Deadly Curiosities

by Gail Z. Martin

  Straight back down the hallway was the kitchen with modern, stainless steel appliances. A door under the stairs was likely a powder room. The place managed to feel homey and upscale without pretension.

  “You must be Cassidy!” A trim woman in her mid-forties rushed from the kitchen at the sound of the door. Her very wavy brown hair fell shoulder length, setting off tasteful gold earrings and a discreet – yet expensive, gold necklace. She wore a blue t-shirt and jeans that looked as if they had been pressed, over Sperry’s without socks. Everything about her exuded warmth and welcome, except for the look of worry in her blue eyes.

  I smiled. “Are you Rebecca?”

  She nodded. “Yes. And thank you so much for agreeing to come.”

  I still wasn’t convinced it was a great idea, but I was resolved to see this thing through. “Your B&B is lovely,” I said sincerely.

  Rebecca’s good cheer dimmed. “Thank you. I really love this place. But if we can’t figure out what’s going on, I don’t think I can stay here. Maggie said you had a talent for dealing with these things. I don’t have a whiff of ESP, but unusual abilities do run in my mother’s family, so you’re not going to shock me.”

  “How about if I put my bag in my room and then we sit down and talk?” I suggested. “I’d love a cup of that coffee; it smells amazing!” I paused. “Unless you’ve got other guests waiting.”

  “Unfortunately, no.” She gave a sad smile. “It’s just you and one other couple for the next few days.

  I’m afraid word might be getting out about the problem.” She gestured for me to follow her. “Come on.

  I’ll show you to your room.”

  I climbed the stairs, looking around at the foyer with its dark wood, beautiful balustrade, and antique furniture. A lovely cut glass vase was filled with hydrangea blossoms, and I recognized it as the funeral vase Teag researched. I resolved to come back for a closer look once I settled in.

  Upstairs, I counted four rooms plus another set of stairs. “I live on the third floor,” Rebecca said as she led me down the hall. “It was originally the maid’s room.”

  She stopped in front of the last door on the right. “This is your room,” she said, opening the door for me. “Every room has its own bathroom with a shower. It’s a little tight, but you don’t have to share.”

  The room was charming. The walls were painted a pale blue with a stenciled border. The large brass bed was the focal point, with its plump throw pillows and chenille bedspread. A small white night stand with a lace doily stood to one side, complete with a brass reading lamp with a stained glass shade. Is that the lamp she bought from Trifles and Folly? I wondered, suddenly a little disquieted by the idea of having it next to my bed.

  At the foot of the bed was a dresser with a tall mirror and a marble finish on the top. A fluffy white bathrobe was draped invitingly over the arm of a comfortable chair with an ottoman, below a perfectly angled floor lamp. I loved every piece, and the combined effect made me wish my stay was truly for rest and relaxation.

  I set down my luggage and turned back to Rebecca. “The room is beautiful. Can you show me around the rest of the B&B, please? Then let’s talk about what’s been going on.”

  Rebecca smiled, but I could tell she had a lot on her mind. I tried to set her at ease. “I always love to hear stories about old homes like this,” I said warmly. “And if you know the stories of any of the pieces that aren’t from our shop, please fill me in!”

  “Most of the furniture in this room came from my grandma’s house near Savannah,” Rebecca replied.

  “Everything except the lamp, which is from Trifles and Folly.”

  “Your grandmother had good taste,” I said.

  Rebecca’s smile grew reflective. “She got a lot of the furniture from her mother and grandmother, so it’s authentic Victorian. When I was a little girl, I loved sleeping in the big brass bed.”

  “The linens look period, too,” I said. Later, I would risk touching pieces, when I was alone. But Rebecca didn’t know much about my talent, and I didn’t want to give her an impromptu demonstration.

  “Oh yes,” she agreed. “Though the table cloth Debra bought from you is in the dining room. The bedspread was also my grandmother’s, as are the pillow shams. But the pillows and sheets are all brand new!”

  I wanted nothing more than to cozy into that inviting bed with a good book and a cup of tea, but relaxing would have to wait. “It all goes together perfectly. Do you have a different theme for each room?”

  That was Rebecca’s cue to lead me back into the hallway. She handed me a key on a pretty keychain, and I recognized the fob as the handle from an ornate silver plated fork or spoon. Lovely.

  “The house itself was built in the 1850s as a wedding present from James Harrison to his bride, Clarissa,” Rebecca told me as we walked down the narrow, dimly-lit hall. “The light fixtures were originally for gaslights, although of course, everything was remodeled for electric years ago.” The wall sconces had bulbs that replicated the warm glow of gas, which made the hallway a little eerie.

  “The Harrisons raised their family in this house,” Rebecca continued. “They had three sons and a daughter, all of the sons rose to prominence.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, they also lost two infants, something that was far too common back then.”

  “Did the house stay in the family?” I prompted. Mindful of the haunting, I was listening to validate the tragedies Mrs. Morrissey had mentioned, events that might have primed the house for paranormal activity if the right catalyst was introduced.

  Rebecca paused with her hand on the molded brass door knob to one of the other guestrooms. “It did, for a while,” she replied. “The oldest of the Harrison sons, Joseph, took over the family shipping company, and brought his new wife here. The other two sons eventually purchased homes nearby.”

  “And the daughter?”

  “Arabella Harrison did not fare as well as her brothers, I’m afraid,” Rebecca said. “She had what they called back then a ‘delicate nervous condition’. Today, I guess we’d say she was given to bouts of depression or worse. She died young.”

  “Did she pass away here in the house?” I asked. “I’m looking for clues about what might be going on,”

  I said apologetically, feeling like a ghoul.

  “Actually, she did die in the house,” Rebecca said. “From consumption – the old name for tuberculosis.” I shivered. “Do you know where she died?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I’ve never found anything that says exactly. Family letters just say that she spent most of her time in the garden, and that she died ‘in bed’.” She pushed open the door and turned on the light to the second guest room.

  “We do have guests in this room, so I can’t let you do more than look.” As if she could guess my thoughts, she added, “None of the items we bought from you are in this room, and neither this room nor your room have had any problems.”

  From the doorway, I peered into the room. It had a masculine feel, with a dark walnut bedroom set that had all the Victorian ornamentation. The bed’s high headboard nearly reached the ceiling. There was a huge armoire, a comfy chair and ottoman, and brass lamps with brass shades that reminded me of ones I’d seen in big city libraries. The dresser was the same dark walnut, with a white marble counter and an ornate mirror that must have been almost eight feet tall, crested with a carved medallion. Small antique pieces gave the room a lived-in look: old tintype photos in silver frames, a watercolor of a dog on the wall behind the chair, and white antimacassars on the backs of the chairs.

  Two duffle bags lay to one side. Obviously, the other guests hadn’t unpacked, either. I wondered if I would run into them later on. The web site said that guests were invited to gather nightly for cocktails.

  “I’ll show you the other two rooms,” Rebecca said, as we stepped back from the doorway and she locked it up again. We turned toward the opposite side of the hallway, where the doorways were staggered so that one room wasn’t
directly across from another.

  These doors weren’t locked. The first room was shadowed, and although I knew that, outside, dusk had fallen, something about the darkened room made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  Rebecca turned on the light, but the faux gaslight glow didn’t dispel the feeling that something was not quite right.

  “This room was the first place we got reports of problems,” Rebecca said. She nodded toward the large oval mirror with a broad bronze ribbon-like frame. I was certain it came from our shop.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Rebecca looked chagrinned. “Guests said they felt uncomfortable in the room, as if they were being watched. A few reported waking up to see a shadow moving across the wall.”

  Shadow men, again.

  “Could it be car headlights from the street?” I asked. “That’s given me a start now and again.”

  “Not up here,” Rebecca replied. “The angle’s wrong.” She sighed. “This is one of the places guests and cleaning staff have reported cold spots and small items moving around on their own.”

  “Were there problems before you bought the mirror?”

  She shook her head. “We brought all the pieces from Trifles and Folly in at the same time, so it’s hard to say whether it’s all of them, or just some of them.” Rebecca gestured toward the room. “You can see why I don’t want to return the pieces. They’re just perfect for the décor – if we can get them to stop scaring the guests.”

  The furniture in this room was oak, with a bed, dresser and old-fashioned washstand. The bed still had the very tall headboard and footboard, but lacked the ornamentation of the last room’s furnishings.

  Other than the troublesome mirror, there was an oil portrait of a pretty young woman, and a seascape that seemed a bit moody and dramatic for a bedroom. A Chinese Foo dog statue and a pewter lamp sat on the nightstand. The room had the requisite overstuffed chair, and also boasted a small fireplace.

  “Do the fireplaces work?” I asked.

  Rebecca nodded. “Several of them were bricked over before we bought the property, and the contractor advised against opening those back up. But the ones you see all work, and in the winter, guests like to cozy up to a fire even though as you know, it never gets all that cold here.”

  I was glad when we left the room. I wondered whether my imagination was running away with me or whether I really was picking up the vibe from the mirror, but there was no way I would have been comfortable sleeping there.

  “This is the last guest room,” Rebecca said, opening the door wide. She turned on the light, and I found myself looking at an imposing bed that had a small wooden half canopy protruding from the very high headboard, a detail that made it look like a throne. A vintage quilt covered the mattress, along with needlepoint throw pillows which made the bed only slightly less intimidating.

  I spotted another set of silver picture frames on the dresser, ones I immediately recognized from our store. The pictures were old tintypes of a man and woman, authentic and completely unremarkable, yet instinctively, I wanted to draw back from the frames in unaccountable sadness.

  “What happens in this room?” I asked.

  “It’s odd,” Rebecca said. “The last room gives guests the willies, although no one has reported being hurt – thank heavens! But in this room, it’s almost as if something gradually drains the happiness out of the guests who stay here. Guests have cut their trip short, saying that they just didn’t feel like vacationing anymore. One woman told me that she broke down sobbing for no reason. My cleaning lady says the same thing.”

  “So the problems have been witnessed by people other than just guests?” I asked. It had occurred to me that an unscrupulous guest might be tempted to concoct a story to get a discount or a refund.

  Rebecca nodded. “Since the problems began, I’ve had to replace the cleaning position twice. The woman I have now, Cecilia, wears several charms around her neck, but then again, she’s Gullah, and says her people have ways of making peace with the spirits.” She drew a deep breath. “Sometimes when she’s cleaning, I hear her chanting to herself, but honestly, I don’t care what she does as long as she doesn’t quit!”

  The Gullah people were descended from runaway or freed slaves who settled in isolated areas along South Carolina’s coast, the area most people call the Lowcountry. Gullah folks are known for their distinctive language, a combination of African and Caribbean languages borrowed from the cultures of the original settlers. One of their old traditions involves ‘root work’, a powerful form of folk magic and healing. The magic is real, and root workers deserve the high degree of respect – and awe – they are accorded. If you’re wise, you take root work very seriously.

  I looked around the hallway as Rebecca closed the bedroom door and followed her back downstairs.

  The parlor had a magnificent Victorian single-end sofa, with a curving back that was higher on one side than the other, and rich red velvet upholstery edged in dark wood. Fringed lampshades glowed on the table lamps with their elaborate molded bronze stands. Rebecca laughed as she showed me how the big armoire hid a large screen TV and stereo system. A pair of comfortable chairs sat near the fireplace with an end table between them, inviting me to curl up and read.

  “It’s lovely,” I said sincerely. “Any incidents in here?”

  Rebecca grimaced. “Now, we seem to have incidents everywhere. At first, it was just in the bedrooms.

  Then, guests and staffers started experiencing strange things down here as well. And last week, we had a couple of unusual things go on in the garden.”

  “Like?”

  She sighed. “There was damage to one of the flower beds, but everyone denied doing it, and frankly, I can’t really imagine one of our guests tearing out the geraniums.”

  I couldn’t either. “How about your room? Do you have any antiques I should look at up there?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Everything in my room is modern – I brought it from my old house and I’ve had it for years. I put all the good pieces where guests could use and enjoy them.” She looked sheepish.

  “As much as I love the antiques, having only modern furniture in my room is a nice break, and it helps me feel like I’ve left work, if that makes sense.”

  I nodded. “It does. Any disturbances up there?”

  Rebecca hesitated, and I figured she was deciding just how much to trust me. “Not at first,” she said quietly. “But then ‘he’ started showing up.” She had gone quiet and pale. “He?” I asked gently.

  She nodded, and exhaled in a rush, as if summoning her courage. “I see a shadow of a man, but it’s too dark to be a regular shadow.” Her eyes pleaded with me for understanding. “Imagine if you cut a silhouette out of black construction paper. No light goes through it. Sometimes, I see him on the stairs.

  Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and see the shadow slide out the door, like he’s been watching me.”

  “Has your shadow man actually tried to harm anyone?”

  “No, but I’m afraid it’s heading that way. A few days ago, I fell on the steps. Only I didn’t trip. I definitely felt someone push me from behind, but there was no one here. One of my guests took an evening walk in the garden, and she said a vicious black dog growled at her. It chased her into the house, but of course, when we went searching for it, the gates were closed and there was no dog.”

  “Have you had any reports of strangers, loitering near the place?”

  Rebecca frowned. “The day I fell, I happened to look out the front window and I saw a man in black clothing with a broad-brimmed hat near the gate. It stuck in my mind because his clothing seemed odd for the season. I saw him again, the day the shadow dog chased my guest.”

  She paused. “At first, I thought he might be new in the neighborhood. But I saw him just a few moments before you arrived, and I tried to catch up with him, but by the time I reached the sidewalk, he was gone.”

  That definitely did not
bode well, I thought. Shadow men, and now the man with the hat. Not to mention the fact that the incidents seemed to be getting more dangerous. Someone was going to get hurt. Maybe that was the point.

  I followed Rebecca into the dining room, and gasped. Dominating the room was a massive mahogany table and an ornate sideboard that gave the bedroom sets real competition when it came to carved ornamentation. The table would easily seat sixteen, and the chairs had leather upholstery and graceful, curved backs.

  A huge, heavy server table sat up against one wall. No doubt many a Thanksgiving turkey and sides of sweet potatoes and okra had once waited their turn from that fine piece of furniture. But it was the equally massive sideboard and matching china cupboard that were the stars of the room.

  The china cupboard stood at least seven feet tall, with a fan-shaped, intricately carved wooden frill at the top that probably added another foot or so to the height. The back of the cabinet was mirrored, with glass shelves to set off treasured china and decorative objects to their best advantage. The sideboard was probably four feet long and over five feet high, with a wide counter for holding tureens and platters.

  The tea set from Trifles and Folly sat on the broad counter, ready for use. The sideboard had a mirrored back above the counter, with carved wooden pillars at each end and another delicate but big wooden frill at the top. Drawers below would have held linens, flatware and other necessities, making it a very solid piece.

  “It’s absolutely magnificent,” I whispered.

  Rebecca grinned. “We’ve got some nice furniture in the house, but this is the showstopper,” she acknowledged. “My father’s great, great-grandfather was a sea captain, and he did well for himself.

  When he brought his bride to their new home, he wanted to make sure its furnishings made a statement to the neighbors that Captain Harrison and his wife were people of quality.”

  “I imagine this did the trick,” I said. Part of me longed to run my fingers over the beautiful carvings, but I held back, unsure what kind of psychic image I might receive.