A Tale of Two Hauntings
As coastal development displaces long-time residents, one woman discovers that some spirits refuse to be uprooted.
Hazel Robinson is one kind of ghost. My beloved island home is another. I’m haunted by both.
It is nearly midnight, and I’m exhausted. I teeter on a stepladder, shoving a blender I rarely use into a high cupboard. I groan, thinking about all the boxes still to be unpacked, and how superstitious I am about moving into this apartment today, on Halloween.
While I honor the holiday’s Celtic name, Samhain (pronounce SOW-in), meaning “summer’s end,” and usually celebrate this final harvest of the year, I’m skittish about legends of the dead I do not know personally who walk the Earth on this night, particularly any who might walk the floors of this dilapidated historic house.
I assume the tenants in the other three apartments are long abed. Outside, winds wail and branches from a pecan tree scratch the window, making me long for the gentle rhythmic breezes that blow across my island home. It’s comforting, at least, that the kitchen in this mainland house is yellow, like the one in the cottage I’d been forced to leave after living there for seventeen years.
I climb down from the ladder, tears streaming. As I turn away from the cupboard a shadow catches my eye. A woman, her long gray hair wild around her wizened face, stands almost close enough to touch. She stares at me, wide-eyed, arms hanging limp at her sides. Her dress is dulled to gray. Then I realize her dress is not gray, but translucent. I can see the kitchen table through her! A shiver runs up my spine.
“Who are you?” I croak. She does not answer. Instead, she fades away. Shaking, I collapse into a chair. I’ve seen other ghosts, but none I did not know.
I am afraid to sleep, anxious she will come back, but I am so tired. I force myself from the chair, and collapse into bed.
Hours later, Merlin slaps my cheek, hard. I open one eye.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Diffused light from a street lamp shines through the curtains covering my bedroom window, outlining the massive gray cat prancing on my chest.
Beyond him, at the foot of the bed, stands the old woman.
“What do you want?” I ask.
This time, she raises her right arm and points a finger at me. I gasp, terrified. She disappears.
I rise and pace the apartment, stopping to stare out of each window. Through the one overlooking the front porch, I watch leaves on an oak tree whip and rustle in the harsh wind. The two heavy wooden rocking chairs on the porch stand still, sentinels guarding the house. After another circuit of the windows, I crawl back into bed. My pre-dawn dreams are of gray and scattered images, drifting like gossamer.
“Hazel owned the art gallery on Main Street and knew everything about art history. All the old, famous artists in town were her friends. They gathered here, around her kitchen table, to laugh, drink, sketch, and tell tales.”
The clanging of the courthouse clock jars me awake, just after sunrise. As I make coffee, someone knocks on the kitchen door.
“Good morning, I’m Frances, and I live above you. I brought muffins.” Frances, tall and slender, appears to be about my mother’s age, maybe 65. I invite her in.
“You’re so kind! How nice to meet you. I’m Deb. Coffee’s almost ready, please join me.”
Frances says she has lived in the house for four years and is a receptionist at a law firm. “The three of us who live in the other apartments are looking forward to getting to know you, but we all mourn Hazel’s death. She was the life of the Historic District.”
“Hazel?” I ask.
“Hazel Robinson lived in this apartment for seventeen years, the unofficial mayor of the historic district,” Frances says, lifting the cup I place in front of her, blowing across the hot coffee. “She descended from the man who built the house. Hazel owned the art gallery on Main Street and knew everything about art history. All the old, famous artists in town were her friends. They gathered here, around her kitchen table, to laugh, drink, sketch, and tell tales.”
“How did she die?” I ask.
“Stroke. It was very quick. She died three weeks ago Tuesday. She was—what’s wrong?” Frances asks, staring at me.
“Hazel died the same day the sons of my landlady on the island, who I had never met, barged into my apartment. They didn’t even knock on the door. They told me their mother had died the week before and said next month I had to start paying double the rent I had been paying, or get out. I couldn’t afford such a big jump in rent. I have spent these three weeks searching for a new place.”
“Where are you from?”
“I grew up across the sound on the island. I left home when I was twenty, and rented the same apartment for seventeen years, just a couple of miles from my parents.”
Merlin, his bushy gray tail high, saunters into the kitchen. “Wow! He’s the biggest cat I’ve ever seen,” Frances says.
“Merlin, come say hello to our new neighbor,” I say. He wanders to Frances’s chair, sits back on his haunches, and raises a paw. “He wants to shake hands,” I say.
Frances reaches down and shakes Merlin’s paw. “I’ve never seen a cat shake hands!” she says.
“Meet Merlin the Magic Cat,” I say. “I rented this apartment because I realized I wasn’t searching for a new place to live. I was looking for a place for Merlin that I could afford. We’re here because he’s welcome.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen. A few weeks after I moved into my apartment, I found him under the building where I worked. His mother had been killed by a car. His eyes were still closed, so I took him home and fed him warm goat’s milk from a medicine dropper. He loves—loved—sailing on my Sunfish.” I stop, choking back tears. I sold the Sunfish last week.
Frances reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Such loss you must feel. Why didn’t you find a new place on the island?”
“My landlady and I had a wonderful, trusting relationship. She lived in Tennessee, so, in return for me managing the upstairs apartment, she let me live downstairs for cheap. Neither of us thought about signing a lease, not once, in seventeen years. During those years, the island transformed around me. The locals, lured by what seemed to them to be outrageous amounts of money, sold their old cedar-shake houses to investors. The new owners demolished those cottages and built McMansions in their place. My island morphed from a close-knit fishing community to a town filled with developers charging rents only new, rich people could afford.”
“When my parents put the house up for sale, Grandpa visited me in my apartment almost every night before the house sold. My parents didn’t believe me when I told them I’d seen him and thought he was angry with them for selling his house.”
“I hear the new people are leveling dunes on the island, too,” Frances says.
I nod. “They’re going to regret that, with each new hurricane season, when all those deep-root dune plants and shrubs they’re killing are gone. There will be nothing to stop hurricane tides and winds from pounding into those new houses.”
“Do your parents still live on the island?”
“My parents were two of those island people who sold out to developers. We lived in the house my grandfather built mostly from wood he salvaged from shipwrecks. A trap door in the center of the living room was raised during hurricanes to let storm water flow out, preventing the house from washing off its foundation.
“After Grandpa died, when I visited my folks, I smelled his pipe smoke in the hallway,” I continue. “I saw his face in the bathroom mirror one night. I heard a knock at the door at dusk one day. I opened the door, to see him standing on the steps, staring at me. When my parents put the house up for sale, Grandpa visited me in my apartment almost every night before the house sold. My parents didn’t believe me when I told them I’d seen him and thought he was angry with them for selling his house. They ignored me and sold it to an investor who razed it. They moved to Raleigh.”
“Have you seen your grandfather since the house was destroyed?” Frances asked.
“No. I think he is confused and has nowhere to go. I told him he could visit me here. I hope he does.”
Frances was silent, sipping her coffee.
“I know I sound like a petulant teenager who’s had her car taken away, but my anger, my grief, is more than about losing my grandfather’s house, or being forced to move from my apartment. The destruction of the island itself is what tears me apart. There was a time when more than a mile of undisturbed dunes rose between the ocean and the sound at the north end of the island. When those dunes were leveled, turtles, gulls, terns, rabbits, coyotes, foxes, and more lost their habitat and nesting places.”
I begin to cry.
“Vegetation that holds the island in place was ripped up—sea oats, sea rocket, passionflower, pennywort, blanket flowers, sea beach evening primrose, sand beans, goldenrod, Virginia creeper, catbrier. And that’s not to mention the trees and shrubs of the maritime forest—wax myrtle, red cedar, yaupon, live oaks. Gone, just gone.” I take a deep breath and sob.
“Here, in the historic district,” Frances says, “the focus is on restoring old buildings, not tearing them down, on preserving landscapes. I suspect the rents will go up considerably after this house is restored, but in the meantime, we can live here fairly cheap.”
“Tell me more about this house.”
“Doctor John Seward built it in 1883. It’s considered a fine example of the Italianate style. Much of the exterior, including the cornices, is original. During World War II, Dr. Seward’s descendants chopped the house into four apartments, renting to men who came to work in the shipyard. The area went to seed, with pool halls and houses of prostitution on every street. A few years ago, a group of people saw the restoration work Savannah and Charleston were doing, and thought we could do the same. At first, they couldn’t give these dilapidated houses away. Then somebody realized artists would buy them if they were cheap enough. I think our landlord bought this house for less than ten thousand dollars and plans to take it back to the original floor plan one day.”
“Are there ghosts in the house?”
“There may be. Tom, your neighbor next door, swears he hears a woman crying some nights. Ann, who lives above him, says she hears singing, soft, like a lullaby.”
“Did a baby die here?”
“Probably, but we don’t know. Records at the Historic District office don’t say much.”
“Would you consider rocking on the porch and trust your kitchen to me?” A brief smile crosses her face before she disappears.
Frances squints her eyes. “You heard something already?”
“No, not heard. Saw. Merlin did, too.”
I tell her about my encounters with the old woman.
Frances laughs. “That would be Hazel. Intimidating, she was. She was one of the strongest advocates for revitalization. Hazel was a legend in the national art scene. She was fierce in promoting local artists in New York, even abroad. I have a feeling she isn’t happy about being dead.”
“Do you have pictures of her?”
“Many. One of my favorites is of her and some of the old artists in this kitchen, sitting around her table. She’s pouring shots of gin, and you can hardly see her through the cigarette smoke. Another is of her rocking in her favorite chair, the rocker at the north end of the porch. She was queen of the street, talking to passersby walking their dogs.”
I laugh. “I was queen of my street, too. Cookouts on my porch, parties with friends playing old-time music, ending the nights with a few of us telling stories and drinking around my kitchen table. My friend Bill, teller of the biggest tales and a fine mandolin player, died last fall. I still hear his laugh, see his fingers on the strings.”
That night, I’m ready for Hazel’s appearance. I turn out all the lamps. I light a candle and place it on the kitchen table. I sit down, pour a shot of gin, and wait. I tossed the shot back, and as I refill the empty glass, she appears. Silent. Watching.
“Hazel, I don’t want to be in your home any more than you want me here. Just as you held court here for seventeen years, so did I in my home. I grieve my home, too. I’ll try to learn to love your home. I promise to carry on your soirees, dispense table wisdom, and drink late into the night.” I gulp the shot. Hazel watches.
“Would you consider rocking on the porch and trust your kitchen to me?”
A brief smile crosses her face before she disappears.
A few nights later, I stand at the window overlooking the veranda. The storm has passed. The moonless night is so still that the veranda and overhanging oaks look to be a stage set. Not a leaf stirs. One of the rockers stands frozen. The other, at the north end of the porch, creaks, and begins to rock.
About the author
Deb Bowen lives and writes on a North Carolina barrier island. She is the co-author of "A Good Friend for Bad Times: Helping Others Through Grief." She has a novel and several other works in progress.
- Deb Bowenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/deb-bowen/
- Deb Bowenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/deb-bowen/
- Deb Bowenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/deb-bowen/
- Deb Bowenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/deb-bowen/
Deb is an experienced storyteller. Her personal history growing up on a barrier island combined with her love of this environment and its inevitable exploitation give us a unique perspective into a world that has changed. Her ghosts provide the conflict between the destruction of the island and the revitalization of the neighborhood. Deb’s work is so readable and enjoyable while giving us a window into her coastal past.
Oh Angela, thank you so much for your comment! Your perspective is exactly my intent with this story. I so hope that there will come a day when sea oats, flounder and historic homes are more valued than McMansions! Blessings to you, Deb
Oh Angela, thank you so much for your comment! Your perspective is exactly my intent with this story. I so hope that there will come a day when sea oats, flounder and historic homes are more valued than McMansions! Blessings to you, Deb
what a great story. I felt like I was there. Such great descriptions I could picture it all in my mind.
Hi Deb, thank you so much for your comment. It makes my heart sing to know that you, the reader, can see what I see and share those images with me. I appreciate your feedback!
Blessings,
Deb
This is a sweet and definitely not-too-scary ghost story I thoroughly enjoyed reading. I shared it on both my personal FB profile and on my business FB page! Lovely!
Thank you so much for reading my work and I’m glad you enjoyed. I’m honored you shared it on two FB pages – bless you! Deb
Deb,
Love your descriptive way of writing. I feel the emotion you convey when you describe what was lost, I feel the loss, too. Your stories are like keepsakes for me when I read them. I had a black cat that looked a lot like Merlin. Wish he was still with me.
I look forward to reading all your stories, keep them coming!
Oh Jennifer, I’m so glad my work speaks so deeply to you – a writer could not hope for more than that! I think many of us feel that loss of place, and the grief never ends. And a loss of a four-legged family member is so hard – forever. Blessings to you, Deb
What a beautiful story. I love how both women share a deep appreciation for their home, a bond that transcends even the veil between life and death. Deb may be there reluctantly, but she will learn to love the apartment as she lives it through the Hazel’s experience.
Thank you so much for your kind words, and you’re right – Hazel and I were bonded by our love of home. Indeed, as time passed, I did learn to love that apartment, and I did keep my promise to Hazel! Blessings, Deb
Oh Deb I just love reading your stories. I always feel like I’m right there with you. Thank you for sharing your work
Nancy, thank you so much for reading my work and all your support. If I have taken you with me to places I love and emotions I feel in my stories, I’ve done my job! Blessings to you, Deb
What a delightful story! The parallel between the historic district and the island is surprising yet just, and that between Hazel and the narrator both holding court in their homes is so perfect. Despite the serious losses both women experience, there’s joy in this ghost story, and bittersweet is always my favorite flavor.
Pardon my delay in response Marianne! Thank you so much for your kind words. The parallels between the two cultures and the two women are absolutely what I hoped to convey! In the end, their relationship to each other, and to their new homes, worked nicely! Blessings, Deb