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Authors: Gail Z. Martin
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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
“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
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