Key to a Haunting

by Coral Russell

  “Yea, that was weird. Why would I only see about half of them?”

  “Have you been renovating?”

  “Yes, I hired a contractor who gutted the place. Why? Does that mean something?”

  “If you find out the floors were moved, lowered or raised, it might explain what you saw,” said Marcos.

  “Oh, I get it. The ghosts or whatever…”

  “Apparitions,” said Hector.

  “Oh, apparitions then. I guess they'd be walking in the building as they remembered it, not what we changed it to. That makes sense.”

  “That’s the theory, anyway,” said Marcos.

  Hector asked, “Has anyone else experienced anything different or strange?”

  Allen snapped his fingers. “Now that you mention it, I think the construction crew complained about things being moved around, but nothing serious, and no one said anything about seeing ghosts.”

  “I thought there might have been an accident here. Do you know anything?”

  “No, all I know is this used to be a shirtwaist factory. That’s the term they used for a woman’s shirt back in the early 1900s. My great-grandfather was the original owner. He also had a partner, but I’m pretty sure they closed the factory before 1920. They opened up a couple more businesses, but nothing this big.”

  “We like to corroborate anything we experience during an investigation with the history of the building. Sometimes it means something, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, it’s just a folk tale that’s been handed down.”

  “I’m all for you doing a full investigation. I’d like to know whatever you find out.”

  “Great. Here’s what we plan to do, with your permission of course.”

  “Sure, what did you have in mind?”

  “Three things. First, we’ll do some research that might give us a clue as to what we’re dealing with. Second, we’d like to do a full overnight investigation at your convenience. Third, after going over all the data, we’ll sit down with you, and let you know the best course of action.”

  Allen chewed his lip a couple of seconds before answering, “Well, I think I called the right people.” He patted the top of his desk, then stood up. “Let’s do this.” His shoulders relaxed as he offered his hand to both men. “When do you want to start?”

  “You tell us when,” said Hector.

  “How about day after tomorrow? How long does this usually take?”

  “We’ll start around ten and end about four or five in the morning, depending on the activity level.”

  “Do you need me here?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “I think I’ll leave it to the professionals.” Allen started walking them to the elevator. “It’s all settled then.” He punched the elevator button. “Guys, thank you, I never believed in this kind of thing. And those dreams or visions, I can’t lie, they shake me up.”

  “No problem,” Hector reassured him. “We’ll try to come up with some answers for you and help in any way we can.”

  6

  Margarita wiped her brow with her sleeve as she bent over her sewing machine. The ninth floor hummed with the clatter of eighty needles biting fabric. She worked at the shirtwaist factory from sunup to sunset, six days a week. Her money went to her family, but her mother snuck a few pennies into her pocket, so she could spend Sunday afternoons downtown with her friend, Angelica.

  Her mother, an older version of Margarita, taught her how a proper young lady should behave. But all those lessons flew away on the wings of the pigeons circling San Jacinto Plaza when she first spotted John. She caught sight of his family leaving St. Patrick’s Cathedral after Sunday service and marked how he took his mother’s arm and guided her around the square.

  Every Sunday they circled closer and closer. The first time he held her gaze, she was walking around the plaza with her friend Angelica. His gaze was so intense, Margarita’s heart took off running like when she was young and racing the other children from the barrio. Her step faltered as he tipped his hat and flashed a neatly folded piece of paper before deliberately tucking it in the planter in front of him. Her eyes widened at his boldness.

  She clung to her Angelica’s arm as they neared the planter, pondering how she was going to extract the letter without anyone noticing. Angelica made fun of her brother and started laughing at her own joke. Facing her friend, Margarita fished behind her for the letter and slipped it into her sleeve.

  Her English was poor, but his Spanish was worse. His name was John.

  ***

  When Margarita saw John step out of the glass doors of the elevator at the shirtwaist factory one afternoon, she stopped breathing for five long seconds. Her co-worker, waiting for her to grab the materials and move on, elbowed her and said, “Aye, aye,” when she followed Margarita's gaze.

  Margarita’s bronzed skin turned red all the way down to the high collar of her shirt. She fought not to run back to her machine, but turned slowly and walked with measured steps. Her fingers fumbled as her mind raced – Why and how had he managed to be here, at the factory?

  She peered over her shoulder as he talked to the owners, Mr. Harris and Mr. Blanc. He bore a vague resemblance to Mr. Harris. With a start she realized who he must be and her heart spiraled downward.

  For a week she clung to sickness to avoid him. But eventually she had to return to work. She struggled to control her eyes from searching for him, instead keeping her head cast down at her feet as if the concentration was the only thing moving her forward.

  Days passed before their eyes met and when they did, his were full of honest questions. She glanced down as his hand slipped a note under the materials piled at the side of her machine. This note, longer than the others, asked after her health, had he done something wrong, how could he help, when would she return to the Plaza?

  The meetings on the bench started soon after. She tucked her foot with the broken sandal strap underneath her and wore her very best dress, even though it was the same one, every week. Seeing him in his Sunday suit, she didn’t want her appearance to embarrass him. She realized his eyes never left hers or wandered past her face, and she relaxed.

  One day, he arose and left behind a tiny package wrapped in brown paper. She peeled the paper back, like opening the folds of a blanket to peek at a newborn, and beheld the most beautiful thing in the world.

  7

  Hector opened the door to Ruli’s and called out, “The usual!” He spotted the Paranormal Posse at the farthest table from the front door and walked over to them. Marcos was Hector's partner and Bev and Tony were paranormal investigators that helped out when needed.

  “I thought there had been an accident in that building.”

  “What did you find out?” said Bev, between swigs of Moosehead Lager.

  “The Harris family, John Harris Sr., built the building and used the top three floors as a shirtwaist factory until 1920.”

  “What is a shirtwaist?” asked Tony before popping a french fry in his mouth.

  “It’s what they used to call a woman's shirt back then.”

  “I thought Farrah was the only clothing factory,” said Bev.

  “Farrah made pants and shirts for men and was much bigger. This factory was tiny compared to them, but they still had about 100 or so young women working for them. I’m talking young, most between 15 and 18, but a couple as young as 11.”

  “So when Allen told us he only saw women, that matches your research,” said Marcos.

  “Yes, there was a fire and the workers were trapped in the building. In those days people worked long hours under dangerous conditions. The machines were open and you worked on them while they were running.”

  Bev shuddered. “Did people die in the fire?”

  “Oh, yeah. The owners locked the doors so workers couldn’t sneak out.”

  “They were locked in?” Tony asked.

  “It was a common practice back then. When a fire broke out on the eighth floor, most of the workers were trapped. Mana
gement was on the tenth floor, so they were able to escape to the roof.”

  “Which explains the women on fire,” said Marcos, leaning forward.

  “It gets worse. The elevators only made a couple of runs before the fire got too hot and people started jumping down the shaft. So many women jumped from the building, the newspaper described the bodies as being stacked up like wood.”

  “Jesus,” whispered Tony.

  “Over half the workers died. But it’s still not the worst part. The owners, Harris and Blanc, were charged and the case went to trial. The judge found them guilty.”

  “That’s the worst part?” exclaimed Bev, taking another swig.

  “But… they were only fined $20 by the court.”

  “Twenty bucks?” Marcos, Bev, and Tony chimed up.

  Marcos gave a low whistle. “Most people don’t know the U.S. has a nasty, bloody, labor history. There’s a reason labor unions were formed.”

  “Later, they settled out of court during the civil lawsuit and paid $75 per person killed,” said Hector, leaning back in his chair.

  “That still sucks,” Bev said.

  “It sucks and blows. Bottom line, we have a tragic event, new construction, and plenty of reason to think there will be activity - mostly residual, but with a good EVP session we might find something intelligent. Above all, we need to be respectful while we’re investigating.” Everyone nodded.

  Hector leaned close to Marcos, “I need to talk to you for a second.” To the others he said, “Be right back.”

  After they exited to the patio, Marcos said, “Yeah?”

  “Allen said his father didn’t talk much about the building. Well, his grandfather was there.”

  “At the fire?”

  “Yeah, according to the trial, both Harris and Blanc were on the tenth floor. They made it to the roof - along with their children.”

  “Holy shrimp! You think Allen knows his family was there during the fire?”

  “Maybe. Well, not Allen. You met him. What do you think?”

  “He seemed genuinely confused by all this, but you're right, his family might have witnessed the whole thing.”

  “This is going to be an interesting evening.”

  8

  9th floor

  Margarita caught John’s eye and jangled the bracelet for a second. Then she bent over her sewing machine to continue working. When she glanced up again, John paused at her station and graced her with a huge smile.

  By this time, she knew his routine at the factory. He entered through the glass door elevators and did a walk through of the eighth and ninth floors late in the morning before heading up to the executive offices on the tenth floor to have lunch. Sometimes he was accompanied by his father, Mr. Harris, or Mr. Blanc. Other times he made the rounds by himself.

  When he appeared on the ninth floor, she snuck glances at him the entire time. As he brushed past her on his way upstairs for the rest of the day, their eyes met. Her heart lurched, she wouldn’t have any contact with him until Sunday.

  On impulse, Margarita stood up and marched toward the elevators to grab more materials she didn’t need as John was leaving. She flashed her bracelet as he turned around. He smiled at her and gave a slight nod of this head as the glass doors closed.

  She sighed, her eyes lingering on the elevator doors, when the manager slid in front of her. “What are you doing?”

  She made a grab for the materials realizing, too late, that the bracelet was still showing.

  He grabbed her hand. “Where did you get this?”

  She paused then replied, “My mama gave it to me.”

  The manager turned her wrist back and forth. “Wait a minute. Mrs. Harris has one just like this. How did you … ?”

  “It’s mine!” Margarita yelled, trying to yank her hand back.

  “Like hell it is!” The delicate bracelet broke easily when he grabbed her wrist. “You wait right here,” he said, as he strode to the elevators.

  His mother’s bracelet. The thought rooted her to the spot.

  Some of the other girls stopped working to gawk. Angelica put her arm around Margarita's shoulders and asked, “Margarita, what happened?”

  Margarita shook her head, afraid to tell anyone. The fire escape seemed the only way to avoid a disastrous confrontation. She ran to the door.

  8th floor

  The generator for the sewing machines on the eighth and ninth floors stood droning away in the southwest corner of the room. It hiccuped once, then threw a uni-colored shower of orange sparks into the air. The shirtwaists, hanging from the ceiling on ropes, sent up a plume of smoke.

  Betty Susner manned the phones while working on the payroll for Harris and Blanc Enterprises. Her main job was to keep track of all 300 employees. The system in place to keep track of all of them was for everyone to enter through the fire escape and leave through the elevators.

  She paused over her journal when a commotion started at the other end of the room. Smoke and flames licked along the ceiling as screams of “Fire!” sent a wave of panicking girls toward her.

  Betty picked up the phone and rang the tenth floor. No answer. Her desk sat on an elevated platform, but the swirl of screaming girls made it impossible to see the fire. Standing on her chair, she observed several men throwing pails filled with water on the hanging shirtwaists.

  She rang the tenth floor again. The receiver slid from her fingers as the rope of shirtwaists gave way, sending fire and sparks to the floor. “Hello? Hello! Betty, is that you?” The voice jerked her attention back to the receiver dangling from her hand. “Fire! There’s a fire on the eighth floor!” She slammed the phone down and dialed the servicemen who ran the elevators.

  The girls pushed, screamed, and shoved their way to the elevator doors. Desperate cries turned to a fever pitch as an elevator car came into view. “Help us! For God’s sake, help us!” The car carried people from the tenth floor down and never came back up.

  Screams filled the air. The girl's skirts started to catch fire. Glass shattered from both sides of the room as the girls broke windows to yell for help and escape the smoke.

  Betty charged into the crowd which was growing frenzied by the moment as flames ate up more space. Smoke stung her eyes and she buried her nose and mouth in the crook of arm. She shoved, elbowed, and swung her arms to clear a path to the fire escape. “Let me through!” she tried to yell over the pandemonium. “Let me through!” she yelled again, gripping an ordinary dull metal key in her right hand. There were only two keys for the Harris Shirtwaist Factory. The one in Betty's hand, and the other one with Mr. Blanc on the tenth floor.

  The group of girls pressed up against the fire escape door were in a complete panic. Only the ones nearest Betty could hear her shouting, “I have the key. Let me through! I have the key.” She started dragging girls back from the door by their hair. I’ll be hanged if I’m going to die today!

  Shouts rose above the chaos. Betty glanced over her shoulder to see the men who were trying to put out the fire earlier, now prying the elevator doors open. A large number of girls left the fire escape door for the elevators. Betty shoved the remaining girls away from the fire escape door. She pushed the key in the lock, gave it a twist and yanked back on the door knob. The girls pushed forward. She yelled in frustration, trying to get them to understand the door opened inwards.

  Betty managed to open the door halfway. Smoke poured out the opening burning her eyes and making her cough. Screaming and coughing the girls squeezed through the crack as Betty fumbled with the key in the lock. She had to get the key and open the door on the ninth floor, otherwise, everyone on that floor would perish in this nightmare.

  The key came loose from the lock. She clutched it to her chest and tried to keep her footing as the stream of girls carried her around the door and into the enclosed fire escape. Betty heard shouts. “It's open! This way!”

  A surge of people shoved her forward as the door opened wider. Betty stumbled, losing her balance. She t
hrew her arms wide to catch herself as she tumbled backwards. The key floated in front of her eyes for a moment. She stretched out her hand to catch it, but the relentless flow of bodies carried her down the stairs. The key fell and disappeared from her sight.

  10th floor

  The manager from the ninth floor stormed out of the elevator and up to Mr. Harris. “Sorry to bother you sir, but I thought you’d want to see this.” He dangled the broken bracelet in front of Mr. Harris.

  “Yes?” Mr. Harris said. John jumped up from his chair and crossed the room in several long strides to snatch the bracelet from the manager’s hand. The manager stepped back.