A Ghost Story

This place I work, this hotel on Royal Street, is haunted. I have seen what I thought were spirits moving through here all of the time. I caught a glimpse of someone moving across a hall on the first floor one night. I was watching the closed circuit feed in the Loss Prevention Office and I saw a woman in a long dress. It was an old style dress with a billowy top—long sleeved, with ruffles and she was moving toward one of our meeting rooms, Riverboat, on the first floor. I thought she was a guest. It was very late, or early, actually, in the morning and she moved across one of the hallways up to the Riverboat door. I did not see her go in, but I did not see her walk away. All of the rooms were locked. I had locked them myself earlier during my shift. But, it is not unusual for our office to issue keys to guests who have booked our meeting rooms.  So, I got up and went to see for myself; who she was and where she was going. I was thinking: another insomniac, worrywart, up prowling, wanting to make sure all of her things were in order for her meeting in the morning. Before I left the office, I watched the closed circuit monitor for another ten or fifteen minutes to see if she came back out of the room and when she didn’t, I thought I’d go check on her myself.

   When I got to the room, the doors were locked, the lights were off. I unlocked, stuck my head in and across the room I saw a silhouette against the windows that made up the north side of the room. The ambient light around the courtyard illuminated the windows and her silhouette was like a shadow against the curtains that covered the windows.

   “I’m with the hotel. I saw you come in and I wanted to check on you. You were locked in. I saw you go by on your way in. You must have a key.” I said to her. She never turned her head toward the sound of my voice. And that seem strange to me. “Are you alright, can I help you?”

She never did turn toward me. All I could see was her profile—like a shadow against the curtains, against the window. She continued to stare straight ahead as she spoke.

   “I’ve been here one hundred-fifty years.” She said. “My home was here, on Royal Street, Mobile. Our parlor was here. I looked out on Royal Street everyday. I watched the world go by. I saw so much. I have seen so much.”

   Her voice trailed off. I thought she said she had been there a hundred-fifty years, but also thought she was speaking metaphorically. I was still not sure about her. It had still not dawned on me that she was not real—as in, another human being. I had thought I was carrying on a conversation, but now, thinking back on it, she talked and I listened.

   “A bullet took my life. It came from out on Royal Street; from the barrel of a gun being used in a duel. I had paused at the window to watch. The first sailor—a Cuban—fired and then the other—a merchant seaman from Mount Vernon, fired as he fell mortally wounded. His bullet found me.” She sounded very sad as she continued speaking. His name was DuCloux, Jacques DuCloux. Our spirits remained intertwined, here, for many years—an eternity it seemed and then his soul was put to rest and his spirit left mine here.”

   I remembered the flashlight I had on my belt. I took it out and lit it. I had it pointed at her, but where the light shown, she disappeared. I knew then, that she was my first ghost. The beam of light shown through her and she never seemed to notice. So, I kept listening.

   “I had a life that was unfulfilled when I was alive. I was educated, raised to love books, literature and learning. I married a man who cared for me and his children, and we cared for him, but there was nothing more and something was missing. I lived my life as a servant and nothing more. I came away from everyday wanting more. There was nothing. I never had time to read or a light in my life to read by. I wanted to write, but never owned so much as a pencil or tablet. And then it was over. I had always planned to begin, something, a poem, a journal, a letter to my husband; who was an educated man and I’m sure he would have approved of anything I wanted to do. He was, it seemed, satisfied with me. After I died, he kept the place as best he could. He finally had to get help for the children. They were the ones who suffered. They lived their lives more completely than I did and turned out well. But part of them died along with me. We suffered the loneliness together. Thank you for being here tonight and not being judgmental. I’m afraid I’m stranded in this plane. There is no one who’s praying for me; for my soul, and my spirit is stranded.”

   “I’m grateful to you for sharing that story with me. I’m not sure…well, up until tonight, I did not believe in ghosts, or spirits. Your being here and talking to me has made me at ease. I’m glad I followed you in here.” I said still not sure about this conversation. She had never really acknowledged my being there or addressed me deliberately.  And then she stunned me by saying…

   “You’re related to Jacques. I know this, but I’m not sure how I know it. I’m sure he’s praying to me and help my soul find peace.” She said. “I was never the kind of faithful person his mother was. And neither was he. God only knows how much praying it will take to get him caught up to his sainted mother and if there’s any place for my soul to go. This must be a kind of hell, or purgatory as the Catholics call it.”