisingly, the wedding that was supposed to take place the next morning was called off at the last minute.

  “As for Eugene—well, you can read about his court trial in the papers.

  “For now, this old house stands empty. The only people who come here are the archaeologists who are in the process of conducting an excavation. You see, they’ve discovered that there’s an ancient Timucua Indian burial ground here.

  “But every now and then, neighbors say they see a light go on inside this house in the middle of the night even though nobody lives here now. And every Halloween night—especially on ones when there’s a big fall rainstorm—you might spot a woman dressed in white opening the front door of the house. Sometimes she carries an old suitcase, as if she’s ready to flee somewhere. But the moment she steps out of the house to find her freedom, she always disappears.”

  Swinging her lantern, Tina walked down the sidewalk, heading back in the direction of the waterfront and the Castillo. She looked forward to the end of the tour when she could head out to Scarlett O’Hara’s pub to meet her friends.

  Nobody in the group glanced behind. Nobody saw the eyes of the dead watching them from the darkened house on Water Street—the Civil War soldiers with their eternally bleeding wounds and the dark, watching faces of the Timucuan ghost families. The ghosts knew that tour guides would get their stories all wrong as time passed until the stories themselves would become ghosts. Only their bones would tell the truth—the bones of the old and young who rest together on their sacred ground.

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  Acknowledgments

  Gilda’s curiosity and openness to new experiences always leads her to investigate fascinating places, and this fifth book in the series is no exception. In The Bones of the Holy, Gilda explo
res “the nation’s oldest city”—St. Augustine, Florida. During the writing process, I was inspired by my interviews with people of all walks of life in St. Augustine: Through our conversations, many local ghost stories and tall tales emerged along with detailed oral histories about the region. A common thread was the genuine passion these individuals feel for their very special city and its diverse cultural influences. I am grateful to every individual who took the time to share his or her memories and perspectives: In particular, Mary Ballinger, teacher extraordinaire at Ketterlinus Elementary School, deserves special recognition for introducing me to a long list of extremely interesting and helpful individuals, including her colleagues Linda Barnes, Michael Sharman, Elizabeth Marsh, Suzanne Fraser, and Denise Droege. Special thanks are also due to Linda Barnes, an outstanding educator who generously shared the fruits of her own extensive research into local oral histories and her knowledge of Minorcan history in St. Augustine. Several “genuine Minorcans,” including Larry and MaryEllen Masters and Sandy Craig, founder of Ghost Tours of St. Augustine, generously took the time to illuminate many historical details and share personal anecdotes. Thanks are also due to several professional ghost tour guides, including the very spooky and also hilarious Andrew Nance, who scared the daylights out of me with his great stories on the Schooner Freedom.

  One thing became clear in St. Augustine: Almost everyone has a ghost story or two to tell. I would like to thank several delightful ladies for their hospitality and also for sharing their own fascinating stories: Dr. Margaret Finnegan, owner of the historic St. Francis Inn; Laura Puckett and her daughter Blake; Laura McCracken and her daughters; and Mary Alice Hayes and her family.

  Thank you to St. Johns County Archaeologist Robin Moore, who shared his expertise and explained numerous details about his intriguing field of study in St. Augustine.

  Finally, in an era when we often hear that editing is a “dying art,” I have been fortunate to work with some genuinely outstanding and insightful editors. I am extremely grateful to Andrew Harwell, Maureen Sullivan, Lauri Hornik, and Rosanne Lauer at Penguin who helped make this book possible with their hard work and support. Thanks also to all the friends and family members who helped with aspects of research or the manuscript along the way, especially my aunt Nancy Pegg; my father, Professor Kenneth Brostrom; fellow writers Carolyn Parkhurst and Anne McCallum; and my agent, Doug Stewart.

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